I could think of nothing to say to this revelation but a rather weak, “Oh.”
“And now,” Lady Hadley said, “we have, for the very first time since our arrival, received invitations to a musicale to be held at the much more modest residence the Talmadges now occupy.”
“Where they reign over the village and the countryside as if they still owned the lot of it,” Cressida added with considerable venom. Since I had become accustomed to her capricious emotional switches, this statement did not startle me as much as it should have.
“How long since this house became Lunsford property?” I asked.
The two ladies frowned at each other. “Fifteen or sixteen years, I believe,” Cressida said. Ned told me the tale when Jason came back from the war and took up residence here.”
“And now for the first time since you came here—three years ago, was it not?—the Talmadges are including you in their social circle?”
“Indeed,” Lady Hadley declared, “yet who can blame them for shunning us? I find the invitation most odd.”
“Perhaps they truly wish to effect a reconciliation,” I suggested.
Both ladies snorted in unison, followed by a great sigh from Lady Hadley. “Even if Jason could be brought to marry, he would never be able to trust that Alyssa Talmadge held affection for anything other than his house and acres.”
I refused to analyze why I found that statement cheering.
“Since I have no intention of ever marrying,” came a masculine, and decidedly hostile, voice from the doorway, “this discussion is moot. Mrs. Tyrell, I wish to speak with you in my study. Now.”
I bounced to my feet, offered abbreviated farewells to the ladies, and scurried after him. As Mr. Lunsford turned to face me from behind his desk, I assumed a dignity I did not feel before lowering myself into my usual chair and looking him full in the face. A face that had somehow become dear to me. A face I would defend to anyone who dared revile him, including Cressida, Lady Kempton, whose snide referral to the stuff of nightmares had me grinding my teeth.
Looking grave, my employer sat down, fisted his hands on his desk, and said, “The dead man is old Mudge, the rag and bone man. He never met a bottle he didn’t like, and there is no sign of foul play, so I suspect it will be deemed an accident. But I am very sorry you were involved in this, Mrs. Tyrell. A most unpleasant experience.”
“Not as much as it was for Mr. Mudge,” I muttered, annoyed that he thought me such a fragile creature. Yet I had to admit I had not given him any reason to think otherwise. “Do you plan to tell the ladies?” I asked.
His cheeks wrinkled up as he considered the matter, his scar rippling across his face like a thing alive. “I think we must,” he said at last, “for Nicholas is bound to tell his mother the moment he sees her, and I cannot like to ask him to keep information from her.”
“You are right, of course. It’s just . . .”
“That Cressida is like to have strong hysterics?”
I nodded. “She so longs for London and what she perceives as the gaiety and glitter of the ton, though I fear she may find it far more snappish than she supposes.”
“You are an expert on the ton, Mrs. Tyrell?” Lunsford inquired smoothly.
Startled, I quickly disclaimed all knowledge of London society and sat hunched in my chair, my eyes riveted on the tip of my half-boot.
“Perhaps that is why you have so many garments they required two trunks,” he offered. “A remarkable number of gowns and fripperies, in fact, for a governess.” I looked up to find him regarding me with cool—nay, almost indulgent—amusement. “I have had them sent to your room, where I imagine poor Josie is hard-pressed to find a place for them all.”
I wanted to sink, for truly I had not thought about the sheer quantity of my gowns and fine undergarments, cloaks, hats, gloves, slippers—most outmoded but still attractive. What had I been thinking when I sent for them?
I knew quite well what I had been thinking. Vanity, thy name is Miranda Chastain Tyrell!
“If I may go, Mr. Lunsford . . .? I suspect Josie will need help.”
Clearly amused now, he waved me away. “Go. Enjoy your finery. And, Mrs. Tyrell,” he added as I reached the door, “At dinner I shall expect to see you in something other than those two remarkably ugly governess gowns. Where did you get them, by the by? They do not suit you at all.”
For a moment I could only stare at him, tongue-tied. Had I been so very obvious then, a former ton swan masquerading as a drab duck? “Petticoat Lane,” I ventured. “That’s where they sell—”
“Used clothing,” he supplied, shaking his head. “Did you have to make such a determined effort to find the dullest, least-stylish garments in the shop?”
