by Jen Turano
Eliza raised her gaze, and her mouth ran dry when she noticed the sincerity lingering in Mr. Beckett’s eyes. For a brief, insane moment, she wished for nothing more than to once again become the witty, beautiful woman she’d been in England, if only to see his reaction to her. She knew it was a ridiculous wish—after all, she was not in the market for a gentleman friend—but even knowing this, she couldn’t discount the fact that she was having a very strange reaction to Mr. Beckett. He fascinated her—there was no other explanation—but she was also annoyed by him, annoyed that he was causing her to suffer tingles all over her body.
She’d never met a man who caused her to tingle.
She bit back a snort. Honestly, why was she even allowing her thoughts to travel in such a ridiculous direction? Before she could contemplate that to satisfaction, a conversation on the opposite side of the table suddenly caught her attention.
“. . . and Lord Southmoor is to be in attendance tomorrow.”
All thoughts of remaining inconspicuous disappeared as Eliza set her sights on the woman who’d uttered that earth-shattering remark.
“Forgive me,” she said loudly, causing the woman to look her way, “did you just mention Lord Southmoor?”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t you the governess?”
Obviously they’d been overheard. Eliza forced a smile. “I am the governess, ma’am. Miss Sumner at your service.”
“Miss Sumner,” the woman replied with a regal nod. “I’m Mrs. Amherst.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Eliza said. “You were remarking on Lord Southmoor?”
“Are you acquainted with him?” Mrs. Amherst inquired.
“I would not be so presumptuous to believe I know all the members of the aristocracy, but his title does sound familiar. May I be so forward as to inquire whether he is a rather tall gentleman?”
“He is, and very slight of frame,” Mrs. Amherst said.
Rage mixed with triumph raced through her. She’d found him at last, the man she’d been searching for, the man who’d stolen everything. She reined in her emotions, realizing she needed to make absolutely certain. “Does he have a wife?”
“You mean the countess?”
“His wife is a countess?” Eliza sputtered.
“Lord Southmoor is an earl, which does make his wife a countess,” Mrs. Amherst said.
Not only had the man stolen her father’s fortune, it would appear he’d taken liberties with his title as well.
“Would you happen to know Lady Southmoor’s given name?” Eliza asked once she was able to form a coherent sentence.
“I hardly enjoy an intimate relationship with the woman, but I believe her name is Salice,” Mrs. Amherst said.
Eliza swallowed the grunt she longed to emit. It was almost too much to comprehend, the idea that this so-called countess was claiming the name Salice when Eliza knew perfectly well her given name was Sally and she’d once been Eliza’s governess before she’d married Bartholomew Hayes, a man who’d been employed by Eliza’s father as his man of affairs. It was ironic, if truth be told, given that Eliza now found herself a governess and Sally, alias Salice, was prancing around New York as an English aristocrat.
“Miss Sumner, are you all right?” Hamilton asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
“Perfectly fine.”
Hamilton sent a pointed look to the crushed dinner roll in Eliza’s hand.
“Oh,” Eliza said, relaxing her fingers and dropping the roll to her plate before she realized Mrs. Amherst was speaking to her once again.
“Are you familiar with the Southmoor estate?” Mrs. Amherst asked. “Lady Southmoor was describing her country manor the other evening and it sounds enchanting.”
The only Southmoor Eliza was familiar with was her father’s old hunting lodge in the wilds of Scotland, which her father had laughingly dubbed Southmoor because it was south of the moors. It suddenly became clear to her exactly where Bartholomew had gotten inspiration for his fictitious title and, apparently, an entire country estate.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Southmoor Manor,” she finally said.
Mrs. Amherst sent her a sympathetic smile. “Tell me, dear, who are your relations in England? Do you count any aristocrats as family?”
“I’m distantly related to the Earl of Sefton,” Eliza said before snapping her mouth shut. How could she have let that escape?
