Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05]

by The Governess Wears Scarlet

  Exhaling, she prepared herself for the guillotine blade that was about to drop. “Yes. I’ve been with a few different families.”

  Seemingly pleased, Mr. Linder-Myer nodded. “You see, my point exactly!”

  Abigail didn’t see at all and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Instead she busied herself by reaching for a scone and taking a bite. It was like eating sawdust.

  Her throat closed, and a dry cough erupted from her mouth.

  “Are you all right?” Steele asked, rising.

  She tried to motion that she was all right, but she was coughing too hard. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

  Steele came over to her and patted her back.

  “I’m…I’m…” Her were eyes tearing, her throat aching, and mortification made her squirm.

  “Here, drink some tea.” He handed her the teacup and cupped his hand over hers as she drank.

  She sipped gratefully, the tea soothing her scratchy throat. Steele’s touch warmed her in a way that was far too affecting for an employer. Maybe it was a good thing she was being sacked. Being around Steele was becoming harder and harder, or in truth, delicious-er and delicious-er. His effect on her was scrumptiously intoxicating enough to be dangerous, certainly for her as his employee.

  But oh, how she’d miss the astonishing thrill deep in her middle whenever their eyes met, and the rare but wonderful touch of his silky smooth skin. It was easier to think of that than the children. No, she couldn’t bear to dwell on losing them.

  After a moment, she lifted her head. “Ah…thank you.”

  “Would you like some more?” Steele asked. He was so close, she could see the hint of black stubble that was trying to break through his skin.

  Inhaling a shaky breath, she smiled. “No, I’m fine.” The pleasing scents of male and the gingery spiced cologne he wore blanketed her.

  He removed his hand from hers. She felt bereft by the loss of that caring contact and knew that it would be a long time before she forgot the touch of his hand. Her fingers still felt warm where he’d held her. “Let me know if you want any more.”

  Breathless, she smiled. “I…ah…thank you….”

  Nodding, he moved back to sit in the chair opposite.

  Mr. Linder-Myer adjusted his leg, wincing as if in pain. “So as I was saying, you’ve had a variety of employers.”

  Abigail sighed, knowing that it did no good to argue with an employer who’d decided that you were no longer needed. “Yes.”

  “What attributes do you feel make a good mother?”

  Abigail started. “Ah…what…beg pardon?”

  Mr. Linder-Myer waved a hand. “You had to have noticed that some mothers are good and some are dreadful.”

  Abigail shifted in her chair, confused as to what this had to do with sacking her. “I wouldn’t call any mother I’ve ever worked for ‘dreadful’…”

  The old gent’s eyes twinkled. “You can share the tittle-tattle; we won’t tell.”

  Pressing her hand to her chest, Abigail straightened. “So this isn’t about me?”

  “You? I’m not helping Lord Steele here retain a second governess. I don’t think it’s necessary for two boys. Do you?”

  A second governess. So they weren’t replacing her. “Ah, no.”

  Mr. Linder-Myer continued, “Although we might consider retaining a tutor at some point, that’s not the topic. And while I know what qualities are important in a member of staff, I’m a little less clear on good traits to be found in a mother. You know, for children.”

  Abigail relaxed, starting to accept that she wasn’t being sacked. “Well…patience is important. And a good heart, certainly. Compassion. Sympathy.”

  “What about education?”

  Abigail lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “One hardly needs to be a scholar to make a good mother.”

  “Can it make any difference whatsoever?”

  “Well, if you’re thinking about an education for the children, then it does help to have a parent who believes in the importance of learning and instruction.”

  “Not just having tutors around.”

  Abigail nodded. “I think so. If the children see education as something valued by the parents, valued in the household, then it can be a good influence.”

  Mr. Linder-Myer nodded. “Interesting. Anything else?”

  “Ah, well, I suppose a sense of humor helps…”

  “How so?”

  “Children can be trying at times, and it’s easier if one doesn’t take herself too seriously.”

  “Excellent point.” Winking at Abigail, Mr. Linder-Myer beamed. “Especially if the father is a stick-in-the-mud.”