“Yes, sir,” I murmured and did not wait for a reply. As I had so many times before, I fled from his presence. To my credit, I did not rush to my room to be reunited with my gowns but climbed to the nursery for my much-delayed talk with Chas and Nicholas.
My father had frequently accused me of having a stubborn streak a mile wide, and later, when Josie asked which of my shockingly wrinkled gowns she should iron for dinner, I told her there was no need to rush, my gray muslin would do for one more night.
I quite enjoyed the look on Mr. Lunsford’s face when he saw me. Not so much the look that quickly followed, the one that promised retribution.
Chapter Twelve
Sir Basil Quimby joined us for dinner that evening, as he did at least once a week. Greater familiarity, however, did not improve my opinion of him. I did not care for his tendency to ape the most extreme dandies in far-off London—his shirt points too high, his cravat too elaborate, his vest a shocking puce embroidered in gold thread, a plethora of fobs dangling from his watch chain, and tassels on his boots. Worse yet, he seemed to believe that the oozing charm he practiced on Cressida would also endear him to any female in his orbit, including the new governess. Yet in all fairness, I could not fault what appeared to be his good-natured, if somewhat dim, outlook on the world, a quality he would certainly need to put up with Cressida’s fits and starts. Though to my surprise, she had accepted the presence of a corpse in a nearby drainage ditch without a blink. Who, after all, was old Mudge to Cressida, Lady Kempton? Sourly, I wished she might have been present when we found the body. Yes, yes, unworthy of me, I know, but sometimes I longed to shock her out of her supreme indifference to anything but the tight little world around her.
“Hear you’re invited to the Talmadges’ do, Lunsford,” Sir Basil offered as he polished off his fish course, a filet of sole sprinkled with fresh dill. “Going to take them up on it?”
“No.” Mr. Lunsford’s short bark, accompanied by a scowl, seemed strong enough to dim the candlelight.
“Come, come, Lunsford, need to get out, look over the fillies, don’t you know? Fine-looking woman, Alyssa Talmadge. You could do far worse.”
I peeped at Lunsford from beneath my lashes, waiting for the explosion, and found him looking straight at me. Incredulous, I could not look away. And then his focus was back on Sir Basil, and I was left breathless and quivering, unsure of what had just happened.
“I believe I have made it plain I prefer to eschew all society,” Mr. Lunsford stated in perfectly even tones that simply had to be masking a seething volcano inside. “Nor do I intend to marry. Ever.”
Sir Basil, who was perhaps not as much of a frivol as I’d thought, brought out his big guns. “Daresay a man who sits down to enjoy a bit of music with his neighbors, who bows and smiles, and makes conversation, is far less likely to be mistaken for a demon.”
I sucked in a sharp breath, echoed by Cressida and Lady Hadley, while Quimby, after cocking an eyebrow at Jason, placidly began to cut up the slice of roast mutton which had just been set before him.
Silence reigned as we followed the baronet’s lead, chewing thoughtfully while the significance of his remark sank in. I had been firmly behind Mr. Lunsford’s right to hide from the world, but now . . .
&nbs
p; Lady Hadley, the widow of an earl, was the first to recover her voice, offering an innocuous bit of gossip about the recent marriage of Princess Charlotte. And somehow we managed desultory conversation through the remainder of the meal. All might have been well if Sir Basil had the slightest inkling how close to the edge Mr. Lunsford’s temper ran and put off the object of his desire until a more salubrious moment. But evidently he was not that astute, for not long after the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, a roar echoed from the dining room.
“Oh dear,” Lady Hadley murmured, but to my amazement, Cressida bounced to her feet, her hazel eyes taking on a militant gleam as the sound of loud male voices continued to escalate. Picking up her skirts, she charged back to the dining room, full tilt, evidently determined to save her suitor from Jason’s wrath. Lady Hadley and I exchanged startled glances and swiftly followed. Invading the sacred interlude of gentlemen’s post-prandial port seemed preferable to blood spattered over the carpet.
