Читать книгу Rebellious Rake, Innocent Governess - Elizabeth Beacon - Страница 7

Ben lay back against the luxurious squabs, considering a curiously unsatisfactory evening. He’d gone to Lady Wintergreen’s ball to keep an eye on Miss Kate Alstone in his best friend’s absence and, with Miss Wells’s reluctant help, had successfully done so. Yet something crucial had been missing and he tried to reassure himself it wasn’t the lack of a dance with the disapproving dragon seated opposite.

He wondered idly if she concealed an elegant little tail under the acres of grey crepe that she used to conceal her figure from the eyes of the world. There was no doubt she breathed fire, he decided ruefully, as he recalled some of the barbs she had shot at him tonight. Yet there was something about Miss Charlotte Wells that made him eager to know what lay under all that disapproval. Under her formidable exterior no doubt there was a formidable woman, but, whoever she was, she fascinated him, and he’d never been one to shirk a challenge. The question was, a challenge to what?

He wasn’t rake enough to make a dead set at a lady in impoverished circumstances. He frowned as he contemplated the careless actions of such men, for hadn’t his father seduced his mother, then denied her and his bastard as if they were strangers he might pass in the street? Ben admired his late mother more than any woman he’d ever known, but he was certain her life would have been far better if he’d never been born. He could never inflict such suffering on a woman and he’d made sure no woman he was involved with risked carrying his child. So, if he didn’t intend to storm the stoutly defended Fortress Wells, why on earth had he been trying to flirt with her in the middle of Lady Wintergreen’s over crowded ball?

Because trying was all he would ever manage, the uneasy answer occurred to him as he stared broodingly into the darkness. Had she just become a challenge he couldn’t quite resist? He shook his head and hoped not and his stern expression softened as he watched Kate asleep on her dragon’s shoulder, as if it was far more comfortable than it appeared. Then they passed a lamp-post and he saw Miss Wells’s face momentarily through the gloom and it looked curiously softened. She’d removed those ugly spectacles and the clear-cut lines of her finely made features were momentarily visible, both illuminated and shadowed by the soft glow.

He recalled the first occasion he’d met the Alstone girls and their fearsome governess, almost two years ago now, and he’d keenly enjoyed the clash of arms between them on the rare occasions he’d met her since then. Kit Alstone had been his best friend ever since they could both walk, and Ben had agreed to escort the carriage from Bath to Derbyshire, despite the fact he had a hundred things to do and a dozen other places to do them in. He’d been a little impatient of the whole business, but knew his very presence riding by the Earl of Carnwood’s travelling carriage would stop most highwaymen in their tracks. After all, there was every reason to guard three unprotected females allied to his friend, when they’d made too many enemies for comfort in the rise to success.

In a spirit of resignation, he’d set out to escort two no doubt timorous young girls and their superannuated governess and found the artlessly outgoing Misses Alstone and their young dragon instead. No doubt one glare from the formidable Miss Wells and the most enterprising villain would instantly have turned to stone, or hastily dropped his pistols and run home to his mother, but they’d met with no reckless challenges on that memorable journey. Ben just managed to hide a grin as lamplight now splayed over him instead of his own particular dragon. Ever since he laid eyes on the very correct Miss Wells, he’d struggled with the urge to kiss her until she was breathless and bemused, and finally giving the lie to her rigidly severe exterior. So far he’d stopped himself, just, but if she went on producing those comedy spectacles at every opportunity his self-restraint might not last.

Yet in the two years since he had first set eyes on her, he’d managed to learn almost nothing about the elusive Miss Wells, which was a mystery in itself. He could usually discover whatever he needed to know about a person within two days of setting eyes on them, so either Miss Wells had lived a life of such tedious respectability that she had rendered herself thoroughly unmemorable, or she wasn’t exactly who she seemed. Up until now he’d been content to trust his judgement that the woman was harmless, at least to her charges and his friends, and she even seemed quite fond of them and unbent noticeably whenever she thought he wasn’t about. Yet lately he’d been experiencing a familiar tension that warned him trouble was too close, and anything out of kilter must now be considered a threat.

He frowned thoughtfully and shot the stately figure of the governess a sidelong glance. What was it about the wretched female that goaded him into being less kind than he should be, he wondered? He wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t that aloof air of superiority; or perhaps her disapproving sniff; or maybe even the hideous cap that hid her scraped-back hair. He wondered what colour it was under that monstrosity and considered her dark brows and eyelashes with what he told himself was purely a spirit of scientific inquiry.

