A Bewitching Governess

by Patricia Rice

  “The Hall pays the bills of half the village,” she reminded him. “They can’t afford to side against a viscount, although I assume it’s the steward or the elusive estate agent who deals with them on a regular basis since Hargreaves is seldom here.”

  “They can and will side with you if you give them time, especially since I pay my bills and Hargreaves apparently doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean I’ll not hunt down Ramsay and strangle him with my bare hands if he’s been assaulting women.”

  “Ramsay? That’s his steward? Have you learned the estate agent’s name yet? I’ll write my aunts, see what they can find out. Our family is rather extensive.” Olivia swept past him to open the door.

  Simon stepped in front of her. “You’ll leave Ramsay to me. I don’t need to know his family. His actions speak for him. I’ll verify them, report him to the authorities, and if nothing is done, I’ll lock him out in the cold as someone did to your poor minister.”

  She covered her mouth in shock. “That was deliberate?”

  He hadn’t meant to say that. He couldn’t take it back now. “I asked aboot a bit. That gate was never locked. There was no lock on it. Someone added it recently. Do ye really think that milksop Hargreaves even knows he has a kitchen gate?”

  Olivia drew in a sharp breath and turned pale. Only her eyes gave away her rage. They turned an electric blue.

  “My aunt says the snow will hold off,” Emma said matter-of-factly, pulling off her gloves as she entered the closet Olivia had claimed as a workroom.

  “Your aunt?” Phoebe glanced up from the sketch Olivia had made of the Hall’s floor plan.

  “She’s a weather witch.” Emma shrugged from her cloak and studied the map over Phoebe’s shoulder. “The carpenter has taken the coffin to the chapel for fear the storm will come early. He always has a few ready. I hear the Jamesons have the staff you sent working hard, thinking visitors will be early too.”

  “I hope someone is digging a grave before the ground freezes.” Olivia worked through a selection of old keys, trying to remember the size of the one in Owen’s desk. Most old locks could be jiggled a bit, if she had the right size.

  Emma chuckled and hung up her coat. “I like that neither of you questions my aunt’s talent. It’s almost like talking to Letitia.”

  Olivia set aside her task to hug the girl. “I keep forgetting you lost a sister to monsters. I know I can’t take her place, but I hope you’ll talk to me as you did her.”

  Emma hugged her back. “Letty felt it her duty to scold and correct me. You’re more like a good friend who encourages my mischief. What are you doing now?”

  “We thought with all the activity at the Hall, we might have a chance of slipping in unnoticed by Hargreaves or his guests.” Olivia pocketed a few keys. “If people are already arriving, we should go now.”

  “May I come with you?” Emma asked eagerly.

  “You want Mr. Blair to throw me out on my head?” Olivia asked wryly. “You can help by keeping the children occupied.”

  “I’m good with costumes,” Phoebe said cheerfully, folding the map. “I just never thought to see the day that prim and proper Olivia would stoop to my level.”

  “Costumes,” Olivia scoffed, glancing at her cousin’s bright red—crinoline-less—gown. “You’ve always looked like a housemaid, except for the colors, of course. Mrs. Susan has a few maids’ dresses she’s hemmed up for us. But even pulling on caps won’t help if the louts discover us. We need to be quick.”

  “Sgian-dubhs in your waistbands, ladies,” Emma warned worriedly. “Hatpins in your caps. Take good strong brooms with you.”

  “We’ll look quite the sight arriving like that. Does Simon have a pony cart? And where might I find a sgian-dubh?” Phoebe leaped up, ready for action.

  By the time they were dressed, with the cart readied, the winter sun was nearly lost in clouds. Olivia knew the back lanes better than she did the fields, but she still felt icy cold wrap her heart as they set out.

  “Mr. Blair really will fling me out if he finds out what we’re doing,” Olivia said as she sent the pony trotting.

  “It’s confusing if you call both Simon and Drew Mr. Blair,” Phoebe warned, pinning her hat on better. “You’ll notice the men aren’t sticklers for etiquette.”

