by Amy Lake
“Oh, just give it here,” he said to the man. Charles dropped the bag on the steps, where it landed with a muddy squelch. The chit ought to see it there, he thought. And it would avoid any awkward explanations to Mrs. Tiggs.
“Very good, milord,” said the groom, carefully paying no further attention to the bag. He led Alcibiades away and Charles took one last look down the Sinclair’s long front drive. Ah, yes. There she was now. He turned and bounded up the staircase to the house.
* * * *
By the time Helène reached the steps of Sinclair Court she was as cold as before and much angrier. Left without help or transportation–twice!–by the high-and-mighty Sinclairs and now their high-and-mighty houseguest! Pah! Helène conveniently chose to forget that the rider had obviously known she was only yards away from Luton Court when he let her down. The Quality! They were anything but, in her mind.
She trudged up the steps, thinking dark thoughts about gentlemen on horseback, and rapped smartly on an enormous double door. To her surprise, it swung back at once, and an imposing white-haired man stepped out, staring down his nose as if he had detected a noxious odor.
“Kitchen help applies to Mrs. Tiggs,” said the man, pointing somewhere off to her left. He started to close the door.
Tired as she was, Helène stood her ground. “I am Helène Phillips, the governess,” she told the butler. “And you are–?” She almost laughed at the man’s reaction to that little piece of impudence. For a moment he looked too flustered to speak.
“Ah, yes,” he said finally, recovering. “Miss... Phillips.” He intoned the words as if her name was painful to his throat. “Come this way please. I assume your luggage follows you?”
Her luggage. Blast and damn, thought Helène. The man had said he was a house guest of the Sinclairs, but she’d seen no sign of her portmanteau. What could she tell the butler? Pardon me, but one of your guests rode off with my bag? She murmured a vague agreement, hoping that the missing item would soon appear. The butler, who offered nothing more in the way of conversation, was already walking off at a brisk pace, and Helène had some difficulty scrambling to catch up.
What is wrong with me? she wondered. I feel so weak.
They made their silent way through an enormous entrance hall, complete with potted palms twice her height and bust after bust of English literary figures. There was Marlowe, and Edmund Spenser... Goodness, what a disagreeable expression on his face. Helène was only half aware that she had stopped to look at the poet, and when she glanced around the butler was nearly out of sight. She hurried after him. The entrance hall seemed to stretch on forever. Her legs felt leaden, and twice she stumbled over marble that was polished smooth as glass.
Finally, just as Helène thought she could walk no further, they came to a grand staircase, also of marble and adorned with wrought iron balusters. The butler started up without a glance back. Helène followed him, her heart pounding, each step swimming before her eyes in a sea of exhaustion. Halfway up the staircase she paused to catch her breath.
“Come along, Miss Phillips,” commanded the butler.
“Yes–”
A long gallery, well-lit by candles and richly carpeted, greeted her at the top of the staircase. Under less trying circumstances the carpet might have impressed Helène with its plush elegance, but it was no easier to walk on than the marble had been. The butler, now yards ahead, had stopped before a set of double doors. This, to Helène’s relief, was their destination.
The butler knocked, loudly, and a petulant voice responded with a complaint that Helène did not catch. They entered the perfumed and dimly lit room, and Helène saw a woman lying on a velvet chaise lounge in front of the fireplace, clasping a compress to her forehead.
“Your ladyship,” said the butler.
“Who is this, Telford?” asked the lady, glancing at Helène with a moue of distaste. “I don’t interview the scullery girls, you silly man. Take her to Mrs. Tiggs.”
“Miss Phillips, milady,” said the butler. “The governess.” He turned on his heel and walked out. The woman looked up at her in surprise. She was a small woman and very pretty, Helène supposed, if you happened to be partial to soft brown hair and a pouting, rosebud mouth. The marchioness–for Helène couldn’t see how this woman could be anybody other than Lady Sinclair–sat up and frowned. She gave a sigh of disgust.
“I am Helène Phillips, ma’am,” said Helène meekly, common sense prevailing over her irritation, at least for the moment.