“I will so marry him, and Nicholas shall live with us!” Cressida shrieked as we paused just inside the doorway. “You cannot part a mother from her son.”
“Don’t be a widgeon, Cressida. I can and I will. Although you are named as Nicholas’s co-guardian, I am his primary trustee, and as such the boy will stay with me until he is deemed fit to go to school. Naturally, you may visit him any time you wish,” Jason added in such a grand and condescending manner that even I winced.
“You are worse than a demon,” Cressida cried. “You are the very Devil himself!” She picked up the first object that came to hand—unfortunately a blue and white porcelain Ming Dynasty vase—and hurled it straight at Jason’s head. Her aim was surprisingly good—it clipped him on the forehead not more than an inch from his scar, and blood suddenly cascaded over his nose, his mouth, and dripped onto his snowy white cravat.
“Go!” I ordered, not for a moment considering that I had no right to order anyone about, let alone a countess, a viscountess, and a baronet. “I will take care of this.” Sir Basil, needing no further prompting, took both ladies by the arm and hustled them out of the room.
“It’s nothing,” Jason declared. And when had he become Jason? He just was, and I suspected I had thought of him that way for some time. I simply had not acknowledged it.
Next to his battle wounds, it was indeed nothing. As I pressed my handkerchief to the cut to stop the bleeding, I could see he suffered from little more than a patch of peeled-back skin, though the amount of blood the wound poured forth made it appear more serious.
“Here, let me do that,” Jason snapped, his hand reaching up to seize the handkerchief, my fingers along with it. A most awful stillness enveloped us as we touched. I couldn’t breathe. Which was utterly ridiculous as I was but two years widowed, I had loved my husband, had no interest in ever loving another . . .
Ha! Tell that to your body.
Lust, I informed my inner voice, is not at all the same as love.
Whatever you’re feeling, it isn’t indifference.
Jason’s eyes were closed, as if he suffered pain, but his hand still clasped mine. “Go away, Miranda,” he grated out. “I’m a soldier, I can manage this.”
Stubborn as always, I refused to obey. “You cannot see the wound, you will disturb the skin. Now let go and allow me to finish.” He groaned but flicked his fingers away, lowering his hand to his lap.
He called me Miranda.
The tension was so high in the ensuing five minutes as I gently wiped away the blood from his forehead, his scar, his mouth and chin, that it seemed the air around us might explode at any moment. But other than offering me his own handkerchief to complete the job, we exchanged not a word. And when Jason uttered a firm “Goodnight, Mrs. Tyrell, my valet will finish the task,” I knew it was time to retreat into my role as governess. I bid him a polite and distant goodnight. Determinedly ignoring the pounding of my heart, I climbed the stairs to my bedchamber, leaving him alone in the midst of blue and white porcelain shards scattered over the table, littering the floor . . . even a few lingering in his lap. My eyes widened in shock, my cheeks flushed witheringly hot, as my inner voice whispered, Oh, happy shards.
An uneasy pall hung over the house the next day. Even the boys could feel it. “What’s wrong, Mama?” Chas asked.
“Adults sometimes disagree,” I said gently, “and on occasion we can be very loud about it. But nothing to do with you,” I assured him as his blue eyes grew wide.
“Have you quarreled with Mr. Lunsford?”
Before I could assure him he was far off the mark, Nicholas spoke up. “It’s my mama, is it not? Is she still insisting I live with her?”
Surely this was none of my business, but as Nicholas’s governess, was I not responsible for his well-being? “There has been a small contretemps,” I admitted, “but nothing you should worry about. I am sure it will all come right in the end.” A white lie was acceptable, was it not, under these circumstances? “Your mama loves you very much and is loath to re-marry until she can be assured she will not lose you.” There. That was closer to the truth of the matter.
Nicholas’s eyes darkened, his voice cold, as he said, “Mama clings to me because I am all she has left of my father.”
A shocking statement from someone of any age, but from a nine-year-old . . . I could feel the blood draining from my face. Was it true? I had to admit, when it came to strength of will, I’d back Nicholas against Sir Basil Quimby any day. If my Avery had allowed himself to be put off by rejection, we would never have married or had my darling Chas to show for it.
