Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  As if coming out of nowhere, Michael dropped from the roof of the coach onto the driver. The pistol went off. The horse bolted with a scream.

  Isabel’s captor released her and took off into the night. She fell to the dirt road, then tripped on the hem of her skirt as she came to her feet to help Michael.

  “Stay back,” her husband warned. “He has a knife.”

  Almost too late, she saw the gleam of the blade in the man’s hand. She stepped back.

  The hack driver waved the knife menacingly, but Michael laughed in his face. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  The driver jumped at him. Michael stepped out of his way and caught his wrist. There was a snapping sound, and the knife fell to the ground. The driver cried out in pain and doubled over.

  Michael had the knife in his hand in a blink.

  Rolling on his back, the driver started begging for his life.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Michael said, “or call the watch. But I’ll break your bloody neck if you don’t shut up.”

  The driver closed his mouth.

  “And your friend Tom is still alive,” Michael assured him. “He will wake with a headache, only little the worse for wear.”

  “You didn’t kill him?”

  “Not yet,” Michael warned softly. “Isabel, are you all right?”

  “I think so.” She was shaking and a bit roughed up but otherwise fine. He didn’t recognize their surroundings. The buildings were low, and she could smell fetid water. They must be close to the Thames. The horse had not run far but stood wild-eyed by a wall some hundred yards away.

  The driver decided to try his luck running. He scrambled to his feet, but Michael had anticipated the move and tripped him. The man sprawled out in the road close to his friend Tom. Michael put his boot on the broken wrist.

  “No, sir!” the driver cried.

  “Then tell me who hired you,” Michael ordered quietly.

  Isabel’s eyes had adjusted to the night. She could see that the driver was a weasel of a man, wry and mean, but there was something familiar about his frizzy hair.

  “I can’t,” the man said.

  She made the connection. “You were the dray driver in Rutland. You drove past us while we were arguing. You shot him.”

  “No, I didn’t!” the driver said, his voice rising an octave and betraying him.

  Michael tossed the knife up in the air and caught it, the point aimed at the driver’s heart. “Who hired you to kill me?” he asked as pleasantly as could be, and Isabel realized he was in his element.

  The driver grasped that, too. He babbled information as quickly as he could. “I don’t know his name. No names, just money. Met him at the Crow. And it was a different man who tracked me down to let me know you still lived.”

  “Do you know how to get in touch with him?” Michael asked.

  “Honestly, sir, I don’t. They found me. They were both working for someone. I know that. They spoke of a gentleman. They said they were servants. You could tell by the way they talked about him. Said I had to finish up, or it would be my neck.”

  “Did they pay you well?” Michael asked.

  “They didn’t want to pay me, but I insisted, and they had no choice, did they?”

  “No, none at all. And as much as I admire a man who sees a job done,” Michael said dryly, “this is one you won’t be finishing up.”

  A groan from Tom as he started to regain consciousness punctuated his words. Tom tried to lift his head, but fell back down again.

  The driver saw this, and answered, “No, sir. You’re a bit quicker than I am.”

  Michael moved his foot. “Go and take your friend with you. If anyone contacts you again because I am still alive, come to me. I pay better. If you don’t, I’ll make a trophy of your scalp.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” The driver said this as he was rolled to his feet, favoring his wrist. He reached for his pistol on the ground.

  “No,” Michael said, and the driver swerved away from it and went to help his friend Tom up.

  “By the by, where is the hack driver?” Michael asked.

  “Paid him off, sir, paid him off.”

  “You made a great deal of money for a bungled job,” Michael said.

  “Aye, sir.

  The two men hobbled toward the hack. Michael’s voice stopped them. “Sorry, gents, the hack and horse are mine now.”

  They didn’t argue. In a minute, they vanished between the warehouses and were gone.

  Growing more aware of exactly how grim their surroundings were, Isabel sidled closer to her husband. “This isn’t anyplace close to home, is it?” she asked.

  “No.” Her husband’s jaw tensed. “I should have been more aware.” His arm came down around her protectively and, without conscious thought, she put her arms around him and hugged him close. Their arguments no longer mattered. She was so thankful neither had been hurt.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “It all happened so fast.” The colorful ribbons that had held her hair in place were gone, along with her pins. She pushed her hair back. “I’m fine. It was all so horrid. It was just like it was the day they did shoot you. I…” She swallowed, unable to go on.

  Michael kissed the top of her head. “Isabel, don’t think about what could have been.”

  His calm response helped her regain her composure and with it, her courage. “What do we do now?”

  “That’s my girl,” he said approvingly. He took her hand and started toward the hack. “I’m going to take you home.”

  She stopped. “Are you going to stay with me?” She doubted it.

  He confirmed her suspicions when he said, “No, I’m going to confront Elswick and his son.”

  “Are you certain it is they?”

  “Who else has the money to see me dead? Or could gain anything from it?”

  A coldness stole around Isabel’s heart. She had no doubt that if Michael hadn’t acted as quickly as he did, they would have killed her, too. “He would want me dead also.”

