The Reluctant Governess

by Maggie Robinson

  “Someone must talk to them,” Eliza replied. “If we give them what they came for, they’ll go away. I’ll tell them to speak to your friend Sir Thomas if they need more information about the other night.”

  Nick lifted a brow. “He might like that. Tubby thinks there is no such thing as bad publicity. He’s always doing something outrageous to get attention for his various projects.” And Nick was usually right by his side when he was in the country.

  Mrs. Quinn excused herself. After Eliza ripped her toast to shreds, eating very little of it as she argued with him, she left, too. Nick stared at ramekin holding his cooling egg and knew it was beyond him to try to swallow any of it. He made do with his coffee, just the way he liked it.

  He didn’t approve of Eliza talking to the press by herself, but had been unable to talk her out of it. It was true that she seemed an eminently capable female, but she had yet to interact with a news corps that made its own rules and its own facts.

  As a gentleman, he couldn’t let her face them alone, even if he tumbled down the stairs and broke his neck trying to stand by her. That would make for a juicy story, he thought, as he buttoned his shirt with shaking fingers. It was too much to manage his cravat—they would just have to take him in his waistcoat and jacket.

  It took him ages to get dressed. Even bending over to pull up his stockings was agony, the room spinning like Sunny’s favorite top. Nick frightened even himself when he looked in the mirror to brush his hair—his face was mottled with a myriad of colors that he’d have trouble duplicating with his paint box. The black stitches holding his forehead together were formidable as well.

  Good. Let the jackals seen him in his pitiful state and then tell him Phil Cross was a poor innocent.

  It took him another age to creep down the stairs, gripping the banister with white knuckles. He could hear the shouting on his front doorstep—the bastards weren’t even letting Eliza get a word in edgewise. Nick selected a cane from the rack as much to rattle as assist him in walking, and pulled open the door, nearly stumbling over Eliza.

  “It’s Naughty Nicky! Naughty Nicky!” There was a plume of smoke from a camera and a swarm of men tried to mount the steps.

  “Get back this instant!” Eliza cried, sounding most Boudicca-like. Something in her voice must have resonated, for some of the reporters froze in place.

  “Don’t you dare come a step closer, unless you wish to become as ill as Mr. Raeburn. I have explained he has a concussion, but he also has the influenza.”

  “That’s what that nurse said,” a fox-faced man called out from the clot on the sidewalk. Or did he resemble a weasel? “Probably just a ruse to get you in bed with him.”

  Eliza turned white as a sheet. Even her rosy lips faded to bloodlessness. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You ain’t really a governess, are you? Probably one of his nibs’s fancy pieces. You can call yourself a model, but we all know what that means, don’t we, boys?”

  “I told you not to come outside,” Nick muttered. Black spots danced before his eyes. By the gods, he wasn’t going to faint, was he? Misguided Miss Lawrence needed him. She looked ready to faint herself.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, his voice scratchy. “Although I don’t believe you are behaving with much propriety to be called such. Apologize at once to Miss Lawrence.”

  “How do you spell that? L-A-U or L-A-W?”

  “If you print so much as an L, you’ll have me to answer to. The lady—and she is a lady—has nothing to do with my little dustup with Mr. Cross. Leave her out of it.”

  “Is she your new lover?”

  Nick felt Eliza’s tremors even though he stood a full foot away from her. He mustn’t touch her. Mustn’t.

  “As I said, the lady has nothing whatever to do with why you are here. She is my daughter’s governess, new to my employ, and kindly came out to speak to you as she deemed me too ill to speak for myself. For her generosity, you are vilifying her. I won’t have it, do you hear? You know what happens to people who get on my wrong side.” Nick’s voice grew stronger, and by the end, he hoped they understood his threat. He’d have them locked up, too.

  “Is it true Phil Cross tried to kill you? Are you having an affair with his companion Maisie? Why did you come back to England?”