The latter were extraordinarily lush and even curled in enchanting crescents when they rested on her creamy cheeks, he remembered with a jolt. He’d seen her so undefended on that memorable trip to Wychwood; one day she had slept in the carriage and as he rode closer to check on his charges and saw her face all soft and unguarded and wondered if she was much younger than she pretended. Not that he had been allowed so much as a glimpse of such sweet vulnerability since that day, nor had those oddly enchanting eyelashes swept down over eyes heavy with sleep in his presence ever again. He found he regretted that lack and supposed that, when all else was covered and battened down, even the most ridiculous detail became intriguing.

Tonight he’d been forced to exert every ounce of willpower he possessed not to rip off that ridiculous dowager’s cap and sweep prim Miss Wells up into the dance. A waltz for preference, he thought with a wicked smile, as darkness engulfed him once more. Although come to think of it that dance was quite circumspect by the standards of the poor. Nights at Kate Long’s when the girls swung from one partner to the other with joyful abandon would undoubtedly shock Miss Wells to the soles of her proper feet, he concluded wryly.

Perhaps, his imagination persisted, she would have brushed against him even in such select company as they were forced together by others on that overcrowded dance floor. Or maybe she would feel drawn to engineer such closeness of her own accord. Yes, and pigs might fly. He was quite certain Miss Wells would consider such rakish liberties repulsive, and tell him so in no uncertain terms if he ever ventured one. Yet the idea of any other gentleman stealing a kiss from her lips, which he noted were very well shaped and surprisingly full as they went past another lamp, made him feel strangely discomfited. He frowned so fiercely at her the next time they passed a streetlight that she looked startled.

His gaze softened and he had to suppress a surprisingly strong urge to reach across and pull her to him, so he could reassure her, of course. Enough! He didn’t want her to realise the ridiculous state even the thought of holding her got him in and avoid him even more assiduously in future. Ben spent the rest of their brief journey back to Alstone House in Cavendish Square watching a largely uninteresting view of shadowy streets and thinking of cold and barren wastes to get himself back under strict control, before he must step out of the carriage and escort them inside.

Even he was shocked to find the Countess of Carnwood waiting up for them when he escorted Kate and Miss Wells up the steps and into the marble hall. From the expression on the latter’s face, she disapproved of her employer’s over-protective attitude to her sister nearly as much as Ben did, so at least for once they were in accord.

‘I know what you’ll say,’ Miranda Alstone claimed with a disarming smile her lord was quite unable to resist, but it had no noticeable effect on the trio facing her. Her ladyship sighed. ‘I can’t help myself,’ she admitted. ‘With Kit away so long I can’t convince myself all is well with the world.’

Since he shared her apprehension, Ben allowed himself to be pacified and gave her an encouraging smile as he urged her upstairs and back into the cosy sitting room she had made there, despite the strict Palladian style that made the rest of the house a little too sternly elegant for his taste.

‘Tea, if you please, Coppice,’ he requested the stately butler with a manly exchange of glances that admitted there was no point in trying to send her ladyship off to bed to worry away the little hours alone.

‘All will certainly not be well if Kit comes home and finds you have fretted yourself into a decline, particularly in the present circumstances,’ he then told his friend’s wife as gently as he could, as he manoeuvred her towards the fire. After the hothouse atmosphere of Lady Wintergreen’s ballroom, even a mild night felt frosty to the partygoers and the warmth was welcome.

‘True, his lordship will be very put out if all is not as serene as he left it, but I fail to see why he should blame you for my folly,’ Miranda told him with a return of her usual spirit.

‘Because I happen to be handy, I expect,’ he said with a rueful grin she returned weakly, as she obediently sat on the nearest sofa in response to Miss Wells’s urging and even consented to put her feet up.

‘And at least you’re big enough to mill him down if he loses his temper,’ Miranda admitted with a fondly exasperated smile as she considered her sometimes fiery lord.