  Michael didn’t contradict her. “I believed Elswick two nights ago. He’ll need to convince me again.”

  “And me,” Isabel responded. “I’m going with you.”

  Michael frowned. “No, Isabel. I don’t know what to expect, and I want you safe.”

  “I must go,” she said, standing up to him. “I want to see the look in his eye when he sees you. He has much to answer for, first for being a coward who hired someone to do his dirty work.”

  Her husband studied her a moment, then agreed, “Let us go.” He picked the pistol up off the ground. “Tonight, we finish this.”

  Fifteen

  Michael drove the hack. Isabel sat by his side. He’d suggested she ride in the cab, but after their recent experience she wanted to be out in the open with him.

  He’d found a blanket beneath the driver’s seat and placed it around her legs. She didn’t mind the chill in the night breeze. The fresh air reminded her of how good it was to be alive.

  She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, not only for his body heat against the night air, but also because she wanted to lend her strength to his. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They were in complete accord. Together, they would defeat all enemies—starting with the man who had fathered her.

  The buildings grew closer together, and more traffic appeared on the streets. Isabel quite liked sitting up on the driver’s seat and, if they caused comment from those who noticed them drive by, all the better. Michael navigated the hack as if he were born to the trade. The streets grew wider and less populated as they traveled into the residential areas.

  The marquis lived in the older section of the city. The houses were larger than the ones in Mayfair. Isabel knew because once, when she’d been working for the duchess, she had made the effort to see the marquis’s house. She’d debated going up to the door, but her courage had left her. It would not leave her that night.

  As
they turned into his street, they could see his house was well lit, with a line of vehicles and horses outside waiting for guests. Coachmen and footmen gathered in small groups, gossiping.

  “It appears he’s entertaining,” Isabel said. “Perhaps we should wait.”

  “Absolutely not,” Michael said, and drove the hack right up to the front door.

  A footman in blue livery broke from his conversation to greet them. He opened the hack door, then frowned as he realized no one was in it.

  “We’re up here,” Michael said, jumping down from his seat. He came around to Isabel’s side and held out a hand to help her down. “Keep the hack right here,” he told the wide-eyed footman, setting her down on her feet. He tossed the man a coin. “We’ll be out in a moment.”

  As they approached the front door, Isabel raised a self-conscious hand to her hair, wishing she had a moment and pins to style it.

  “Don’t worry,” Michael said. “You look beautiful.”

  His saying so was all she needed to relax.

  The door opened before they could knock. The butler was an imposing man whose black livery offset his white-blond hair and colorless eyes.

  “I’m here to see Elswick,” Michael said.

  “I’m sorry, he is not home,” the butler said, even as male laughter came from the vicinity of where the dining room must be located.

  He started to close the door in their faces, but Michael was quicker. Taking Isabel’s hand, he shoved the door with his shoulder, hitting it so hard, it knocked the butler back. “We’ll announce ourselves,” Michael said coolly as he passed the stunned servant, moving toward the sound of voices. Isabel was right at his side, her hand in his.

  The dining room was the second door down the hall and open. They marched right into the room and found themselves in the middle of a dinner party of twenty or so men and women. The marquis sat at the head of the table.

  All conversation stopped at their appearance.

  “My lord,” Michael said, “we need to have a private word with you.”

  At that moment, the butler ran up behind them, flanked by footmen. He rudely grabbed Isabel. She gave a sharp cry and shoved him away. The butler had not been expecting her to fight and, losing his balance, stumbled backward into his companions. He righted himself to meet the fist of a very angry Michael, who dropped him to the ground with one sharp punch.

  One footman attempted to attack Michael from behind. Michael tossed the fellow over his shoulder onto the dinner table. Plates, silver, glasses, and food went flying. Chairs were knocked over as guests scrambled out of the way, even as Michael sent the second across the table after the first. It all happened so fast, the women forgot to scream.

  Holding his bloody nose, the butler came to his feet. He doubled his fist, preparing to take an angry swing at Michael when the marquis’s voice stopped him—

  “That will be all, Roberts.” Of everyone in the room, he appeared the most at ease. He still sat at his place at the table and didn’t seem to have moved a muscle.

  Roberts frowned as if debating disobeying his lord. Visibly taking himself in hand, he pushed his hair back and bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Take the footmen with you,” the marquis said.

  The servants were only too happy to escape the dining room. Both wore the evening’s meal on their uniforms and faces. They were not happy.

  Isabel and Michael faced the marquis. His lordship took in their disheveled appearances with a bored eye. Isabel met his gaze with a disdainful one of her own.

  To her surprise, he smiled. Turning to his guests he even went so far as to introduce them. “Let me present to you all Mr. Severson, you know, Jemison’s brother. The lady standing next to him is his wife.”

  Several eyebrows were raised as if they recognized the name. “Is this the one accused of murder?” the woman closest to the marquis’s right asked.

  “Yes,” the marquis said as if he enjoyed the word.

  It was then Isabel saw Richard. He’d bent down to pick up a broken glass, rising slowly when her gaze met his. He didn’t appear happy to see her.