  Steele scowled. “I’m not a stick-in-the-mud.”

  Abigail turned to him, surprised.

  “A little levity wouldn’t kill you,” Mr. Linder-Myer countered. Leaning forward conspiratorially, he waved his cane toward Steele. “He’s in the market for a new wife, you see.”

  Abigail felt her middle drop to somewhere below her knees. “Ah, I…didn’t know that…” Why did she feel so disappointed? It wasn’t as if he were interested in her. And a viscount certainly wouldn’t look twice at a mousy employee with faded gowns, frayed shawls, and dog-eared shoes.

  She suddenly realized how stupid she’d been, dwelling on the touch of his hand or the look in his eye. There had been no connection between them when their eyes had met. It had all been the creation of the overly active mind of a desperately lonely woman.

  “Have no fear, whatever happens won’t affect your job,” Steele murmured, not meeting her eye.

  She bowed her head, feeling dejected and pitiful. She was even more the fool for feeling so awful about the whole thing. She was three-and-twenty and felt older than the great English oak that had been standing at Andersen Hall Orphanage for three hundred years.

  She needed to find Reggie. He was her only family, the only living person in the world with whom she could truly claim a connection. She couldn’t rely on anything or anyone else.

  Clearing her throat, she looked up. “I have a friend. She’s ill.” Her words were stilted, but all plans for a smoother introduction of the topic fell away in light of the hole she was feeling in her heart.

  Steele looked more diverted than concerned, as if he were anxious to change the topic. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “She’s an orphan, like me, and has no one.” Knowing that the lists of Andersen Hall residents went back only a few years and didn’t include her or her brother, Abigail added, “We were at Andersen Hall Orphanage together.”

  Mr. Linder-Myer’s cat green eyes were curious. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Cancer. Dreadful business. She’s in terrible pain…”

  Steele frowned. “Is there anything that can be done?”

  Abigail exhaled with relief at the opening he’d given her. “Yes. I want to see her. See to her comfort.”

  Steele’s face looked pained. “I can’t afford to have you leave the boys…”

  “Of course I wouldn’t leave the boys. I would never neglect my duties. But after they’re abed…you don’t need me then, do you?”

  Surprisingly, Steele looked to Mr. Linder-Myer, and some unknown message passed between them.

  She rushed on as the lies gushed forth, “I can’t imagine that she’s long for this world…it would mean a lot to me to be able to comfort her in her final days…”

  Steele nodded. “So long as it’s after the boys are abed and it doesn’t otherwise interfere with your duties…”

  “Never.”

  “Then it should be fine.”

  Abigail felt her shoulders drop with relief.

  Steele added, “Please be sure to have Cook provide you with some soup and breads for her. We always make extra for such occasions. And I’m sure Mrs. Pitts has some blankets, too.”

  Abigail felt a tad guilty as she nodded. “I’m so very grateful. Thank you so much, my lord.”

  He waved a hand as if it were not
hing. “It’s the least we can do.”

  “Well, I appreciate it.”

  “I’m sure the lads are missing you. Why don’t you go check on them while I see Mr. Linder-Myer out?”

  Mr. Linder-Myer started. “Oh yes, I do have a business to run and governesses to place.” He stood. “Thank you so much, Lord Steele, for your gracious hospitality.” He turned to Abigail, his green eyes twinkling. “It was such a pleasure to encounter you again, my dear. I know we’ll have the opportunity to see each other quite soon.”

  Abigail frowned, wondering why Mr. Linder-Myer thought that they would be seeing each other soon.

  At the look on her face, the old gent explained, “Oh, haven’t I told you? I’m helping Lord Steele find his new wife.”

  Lord Steele looked as if he were about to argue but then closed his mouth.

  Mr. Linder-Myer beamed. “He’s in quite the hurry. And if I have anything to do with it, which I do, we’re to make short work of it. I’ll bet ten shillings he’ll be wed within the month.”