  “I am trying to abide by propriety. Men are able to disdain etiquette because they’re strong enough to walk into the Hall and toss the drunkards out. I’m not. I suppose it’s to their credit that the Blair men don’t use their strength to bully.”

  “When women and children are suffering, bullying should be allowed,” Phoebe replied grimly. “Although I suppose that would make them as bad as the drunken louts. It’s a perplexity.”

  She rattled the acorns in her pocket and fell into a frowning silence.

  Until recently, Olivia had not known her distant cousin well, but she was learning. She glanced up at an owl swooping from a bare oak and flying ahead of them. She didn’t think its appearance coincidental.

  As they approached the back of the Hall, a flurry of rooks screeched and settled on the roof.

  “Rooks? Really, Phoebe?” Olivia stopped the pony cart in the company of several wagons. A young boy ran from the stable to take the reins. Apparently, Hargreaves didn’t have trouble keeping stable help.

  “The kitchen be that way.” The boy helpfully pointed to the stairs.

  “Ho, our disguises are working,” Phoebe whispered as they clattered through the garden in old boots, carrying brooms.

  “We’re female and we didn’t arrive by the front door,” Olivia countered. “People see what they expect.”

  Jameson and his wife knew who they were, however. They frowned in disapproval and followed as Olivia and Phoebe shed their coats and headed upstairs.

  “Leave us to finish cleaning the withdrawing room,” Olivia suggested to the elderly housekeeper. “Send the others to finish cleaning and setting up the buffet.”

  The Jamesons had been with the family since Owen’s grandmother lived here. They both no doubt knew about the hidden stairs. They frowned but did as told, taking up a position in the hall to direct the extra staff.

  “I wish we dared take the stairs to the next floor,” Olivia muttered. “But they come out in the master suite.”

  “One step at a time,” Phoebe whispered, lifting the tapestry. “Once we drive out the leeches, we’ll be able to use the front stairs. They’ll be safer.”

  “Do you think we can spread rumors that Willingham is haunting them?” Olivia eased open the hidden door.

  “They’ll think of that all by themselves.” Phoebe tossed her acorns into the shadows of the stairwell. “Does this continue on to the attic?”

  “I confess, I never set foot in there. I didn’t relish turning my petticoats into a giant dust mop. Do we close the door or leave it open wide enough for your creatures? I think the tapestry would conceal it.”

  “The roof appears to have holes—the squirrels have already found their way in. But we need them to find the staircase for the full house effect.” Phoebe frowned up the darkened steps, obviously contemplating climbing them.

  “Let’s ask Jameson,” Olivia suggested, steering her impetuous cousin away from trouble.

  “Yes, there are exits on each floor,” Jameson answered their question. “I’ll open the attic one myself. We have warned both Mr. Ramsay and Mr. Glengarry that the leaks are rendering the upper stories uninhabitable, but they are not interested.”

  Olivia didn’t need to read his aura to know his disapproval was thick and dark. The maids slept upstairs—or once had, before they all left.

  Glengarry. That must be the elusive estate agent. Now she had another name to write to her aunts about.

  Mrs. Jameson joined them, wringing her apron. “They’re still setting up card tables in the parlor. We’ve told them about the death and expected visitors. We’ve told them the barrels are empty. They don’t care. One of them plans to ride into the village to see what spirit
s can be found.”

  “He’ll not be returning,” Phoebe said cheerfully.

  The Jamesons stared but didn’t question their betters. Olivia was afraid to ask what animal Phoebe meant to use. As far as she was aware, these barren hills hadn’t concealed wolves or other predators in centuries, unless one counted hawks and the like. She hoped the gentleman didn’t mind walking into the village if Phoebe’s creatures actually made his horse throw him.

  Would the fools be foolish enough to leave in a snowstorm if they had no alcohol?

  “Do you think you might have someone mop the front hall and prevent his lordship’s guests from entering this part of the house for a short while?” Olivia asked, diverting the servants’ curiosity.

  Husband and wife exchanged identical frowns, then nodded curtly at the same time.

