The Carriagemaker's Daughter

by Amy Lake

  Helène whirled around. She had not heard Lord Quentin enter, but there he was, looking dreadfully handsome in an afternoon coat of dark grey superfine, the fabric stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. Helène felt his presence in the room as a physical blow, and her thoughts scattered. She glanced up involuntarily, cursing the blush that was stealing once again across her cheeks.

  “My lord,” she said to him, with a small nod of her head. Why was he not at dinner? If Lady Sinclair had noticed his absence– She must leave at once, but Lord Quentin stood immobile between her and the door. His eyes were warm and brown, and they seemed to bore into the core of her being.

  This would never do. “Please excuse me,” said Helène, forcing her feet to move. She moved around his lordship, head high, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

  “Please don’t,” said Lord Quentin, reaching out to catch her arm. “You’ve been avoiding me the past few days, Miss Phillips. I’m not leaving this room until you tell me why.”

  She had been avoiding him? Well, if that was to be his claim, thought Helène, she was happy to oblige.

  “You’re quite mistaken, my lord,” she told him, “I’ve no need to avoid you.”

  “No need–?”

  “You’ve been so happily employed elsewhere that it would be quite needless for anyone other than Lady Sinclair to go to the bother.”

  He grinned.

  * * * *

  Charles heart leaped to his throat, and he could have laughed for joy. Indifferent, was she? ’Twas closer to jealous! And how fortunate that he had thought to visit the library this evening. He had tried to put the girl from his mind, truly he had, but now there would be no need. He found himself eager to sweep away every obstacle, to grant her this one more chance to be sensible–

  Miss Phillips did not seem aware of her good fortune. She favored him with a frown.

  “If you are quite finished with my arm, my lord, I am needed in the nursery.”

  He released her but did not move. “Alice and Peter,” he told Miss Phillips, “are currently asleep in their beds, with Mrs. Hawkins in the next room. As they always are at half past eight.”

  The governess took a quick, ragged breath. “Nevertheless,” she began.

  “And I believe that this is a ball of mistletoe.”

  Miss Phillips glanced overhead, stepped back–

  There was no mistletoe just at that spot, as it happened. Lord Quentin didn’t care. He reached around the governess’s waist with one strong arm, and pulled her to him. Slender, tall, she fit snugly against his chest, the top of her head even with his chin. He bent down to kiss her.

  The chit was stubborn, and Charles was prepared for at least a token resistance. But he knew his own strengths, and he was confident that he had the means to persuade Miss Phillips. She was not indifferent to him–he was sure of that, whatever she might say–and he had thought to overwhelm her, to bury every protest under his lips.

  But Lord Quentin was in no ways prepared for surrender. Helène Phillips sagged against him, melting into his arms in a manner that sent fire roaring through his veins. He caught her up and carried her to one of the large library armchairs, murmuring words of longing and hunger against the silken curls of her hair.

  Nothing had ever felt this good. Nothing.

  He held her against him within the close confines of the chair. “Helène. Helène,” whispered Lord Quentin. Visions of the house he would buy her in London flashed through his mind, the bedroom they would decorate together, the bed in which he would spend every minute of his evenings and nights– Charles could have cried out in his triumph. She would have him now, they could leave within the week.

  Helène twisted in his lap, a fresh torment that scattered all thought. She was saying something... . He forgot about London townhomes and concentrated on the feel of warm skin under his hands. Charles sought her neck with his mouth. Her hair, coming loose from its pins, cascaded down in heavy waves. He was lost, unseeing, drowning in the fragrance of her hair, his fingers tracing the curves of her shoulders, her breasts... .

  Charles heard nothing more than Helène’s breathing and his own, and uncounted minutes passed in their embrace. Then–

  The governess gasped, stiffened–there was a draught of air–

  “Dear Charles,” drawled a familiar voice. “How very amusing.”

  Celia Sinclair stood inside the doorway to the library, a half-smile playing over her lips.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Miss Phillips!”