  Chapter 12

  Abigail trudged through the streets, her mood blacker than the mourning skirts she wore. The shadows seemed to reach out for her from the nearby alleyways, and the capricious moon had withdrawn behind a veil of clouds. Her every attempt at finding Reggie was hitting a brick wall. But she wasn’t fool enough not to realize that her foul mood had more to do with Lord Steele than anything else. She’d been aggravated ever since Mr. Linder-Myer had informed her that Lord Steele was soon to marry.

  It was about her position in the household, of course. No matter what assurances Steele gave her about keeping her job, once a new mistress of the house asserted her position, everyone was up for replacement. It was the nature of things for ladies to want to surround themselves with familiar faces. It wasn’t a bad occurrence, unless one relied on wages and was subject to termination.

  Abigail grimaced beneath her veil. She felt angry, reckless even. She knew that she needed to head back to the house, it was well past midnight, but she’d made little headway in her efforts to find Reggie, and she’d be damned if she didn’t try her utmost.

  It was astonishing how different she felt when she was in her widow’s costume. More assured, less awkward; even the pitch of her voice changed once she donned the black veil. Lost was that breathy, nervous intonation, replaced instead by the confident voice of the worldly woman she was pretending to be.

  When she was dressed in her mourning garb, she walked a little straighter, her step a little firmer. That might have had something to do with the three-inch heels on her black boots, a height endowed by the shoemaker, not naturally by God. She even smelled different, since she kept her costume hidden in a special cedar box in a secret compartment of her trunk. As soon as Abigail smelled the cedar, she fell under the spell of her widow’s persona. In that guise, she spoke to people she’d never dare address in the light of day and confronted scoundrels who would have otherwise had her running for her life.

  One of those scoundrels had been particularly helpful this evening, a cutpurse named Slippery Milo who was so undersized, he could slip through crowds with the ease of a cat. The man was often mistaken for a young lad, and he used that “gift,” as he called it, to his favor. Abigail had to admire a man who played the cards he was given, even if she didn’t agree with the moral choices he made.

  Abigail turned a corner just as Slippery Milo had described. It was so blasted dark, she could hardly see. But the cutpurse had been right on target thus far with his instructions, and they seemed to take into account the lack of light. Slippery Milo’s keen intelligence had struck her, and she’d had to wonder how different his life would have turned out if he’d been provided a sound education.

  Unbidden, Headmaster Dunn flashed in her mind. She was so lucky to have found a friend and mentor in him, someone who took the time to nurture her hunger for learning. He’d recognized her acumen and had nourished her intelligence as a wet nurse fed a babe.

  No doubt Headmaster Dunn wouldn’t deem her too intelligent for prowling the streets in one of the worst parts of London. He would chide her foolishness at being so heedless of her safety. He would consider her imprudent to chase her wayward brother in this manner. But the most deeply mortifying fact was that if Headmaster Dunn knew of it, he’d be horrified that she’d crafted a ridiculous, baseless fantasy about her employer.

  A guilty, stupid feeling sank like a stone in her belly, fueling her ill temper. She wanted to expunge it, destroy it so there were no vestiges remaining as proof to the world what an idiotic, nonsensical chit she was. She shrugged her cloak more securely on her shoulders, welcoming the guise of the worldly widow, becoming the woman that she preferred to be. Strong, defiant, wild even. The widow moved undaunted, fought for what she needed, took what she wanted. Reckless energy spurred Abigail’s steps, and she clenched her hands, ready as the sophisticated widow for whatever would greet her.

  Soon she would come upon the man the cutpurse had called Jumper. Jumper supposedly ran messages back and forth between thieves in this part of town, and he was said to know who was where and when. It was a small thread of possibility that he would know Reggie, but it was all Abigail had to work with, and she would spin it for all it was worth.

  One more left turn and she would be at the small square Jumper used as a rendezvous point. Abigail clutched the walking stick that hid her blade. The hard metal bolstered her confidence and firmed her resolve to do whatever necessary to find her little brother. She also carried a pistol in a specially woven pocket of her cloak, just in case. Her instincts warned her that tonight she might need extra protection. She was loath to use the firearm, finding it unreliable and unwieldy, but she believed in being prepared.

