The Reluctant Governess

by Maggie Robinson

  So she was surprised to be shaken by a barefoot Sunny, her face still on the greenish side. For a split second Eliza did not know where she was or who this adorable child was, but then she sat bolt upright. What time was it? Bright October sunlight was streaming in the garden-facing window.

  “Wake up, Miss Lawrence. Sue is blubbering, so Mrs. Quinn sent me to fetch you. There are people outside.”

  “People?” she asked, frowning.

  “Yes. Mrs. Quinn doesn’t know what to do about them, and Papa is still sleeping.”

  Eliza swung both legs out of bed and reached for her father’s robe that was folded across the coverlet. “What are these people doing?”

  “Shouting and knocking on all the doors.”

  Eliza had been sleeping so soundly she hadn’t heard a thing. “Is Mrs. Quinn afraid to open the door to them?”

  “She did at first. Once. But a bunch of them tried to get past her at the tradesmen’s door. She managed to shut it and smash the man’s foot. And then someone climbed over the wall and is in the back garden. We can see his boots going back and forth from the basement window.” Sunny’s eyes were wide and fearful.

  Eliza raced to her window. Sure enough, a man was smoking below, his eyes gazing upward. She stepped back hurriedly.

  “I think we should wake your father.” Maybe even call the police, but she didn’t want to alarm the child any more than she was already. Nicholas Raeburn might have some idea why his house was under siege by, she was fairly sure, members of the press. They came around every time Lord and Lady Raeburn came down from Scotland and sniffed about outside the agency. There had been a huge scandal at the Forsyth Palace Hotel over some doctor and they’d been in the thick of it. All Eliza knew is that Lord Raeburn had frightened them off last time by threatening to sue. It didn’t hurt that the man was built like a Highland mountain.

  But that was all old news now. The baron and his wife were just a happily married couple.

  Boring, as Mr. Raeburn would say.

  She grabbed Sunny’s hand and squeezed it. “You are a brave little girl, do you know that?”

  “Papa always says so. He says I’m not to be afraid of anything. I used to scream every time I saw a spider, but spiders eat bad bugs, you know. They are our friends.”

  Eliza smiled. “I’ll tell you a little secret. Once when I got home late from work, there was a spider on the ceiling of my bedroom. I slept on the parlor sofa that night.”

  “Silly you.”

  “Yes, I am sometimes. How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

  “My tummy gurgles and makes Sue laugh when she’s not whinging. But Mrs. Quinn says my fever has gone down.”

  “Good. Let’s go see if your papa is ready to face the day.”

  Eliza tapped on the door, but there was no answer. She turned the knob, and peered into the gloom. The curtains were still pulled and the blankets were on a heap on the floor. Nicholas Raeburn lay flat on his back, stark naked, one hand thrown across his face. His manhood was hard as marble and pointing heavenward.

  But of course. It wouldn’t be a day on Lindsey Street if Eliza did not see the man in dishabille. She was certainly getting an education on the human male form and would never have to visit a museum again to assuage her curiosity.

  Eliza eased the door shut and turned to the little girl behind her. “Sunny, are you brave enough to go back downstairs by yourself? I believe your papa is still sick.”

  “All right. I’ll just get some books from my room. There is nothing to do downstairs.”

  Tell that to poor Mrs. Quinn, Eliza thought. How the housekeeper was holding everything together under the circumstances was a wonder. But Mrs. Daughtry was due soon. Dr. Samuelson, too.

  Eliza waited until Sunny trundled off with an armful of books and a ratty stuffed bear, and then cracked the door open again. Nicholas was still in the same position, his face and body pale. Eliza stepped closer and saw the beads of sweat at his temple. He must be feverish and had thrown off the blankets accordingly.

  She couldn’t wake him while he was so exposed, so she untangled a linen sheet from the pile on the floor and draped it gently across the lower half of his body.

  “Mr. Raeburn, please wake up. We have a situation here.”

  His auburn brows knit at the sound of her voice, but he didn’t open his eyes.

  “Nicholas!” she said sharply.

  His eyes flew open. The man had exceptionally long dark copper eyelashes. Wasn’t it always the way? Men were such showy peacocks.