  Helène had been setting a slate of maths for Alice; she turned to see Lady Sinclair at the nursery door. The children stared at their stepmother in astonishment, for a visit from the marchioness was a rare event.

  “Miss Phillips, a word with you if I may.” Celia’s words were clipped and cold.

  “Yes, your ladyship.” The governess levered herself from the tiny schoolroom chair. She brushed down her skirts and hesitated for a moment, looking at Alice and Peter. The events of last night’s scene in the library were fresh in her mind, and Helène was expecting a painful interview–but she had not been prepared for Lady Sinclair to issue the summons in person, nor so soon.

  The marchioness had already turned to leave.

  “In my rooms at once, Miss Phillips.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” The governess turned to the children. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Alice, continue with a second page of maths. And help Peter, if you please.”

  “Yes, Miss Phillips.” The children looked worried. “But–”

  “Now, don’t fuss. I’ll return presently.”

  “Yes, Miss Phillips.”

  The marchioness set a smart pace down the hallway, and Helène hurried after her. She had wanted to run, last night, run fast and far from Luton Court and never return. But Charles Quentin had caught her in strong arms as she lurched to her feet. He had stood to face the marchioness with Helène–miserable, white as chalk–clamped to his side.

  “Celia,” Lord Quentin had said, sounding calm, assured, and–to Helène’s astonishment– almost cheerful. “How delightful to see you.”

  The marchioness ignored his words, and addressed Helène. “Miss Phillips, this is outrageous conduct!”

  ’Twas ever the woman to be blamed! Helène hardly knew if she attempted a reply. She felt the muscles of Lord Quentin’s arm tighten, heard his voice.

  “Miss Phillips is very tired and not feeling quite well, as you see. I will escort her to her room, and then you and I can discuss matters.”

  “There is nothing to discuss! She will be dismissed immediately on the morrow.” Lady Sinclair stopped abruptly. Something in what Lord Quentin had just said had apparently caught her attention.

  You and I can discuss–

  “Oh,” said Celia. She sat down on one of the library sofas and waved a hand in airy dismissal. “Very well. I shall wait.”

  * * * *

  “Peter,” said Alice, “stay right here.” The girl carefully wiped chalk dust from her desk and put her slate back in its holder.

  “Why should I?” asked the boy.

  “Because Miss Phillips told us to! I need to find Aunt Pamela.”

  “Why?” Peter was standing up now, too, clearly about to demonstrate that his sister was in no way the boss of him.

  “I just do.”

  “I’m going too!”

  Alice hesitated. She was a realist where her brother was concerned. “Well, come along then. I think we should hurry.”

  * * * *

  Lord Quentin and Helène had walked in silence up the grand staircase and down the long, carpeted hallway to her room. He kept one hand on her elbow, the other firmly pressed against her back, and although his physical presence was comforting, Helène found she had nothing to say to him. She hesitated at the doorway. He looked down at her, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. A lock of brown hair had fallen over his forehead, to almost boyish effect.

 
He looks, thought Helène, like a young man who’s just been caught behind the barn with the milkmaid. A bit chagrined, perhaps, but not truly embarrassed. As if the situation was hardly worth the worry.

  This thought did not improve her mood.

  “Miss Phillips. Helène.” Lord Quentin leaned forward, his hand raised to stroke her hair. She backed away. “Please do not distress yourself–”

  “I’m fine,” she told him. “You’ve no need to fear hysterics.”

  “I’ll speak with Lady Sinclair.”

  This was too much for Helène. “I believe, my lord,” she said, “that you have spoken to Lady Sinclair entirely enough for my taste already.”

  “And, if it’s necessary, the marquess.”

