by Regina Scott
Clever woman. Alaric nodded. “Then I’m sure Larissa would be happy to set it to rights.”
The way her brows gathered reminded him of her mother in a fit of pique. “That’s a servant’s job.”
“Not today.” He helped her rise and pointed her at the door to the governess’s quarters. “If you hurry, you’ll still have time for an arithmetic problem or two before your constitutional.”
With a martyred sigh, Larissa headed for Jane’s room. Simmons followed as if determined to help.
Jane rose. “I should supervise. I have an image of paste sticking my clothes together.”
Calantha giggled.
He caught Jane’s arm as she passed. “Don’t give them ideas.”
That grin was saucy. “Or paste, it seems.”
“Meet her halfway,” he murmured. “Let her practice curtseying for the queen or some other ladylike pastime today.”
“Ladylike.” The smile had gained an edge. “Conversations about the weather, perhaps.”
“Nothing so banal. Embroidery or singing.”
Now there was a decided gleam in her eyes. “As you wish, Wey. I’ll add singing to the curriculum. You may want to find something to do outside.” And with that threat, she strode after his eldest.
Chapter Eight
Once again, Jane had won the battle, but not the war. Ladylike pursuits indeed, as if sewing a fine hand or trilling an enthralling melody was more important than foundational studies that would help the girls understand the world. But if Wey wanted her to teach them to sing, she would, and heaven help the rest of the household.
Unfortunately, she had no time to begin just then. She started Larissa on the wardrobe, then asked Calantha to help Abelona with her letters. She returned to her bedchamber to find Larissa hanging her cloak on a hook, nose wrinkled.
“A little respect, if you please,” Jane told her. “That cloak’s been to five countries, besides England.”
Simmons, standing on duty against the wall, coughed as if questioning the claim. She was just glad he hadn’t pitched in to help Larissa. But then again, he wasn’t the most helpful sort, for a footman.
Larissa shook her head. “You wore this old thing so far? It’s very plain.”
“Needs a bit of gold braid,” Simmons said, lip curling in a sneer.
Jane stilled. That could have been an offhand remark, or she might have just discovered who’d been in her trunk. But why would a footman need to paw through her things? Unless, of course, he’d managed to drop the trunk on the way up and had had to throw everything back inside. That certainly sounded like Simmons.
“Braid would be nice,” Larissa said, hands stroking the wrinkles from the cloak. “You could sew it along the hem. Did you learn to sew, Mrs. Kimball?”
Still testing her, it seemed. A governess who hadn’t come out might have more deficiencies.
“Certainly,” Jane said. “I can mend a hem or stitch up a wound quick as you like. But I wouldn’t attempt fine embroidery.”
Larissa raised her chin. “A lady knows how to embroider.”
“Never claimed to be a lady,” Jane reminded her. “And mind those boots,” she added as Larissa tossed one into the wardrobe. “I’ll need them to ride.”
“Looks like they’ve been cross five countries too,” Simmons said.
That was enough from him. “Looks like the nursery fire is burning low,” Jane countered. “If only we had a footman to carry coal.”
With a scowl, Simmons left.
Larissa straightened from arranging the boots, something flashing in her hand. “This is very nice. It looks like a broach Grandmother wears. You should put it on the cloak.”
Jane frowned at the cameo in her palm—carnelian on pearl, by the look of it, in a gold filigree setting. Even Jimmy’s stepmother had never owned anything so fine.
“That’s not mine,” she told the girl. “Where did you find it?”
Larissa gestured with her free hand. “It fell out of your boot just now.”
Jane’s heart sank. There was only one explanation for finding something so expensive among her belongings. Someone was attempting to get her discharged. A governess who shouted down ghosts and created unicorns might be tolerated, but a governess who nicked from her employer would be tossed out with the day’s trash. But was it Larissa or Simmons who had gone so far?
“Funny thing, that,” Jane said. “Perhaps we should see if Her Grace is missing it.”
Larissa’s eyes widened. “Someone stole it?”
“Can’t think of another way it would find itself in my boot,” Jane agreed.
Larissa raised her chin. “Stealing is wrong. The thief should be punished.”
She wasn’t a good enough actress to be putting on such a show. Apparently, Larissa wasn’t the culprit. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t above pinning the blame on Jane.
“Who do you think stole it?” Jane asked.
Larissa frowned as if considering the matter. “No one in the schoolroom. Simmons, Betsy, and Maud are with us all the time, and so are you.”
Jane blew out a breath. “Yes, I am, Lady Larissa. I’m glad you realize that. Why don’t you hang on to the broach for now? We’ll send word we’d like a moment of Her Grace’s time and present it to her when she comes.”
Larissa nodded, carrying the broach carefully to the worktable where her sisters bent their heads to exclaim over it. Jane stayed behind just long enough to rifle through the pockets of her cloak and peer inside her now-empty trunk. But she found no other bits of jewelry or anything else to incriminate her. She could only hope others would realize, like Larissa, that Jane couldn’t have taken that broach.
