Читать книгу The Earl and the Governess - Sarah Barnwell Elliott - Страница 8

She bit her lip, trying to control the smile that threatened to break through. But he sounded so nonplussed it really was comical. Finally, she gave up and grinned at him. ‘They’re marble, actually.’

He nodded slowly, allowing his gaze to drift over her face slightly longer than was proper. She flushed and looked away, wishing he didn’t have such a disturbing effect on her—he, no doubt, thought her blushes were ridiculously missish. When she’d regained her composure and looked back, he’d removed one of the items in question. A fragment of a woman’s face, small enough to fit in his hand, delicately carved in white marble. All that remained of it was an almond-shaped eye, an ear, and an elegant nose. Isabelle knew her bag contained two more like it.

‘I take it she used to be a Roman goddess, or something like that,’ he said slowly.

‘Well…’

He didn’t let her finish. ‘And I was starting to think you were only a little bit eccentric. Why would you carry these things around?’

Her smile faded, and she replied coldly, ‘I was trying to sell them, clearly.’

‘Did the man offer you any money at all?’

She shook her head. ‘He didn’t quite know what to make of them.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. What do you think they’re worth?’

‘I don’t know. Next to nothing.’

He returned the object to the bag. ‘More than that, surely.’

She shrugged. ‘I…I’m going home now.’

He didn’t pass the bag back to her. ‘But I thought I was going to help you.’

‘How can you possibly help me?’

His answer didn’t come readily, suggesting he had no more idea than she. ‘Well…some advice, maybe. Perhaps you could sell these things to a collector? Someone with an interest in antiquities? You won’t find anyone who wants to buy them around here.’

She sighed unhappily. ‘A collector wouldn’t want them, either, since they’re not really old.’

‘No? Then why are they broken?’

‘They were broken to begin with, to make them look more, um…authentic.’

‘I see.’ He was looking at her curiously, and she suspected he didn’t see at all. ‘You mean they’re forgeries.’

She didn’t want to say the words. She just nodded.

‘You told the man they weren’t real, I trust?’

She frowned at him, not liking the implication. ‘Of course. I’m not dishonest.’

He reached into the bag and removed the red morocco case. ‘What about this necklace? Are the pearls real?’

She nodded. It was the last nice thing she owned, and it was more valuable than many of the things she’d already sold. She’d held on to it for personal reasons, but she could no longer afford to be sentimental.

‘It is yours, I hope.’

‘Are you suggesting I stole it?’

‘Did you?’ he asked.

She wanted to be angry, but it was a perfectly reasonable question. ‘It was a gift. It is mine to do with as I like.’

He nodded. ‘In that case I would be happy to buy it from you.’

She took the necklace from his hands and returned it to her bag. ‘I do not think it will become you.’

‘No?’

There was a lilting, teasing note to his voice, but she was entirely serious—serious and, now, getting angry. ‘No. I will not accept your charity. You’ve just met me and you needn’t feel you have to help me.’

‘It isn’t charity,’ he protested.

‘Oh? What use have you of my necklace?’

‘You needn’t sound so incredulous. I’m sure I can find someone to give it to.’

‘Who?’ she demanded, but then she immediately blushed, realising how naïve her question sounded. A man like him undoubtedly had about five mistresses, if not a wife.

‘I wouldn’t have to look that far. I could give it to you, for one.’

‘To me?’ She didn’t quite understand what he was proposing, probably because all rational thought was quickly slipping from her mind. All she knew was that he suddenly seemed every bit as dangerous as the man who’d been following her that morning, and the boy who’d tried to rob her. More dangerous, in fact, at least to her sense of self-preservation.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll buy it from you, and then I’ll give it back. As a gift.’

‘That’s unnecessary. I…I must return now.’She rose and started walking back the way they had come.

He caught up a few seconds later, taking the bag from her when he reached her side. ‘You’re remarkably stubborn, you know.’

She didn’t turn her head to look at him. ‘If that bothers you, then you may leave. I know precisely where I’m going, so I can walk on my own.’

‘I’m far too stubborn m’self.’ He caught her hand, forcing her to stop. ‘And I would like to buy your necklace. I don’t see why you’re denying me, since it’s clearly for sale. And, if you promised not to be difficult about it, then I’d even be happy to allow you to keep it. Perhaps it has special meaning for you?’

It did. It had belonged to her mother. There was pity in his eyes, and she hated it. ‘Then that would be charity, sir.’

He frowned. ‘You needn’t worry that I would expect anything in return.’

That just made her blush. She started walking again. ‘It’s very expensive.’

‘How expensive?’

