His Tempting Governess: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2

by DeLand, Cerise

  Belle counted her failure to anticipate the woman’s intent as one of her most foolish.

  “You play chess with your employer?”

  She shifted on her feet. “I did last night, ma’am, yes.”

  “Do you do this often?”

  “Margaret,” the older lady said in soft objection.

  “Mama, please.” Lady Cartwell locked her blue gaze on Belle’s. “How often do you play with my son?”

  Her words sounded so scandalous. Belle was insulted. “Only that once, ma’am.”

  “I shall speak to him of this.”

  Belle wished she could ask her not to do that. But there it was, plain as day, another reason to plan what she must do if she had to leave Win’s employ. “If you will excuse me, please. I have duties to perform.”

  She dared not look at the woman’s face. Obviously the countess was a strict believer in rules. All well and good. Belle was a believer, as well, in self-preservation.

  That other woman, that Belle of Swan’s Reach, would have attempted humor or charm to ameliorate the lady’s tension and disapproval. This Belle of Dudley Crescent could not take the chance of being mistaken for an opportunist, an impertinent young thing who needed to be terminated to show her rightful place low on the social scale.

  She hurried away, wondering what the woman might say to Win to try to get her way…and get Belle out of it.

  Chapter 9

  He dashed inside as Shrew pulled open the front door for him. “Fierce storm,” he said as he swept his top hat from his head, a spray of raindrops splashing to the polished marble.

  “Delighted you’re home, my lord. There’s a bigger storm here.”

  “Oh?” Win yanked off his gloves and shrugged out of his coat. “Problems with our ward? Her two companions? Miss Swanson?”

  “Not directly, no, sir.” Shrew kept his eyes to the floor as he folded Win’s coat over his arm.

  “What then?”

  “Your mother is here, sir.”

  Dash it. He was hoping she’d stay away until the dinner party. But no. She had a bad habit of coming unannounced.

  Shrew bent near. “And your grandmother accompanies her.”

  Well, the gods could be kind. “Lady Buchanan out in this weather? I hope you’ve served them tea?”

  “A full tea for your mother, sir. A bit of lacing for your grandmother.”

  Sherry, usually. Lady Buck’s favorite at this time of day. But if his mother was in a snit, then Shrew would have served her favorite cognac. When his mother roared, everyone in the family drank alcohol.

  He girded himself. Fine. He needed a drink, too.

  “Very well, Shrewsbury. Good of you to prepare them for me.”

  The butler cocked a brow at him. “Or you for them.”

  “Indeed.” Win shot his cuffs and smoothed his wool frock coat over his waistcoat. His mother responded to formality—and he was happy to use it to keep her at bay. “In the parlor, I presume?”

  “As you ordered, sir. Yes.”

  On her last visit here, his mother had insisted upon being shown to his library. Upstairs, no less. It’d been a surprise visit to his townhouse and her intention—and he confirmed it as he paused at the open doorway to watch her sift through his papers—was to snoop. See what he’d been working on. The repairs of her house over on Green Park perhaps? Or their country estate south near Brighton?

  But today, there was nothing in the family parlor she might spy upon.

  “You need not announce me.” He stepped toward the stairs.

  “As you wish, sir. But you must know one more thing.”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Miss Swanson was in the parlor when they arrived.”

  “Ah. Not pleased are we?” Win meant the royal ‘we’ to indicate his mother.

  “No, sir.”

  “So the world turns.”

  “It does, sir.” The old man backed away.

  Win grimaced at the coming encounter. Best to get this over with.

  “She’s not happy, Win,” warned Caroline from her place upon the wall.

  “Well, he’s not either, Caro,” Roderick said in a huff. “You can see that.”

  Quiet, you two. Win threw each in turn a forbidding look.

  His grandmother had taken the grand Queen Anne red tapestry chair near the fire. Not only was it the oldest and most comfortable in the room, it gave its occupant a view out the door into the hall.