Her charge was wrong about one thing, though. While Jane was expected to be constantly on duty with the girls, except for her upcoming Sunday afternoon off, Betsy, Maud, and Simmons all left the schoolroom in the course of their duties—fetching clean linens from the laundry, carrying up food, carting more coal for the fire. And while a nursery maid might be remarked upon if discovered in the duchess’s chambers, a busy footman might not.
So why was Simmons as determined as Larissa to see her gone?
~~~
Alaric had been perusing the budget proposal from the Society for the Discharge of Persons Confined for Small Debts when he spotted Parsons in the library doorway. He was tempted to send his butler away unheard for a time. The charity was one dear to his heart, ever since he’d seen the misery generated when the father of his good friend, Sir Harry Orwell, had been confined to debtors’ prison when they were lads.
At Harry’s plea, Alaric had accompanied his friend on a visit to the dark, crowded prison. He’d never seen such a place of torment, all hope obliterated from every countenance. While Orwell senior had run up a sizable debt through riotous living, many of the men huddled in the cells near him were being kept from their families for paltry fees incurred through no fault of their own—former soldiers who couldn’t pay the tax on land they could no longer work, tenant farmers whose crops had failed and had no way to pay the tithe to their landowners. If he could help return them to their families and productive work, their wives and children would be better for it.
But the look on Parsons’ face told him his butler thought more pressing matters were at hand than the suffering of men in prison. He lay down the budget proposal. “Yes?”
Parsons ventured into the room. “We appear to be in the midst of a delicate situation, Your Grace. I have been alerted as to the location of Her Grace’s missing cameo.”
“Then return it to her,” Alaric ordered.
Parsons crept close enough that Alaric could see a decided gleam in his eyes. “That’s the thing, Your Grace. I have been informed that the broach is located inside Mrs. Kimball’s boot.”
Alaric frowned. “Her boot.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I would not wish to suggest anything untoward, of course.”
“Of course,” Alaric drawled.
“But the matter is
troubling. Much as she has endeared herself to Lady Calantha and Lady Abelona, perhaps it would be wisest to send her back with that employment agency person and her feline, before she causes more harm.”
He saw no wisdom in the idea. Did Parsons really want to start interviewing governesses again, going through one after another while his daughters huddled neglected in the schoolroom? Besides, Jane had earned her place beside them through spiders, unicorns, and ghosts, and he rather thought she was quickly earning a place in all his daughters’ hearts.
He rose. “I will deal with this, Parsons. Has the broach been retrieved from the boot yet?”
“No, Your Grace. It was left in place in case it provided evidence.”
As if he would ever bring Jane up on charges. He could only fear his eldest daughter had found yet another way to rid herself of a governess she should be proud to call her own.
“Say nothing further about the matter and return to your duties,” he ordered Parsons. “I’ll resolve this with my mother.”
Who smiled at him as he walked into the schoolroom moments later.
“Wey, how delightful. Were you invited for hot chocolate too?”
Cups held rather precariously in their little hands, his daughters all beamed at him as they sat around the worktable, Betsy and Maud busy setting out a platter of biscuits and pouring the dark liquid as Simmons hovered ready to lend a hand. His mother’s flounced rose-colored skirts looked out of place among the sturdy furnishings. But Jane looked the most uncomfortable, shifting on the hard wood chair and avoiding his gaze.
She could not be a thief. He could not be so mistaken in her.
He made himself stroll calmly into the room. “Good morning, Mother. I need no excuse to visit my daughters.”
Calantha nodded. “Mrs. Waxworth said Father saved his excuses to avoid us.”
His steps faltered.
“Nonsense,” his mother said, cup poised in her hand. “Your father is a very busy man. He rarely has time for social obligations, much less chocolate in the schoolroom.”
Had she heard the sobriquet the ton had given him? The Hermit Duke, they called him, as if attending their glittering events was more important than ensuring the safety and livelihood of his tenants.
“And I will not interrupt you now,” Alaric said, edging toward the door to Jane’s bedchamber. “I merely came to see personally how Larissa faired on the task she was set earlier.”
Larissa paled as his mother’s gaze swept her way. “And what task was that? Solving some complicated problem? Embroidering a handkerchief for her trousseau?”
Once more he nearly stumbled. Trousseau? Surely it was premature for Larissa to be so obsessed about preparing for her come out, much less her marriage.
“More on the line of understanding fashion,” Jane said with a smile to his daughter.
Larissa drew in a breath. “Yes. Fashion. Thank you, Mrs. Kimball.”
That must have taken something to praise her governess. “Yes,” Alaric agreed, sidling closer to the room. “Thank you, Mrs. Kimball. I’ll just take a look.” He whisked open the door and darted inside.
“Wey?” His mother’s voice drifted after him as he threw open the wardrobe. “Whatever are you doing in Mrs. Kimball’s room?”
He slipped his hand down inside the boots, first one, then the other, but no broach met his fingers. Straightening, he let out a breath. “Apparently nothing.”
Simmons poked his head through the doorway. “May I be of assistance, Your Grace?’
“No, thank you,” Alaric said, striding past him. For a moment, he thought Simmons looked disappointed. Was the fellow so determined to serve? Perhaps he found his work in the schoolroom less than challenging.
