by Lisa Bingham
She had a responsibility to Biddy and to herself. Richard Sutherland must be taught. In just a few weeks’ time, he would be taken from his hiding place in Scotland, back to England. There he would attend a weekend with the prominent duke of Burkshire. During that time, a formal petition would be made and legal claims set in motion.
In order for such claims to prove successful, Richard would have to comport himself with utmost dignity. Such a fuss had been made by the ton from the moment Richard Albert Sutherland III and his wife, Julie, had jumped ship. Now that the rumors of a Sutherland heir could be proven true, there must be no stains against his name from the first. He must exude the aura of a perfect English aristocrat. He must be ingrained with the proper modes of ceremony and behavior.
Most importantly, he must never, ever, be found guilty of consorting with his own governess. That road led to destruction. For them both.
The restless breeze teased the hair drawn tightly away from her brow until tiny curling tendrils began to escape and drift around her face. The grass at her feet sighed, the leaves chattered in hushed tones like matrons gossiping behind their fans. The very air seemed to be filled with secrets. Her secrets.
Life had a strange way of turning back upon itself—like a winding highland road. Chelsea had been so sure she had control of her destiny and every facet of her everyday schedule. Then, within the space of a few days, events had mushroomed out of control, and she found herself groping minute by minute to stay in charge. First, with Richard’s arrival, then with her unsettling feelings for him. And last of all, her proximity to Lindon Manor.
Turning, she moved toward the copse of trees on the far side of the ridge. She could have found her way blindfolded. Yet, little more than ten years ago, she had sworn she would never return.
Chelsea traveled along a familiar, nearly invisible path and edged through two huge boulders jutting out of the spur of land. There, spread below her like a fairy-tale palace, lay Lindon Manor.
She leaned her back against the rock, feeling the heat of the day seep through the weave of her gown. But she was still chilled. Funny, she hadn’t expected to experience any type of reaction. Not now, after so much time had passed. If she had anticipated any emotions at all, they would have been those of anger or revulsion, not the pervading sense of loss that crept deep into her soul.
Far below, she could see the tiny specks of color caused by Lord Sutherland’s guests as they lounged about the formal gardens, laughing, walking, playing cards and lawn tennis. If she closed her eyes, she thought she could hear their laughter, the faint strains of music.
It wasn’t difficult for her to imagine the sights and sounds and smells. Since his ascension to the peerage, Lord Sutherland spent the peak summer months in Scotland at Lindon Manor in order to oversee the estate’s mining and agricultural concerns. Legally assigned as his ward, Chelsea had endured three such summers with Lord Sutherland. Lindon Manor had been her home. She had witnessed the gamut of his emotions: his elegant charm, his subtle posturing, his brooding, his anger.
But work and harvest hadn’t been the only things on Nigel’s agenda. Each June, he came with his wife and his son, Cecil, intent upon hosting a month-long fete. The first day of the month heralded the arrival of the crème de la crème of London’s haute ton, who swarmed like locusts to the country. Many people claimed that to be invited to Lindon Manor for the season was the equivalent of being asked to vacation with royalty. Lord Sutherland shamelessly showered his guests with fine food, imported wines, musicales, galas, and hunting expeditions.
Chelsea had been part of that world. Although Estella, Nigel’s wife, had ignored her and Cecil had looked down on her, she had basked in the opulence and extravagance offered to her by a wealthy, powerful, handsome man, not knowing how Nigel had meant to lead her into a false sense of security. He had hoped to blind her with his excesses as surely as he had hoped to buy the approval of the British aristocracy. He had intended to woo her into his way of life as surely as he’d meant to woo her into his bed. Every overture had been brazenly performed in front of his wife and heir beneath the guise of simple Christian charity.
Later, Chelsea was to pray for summer to arrive. Not because of the onset of such lavish entertainments, but simply because then she could hide herself in the crush of people. Witnesses. Nigel would have to leave her alone for a time.