Mrs. Amherst’s eyes sparkled. “Why, Lady Southmoor remarked on your family just the other day. She said she was great friends with Lady Alice Sumner.”
Eliza began to seethe. Her mother, Alice, had been dead for over ten years, and it was beyond a stretch for Sally to make the claim they’d been “great friends,” considering Sally had been the governess. Eliza drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. “Do you know where Lord and Lady Southmoor are currently residing?”
“I’ve heard they recently purchased a remarkable house on Park Avenue. It’s three stories with all of the latest amenities.” Mrs. Amherst shook her head. “I also heard that Lady Southmoor was quite put out over the location. She wanted to purchase a home here, on Fifth Avenue, but her husband insisted on the Park Avenue mansion.” She lowered her voice. “He had the funds available to purchase it outright, which had the owners willing to quickly vacate the premises in order that Lord and Lady Southmoor could move in immediately.”
“How lovely for them,” Eliza muttered between gritted teeth.
“We’ll see Lord Southmoor tomorrow evening,” Mrs. Amherst said. “Would you care to have me send him a greeting from you?”
“No,” Eliza said, forcing another smile when she saw Mrs. Amherst’s startled expression at her vehement denial. “That is a very kind offer, Mrs. Amherst, but since I am only a governess, I fear I am beneath his notice and he might become confused as to why you are mentioning me to him in the first place.”
“Then I will remain mum on the subject,” Mrs. Amherst said. “It would not do to inadvertently confuse the man, especially as Mr. Amherst is hopeful of furthering his acquaintance with Lord Southmoor and Mr. Daniels.”
Eliza heard Mr. Hamilton Beckett draw in a sharp breath of air. She shot him a glance and found him leaning forward in his chair, his eyes gleaming.
“Mr. Eugene Daniels?” Hamilton asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Amherst agreed. “Mr. Daniels is holding a dinner tomorrow night at his home in honor of Lord and Lady Southmoor.”
Eliza wasn’t certain why Mr. Beckett was emitting tension in waves, but the only logical explanation was that it concerned this Mr. Eugene Daniels, the man who just happened to be hosting a dinner party in honor of the very man Eliza had crossed an ocean to find. She opened her mouth to inquire exactly who Mr. Daniels was, but her words died on her tongue when Mrs. Watson interrupted.
“Ladies, please follow me. I believe it’s time to leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars.”
It was just her luck that her services for the evening were seemingly at an end just when things were getting interesting. She pushed back her chair before Mr. or Mr. Beckett had an opportunity to help her, sighing in resignation as a loud rip met her ears.
“I do believe this dress has seen its last dinner,” Zayne remarked as he rose to his feet and then bent over to tug some fabric from under the leg of the chair. “What’s this?”
Eliza yelped. “Stop that.”
“I do beg your pardon,” Zayne exclaimed as he dropped the cloth and straightened. “Was that part of your gown?”
Eliza decided it would be best not to respond, as there was not much she could say that would make any sense. She rose to her feet and felt more of her stuffing slide down her legs, her oversized corset obviously unable to keep up with the task of holding it all in. She dipped into a quick curtsy and spun on her heel, stopping when Mr. Hamilton Beckett laid an arm on her sleeve.
“You forgot your glasses,” he said, snagging them off the table and handing them to her.
�
�Thank you,” she said as her finger glanced against his skin, the contact causing her heart to race.
“Will you be back for dessert?” Hamilton asked.
It was nearly impossible to concentrate, seeing as she felt like an entire herd of horses had taken to galloping through her veins. What was the question?
Ahh . . . yes . . . dessert.
“My services were only required for dinner,” she managed to get out. “Please accept my appreciation for allowing me to share the meal with you. It was a true pleasure.”
“You were most entertaining,” Zayne replied.
“That was unintentional,” Eliza muttered.
“You were delightful,” Hamilton said. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips.