Kit’s lady knew her husband all too well, but Ben suspected she also knew they only sparred when nobody else was brave enough to enter the ring with them at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. Neither had much taste for gratuitous violence, having witnessed the dire effect a selfish and violent drunkard could have on his unfortunate family during their boyhood. Ben’s mother had been one of the Alstones’ lodgers in the shabby house in St Giles that Mrs Alstone somehow contrived to keep, in the face of all her husband’s efforts to drink it down the River Tick along with everything else they had ever owned. There Ben and the Alstone children had learnt far too much about the bitter realities of life with a man who made no effort to control his temper or his fists.

‘My shoulders are broad enough to take whatever fate throws at them, even with the help of my lord the Earl of Carnwood,’ Ben said lightly.

‘True, but I shall not demand of you the sacrifice of taking tea with me at this unearthly hour of the night,’ Miranda observed, and Ben was relieved to see her resume her usual self-command and order her protesting sister off to bed, before she fell asleep in her chair. ‘Oh, and bring brandy for Mr Shaw, if you please, Coppice,’ she asked, then smiled her approval as another footman followed on the heels of the first one with the required decanter and a fine glass. ‘Why did I ever expect otherwise?’ she asked ruefully as the doors closed behind the butler and his cohorts.

‘I have no idea. Especially considering Coppice adores you just as foolishly as the rest of your staff,’ he informed her with a smile and watched Miss Wells pour tea with her usual stern disapproval.

Miranda flushed with pleasure at the thought that those around her actually liked her and, if Ben needed a reminder of why his friend had fallen so hard for her in the first place, that would have provided it. As the Countess carefully sipped at her fragrant China tea, Ben thought she looked considerably better now that two of her chicks were back under her roof unscathed. He fleetingly wished he could find such a wife, then dismissed the thought as paltry—there was only one Miranda Alstone, and an even bigger rogue than himself had already captured her. For himself, he enjoyed his state of single blessedness too well to give it up for married life.

He dismissed such ridiculous ideas as seeking a bride for himself among the belles of the Season, whilst he kept his eye on Miranda’s sister whenever Kit was unavailable. Instead he wondered why on earth her ladyship should consider the self-contained and dauntless Miss Wells in need of her protection. It was beyond Ben, but he sipped his brandy and watched them thoughtfully while they chatted of nothing in particular, as if to soothe each other’s ruffled feathers. There seemed to him to be a sincere friendship between countess and governess, and he was suddenly intrigued by the idea that Miss Wells must be a very different creature whenever he was not by.

Perhaps feeling his speculative gaze on her, she turned and shot him a fierce look of either suspicion or condemnation, and suddenly he felt very tempted to live down to her expectations. Good behaviour or bad seemed to cut no ice with the haughty dragon. Next time he was in the position to do so, he might just snatch a kiss to see if her lips were as cold as her eyes, which were once again glinting so disapprovingly at him that she didn’t even need those wretched eyeglasses to emphasise her aloof dislike.

Thank goodness Miranda had never provoked him to turn her upside down and shake her to see if there was a real warm and breathing woman under all the hairpins, caps and spectacles Miss Wells came armoured in. It was perfectly obvious from looking at his friend’s beautiful wife that she was all of those things, and a few more into the bargain. As he didn’t have the least wish to meet his best friend early one morning on Paddington Green for a very unfriendly encounter, it was very lucky Ben needed no proof of the Countess of Carnwood’s humanity.

‘Why are you flying in the face of experience and worrying about your husband, my lady?’ he turned and asked Miranda in an attempt to get at the truth, and distract himself from the remarkably sweet notion of finding out if Miss Wells’s rather lush mouth would yield under his and give the lie to her fearsome appearance.

If anything it was even more disapproving now, as if she could somehow read his errant thoughts. Anyway, how did she think they could soothe Miranda’s fears when they had no idea what they were? He sent her a fiercely repressive glance and then regarded his friend’s wife with gentle enquiry, having no idea that the contrast in his gaze when resting on the two women in front of him could have hurt the formidable governess.

‘Because I hate being apart from him, I suppose,’ Miranda admitted slowly, then seemed to come to a decision to confide more deeply. ‘And I have received a letter from Cousin Celia,’ she finally added.

Now he would happily have taken a joint share in Miss Wells’s most icy look of disdain if the wretched Celia were actually here to receive the full benefit of it. No wonder the poor girl was fretting herself into a headache if that murderous bitch had been stirring up the Alstone pond once more.