  “Yes? What is it, Miss Lawrence?” he asked, as though it was a common occurrence to receive a female while he was lying in bed.

  It probably was.

  “There is a slew of reporters in the street, and one enterprising fellow has trespassed into the garden. Would you know why they are here?” The implicit question was What have you done?

  “I haven’t the foggiest.” Nicholas sat up, catching himself before he pitched sideways to the floor. “Damn it all. I feel wretched.”

  “I’m sorry for that, but your house is under invasion. Should I ring the police, or do you expect them to arrest you if they come?”

  His mouth dropped open. “What? You have very little faith in me, Miss Lawrence. Just what do you suspect?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. A man like you is capable of anything.”

  “There you go again! What have I ever done to make you think so little of me? And just what evil do you think I perpetrated from my bed the past twenty-four-plus hours? I haven’t moved from this room except to use the lavatory.”

  “You’ve been back in England for a week,” Eliza reminded him. She was enjoying discomfiting him, although it was very bad of her. He was still ill and looked dreadful, and she should not aggravate him.

  “I wonder . . .” he trailed off. “Give me a minute, Miss Lawrence. I need to take care of . . . something.”

  Was that a blush on his cheek? How modest he was all of a sudden. Did he realize she’d seen him nude again? It was becoming habitual. “Do you need me to assist you upstairs?”

  “Of course not. Just fetch me my robe. Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee when I get back?”

  “I’ll see if Mrs. Quinn is up to it. The mob has upset her.” At this rate, Nicholas Raeburn would sink to the level of Daniel Preble in the housekeeper’s eyes.

  Nicholas nodded, and Eliza went downstairs. At street level, she could hear the murmuring on the steps. She peered through the stained glass panel beside the door but could see very little through the wavy colored glass.

  And then there was a roar and frantic knocking.

  What should she do? Eliza had no interest in being run over by a pack of jackals. If a large woman like Mrs. Quinn had difficulty holding them at bay, Eliza didn’t trust her own strength.

  “Please, let me in! It’s Mrs. Daughtry! Get back, young man, before I hit you with my handbag! I am a trained nurse, and I know where to hurt a man!”

  Eliza slid the chain from its lock, took a deep breath, and opened the door a few inches. A flash exploded from a tripod camera on the sidewalk, and there was the incessant click of at least a dozen Brownie box cameras.

  Eliza blinked. It was indeed Mrs. Daughtry, who gave her a wild-eyed look and shoved herself into the hall. The nurse slammed someone’s fingers in the front door behind her, resulting in a yelp and a quick retreat.

  “What on earth is going on outside?” Eliza asked, refastening the chain before someone else was foolish enough to try to gain entry. There were numerous walking sticks in the hall that could be put to good use.

  “This.” Mrs. Daughtry thrust a stack of newspapers at Eliza. “It seems our Mr. Raeburn has attracted the attention of the yellow press.”

  Eliza took the papers and read the top headline. “Baron’s Brother in Brawl Over Brazen Bawd. Hm. S
omeone is overfond of alliteration.” She flipped to the next edition. “Mad Artist Almost Murdered Over Model. Model Mayhem. Goodness. More of the same.” Each issue was more lurid than the next. Some of the front pages were illustrated; surely Nicholas’s copper curls were not so cherubic. A few had a photograph of a nude young woman, black bars strategically covering her body. Talk about brazen! “Life study taken by Naughty Nicky!” was the caption. Eliza declined to read that one aloud.

  After a brief perusal of some of the articles, she saw that Baron Raeburn’s past scandals had been dredged up. There were even wedding photographs of him with his first wife, and another of him towering over Mary Evensong on the day of their marriage. Eliza had seen the latter on Lady Raeburn’s desk.

  “Oh dear. Mary won’t like this at all.” Fortunately she was on a steamship somewhere in the Atlantic, far away from gutter gossip.

  Mrs. Daughtry cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” she said. “Mr. Daughtry would not approve me working in such a household.”

  Hang Mr. Daughtry. Eliza had taken the man in dislike without ever meeting him.

