by Anne Gracie
She hung up her cloak, laid out her nightgown across the bed and started to strip off her clothes, as fast as she could because the room was cold and getting colder.
Rose and Lily used to talk about their uncle, the soldier-hero, seeming both proud and fond of him. A shame they seemed so hostile to each other now. But then people who had a family often took it for granted.
She slipped into bed and breathed a thankful sigh as her frozen toes encountered a solid patch of warmth. One of the maids—probably Milly—had slipped a hot brick into her bed. Oh, blessed, blessed heat. Thank you, Milly. She pressed her feet against the cloth-wrapped brick and waited for them to defrost.
She’d had a little adventure, that was all. Something to recall with pleasure. Without regret.
She’d lied when she’d claimed she was her own mistress. Usually when Emm went anywhere in public she was accompanied by the other teachers who lived in: Miss Thwaites and Miss Johnstone, both of whom moved at a snail’s pace. Neither of them had been interested in attending a talk by the Female Reform Society, so she’d slipped out alone. And not for the first time.
Miss Thwaites and Miss Johnstone had spent most of their adult lives at the Mallard Seminary. Sometimes, when Emm lay in her bed, hearing the murmur of the two older ladies talking, the thought that she was going to end up just like them made her almost desperate.
But what else could she do?
Tonight she’d had a small adventure, she reminded herself. She’d attended a political talk, gotten caught up in a fight, walked alone after midnight through the deserted streets of Bath on the arm of a tall, handsome gentleman—and been thoroughly, magically kissed.
All of the delights of scandalous behavior and none of the consequences.
If anyone had seen her walking alone with Lord Ashendon at that hour, the repercussions would be unpleasant at the very least. Miss Mallard would be far from pleased; the teachers at Miss Mallard’s Seminary had to be like the wife of Caesar—beyond reproach. On pain of instant dismissal.
But nobody had seen them. Emm grinned to herself as she snuggled down in the bedclothes and waited for the heat to spread. She was as rebellious at heart as Rose and Lily. Just older and wiser and more discreet.
Her sheets smelled faintly of lavender and roses. Emm collected the flowers in season, dried them and filled little muslin bags of the mix to keep her linen smelling sweet. On chilly nights like tonight, it was a pleasant reminder of summer. And gave out echoes of her childhood. The smell of happiness.
Pity she couldn’t bag or bottle the smell of Lord Ashendon to remember him by. She closed her eyes, remembering his cologne, sharp and spicy, and a little exotic, and the faint scent of wood smoke and tobacco in his clothing.
And the underlying scent of man, dark and virile and enticing—not like any kind of man she was familiar with.
Grimes, the school porter, the only man allowed in the building, smelled of coal dust and snuff and beer and unwashed old man. Miss Mallard’s nephew reeked of sweat and cheap pomade. The vicar smelled of starch and soap and peppermint drops, and after church, when he stood too close, there was usually a whiff of sweet, dark communion wine.
Lord Ashendon had smelled a little of brandy—not reeking or anything, just a hint on his breath and in his mouth. She wouldn’t have recognized it, except that Papa had drunk brandy and the scent had called him to mind.
Her eyes flew open. Brandy! Of course.
Lord Ashendon had been drinking. He’d been out with his friend, he’d said so.
So he was drunk—not so drunk you’d notice; he held his liquor well—but it explained everything. He’d no doubt kissed her because he was drunk, and she was female, and there, under his nose. And because he’d decided she was the kind of female who attended political events and got into brawls. And who thought nothing of walking alone after midnight.
Mystery solved.
Emm pulled the bedclothes tighter around her, but despite the warm brick, despite the blankets and her warm flannel nightgown, the cold crept through her.
* * *
“Miss Westwood, Miss Westwood.” Someone was knocking on Emm’s door. She blinked blearily awake. It seemed only a few minutes since she’d gone to bed, but it was light outside. “Miss Westwood!”