‘Not at all the sort of letter I would expect of her,’ Miranda added hastily as she observed his thunderous frown. ‘Indeed, I suspect that Celia has discovered actually living with Nevin is even more of a punishment than we all intended. Maybe she’s trying to soften Kit’s heart by warning me, in the hope he’ll allow her return to England without her husband.’

‘She has mistaken her man then. Kester will never forgive her for what she did to you, both before and after you met him. Even if he didn’t love you quite ridiculously, how could he forget her wanton cruelty to a vulnerable young girl who happened to be her own cousin into the bargain? But besides bringing up that mare’s nest again and upsetting you, what does the vixen have to say? If you’re able to tell me the details, of course,’ he said with a cautionary glance at Miss Wells.

‘Oh, there’s no need to hide any of it from Charlotte,’ Miranda said blithely, ‘she knows all about my past. Kit and I decided it was necessary that we told her, in order to make sure neither Nevin nor Celia could approach the girls in our absence.’

And it had been an understandable relief to unburden herself to a sympathetic female, Ben concluded, rather surprised at his sudden conviction that the suffocatingly correct Miss Wells would make a stalwart and very partisan ally.

‘I wonder she dared set pen to paper after she had done her best to ruin your life by urging her secret husband to elope with a seventeen-year-old girl, then bigamously wed you, as well as the pair of them doing their best to kill you when you returned to Wychwood and threatened her supremacy. So what on earth has the repulsive female got to say?’ he asked impatiently, trying to ignore the fleeting thought that he would quite like to meet a friendly dragon, rather than the condemning one he knew all too well.

‘That we’re in danger,’ Miranda finally admitted. ‘She says the crime you and Kit have been investigating for so long is about to be exposed, along with a good many others, and someone very rich and powerful is furious about the threat to his income and position.’

‘The devil he is!’ he exclaimed and began pacing up and down the fine Aubusson carpet as he considered the implications of such an attack. ‘How much does she know?’ he rapped out.

‘I would remind you that you are inhabiting a lady’s drawing room and not a board meeting in the City, Mr Shaw,’ Miss Wells rebuked him, ‘and, come to think of it, you must speak a little more politely to those gentlemen if you wish to retain their good will.’

‘Much you know about it,’ he told her with an unrepentant grin, even as he was secretly grateful to her for checking the temper his anxiety threatened to spark into formidable life.

He might as well store that up for the enemy who had stolen one of their ships and murdered far too many good men for him to think about too deeply and stay sane. She was quite right, though; he needed a cool head if he wasn’t to let the villain behind it all slip through his fingers once again.

‘I beg your pardon, Lady Carnwood,’ he said with a nicely judged bow and exquisite irony, ‘would you inform me of any further details you might have gathered from this missive? Just so we might guard ourselves against any harm, you understand?’

‘Of course I do, but my cousin was very vague. The one thing I can tell is that she’s terrified of the man. Too terrified to give me more than the most obscure clues as to his identity, I’m afraid.’

‘Which probably explains why Mrs Braxton sent her warning in the first place—so that you and his lordship would defeat him for her, Mr Shaw,’ Miss Wells put in shrewdly.

Ben was impressed by her acute grasp of the situation. There was no false optimism, no impulse to think the best of a woman who so far as he could tell had neither heart nor soul under all that chilly blonde beauty. Which, he decided, argued that Miss Wells had been forged in a very fiery furnace indeed, and he was astonished by the powerful wave of protectiveness that suddenly swept over him at the thought of her so vulnerable that she had been forced to armour herself against the world so sternly.

‘Very likely you’re right,’ he agreed absently.

‘How astonishing of me,’ she replied sweetly.

‘If I ever feel myself growing self-satisfied, I’ll rely on you to depress my pretensions, Miss Wells,’ he parried with a rueful smile.

‘Then it will be my pleasure to oblige you, Mr Shaw,’ she replied pertly and he was once more overtaken by a strange compulsion to kiss her soundly, if only to stop her wicked tongue for a few moments.

He turned and caught Miranda’s thoughtful gaze on them both and cursed himself for a fool. His friend’s wife was loyal to a fault and capable of going to the most ridiculous lengths to secure the happiness of those she loved. The last thing he needed was the Countess of Carnwood matchmaking between him and the governess. So respectable a bride might increase his standing with the more cautious of his investors, but it would do very little for his personal comfort, he suspected. Having his fiercest critic on hand on such a permanent basis might even sap his adamantine will.