A gust of wind caused the tree branches to rattle together like old bones, and Chelsea shivered in the muggy heat, knowing she lived on borrowed time. Nigel had always known where to find her. However, she had managed to evade him by slipping away from the Barrinshrops under the cover of darkness. Nigel would have heard of her escape by now. He would be searching for her soon. He wouldn’t be happy. Chelsea recognized the innate danger of living so close. She knew that if he ever caught a wisp of an idea that Richard Sutherland lay ensconced in the walls of Bellemoore Cottage, their situation would prove dangerous.
But Chelsea was not a fool. Lord Sutherland had been following each move she’d made for years. When she had agreed to meet Richard’s ship, she’d known her sudden disappearance would infuriate Nigel. She had been forced to find a hideout. Somewhere he could never find her or her charge. Her only hope was that he wouldn’t think to look here. In the one place she’d vowed never to return to in her lifetime.
Chelsea chafed her palms together, stilling the nervousness that settled in her stomach like a coiled snake. Below, a stray stream of sunlight broke free from the cloud cover and struck the pink marble of the manor house, making it glitter. The building rested like a delicate carnation in an emerald field. So beautiful, so serene.
So deceiving.
Closing her mind to the years she’d lived in those very walls, Chelsea straightened, denying any emotion but sheer determination. No anger, no nostalgia, no fear. Her jaw hardened challengingly in denial of her pounding heart. Staring down at the beautiful people, the beautiful grounds, she bolstered her resolve.
“I will help Beatrice to see that justice is served, Lord Sutherland,” she murmured into the fickle wind. “Just as you once warned me: all debts must someday return to their debtors.”
Chapter 7
The walk through the moors served to remind Chelsea of her true purpose for being at Bellemoore Cottage and the formal relationship she should be establishing with her charge. By the time she had reached the flagstone steps leading into the house, she had herself well under control. This … infatuation with Richard Sutherland was but a brief aberration. A moment of poor judgment. When she became more accustomed to him and his heathenish ways, the unnatural temptation he exuded would vanish into the dark recesses of her soul from whence it had come.
Issuing a sharp nod to herself as if to echo her own concurrence with such a conclusion, she once again prepared herself to enter the lion’s den.
Built nearly fifty years before, Bellemoore was a replica of a cottage Lady Beatrice Sutherland’s husband had seen in France. The rooms were butted next to each other like a row of children’s blocks, joined together by a series of doorways. On the lower level lay a large studio, the center foyer with its winding staircase to the upper levels, then the dining hall, and finally the kitchen and scullery. Above lay the nursery and four private bedrooms.
At one time, Bellemoore had basked in the glory of the Sutherland empire. It had been the prize secluded in the wilds of the border country of Scotland, lying only a few miles from the main house. The cottage had been built on the site of one of the original edifices of the Lindon estates, and after Lindon Manor had been erected to serve as a summer home, Bellemoore had become more of a private retreat.
Currently, it was the only piece of property Dowager Lady Sutherland had left. After her husband’s death had stripped her of her monies and influence, the cottage had been awarded to her by Nigel Sutherland as a token means of support.
The reason Nigel had been so generous was painfully clear. The house came with no real land t
o speak of. None that could be farmed or grazed for profit. The cottage stood well within riding distance of the manor so that Nigel could keep his eye on Biddy’s activities yet far enough away so that she couldn’t interfere with his.
Other than the building itself, Nigel had offered no concessions. Bellemoore’s upkeep had drained the dowager of what little wealth she had managed to bring with her. Over time, the jewel of the Sutherland estates had begun to dim—except for the garden, which grew more beautiful each year. The house itself was in an obvious state of decline.
But Richard Sutherland could change all that. As a new earl, he could reendow her with all she’d lost. Although Biddy was gambling that her heathenish grandson would be a better lord than Nigel Sutherland, at least Biddy could have the satisfaction of seeing the title passed on to her own blood. If Richard proved to have some measure of heart for his grandmother, he could see to restoring Bellemoore and the rest of the Sutherland estates. He could see that Biddy had some means of support other than the moldering cottage during her last few years.