  “We’d planned on retiring soon anyway,” the butler said, stoically accepting whatever blame fell on his shoulders. “We’ve put a tidy bit by, and our daughter would welcome us. The house isn’t the same as it was.”

  With that little speech of resignation, Jameson set off on his tasks, while his wife set the maids to mopping.

  Phoebe grinned as if this were a grand adventure and waited for direction. More cautious, Olivia only fingered the keys in her pocket and waited until she was certain the study was guarded.

  Once maids busily scrubbed the hall, guarding the study, she led the way to Owen’s desk.

  “We could jimmy the drawers open,” Phoebe suggested, examining the solid wood. “We have these lovely little knives.”

  Olivia sat on the desk chair and began wiggling keys in the lock. “We’ll save that until the guests are gone. I’d rather not leave evidence yet.”

  As she worked, she became aware of a clacking noise and murmured voices through the half-bare walls.

  Phoebe leaned her ear against the place an oil painting had once hung. “Billiards,” she whispered. “They’re just on the other side of this wall.”

  Olivia shivered. Giving up on the keys, she pressed her ear against the plaster.

  “I think we’ve talked him over,” a gruff male voice said, followed by the clicking of a ball. “He’s no blunt left. He’s in debt to us up to his ears. We just need to promise the earl won’t hear of it.”

  “Not from me,” A smooth baritone replied. “I simply report to the old man that all is fine, and he’s content.”

  “If Lancaster doesn’t find liquor, we’ll need to bring in girls,” the first man muttered. “We need to skin as much blunt from the lordlings as we can to restock the barrels. They’ll be flocking here by next winter once word gets ’round of the pleasures to be found.”

  “Whisky, women, and cards, and we call it a hunting party,” the smooth voice said with a chuckle. “If only Hargreaves was an earl. A minor Scottish title isn’t enough to draw the wealthier sorts. We’ll need bigger titles.”

  “That’s your task,” the gruff voice said. “I don’t hobnob with toffs.”

  “And your task is to find better females than the village wenches,” the smooth voice sneered. “A high-end establishment requires women who speak the King’s English.”

  “Like the witch who lived here?” the rougher voice asked with a laugh. “Where do I find them?”

  The clack of several balls colliding startled Olivia from her horror. She stared at Phoebe, who was already backing away in shock.

  What kind of establishment required well-speaking women, along with cards and whisky?

  A brothel?

  Twenty

  “Glengarry—the new estate agent is named Glengarry?” Simon shouted, huffing clouds as he and Drew came in out of the cold after paying a call on one of last night’s noble guests.

  “Too much coincidence?” Calmer than Simon could ever be, Drew threw his hat and gloves down on the table before the new footman could rush to this side entrance.

  “We already know he’s part of the Association,” Simon said. “I’ve spent these last months putting together the pieces, but I’ve not found evidence of guilt on any but the stableboy the baron bribed to cut the carriage axle. With the baron dead, there’s no one left to talk.”

  Wilkes, a local baron who’d belonged to the Association, had attempted to murder Phoebe some months back. Simon suspected the baron had been involved in Letitia’s death. Glengarry had been the baron’s close associate.

  Simon pounded the wall in frustration. It made no sense that a baron had ordered murder because of a damned mine. Wilkes had done it at the behest of an organization that lived in the shadows—an organization that wanted any threat to their wealth, privilege, and depredations gone.

  “I never considered anyone at the Hall as suspect!” Forgetting to remove his coat, Simon stormed down the hall. “No one lives there. Why would Hargreaves want me dead?”

  “We don’t know that the Hall was involved,” Drew said, following in his path. “Hargreaves only just arrived with Glengarry in tow. Just because Glengarry knows some of the Association members doesn’t make him guilty.”

  “Where are the women?” Simon shouted at the air as he reached the main corridor. The women always knew the whys and wherefores.

  Maggie popped out of one of the back rooms looking worried. “They said they went to help prepare for the reverend’s visitation, but they were wearing old coats and carrying brooms. Surely a lady would not be sweeping the halls?”