“Come in.” The door opened and a maid entered carrying a jug of warm water covered with a cloth. “Oh, Milly, thank you for that hot brick last—”
“Never mind that, I mean, you’re very welcome, miss, but the Du—er, Miss Mallard—wants to see you right away. Before breakfast, she said.”
Emm flung back the bedclothes. “Any idea why?”
“No, miss. Just that it was important. I brung you some hot water to wash in. So hurry.”
“Hot water! Bless you, Milly. May you be swept off your feet by a rich and handsome man who will adore you and indulge your every wish!” Which was Milly’s dream. She’d confided in Emm when she first came to Bath. She was certainly pretty enough.
Emm washed and dressed with all haste. What could Miss Mallard want with her at this hour? It was most unusual.
A thought struck her as she was fastening her garters. Had Miss Mallard or one of her cronies spotted Emm at the event last night? Or walking unchaperoned with Lord Ashendon?
She checked her appearance in a small looking glass. There was a darkening patch on her left cheekbone. Her nose was a bit red and one side was very slightly swollen, but it wasn’t very noticeable. She hoped.
She dusted her face with a little rice powder. It was forbidden for the staff at Miss Mallard’s to use cosmetic products of any sort, but Miss Mallard’s eyesight was fading, and Emm hoped she wouldn’t notice. And if she did, well, she would blame the wardrobe door.
She hurried downstairs. Miss Theale, Miss Mallard’s sour-faced assistant, met her at the foot of the stairs. She jerked her head at Emm. “In the office.”
Emm knocked and was admitted. She sat, preserving an air of calm, and waited.
Miss Mallard was in the process of writing what looked like a letter. She blotted it, set her pen aside, and said, ”Good morning, Miss Westwood. I’ll come straight to the point.”
Emm braced herself.
“As you know,” the headmistress continued, “I am planning to retire at the end of the term.”
Emm nodded, her throat suddenly dry. It wasn’t about her outing last night. From the expression on Miss Mallard’s face, it was something much more serious.
Miss Mallard admitted to sixty years on this earth, but most who knew her privately agreed she was closer to seventy. Her desire to retire was no secret. It had all of the staff worried. What if the school closed? Where would they go?
Emm had nothing to fall back on. No home, no family—nothing. She folded her hands in her lap and waited for the axe to fall.
“I have given much thought to the future of this establishment.” Miss Mallard removed her pince-nez and polished them meditatively with a soft cloth. “I’ve given my life to the education of young ladies and I fancy I have achieved a wonderful record—three duchesses, two marchionesses, five countesses, six viscountesses . . .”
Emm wanted to scream. She’d heard this litany before. All the staff and most of the pupils probably knew it by heart.
Emm always wanted to end it with And a partridge in a pear tree.
“—which is a record I think no other establishment for young ladies can better.”
“No indeed,” Emm murmured.
“And so I am reluctant to let the school simply close.”
Emm held her breath.
“And although my nephew, Mr. Edgar Mallard, will inherit the school on my death, he could not, of course, run it. A gentleman running a seminary for young ladies—the very idea!” She gave a girlish giggle.
Emm forced a smile. When would she get to the point? Was she going to sell th
e school? And if so, to whom? And when?
And what would happen to the staff? New brooms often wanted to sweep clean. They could all be out on the street in a matter of weeks.
Miss Mallard replaced her glasses. “I have given much thought to who would run it. Of the permanent staff, Miss Thwaites and Miss Johnstone are too old—they will no doubt retire themselves shortly. Miss Clegg is too young and flighty and besides”—she leaned forward and said in a lowered voice—“she is hoping to be married! Well, we can’t have that sort of thing, can we?”
“No indeed.”
“So the choice is obvious. You shall become the headmistress after me.”
Emm blinked. “Me?” She’d expected to hear that some outsider was going to be appointed. “You want me to become the new headmistress?”