Chelsea endured a niggling pang of concern. Biddy had used the last of her own personal wealth to bring Richard here. Most of the silver and furniture had been sold long ago. Nothing of any real value remained. Nothing but Richard Sutherland IV. The true heir.
Crossing into the dining hall, Chelsea realized that her task had taken on a new significance. If Richard Sutherland had been a child as they had expected, they would have appointed a solicitor as the boy’s legal protector. The fight to regain his titles would have been no less bitter, but Richard could have been kept fairly free from the actual battle in deference to his tender age.
Things were more complicated now. Since Richard was an adult, he would have to prove to be a true gentleman. A Sutherland.
Which brought Chelsea full circle to the original problem. Richard Sutherland must be transformed into a titled lord as soon as possible. He couldn’t do that if he persisted in frolicking about in a state of undress!
“Smee.”
The man interrupted his task, hanging upon each syllable she uttered with the eagerness of a lapdog. With his black eyes, chubby features, and the shock of curly sand-colored hair surrounding his balding pate, he closely resembled Lady Sutherland’s cocker spaniel, Dudley. Originally serving at Lindon Manor as the hostler, he had followed Biddy into her “exile” with more devotion than had been shown to her by her own family.
“Yes, mum.”
“Will you see if Greyson is available? I would like to confer with you both, if I may.”
Grinning in delight, Smee hurried into the kitchen, his stout legs churning and the ruffles of his apron fluttering like a conclave of moths. He soon returned with the dour-faced butler in tow.
That Greyson had been born and bred to his position, Chelsea had no doubt. He towered above Smee by a good measure, his figure gaunt, his features permanently grim. Even though Chelsea had known Lady Sutherland for years—and had thus known Greyson for some time—he never seemed to age. He seemed old. Had always seemed old. Would continue to seem old. His pale skin and even paler blue eyes caused one to doubt that he left the house during daylight. The shock of parchment white hair which grew from his head was so thin that he persisted in combing the strands from one ear to the other in an effort to conceal the fact that he was just as bald as Smee.
“You called, Miss Wickersham?” he asked, inclining his head in a courtly manner.
“What do we have in the way of money?”
Smee and Greyson exchanged glances. But while Smee stepped from foot to foot like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the larder, Greyson merely answered her with stoic blandness. “Nothing, Miss Wickersham.”
“Nothing at all?” she repeated, although she knew Greyson had no reason to lie. He and Smee had probably not seen wages in the better part of a year. Like Chelsea, they donated their time out of love and respect to an old woman.
“No, miss.”
“Have we anything left to sell?”
Once again, Greyson and Smee locked eyes, but, as usual, it was Greyson who spoke. “No, miss. Nothing of any real import.”
“Drat,” she muttered. “We simply have to find something for Richard to wear until we can obtain some sort of appropriate garb.”
Greyson moved toward the sideboard and slid open the drawer. “There’s always this, miss.”
He lifted the burnt-orange-colored scrap of cloth that Richard had been wearing when they’d retrieved him from The Seeker. The wisp of fabric could barely pass as an undergarment.
Since Greyson and Smee had bathed Richard and attended to his personal needs upon their arrival at Bellemoore, Chelsea hadn’t seen the garment since their arrival. The simple raiment brought back a host of images from her first encounter with Richard Sutherland—when she’d pulled aside the canvas to find a heathen beneath. Even now, thinking about the way that scrap of material had covered his … well, the image had become emblazoned upon her mind.
When asked, Chelsea had told Greyson to throw away the inappropriate covering. Now it seemed her only alternative to Richard Sutherland’s utter nakedness.
“Very well, Greyson, give it here.”