‘To get back to our sheep, exactly when’s his lordship due home?’ he asked, partly because he wanted to know and partly to divert Miranda’s attention from his determination never to wed anyone, let alone Miss Wells.

‘Last night,’ Miranda said mournfully and he could have kicked himself for reminding her, then his friend for giving her so precise a date for his return.

‘I’d best go and find the rogue for you then, hadn’t I?’ he said and immediately felt better on making that decision, so he must be more worried about Kester’s thick hide than he’d let himself know.

Then he glanced at Miranda’s intent face and decided Kit hadn’t stood a chance against those brave blue eyes of hers. No, he amended, his friend hadn’t a hope in hell of resisting his true love, and that was just how it should be, he supposed. Suddenly the lure of such a love was strong after all—to be loved and to love so deeply seemed like a wonder to a boy brought up on the harsh reality of one of the poorest neighbourhoods in London. Yet it had also forged him into a man suspicious of all human weakness, and he really had no idea that he was now regarding Miss Wells with a stern frown that even made her shiver briefly under its frosty reproach.

‘If only I could come with you,’ Miranda said wistfully and Ben reminded himself he’d cause to deal with her gently and wiped the glower off his face.

‘The best thing you can do for him is stay safe and keep close,’ he said, horrified by the idea of taking any pregnant woman on such a quest, let alone his best friend’s precious countess.

‘Indeed,’ Miss Wells backed him up, which must go sadly against the grain, ‘nothing would worry his lordship more than knowing you were abroad and vulnerable and, given the vagaries of the weather, let’s hope the sea crossing was calm. Not even Lord Carnwood could swim the Irish Sea if the captains won’t leave port,’ she added shrewdly and he nearly cheered.

‘That’s true,’ Miranda conceded, relief taking some of the tension out of her braced shoulders at last. ‘And I’m being a terrible widgeon, am I not?’

‘You always look more like a swan than a duck to me, my lady,’ Ben teased lightly.

‘Say that again in a few months’ time and I’ll very likely hug you, if I can reach you,’ Miranda said with a rueful smile and he sensed the worst of her megrims were fading at last.

‘And as I’ve no wish to be challenged to a duel by my best friend, I beg you’ll contain your transports, my lady,’ he observed with mock terror and even got a laugh out of her at that very unlikely idea.

‘I hope Kit knows he’s no need to be jealous of any other man on this good earth of ours,’ Miranda said cheerfully enough, reminded of the passionate love that existed between herself and the man Ben had once thought too damaged by his early life to let himself love so completely.

Again he felt the tug of feeling that sort of love, then dismissed the notion as impossible even if it did make him feel at odds with himself. Seeing Kit happy in the midst of so much domesticity must be turning him soft, for suddenly he longed not to be forever guarded and aloof from the wider world. If there was some special she he could lay aside his omnipotence in front of, he felt as if some gap in him might feel complete. The idiocy of being able to set the man he had made of himself aside for a space occurred to him at the same time as he frowned formidably at the coal scuttle. It would take an exceptional kind of woman to love him once she knew who he really was, deep inside. And he could never be innocent or unguarded enough to let them find out, he reflected bitterly, nor could he lay himself open to the danger of such hurt if he ever dared do so.

The truth was that he had outgrown the wenches of the streets, both honest and otherwise, and would never be admitted far enough into the ton to win himself an aristocratic wife brought up to expect a marriage of convenience. He wasn’t fish, or flesh, or good red herring, and he could hardly search for some pale imitation of his friend’s countess, even if he wanted to. A picture of a certain stern and very respectable female who would certainly never approve of him slipped into his mind and he did his best to dismiss her, for even the idea seemed absurd.

Miss Wells would obviously rather eat nails than marry a parvenu like himself, then he forced himself to be a little fairer to the formidable governess. Somehow he doubted his low beginnings made her look at him as if he had just emerged from under a stone. He’d seen her look icily severe in the presence of any unattached male, from the third footman to the septuagenarian Duke of Denley, when he visited Wychwood and was reckless enough to ogle any female under the age of fifty. It occurred to him that perhaps Miss Wells was a man-hater, but she would never have an easy friendship with Kit if so, or the young vicar of Wychwood village, who was almost as happily married as Kit himself. So the lady was wary and perhaps that was just as well, but what if she could be persuaded out of her formidable shell and he discovered the real Charlotte under all that starch?

