“I can teach dancing, table manners, and prepare your sisters for presentation at court.”
“You learned court customs in your West Indian island?”
“The English governor’s wife had an exaggerated notion of her own importance. She held drawing rooms like the queen for all the notables of Saint Lucia society.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“All the young ladies on the island had to attend her en grande tenue and exit backwards after making their curtseys.”
“I always thought that sounded like nonsense.” Julian Fortescue had never been important enough to attend court, and since he’d become duke he hadn’t bothered. “It’s not necessary. I doubt the girls will need to come out before my mother returns. What I need is someone to keep them busy and out of mischief. The things my mother would do if she hadn’t gallivanted off across the Atlantic. Can you do that?”
“Certainly I can.”
“Very well. Blackett will settle with you about salary and find you somewhere to sleep.”
Cynthia would find it reprehensible that he hired a governess more for her suitability as his mistress than for her skills as a preceptress. Too bad. She’d had a chance to find someone better. Besides, no one expected Julian to behave properly, least of all himself.
Chapter 3
Returning to Fortescue House the next day to take up the position of governess, Jane thought of the day her family left the Hôtel Falleron for the last time and she became Jane Grey.
Most of the servants had long since left, consumed by revolutionary fervor. The governess had resigned her post a month before. Although her parents took care not to alarm the children, fifteen-year-old Jeanne knew that France was no longer safe for the nobility and they would be fortunate to escape. Everything in the house that could be easily moved had been sent away for safekeeping and what was left draped in dust sheets. Maman had woken them, not their nurse, and told them to dress in their plainest gowns, and hurry. Creeping through the silent house, Jeanne had known in her heart that it was good-bye forever. So she’d slipped into the gallery for one last look, even though the walls had been stripped bare of the magnificent art collection.
“Where are the pictures?” she had asked Maman.
“Don’t concern yourself,” the marquise replied. “They are safe. We are going on a journey and I want you all to listen carefully.” She produced a sheaf of papers from a leather pouch. “You, Jeanne, are to carry Miss Grey’s papers. If anyone asks who you are, say that you are Jane Grey, a governess. It’s fortunate your command of English is excellent. You will have no trouble.”
“But why, Maman?”
“Hush, and do as you are told.” She turned to Marie-Thérèse. “You will be Jeanne-Louise, and Antoinette will pretend to be Marie-Thérèse. Think of it as a game, mes enfants.”
“And who will be me?” Antoinette asked. A good question that was never answered.
The reason for the ruse that saved her life had died with her parents. There was a pleasing justice in using her identity as Jane Grey to breach the stronghold of the Fortescues in search of the one Mr. Fortescue.
She had done it! After all these years, retribution was so close she could taste it.
The fact that she was to be in charge of three girls struck her as a darker irony. At least they weren’t Fortescues.
Once again she followed Mr. Blackett up the great staircase, this time trailed by a footman bearing her modest trunk, to a bedchamber on the second floor.
“Where do my charges sleep?” she asked.
“The young ladies are on the floor above with Nurse Bride.”
“I would expect to be housed near them.”
“The nursery quarters are a bit spartan. His Grace thought you would be more comfortable here.”
His Grace was right about the comfort. The furnishings might be old-fashioned, but the spacious chamber was appointed with every luxury: a pair of tall windows overlooking the back garden hung with silk brocade curtains; a carpet to keep her feet warm, French-made if she wasn’t mistaken; a charming writing desk; a chaise longue at the foot of the bed. A large tester bed.
Jane’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t failed to notice the gleam in the duke’s eye when he regarded her, and she had a very good idea why the governess had been given one of the best rooms in the house. At the time she’d gratefully accepted his admiration since it won her the position with an absurdly easy interview.
“The dressing room is that way,” Blackett said. Jane peered through the open door and was somewhat reassured by the presence of a housemaid with a duster. “And this is Meg. She’ll be assisting you as you need. I’ll leave you to settle in. His Grace will see you in half an hour in the nursery. Meg will show you the way.”