  There were a dozen more questions, all of which Nick declined to answer. He was keenly aware that Eliza was shaking like a leaf beside him, and the urge to wrap his arm around her was strong. Likely she would knock him down the steps into the throng if he tried to touch her.

  Nick raised his hand, and a hush finally fell over the reporters.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you all, but there really is no story here. In my misplaced zeal to uphold the rights of the fairer sex, I went to speak to Mr. Cross about his treatment of one of my models. The young woman was beaten so badly that she could not work. Rather like me, except I do not rely upon my face for employment. I can assure you, I would do it again, no matter the consequences. No man should use his fists on a female, no matter how irritating she might be.” He gave Eliza an affectionate glance that she missed completely, staring off as she was at a bush in the tiny front patch of garden.

  “Then why does Maisie accuse you of attempted murder? She says if you weren’t a toff, you’d be the one in the clink.”

  “You’d have to ask her. If you need corroboration of the facts, you may speak to Sir Thomas Featherstone. He was a witness to the event and contacted the watch when my life was in danger.”

  “All you rich nobs stick together,” the fox-weasel mumbled.

  Nick had had enough. More than enough. If he didn’t get back inside, he was not going to be responsible for—

  Why the hell not? He felt the beginnings of a smile, and the beginnings of something else deep in his gorge. With an apologetic shrug, he vomited on the feet of the reporters crowding in on him.

  If he’d eaten his egg, the effluvium would have been more prolific, but one couldn’t have everything. The horror was comical as the men leaped away from the mess, howling in dismay.

  “So sorry. Miss Lawrence did tell you I was ill. I do hope you won’t catch—”

  But he was talking mostly to himself, the group of reporters hastening down Lindsey Street as if the devil himself were upon them.

  All except for the photographer who had set up his tripod on the sidewalk. Nick would have talked cameras with him if he were feeling better, photography being still a relatively new art form for him. The man took one more shot of Nick and Eliza in front of the door, tipped his hat, and dismantled his equipment.

  “There. I think that went well, don’t you?” Nick asked.

  Eliza shook her head in wonder. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Don’t be silly. One cannot make oneself vomit at will. If one could, the world would be a very treacherous place. No, I’m afraid my stomach is still a bit unsettled. I feel fathoms better now, though. But I believe I might need your assistance getting back upstairs to bed. The air has quite gone out of my balloon.”

  “I’d say you have plenty of hot air to spare. You were very eloquent in your own defense, all that protection of women nonsense.”

  Nick shut and locked the door behind them. “What do you mean, nonsense?”

  “If you valued women, you would not subject them to pose for lascivious portraits.”

  “Lascivious? May I suggest lasciviousness—is that a word?—is in the eye of the beholder. There is, as I stated earlier, nothing unnatural about the human body in its natural state. None of my models were importuned against their will to sit for me. They are working girls, just like you, Eliza. They need to make money, and I am a generous employer. What should they be doing? Walking the alleys of Shepherd Market? Depending upon some rough man like Phil Cross for their bread? Taking in sewing? Just what do you think is proper employment for young women of mode
st education and no fortune? I should think you’d want them to be given every opportunity.”

  This heated speech cost Nick, and he slumped against the staircase. He was tired of Eliza’s disapproval—it seemed he could never win with her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, I am not all right. I find all this very tiresome. In every respect. If I were still in Italy—”

  He sighed. Someone like Eliza would not appreciate hearing how lovely everything was when she was accustomed to the gray of England. What was the point of thinking of Italy? Sun-dappled walled gardens, ruby-red wine, and lemons fresh from the tree had not been enough to keep him there when his brothers had begged him to come home anyhow. He had a duty to his family, no matter how badly he was mucking it up. If he’d truly known how Alec had suffered after Edith died, Nick would have been home in an instant.

  Daniel Preble would be enjoying his perfect villa soon now since they had traded houses. Of course in Nick’s case, he had paid well for the privilege. He’d be lucky if he ever saw any lira from Daniel toward his rent.