He eyed the stately figure seated across the room from him and considered that prospect with surprising pleasure. He’d long ago decided those truly awful gowns and ‘you can’t see me’ caps were a disguise. And she was the one female he knew who didn’t make him feel like an awkward and ungainly bear in her company, considering she easily reached as high as his chin. If her slender, long-fingered hands were any indication, under all the acres of grey shroud there could be a very different female. He forbade himself to dwell on that incendiary subject in mixed company and coolly examined the idea that a lady in her circumstances might be persuaded to accept a less-than-perfect suitor.

He was certainly wealthy enough to turn even the most resistant female’s thoughts to marriage, if money was her overriding concern. He knew that without vanity, especially since one or two of the grand ladies of the ton had hinted they would welcome such a rich lover even if, regrettably, he wasn’t noble enough to pay court to their daughters and become their rich son-in-law. So maybe he was handsome enough as well, as even for the pleasure of plundering his deep pockets he doubted such grande dames could get the smell of the shop out of their delicate noses without a healthy seasoning of desire. His smile was cynical as he met Miss Wells’s eyes with some of his thoughts in his clear grey eyes and, when he saw her shiver, immediately regretted it. She was different, he assured himself with a certainty that almost shocked him, even if he didn’t know quite why.

Glaring at the very annoying Mr Shaw, Charlotte wondered for perhaps the hundredth time since she had first met him why he made her either want to prickle like a rolled-up hedgehog, or itch to be the sort of blonde pocket Venus he seemed to admire. It was almost as if he regarded her as he might some odd curio he had spied in a museum and came back to inspect now and again, in the mistaken belief that one day he would work out her mechanism and remove all mystery from the conundrum.

Little did he know that there was far more to the curio he sometimes eyed like a botanical specimen than he, or anyone else, suspected, she thought, and smiled rather secretively. If he ever had an inkling that she was other than what she seemed, he would never give her a moment’s peace until he had her worked out and suitably recorded. Not having the least wish to be considered an intellectual challenge by the famously astute Mr Shaw, she told herself it was almost her duty to be as tediously predictable as possible and took a certain joy in fulfilling his low expectations. In his presence she became a parody of the correct governess, and, remembering that fact now, she dug about in her reticule and triumphantly pulled out her spectacles. Perching them on her nose, she felt as if she had assumed a latter-day version of a shield before going into battle and dared him to comment.

It proved to be a wasted gesture, as he was listening intently to some sound so indistinct that she had yet to hear it, and she might as well have been wearing a wig and a false beard for all the notice he took. Then she heard the faint noise of a carriage in the square herself, followed by the subdued fuss of an arrival who knew this was a ridiculous hour to turn up in a respectable neighbourhood. She looked questioningly at Mr Shaw, who gave a very slight nod and casually got to his feet.

‘I dare say Coppice is wishing me at the devil, so it’s probably high time I relieved you of my presence, your ladyship, Miss Wells,’ he said with rather mocking formality and a bow to each, then he raised his eyebrows at Charlotte as if to inform her she shouldn’t intrude on a private reunion.

‘I believe I shall retire,’ she informed him regally and, bidding her employer a hasty goodnight, allowed Mr Shaw to hurry her out of the room before Miranda had even fully taken in that they were going.

No doubt she soon forgot about them, considering the Earl of Carnwood rushed up the stairs and into her ladyship’s sitting room, without even seeing them, as far as Charlotte could tell. She sighed audibly, then ordered herself back to battle order as Mr Shaw met her unguarded look with a rueful acknowledgement that, yes, it was a very unusual marriage, and yet a very desirable one, even in his cynical view. Their eyes stayed locked as if they were united in longing for the forbidden for once, but she made herself look away and told herself she was imagining it. Somehow it made him seem oddly vulnerable to want such an impossibility, especially when they were both too chastened by life to believe it could exist, either separately or, heady, forbidden thought, together.

‘There’s no need to fret about his lordship’s health from the speed of his run upstairs,’ Mr Shaw remarked ruefully.

‘Yet he was carrying his arm rather awkwardly, don’t you think?’ she asked anxiously. She might not want to believe her employers were truly under threat, but there was no point fooling herself it didn’t exist after such a warning, and from such a source.

