Читать книгу An Unexpected Pleasure - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 7

Megan arrived at Broughton House early in the afternoon the following day. When she reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, she hesitated for a moment, gazing up at the grand edifice. Her stomach was a knot of nerves. Soon she would meet the man whom she had hated for ten years. All her grief, all her regret had been channeled into fury, and the fact that the villain had gotten away had only served to increase that anger. Megan wasn’t sure how she would be able to face Moreland without revealing how much she despised him. It was going to take every bit of skill she had.

She clasped her hands together, pushing up her gloves in a nervous gesture. She would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all her father, but she could not help but be a trifle intimidated by the task ahead of her. She had bluffed her way through many a situation in search of a story, but no story had ever been as important to her as this one, and never had she felt so afraid of failing. She could not help but think that the duchess was going to take one look at her and send her packing.

She tugged down her dark blue jacket, quite plain except for its rather large silver buttons. She hoped it would be sober enough to make up for the small straw bonnet perched atop her head, which, with the brim curling jauntily to one side and the cunning cluster of cherries pinned there, was really too stylish for a tutor. Megan had a weakness for hats, and, frankly, she did not possess one that was dowdy enough to suit a governess. Standing here now, she wished that she had gone to a millinery this morning and bought the plainest dark bonnet she could find.

It was too late to do anything else now, she told herself, and, quelling the sudden flutter of nerves in her stomach, she reached up and brought down the heavy brass door knocker.

A moment later, a footman opened the door.

“May I help you?”

“I am here to see the Duchess of Broughton,” Megan said calmly, looking the man squarely in the eyes.

Once she began, as always, her nervousness receded, turning into a sort of low-level hum that kept her alert and ready for anything.

She saw the footman sweep her with a quick, assessing glance, taking in everything about her and no doubt classifying her immediately as to social status, dress and country of origin.

“May I ask if you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” Megan lied. She had always found it best to go on the offensive. Boldness generally won the day. “I am here concerning the tutoring position.”

The man’s expression changed from aloof and faintly forbidding to almost eager. “Yes, of course. Let me see if her grace is ready to receive you.”

He stepped back, and Megan entered the house. She found herself in a large formal entryway. It was floored in marble, and across from her, elegant stairs rose to the second floor. A hallway stretched in either direction, with another leading toward the rear of the house.

“If you will be so kind as to give me your name?” The footman said politely, directing Megan toward a low velvet-cushioned bench that stood beneath an enormous gold-framed mirror.

“Miss Megan Henderson,” Megan responded. She had decided that it would be too risky to use her real last name, as there was a chance that Moreland would connect it with the man he had known ten years earlier.

“Very good, Miss Henderson.” The man turned to go, and just then a shriek echoed from down one of the hallways.

Both Megan and the footman turned toward the sound. As they watched, a young woman ran out of one of the doorways, followed a fraction of a second later by another, older, woman. Both were richly dressed—rather overdressed, to Megan’s sense of taste—with intricately coiffed hair, and there was about them a tangible air of privilege and wealth.

That appearance was somewhat spoiled at the moment by the fact that both women were emitting high, piercing squeals, holding up their skirts and almost dancing about as they peered down at the floor around them.

Megan stared, and the footman let out a groan. As they stood watching, a number of small furry creatures scurried out of the doorway behind the women and raced off down the hall toward the front door, followed an instant later by two adolescent boys and a dog.

The women’s shrieks grew louder and higher, if that was possible, and they ran and jumped up onto benches on either side of the hallway. The mice, obviously the object of all the hysteria, scampered along the elegant marble hallway, darting behind vases and under tables in their dash toward freedom.

The dog added to the noise, barking excitedly and jumping up to snap at the enticing ruffles on one of the women’s skirts, then darting after the fleeing mice, then whirling back to leap again at the ruffles, which were fluttering as the woman jittered agitatedly atop the bench.