  As he approached her, the elderly lady lifted her sherry glass to her lips and with the arch of an elegant white brow and a faint lift of her hand, she toasted him and wished him luck.

  “Here you are!” His mother strode toward him, her pale grey silk her mode to connote to any who saw her that she was complying with the court mourning for poor old King George. She took Win’s forearm, rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. The three short black feathers in her hat had gotten the worst of the rain storm and wiped his cheek with their wet fronds. “Where have you been? We’ve been waiting more than an hour.”

  “I understand, Mama. Good afternoon, Grandmother.” He went to buss that lady on the cheek and squeeze her strong thin hand. She, thank heavens, wore no such fripperies as drenched feathers but a handsome day hat of purple. “I do apologize for your wait, but I had no idea you’d both decide to visit me. A note, perhaps, next time, before you plan to call?”

  His mother lifted a shoulder and resumed her seat. A tea cup and plate sat on the small India table beside her. She perched on the edge of her cushion, hands clasped in her lap. “We’ve come to hear of your recent activities.”

  That—translated from his mother’s code book—meant she wished to hear of his search for a bride. “I saw you only a fortnight ago and told you then of my impending social calendar.”

  “Oh, you know how I am.”

  I do. He took the chair opposite his grandmother.

  “I forget the details. I must hear them again.”

  “I shall make a list of them and send them round to Cartwell House.”

  “Oh, really unnecessary, Win.”

  He fought the urge to shout that there, once more, was the evidence his mother could not remember to call him by the formal title he now held. How long would it take to hear her consistently address him by the name his older brother held for two decades? He himself was only now adjusting to the moniker. Why must he persuade his mother, of all people, to honor him with the title that she and all of society now acknowledged was his? He grit his teeth, determined not to stoop to debate her on its use.

  “Margaret, Cartwell is efficient. He helped to win the war and you must not hover over him about his intentions to do his duty.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother. I promised you both I’d do my best to wed before the year is out. I keep my promises. I always have. I intend to honor this one.” Though perhaps not quite as you’d wish.

  “I hold you to it, Win,” his mother conceded with a flick of her fan, her lips stiff with insult from her mother’s dressing down. “We must have children, darling. Lots of children.”

  His mother had wished for more than Reggie and Win. But difficulties delivering babies, especially Win who was twice the size of his older brother at birth, (she’d repeatedly told him), prohibited that. His brother, Reggie, had been prone to illnesses. Slight of frame, inches shorter than Win, with pale complexion all the more white contrasted with the spider veins from his excessive drinking, meant he ate poorly and could not fight the colds and aches and pains that beset him. Throughout the year. Especially in winter. One of them, settling in his chest a year ago December was a deep cough the local chemist diagnosed as wasting disease had killed him.

  “Mama, I shall happily provide babies for you, when and if I find a woman to love.”

  “Love?” barked his grandmother. “A new word for you, Cartwell. One I like. Shall you tell us there is suddenly one whom you’ve discovered you might adore?”

  He’d never reveal his affections until his
success was fait accompli. Everyone had characterized him as bloodless, dedicated, the king’s best solider. A man who had no title, no money and no estate to support a wife. Therefore, he had never looked for a woman to keep forevermore. And now that all was possible, he met a woman who might well reject him.

  “Love is what you deserve,” announced his grandmother.

  “Why not?” asked his mother, hastening to add her bit to the right side of the argument here. “The aura of love can add a few delights.”

  Better yet, if the woman can care for her husband in return, we’d have a good union.

  “Now to real issues.” His mother’s face lit like fireworks. “Tell me about the guest list for your dinner party, Win. I have a few I can add for you, if you wish.”

  “Margaret, I’m sure he has his own preferences.”

  He ignored seconding that. “The invitations are out, Mama.”

  “Tell me then which young ladies have you invited?”

  “The earl and countess of Weymouth with their daughter.”

  His mother cooed her approval.