‘It would take more than a strained arm to keep him from his lady, but I dare say Coppice will know what’s been going on, he knows everything.’

‘So I long ago concluded,’ she agreed with rare amity and surprised him by accompanying him downstairs to satisfy her curiosity.

Somehow tonight had proved such an upheaval of her usual steady world that she couldn’t bring herself to poker up and retreat into stately solitude just yet. Ben Shaw’s presence at her side made her feel oddly safe anyway, a notion that could hardly be more dangerous, she chided herself, as they descended the elegant stairs at a far more reasonable pace than their owner had just run up them. Coppice was in the act of closing the door on the Earl of Carnwood’s travelling equipage and turned to face them with his usual calm omnipotence, yet for some reason Charlotte thought it concealed his true feelings on this occasion.

‘Your hat and cane, Mr Shaw?’ the butler asked blandly.

‘No, an explanation if you please,’ Ben demanded impatiently, ‘and don’t pretend you’ve no idea what I’m alluding to, you old fox.’

Coppice shook his head as if about to reproach a cheeky young boy and then one look at the giant, and very adult, figure seemed to remind him that Ben Shaw was a force to be reckoned with on any man’s terms. ‘I understand his lordship met with a slight accident,’ he finally admitted.

‘How and where?’ Ben snapped, evidently too preoccupied with worrying about his friend to modify his abrupt tone.

Coppice met Charlotte’s gaze with a shrug as if to say ‘ah well, boys will be boys’, ushered them into his pantry and shut the door against any listening ears. Awed by being admitted into his very private quarters, Charlotte allowed herself a quick look around this holy of holies and told herself she shouldn’t be surprised to see it was unusually comfortable, as well as rigidly tidy. The earl and countess took their servants’ comfort very seriously and she knew how well the governess was lodged, so of course they would see to the well-being of so crucial a person as Coppice.

‘Reuben informed me that his lordship was waylaid by thieves when riding about Miss Kate’s estate. He seems to think that, if he had not been following Lord Carnwood at a discreet distance, the day might have gone rather ill with his lordship. As it is, he had his hat shot off and took a blow to his right arm that would have kept anyone else from travelling for a sennight, or so Reuben seems to think, but his lordship insists we make light of the matter for her ladyship’s sake.’

‘And you think they were not common thieves?’ Mr Shaw asked.

‘Most unlikely from the sound of it,’ Coppice assured him, with a significant look at Charlotte she supposed she was not meant to see.

‘If her ladyship’s peace of mind is to be guarded, you might just as well tell me, because the more of us who are close to her know the truth, the better she’ll be protected,’ she informed them both with what she thought exemplary patience on her part.

‘Very well, ma’am,’ Coppice admitted rather stiffly, as if she was at least twice her actual age, Charlotte decided very impatiently.

‘So who were they really?’ she demanded.

‘I have no idea, madam, but Reuben said they wore silk masks and appeared very prosperous for common thieves, as well as carrying the very latest in firearms. When they were turned over to the local magistrate they refused to say anything, preferring to take their punishment rather than betray even their names, which you must admit, sir, is highly suspicious.’

Ben nodded sagely and they exchanged manly looks as Charlotte was torn between fuming at Coppice, for addressing only what he obviously considered the important part of his audience, and terror for her friends. Added to the letter Miranda had received, it seemed something deeply sinister was coming to a head, and who knew what hurt might befall those she’d come to love in the process? When she had time and privacy, she might take herself to task for letting herself care for her employers so much, but now there were more important considerations than icy self-sufficiency.

‘I wonder just what the magistrate made of that,’ Ben mused.

‘Not a great deal, sir, he sentenced them to be transported for life.’

‘And they still said nothing?’

‘Yes, sir—quite significant, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed, most criminals would name their own grandmother an accessory to avoid such a sentence.’

