When a Duke Loves a Governess

by Olivia Drake

  Those halting words had been Mama’s final utterance. Pain, in particular, was the one that wrenched Tessa’s heart. But she hadn’t realized the true significance of the rest until much later when, as an employee at the millinery, she’d noticed that ladies often arrived in fine carriages with a lozenge on the door of a type similar to the engraving on the pendant. It had occurred to her then that what she’d viewed as merely a pretty design might actually serve to identify the man who had sired her.

  “’Tis him, isn’t it?”

  Orrin’s sharp tone startled her, as did the inquisitiveness in his eyes. “Who?” she asked.

  “This lord you’re goin’ t’ see, is he your pa? The one what used your mam an’ then tossed her out? Did you find him?”

  She’d told Orrin the story about her parentage, although she hadn’t shown him the pendant. Keeping it concealed beneath her gown was a habit that had begun as a child at the orphanage, where even a crust of bread must be guarded against theft. “No, I did not. It’s the Duke of Carlin who needs a governess.”

  “A duke, eh? The loftiest o’ the toffs.” Orrin’s upper lip curled. Being something of a revolutionary, he had a low estimation of the aristocracy. “Gorblimey, Tess, you don’t do things by halves.”

  “It’s an excellent prospect. With the increase in salary, I’ll be able to open my shop all the sooner.”

  “That’s if you can bamboozle this duke. He’ll be expectin’ a blueblood lady. And he’ll be askin’ for your family connections. You can’t be tellin’ him you’re a hatmaker from the East End.”

  Tessa had been mulling over that very issue. What little she knew about aristocrats had been gleaned from observation, both at work and while window-shopping along Bond Street on her half day off. But if she let Orrin talk her out of this, she most certainly would never succeed. “I’ll think of something. Now I must be on my way lest the duke hire someone else.”

  That he might already be conducting interviews was a worry that lent speed to her packing. She added a stack of hat sketches to the clothing in the open trunk, then pried up a loose floorboard and extracted the tin box containing her savings. The coins made a satisfactory weight in her palm, though their value fell far short of the vast sum she needed.

  After tucking a few pennies in her reticule and concealing the remainder in the trunk, she straightened up to find Orrin eyeing her, his brows knit. “A pity you don’t know your pa’s name,” he said, continuing in his earlier vein. “He must be loaded with blunt. The bleater owes you.”

  Orrin had skirted close to guessing her true purpose. Too close. Should she apprise him of her secret plan to find the man? Yet a hard-learned caution made her hesitate to reveal the pendant.

  “But I don’t know his identity,” she said. “So that’s that.”

  She turned away to don the chip-straw bonnet that Madame had rejected. Tessa had felt justified in taking it in lieu of her monthly pay. The tiny spot on the brim had been eradicated with a bit of careful rubbing. Tying the sky-blue ribbons beneath her chin, she glanced into the little square mirror above the bureau. How pretty the hat looked now that she’d removed the gaudy clusters of rosebuds, how elegant and self-assured it made her feel.

  Was it too fine, though?

  Lady Farnsworth had described the other governesses as bran-faced spinsters. Such women tended to wear ugly round bonnets that offended Tessa’s sense of fashion. Everything in her craved to wear the stylish hat, so she rationalized that the rest of her appearance wasn’t memorable in the least. Small in stature, she had blue eyes set in ordinary features, with a hint of fair hair visible beneath the brim. She had changed into her second-best gown, a high-necked one of dark cerulean muslin that made her appear sober and bookish as befitting a governess.

  “What was your mam’s name?” Orrin asked suddenly.

  “Florence.” She tugged on her only pair of gloves, the pads of the fingers worn to threads. “Why do you wish to know?”

  “I don’t like you workin’ for this duke, that’s why. These noble swells, they’re lechers. If one preyed on your mam, it could happen t’ you, too.”

  Disquiet niggled at her. But Lady Farnsworth had pooh-poohed the notion of the Duke of Carlin abusing his governesses. She’d said only that little Lady Sophy had been indulged by her grandparents while the duke had been out of England. What was it that Mrs. Ludington had added?