  “The Countess of Danbury and her daughter Lady Dora.”

  “Very nice,” she purred.

  “My friend, Lord Blessington and his wife, Katherine.”

  His mother smiled. “A decorated man. Good choice. Any other single ladies?”

  “Miss Sarah Stewart.”

  “Please tell me no,” she said, her hand sliced the air.

  Win rose to pour another hefty draught of sherry into his grandmother’s empty crystal glass, then resumed his chair. “Mama, it’s one thing to discuss ribbons and laces for five minutes with Lady Dora, but my hope for excitement would demand I take up my fish fork to extract my spleen. Lady Sarah Stewart, on the other hand, can speak with some intelligence.”

  His grandmother snickered. “Good for you, Cartwell.”

  “Do not encourage him, Mother.”

  “My dear Margaret, I must do that enough for both of us. Cartwell must choose whom he wishes. After all, he must sit across from his choice each morning at breakfast.”

  He nodded. How true. As I did this morning.

  “And take her to bed every night.”

  Dare I be so fortunate and soon, too.

  His mother fluttered her lashes. “Really, Mother.”

  His grandmother chuckled. “How else to get those babies you demand of him, Margaret?”

  “Very well! But time marches on, Win. You have another birthday in two months! You must have an heir, another if possible and soon.”

  Since his brother had passed his mortal coil at age thirty-seven, his mother had this nonsensical fear that he, too, at the same age might contract some blight and fade away. “I meet as many women as quickly as possible, Mama, intending not to die until I am well into my dotage. You must give me the honor to note that I spent years in front of cannon and cavalry, flood and fire, and came home with only a tricky knee. I can give you your heirs, but you will give me time.”

  She picked up her fan, cooling her umbrage, it seemed, only a little.

  His grandmother chortled. “He’s not dying, Margaret. Look at him! Can you imagine he’s as frail as our poor Reggie was?”

  “Oh!” His mother swallowed hard on grief. “Do not be cruel, Mother.”

  “I am realistic, Margaret. You should try it.”

  “Well!” His mother fluttered her fan fast enough to cause a gale.

  “Our Win here is a marvelous specimen of manhood.” His grandmother winked at him. “Let him be.”

  “Some men die without heirs. Look at our new king,” his mother said. “His daughter Charlotte dead on her childbed. You cannot be too careful.”

  “Old Prinny might make a new babe yet, Margaret.” His grandmother raised her glass to commemorate the new king and drank it down. “His health, crazy bugger.”

  His mother scowled at her mother. “Really. You have no respect.”

  “I do, indeed. I drink to him. You should. Make you lose a bit of your iron.”

  “I fear I must have some iron, Mother. You see, Win, I met the governess.”

  Ah. At last we come to the bone that sticks. “Good. Miss Swanson. Well qualified. Speaks fluent French. Good at maths. Likes spiders and worms.”

  “And she is beautiful.”

  The most stunning creature I’ve gazed upon in years. Kind and funny. Kisses like an angel. “Never a qualification I required, but yes, she is very lovely.”

  “Young,” his mother went on. “She was sitting right there when we came in.” His mother pointed to the chessboard and two chairs. “Playing a game.”

  He turned to consider the pieces. From the position of many of the pawns and both bishops, she had been in the midst of a game with herself. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “There is if she’s not with her charge but here whiling away the day!”

  He shook his head. He would not regiment her every minute. “I hope you were civil to her, did proper introductions.”

  “Naturally, we did. I did. But your grandmother smiled through most of it. Cat that ate the cream.”

  He frowned at the older lady “There is something I miss here. What is it?”

  His grandmother fought a wicked smile. “The governess said she was reviewing a game she played recently…with you.”

  Ah. So that was it. His governess was not to be his friend or…(he had to grin)…his playmate. “We did challenge each other to a match.”

  “Why?” his mother persisted.

  “Because Miss Swanson plays a smart game. She’s a worthy opponent. I like smart, worthy opponents especially off the battlefield where I can enjoy my life without fear of losing it!”