One of the boys dived under a narrow hallway table to grab one of the mice and knocked against one of the legs. The vase of flowers on top of the table wobbled and overturned with a crash, spilling blossoms and water. The boy let go of his quarry and whirled around, reaching out just in the nick of time to catch the vase as it rolled off the table. He let out a whoop of joy at this feat and jumped up, setting the vase back on the table and rejoining the chase.

As Megan watched in fascination, the footman hurried into the fray, grabbing the frantically barking dog and pulling him away from the offending ruffles. The women, she thought, were abysmally silly; their screeching and dancing about were only serving to excite the dog even more.

“Hush, Rufus! Down!” the footman shouted.

His words seemed to have no effect on the dog, who whirled around, breaking the man’s hold on his collar, and ran after the boys, barking like mad. His long tail caught a tall, slender vase standing on the floor as he passed, and it toppled over. At that, a wail went up from the footman, and he rushed to the vase to examine it.

Megan reached up to her hat, untying it and whipping it from her head. As the tiny mice ran toward her, she squatted down, putting her hat on the floor in front of her like a scoop, and quickly swept up several of the mice as they tumbled into it.

She folded the edges of the bonnet together, trapping the squealing, squirming mice inside. Turning toward the dog, now barking and jumping and whirling in delirious circles in front of her, she raised her voice, saying in a sharp, firm tone, “No! Rufus! Down!”

The note of command in her tone reached the dog, and, amazingly, he stopped whirling and barking. Instead, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of his mouth in a foolish doggy grin, he gazed up at Megan.

“Good boy,” she told him. “Sit.” She pointed down at the floor.

Rufus promptly sat, and Megan reached down with her free hand and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Good boy, Rufus.”

“That’s wizard!” one of the boys said, sliding to a stop beside the dog. He held a box in one hand, and from the scrabbling noises issuing from it, Megan assumed that it held some of the mice. “Rufus did exactly as you said. He hardly ever does that.”

The other boy let out a cry of triumph, pouncing on a mouse that had just emerged from the fringe encircling a gold settee. Sticking the little animal in one of the pockets of his jacket, he trotted up to join his brother.

Megan looked at the boys. These must be the charges who had run off almost every tutor in the city. They didn’t look, she thought, like such monsters.

They were twins, identical in looks, and though they were a little messy—their black hair tousled, a smudge of dirt across one’s forehead, the other’s shirttail hanging out in back—they were undeniably handsome lads, and intelligence shone out of their green eyes. She had expected them to look arrogant and spoiled, but she saw neither of those qualities in their faces. Instead, she saw interest and an unabashed admiration for her dog-handling skills.

“It isn’t that hard. It’s the tone of voice one uses,” Megan explained. “You see, Rufus wants to be good.”

“He does?” The first twin looked surprised and glanced down at the dog.

“Yes. You just have to let him know how to do that. Praise him when he’s good and let him know when he has misbehaved. A firm voice—you don’t have to be loud, but he has to know you mean it.” She bent over the dog, rubbing her hand back over his head. “Isn’t that right, Rufus?”

The dog’s tail thumped, and he leaned into her hand, gazing at her with a silly, infatuated look. With a final pat, Megan straightened up.

“I’m Alex Moreland,” the twin holding the box said politely. “And this is my brother, Con.”

“How do you do?” Megan extended her hand to shake each of the boys’ hands. “My name is Megan M—Henderson.”

“Miss Henderson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Con replied with exquisite politeness.

“Now, I believe these are yours?” She extended her other hand, still holding the bonnet edges firmly clamped together.

“Yes, miss. Thank you ever so much for catching them.” Alex opened the lid of the box of mice, and Megan slid her catch into the box with the others.

Con quickly pulled another couple of mice from his pocket and smiled at her. “You didn’t scream or anything. Most girls do.”

He cast a contemptuous glance back down the hall, where the footman had helped the ladies down from their perch. The older of the women was now sitting on the bench, leaning back with her eyes closed, her hand to her head, moaning, while the younger woman fanned her vigorously.