  The marquess? Worse and worse! She’d had very little conversation with Lord Sinclair after their first interview; nothing beyond a few words and the occasional tip of a hat. But his smile had always been kindly, and to have Lord Quentin discuss these circumstances with the marquess, as if she was some errant schoolgirl–

  “Lord Sinclair and I will sort everything out,” Lord Quentin was saying. “You needn’t be concerned

  that–”

  “Oh, no, my lord,” said Helène. “Please spare me. I’ve no desire for any more gentlemanly assistance.” She flung open the door and tried to shut it behind her but Lord Quentin was there first, his hand firmly against the jamb, blocking her retreat.

  “You do need my help,” he said. “And, like it or not, you shall have it.”

  “Pah!” said Helène, and, pushing him away, she closed the door in Lord Quentin’s face.

  * * * *

  “Miss Phillips, it pains me to say this.”

  The marchioness had collapsed into a chaise lounge the moment they entered her rooms. Sighing deeply, her hand pressed against her forehead, Lady Sinclair was the picture of wounded sensibility. Helène was unmoved by the small drama being enacted for her benefit, and she stood in silence, determined to remain calm.

  She had spent long, sleepless hours the previous night, turning her few options over and over in her mind. She could return to London. But to what? With her father dead, there was nothing left in town for Helène.

  Or find another position as governess. Perhaps, with Lady Pamela’s help, it could be done.

  Helène had tried not to think of the third possibility. Had he planned all of this? Had Lord Quentin known that the marchioness would follow him to the library? Helène would be dismissed, of course, and he would be waiting, her savior knight, ready to spirit her away to her new life as his mistress. The word did not sound so terribly bad, really. Better than–alone.

  “Miss Phillips!” The marchioness broke into Helène’s thoughts. She had clearly expected some protest from the governess; there being none, Lady Sinclair impatiently renewed her attack.

  “Do you understand the seriousness of your offense?”

  “You have not explained the cause of your displeasure,” replied Helène. “Surely even a governess is allowed a semblance of private life.”

  Not according to Miss Chaldecott, of course. Helène knew that her claim was presumptuous, even absurd, but she felt calm. With very little to lose, she would not be so easily frightened.

  Lady Sinclair attempted it, nevertheless. She rose from the chaise, and stamped her foot.

  “I won’t have it, do you hear me? I won’t have this hoydenish conduct in my household! Your behavior as an example to the children is appalling–”

  My behavior? thought Helène, and although she did not say this aloud, Lady Sinclair could read the governess’s face. The marchioness erupted in fury.

  “I wish you to pack your bags at once! You will not spend another night under this roof, Miss Phillips, I shall talk to Lord Sinclair immediately–”

  “As you wish,” said Helène. She turned and walked out.

  * * * *

  “Aunt Pamela! Aunt Pamela!”

  The children had finally found their aunt in the music room, where Lady Pam was working on a particularly difficult passage in Mozart’s second phantasie. She turned to smile at them.

  “You’ve come just in time, little ones. I’m making a hash of this run, and I think it’s just time for some cocoa.”

  “Oh, but Aunt Pamela!” Alice ran forward; she and Peter started talking at the same time.

  “Lady Celia came to the nursery–”

  “Miss Phillips went with her–”

  “She looked mad!”

  “Miss Phillips told us we had to stay–”

  “Alice. Peter.” The children, still bouncing in their impatience, fell abruptly silent. “Excellent. Now, please tell me precisely what happened–”

  “Lady Celia–”

  “Miss Phiwips said–”

  “–one at a time. Alice, you may begin.”

  * * * *

  Lady Pamela found Lord Quentin in the solarium, examining one of the Jonathan’s cymbidium orchids. He looked up at her approach and smiled.

  “All right, I’ll confess it. I’m hiding,” said Charles.

  “From Celia or from me?”

  Lord Quentin seemed to see something in her face and realize that this was not amiable banter. He frowned. “Do I have reason to hide from you?”

  Lady Pam drew a death breath and bit her lip. She had not had time to think carefully about what she should say to him. Charles Quentin had been Jonathan’s friend since their school days. She had believed him to be an honorable man. But by whose definition of honor? The current situation did not need to be his problem. A lord could walk away from Miss Helène Phillips without a glance back, and there would be few in the ton to question him.