‘Two hundred pounds,’ she said, hoping the outrageous price would end the subject. She glanced at him sideways.

He raised an eyebrow, but otherwise showed little reaction. ‘Yes, that does seem rather dear.’

‘Well, I’m sorry—’

‘Would you settle for fifty pounds…’he was patting his jacket’s inner pocket as if looking for something ‘…and sixpence?’ He extracted a coin.

She stopped to stare. ‘You don’t travel with that sort of money.’

He smiled. ‘No, I tend to rely on credit. I think the sixpence would be about all I could manage at the moment.’

‘You think I’d give you my necklace for sixpence?’

‘A mere deposit. You can come to my house and I can give you the rest.’

Go to his house? No. ‘Your offer is too high.’ She resumed walking.

‘It’s considerably less than you requested.’

‘I wasn’t serious!’

He sighed. ‘Yes, I rather realised that. But I thought the object was to sell everything in this bag, and you’ve so far failed miserably. You’re clearly in need of money, or you wouldn’t be here.’

Isabelle ignored his point. He was right: she really was a fool. He was offering her the money she needed—much more than she’d hoped for—and yet she was refusing. Why? ‘I don’t need money that badly…I’m looking for employment, you see, and I only need enough to tide myself over until then.’

‘Oh? What sort of employment are you trained for?’

Another perceptive question. Drat. He asked it politely, as if he were merely curious, but she suspected he’d already guessed the answer. ‘I’m not trained for anything, if you must know. A governess, I suppose. I am reasonably well educated.’

He looked so dubious she added defensively, ‘Well, I am. You needn’t make a face.’

‘I’m not doubting your education, Miss Thomas. But somehow you don’t seem to realise that few mothers would eagerly welcome someone like you into their homes.’

She flushed with anger. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’

‘There’s no need to get upset. All I mean is that women like their children’s governesses to be stout and homely. Or skinny and homely. But…homely is important, I’m afraid.’His voice dropped an octave. ‘You’re…what I mean to say is you’re not homely. The very opposite, in fact. It’s a compliment.’

Her heart was beating like a hammer. She forced herself not to look at him and fixed her sights on a sleeping dog at the end of the road. But she knew he was looking at her. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face.

So she started to babble. ‘I…I might also work in a shop. Or I…might take in sewing. I could do any—’

‘Miss Thomas?’

‘Yes?’

‘I have no doubt you’ll be successful in whatever you choose to do, but it might take a while.And you still haven’t sold your necklace, so you haven’t any money to tide you over. Just accept my offer, please. Don’t think of it as charity, since I am getting something in return.’

Isabelle said nothing. She didn’t want to take his money—she really didn’t. But she also didn’t know why it mattered, since she’d planned to sell her necklace anyway. And the money he offered would pay for her lodgings for several months. It would feed her. It might even cover some of her debt…

But taking money from him was different. It was more shaming. No matter what he said, it was charity.

In the end, though, necessity won out over pride, although she still couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘If you truly wish to buy it, then I won’t argue. But I insist you keep it. I…I don’t need your gift.’

He nodded, and they walked on in uncomfortable silence.

After another minute, they reached the crowded street where she’d first encountered him.

‘My carriage is just over there.’

She looked in the direction he indicated. His carriage had pulled to the side in order not to obstruct traffic; his driver, who’d been arguing energetically when she’d last seen him, now glared sullenly at the greengrocer, who’d still not moved his cart.

‘Your carriage?’ she asked.

He was regarding the vehicle with mild displeasure, but he looked back at her to answer the question. ‘Yes—you’re coming to my house, remember?’

Ride in his carriage with him? It was far too intimate. She couldn’t do it. ‘Perhaps I might hire a hack?’

‘Don’t be silly. It could be an hour before you see a hack around here.’

‘I could walk, then.’

‘You expect me to trust you with my sixpence? How do I know you won’t abscond with it?’

She frowned at him. ‘You can have your sixpence back.’

He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Oh, for the…’ He managed to catch himself before emitting an oath. ‘You’re being silly. I’ll hire a hack for myself, so you won’t be alone with me, if that’s what’s stopping you. You can have my carriage to yourself.’

No. ‘As you pointed out, hacks rarely come to these parts. I cannot allow you to inconvenience—’

‘It is not inconvenient,’ he said tightly, patently already both annoyed and inconvenienced. ‘You are not walking, but if you propose to stand here and debate it all day then I am willing to oblige you.’

She didn’t want to debate all day, nor did she want to walk. Her stomach rumbled and her feet hurt. She looked away, wishing she hadn’t argued with him. It wasn’t proper for her to ride in his carriage, alone or otherwise, but she’d abandoned propriety many months ago. She was in no position to be so fastidious.

