by Cheryl Holt
“Yes. If I could dabble with whores occasionally, I’d be—”
Tristan was saved from the conversation by a knock on the door. Michael’s cousin, Maud Seymour, poked her nose in. She was a few years older than Tristan, a fussy, unremarkable widow with mousy brown hair and unmemorable gray eyes.
For more than a decade, she’d resided in the mansion, with her daughter, Miriam, who was now sixteen-years-old. She’d served as the earl’s hostess, as well as a detached mother-figure for Michael and Rose.
She was the ultimate hanger-on, the dreaded poor relative who’d come for a visit, ingratiated herself, and never left.
She was used to running the household, having had no supervision from Tristan’s father over the accounts or servants, and she’d been furious over Tristan’s barging in and seizing control. Tristan tried to be cordial, anxious to build a rapport rather than fight over territory.
He didn’t care about the house or servants. He cared about Michael and Rose and ensuring that their futures and fortunes were secure.
“Yes, Maud, what is it?” he asked.
“An applicant is here to interview for the position of Rose’s governess. A Miss Helen Hamilton.”
Tristan bit down a curse. He’d forgotten about the interview. Rose had been without a governess for almost two years, and while she insisted she didn’t need one, Tristan insisted she did.
He’d immersed himself in the search, but he couldn’t find the exact person he wanted.
Rose was a lonely, sweet girl, and so far, the candidates had seemed too old or too grumpy or too lazy to be allowed to watch over her. Maud claimed he was finicky, and he probably was, but he had to keep stopping himself from asking why, when she’d been in charge for so long, the post had remained unfilled.
Finances weren’t a problem, and Tristan suspected that Maud didn’t like Rose enough to trouble herself with hiring someone.
“You don’t have to bother with it,” Maud told him. “I’m happy to talk to her for you.”
“I don’t mind meeting with her,” he stated. “It’s my duty to Rose.”
“You’re so conscientious,” Maud simpered, flattering him. She was practically batting her lashes. “It’s so refreshing to have a man about the place who enjoys being in command.”
“What am I, Cousin Maud?” Michael inquired. “I’m a man.”
“You,” Tristan needled, “are an arrogant boy who’s barely out of short pants.”
“You think I’m a boy,” Michael retorted, “but if you gave me half a chance with the ladies, I’d show you that I can—”
“Michael was just leaving.” Tristan cut him off, terrified of what risque comment he might make in Maud’s presence.
“Yes, Maud,” Michael agreed, “I’m leaving. The maids are having tea down in the kitchen. I promised I’d join them.”
“He’s not going to the kitchen to chat with the maids,” Tristan said. “He’s going to his bedchamber to contemplate his many deplorable character traits.”
“I don’t have any deplorable traits,” Michael boasted. “I’m flawlessly wonderful. Ask anyone.”
Tristan rolled his eyes again. “Maud, escort him out, then send the applicant down to speak with me.”
Maud and Michael departed, and Tristan sat, listening as their footsteps faded.
“A brothel, indeed,” he muttered to the silent room. If Michael started frequenting whores, his name would be permanently sullied, which Tristan couldn’t permit.
His father’s deathbed letter had contained the request that Tristan arrange brilliant marriages for Michael and Rose, to partners befitting their station. If Michael developed a reputation as a philanderer who had bastard children scattered hither and yon, no sane father would have him as a son-in-law.
More footsteps sounded in the hall. They were dainty and hesitant, and before he could fully shift his thoughts from Michael and his budding sexuality, the interviewee entered.
On seeing her, he frowned.
She was very pretty, petite, slender, and willowy, with a gorgeous head of auburn hair and big green eyes. Her skin was creamy smooth, her cheeks rosy with good health, her lips red and lush as a ripe cherry.
Her manner was pleasant, her dress neat and trim. She seemed to glide rather than walk, providing evidence of education and breeding.
No doubt, she’d be perfect, a cheery, competent, and interesting person whom Rose would adore. He detested her on sight.
He’d specifically informed Mrs. Ford at the employment agency that he wouldn’t consider any attractive, young females. Not with Michael in a constant state of lust. Was Mrs. Ford blind?
“Is this the library?” She peered around at the walls and walls of books stretched from floor to ceiling, and she chuckled. “Of course it is. That was a silly question, wasn’t it?”
She focused those beautiful green eyes on him, and he felt as if he’d been hit with a bolt of lightning. She seemed to know things about him that she had no reason to know, seemed to understand what drove him, what he wanted, what he needed, and the sensation was so bizarre and so alarming that he actually shuddered.
“May I help you?” he queried.
“I’m looking for Captain Odell.”
“You’ve found him.” He stood, certain he appeared persnickety and overbearing. “And you are ... ?”
“Miss Helen Hamilton. I’ve been sent by Mrs. Ford at the Ford Employment Agency to—”
“Yes, I’m aware of why you’re here.” He gestured to the chair that Michael had just vacated. “Sit.”
At his sharp tone, she faltered, then forced a smile and came over, carefully balancing on the edge of the seat, her skirt demurely arrayed, her fingers clasped in her lap.
