A Bewitching Governess

by Patricia Rice

  “Did you just let Drew win?” Simon demanded when she dropped out.

  “No, Drew had better cards, and I can’t read him well. Let’s take a short break while I teach you the signals.”

  Looking like a moody Heathcliff, with a black forelock falling across his frowning brow and his square jaw set, Simon helped Olivia from her chair.

  By the time they were out of hearing of the others, his frown had vanished. “I mean to learn all your signals until I’m back in your bed again,” he announced. His smirk was that of a naughty child.

  It struck Olivia right in her midsection, and she nearly gasped for air.

  He knew her too well and knew exactly the effect he was having on her, drat the bully.

  They might disagree on drunkenness and the dangers of not controlling their extraordinary gifts, or that he even had one, but physically—they were an explosive match.

  Thirty

  Simon didn’t crow his triumph when he returned to the governess’s room that night and found Olivia waiting. He knew she wanted him as much as he did her, and he was eternally grateful she wasn’t too angry at him to admit it.

  The divide between them had naught to do with what they did in bed. As long as they kept the children and his whisky out of the conversation. . . He’d even overcome, sort of, his aversion to cards to woo her to this moment.

  “You’re still wearing all your clothes,” he chided, taking her into his arms. “Did ye think I’d not come?”

  “I’ve learned not to take anything for granted.” She began unfastening his waistcoat. “You might decide to ride over and punch Glengarry, or go to the tavern and drink Ramsay under the table, or any of a number of things men do.”

  He chortled at her understanding of his nature. “I might do all that and more, but not when I know you’re waiting. Although, if you hadn’t been here, I might have gone looking for trouble. Fists feel more honest than what we did this afternoon.” He unfastened her bodice with alacrity, needing her soft flesh to ease his tensions.

  “You’re only sore because I won. I’m not a man, you’ll notice. I don’t have your ability to use fists, so I must use what I’ve been given. Although, if I could thump the villains over the head with a hot iron, I’d be a lot happier. That doesn’t make violence more honest.” She slid her silky hands over his rough chest and stood on her toes to kiss him.

  After that, he didn’t have the wits to argue. Fearing they’d be interrupted at any moment, Simon didn’t waste time on the niceties of removing more than was necessary to hear her soft moans in his ear as he rode her to mutual bliss. Disagreement added an interesting element to their passion.

  Only after they’d relieved their desperate urges did he take time to peel off her layers of clothing. “Marry me,” he demanded, applying his mouth to the bosom he’d bared.

  “No,” she gasped, pushing up her breasts to give him better access.

  “We’re good together,” he insisted, lavishing her nipples with kisses as he fumbled with ribbons and hooks to free her from the contraptions women wrapped themselves in.

  “In bed. That’s not enough.” She swiftly undid the rest of her corset and pried her arms from her gown. “There must be love, trust, and respect so understanding can happen. You just want a nursemaid. Hire one.”

  “Mo leannan, I’m not a youngster with foolish notions of hearts and flowers. But I’ll respect any woman who can put up with me and the bairns.” He shoved off her loosened skirt and petticoats, letting them fall to the floor so he might revel in the delight of real flesh and blood beneath him.

  She covered his face in kisses. “Even respect is not enough,” she whispered. “I need love and trust. I need you to understand that I’d never harm your children, that even if what I do seems abnormal, that it’s normal for me—and for your children. And as long as you refuse to learn to control your gift with anything but whisky, I can never trust you, and we’ll both be miserable.”

  And because she was probably right, Simon shut up so they could enjoy what they did best together.

  He had no intention of loving enough to trust again. Love had destroyed his heart and almost did in his head. He had naught left to love with.

  But he did appreciate the way she sighed with bliss when he stroked her, as if he were all she needed. He supposed, in exchange for these and further delights, he could try to give up the whisky. But he’d trusted Letitia and that had not ended well.

  The next morning, Simon shook with rage as he read the scrawled note his steward handed him. “Who gave this to you?” he demanded.