Heat seared through Eliza at his touch. She’d had her hand kissed numerous times before, but not once had a simple grazing of a gentleman’s lips against her knuckles caused her to react this way. She tugged her hand out of his grasp, mumbled one last “good evening,” and stepped away from the table, this last action causing the remainder of her bindings to roll down her legs. Gathering what little dignity she had left, she turned and moved as quickly as she could out of the room.
3
The following afternoon, Eliza looked around the crowded omnibus and wondered how a person was supposed to make the conveyance stop. She’d never ridden in a public coach, as she was accustomed to personal coaches back in England, but her funds were limited at the moment, so here she was, shoved up against a window, trying to remember to breathe through her mouth because the man sitting next to her smelled like fish and seemed to enjoy belching every few minutes. To distract herself from the unpleasantness at hand, she looked out the window and tried to make sense of everything she’d discovered over the past day.
Mr. Bartholomew Hayes was in New York, currently passing himself off as English aristocracy. He was also making excellent use of her money, living in a mansion that was beyond spectacular, and outfitting it with the latest furnishings evidenced by the numerous delivery wagons that had pulled up with annoying frequency while Eliza lurked on the opposite side of the street. She’d watched with mounting rage as everything from beautifully appointed furniture to a huge fountain in the form of a swan passed into the house before her eyes.
It had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed to refrain from storming through the front door and confronting the man who’d been her father’s most trusted employee, a trusted employee who’d turned out to be nothing more than a lying, thieving, no-good scoundrel who’d managed to systematically divert her father’s vast fortune into his own accounts sometime during the months surrounding her father’s death.
A loud snort from the man now pressing a beefy arm up against her side forced Eliza from her thoughts as she edged closer to the window. Perhaps it would be for the best if she got off the omnibus and simply walked the rest of the way to the Watsons’ house because, at the rate the man kept shifting, he would soon be sitting on top of her.
Eliza shuddered at that idea, the notion coming to her that gentlemen of all stations in life were certainly more trouble than they were worth . . . although Mr. Hamilton Beckett seemed as if he might be worth the trouble.
She blinked at that bothersome idea. Now was hardly the time to become distracted, even if the distraction was one incredibly handsome gentleman who was possessed of amazing eyes and . . .
“Put him out of your mind,” she muttered.
“You say something?” the man beside her asked, his expression a bit wary.
The poor man most likely believed he was sitting next to a crazy person, and who could blame him? She cleared her throat and tried to think of something sane to say.
“I was wondering how to get the omnibus to stop,” she finally replied.
“You have to pull on that there rope,” he said, gesturing down by his feet. “It’s attached to the driver’s leg and when he feels it tug, he stops.”
There was no possible way Eliza was going to lean over the man to pull on the rope. She decided to stay put for the moment and turned her face back toward the window.
Her temper began to simmer when she realized she wouldn’t be in her current predicament if Mr. Hayes had refrained from taking her very last pound. If he would have left her a smidgen of her father’s fortune, she would still be in London, basking in the admiration of her friends and her fiancé, instead of residing in New York without a single friend and possessed of an ex-fiancé.
The memory of Lord Wrathshire, or Lawrence as he’d insisted she call him in private, caused her temper to go from simmering to boiling in a split second.
Who would have thought a gentleman could turn from his intended simply because said intended suddenly found herself without funds?
She felt her face grow warm when their last conversation sprang to mind.
She’d gone to Lawrence as a last option when it became clear her situation was desperate, intent on asking him for a small loan to see her and her cousin, the new Earl of Sefton, through until the next harvest.
Unfortunately, events did not go as planned.
Lawrence listened to her pretty pleas and then informed her he’d heard the rumors about her father wasting his fortune away, and since there was now an insurmountable blemish staining her family name, he could no longer remain engaged to her. After making that proclamation, he’d turned and walked out of the room without saying another word.
Apparently he’d been more enthralled with her fortune than her sparkling personality.