  His mother put up a hand, turned her cheek aside and closed her eyes. “Please, darling, there is no need to shout at me. I understand.”

  “Do you?” He inhaled mightily and took to standing, one elbow hooked on the stone mantel. “What else is on your mind, Mother?”

  She gathered her courage with a frown and a tilt of her chin. “I want grandchildren, it’s true. For you. For me. For us all. Safety in the entail, yes. But there is one matter I must know of—”

  He’d had quite enough of silliness for one day. “Out with it.”

  “I don’t intend that you think of Daphne Lennard as your heir.”

  “What?”

  His grandmother groaned and hoisted her glass. “May I have another, please, Cartwell? I see this will be a long afternoon.”

  He did his duty. As always. Biting back an unkind retort, he poured his grandmother double what he’d given her last time (hang it, she could handle her liquor) and decided to hold up the mantel once more, this time crossing his arms before him, back to the stone. “Mama, I don’t think you understand the legal nature of my status to my ward.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “I do. I do. But I worry.”

  “Daphne Lennard has come to me because my friend and his wife had no one else to raise her and care for her. Daphne has a trust of her own, established by her father with a lawyer in the City. I cannot breach that. I have no need to. She is her father’s and mother’s child. When she becomes twenty-one, she may have the funds in her trust. They are invested properly, I’ve examined that already. I will not take them. I cannot. I need not. I am sufficiently wealthy as the earl of Cartwell.”

  “Did not your friend provide a yearly sum to come to you for rearing his daughter?”

  “He did.”

  “Oh.” She sagged, the air gone out of her sails.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “No?” Was she incredulous or delighted?

  “I have, Mother, more than I need.” He extended a hand to denote the room, the house. “I have invested that yearly sum in a few new companies for her. Daphne may have the profits along with her trust money when she comes of age.”

  “And her husband will confiscate it.” His mother shivered with distaste. “You know that will happen. The rogues will light on her lik
e wolves to a fawn, take her money and leave her penniless.”

  Dear god. His mother had such dislike for the failures of the legal system in England. It was a wonder she’d not become a barrister herself to fight the indignities. But then, in many ways, (from outbursts such as this), he had learned from her scorn for those who preyed upon the helpless.

  “On the contrary, Mother, Daphne’s father structured her trust so that she acquires her inheritance, single or married. And if and when she weds, her husband has no ability to claim or use her fortune. The investments I have made for her are exactly the same. All money is her own. Forever.”

  His mother gazed at him with such a brilliant smile, he would have thought Daphne were hers, or her fortune was. “That’s marvelous, darling. Revolutionary. Daphne is a lucky girl. She will thank her father and you every day of her life.”

  “Superb,” whispered his grandmother who lifted her glass in yet another toast.

  “So now we can move on to your dinner party.” His mother beamed.

  “And a wife whom I alone will choose.” And one I adore.

  * * *

  Belle flattened her ear against the door. Eavesdropping was not her usual practice but her curiosity had outrun her ethics.

  And look what she’d learned! She had new proof of Win’s nobility and wisdom. He had provided the very best for Daphne. If only someone had done all that for me, I wouldn’t be here.

  She wouldn’t feel afraid and unnerved that the Countess of Cartwell had discovered her playing chess in the middle of the afternoon in the parlor, of all places. Wouldn’t feel anger erupt that she was not considered high enough or good enough to sit in his lordship’s parlor. Wouldn’t acknowledge the despair that rose from her heart when she heard the countess disparage her because she was pretty. Wouldn’t feel hope spread its wings when Cartwell defended her. And him.

  She swallowed back tears. But she couldn’t hear them talking any longer. Were they finished?

  She must go!

  She spun.

  There stood Shrewsbury. He approached her on cats’ feet, a tray in his hand. He fished from his pocket a handkerchief and whispered, “Blow your nose, Miss Swanson.”