Miss Mallard gave a brisk nod, clearly pleased by Emm’s amazement. “I cannot think of anyone better. You have the finest education any woman can have—a Mallard education—you have the girls under excellent control and as the daughter of a baronet, you have the birth and background that will reassure our aristocratic parents that their daughters are in excellent hands.”
“Miss Mallard, I don’t know what to say.” Excitement filled her. Oh, what she could make of this place.
“You don’t need to say anything. I am writing to my nephew this morning to inform him. He has been pressing me for a decision for some time.” She indicated the writing materials in front of her. “Of course, he will continue to oversee the accounts and so on, but that kind of thing is best left to gentlemen anyway, I find. They have the head for such things, while we ladies have our minds on more elegant matters.”
Emm smiled and nodded, her mind spinning with plans. First on the agenda, once she became headmistress, would be a battle with Edgar Mallard over expenditure. He was the most parsimonious creature and begrudged any expenditure that was not directly related to the needs of the pupils or impressing their parents. For a school that prided itself on its elegance and quality, it paid its staff disgracefully and pinched pennies appallingly. Edgar Mallard’s motto seemed to be, if it wasn’t visible to the parents or pupils, it didn’t matter.
Emm had battled with him before over such things as the servants’ and teachers’ quarters, the quality of the food, the provision of heating, wages and other matters he considered unworthy of his attention—or his money.
When Miss Mallard retired, Emm vowed, things would change.
And her school would not be judged by whom her pupils married, but by what they learned. And what they did with their lives—marriage or not. Her girls would have choices. They’d be taught to think, not merely obey and be decorative. Oh, yes, she had plans. . . .
The bell rang for breakfast, and Miss Mallard returned to her papers and waved vaguely toward the door, indicating that the interview was over. Emm rose. “Thank you, Miss Mallard. I’m very honored by your trust in me. I promise you, I will do my very best to ensure that Miss Mallard’s Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlemen will continue to flourish long into the future.”
She stepped into the hallway in a daze—headmistress!—but was brought back to reality by a thundering on the stairs as thirty-five hungry schoolgirls headed for breakfast. “Girls, girls! Walk, don’t run. You are not a herd of elephants, all evidence to the contrary.”
Giggling, they moderated their speed and walked down the stairs as they were supposed to, two by two at a ladylike pace. Emm supervised, smiling. She loved these girls, so young and lively, full of hopes and dreams and with such a zest for life. She wanted to embrace them all.
She had a future to look forward to now.
* * *
Cal found the breakfast room deserted when he came down next morning. Logan brought his coffee in. “The girls settle in all right last night?”
“Indeed they did, m’lord. We carried out your instructions and the steak helped with Miss Rose’s eye. There, er, there were no leeches available for Miss Lily’s bruises.”
Cal snorted. “In other words, she begged you not to put those nasty slimy creatures on her.”
Logan gave him a rueful smile. “It’s those big gray eyes of hers . . .”
“I know. We males have no defense against them, do we?” He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s a pity. Leeches might be disgusting, but there’s nothing like them for limiting bruising. Still, too late now. Are the girls up yet?”
Logan shook his head. “Still abed, m’lord. They were very tired.”
Hiding from him, more like, Cal thought.
“I hope we didn’t disturb Aunt Dottie last night, with all the coming and goings.”
“Not at all, m’lord. She slept like a baby the whole night through. Sleeps very well, does Miss Dottie.”
“Now how could you possibly kn—” But Logan had already left the room, leaving Cal to brood over his excellent coffee. The situation with the girls could not go on. Bad enough they kept sneaking out at night, but now they’d been injured. And it could have been much worse.
Logan returned in a few minutes, bearing a covered silver dish, which he placed before Cal.
“Why didn’t you stop them, Logan? I trusted you to keep an eye on them. Dammit, can I not even leave this house for a minute?”
