Читать книгу The Runaway Governess - Liz Tyner, Liz Tyner - Страница 10

Chapter Two

Wren increased the pressure of the blade. Isabel’s pulse thumped against the tip.

‘My pardon,’ the man at the door spoke. ‘I didn’t realise this was a private conversation.’ Nothing flickered on his face. He didn’t even seem to see her.

‘Get the hell out,’ Wren rasped.

Isabel swallowed. Could the man not understand there was a blade at her neck?

‘I certainly will,’ the man at the door spoke. He leaned back a bit, turning his head.

His hand tightened on the door and he was going to leave, letting Wren do as he wished. She could tell. The stranger had not once looked at her eyes.

‘But, I was thinking of making an investment.’ Soft words from the man at the door. His body stilled before turning in her direction.

Finally, he noticed Isabel. His brows lifted and he wet his lips. He appraised her in the same way a butcher might decide which chicken was to be the first to the block. A nausea filled her.

‘I would like to invest, Wren.’ He chuckled. ‘And all it would take would be a bit of pleasure to convince me.’

‘I need no investors.’ The knife didn’t lessen. ‘I own everything under this roof. Everything.’

‘True enough,’ the man spoke. His eyes were again on Wren. ‘I hear nothing but good about this establishment. Nothing. And an investor like myself feels a bit left out.’ His gaze locked on Wren’s face. ‘I have a good bit of coin. A good bit, and I certainly can find better ways to spend it than on gaming.’

The pressure at Isabel’s throat lessened.

‘A man cannot have too much coin,’ Wren said. ‘But he can have too many women about.’ At those words, the knife jabbed forward, tapping Isabel’s neck like a pointed fingernail with a razor at the end.

The stranger’s eyes widened and he caught his breath, speaking as he exhaled. ‘Don’t damage the goods, Wren.’ His voice strengthened. ‘Wouldn’t want to hurt an investment.’

Wren took the knife from Isabel’s neck, looking at it as if he’d forgotten he had it in his hand.

In that moment, the man threw his body in front of Isabel, knocking her backwards with a crash.

For less than a second she could only see the ceiling. She pushed herself up, scrambling to her feet. Wren’s back was on the desk and the stranger’s right fist plunged into Wren’s face.

Wren rolled, falling from the desk, kicking the man’s ribs when he moved forward. But the stranger only turned with the blow. He continued forward, driving on to Wren, using his body as a battering ram. His left hand gripped Wren’s neck and he rose, just enough for leverage, keeping Wren pinned to the floor.

The stranger’s fist rose and hammered Wren’s face, pummelling a groan from him.

She could not bear it. ‘No,’ she shouted, the words more a scream than a command. ‘Stop. No. I beg you, please stop.’ The words could have carried to the top of the Tower.

She shuddered, her voice now pleaded. ‘Please stop.’

The stranger looked at her. His eyes held no recognition of the moment, but his fist stilled on the upswing. Nothing from inside him acknowledged her words, but he stopped pummelling. Again his arm moved up, ready for a downswing.

‘No...’ The word pulled her last thread of strength.

* * *

William stopped, pulling the world around him back into focus. The woman’s body trembled in a circular motion. Another second and she would topple. Dazed eyes locked on him, but he didn’t think she truly saw anything.

William lunged upwards and scooped the knife from the floor so Wren couldn’t grab it. He had to get the woman away from the place. Neither she nor his family would be helped by tales of these events.

In one stride, William had a hand at her shoulder. ‘Miss?’ He tightened his clasp.

She blinked, but didn’t speak and her glance fell to his hand.

‘Miss?’ he repeated. ‘Where do you live?’

He released her shoulder and took her chin in his gasp, pulling her gaze to his. His heart slammed against his ribs with a stronger punch than any Wren had managed.

Seizing her around the waist, he lifted her to the door. Stopping outside, he let her feet flutter to the floor. She kept moving downwards and he pulled her up, tight against him. Her colourless face wasn’t far from his own, yet she offered no resistance.

He had a knife in one hand and a woman in the other. The door still open, he led her to the taproom, trying to keep her on the side opposite the patrons.

Everyone in Wren’s looked towards the curtain when he strode through. They’d heard the commotion apparently, but hadn’t moved. Sylvester’s cards fluttered to the table.

A customer entered at the door. Light filtered on to the woman’s hair, showing the unusual colour to all in the room. The stranger stared at William, unmoving. Uncertainty stilled him as if he couldn’t decide whether to enter or run for safety.