‘You will at least let me pay your fare.’

‘No, I won’t,’ he said irritably, his gentleman’s honour obviously insulted that she would offer.

She blushed again, embarrassed by her gaucheness. But she had to acknowledge his generosity somehow.

‘I really am grateful for your kindness. I’m sorry if I’ve seemed impolite. What I mean to say is, well, thank you, my lord.’

‘You don’t have to be so formal.’

But she did. Formality was all that was keeping her from melting on the spot. His eyes had warmed with her apology, and his tone had dropped subtly: deeper, richer, entreating. She couldn’t look away, and in the heavy silence, he reached out to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. She found herself staring at his lips. She thought he was going to kiss her, and stopping him was far from her mind. He was so close, and all he’d have to do was tilt his head…

‘Do you know what I think?’

‘What?’ she asked, feeling rather mesmerised.

‘I think you need more help than you’ll admit.’

She blinked and looked away, realising that any kissing was merely the product of her overheated imagination.

Will glanced in the direction of his carriage, where the argument had recommenced. ‘You’d better wait here while I sort this out. I don’t trust McGrath to mind his tongue when he’s riled. And pay attention this time.’

He gave her a stern look and deposited the bag at her feet before walking purposely towards the carriage, just on the other side of the road. She watched him go, feeling rather dizzy. That morning she’d been penniless, friendless and scared. Through sheer happenstance she now had the promise of money and a most unlikely champion.

She allowed herself to look at him, safe in the knowledge that for the moment he wasn’t paying attention to her. She liked the way his hair fell over his temples as he lowered his head to listen to the greengrocer. After a few seconds, he pushed it back, looking frustrated. He seemed—quite valiantly, she thought—to be holding his temper in check. He started patting his pockets, and she assumed the man was demanding money for his damaged potatoes. She couldn’t suppress her smile. Pity she’d taken his last sixpence, but she was certain he’d think of something. What with all that credit. There’d be a small parade of beggars, all with hands held out, following him home before the day was through.

She looked at the sky, watching the clouds drift past and wondering how late it was. She’d been enjoying herself, in an odd sort of way, and she suspected more time had passed than she was aware of.

Mrs William Stanton. She rather liked the sound of that. No, no—Isabelle, Lady Lennox. Or the Countess of Lennox, perhaps. How terribly grand. If only her father’d been a duke instead of a criminal.

She rolled her eyes at her folly and returned her gaze to the street. Right, he’d instructed her to pay attention…

But then the second her mind drifted back to earth she saw the man again. The one who’d followed her. She blinked, not quite believing her eyes, but it was definitely him. Dark hair, medium height. He didn’t seem to have seen her, but he appeared to be searching the crowd. She didn’t know who he was, but she had an awful idea who might have sent him.

She immediately stooped to pick up her bag, gripping it tightly. She gave William Stanton one last glance, but he was still occupied with his driver. So much for riding in his carriage.

She turned her body slowly in the other direction, hoping not to attract any attention as she eased deeper into the crowd. She looked over her shoulder, hoping the man still hadn’t noticed her.

But now he was heading in her direction.

She turned her head and started walking faster, not caring if it looked odd. He hadn’t necessarily seen her; perhaps it was chance that he’d seemed to be closer. After a few long strides, she turned again. This time, there was no sign of the man. She hoped she’d lost him. Or, perhaps, he’d merely blended in with the crowd. He could be as close as ever.

She started to run.

Isabelle arrived at her boarding house an hour later with a swiftly beating heart. She’d taken a circuitous route, hoping the man wouldn’t reappear. And, as far as she was aware, he hadn’t. She’d run much of the way, stopping to catch her breath only a few times; after a mere ten minutes she’d abandoned the marble heads on the side of the road. Worthless anyway, and they slowed her down.

Now, she stood at the top of her front steps, facing a slightly shabby door. She wondered if the man knew where she lived, and she supposed he probably did.

She wouldn’t think about it. She began fishing around her pocket, hoping that she hadn’t lost her key in the rush. She’d already forgotten it once, and Miss Standish, the house’s temperamental proprietor, had been remarkably put out about having to answer the door.

Isabelle located the key easily, and the door opened without so much as a sigh to notify Miss Standish that she’d returned. In the four days she’d been staying there, she’d learned it was best to avoid her.

Isabelle quietly closed the door behind her and returned the key to her pocket. But then…what was that? The key had clinked against another heavy, brass object. She removed it, frowning.

It wasn’t brass, actually. It was William Stanton’s gold watch.

Good God, she’d stolen it after all.