  Hill stiffened. “No one, sir. Someone set the tool shed on fire last night. I found this pinned to my door this morning.”

  “Send the witch home or the house is next. What the devil. . . ?” But Simon knew, and his gut clenched. “They’d burn the house?” he asked in incredulity.

  “I can’t say that for certain,” Hill warned. “But that’s the usual order of things when the Association is denied what they want. And the lady is in their way, just as your wife was.”

  Members of the Association had cut his carriage axle when Letitia had threatened them. His gut ground in panic. He could pack Olivia back to Edinburgh with Phoebe and Drew. . . He wouldn’t even have to argue. Olivia would never endanger anyone. She’d insist on calling off the game that meant so much to her.

  That might save his house. But it wouldn’t save the Hall and all the people in the village who depended on it. He refused to let the Association see fear, or they’d corrupt the entire countryside with their filth.

  He had to handle this himself.

  “At least we have warning,” Simon said grimly, crumpling up the note and shoving it into his coat pocket. He paced, thinking aloud. “We don’t know if it’s the Association or just the villains at the Hall. The members of the Association have the blunt for an army, but if it’s burning they’re after, they don’t need many men. We should be able to catch a few scoundrels. I’ll need all able-bodied tenants to surround the house. I’ll bring in the miners. How many guns do you think we can round up?”

  “All the ones at the Hall,” Hill said with a growing grin. “They’re out of ammunition over there. Don’t ask how we know, but they left the gunroom unlocked at the back of the house. With Jameson gone, there’s none to see all the doors barred. They’ll not even know anything is missing until too late.”

  “Good. I’ll pay for the ammunition. Have a little target practice in the back field, see who knows how to use them best.” Buttoning his coat, Simon dismissed his steward and headed for the parlor where the women laughed in merriment.

  Guns might take care of arsonists, but he couldn’t take chances with the weans and the servants. He couldn’t lie to Olivia, but he couldn’t tell her either. He’d just have to do what he had to do while she was fretting over a card game.

  People, not cards, had led to this evil. If he turned his head around. . . maybe good people could lead them out.

  “Dare should already be on the train. He said he had a few days to spare and is bringing books on various poisons.” Drew unscrewed a part of his chimney-cleaning contraption over the hearth, where it was still shedding soot.

  “I can’t believe Simon invited all these people,” Olivia said worriedly, glancing over Hargreaves’ shoulder at the notes he was attempting to memorize. She should write her own book on poker. The notes were extensive.

  “It shows Simon has been listening to us. That can’t be bad. I just received a note from Azmin Dougall. She said she’ll come with the aunts,” Phoebe said from the corner where she was training a kitten to knock coins from a table. “We shall have a jolly party.”

  “Only if we stuff your meddling aunts in a wardrobe,” Drew corrected, brushing soot off his nose. “Can we leave them with the children?”

  Oh dear, Aunt Gertrude and Aunt Agnes were the formidable daughters of an earl. They were as likely to offend the modest company as to persuade it. “They will go where they wish,�
�� she said, trying not to sound too desperate. “Perhaps they won’t arrive on time.”

  “They’ll be here,” Phoebe said blithely. “The evening just became more interesting.”

  “I’ll need to go down and tell the kitchen the party is growing. We’ll need a few fancier dishes.” Suddenly nervous, Olivia stood and brushed out her skirt.

  She’d arranged it so she couldn’t flee this time. She had to go through with this confrontation. Taking a deep gulp of air, she sailed off for the kitchen.

  Heedless of what others might think, Simon came to her room as she prepared for the evening—while she was checking her mirror to see if she looked like a rabbit. She’d had Susan help dress her boringly gold-brown hair in a high chignon with curls dangling about her throat and ears, hoping she might look more like a viscountess and not a governess. She wore her best silk—the gray, because she’d bought nothing new except mourning these past years. She had debated wearing the tartan she’d worn at Hogmanay but decided it was too festive. She had only the pearls Owen had given her for jewelry. They gave her confidence when she stroked them. He would want her to do this, she was certain.