Logan removed the lid, revealing an appetizing-looking plate of ham, fried eggs and mushrooms. “I am a servant in this house, Lord Ashendon,” he said pointedly. “It is my job to obey the wishes of the inhabitants, not control them—even if I could. That, my lord, is your job.” And he sailed from the room.
He was right, damn him. Cal moodily addressed his breakfast. It was excellent, as was the coffee, but it didn’t cheer him up any.
Logan returned a few minutes later bearing a silver salver. “The post, my lord.”
Cal leafed through the letters and spotted one addressed in a sprawling, stylish hand. “Aunt Agatha!” He seized it eagerly and broke the seal.
It was short and pithy.
My dear Ashendon,
I received your letter—and what a piece of impertinence it was! Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than to rush down to Bath—of all dreary and unfashionable places—to relieve you of your responsibilities? Do you think I have no life of my own? They are your half sisters—deal with them. I said no good would come of your father’s second marriage—no fool like an old fool—and now, see how right I was.
Your loving aunt,
Agatha, Lady Salter
His loving aunt. Hah! He crushed the letter and hurled it into the fire. Damn, damn and double damn. He’d been counting on Aunt Agatha. What the hell was he going to do now? Aunt Dottie couldn’t control a flea, he couldn’t lock the girls up—much as he’d like to—and for some reason he couldn’t understand, they seemed to have no fear of disobeying him.
But he couldn’t stay here indefinitely, watching them—he had an assassin to track down. The bastard had killed eight people so far—that they knew of. Including Bentley.
The last time Cal had seen Bentley alive, he was full of idealistic notions about building a fairer, better world, so proud of being appointed to such a responsible position, determined to bring honor to his country.
If only Cal had spotted the assassin on the roof earlier . . . One minute sooner, and he could have shouted a warning . . .
After the funeral, he’d written to Bentley’s widowed mother. One of the hardest letters he’d ever written.
He called for another pot of coffee and sipped it slowly. What had Galbraith suggested last night? A sort of governess-companion-chaperone type of female. With a bit of watchdog thrown in.
Cal sat up. He knew one of that sort of female. He’d walked one home that very night.
He’d kissed her. But that was an aberration. The brandy after all that wine had been a mistake. He didn’t think he’d drunk that much, but obviously he had and it had gone
to his head.
She had gone to his head. Those eyes, that mouth . . .
Nonsense. He’d been too long without female . . . companionship, that was all. He had a better use for her than that.
He remembered how at the school she’d effortlessly quelled the gushings of that girl, Lavender Thingy-Whatsit of the Somerset Thingy-Whatsits.
More to the point, he recalled how last night with one word—one word!—she’d stopped Rose in mid-tirade. Rose!
He was a fool not to have seen it at once. Miss Wind-whatever! She was the obvious solution. He could go off and do what he had to, leaving the girls with her, knowing she could control their wilder starts. And that they liked her.
She had some odd ideas, of course, but as her employer, he’d soon set her straight on those. As long as she kept her opinions to herself, she was welcome to think whatever she wanted.
Best of all, he’d be off doing the job he was supposed to do, and he wouldn’t be there to be tempted by her mouth. Not that he couldn’t control himself. The brandy had been the problem last night, and he rarely overindulged.
Who needed Aunt Agatha? The solution had been right under his very nose all this time! Miss Windrush! He rang the bell and called for his coat, hat and gloves. He was going out.
Chapter Six
If one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better.
—JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK
“I wish to speak to Miss Windrush,” Cal told the gorgon who answered the door.
“There is no Miss Windrush here.” She made to push the door shut.
Cal stuck his boot in it. “I might have mistaken her name. Tall, thin female, brown hair, about so high.” He indicated with his hand. “One of your teachers.”
“You mean Miss Westwood?”
“That’s the one.”
The gorgon sniffed. “Teachers are not allowed to have gentleman callers.”
“I’m not a gentleman caller,” Cal snapped, shoving the remembrance of a certain kiss from his mind. “I’m here on business. School business.”
