The Governess's Guide to Marriage

by Liz Tyner

  The room did have the flair of a princess’s dream. At the top of the walls, a vine of roses traced the space and each bloom seemed created on a different day in the life of one flower, from bud to vibrancy to fade. The vine continued on, with another rose of a different hue.

  All the linens in the room were of different shades, but coordinated with the similar flowers that were running along the top of the walls. Windows stretched tall, but didn’t fight for attention. They were covered in flowing curtains, the pastels matching hues from the roses.

  The tester bed rested serenely among the gentle covers, snuggled in among the other furnishings, all soft and gentle, with smaller roses painted on the canopy.

  No silver or gold or gilt, but only a few glass figurines sat on the surfaces, and the framed paintings were as serene and gentle as the rest of the room, and their frames had been painted pastel.

  She’d never seen a room so delicate, or even realised one could exist.

  She pivoted to thank the maid and realised another servant had arrived. The second person curtsied and said she had but to ask and it would be done.

  Chalgrove had put her in his house and she doubted she could move one foot outside the house without being observed.

  * * *

  The servants fluttered around Miranda, seeing that she had warm bathing water for a hip bath, a dressing gown and the choice between an herb-or rose-scented soap, and told her they’d be back after securing her a clean garment and to ring when she was ready.

  She bathed, trying to wash the memories of the past from her body and the knowledge of Chalgrove’s touch, and trying to immerse herself in the confidence that she would be able to return to the children soon.

  After rising from the water, she donned the gown and called for the maid.

  The servant helped with dressing Miranda’s hair. Later, the other brought in a day dress and left again.

  The gilt that had been saved on the room adorned the dress. The garment was lovely, even if it was a few years behind fashion.

  Golden thread ran in patterns on the capped sleeves and on an off-white band below the bodice.

  ‘An old one of Her Grace’s daughter’s. She never wore it because it didn’t fit her well,’ the maid explained, ‘although she kept it thinking it would fit her again.’

  Before Miranda had completely dressed, Chalgrove’s mother whooshed in, her skirt gathered in one hand so she could move rapidly.

  She waved the maid away and started talking the second they were alone.

  ‘Were you taken prisoner by bloodthirsty cut-throats? You can tell me, dear. I will not swoon. Chalgrove is trying to spare me the details, I’m sure, for fear I’ll be too weak to withstand it. But I will have the truth and justice. Justice is best served quickly and swiftly.’

  His mother ran a hand under her own chin, mimicking the movement of a sword across the neck.

  ‘I appreciate your help. But, please, don’t put yourself to any trouble.’ Miranda relocated closer to the wall, hoping to extricate herself from the questions and the overpowering presence of the Duchess. The move didn’t work.

  ‘I need to be on my way so I can put this behind me. I want to get back to my duties. My employment.’ She certainly didn’t want her connection to the old woman to be discovered.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear. You’re safe at my home. Chalgrove has everything under control. We have sturdy footmen and good stablemen. We have a small coterie of assistants and we’ll find those cut-throats before you know it, then you’ll not have to worry again.’

  Chalgrove’s mother’s smile fluttered and lodged into a vengeful curve.

  She took her handkerchief and dabbed at a tear which never materialised. ‘They’ll have a quick drop.’

  ‘I would like to reassure everyone I’m well.’ Miranda spoke in the same voice she used to soothe Dolly after promising her that Willie would not feed a baby rabbit to the cat.

  ‘Oh, I do like a dutiful daughter.’ She edged forward. ‘Now I must spoil the surprise. I asked Chalgrove about your family and I have already sent a note to the Manwarings inviting them. People often think it’s grand to visit a duchess. Novelty for them.’ She laughed. ‘Sometimes, I jest with them that we put on our bejewelled slippers just the same as anyone else.’

  Miranda stared at the Duchess, a woman whose wishes were almost met before she spoke them and who had grown accustomed to getting her way. Chalgrove’s mother had a spirited streak and she was very much like her son in that.

  Miranda would find a way to leave quietly and, once she did, she would be putting Chalgrove behind her for ever. But she had no other choice.

  She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d promised she wouldn’t be harmed. That would be a memory she would cherish for ever. Even if she could remove everything else of the ordeal from her mind, that gaze would be held close.

  * * *

  Chalgrove listened to the rasp of the razor over his cheek as he removed the scruff.

  He had to become presentable quickly. He needed to discover Miss Manwaring’s secrets. The woman was becoming too enmeshed in his thoughts and he needed to remove her from them.

  He’d sent for Wheaton immediately, but he’d not been able to wait on the valet before he had begun shaving. Now, Wheaton waited behind him with a flannel, watching. Chalgrove nicked himself and swore.

  No ransom had been requested. His mother hadn’t been contacted in any way by the culprits. It was almost as if he’d been taken for no reason. He’d been gone over twenty-four hours, imprisoned and taunted by a mad woman.

  The culprits had had time to request a ransom. What good would it do to take someone, yet let no one know he was gone?

  Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity. He would have the magistrate speak with Beau Brummell’s tailor. He glanced in the mirror and spoke over his shoulder to Wheaton. ‘Do I look like I could be a tailor? I was mistaken for one.’

  Wheaton bowed as he spoke. ‘They do not dress as well as you are attired, Your Grace.’

  Chalgrove took the flannel and dotted the remnants of the soap from his face, before returning the cloth to Wheaton.

  He strode to the door.

  He’d asked his mother to keep Miss Manwaring nearby and now her parents were invited to visit. Miss Manwaring didn’t think her stepmother as devious as to kidnap them, but she might not see the truth of the other woman.

  Plus, his companion knew more than she admitted and he intended to do whatever was needed to do to find out.

  ‘When we finish, I want you to send someone around for a hat for me. One like the one I wore last. If you need to go for it, I don’t mind. As long as I get another one.’

  ‘It was certainly a fine hat and quite the crack. I’m deeply distressed it is gone. It made you one of a kind. A true find. But...’ he paused ‘...perhaps not up to the standards required by a duke. I am sure the maker meant well, but if it had been a small amount less elegant, it would have been suitable for a tailor. Perhaps that is how you were mistaken for a tradesman.’

  Chalgrove paused.

  ‘An exemplary hat, sir. I am proud to work for a man who has the best of taste.’

  Chalgrove took an extra second to stare at Wheaton. ‘Have I ever got angry at you for giving me your honest opinion on my clothing?’

  ‘Never. I am completely awash with amazement at how faultless your taste in fashion is. It echoes my own.’

  ‘But the hat was...suitable for a tradesman?’

  ‘I would never assume such a thing. Ever. But a man of the criminal sort is not as discerning as I.’

  ‘You’re a good valet. You’ve been my valet for five years. In my life for all of my life. You could have been sacked had anyone discovered you were trying to scare me when I was a child.’

  ‘I was foxed that night, sir. It seemed like a good idea a
t the time and you’d become adept at filling my life with all matter of reptiles and rodents. I needed the job and you were a trial.’

  ‘You can tell me the truth, now. Surely.’

  ‘If you insist. You are still a trial—but one I am blessed to have.’

  ‘Hector.’

  One shoulder fell and the words seemed pulled from him. ‘Your Grace, I know you enjoy flaunting hats to see how they will be received, but that may have been nearing a step too far.’

  If it had caused him to be mistaken for a tailor, then perhaps Wheaton had a point.

  ‘When the magistrate arrives, make certain I am informed immediately.’

  ‘I will see if he is here now, sir.’

  Privately, he would make sure the man hadn’t heard of Miss Manwaring before. But he already knew the answer to that.

  At least, he hoped he did. He’d been misled once by a woman’s beauty and, in truth, his old sweetheart was nothing compared to Miss Manwaring.

  He remembered pulling her through the roof and taking her into his arms after they’d tumbled.

  Even with the rain, the roof and the uncertainty around him, he’d been aware every moment their bodies had touched.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda had no doubt that her parents would visit the Duke of Chalgrove’s mother. Her father’s wife wouldn’t risk offending anyone of the peerage, and few in London would be able to resist any request from a duchess. It just wasn’t done.

  Two different trays of food had been brought to her, along with two volumes of poetry, and she’d been asked what sort of book she preferred reading, or if she would like another letter posted.

  Another knock sounded. The maid, her head bowed, raised her eyes as she entered. ‘Miss,’ she whispered in her excitement. ‘The magistrate has left, but he’s sent his best constable and he wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘I— Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, miss. The master and the constable have been speaking in the library for some time now. They requested you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Miranda stood and smoothed the skirt of the borrowed dress. She moved carefully, trying to calm her breathing, and her hands. She wanted to run for the door, yet she had done nothing wrong.

  And the one person who had been devious, Miranda didn’t have the heart to have her captured.

  The only mother Miranda had ever known, the woman who’d found her beside the road, had always told Miranda that her arrival might not have been in the preferred method, but that a blessing didn’t always travel the conventional route.

  She’d claimed the fortune-teller had been so wise. The woman had told her that a child would come into her household and she must love it as her own. She’d said she’d known then it would happen and she’d prepared herself for Miranda’s arrival.

  Miranda’s mother had smiled and hugged her, telling her how pitiful her new daughter had looked sitting beside the road, with tear-stained cheeks, and together the world had shone brighter for both of them.

  Her mother had called her an angel, a gift, but Manwaring had always distanced himself, as if he saw her as nothing more than a bit of refuse that his wife had brought home. Knowing him, she found it surprising he’d allowed her into the household. But it would have taken a colder man than he was to have left a child to starve.

  She pulled at the bodice of her dress, trying to make it more sedate. A governess would never wear such a revealing gown and with gold threads. The sleeves fluttered as she walked, reminding her of little wings. The corset she wore had been borrowed from a maid. The shoes, her own, had been cleaned, but were still damp.

  The dress suddenly felt too ornate for her. She felt like a child wearing a mother’s ball gown.