  She did not intend to use either weapon on Jumper, however; they were simply a precaution. Instead she had coin in her purse, ready to pay for the information she needed. It had taken Abigail only a few days in London to realize that no one would help her out of the goodness of his heart, and that currency was her surest means to securing information. Hence her deeper debt to the moneylender.

  Inwardly she shivered, thinking of the pair who’d attacked her…that barmaid, if that’s what she was, and Fred. She’d walked into a trap, and only the masked gentleman’s help had prevented terrible results.

  Again that exciting curiosity enveloped her when she considered the masked rescuer. Why had he saved her? What business brought him to Charing Cross in an alley in the middle of the night? How did he learn to fight like the devil? Would she ever meet him again? If she did, would he want her the way he’d wanted her the other night, arousing wickedly delicious sensations? And if he did, would she stop him? Just thinking about how his lips had felt on her skin and how his tongue…She shivered.

  After that night, Abigail had surreptitiously scanned the newspapers looking for any hint of the masked vigilante. But it was as if the man didn’t exist, or perhaps he truly was a figment of her imagination.

  The way she romanticized the masked stranger and fantasized about meeting him again made her realize how desperately lonely she really was. His touch had been like an elixir, expunging all worry about Reggie and obliterating all thought from her mind. There had been no room in her head for anything…she could only feel. It had been one of the most sinfully indulgent moments in her life.

  Never before had Abigail dwelled on such base notions of body and flesh…but the man inspired such an exciting rush of…curiosity in her. She was insatiably, hungrily curious about the man. She couldn’t deny the kinship she’d felt with him. And when they’d spoken so freely, she’d been impressed with his progressive notions. She had no doubt that if she knew him better, they would have even more in common.

  In all her many fantasies about the man, that kinship was always present. And often she added the moving notion that he might be disfigured in some way. Hence the mask. Could he have been burned in a fire? Born with a disfiguring mark? Silly romantic that she was, she felt a compass
ion for the man that she’d rarely felt for any other.

  Abigail wondered if she’d meet him again while she looked for Reggie. A small thrill raced up her middle. But she quashed it, knowing that real life could never hold up to the fantasy. Mayhap she was better off never encountering him again, keeping her secret dreams safe from shattering disappointment.

  As Abigail neared the turn she was to make, loud voices could be heard. Her steps faltered, but she refused to stop. She couldn’t go back empty-handed, not now when she’d risked so much. She would face this Jumper fellow and learn anything he knew. Then she’d find Reggie and bail him out of the mess he was in and…well, at least they’d be together. Family, once and for all.

  Boots scuffling on the cobblestones reached her ears from around the bend. Jumper wasn’t alone. A trickle of fear crawled up her spine. But she told herself that if Jumper didn’t know anything, perhaps his companions would. The cutpurse had assured her that Jumper wasn’t a dangerous fellow, more “a man o’ commerce,” Slippery Milo had said.

  Suddenly a large arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her down the side alley. Before she could cry out, a gloved hand covered her mouth. She tasted leather and fear.

  She fought and kicked, desperately trying to reach for her blade. But the man was too big and had her wrapped in arms of granite. “Shh! It’s me. From the other night.” His voice was muffled, but she knew immediately that it was her masked rescuer.

  Still, she tried to push him off. “What are you doing here?”

  His stonelike grip only tightened. “Following someone—”

  “Who?”

  “Pray, keep quiet!” he hissed, his breath warming her ear. “Danger’s afoot!”

  Abigail stilled, trusting the man enough to listen to him. For the moment.

  Her rescuer eased the grip of his gloved hand over her mouth to give her more air, but still he clutched her more compactly than the pages of a closed book.

  She swallowed as excitement thrilled through her. Her body was flaming, her heart racing, her mind in a whirl. What was the danger? Why was he holding her as if afraid she’d run? Did he want something of her? Why did his embrace feel so blasted good?