He walked toward her with all the dignity of a well-trained majordomo and gave her the inappropriate covering which he had cleaned and pressed in the interim. Chelsea doubted such ministrations were necessary, considering the size of the colored strip. She nevertheless took the vesture, holding it between two fingers as if it would explode in her face.
As a governess, Chelsea’s primary duties had always been to teach, but there had been times when her responsibilities had sometimes bordered those of a nanny. In the past, she had condescended to help with all manner of intimate rituals. She had bathed children—girls and boys—and had helped them dress and undress. But never, in all her years, had she been forced to condone the use of such underthings.
“Smee, with your permission, I’d like to augment this with a pair of your trousers and a shirt. I am afraid Greyson’s clothing has proved to be far too narrow.”
“Yes, miss. It would be my pleasure.”
As she marched from the room, holding the loincloth away from her body like a dead rat, Smee sighed in regret. “Master Richard needs proper clothes,” he remarked.
“I quite agree,” Greyson ponderously intoned.
“What we’ve got to offer won’t do—especially once Miss Wickersham takes him into town.”
“Indeed.”
“We must find a way to help her,” Smee continued, clucking softly. “She appeared so worried. We have to get her some coin—and we haven’t a moment to lose.”
“I concur wholeheartedly.” Greyson took a slow breath, held it in his lungs so that his chest puffed out as if he were an admiral in full dress uniform. “I’ve been pondering that same dilemma all morning, and I might have the solution.”
“Oh?”
Greyson considered the now empty threshold. “We’ll need a pair of horses.”
“We can use the carriage mounts.”
“You’ll have to dye their stockings. The animals must not be recognized.”
“There’s some stove blacking in the stables.”
Greyson’s narrow lips pursed in thought. “I think I can find some appropriate costume, but you’ll need to locate toggery of your own. Something dark and flowing.”
“I’ve got that cape Lady Sutherland gave me Christmas past.”
Greyson finally turned to study him with a measuring glance. “And a mask.”
Smee grinned. The excitement fairly bubbled inside him until he could barely stand still.
A mask!
How delightful.
Sullivan had just reached for the last piece of bread when the door creaked open and Miss Wickersham appeared.
Afraid she might take the food as some sort of belated punishment, and unsure of when his next meal might come, Sullivan heaped a huge spoonful of marm
alade into the center and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth.
To his utter consternation, Miss Wickersham merely sighed as if her patience were extremely pressed upon and walked toward him.
With each step, he felt a wave of some emotion that seemed very much like guilt. Had she meant to dine with him? Was he supposed to have saved her something? From what he’d gathered, Miss Wickersham and her employer were suffering beneath slightly impoverished circumstances. Had he consumed the only meal left in the house?
But Miss Wickersham didn’t seem inclined to chide. She approached the table with a determined gait and placed a small pile of clothing opposite his dishes.
“We would be very pleased if you would change into these things, Master Richard.”
Not willing to show her that he had a perfect understanding of her words, he offered her what he hoped was a blank look.
Her mouth pursed ever so slightly, then she hurrumphed and muttered, “Though you probably haven’t a clue of what I’m saying, I refuse to lower myself to grunting and gesturing and speaking to you as if you were a deaf aunt instead of a poorly educated barbarian.”
Richard felt a spark of amusement but kept his features carefully masked.
“Master Richard, we shall return in ten minutes, and we expect you to be dressed.” She pointed to the stack of garments, then to Sullivan, and repeated, “Clothe yourself.” Turning on her heel, she disappeared again.
Sullivan sat back as comfortably as he could in the tiny chair and eyed the nursery clock. Just as the little yellow bird finished a rousing rendition of cuckoos, the knob turned, and Miss Wickersham entered.
She spied the amount of bare skin still available to her eye and heaved a frustrated sigh. “So we’re going to have to teach you the proper modes of dress as well, are we?”
The very idea proved interesting.
She went toward him and scooped the borrowed items from the table. “Stand, please.”
When he remained where he was, she bent to take the napkin from his lap and hesitated in mid-motion.