I quickly set the boys to working on a complex series of math problems, then turned away to stare out the window at the seemingly endless expanse of marsh, at the moment near half-tide, the winding channels broadening into rivers of blue and water licking half-way up the waving stalks of green grass. Unfortunately, this glimpse into infinity sent my mind circling into forbidden territory. What had happened last night while I was cleaning Jason’s wound? Further analysis had me suspecting that his gruffness could not be entirely attributable to male pride. Something else lurked in that room, something powerful that confirmed the suspicions which had been haunting me of late.
Jason Lunsford was as aware of me as I was of him. And this was thoroughly disconcerting, as the last thing I had pictured when running away to Lincolnshire was the possibility of including another man in my life. And yet . . . I had to acknowledge the reality of surging emotions I thought long banished from my life. Though how that could happen, and over such an unlikely, bull-headed, prickly prospect, I had no idea. Frankly, I was appalled. Surely my reactions were little better than a schoolgirl caught up in her first fantasies of an emotion far beyond her understanding. While I . . .
I, who had experienced the power of true love, should know better.
Go away, Miranda. Jason, far wiser than I, had known what was necessary. What a pity I was unable to be so sensible.
“Mrs. Tyrell? I am finished, Mrs. Tyrell.” Nicholas was holding out his work for me to check, and I had the distinct impression it was not the first time he had attempted to capture my attention. My cheeks remained hot the entire time I examined his multiplication solutions.
At table that evening, Cressida remained oblivious to Jason’s presence at the head of the table, addressing her remarks solely to her mother. Which, of course, forced me to find topics of conversation to which Lunsford might respond with something more than monosyllables. Since he was tight-lipped and uncooperative, this proved difficult. At that point I could cheerfully have strangled Cressida where she sat, but alas, I had been too well brought up. Needless to say, Jason disappeared into his study directly after dinner and did not make an appearance in the drawing room. Since Cressida did not seem to be speaking to me either, perhaps lumping me with Jason since I had stayed to treat his wound last night, I sat quietly in a corner, reading a book by light that poured in through the windows as late as half-nine. When the summer sky at last dimmed to black, I rose
and tip-toed out, quite sure I would not be missed. Candlelight still shone beneath the door to Jason’s study as I passed by, and I hesitated.
Idiot! You are crying to be hurt.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and kept on going. Straight to my room, where I wiggled out of my gown, my stays, my chemise, and donned nightwear of sparkling white lawn, embroidered around the neck with incongruously blue roses. A lovely bit of fluff, it was part of an ensemble of matching bedgown and robe in the shipment forwarded by my godmother. And who did I think was going to see such finery? But it made me feel better. More like Mrs. Avery Tyrell of Kent instead of Miranda Tyrell, governess at Lunsford Hall.
I attempted to sleep but it was futile. Mattress, pillows, and bedcovers fought my attempts to be comfortable. Suddenly feeling unable to breathe, I sat upright, perched on the edge of the bed, and wondered at myself. What was happening to me? And if it was what I thought it was, how could I be such a fool?
That’s when I heard the shouts, the running feet, doors slamming. Without a thought that my robe was nearly as transparent as my nightgown, I tossed it on and ran barefoot into the corridor. All the noise seemed to be coming from the front of the house, so I made my way to the window at the end of the corridor and peered out. Oh, dear God! There was a great blaze on the front lawn, rather like a Mid-summer bonfire or the burning of a Guy Fawkes’ effigy . . . Oh no! There was indeed an effigy dancing from a pole in the midst of the leaping flames.
Surely it must be an effigy, but after recent events . . .
Terror consumed me. I ran back to the stairs and plunged down, nearly tripping over my flowing nightwear. Out the front door and onto the grass, where at least a dozen black silhouettes, all male, ringed the flaming pyre. Jason! Where was Jason?
A figure broke out of the circle, strong hands gripped my shoulders. “Get back inside, woman! This is no place for you.”
Demons of Fenley Marsh Page 9