  She turned away from the mirror to admire Simon. He had donned a tailored black suit and gleaming white linen that fit his broad chest and wide shoulders like a glove. He’d stand out in any aristocratic ballroom—in a good way.

  “Ladies will swoon,” she said dryly, straightening his cravat just so she could touch him.

  “I’d rather villains dropped dead,” he retorted, looking grim. “I’ll be going down in the carriage with you. I’ll not have scalawags decide to attack in the dark.”

  She knew he did not approve of this game, but she had to respect him for supporting her. If she opened her inner eye, she assumed she’d see his defensive aura overwhelming his lust. Thinking he feared another carriage incident, she leaned into him and let him hold her. “Will you ride in the driver’s seat then, so we do not cause you any agitation?”

  “No, I’ll hold your hand for control in the carriage. At least I’ll not be locked in any closets.” He sounded sane and certain. “We’ll have a driver and arrive properly. It won’t do for me to smell like a horse for your guests.”

  Relieved that this was simple, normal protectiveness, she drank in his scent. “You smell like man. I like it. I’m also terrified. So much rides on this evening— I don’t want to disappoint.”

  “I’ll not be disappointed no matter what happens.” He drew a purse from his coat pocket. “It might look better if you start with English gold and not paper vouchers and trinkets. This should make their greed shine.”

  Her knees nearly buckled at his gesture. She gazed at the purse in wonder, not daring to imagine how much was in there. “This could make all the difference. If I lose, I don’t know if I can repay you. . .” She stiffened with determination. “I’ll repay you with interest,” she said, refusing to doubt herself.

  He offered his arm. “Are you ready? I’ll escort you down.”

  She stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “For luck.”

  Then she took his arm and sailed off for an evening of trouncing frauds.

  Given the circumstances, the carriage ride was the least of his worries. Simon desperately needed a drink to calm his raging energies, but he refused to give in to the urge, even while cramped in an enclosed space with only a single lamp to break the gloom. Holding Olivia’s hand helped. He hoped he wasn’t crushing her bones.

  Gazing blindly out the dark windows, he couldn’t see the miners and tenants Wallace had hidden in the bushes. Without any moon overhead, he could barely see the road.

  The servants had been quietly escorting the children and their pets down back lanes for the past hour. Phoebe and Drew had rolled off in their fancy vehicle earlier. Soon after, his larger carriage had headed to the train station to pick up their guests, followed now by the departure of this smaller carriage. With luck, the villains would believe the house was unguarded.

  He hoped the threat was meaningless, but he knew how to take precautions.

  He tamped down his fear and fury as he escorted Olivia into the cottage. Under his orders, oil lamps and candles had been set all around the old-fashioned room until it was a blaze of light. Over Olivia’s stack of curls, he sought the men he’d sent ahead. Hill nodded a discreet greeting, indicating everyone was in place. Simon didn’t breathe any more easily.

  “Oh, my, where did the furniture come from?” Olivia exclaimed. “Look at all the clever little tables!” She swung around to Simon. “You must have emptied your closets to do this!”

  He shrugged and checked the arrangements. “Your staff knew where to find things. I suspect half the Hall has been carted off in payment for services. It’s just finding its way back to you.”

  He wasn’t able to perform the useless chore of host until he verified that the rest of his men were in position. “I’ve a few more tasks to complete before your guests arrive. I’ll leave you to direct how it’s all arranged.” He bowed away, tilting his head to direct Drew to follow him.

  “The bairns?” Simon asked urgently as they took the stairs, leaving the women to arrange tables and food.

  “Are surrounded by people who love them,” Drew said. “They’re on the attic floor enjoying a feast of teacakes. They’ll be asleep by the time our guests arrive. They think being invited to the party and sleeping on straw mattresses is an adventure. Your towering footman is patrolling the upper hall with a big stick, and there are more nursemaids attending than children.”