  He was reminded he needed to pack up Daniel’s artwork and send it to him as he’d promised. Well, he was downstairs, was he not, and the thought of going upstairs all at once was not appealing. Let them go a floor at a time and get started inventorying Daniel’s paintings. He could manage to hold himself up for a while, couldn’t he?

  “If you will stop haranguing me for half an hour, I need some help identifying my friend’s art. Then you can contact some removal men to crate them up and send them to him.”

  “You are supposed to remain in bed,” Eliza reminded him.

  “I can’t remain when I’m not there to begin with, can I? I promise I’ll be a good boy and go up when we’re finished.”

  “I suppose these pictures feature more naked women.”

  Nick was about to reply when he saw a miracle. One of Eliza Lawrence’s eyelids dropped, then rose, and her lips turned up. By the gods she was winking and smiling at him. Would wonders never cease?

  Chapter 13

  Nicholas Raeburn was growing on her. He’d been rather eloquent—and almost heroic—outside before he lost his breakfast, and had rightfully shamed her inside when she’d been so sniffy about his models.

  He was right. Everyone was entitled to decent employment, even girls who chose to reveal the secrets of their bare skin to the world. Eliza had been judgmental toward those less fortunate than she, and she felt guilty.

  Not everyone was good with figures—the numerical kind. Not everyone was organized. Eliza adored office work, but she supposed some people might find it deadly dull. She herself would never remove her clothes in front of a man who was not her husband, but she was not the arbiter of all life.

  That was rather a revelation. Eliza felt herself unwinding ever so slightly, and it felt good. Nicholas Raeburn was not so terribly wicked; he just saw things very differently.

  “Are you sure you are up to it?” she asked upon closer inspection. His face was gray, and his hairline was damp.

  “I’ll be all right. There aren’t so many paintings, according to Daniel.”

  “Where shall we start?”

  “Right here in the entryway. This is one of his. He sold almost everything before he left. Daniel Preble’s an Impressionist, you know.”

  Eliza had an immediate vision of pastel smudges, but the painting Nick pointed at hanging in the hallway was far from pale and dreamy. She thought she was looking at a violent rust-orange seascape, but wasn’t sure. Seawater was supposed to be green, wasn’t it?

  She touched the frame, and an envelope slid out from behind the wall. She bent to pick it up, assuming if Nicholas tried he’d fall on his head.

  Nicholas smiled. “I remember Daniel picking up his bills when they came through the letter slot and stuffing them behind this. Out of sight, out of mind. That philosophy got him into quite a bit of trouble. Let me see it.”

  His smile faded when he saw the writing on the envelope. “Barbara,” he murmured.

  That was the name of Sunny’s mother. His mistress. Why was the woman writing to this Daniel Preble fellow?

  “Are you going to open it?”

  Nicholas shook his head. “Best not to. Nothing can be done now. She’s been dead for two years, and the postmark is much older than that. But I’ll send it along for old times’ sake.” He tucked the letter in his pocket.

  The air was definitely out of the balloon now. Nicholas seemed distracted as they moved through the dining and morning rooms. There were three more pictures, all incomprehensible to Eliza with their smeary brushstrokes and muddy colors.

  “Is this what you paint like?” she asked. She hoped not. Eliza was never an especially good liar, and she would be unable to muster any enthusiasm if his own work resembled the work of an unprecocious three-year-old.

  Nicholas was leaning against a console table, looking pale. “No. This one is mine. See the difference?”

  Eliza examined a smallish canvas dotted with gold leaf and a host of bright colors. It was of a woman—naked, of course—her voluptuous body glowing as if it were made of sunshine. While no one had multi-hued blue hair—to her knowledge—it was a beautiful portrait.

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t like it.” Nicholas sounded resigned.

  “I do! I’m surprised—I told you I know nothing about art, but this is very . . . eye-catching. Different. The gold, the gleam—” Eliza didn’t have the words for what she wanted to say.