“I have hot water, miss,” the maid said once they were alone. “Would you like me to unpack for you?”
“I’ll do it myself, thank you.” She didn’t want Meg gossiping about the contents of her luggage. “Perhaps you would be good enough to put away my cloak and bonnet while I wash.”
Though her journey had been a short one, Jane appreciated the chance to tidy herself. The dressing room was too prosaic a name for a charming boudoir, as well appointed as the chamber, right down to a handsome copper bathtub in one corner, next to a door paneled and painted in the same style as the walls. “What is through there?” she asked.
“His Grace’s rooms.”
“Do these rooms customarily belong to the duchess?” Jane asked, every suspicion confirmed.
“I wouldn’t rightly know, miss. I’m newly hired. Most of us are, except for His Grace’s man.”
The door was locked, with no sign of a key, which reassured Jane not a bit.
Long practice had made her deft in coaxing her wavy brown hair into the Grecian style. Henri Dupont, her lover for five years, liked everything about her to be à la mode since it lent him consequence to have his mistress smartly turned out. He believed she was English and this had been a slight embarrassment to him, but since her French was impeccable, he generally managed to forget the fact.
It amused her considerably when she discovered that English ladies had adopted the French style. Ladies of fashion, not governesses. She did wonder if an English governess could get away with looking like the fashionable chère amie of a French official of the Consulat. During her months of reconnaissance in London, waiting for the opportunity to insinuate herself into the bosom of the Fortescues, she learned that governesses were almost without exception plain of dress and dowdy to boot. That was why she would be wearing her older, less costly garments, the ones she’d acquired from Mathieu Picard, her first and less wealthy lover. She regretted the necessity, not only because the gowns lacked style, but also because they reminded her of Mathieu. She never thought about Mathieu if she could help it.
She scowled at her face in the mirror and hoped her gown of olive green wool was governessy enough to dispel any ideas the duke had developed.
Yet he hadn’t seemed the kind of man to force his attentions on an employee, or any other woman. Why would he need to when he was attractive enough to seduce anyone he wanted without much trouble? The surest guard against her unwelcome desire for the Duke of Denford was if he decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. She removed the emerald green ribbon tied rakishly around the high neck of her gown and practiced an expression that was both humble and forbidding.
“I’m ready,” she said finally, and followed Meg up yet another flight of stairs to the children’s quarters. Her nerves fluttered as she entered a large schoolroom, unnecessarily as it happened. The only occupants were an elderly woman, stertorously sleeping by the fire, and two girls. It was easy to see that they were Denford’s sisters. They shared his luxuriant black hair and brows and bright blue eyes but had managed to avoid his prominent nose, giving them promise of great beauty in the future.
The elder rose from her seat by the central table where she had been writing. “You must be Mis
s Grey,” she said in a soft voice with a trace of a lilt that wasn’t quite English. She curtseyed politely, and Jane saw that she was already developing womanly curves. Another year and a new gown or two and she’d have young men at her feet.
Jane curtseyed back. “And you must be Miss Osbourne.”
“I am Maria and this is my youngest sister. Get up, Laura, and greet Miss Grey.”
The little girl put down her pencil and followed her sister’s example. “Good morning, Miss Grey.” Her accent was even more pronounced. Irish, Jane supposed. The duke had told her the young ladies were lately come from Dublin.
“Laura, is it? And how old are you?”
“I’m nine. How old are you?”
“Laura!” said her horrified sister.
“Never mind, Maria. I am . . . twenty-seven.” She almost forgot the lie she’d told the duke and gave her real age of twenty-four. “Mind you, it’s not a question that’s thought polite to ask grown-ups.”
“Why?”
“That’s a good question. I suppose it’s because some people, especially ladies, like to pretend to be younger than they are.”
“That’s silly. Maria wants to be older than fifteen. She can’t wait to put her hair up and wear proper stays.”