  Michael didn’t flinch from any of them. “I wish a word with you now, my lord, or I won’t be the only one who stands trial.”

  His words had the desired effect. A murmuring ran through the elegant company.

  The marquis rose. “I suppose if you must,” he drawled.

  “I must,” Michael assured him without sympathy.

  “Excuse me,” the marquis said to the room in general. He started toward them, then stopped by the chair of a very attractive, gray-haired, blue-eyed woman. Of the assembly, she had been the only one who hadn’t moved to scramble out of the way during Michael’s battle with the footman. Isabel saw that she couldn’t have. She sat in a wheeled chair.

  She also, in spite of her brown hair, bore a remarkable resemblance to Isabel’s mother. They would have both been of the same age if her mother was still alive. The woman wore diamonds around her throat and at her ears and, by the deference the marquis showed her, Isabel realized this was his marchioness.

  “You shall see to everyone won’t you, my dear?” the marquis asked.

  “We shall await your return,” his wife replied calmly.

  Apart of Isabel, the childish one, wanted to announce who she was. To let everyone in the room know what her father would deny.

  And then the marchioness smiled at her, an expression touched by sadness and compassion.

  She knew.

  Isabel drew back toward Michael, her gaze inadvertently meeting the marquis’s. He’d been waiting for her to denounce him. She realized that now. He had anticipated her creating a scene, and part of his cool demeanor had been in preparation for such a thing. He cared what his wife thought. Seeing this chink in her sire’s armor humanized him in a way she’d not thought could be possible. It didn’t excuse the hurt she’d felt by his disregard…but it gave her the chance to be the noble one.

  Michael placed a possessive hand on her elbow as they followed the marquis down the hall to a library. It was a man’s room, lined with books and paneling and smelling of leather. Its books had been read.

  The marquis shut the door after them. His calm veneer vanished. “What the devil do you think you are doing charging into my house that way, Severson, and threatening me?”

  “Threatening you? No, I wanted to surprise you,” Michael answered. “After all, your attempt on my life failed, and I thought it best to inform you in person.”

  “My attempt on what?” the marquis said, shocked.

  “You hired men to attack my wife and me while you sat in the middle of a dinner party,” Michael stated. “You were probably entertaining while I was being shot in Rutland, too.”

  “I told you I had nothing to do with that. Or this.”

  “I won’t accept your word any longer,” Michael said.

  The marquis straightened. “I should call you out—”

  “I wish you would!” Michael said, not backing down. “Pistols or swords, I don’t care. You have much to account for, my lord, and the time has come for a reckoning.”

  The door was thrown open. They all turned. A man close to Michael in age stood in the doorway. He had a vague resemblance to the marquis, and Isabel knew immediately this was her half brother Henry. He had thick, wavy brown hair and gray-green eyes. His features were softer than their father’s. His mother’s influence, no doubt.

  “Stop it, both of you,” Henry said, entering the room and closing the door behind him.

  “Leave us,” the marquis ordered. “This isn’t your fight.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, it is. It sounds as if you have been working on my behalf, and yet I know nothing of your activities.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” the marquis said.

  “Did you arrange for Severson to be murdered?” Henry asked quietly.

  The marquis recoiled as if such a question from his son was an abomination. “I did not.”

  H
enry released his breath, and Isabel realized he’d feared the answer. He faced Michael. His gaze had not once looked toward Isabel. “It’s been a long time,” he said.

  Michael’s expression was indecipherable. “Did you hire someone to have me killed?”

  “No,” Henry answered. “Nor did my father.”

  “What makes you so certain?” Michael asked.

  “Because if he’d hired someone to kill you, you’d be dead.”

  “Just as Aletta Calendri is?” Michael’s eyes had gone bright with suppressed anger.

  Henry did not take offense. Instead, he said, “There was a time we were closer than brothers, and now we know each other so little.”

  “It’s been a while since we last spoke,” Michael said.

  “Ten years…and our last conversation was an argument over Aletta.”

  “We’re going to have another argument now,” Michael assured him. “You believed I murdered her. You testified against me. Your father actively pursued seeing me hanged.”

  “Like everyone else, I thought the worst.” Henry shook his head. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

  “You have changed your mind?” Michael suggested, his voice dangerously silky.

  Henry took a step closer to Michael. He spoke as if they were the only two in the room. “Even during the trial, I didn’t believe you were the sort of man who could kill. Besides, it was you she loved. I was the one torn with jealousy.”

  “And I’m the one who has believed all these years that you killed her out of anger and left me to take the blame.”

  “No, Michael, I did nothing of the sort. The night of the murder, everyone saw me in my club getting drunk because my best friend, the man I loved as much as a brother, had stolen the woman I believed I loved more.”

  Michael cut the air with a sudden movement of his hand. “You lie!”

  “I do nothing of the sort. It was investigated. You were so busy with your own defense you couldn’t pay attention. They asked me questions. I proved my innocence.”

  The last was a direct reference to the fact Michael could still fall under suspicion.

  Her husband looked away a moment, before turning back, and asking, “What have you been doing with Riggs if not planning a convenient place to ambush me?”