Sylvester’s voice jarred the moments, reminding William of the others. ‘Cousin—you must introduce us to your friend.’

‘Yes, I must.’ William tramped forward. ‘Just not today.’

He glared at the man at the door, gesturing him aside—and then Will realised he gestured with the knife. He dropped the weapon and the man jumped backwards, pulling the door with him. William stopped the swing with his boot. The man darted away.

Sprinting the woman into the fading sunlight, William moved towards his carriage. He shouted to the driver, ‘Just go. Keep us moving.’ The driver stared, then his posture straightened and his chin snapped up in agreement.

Once inside the vehicle, William reached across her to lower the shade on her side. She gasped and the sound slashed into him. She pressed against her side of the carriage.

With the same control he’d used when he spoke to Wren, he turned to her.

He opened his mouth to ask her where she lived, but closed it again. He could not deliver such a bedraggled miss anywhere. She’d been so prim on the bench. And her dress had been ripped even then.

‘You must stop shaking.’ He spoke in the tone that could soothe two sisters trying to strangle each other over an apricot tart.

One at a time, he reached for her hands, holding tight to one when she tried to pull away, but freeing the other. He couldn’t have her darting from the door of a moving carriage.

He stared at the slice on his own knuckles and then remembered her arm. If it had meant losing the horses to put himself in Wren’s while she was there, then he would thank Sylvester—at least silently.

He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. Even in the darkening light, he saw the moisture, but the wound on her arm only trickled blood.

He pressed and waited, making sure it wasn’t serious. ‘Just relax,’ he spoke in the apricot-tart tone, ‘you’ll be all better in a minute.’ If it would have been his sister, he would have started singing a nursery song, because it always worked, even if they complained about the nonsense.

‘You’re hurt,’ she said.

Relief flooded him. She was aware of something other than the fright.

‘I’m fine.’ He daubed at the dried blood on her shoulder. ‘My horses give me worse bruises and we call it fun.’

She looked at the handkerchief and then her shoulder. ‘Oh,’ she squeaked, not in pain, but surprise.

‘Yes.’ He pressed the cloth at her injury again, not really needing to. ‘But it will mend quickly. I’m sure you’ve had worse.’

She reached up to relieve him of the cloth and for a moment their fingers tangled, then their eyes met, and she breathed in and pulled away.

He hated to move, but he did. He would ask her the location to deliver her and he would see that she arrived safely. Even if it was some distance away, he could direct the coachman easily enough. But his question changed before he spoke.

‘Why were you in Wren’s?’ he asked.

She gazed at him. ‘I was seeking work there.’

He’d been so wrong. His voice strengthened and the first words he thought flew from his mouth. ‘In a brothel?’

Life returned to her eyes. ‘You insult me.’ She straightened. ‘Do I look like someone who would—?’ Her eyes opened wide. She cried out, using both hands to pull the dress over her bare shoulder, then adjusting her grasp, pulling the rip in her skirts closed. ‘Do I look like a...fallen woman?’

‘Not... No. No. Not at all.’ She looked well past fallen, but he had learned as a youth that a pre-emptive reassurance was easier than stopping tears.

‘I must go back,’ she said. ‘You must take me back to that terrible, forsaken place.’ Her eyes widened. Pleading. ‘I need your help.’

‘No. You are not going back.’

‘You don’t understand. I left my satchel. All I have in the world. A dress. My funds.’ She held the handkerchief at her shoulder while reaching to clasp his wrist. Her eyes searched his face and then she sighed, and relaxed.

Letting her hold him, he extended an arm around her shoulders, barely touching, but close enough that he could free her hand of the fabric and hold it in place for her.

‘Is it a great sum of money?’ he asked. She certainly shouldn’t have been in Wren’s if she had funds.

Her voice barely reached him and her head tilted so he couldn’t see her expression. ‘It’s not truly all I have in the world,’ she said. ‘It is not truly all I have. It is just the rest of my things are on the way to Sussex.’

‘How much did you leave in Wren’s?’ he pressed.

‘My songs. A dress. A fan which had paste jewels on one edge. Hair ribbons. Enough to buy a bowl of soup.’ She made a fist. ‘I cannot believe I left the fan. The fan was a gift from three dear friends, but I’m sure they would understand if I sold it to buy food.’

She tensed, moving to stare at him. ‘I am not a tart. I am not a fallen woman. A Jezebel. Or whatever else. I am a...’ Her chin rose. ‘A singer.’ She lowered her face. ‘Or I was to be. That evil debacle of a man was to pay me to sing.’