“Not all girls are used to such things,” Megan told him, grinning back. “I had the advantage of having three brothers, you see. But may I ask what you are doing, carrying all these mice about the house?”

“They’re to feed our boa constrictor. That’s where we were taking them. Would you like to see the boa?”

“We have a parrot, too. And a salamander and some frogs,” Alex added.

“My goodness. I’ve never seen a boa,” Megan said. “That does sound interesting.”

Their words apparently reached the fainting woman, for she sat straight up with a little cry, her eyes flying open. “A snake! In this house?”

The younger girl glanced around her uneasily, and Megan wondered if she was going to climb back onto the bench. “A snake? Where?”

“He’s upstairs. You needn’t worry,” Alex assured her.

“In a cage,” Con added.

“That’s horrid!” the older woman exclaimed, agitation propelling her to her feet. “Is the duchess aware of—of these wild animals?”

“They aren’t wild,” Con protested. “Well, I mean, I suppose they aren’t tame, but they don’t do anything. They’re in cages. Well, the salamander and frogs are in a terrarium, but they can’t get out.”

“Or, at least, almost never,” Alex added gravely, and Megan was certain that she saw a flash of amusement in his eyes as he spoke.

The girl let out a shriek and clapped her hand over her mouth at Alex’s words. “Almost!”

“You wicked creature!” the older woman cried, starting forward with such anger on her face that Megan instinctively moved to block her way to Alex.

Alex, however, seemed to need no help, for he squared his shoulders and came up beside Megan, as did his twin, facing the older woman’s wrath.

“Someone should take you in hand!” the woman exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be allowed in polite company. Bringing vermin like that into the room.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t insisted we come into the drawing room and see you,” Con retorted heatedly.

“And the mice wouldn’t have gotten loose if you hadn’t kept on about wanting to see what was inside the box,” added Alex.

“Oh!” The woman’s face turned bright red. “How dare you speak to me that way?”

“I am sure that Alex and Con did not mean to be disrespectful,” Megan said quickly, trying to head off further disaster. “They would never want to offend one of their mother’s friends. Would you, boys?”

She cast a significant look at Alex, then at Con.

Con’s chin jutted out obstinately for a moment, but then he heaved a sigh and said, “No.”

“Now, I think you should apologize to these two ladies,” Megan went on, giving the twins a little push at their backs, adding in a whisper to the two boys, “You wouldn’t want them gossiping about how poorly your mother has raised you, would you?”

This notion seemed to have an effect on both the lads, for they were quick to step forward and give the women polite little apologies.

“Thank you, my dears,” said a warm voice down the hall, and all the occupants of the hall turned to look.

At some distance behind the footman and the two visiting women stood a tall, slender woman of regal carriage. Her upswept hair was a dark auburn, streaked at the temples with wings of white. She wore a plain blue dress, but the cut and material were clearly of the finest, and the color was a vivid reflection of the color of her eyes. She was a woman of great beauty and poise, and Megan was instantly sure that this was the Duchess of Broughton.

“Mother!” the twins exclaimed and went to her.

Megan noted that she smiled at the boys with warmth and affection, bending to give each a kiss on the cheek. Then she started down the hallway toward the rest of the group, while the twins seized the opportunity to hurry away.

“Your grace.” The footman turned and bowed toward the duchess. “Lady Kempton and Miss Kempton.”

The other two women turned to face the duchess, now smiling.

“Duchess. Such a pleasure to see you,” Lady Kempton said, stepping forward, hand extended. “I’m sure you remember my daughter, Sarah.”

“Yes, of course,” the duchess replied coolly, shaking Lady Kempton’s hand. “What an unexpected pleasure. Miss Kempton.”

She looked past them toward Megan. “And to whom do I owe my thanks for bringing order out of this chaos?”