  A man cannot spend so many years sailing around the world to remote lands without forgetting the finer points of proper behavior. Heaven only knows what peculiar customs he might have acquired.

  Tessa felt a tingle of curiosity as her natural optimism rose to the fore. “You needn’t fret. Sukie showed me how to use my knee to hit a man where it hurts him the most.”

  Orrin winced slightly. “I still don’t like it. If ’tis funds you need, I can track down your pa an’ then threaten t’ write an article exposing his sins unless he pays you a goodly sum.”

  “Lud, Orrin, that’s blackmail! I won’t see you locked in Newgate on my behalf.” Tessa didn’t intend to use criminal methods to bring her sire up to snuff. If, that is, she managed to identify him. Out of curiosity, she added, “How would you go about looking for him, anyway?”

  “By askin’ at all the big houses. One of the staff might recollect a maid named Florence James.”

  “That would have been over twenty years ago. More likely than not, you’d be tossed out on your ear.”

  “Bah, I’ve a nose for digging up the truth.” Orrin tapped his freckled beak. “Only look how quick I found out who nicked Mrs. Beasley’s mutt.”

  “It was very enterprising of you to uncover that dognapping ring.”

  “What’s more, the story got printed. I brung you a copy.” Beaming, he took the newspaper from under his arm, flipped to the last page, and poked an ink-stained finger at a small article near the bottom. “See there? My first published piece.”

  Tessa scanned the few lines, noticing that the lurid headline lacked an attribution. “Orrin, that’s wonderful. Congratulations!”

  “No byline as yet, but I’m hopin’ t’ have one soon. All’s I need is a big story. Mayhap you’ll keep your eyes open for me, eh? There must be lots o’ lords like your pa who are up t’ their ears in scandals.” He slid her a moony, tail-wagging look. “I won’t always be a lowly typesetter, you know. Once I make staff reporter, I’ll be able t’ support a wife an’ children.”

  Tessa suffered a momentary pang for a family of her own. Ever since losing Mama, she’d felt the occasional stab of loneliness, a yearning to have someone to love. Yet she had no compelling desire to marry Orrin—or any other man, for that matter. Being beholden to a husband would thwart her dream of opening a millinery shop. Perhaps that was why she felt so reluctant to enlist his aid. She didn’t wish to feel obliged to accept his offer.

  “That’s a fine ambition,” she said, smiling to soften her rejection. “But you mustn’t expect me to pass along gossip about my employer. Now I really must be on my way.”

  Orrin agreed to keep Tessa’s trunk until she could send for it. As they moved it downstairs to his flat, she ignored his frowning look. She couldn’t bear another word of his naysaying.

  Especially when she was already a quivering mass of nerves.

  Chapter 2

  Guy Whitby, the seventh Duke of Carlin, sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on the packet of papers forwarded by his steward. It didn’t help his restless state of mind that he felt like an interloper in the study that had once been his grandfather’s domain.

  The cavernous room featured gilded moldings and green silk damask hangings, with busts of poets and philosophers on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He’d hung a number of framed botanical paintings from his travels, but the place still didn’t quite feel like his own. Every piece of furniture was oversized and uniquely designed to flaunt the eminence of the master. Even the massive desk rested on the outstretched wings of a carved eagle, a tribute to the Carlin fami
ly crest.

  On the polished mahogany surface before him lay proposals for improving drainage in the west pasture, purchasing a new bull for the herd of milchers, rethatching the roofs of the tenant cottages, and a host of other issues relating to his ducal seat in Derbyshire.

  Guy grimaced. How naïve of him to imagine he could devote the afternoon to working on the book he hoped to publish about his four-year voyage around the world. Since his return, there had been an endless stream of legal documents, investment summaries, and detailed reports on the several estates he had inherited—all of them involving problems that required informed decisions. To make matters worse, heavy taxes due to the recent war had eaten into his assets, his stock holdings had been neglected, and he would soon be expected to take his seat in the House of Lords when he didn’t give a bloody damn about politics.

  It was enough to drive a man mad.

  He glanced at his secretary, who was taking notes on a sheet of cream paper. “Snodgrass is even wanting permission to dip the demmed sheep. I don’t see why the devil I pay him if he must seek my approval for everything.”