  He will never marry her, thought Lady Pamela. He will think of his father’s own life–and worry–and walk away.

  Fool.

  “I’ve just spoken to Miss Phillips,” said Pam. “ ’Tis disheartening to see you hidden away when she is even now packing to leave.”

  “I suppose it’s all over the house.” Lord Quentin sighed. “Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose–”

  “Can’t be helped? Indeed, I should think–”

  “–but Miss Phillips has no need to pack. I’ve already talked to Jonathan.”

  Lady Pamela sat down on the edge of a rattan chaise and blew out a long breath. “Explain to me, if you will, exactly what you hope to accomplish by talking to my brother.”

  Lord Quentin looked at her in surprise. “Well, Miss Phillips won’t be dismissed, of course. I’ve explained to Jonathan that I was very forward in my advances–”

  “I dare say.”

  “–and that Helène was too much the innocent to... well, that I was too insistent–”

  Lady Pamela regarded him with narrowed eyes. Men! Living in their own little world of rules and technicalities, honor and gentlemen’s agreements. She had decided long ago that the sex was incapable of thinking more than a day or two into the future. How else could one explain duels?

  Of course the marquess would accept Lord Quentin’s explanation. Of course Helène would not be dismissed. Lady Sinclair might make her life miserable on a daily basis, but she would be warm, well-fed, and have a roof over her head.

  Then, the day the Sinclair household arrived in London for the Season, everything would change. A bit of exchanged gossip here, a lowered voice there . . .

  Helène’s reputation would be ruined. And, ironically, if word ever got out about her parentage it would almost make matters worse. A penniless duke’s granddaughter with a spotless reputation, even as a governess, was one thing. But once the ton wags were finished with the story–

  Just like her mother, they would say. Shameless and wild!

  “You,” Pamela told Lord Quentin, “have badly mistaken the matter.”

  “I think not. I can assure you–”

  “You think not at all! The problem Miss Phillips faces extends far beyond her current employment at Luton Court.”

  “I do not understand.”

>   Lady Pam paused, considering her words. She was not so concerned about Helène’s chances of finding another position as a governess, of course. The girl’s ancestry should be made known, and she should marry. But this was not an explanation she could yet give to Charles Quentin.

  “Her problem lies in wait, perhaps years in the future,” said Pam, choosing the easiest excuse. “Eventually Helène will need another position as governess–”

  “Years!” said Lord Quentin. “The ton’s memory measures in hours! ’Twill all be long forgotten–”

  “How well,” said Lady Pamela, “do you know Celia Sinclair?”

  Silence greeted this remark. Lord Quentin took a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?” he said in frustration. “I’ve offered her carte blanche, as you must know. She wouldn’t have it.”

  “Offer her marriage.”

  The words hung in the air between them. Lord Quentin uttered a low sound, whether of disgust or despair Pamela could not tell, and turned away.

  “I can’t,” he said, his attention now fixed on the orchid.

  “You mean you won’t!”

  “I will be the next Earl of Tavelstoke within a few years. You know as well as I that it would never do.”

  “And Helène would be your countess. Her French certainly outclasses most of the ton, but I dare say they’ll manage to survive.”

  “It doesn’t matter how many languages Miss Phillips speaks. She’s still a tradesman’s chit. It would be disrespectful to my family–”

  “Disrespectful!” Lady Pamela faced him, fighting the urge to stamp her feet. Damn Helène’s pride! If she could only tell him– “What about the disrespect of offering carte blanche to an innocent of not yet twenty years?”

  Lord Quentin started to pace. There was very little room among the various plants and bits of garden statuary that filled the solarium; Pam held her breath as he almost knocked over a large St. Francis. He looked up at her, hesitated, and then–

  “I don’t understand.” He stopped, began again. “You yourself had a... relationship with Edward Tremayne–”

  Lady Pamela was not accustomed to blushing. She did so now, unaccountably flustered to have past events brought so abruptly to mind.