They stared as if they were quarreling, but she didn’t cower as he wished she would. He was eager to expose a chink in her armor so that he would feel justified in rejecting her.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, what?”
“Where are your references?”
“Oh, those.” She waved an elegant hand as if a prior endorsement was of no consequence. “I didn’t bring any.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. No references, no job.
“Then we needn’t continue this discussion. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Ford was thinking.”
“Would you hear me out?”
“No.”
As if he hadn’t declined to listen, she began extolling her virtues. “I could have penned some fake letters, but I didn’t because I’m too honest.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. You see, I’ve never been a governess before. However, I’ve had excellent schooling. My studies included languages, art, science—both biological and geological—history, penmanship, and I’m also trained in the finer graces such as dancing, painting, and—”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “Thank you for coming.”
He pointed to the door, indicating she should leave, but she didn’t. Her gaze brimmed with hurt, and perhaps a flash of desperation, and he felt as if he’d kicked a puppy.
“I speak French, Italian, Latin, and a bit of Spanish.”
“No.”
“I sing like an angel.”
“No.”
“I can play pieces by Mr. Mozart on the pianoforte.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Good day, Miss Hamilton.”
“Mrs. Ford said I was exactly who you were looking for.”
“Mrs. Ford was wrong.”
She scrutinized him, her head tipped to the side as if he were a curious bug she was examining.
“Why are you acting like this?” she stunned him by asking.
“What did you say?”
“Have I offended you?”
“No.”
“That’s not true. From the moment I arrived, your dislike was palpable. Tell me what I’ve done so that I can apologize, then we’ll move on and conduct ourselves like rational adults.”
/> “I have no desire to continue.”
“But... why?”
“My reasons, Miss Hamilton, are none of your business.”
His comment fell into the room with a heavy thud, his discourtesy blatant and mortifying. Despite his low antecedents, he was a gentleman, and he hated upsetting her, but he wanted her to go away.
She seemed to deflate, appearing vulnerable and defenseless, a tragic figure who could benefit from a steady male influence, and he was irked to find himself wondering what it would be like to be the man who supplied it.
“May I be frank, Captain Odell?”
“No, you may not”
Once again, she blathered on without permission. “Mrs. Ford urged me not to mention it, but my father was Captain Harry Hamilton of the Forty-Seventh Dragoons.”
Tristan recalled a scandal that even he—being far out to sea and away from England—had heard about: a torrid affair, a duke’s mistress, a duel in which the dashing Captain Hamilton had recklessly perished.
“If Harry Hamilton was your father, then you most especially would not be appropriate for this position. I wouldn’t want you within a hundred yards of my ward.”
“I’m twenty-four years old, Captain Odell. I have two sisters. Jane is eighteen, and Amelia is only twelve—the same age as Lady Rose. We’re all alone in the world, and I can’t provide for them. I need this job.”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
“I’ll work for free, for a whole month. Give me a chance to prove myself.”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Weren’t you in the navy when you were younger?”
“I was.”
“Then I’m begging you, as a favor to my father, a fellow soldier who served his country honorably for decades. Help me save my sisters.”
She reached out to him, trembling, beseeching him, and Tristan was too moved to reply. He simply shook his head.
To his horror, tears welled into her eyes, and he nearly leapt over the desk and shielded her face so he wouldn’t have to see them.
Though he was a tough, swashbuckling sailor, he was a sap for a woman’s tears, and he couldn’t bear to know that she was so unhappy. Her woe made him want to assist her, to watch over and shelter her and her destitute siblings, and he bit down on all the comforting words that were fighting to burst out.
“Go now,” he said very quietly.
Rudely, he grabbed a stack of correspondence and pretended to read it, effectively dismissing her.
He could sense her studying him, her probing attention wretched and intent.
Ultimately, she sighed and left, and he collapsed back into his chair, feeling like a heel. He wasn’t generally so callous, and he was chagrined that he’d been cruel to her. But London was a brutal place, and there were too many poverty-stricken females. He couldn’t save any of them, and he wasn’t about to try.
It dawned on him, though, that he could have slipped her a few pounds to ease her immediate plight.
Eager to catch up with her, he hurried out to the hall and proceeded to the foyer when—to his disgust—he ran into Michael and Miss Hamilton.
Michael’s arm was around her waist, and she was pressed to the wall, much as Tristan had witnessed earlier with the housemaid, Lydia.
So ... Miss Hamilton was not only the daughter of a notorious scoundrel, but she was loose and indecent, too. Had she come specifically hoping to bump into Michael? He was definitely rich enough to solve her problems. Had seduction been her scheme all along?
“Michael!” he snapped. “Unhand her at once.”
Michael chuckled and stepped away, while Miss Hamilton stumbled, struggling to right herself.
“She tells me,” Michael said, “that you didn’t feel she was suitable to be Rose’s governess. She must be joking. I think she’d be spectacular.”
Michael’s naughty gaze roamed down her torso, and she blushed furiously.
“Weren’t you going to your room?” Tristan asked him.
“Why, yes I was.”
Michael strolled away as Miss Hamilton peered at Tristan, her expression unreadable. He couldn’t decide if she was embarrassed at being molested or at being discovered.