  “You’ve tended to Mr. Raeburn’s injuries! You know he was an innocent victim in all this.”

  “Was he? That’s not what the papers are saying.” Mrs. Daughtry took a quick look up the stairs and lowered her voice. “The woman in that scandalous picture claims Mr. Raeburn had her common-law husband falsely imprisoned. That the poor man was only defending their household against Mr. Raeburn’s drunken assault. That he and his rich friend Sir Tippy or Tuppy Something entered uninvited and bribed the police with false charges.”

  “What rubbish. You spent the whole day with him yesterday. Does he seem like the sort of man who would take advantage of his position?”

  Like he did last night, when he dragged Eliza off her chair to kiss her until she saw stars and couldn’t breathe?

  “He was half out of his head with fever most of the time, so what do I know? I tried to reach Dr. Samuelson, but he must be out making house calls. No, I’m leaving, and I thought it only fair that I explain myself to you. I’ll check on those belowstairs, but then I must go.”

  Eliza wasn’t going to stand in the front hall arguing where any nosy reporter with his ear to the door could hear them. “Suit yourself. I’m sure Dr. Samuelson can find a replacement for you.”

  Mrs. Daughtry gave her a dubious look and followed her downstairs to the kitchen. Mr. Raeburn had asked for coffee, and coffee he would get. He’d need some stimulation once he read all those horrible newspapers.

  Mrs. Quinn sat near the stove with Sunny snuggled in her lap. The little girl was sucking her thumb, a dreadful habit, but Eliza wouldn’t be here long enough to cure her of it.

  “Don’t get up. You both look so cozy. I’m just going to get Mr. Raeburn some breakfast,” Eliza said. “He’ll figure out what to do with the reporters outside.” She clutched the newspapers to her chest and poured the coffee into an ironstone mug one-handed, uncertain of Sunny’s reading ability. The child did not need to know what was being said about her father.

  “How are my patients this morning?” the nurse asked in a false-bright voice.

  “Mrs. Quinn thinks Sue is faking,” Sunny said, wiggling in the housekeeper’s lap. “That she is a—is a shirter.”

  “That’s shirker, dear. Miss Lawrence, the master takes one sugar and a little cream. I can bring up some toast and a soft-boiled egg for both of you once Sunny and I finish this story.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Quinn. You are a treasure.” Eliza looked pointedly at Mrs. Daughtry, who seemed oblivious of Eliza’s opinion of her own qualifications.

  She left the woman opening her carryall to find her thermometer and stepped upstairs carefully with the hot liquid and newspapers. She would kill for a cup of tea, but that would have to wait.

  Nicholas Raeburn was propped up against his pillows, wearing his nightshirt, thank goodness. His lower legs were really rather shapely.

  Eliza tossed the news sheets in his lap. “You are famous, Mr. Raeburn. Or should I say infamous? What do you plan to do now?”

  Chapter 12

  There was not enough aspirin in the world for this headache. Scandal Runs in the Family, one headline trumpeted. And that was one of the mildest.

  “There’s just enough truth in all of these, isn’t there?” Enough so that it would be difficult to sue the publishers, even if he did know a good lawyer. Maybe Eliza’s Mr. Hurst would help.

  Thank the gods Alec was on his honeymoon. The last thing his brother needed was to have his past dredged up and the accusations that he was responsible for his first wife’s death. He finally had a chance to be happy now with the interfering Mary Evensong, who had somehow soothed the beast that was his big brother.

  Nick had learned there was quite an incident last June on the estate, with the diminutive Mary saving the day, and Alec’s soul to boot. The scandalous details had been suppressed, but the London Ledger had hinted that the late and unlamented Dr. Josef Bauer had a hand in Edith Raeburn’s demise the year before.

  The awful truth—Edith had killed herself, something loyal Alec was loath to reveal. Even with the new evidence of Bauer’s complicity, there was still enough of a sting to the Raeburn clan that the family’s reputation might never recover from it.

  “What are you going to do? We can’t stay imprisoned in the house indefinitely,” Eliza said. “Not to mention no one will want to walk through the gauntlet to work here. Mrs. Daughtry brought the papers, but she’s left by now.”