Everyone else seemed more confused than concerned, for they were all staring at him. “Nicely done, Larissa,” he said. “I trust everything is well with you, Mother?”
“Yes, fine,” his mother answered with a frown. “And you?”
“Excellent.” He moved to join them at the worktable and helped himself to one of the biscuits, waving off Betsy’s offer of a cup. “Did you ever locate that broach you were missing?”
Jane and Larissa exchanged glances. What did they know? His mother, however, brightened.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” she said. “Larissa found it for me. It must have slipped off the last time I wore it to the schoolroom.”
“Very good news.” He smiled at them all as he munched the biscuit. Calantha and Abelona returned his smile, Larissa still looked pasty, and Jane’s eyes were narrowed as if she saw right through him.
“Admit it,” she said that night when she came to make her report. “You thought I’d stolen that broach.”
Parsons, standing by the closest bookshelves, choked on something and hastily turned his gaze to the books.
“Why would I think such a thing?” Alaric asked, spreading his hands.
Jane glanced at the butler. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a little bird told you.”
The color of Parsons’ face seemed to be deepening.
Jane returned her gaze to Alaric’s. “I’m no thief, Your Grace. Even Lady Larissa realizes that.”
Alaric eyed her. Her back was straight, her head high, quite the picture of affronted womanhood, with good cause. “Is it possible my daughter borrowed her grandmother’s broach to have you blamed?”
The intake of Parsons’ breath was audible.
Jane shook her head. “No, not Larissa or her sisters. I have my suspicions, but I won’t trouble you. I can deal with the matter myself.”
She was apparently the only one of his staff so capable. “A thief in the household must concern me,” he countered.
She frowned. “Has anything else gone missing?”
“Not that I have been made aware of.” He looked to his butler. “Parsons?”
The man drew himself up. “I can say with certainty, Your Grace, that nothing was misplaced before Mrs. Kimball arrived.”
Red flamed in her cheeks, but her voice remained sweet. “And has anything except that broach been misplaced since I arrived, Mr. Parsons?”
“No,” he admitted, looking a bit annoyed about the matter. “At least, not to my knowledge.”
“And you keep a close eye on the household, I know,” Jane said with surprising respect. “So, it was only the broach that I had no opportunity to take or knowledge of its existence, and it just happened to find its way into my boot.”
“Ha!” Alaric crowed. “It was in your boot!”
Parsons cast him a triumphant glance.
Jane nodded, color still high. “Yes. Larissa found it when she was setting the wardrobe to rights. But I didn’t put it there.”
He wanted to believe her. Her logic was impeccable. As a new staff member and the governess, she could hardly traipse about the castle unnoticed. Of course, there was always the dead of night, when most would be sleeping, but her nights had been taken up with spiders and ghosts. And where could she hope to sell such a bauble? Even if someone in Weyton, the village across the bridge, could afford a fair price, they’d immediately suspect its provenance.
Besides, she was so very open in all other ways. Why lie now?
“Still after the plate and silver?” he joked.
She grinned. “Absolutely. Though I’m thinking the crystal might fetch a good price too.”
He shook his head at her audacity. “Parsons, lock up the crystal as well.”
Jane held up a hand. “That was a jest, Mr. Parsons. I have no intention of taking anything from this house.”
Even his heart?
He shoved down the thought. The arrival of Jane Kimball was turning out to be the best thing to happen to Wey Castle for a long time. He refused to think beyond that. And he would make sure Miss Thorn knew how much he appreciated Jane when she came to check on her client’s satisfaction, for he didn’t like thinking about the result should Jane decide that they weren’t worth the bother.
Chapter Nine
Jane had kept an eye on the footman after the incident with the broach. Though she suspected him of attempting to see her sacked, she refused to accuse him without more evidence. She knew how it felt to be discharged on someone else’s story. She would not treat another that way.
But though Simmons occasionally muttered under his breath about how she was dealing with the girls, he was careful to stay within the bounds of behavior expected between a footman and the governess. Still, she didn’t much like his smile as he escorted her and the girls downstairs now. It was almost as if he expected to rid himself of the lot of them.
Wey rose from behind the desk as they entered. In a tailored navy coat and blue-and-green-striped waistcoat, cravat spotless, he looked every inch the gentleman to Miss Thorn’s lady. His smile was warm and genuine as they approached.
“Jane, girls,” he said. “We have a visitor who wishes to speak to you. Miss Thorn, these are my daughters, Larissa, Calantha, and Abelona, and of course you know Jane.”
Miss Thorn, seated on one of the leather-bound chairs before the desk, nodded to the girls and smiled to Jane. Larissa inclined her head with a regal elegance her grandmother would have praised. Calantha’s gaze seemed fixed on Fortune as the cat slipped from Miss Thorn’s lap to return her stare.
“Oh, a kitty!” Abelona rushed forward.
Fortune darted under the chair. Jane had always known she was a clever thing. She caught Wey attempting not to grin outright and pretended not to notice.
“A cat, to be precise,” Miss Thorn said, rising and bending to peer under the chair. “Do come out, Fortune. I’m told the young ladies know their manners.”