“Such a headache, you have no idea,” said Lady Sinclair, lying back on the chaise with another sigh. “Well, this is all very inconvenient. You were to come today, you say? I don’t remember any such thing.”
“Lady Sinclair, I’m sure you must have received my letter–”
“And what in heaven’s name are you wearing?” added the woman, glancing again in Helène’s direction and sniffing audibly. “This is quite, quite unacceptable. You must change into decent clothing at once. What will people say? Why on earth we must have a new governess only weeks before Christmas I will never understand, and I’m really much too busy to be bothered–”
She continued in that vein for some time, and Helène heard her out in silence, wondering what she might be able to do about her clothing. She possessed a rose sarcanet that was marginally more fashionable than the brown wool, but it was hardly winter wear. And this was assuming she found her portmanteau, and assuming her clothing hadn’t been trampled into rags under the hooves of that brute stallion.
“Oh, never mind,” said the woman, with another martyred sigh. “Mrs. Tiggs can sort you out.”
“The children–?”
“Go and ask Mrs. Tiggs. I’m sure Alice and Peter are around somewhere.”
Lady Sinclair closed her eyes and waved Helène away. Helène stood there for a moment, debating whether this was the appropriate time to discuss the terms of her service with the Sinclair family.
“ ’Tis best to begin as you mean to go on,” her father had often told her, one of the few pieces of good advice he had had to give. If this was the marchioness’s usual attitude toward her employees, Helène doubted that her own temper would survive unnoticed for long.
But you’ve never been a governess before, she reminded herself. Perhaps this is how they are always treated.
She stood for a few more moments, wavering, then turned and left the room. The woman did not glance up and Helène shut the door behind her with just a tiny bit more force than necessary. What now? The long upstairs corridor seemed to stretch on forever, punctuated with one closed door after another, and the butler was nowhere in sight.
What an odd house this was. Helène, deciding she was going to have to find the redoubtable Mrs. Tiggs on her own, started to retrace her steps.
“I trust you found your luggage,” came a newly familiar voice.
She whirled around to see the man from that afternoon standing behind her, his eyebrows cocked in question. Helène resisted the impulse to step back and catch her breath. It was the first time she had seen him out of his riding cape, and although he was only somewhat above medium height, he was powerful in build. Broad shoulders, muscular thighs tautly encased in fine breechcloth–
“Mmm. My luggage?” said Helène.
His thighs are really none of your business, she reminded herself. She concentrated for a moment on his face. The man was not handsome in a conventional way. His nose was long and had a slight crook to it, as if it had been broken, and his face was... it was very . . .
Rugged, Helène decided. His clothing was of the finest quality, but the man didn’t really look like a fashionable London gentleman. He looked less tame. His thick brown hair was of medium length and arranged carelessly, with several locks falling over his forehead. She could find no fault with his eyes, however. They were a deep brown and–
Helène blinked. She had been staring, she was sure of it. How mortifying. Was the man speaking to her?
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes–did you find your portmanteau? I left it on the front steps.”
“The front steps!”
“You couldn’t possibly have missed seeing it.” The man shrugged. “Well, never mind–it will turn up eventually. The thing is hardly likely to be stolen.”
She was dirty, and exhausted, and suddenly very annoyed.
“Well, I did miss seeing it,” Helène told him. “Apparently I was lucky to even be allowed to set foot on the sainted front steps, and my chances of finding anyone to help me find a place to sleep in this house, let alone find my poor, trampled portmanteau–”
Helène stopped to catch her breath. She had lost her temper again, she thought miserably. The second time today.
The man shrugged again. “As you say. But would you have preferred explaining to Mrs. Tiggs how I ended up with the thing?”
Mrs. Tiggs again.
“I would have preferred that you hadn’t taken it in the first place!”
“Taken it–”
“Lord Quentin!” interrupted a high, breathy voice from the doorway.
Helène turned around to see the marchioness standing with arms outstretched. Lady Sinclair advanced toward the man and flung her arms around his neck.
So he is a lord, was Helène’s first thought.