  “It was an experiment. Not my best, which is why I gave it to Daniel. It’s too much like Gustav. Klimt, that is. Derivative, not different at all.”

  “But it’s lovely.”

  Nicholas raised a bifurcated eyebrow. “Even with the naked body?”

  “Because of the n-naked body. You’ve made her skin glow as if she’s lit from within.”

  He nodded. “She was. Full of life and joy. One couldn’t look away from her. One didn’t want to.”

  Eliza knew without asking he was speaking of Barbara again. How he must have loved her.

  In real life, her hair must have been as blue-black as Sunny’s. The eyes on the canvas were dark and knowing, almost amused, as she watched her young lover paint her. Barbara’s lips were wine-red and full, pursed as if she were about to say something intimate.

  It was an extraordinary painting, even to Eliza’s untrained eye. Full of passion for both the woman it depicted and art itself. Nicholas Raeburn possessed true talent in a field Eliza would never understand.

  Perhaps she would learn if Sir Thomas Featherstone hired her to manage his artists’ cooperative. But that would mean leaving the comfort of the Evensong Agency, not that she’d been there long enough to grow deep roots. But she was comfortable there. Oliver was great fun to work with and even elderly Mrs. Evensong was a dear.

  Eliza glanced at Nicholas, who was clutching the table as if it were a lifeline.

  “You need to go back upstairs. I can take care of labeling the other paintings—Mr. Preble’s work is very distinctive, not to mention he signed them and there are brass plates on the frames with his name on them.”

  He gave her a weak smile. “Nothing gets by you.”

  “I told you I was efficient. I’ll call Oliver and he can send some workmen over to crate them up. I’ll make arrangements to ship them to Italy on the first available boat.”

  “He may actually still be in Paris, staying with mutual friends. That’s where we exchanged keys. I don’t think he plans on going to my house full-time until after the New Year. Too many amusements in the City of Light, don’t you know.”

  “Give me their address. And the letter.”

  Nicholas reached into his coat pocket with some reluctance. Had he been planning to read it first after all, despite what he’d said? Eliza was tempted to steam it open herself, but she wou
ldn’t succumb to the jealousy that was unaccountably stabbing at a place in her chest.

  She was being ridiculous. Yes, she had kissed Nicholas Raeburn, but she mustn’t do so again, even if he wanted to.

  Or if she wanted to.

  Anyway, if he fell in love with women who looked like Barbara, he could have no possible interest in her. That woman was all dark mystery, chased rose-gold and ruby. Richest chocolate. Eliza was smooth white enamel by comparison. Vanilla.

  “What’s that world-weary sigh for? I thought I was the injured party here.” Nicholas collapsed onto a tufted chair, scribbling an address on a scrap of paper. “Maybe you could fetch me one of the walking sticks so I can get upstairs eventually.”

  Eliza bolted to the hallway before she gave herself away. What was she doing, mooning about over forbidden kisses? She had never behaved in such a fashion over Richard Hurst. Of course, Richard Hurst had never looked at her with an artist’s eye, probably undressing her with every glance.

  Eliza picked up a bamboo cane and considered rapping herself in the head with it. Things were getting out of hand. She might blame her sudden surge of emotion on propinquity, or all the confusion on the front steps. She’d had an exhausting few days on Lindsey Street.

  And if she didn’t want any more, she must call Oliver.

  She returned with the cane and her inappropriate feelings mostly in check. “May I help you upstairs?” she asked.

  Nicholas shook his head. “I’d better manage on my own. You have enough to do without running yourself ragged up and down the staircase.”

  “I should check on Sunny, too. I feel as if I’ve fallen down on my duties.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve exceeded your job description. Thank you for trying to deal with those newspaper people. It was an admirable effort.”

  Eliza knew he wasn’t speaking the truth. Until he stepped outside, she’d been near tears trying to make herself heard over the shouts. All her poise and professionalism was wasted on the rabid pack of reporters, who wanted good gossip instead of the facts.