  Behind Simon, Drew muttered an obscenity. Simon turned on his boot heel and set off for the door again. Drew was still pulling on his gloves as they ran back to their horses. The groom leading the animals away looked startled but said nothing as they returned to their saddles.

  Simon thought of himself as a man of action, but the ride to the Hall gave him too much time to think. A man of the cloth had been murdered practically on the Hall’s doorstep—a man who could have testified that the late viscount had left a trust to Olivia.

  Glengarry—a man he already connected with evil—now worked for the Hall.

  As far as Simon had been able to ascertain, the Association consisted of various landowners from Glasgow to Edinburgh. Sir Harvey was one of them. They opposed unionizing his mines—but what had that to do with the Hall?

  They deliberately wanted to prevent his access so he couldn’t establish another mine? Why?

  He’d come to no good conclusion by the time they rode up to the Hall’s front drive.

  “Rooks,” Drew said in resignation, riding his horse next to Simon and gesturing at the sky.

  A black cloud of birds circled and chattered, filling the pines in back and the few remaining oaks in front—and roosting on the Hall’s roof.

  The day was nearly lost in dark clouds. As the wind picked up, an owl screeched eerily, then swooped from one of the trees, past the mullioned windows, landing in the overgrown shrubbery. Its white underbelly flashed ghost-like before the darker feathers vanished into the gloom.

  If he’d been a superstitious man, Simon would have immediately conjured shrieking ghosts. He glanced back at the squawking rooks. He could just imagine what superstition would make of that gathering after a man died.

  “Phoebe’s here,” Drew said with certainty, dismounting.

  At least Olivia didn’t go about haunting houses with birds, Simon tried to assure himself as they mounted the front steps and rapped at the door.

  “Do we have the least idea what we’re doing here?” he asked as they waited for someone to answer. “Do we ask if they’ve seen our women?”

  “Our women, nice.” Drew pounded the door harder.

  A burly man dressed in coarse tweed flung open the door. “Lancaster, what—”

  Simon pushed in. “We’re here to see how Hargreaves is doing.”

  “He’s taken to his bed,” their greeter said sourly. “The birds are making everyone twitchy.”

  “Well then, can you tell us where in the cemetery he’d like the good reverend buried?”

  “Plant the old bloke anywhere you lik
e,” Tweed Coat said.

  “And you are?” Simon asked, removing his hat without invitation and following the stench of stale smoke to the front parlor. He didn’t have to be polite. He was no more than a barely civilized merchant after all.

  Tables had been set up through the grand old hall. A dozen gentlemen—if their tailored clothes were any indication—sat at the tables trading the devil’s tools. A rail-thin woman, in an elegant gown that Olivia might once have worn, trailed her fingers over the shoulders of one young man. No one even glanced up at their entrance.

  A gambling hell. Hargreaves was running a gambling hell.

  Across the foyer, Jameson stepped delicately past a maid scrubbing the floor. “Gentlemen, thank you for your concern. Visitors have been using the carriage entrance. We’re still in some disarray in this portion of the house. Do you wish me to lead you back or would you prefer to go around and avoid the wet floors?”

  Considering the mud on their boots, Simon assumed the butler was being polite. He still wanted to shove past the fat arsehole in tweed blocking his way, but his esteemed cousin was more civilized.

  “We’ll go around to the side, Jameson, if that’s all right with you,” Drew said, yanking at Simon’s arm.

  “The rooks are gathering,” Simon said loudly. “The house is cursed. Let’s leave the place to the evil buggers.”

  He stomped out to the tune of Drew’s sniggers.

  They walked their horses around to the side door where an array of farm carts and wagons waited in the stable yard, presumably for the servants Olivia had sent to prepare for the funeral guests on the morrow. A familiar pony cart waited innocuously among them.

  “They’re in there,” Simon said with resignation.

  A high-pitched scream from the upper story caused him to freeze, until he realized it wasn’t the kind of noise a woman would make. He glanced up just as the viscount in his drawers and shirt shot through the French doors onto a balcony on the second story.

  A rook flew out after him.

  “Aye, they’re in there,” Drew agreed gloomily.