“Miss Henderson, your grace,” the footman told her. “She is here about the tutor’s position.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” The duchess smiled much more warmly than she had toward her other visitors, and she came forward to shake Megan’s hand. “Miss Henderson. How nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” Megan replied, taking the duchess’s hand. She was not sure how to address the woman. The footman had called her “your grace,” but Megan’s tongue balked at speaking such a reverential title.

The duchess turned toward the Kemptons, saying, “Please accept my regrets, Lady Kempton, but as you can see, I have a prior engagement. Had I but known you were coming, I would have arranged another time.”

The other woman’s face tightened, and Megan felt sure that Lady Kempton was insulted by the duchess choosing to interview a prospective employee over conversing with Lady Kempton and her daughter. Still, there was little she could do other than accept what amounted to a dismissal.

“Of course,” she said through thinned lips. “Perhaps another time. Come, Sarah.”

The two women walked past them, and the duchess turned to Megan. “Come. I think the garden would be a pleasant place to chat this afternoon, don’t you?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“We’ll have tea in the garden,” the duchess said to the waiting footman, then started down the hall, sweeping Megan along with her. “I am sorry about your hat,” the Duchess said, a smile quirking at the corners of her mouth. “I shall replace it, of course.”

“Thank you. That’s very generous of you.”

The duchess smiled at her. “It’s the least I can do. You handled the twins expertly. I must say, it isn’t something that most people are able to do.”

Megan smiled. Unexpectedly, she found herself rather liking this woman. “I had two younger brothers. I learned a good bit about boys…and dogs.”

“Ah, yes, Rufus. He is something of a handful. The boys found him in the woods, badly mauled. It is a miracle that he lived, and I fear that everyone has somewhat spoiled him as a result. He responds to the tone of authority in one’s voice, and I fear several of the more timid servants have no control over him at all.”

The older woman cast a sideways glance at Megan, the hint of laughter in her eyes. “I fear that a number of people would say that the same is true of Constantine and Alexander, as well.”

“They seem like lively boys,” Megan admitted. “But I don’t think that they willfully misbehave.”

They had reached the end of the hallway, and the duchess ushered Megan out the door onto the back terrace. A large garden lay behind the house, and beyond its carefully manicured walkways was an expanse of green lawn and trees, a quiet, verdant oasis in the midst of the city. The duchess led her down the wide, shallow steps and along the pathway to a graceful arbor. Shaded by the arching roof upon which roses tangled sat a small wrought-iron table and matching chairs.

“I often have tea out here,” the duchess explained. “It is one of my favorite spots. I find it quite soothing to the soul.”

“It’s lovely,” Megan agreed honestly.

“I hope that you will join me in a cup of tea,” the duchess went on.

“Thank you,” Megan answered, surprised by the courtesy. It was not one usually extended to employees. Or prospective employees, she reminded herself. She felt a trifle guilty at the other woman’s kindness, and the feeling prompted her to say, “I am sorry you were not able to visit with your friends. I could easily have waited.”

The duchess let out a little chuckle. “Oh, it was no hardship. I was glad of an excuse to get out of Lady Kempton’s call. The woman is no friend of mine. She comes, as many ambitious mamas do, not to visit me, in whom she has no interest, but to ingratiate herself with the mother of a future duke. As if Theo would have anything to do with an insipid miss like Sarah Kempton.”

“Oh. I see.” Megan’s pulse sped up at the mention of Theo Moreland, and she cast about for some way to keep the conversation about him.

However, the duchess was already moving on, saying, “Although I must admit that I don’t remember having an appointment with you. Did the agency send you?”

Megan found it difficult to look into the duchess’s calm blue gaze and tell a lie. So, hoping that her father had been correct in what he had told her of the woman, she said candidly, “No, ma’am, I am afraid that I was not entirely truthful with your servant. The agency did not send me.” Skirting around the edges of the truth, she went on, “They did not feel that it would be appropriate to send a female candidate for the position of tutor to your sons. However, I feel that a woman can do an equally good job educating a child as a man can, regardless of whether the child is a boy or a girl. So I took it upon myself to make my application directly to you, for I had heard that you were a woman of progressive thought and a believer in the equality of the sexes.”