  She would have slipped out the back door and made her way to her employer’s house, and the servants would have welcomed her with open arms. But she doubted she’d have been able to get to the front door without someone noticing, questioning and reporting her activity to Chalgrove.

  And he would have followed her, or sent a constable.

  She paused, knowing he wouldn’t send a constable. He would arrive himself. A tiny spark of happiness nestled in her because a bond had grown between them enough she could believe he would have to see for himself where she was. She could believe him when he said she wouldn’t be harmed. He meant it.

  But he’d not promised anything about her grandmother. Except justice.

  Miranda couldn’t leave without arousing his suspicion, or without the awareness that the moments between them would never be the same again.

  As soon as her governess dress dried, she intended to put it back on. Perhaps then she would be able to have the strength to find a way to convince him to forget about the abduction, then walk out the door and say goodbye to the moments she’d spent with Chalgrove.

  She followed the maid to a door, waited as she knocked and entered after the girl opened it for her.

  The library had few books, but if a room could have a learned air without books, this one did.

  Rays of light filtered through the oversized windows and the scent of cleaning oils hit her. Oak wood gleamed. The pieces of furniture more solid and designed to last longer than the trees that had been felled for their construction would have lived had they been left to the elements.

  The room had no hint of a woman’s presence except for the solemn painting above the fireplace of two children. The boy had a book tucked under his arm. The girl sat in a small chair, her doll at her side, dressed in the same perfect dress as her owner. The children were being trained to take their roles in life, or the artist had been advised to paint them such.

  Chalgrove stood in the room, more than a mere duke in this house, more a sovereign of the residence. Gone was the stubble, the rumpled clothes and the man she’d first known. This man took up space in a room the same as he had at the cottage, but he could command a bigger room. In the little house, he was out of his element. In his world, he ruled. He knew it. Every thread of his clothes knew it. Less emotion was showing on his face than would have shown from a portrait.

  Her eyes wouldn’t turn away. This stranger was the same man she’d seen only hours before. She searched for the bond they’d had, but she didn’t know if it still existed or if he’d shaken it off with his bathing water.

  Her heartbeat chugged along, but she had to remind herself to breathe easily. She had been captured and was innocent. And she should want the culprit caught—only she didn’t.

  She gave a curtsy to Chalgrove. Her first for him.

  A shuffling movement at the side of the room caught her eye. The spindly man eyed her more closely than she’d watched Chalgrove.

  The constable’s clothing was sombre except for a checked waistcoat. If she’d seen him on the street, with his drooping eyelids and his thin, tilted nose, she would not have judged him friendly, even with the curling hair framing his face, and would have given him wide berth.

  But he smiled at her, his teeth almost too big to fit inside his mouth, and waved a hand for her to be seated.

  She took a chair across from him.

  ‘I wish we could have prevented your ordeal, Miss Manwaring,’ the constable intoned as he sat and gave a quick snap at the hem of his waistcoat to put it in place.

  Chalgrove strode to the window, as if he were more interested in the scene outside than any happenings in the room. His movements alerted her more than if he’d casually sat. The coat he wore contrasted with the shirt underneath. She wondered if he wore the almost mismatched colours to state his power. To tell others he could wear what he wished and to speak of it with him might be unsettling for the speaker.

  ‘Please recount for me the happenings of the day you were taken,’ the constable interrupted her reflections.

  She told him her story, only mentioning that she’d expected to find a dying person who could tell h
er the circumstances of her birth.

  He chewed the inside of his lip as she talked.

  ‘Do you know who might have done this?’

  She swallowed. She glanced at Chalgrove. He’d not altered his movement. ‘At first, I deduced, erroneously, I’d been abducted by the Duke, although I didn’t recognise him as such. He was dishevelled from the circumstance and I perceived him to be of a criminal sort.’

  Chalgrove’s lips tilted in amusement.

  ‘Continue.’ The constable leaned back, giving the appearance of someone more befuddled than proficient. But she doubted the magistrate would assign anyone to help the Duke who wasn’t the best.

  Her eyes returned to the older man. ‘I was obviously wrong and I understood it was possible that I had been captured in expectation that my parents might pay a ransom. I am not wealthy, but with my father’s estate, it could have been assumed he would disburse funds to have me safe. And my position as a governess made me an easy target. It wouldn’t be obvious that I normally travel with one of the other servants from the house.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And the Duke, he would have easily been assumed to be worth a large sum of money. A criminal could think holding two might be no more risk than one.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Go on?’ She raised her shoulders. ‘I’m a governess. I don’t know the workings of a criminal mind. I was hoping you might shed some light on this situation. What is your conclusion?’

  She saw a glimpse of more teeth. ‘I don’t have one.’

  She raised a brow.

  ‘Too early. I don’t draw conclusions, anyway. I draw solutions.’

  Chalgrove took a small step and the movement signalled his entrance into the conversation. ‘I have men visiting the small cottage to see if anyone reappears. If they do, they are to be brought here.’

  She touched her throat. She could imagine her grandmother in the Duke’s house, screaming curses, blaming everything on Miranda and causing a ruckus suitable to Drury Lane.