Maria blushed, the color in her cheeks increasing her loveliness.
“But you don’t want people to think you are younger than you are, do you, Miss Grey?”
“I do not.” If they only knew. “Another thing, Laura. Don’t talk about undergarments.”
“Even with my sisters? We help each other dress.”
“With your sisters it is permissible.”
“And with Bridey.” She pointed at the sleeping woman. “Nurse Bride is her real name but we always call her Bridey,” she said in an exaggerated whisper, little softer than her usual voice. The old woman slept on undisturbed.
“And with your nurse.”
“And with you?”
Jane gave the matter some thought. “Since I am your governess, I believe it would be proper for you to consult me in matters of correct attire. But do not discuss such matters in company. Are there not three of you? Where is your other sister?”
Laura put her hands behind the back and shook her head with an air of innocence that had to be spurious. Maria pinched her lips and said nothing. Sisterly loyalty was a good thing and Jane would have to deal with the absent girl soon enough. The duke had mentioned she had a penchant for unsuitable company. “Chatting with riffraff” was how he phrased it. Clearly the middle girl was the difficult one. “I expect she is busy and will attend me when she is ready. Meanwhile, let us talk about your lessons. What have you been working on?”
“I’m writing about the history of Christianity at the court of King Arthur.” Maria handed Jane her sheet, covered in beautiful, even penmanship. It didn’t take long to see that the girl had an excellent grasp of language and aspects of the legend Jane had never heard of. Keeping up with her was going to be a challenge. After all, at fifteen, Maria’s age, Jane’s formal education had come to an end when she was offered the choice of bedding Captain Mathieu Picard or losing her head.
“Very good, Maria. I never thought of religion and King Arthur, only of noble knights and ladies.”
The girl seemed pleased. “Papa said we must always look for God in the old stories. He never let us read about the pagans.”
“No Greek or Roman stories? But they are so amusing. What can be the harm?”
“Maria likes to go to church a lot,” Laura said.
“Very commendable, I am sure. It would be more of a challenge if you wrote in French.”
“My French isn’t very good.”
Thank goodness! “Mine is. I shall help you. What about you, Laura?”
“I’m doing sums. I like adding and taking away and multiplying, but division is hard. How can I divide four hundred and sixteen by thirty-two? It’s impossible.” She stuck out her lower lip, reminding Jane that despite her resemblance to her older brother and sister, she was definitely a child.
“Luckily I am also very good at arithmetic.” She’d practiced by keeping the household accounts, first for Mathieu and then for Henri. “Let us sit down and see what the trouble is. You, Maria, start translating your essay into French.”
I can do this, she thought, as she managed to explain the mysteries of long division against the background of Maria’s scratching pen and the nurse’s snores.
“Thirteen!” Laura cried in triumph. “That’s Fenella’s age. I did it, Miss Grey.”
“Do you think you can do the next one by yourself?”
“I’ll try.” The little girl’s earnest enthusiasm was enough like Antoinette’s to make Jane want to weep, or to catch her up in a hug. She had to remind herself that Laura was not her little sister. Her sisters were dead and she was only the governess.
Half an hour passed peacefully before a voice was heard from the passage. Instinctively Jane’s hands went to her neck, before she remembered she had no ribbon to adjust. There was no reason to make herself look attractive for the duke, even though his unmistakable basso tones had every inch of her skin tingling. Quite the opposite, in fact. When he came through the door she rose and curtseyed, keeping her eyes low so they wouldn’t be seduced by his dark magnificence.
“I’ve brought you your other pupil, Miss Grey,” he said without preamble, exasperation cutting through the ironic detachment he’d displayed during their interview. “I found her by chance in the mews, chatting to the grooms and coachmen and upsetting the horses.”
The girl who’d accompanied him, dragging her feet, began to protest. “I was not—”
“I don’t care,” the duke said. “Make your curtsey to your new governess, Fenella. It’s Miss Grey’s job now to check your starts. I happily wash my hands of you.”