“Oh, Charles,” cooed Lady Sinclair, “tell me you’ve come to stay. I’ve been so dreadfully lonely.” Helène could hardly avoid noticing that her ladyship’s bosom, only half covered by the thin material of her dressing gown, was now pressed closely against the man’s chest. She wondered if it was accepted practice for the ladies of the ton to walk about en déshabillé. Her own father–
“Hello, Celia,” the man said, and Helène could have sworn she saw a flicker of disgust on his face. The lady, undeterred, continued her enthusiastic embrace, and if it hadn’t been for that brief flash of expression Helène would have concluded that they were lovers. She was turning to leave–it was high time to find Mrs. Tiggs–when she heard the man’s voice.
“Celia, perhaps you could introduce me to your new governess. I believe she is in some need of assistance.”
“Oh, Charles, simply look at the pathetic creature!” said Lady Sinclair, waving her hands vaguely in Helène’s direction. “I can’t imagine why Jonathan hired such a girl, her reference was quite inadequate. I’ve half a mind to turn her out this instant, she’s dressed abominably, Charles, it’s a disgrace to the household. You have no idea what I endure here, absolutely no idea–”
Helène didn’t hear the rest. She stood rooted to the carpet, a strange buzzing in her ears, and wondered if this is what it felt like to faint. Ridiculous. She had never fainted before.
I just need something to eat, thought Helène. I need to find Mrs. Tiggs. She tried to take a step but the hallway contracted and skewed sideways around her. A figured rose carpet... plush, soft...
The buzzing grew louder. She heard an exclamation of annoyance, somewhere in the far distance, and then even the carpet disappeared.
CHAPTER TWO
Lord Quentin pushed Celia away and caught the girl as she fell.
“Charles!” screeched Lady Sinclair.
The governess–although of more than medium height–weighed next to nothing, Lord Quentin discovered. He could feel the bones of her hips as he cradled her against his chest, and, if the bodice of her dress had not hung so loosely, he guessed it would be a simple matter to count each of her ribs. For the first time he looked closely at the girl’s face and saw the signs that he had missed earlier, signs familiar to him from three wretched years on the Spanish peninsula.
The chit was half-starved. Charles was suddenly furious with Celia.
“Oh, just leave her there and I’ll call a footman,” the lady was saying. He looked at the marchioness blankly, unwilling to believe that even Celia could be that callous. But no–
“I’ll have James take her to the kitchen,” said the marchioness. “Cook will feed the girl and send on her way first thing tomorrow. Of all the cheek, to show up at Luton looking like that. Really, Charles, she’s filthy! How can you stand to touch her?”
Lord Quentin considered his options. He had no idea where the girl’s room might be and, all things considered, it was entirely possible that Lady Sinclair had never bothered to have one prepared. His own bedchamber, on the other hand–as a frequent visitor to Luton–was not far away down the adjacent hall. He started to push past Celia.
“Oh, Charles!” protested Lady Sinclair, but, seeing the frank determination in the set of his shoulders, she changed tactics in an eyeblink. She laid a well-manicured hand on his arm to stop him as he passed and flashed a disarming smile, the invitation written plainly on her face.
“Don’t be so tiresome, Charles.” Her voice was warm, honeyed. “James will collect the silly girl in a minute. Come, tell me all about London... ”
Celia motioned toward the open door of her rooms.
Lord Quentin hesitated. What had gotten into Celia? She’d always been a flirt, but this brazen invitation–as a married woman–was not her usual style. Despite the long journey and the unconscious, rather grubby woman in his arms, Lord Quentin’s body was quick to respond. Lady Sinclair had been toying with the neckline of her gown as they spoke, and at this point very little of her bosom was left to the imagination. Vivid memories of previous visits to Celia’s boudoir before her marriage sprang forcefully to Lord Quentin’s mind.
Lady Sinclair leaned closer, and Charles realized the answer to his own question as the scent of a fine sherry wafted in his direction.
Celia was drinking again. Poor Jonathan.
The girl stirred in his arms. “Papa,” she said, and then something too soft for him to hear.
Somebody’s daughter. He sighed, and, ignoring Celia, carried the governess off toward his rooms.