  “All right then. The scoundrels will find I don’t scare easily.” Simon shoved his hands in his pockets and paced. “Did you bring my dirk?” His sgian-dubh was in his stocking, although whether he could reach it with these fancy trousers was a different problem.

  “You’ll not be needing it, but it’s over there, on the wall by the stairs. The cowards won’t attack here, where they’d be seen by dozens of people. It’s your home that concerns me.” Drew showed him the pistol in his pocket. “Anyone tries to cause trouble, I’m ready.”

  “You’ll be at the card table,” Simon said worriedly. “With women around.”

  “I’m a good shot. You’ve done all you can. Go play host, let the devils know you’ll not abandon the ladies.” Drew started down the stairs.

  “You set up the warning signal?” Simon called after him.

  “I did. If they’re in trouble up at the house, we should hear it, unless you brought in some of your bagpipe-wailing musicians. Quit worrying.”

  The note had not given him time to do much more than worry. Simon took the stairs up to check on the children. Aloysius and Enoch had the sense to look concerned, but he rubbed their heads and told them this was the house Lady Hargreaves wished to make her own. That sent them to exploring what could be Aloysius’s new quarters.

  Simon hated the idea of the lady living here almost as much as he hated sending her to the deteriorating, soot-covered Hall.

  Studying the attic occupants, he could almost swear the harlot Olivia trusted was armed. Lily looked grim enough to carry a dirk of her own. She nodded at him but didn’t say a word as she tended to her infant and listened to Mrs. Susan’s bratling and Evie rattle and laugh. He prayed he was doing the right thing by bringing them all here.

  By the time he went downstairs again, their guests had begun arriving. The train had apparently run on time.

  Simon tried not to quake in his shoes as Olivia greeted two grand old dowagers who could have been royals in their silks and laces and jewels. The imposingly tall one had rouged cheeks and dyed black hair. The round, short one looked like a mischievous imp—which probably made her the more dangerous of the pair.

  He avoided meeting the aunts by joining Drew, who was talking to a tall professorial sort in a tweed jacket tailored to such perfection that Simon figured it cost a year’s wages for any normal professor. On the other side of the room, he saw Phoebe spirit a brownish, fashionably-garbed female—th
e photographer, judging by the equipment—into the kitchen. The professor held out his hand and shook Simon’s firmly.

  “An interesting mystery you’ve presented here,” the man introduced as Dr. Dare said. “I talked to several architects before I left the city. They said the cyanotype process for blueprints uses a form of cyanide that is not normally toxic. But they know little of the chemicals. The daguerreotype uses mercury, which is considerably more toxic.”

  “So it’s possible either or both poisons could have been administered if the scoundrels had access to photography equipment?”

  “Conceivably. Weakness, mental degradation, tremors, all fit the symptoms. Is your patient doing better now that he’s been removed from any source of poison?” Dare glanced to the table where the viscount nervously paced, waiting for the other players.

  “The women say he’s improving. I’ve only known him as a weak, nervous sort and couldn’t say.” Simon kept his eye on the front door as he talked. Glengarry and Ramsay were late.

  After leaving the professor and patrolling the length and breadth of the room, talking to everyone twice while waiting for the villains to arrive, Simon’s ire built. Olivia had been reduced to anxiously twisting her handkerchief. He inwardly railed at Glengarry and Ramsay and vowed to find and drag the scum here by the scruff of their necks—until they finally sauntered through the entrance.

  Simon bunched his fingers into fists and repeated to himself that this was Olivia’s fight. He could not fling villains through a window.

  Thirty-one

  Olivia pretended not to notice the late arrivals. She tucked her handkerchief into her pocket and accepted a small glass of watered wine. Her concentration was torn between the scoundrels entering and the two elderly ladies who had bestirred themselves to leave the city for Olivia’s sake.

  “Ah, the culprits have arrived,” Lady Gertrude murmured, without having to be told who the newcomers were. “Quite ordinary sorts, aren’t they? The tall handsome one looks much too certain of himself. One wants to douse him in water to see if he melts.”