Charlotte thought of Celia Braxton’s letter, where she too refused to name the man who was threatening the Earl and his family as well as Ben Shaw and shivered. An implacable will lay behind such a depth of fear, and she wondered what he had done in the past to make his tools prefer the penal colony at Botany Bay to his vengeance. He was obviously more than just another common criminal, and tracking such a Machiavellian mind to his lair would be a task fit for Hercules himself. Her gaze turned inevitably to the giant at her side and she became even more thoughtful. If there was a man capable of the quest, it was surely Mr Benedict Shaw and she thought him capable of being every bit as subtle and unrelenting as his quarry, in the pursuit of those out to harm the man he considered a brother. For some reason that notion warmed rather than chilled her as it should have done. Such single-minded pursuit of his enemy should have made her shudder with revulsion, instead of feeling his protection was cast about her as well as her friends. Something else she must chide herself over later, along with the chill that dissipated that warmth as soon as it occurred to her that he would be in acute danger while pursuing a seemingly invisible, untouchable enemy.

‘Her ladyship will soon have the story out of him,’ she insisted in the face of two sceptical males.

‘All the more reason for Miranda to be away from here and safe at Wychwood,’ Ben Shaw said grimly and for once Charlotte agreed with him wholeheartedly.

Indeed she could think of no better scheme than them all returning to Derbyshire post haste and staying there for the foreseeable future. Then the unpalatable truth of such a hasty withdrawal occurred to her.

‘The gossips will say Kate has committed some grand misdemeanour and had to be taken home,’ she warned.

‘Which is why she will have to stay here, with a suitably responsible female to bear her company, of course,’ Mr Shaw said with a significant look that Charlotte distrusted intensely.

‘I’m a governess, not a chaperon, Mr Shaw,’ she informed him sternly.

‘What’s the difference?’ he asked with an interested expression that had her clenching her gloved hands at her sides.

‘I should think that quite plain,’ she said repressively.

‘Then pray consider me just a stupid male and explain it to me,’ he replied with spurious meekness.

She shot him a furious look, but in front of Coppice she couldn’t give way to a strong urge to inform him what she truly thought of him.

‘A governess is an educator of young ladies, and sometimes of even younger gentlemen, Mr Shaw. A chaperon is a lady who has the entrée into the ton that will help secure her charge a marriage suitable to one of her lofty station in life,’ she said blandly, hoping it was very clear to both of them that she was the former and not the latter.

‘Are you telling me that you weren’t born a lady, Miss Wells?’ the wretch replied with a mock deference that made her long to slap him.

‘Let us say I possess no turn for matchmaking,’ she informed him with what she hoped was a superior smile.

All the same, she felt profoundly uncomfortable discussing such a role under the interested gaze of Coppice, who seemed secretly amused by their discussion for some reason. Ben Shaw was either unaware of the butler’s feelings or indifferent to them, for he continued to look at her as if she was some odd curiosity he currently found fascinating.

‘Surely that makes you uniquely qualified for the position?’ he said and, when she haughtily raised her brows in question of that statement, added, ‘Being a cynic of the worst sort, you would see through the fortune hunters and shady characters and find your charge a paragon among men.’

‘I’m far too stern a critic to manage that, I’m afraid,’ she explained shortly and treated both men to one of her best icy looks before turning to make a fighting retreat. ‘If I might suggest someone writes to the Countess’s godmama and offers Lady Rhys the role? From all I have seen of her, she would be highly entertained by the notion of chaperoning Kate in polite society, and might prove a shrewder matchmaker than any doting mama. I know she offered to take up the task weeks ago, but her ladyship was so eager to present her sister to the ton that I suspect she overestimated her own strength under the present circumstances.’

In front of Coppice she couldn’t refer directly to Miranda’s pregnancy and Charlotte felt distinctly impatient with the ridiculous conventions of a society that refused to refer to the very natural process of pregnancy and birth openly in mixed company.

‘Yes, it took Kit weeks to persuade her ladyship she wouldn’t blight her sisters’ prospects with unfounded gossip about her own past if she did bring them out, but I dare say he’s wishing he hadn’t made such a good job of it now. Nevertheless, that’s an excellent notion of yours and I’ll suggest it to him in the morning,’ Mr Shaw informed her rather pompously and she spared a little impatience from her general supply of it.

‘How do you know that he’ll consult you about any of this?’ she weakened enough to ask, as she stood with one hand suggestively on the doorknob, but couldn’t quite turn it and escape his infuriating presence.

‘And how could you think he wouldn’t, ma’am, especially as he doesn’t share your low opinion of my abilities, or lack thereof?’

‘I really couldn’t say,’ she replied snippily and opened the door and went through it with a frigid goodnight, before she said something she might truly regret.