“Charles!” the marchioness cried, watching him leave. “You can’t take her into your rooms! She’s–she’s... unclean!”
“Call Mrs. Tiggs,” he called back to her.
“Oh! I’ll do no such thing! If you’re so smitten with that odious... creature, take care of her yourself. ” Celia flounced off, slamming the door to her suite.
Charles knew this was bluff. The marchioness would call the housekeeper–and quickly–if only to remove the governess from his bedroom.
Lord Quentin laid the girl down on the silk coverlet. He checked her breathing–strong and regular–and would have unfastened the stays on her dress if the garment hadn’t already been little more than a loose sack. There was nothing else he could do for her at the moment. The years in Spain had familiarized him with all manner of bullet and bayonet wounds, but hunger was a different problem. He sat down to wait for Mrs. Tiggs.
As expected, the housekeeper arrived within minutes, clucking loudly. She took one look at the woman lying unconscious in the middle of Charles’s large, four-poster bed, and rang for a footman.
“ ’Tis the governess, milord?” she asked Charles. “Telford said–”
“It would seem so.”
“Taken ill, milord?”
“Hungry, I should think.”
“Hungry!” Mrs. Tiggs looked astonished for a moment; then she nodded and set to work, muttering imprecations under her breath.
“Not that I’m complainin’, you see,” she told Lord Quentin, gently wiping the girl’s forehead with a moistened cloth, “but ’twould be better t’ my way of thinkin’ if a body was informed when someone new comes t’ the door.”
Lord Quentin frowned. “Are you saying that no one knew that a governess had been hired?” That would be just like Celia, he thought.
“No, milord. Well, yes, milord. Didn’t know she was t’ be comin’ today. Last girl left over a month ago.”
“Ah.” Charles considered this for a moment. “There was a previous governess?”
“Aye, milord,” said Mrs. Tiggs. “This one’ll be the third.”
“What happened to the first two?”
Mrs. Tiggs shot him a sharp look. “Well, now, ’twouldn’t be my look out, would it? But both of them was pretty and young, and as near t’ quality as makes some people nervous, if you get my meanin’.”
“Ah.” Celia’s resentment of any other pretty woman was well-known. But Charles still wondered at the unconscious girl’s physical state. Was Lady Sinclair hiring from the poorhouse now? Or was this merely Jonathan’s attempt to appease his wife’s jealousy?
He looked at the governess’s face, where the clear ravages of recent hunger–dry, cracked lips and sunken cheeks–couldn’t erase the charm of thick lashes, black against smooth skin, and a wide, sensual mouth.
She might have been lovely, thought Charles. If she had been a lady.
“Not that I need the warnin’, you understand,” continued Mrs. Tiggs. “All my rooms are in order and ’twould have been a simple matter–”
Lord Quentin nodded his agreement. “I dare say.”
“And the poor girl, half froze t’ death, I just don’t know–” Mrs. Tiggs chattered on, smoothing tendrils of the governess’s hair back from her face. The thick mass of auburn curls gleamed in the candlelight. “Ought t’ be wakin’ up by now, t’ my way of thinking.”
The governess moaned. Her eyelids fluttered open, then closed again, and Charles caught a glimpse of clear green eyes.
“Mrs. Tiggs,” said Lord Quentin.
The woman looked around. She looked surprised to see him still sitting there. “ ’Tis no need for you t’ stay, milord.”
“Mmm, yes. Well, it is my room.”
“Eh? Oh, right you are, right you are. Well, ’twill just be a minute–”
“Mrs. Tiggs, I think the young woman will appreciate a light meal when she awakens. Perhaps you could send for some tea.”
“Just be a minute, milord, James’ll be movin’ the girl t’ her own room in a trice.”
The girl. Charles was suddenly curious. “Does anyone know her name?”
“Miss Helen Phillips, I believe.”
Miss Phillips. Twice the chit had been in Lord Quentin’s arms, and she was now lying on his bed, but it seemed almost improper to know her name. As if some odd intimacy had been established, thought Charles, and immediately banished the thought. He didn’t need a compromised governess on his hands.