“Bravo, Miss Henderson,” the duchess said. “I couldn’t agree more. You were quite right to approach me yourself. I could see quite clearly this afternoon that you are more capable of handling the boys than most of the male tutors that I have employed.”

At that moment, a grave-looking gentleman arrived at the table, carrying a tray of tea things, and they were silent for a moment as the duchess went about the task of pouring tea for the two of them.

The duchess took a sip from her cup, then said, “I presume you have references, Miss Henderson.”

“Oh, yes.” Megan handed her the list over which she had labored for some time.

It was, she thought, artfully deceptive, listing her own education at the St. Agnes convent school, then adding a stretch of two years at a small, progressive women’s college that she knew had gone out of business many years ago, and following that with several years of schooling the children of Mr. and Mrs. James Allenham, whose address happened to be that of her sister Mary Margaret.

After much thinking on the matter, she had decided that it would be better to go with a simple background that would stand up to the duchess’s checking into it, rather than a tissue of more elaborate lies that would sound impressive enough for the children of a duke but would dissolve under the least scrutiny. She could describe the classes at the New England experimental college quite well, as she had done an article about the men and women who had banded together with high hopes to provide a superior education for young women. Megan was counting on the duchess’s intellectual leanings, and the fact that the family was desperate to find a tutor, to get her a job.

“I am afraid that my references are all in the United States,” she said apologetically.

“Yes, I noticed that you are American. But, frankly, I think it would be an educational experience for the boys to have a teacher from another country. Could I ask why you chose to come to England to seek employment?”

Megan spun a tale of a lifelong desire to see the country about which she had read all her life. Unable to afford a tour of the country, she had saved her money, she explained, to sail to England, with the hopes of then earning her way while she stayed here. Fortunately, Megan had always been an avid reader, so she was able to intersperse her story with praise for, and even quotes from, Chaucer, Shakespeare, and the more recent poets such as Byron and Shelley.

When she wound down, she braced herself for a more thorough examination of her knowledge in areas other than literature. However, somewhat to her surprise, after a passing reference to the duke’s insistence upon a solid grounding in the classical languages, the duchess went on to a subject that clearly interested her more: the condition of workers in the United States.

Having written articles exposing the wrongdoings of a tenement landlord, as well as having investigated a factory that was notorious for its mistreatment of employees, Megan had no trouble fielding the other woman’s questions, and they were soon absorbed in a lengthy discussion of the plight of the working class.

The scrape of a boot heel against the flagstone walkway interrupted them, and both women looked up.

A tall, broad-shouldered man was coming down the steps toward them. His hair was pitch black and thick, a trifle longer and shaggier than was customary, and it was shoved back carelessly, a lock falling waywardly across his forehead. His eyes were a light color in his tanned face—it wasn’t until he was closer that Megan could make out that they were a clear, compelling green. He had a square jaw and prominent, sharp cheekbones, the strength of his face softened by the curve of sensuously full lips.

He was, Megan thought, the handsomest man she had ever seen. His gaze locked on hers, and a jolt shot through her.

She had never felt anything like this sensation before. It was stunning, paralyzing, slamming through her almost like a physical blow. Her nerves hummed, her muscles tightened, and for the briefest, strangest instant she felt as if she knew the man—not in the way she knew other people, even those she had known all her life, but in a deep, visceral way.

Even as she stared at him, the man halted abruptly and stood for a moment, staring back at her. Then, a little jerkily, he started toward them.

“Ah, there you are,” the duchess said pleasantly, motioning him toward her. “Come here, dear, I want you to meet someone.”

He reached them and bent down to kiss the older woman on the cheek. His eyes strayed almost involuntarily to Megan.

“Dear, this is Miss Henderson. She will be tutoring the boys,” the duchess said. “Miss Henderson, this is my eldest son. Theo.”