  “Don’t need the old bat anyhow,” Nick said. Was he feeling better? Hard to tell. He heard the blood singing in his ears and wondered if his brain was about to explode. His stomach was not altogether placid, either.

  “I will have to call the agency when it opens.” Eliza looked grim. Of course—she didn’t care about his reputation. She just wanted her replacement to be hired. And no respectable female would want to be employed by “Nude-loving Nicky,” no matter how sweet Sunny was.

  “You don’t have to stay. Didn’t you tell me Mrs. Quinn was taking care of Sunny? We were fine before you arrived. We’ll be fine after you go.” He heard the truculence in his voice, but it was too much of an effort to be cheery.

  But they would be all right. Nick had been caring for his child for weeks on his own. She was bright and mostly clean when he could persuade her to wash behind her ears and had a generous little heart.

  “That wouldn’t be right. I promised Mary I’d remain until you could hire someone. But even if you felt well enough to interview the candidates, they would be appalled at the commotion outside.”

  “Maybe the reporters will give up and go away. Someone else is bound to do something far more interesting any minute now.”

  Eliza stared at him with a most governess-like aspect. She might think of herself as a secretary, but he would bet most recalcitrant little boys would flinch at her gaze. “The papers say this Cross fellow was arrested for attempted murder.”

  “Well, he had a gun, didn’t he? The policeman Tubby dragged back saw it. It wasn’t my idea to press charges. I would have been happy if old Phil just promised to stop beating Maisie.”

  “Why would she say such things about you to the reporters if you tried to defend her?” Eliza asked.

  Nick expelled an exasperated breath. “Women. Who can understand them? And I don’t suppose it says anywhere that I gave enough her money to keep herself together for at least a year. Phil should be out of jail by then. His attorney will bargain the charges down to simple assault. I have no objection. I don’t want Cross’s punishment on my conscience. I was a fool to try to interfere, and now I’ve brought disgrace on my brothers. I shouldn’t have come home.”

  On the whole, it probably wasn’t fatal to his reputation to be splashed about the newspapers. He was an artist—he was supposed to be wild and unconventional.
But Alec didn’t deserve any more misery now that he had his Mary, and Evan was miserable enough running the family business in the isolated Highlands.

  He threw off the bedcovers. “I’ll have to get rid of them before my new neighbors try to evict me.”

  “How?”

  “My brothers always said I could talk my way out of anything.” Into anything, too, but he wasn’t going to brag about his prowess with women. Eliza Lawrence seemed immune to him, even after last night’s spectacular kiss.

  Nick put one foot on the ground, and then the rest of him toppled forward onto the carpet.

  “Blast.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get back into bed.”

  He must be having a relapse. After all, he’d made it up the stairs to the bathroom, and the walls had only wobbled slightly.

  Eliza was fussing and clucking over him, tucking him in as if she were swaddling a helpless baby, when Mrs. Quinn coughed delicately at the door.

  “I’ve brought up your breakfast.”

  “Oh, thank you! Mr. Raeburn is light-headed and no doubt some sustenance will do him a world of good.”

  “Yes, thank you for coming up all this way.” The thought of food turned his stomach, however. “How are you, Mrs. Quinn? And how is Sunny?”

  “I’m much better, sir. It will take more than a little upset to lay me low for any length of time. I’m lucky, I am, always have been. Constitution like an ox. And the little girl is getting peevish, which is a sure sign she’s feeling better.”

  “Is Mrs. Daughtry gone?” Eliza asked.

  A look of distaste flitted across Mrs. Quinn’s face. “Oh yes. She snuck out the back way. I told her about the man in the garden, but she went anyway, and he pounced upon her. Serves her right.”

  Eliza picked up a piece of buttered toast and tore off a corner. “I am going to get dressed and then go outside.”

  Mrs. Quinn drew a sharp breath. “No!”

  Nick agreed with the housekeeper and said so, warning Eliza of the pitfalls of talking to the press. It would make a bad situation worse, since they would seize on the least little thing and blow it out of proportion. They should be ignored like the worms they were.