‘You sing?’

She looked directly at William. ‘Yes. Songs. To sing songs. Wren hired me. He’d promised me wages.’ She snorted, then caught herself. ‘I do have a good voice and the wages were not such a large amount to make me suspicious.’ She straightened her fingers, saw blood on the gloves and shuddered. ‘I have always been told my voice is a gift.’ Her words faded away.

Her hand rested in her lap and her head bowed. ‘My songs are in that satchel. With a picture my friend Grace drew of us singing and laughing with Joanna and Rachel.’

‘So you are a Songbird.’ He reached and tugged at the fingertip of her glove. She didn’t need to be staring at blood.

‘Not any longer,’ she said, pulling away to remove the gloves herself and fold them.

‘Nonsense. Don’t let one person stand in your way.’

‘It’s not one person.’ Shadowed eyes stared at him. ‘It’s everyone. Everyone says I should be a governess. Everyone. And this proves it.’

‘This proves nothing of the sort.’ His words were firm, but Isabel discarded them with a wave of her folded gloves.

‘I will never sing again,’ she said. ‘Madame said it would be the ruin of me and she didn’t know I listened so I suppose she was right. I just couldn’t believe it—until now. She was always right.’

She met the view of the brown eyes. ‘Even when we didn’t let Madame Dubois know she was right—she was right. I should have learned from my friend Grace how things go awry.’

‘And what has happened with this friend, Grace?’

‘She explained to me how...’ She fluttered her hand at her head before pulling the bodice of her dress for more covering and leaning against the inside of the carriage which smelled a bit like a blacksmith’s shop. ‘People make mistakes. And I see now that perhaps I should have been happier about my chance to be a governess. Not everyone is so fortunate to have the parents such as I do who are willing to send a daughter away for education.’ She winced. ‘But I wanted to sing. I truly did. For audiences.’

She remembered the joy flooding her when music sounded. ‘I had to know. Wren and I exchanged many letters and I believed him reputable. I had to know if he had a true job for me. I might have suspected that it would be all for naught, but all my life I would have wondered. Perhaps it is worth the risk of death to know.’

‘No. It was not.’

His words brooked no argument. She examined him through the fading light. He sat, unselfconscious of her perusal, and it didn’t seem that she was being impolite or forward, but just learning what he looked like and trying to learn his thoughts.

But she had to think of her future now.

‘I will send a post telling how I was waylaid,’ she said. ‘I will leave out certain parts and I will hope that Madame Dubois accepts it, and will again reference me to a family. I will be a...’ She shut her eyes and forced out the words. ‘A governess.’

‘The children will be fortunate to have you.’

‘I must hope I am allowed to regain my position.’

‘A governess could sing to her charges.’

‘Of course.’

‘Sing for me,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Please.’

She tried, but only three words came out before her mouth dried. Her voice wavered, cracking, and no longer sounded her own.

‘I never want to sing again,’ she said. ‘I sang because la vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin. I wanted a chance to drink the good wine.’

‘The results can be the same. But do not give up something you love—something so sweet as song.’

‘My voice has always brought me notice,’ she said. ‘Always, and so many times Madame told me that pride goes before a fall and that it doesn’t cushion the ground a bit.’

‘Songbirds don’t have to remain on the ground.’

‘My wings have been clipped,’ she said.

‘I will find you a safe place to have the good wine tonight and tomorrow you may send the post to your friend. You will have many chances to make the children happy in your care.’

‘If you would just deliver me to a place where I might find suitable lodging.’

‘I know of only one place that would have what you need. My sister’s home. She’s married and too proper for good health. Tomorrow, my sister can quickly send a messenger to your destination and make up some folderol about how you aided her, causing you to become separated from your carriage. She’ll even put together a new garment for you. This will only be a small detour in your travels.’

She let out a breath. ‘Thank you.’ The words hurt her throat. Wren must have pressed against it more than she’d noticed. She trailed her fingers over her neck, searching for a cut but finding none.

He leaned forward, sliding the wood aside which covered the small trap window. ‘Sophia’s.’ he called out. But before he closed the window, he added, ‘Slowly,’ before glancing at Isabel and smiling.

That one word wrapped around her, suffusing her with wellbeing.

He relaxed to put an arm at the back of the seat, not touching her skin, but enveloping her all the same. ‘So, Miss Songbird, let us introduce ourselves on the way. Just listening to your speaking voice is quite the treat.’