For the briefest moment, it looked as if she might explain or defend her behavior, but instead, she spun and stomped out.
Chapter 2
“HELLO, lovely lady. Who might you be?”
Helen glanced up to find a young, blond god blocking her way. He was probably the most handsome man she’d ever seen, with the exception of offensive, arrogant Captain Odell, whose company she’d just fled.
While this fellow oozed charm and urbane grace, Odell was his total opposite: dark and dangerous and smoldering with temper and bad humor. His black hair had matched his black personality. He’d worn it longer than was fashionable, pulled back in a queue and tied with a strip of leather, and he’d had a gold earring in his ear—an earring, for goodness sake!—giving him the air of a pirate or a bandit.
Mrs. Ford had warned her that he could be difficult, but the woman had no idea! Helen had never met a more obnoxious buffoon in her entire life. It was no wonder he couldn’t hire a governess for Lady Rose. Who would work for the despicable oaf?
Though he’d been sitting in a fancy library and attired in a gentleman’s coat and trousers, expensive clothes couldn’t conceal his genuine character. He was a brute. He had a heart of stone beating under his ribs.
No, not a heart of stone. He had no heart at all. He was an unfeeling, uncaring monster.
“Excuse me,” she muttered to the blond god, “but I was just leaving.”
“So soon, and without our being introduced? I never allow a pretty female to cross my path without learning her name.”
She didn’t know who he was, but she suspected he was the new earl. Mrs. Ford had warned her about him, too.
“Miss Helen Hamilton.”
“You don’t mind if I call you Helen, do you?”
“Actually, I do.”
He was between her and the door, and short of physically pushing him aside, she couldn’t escape.
Wasn’t that just her luck? One man in the dreaded house had forced her through the most horrid appointment in history, and the other imagined himself to be Don Juan.
“I really should be going.”
“Didn’t you speak with Captain Odell? I assume he’s given you the job, and I’m delighted that you will be joining our staff.”
“No, he didn’t give me the job.”
“He didn’t? Why not? You’d be perfect. Is he insane?”
“Yes, he is.”
She probably should have kept her mouth shut, but Odell had infuriated her beyond measure. He couldn’t begin to guess what it was like to be poor and afraid, to be out of options but having others depending on you.
Helen had never been employed and had few viable skills. It had been the ultimate humiliation to attend an interview, but then, to be insulted and abused by the interviewer—when she hadn’t a clue why she’d received such uncivil treatment—was too hideous to abide.
To her great dismay, tears flooded her eyes. She couldn’t hold them at bay. She hated to be so maudlin, but after suffering so many catastrophes, who wouldn’t be? The weight of the world seemed balanced on her shoulders, and she couldn’t remember the last time anything had gone right.
“My darling girl,” her gallant swain said, “what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I ... I ... needed the position, and I’m a tad overwrought at it not being offered to me.”
He appeared stricken and reached an arm around her waist as if to hug her, but the library door opened and Captain Odell marched out.
On seeing them, he stormed over.
“Michael,” he snapped, confirming that her admirer was indeed Lord Hastings, “unhand her at once.”
“She tells me,” Lord Hastings mentioned, “that you didn’t feel she was suitable to be Rose’s governess. She must be joking. I think she’d be
spectacular.”
The two of them had a brief spat, but Helen was too upset to listen. She had no idea why the earl had flirted with her, but Odell was glaring as if she were a harlot.
The earl skittered off, and Helen stared up at Odell, searching his blue, blue eyes for a hint of kindness or understanding. She wanted to explain what had happened, or to defend herself, but what was the use? He would never believe her.
Without a word, she turned and hurried out. If he thought she was rude or impertinent, she hardly cared.
Her cloak and bonnet were where she’d left them, on a chair in the foyer, and she scooped them up and walked out onto the stoop.
She stood on the steps, tying her bonnet and gazing down the street. Carriages rumbled by. Maids and footmen scurried past. Everyone had something to do, someplace to be.
Helen had nothing at all, except her sisters, Jane and Amelia, who were waiting for her in the dilapidated room they’d rented with the last of their money. They’d sent her off to the interview with fond wishes, certain of her success.
They were so optimistic, so sure of the future, and their positive attitude was Helen’s fault. She’d shielded them from learning the exact depth of their plight, but after this debacle, there was no way to keep them from noting the cliff upon which they were perched.
As the daughters of Captain Harry Hamilton, they’d ridden out many storms in their chaotic lives, had been buffeted by poverty and plenty, by scandal and infamy.
Through years of tumult, the three of them had persevered, but after Harry was killed in the duel, they’d been on a downward spiral that couldn’t be halted.
The angry duke of Clarendon hadn’t been satisfied with merely murdering their father. He’d craved even more revenge. Creditors had come forward; bank clerks had swarmed. The Hamiltons’ home had been seized, their possessions sold, nearly all but the clothes on their backs taken from them.
They’d traveled to London, throwing themselves on the mercy of relatives, who’d shunned them. People who should have behaved better declined to provide shelter. Only Amelia’s thrifty hiding of their mother’s jewelry had saved them from starvation on the streets, but that money was long spent.
“What to do? What to do?” she murmured.