He’d also apparently been more than willing to listen to the lies Mr. Hayes had spread about her father, lies Eliza knew Mr. Hayes had spread to cover up his own perfidy.
The omnibus slowed to a stop, and Eliza realized they were on Fifth Avenue. Unwilling to waste an opportunity to not have to reach over the man to pull on the rope, she struggled to her feet and breathed a sigh of relief when the man lumbered out of his seat and allowed her to pass. She moved to the door, jumped to the ground, and took a moment to get her bearings. She set her sights in the direction of the Watsons’ home and began walking quickly, arriving back at the house in less than ten minutes. She entered through the back door which led to the kitchen, took a few moments to exchange pleasantries with the cook, and then made her way to her upstairs room, shutting the door behind her. She walked to her bed and plopped straight back onto it, too tired to even bother taking off her shoes.
She closed her eyes, intent on taking a short nap, but sleep would not come.
Her nemesis was residing close at hand.
Mr. Hayes most likely never imagined she would have the gumption to follow him all the way across an ocean, or even attempt to seek out his whereabouts in the first place. She’d been forced to assume the role of investigator once it became clear the authorities were convinced society had the right of it and her father had simply been a wastrel who’d left Eliza destitute. No amount of arguing could convince them to help her, so she’d rolled up her sleeves, took to the streets, and through chatty men at the docks, discovered Mr. Hayes was on his way to New York, so New York was where she’d decided to go.
Her cousin, a likeable gentleman who’d assumed her father’s title, seeing as how Eliza’s one and only brother was no longer alive, tried to convince her she’d lost her mind, but necessity forced him to acknowledge their dire situation and agree to help with her plans. He’d penned a lovely letter of recommendation, and armed with the funds she’d obtained from selling her engagement ring, she bought a ticket to New York and set sail for America.
Knowing her meager funds wouldn’t last long, she’d sought out an employment agency, and to her delight, Mrs. Watson had walked into the agency a mere five minutes after Eliza. When the woman had discovered Eliza was from England, she’d hired her on the spot, barely glancing at the reference letter the agency had pressed into her hand.
The sudden squeaking of a door caused her eyes to flash open, but she quickly shut them when she realized it
was Agatha strolling into her room.
“I know you’re awake,” Agatha said.
“I’m not.”
Agatha laughed. “I came to apologize for last night and to bring these back to you.”
Eliza opened one eye. “Bring what back to me?”
Agatha crossed the room and placed a wad of fabric on the bed. Eliza recognized her stuffing and refused to groan out loud.
“What is that?” she forced herself to ask.
Agatha arched a brow. “The fabric you use to pad your figure. I must admit, I’ve been wondering all day what you would use in its place.”
“Obviously you have too much time on your hands and . . . I don’t pad my figure.”
“You’re not a rotund woman,” Agatha said. “Your face is very thin.”
“I carry my weight in my middle.”
Agatha’s other brow rose to meet the first one.
Eliza blew out a breath. “I might enhance my figure just a touch.”
“I’m waiting with bated breath to hear why,” Agatha said.
The conversation was turning tricky. Eliza knew it wouldn’t be prudent to blithely admit she’d assumed a disguise in order to perpetuate a fraud, especially as she was currently a governess to Agatha’s sisters. “I didn’t care to attract unwanted attention from my employer,” she settled on saying.
“My father is hardly the type to chase the staff.”
“I wasn’t aware of that when I accepted the position.” She sent Agatha what she hoped was an innocent smile. “We governesses have a hard lot in life.”
“You may be many things, Miss Sumner, but you’re no governess.”
The conversation was disintegrating rather rapidly. “I’ll have you know, I came to this country with a very fine letter of reference from Lord Sefton, who happens to be a high-ranking member of British society.”
“He’s probably a relative,” Agatha said.
Eliza decided it was in her best interest to change the subject. “What happened to your spots?”
A shifty expression crossed Agatha’s face. “To my amazement, I woke up this morning and found not one spot on my face.”