Fenella flinched at his biting tone but stood her ground, regarding him with the defiance of an Amazon. It was hard to believe she came from the same nest as her brother and sisters. Instead of being a black-haired beauty, she was as plain as a mouse. Even the family blue eyes seemed dull beneath lank brown hair that badly needed brushing. Her pugnacious expression did nothing to enhance her moderate attractions.
“I don’t care either,” she said. “There’s nothing to do here. I wish we’d never come to London to live with you.”
“That’s because we haven’t been here long,” Maria said, acting the peacemaking eldest. “Our brother has promised to take us to see a play.”
“Do you think you deserve it when you can’t behave yourselves?”
“That’s not fair!” Laura said. “Maria and I haven’t done anything.”
“It’s up to you to control your sister. And now it’s up to Miss Grey. I have an appointment.”
Without another word, he turned on his heels and strode out, leaving Jane and the children in paralyzed silence. What an ogre, Jane thought, looking at the stricken young faces around her. But before she could say a word, the ogre reappeared in the doorway.
“Oh, Miss Grey,” he said with perfect self-possession, as though the ugly little scene hadn’t just happened. “I would like you to regularly attend me in the library after dinner, whenever I am not dining out, to report on the progress of the young ladies. Shall we say nine o’clock?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” She barely refrained from snapping at his retreating back. She’d give him progress. In fact she’d give him a piece of her mind, treating his sisters like that. Clearly the poor things were having a miserable time with their father dead, their mother remarried and gone away, and a brother they barely knew who didn’t want them. Their only attendant was an elderly woman who had managed to sleep undisturbed through the whole altercation and exercised no control over her nurslings. They needed a governess very badly, someone to give them the loving attention and solid education she and her sisters had received from their mother and the real Miss Jane Grey.
Maria, peacemaking forgotten, was berating her
middle sister. “You always spoil it for us. You always made Papa angry and now Julian won’t take us anywhere and it’s your fault. Why can’t you be good?”
“I hate you!” Fenella cried. “You’re mean and detestable and think you’re so wonderful just because you’re pretty and the eldest. But our brother doesn’t care any more for you than he does for me, or Laura either, even if everyone else thinks she’s so sweet and adorable.”
Maria put a protective arm about Laura, who had started to cry. “You’re just jealous, Fenella Osbourne. Don’t you make faces at me because the wind will change and you’ll be stuck like that forever and never get a husband.”
“I don’t want a husband. When I grow up I’m going to run away and then you’ll be sorry.”
“Oh certainly,” Maria jeered. “I’ll surely die of misery at never seeing you again.”
“When you are dead, I will laugh.”
No stranger to sisterly squabbles, Jane stepped into the melee before the hair pulling began. “Stop it at once, girls. If His Grace won’t take you about town, I will. But not unless you behave like proper young ladies. The sun is out and I thought we’d all like to walk in the park and look at the fine ladies and gentlemen in their carriages.”
The quarreling stopped like magic, with fervent thank-yous from the eldest and youngest.
“Maria and Laura, please go and put on your bonnets while I speak to your sister.”
The more biddable sisters obeyed, leaving Jane with Fenella, who stood before her sniffing, her hair a mess, mud around her hem, and her shoe ribbons untied. Her mood had softened from rage to defiant sulkiness, and it didn’t suit her pallid complexion. She was at war with the world, and winning her over wouldn’t be easy.
There wasn’t any real reason why Jane should take the trouble. She wasn’t a true governess and she wasn’t going to be here for long. Only as long as it took to find out which member of the Fortescue family she sought. And yet there was something about the Osbourne girls that tugged at her heart, even the difficult middle girl. Jane remembered what it had been like to be thirteen, uncomfortable in her own skin. At that age she had had every advantage, although her later experience made the Osbournes seem darlings of Fortune by contrast. Still, Fenella was an unhappy girl and doubtless with reason.
The Duke of Dark Desires Page 4