  “The ducal properties have been without a master since the passing of the sixth duke a year ago,” Banfield replied. “Naturally, there is a backlog of issues. Your grandfather believed it to be his obligation to approve any and all expenditures.”

  Guy detected a faint note of censure in that respectful tone, though no hint of it showed in the secretary’s unruffled manner. Banfield was a trim man in his fifties with coffee-brown hair gone silver at the temples, and the sort of nondescript face that blended into the background. He’d served the family for over a decade. On holidays from Oxford, Guy often would see the fellow in this study, taking dictation from his grandsire. He could still hear the old duke’s gruff voice snapping orders that echoed down the marble corridor.

  A deep ache gripped Guy. It was hard to believe that a man as strong and robust as his grandfather was gone. He’d suffered a heart seizure one night, and Guy hadn’t learned of the death until seven months later. While he’d been sailing around the world, collecting botanical samples and sketching plants, his future had been irrevocably altered.

  And not in a way that he had ever anticipated.

  Growing up, he’d never spared a thought for the dukedom, since he was fourth in line of succession. But through a series of mishaps during his absence from England, the other heirs had died. Uncle Sebastian, the eldest of Grandfather’s three sons, had been sailing off the Isle of Wight when his yacht had capsized in rough seas, drowning him and Charles, his only son and heir. Then Guy’s father, the second brother, had succumbed to a deadly stomach ailment. The strain of these calamities must have been what had sent the sixth duke to his grave.

  It was his grandfather that Guy mourned the most. Despite their differences, the old duke had had a forceful impact on his life, much more so than Guy’s father. He and his grandfather often had been at loggerheads, with Carlin urging him toward the life of a noble landowner and Guy determined to follow an academic path. They’d had a flaming row over Guy’s decision to outfit a private ship in order to further his interest in the study of plants. Carlin had denounced the round-the-world trip as a fool’s errand, and they’d parted ways with harsh words that Guy regretted.

  Now he was Carlin. He, who had never wanted the title.

  Guy had discovered the sequence of tragic events upon picking up several years’ worth of mail held for him at a British consul’s office halfway around the world. In a state of shock and sorrow, he’d spent hours reading and rereading the letters in chronological order, gossip from various relatives, stern missives from the old duke, and finally the news of Carlin’s death from Aunt Delia, along with a host of dispatches from the family solicitors urging Guy to come home at once.

  That night, he had stayed awake, drinking and reminiscing until dawn. The unwelcome prospect of having to fill his grandfather’s shoes had sorely tempted him to delay his return. But in the end he’d faced his duty, sailed back to England, and taken up the mantle of his inheritance.

  London was noisy and crowded after years on the high seas. Society was even worse. His elevation in rank had brought hordes of fawning well-wishers and toadying curiosity-seekers to his doorstep. Only the nagging of Aunt Delia, Lady Victor, had kept him from barring the door and becoming a hermit. Still, a shark attack was preferable to facing a ballroom of young ladies vying for the attention of a bachelor duke.

  Little did they know, he was done with marriage.

  Banfield’s voice intruded. “Perhaps Your Grace would prefer that I make a recommendation on each matter for your approval?”

  “An excellent notion.” Shoving the mountain of papers toward the secretary, Guy jested, “A pity you couldn’t have inherited in my place. You know the role far better than I do.”

  Banfield flicked him a glance before lowering his gaze to the desk. Guy ignored that startled look. He knew the man found him lacking in proper ducal decorum, but devil take it, Guy had never planned on this life. Maybe in time he’d accept that becoming one of the richest men in England was a blessing, not a curse.

  Maybe.

  In short order, the secretary began sorting through the proposals, offering advice for Guy’s approval. They spent the next few hours wading through the stack and discussing solutions. As they neared completion, a footman entered the study and stood at attention just inside the door. He waited to be acknowledged, his young features immobile beneath a white wig, his posture rigid in blue livery adorned with tiers of gold lace.

  Many of the servants had that stiff-rumped manner, Guy had noted, and he wondered if they expected him to be a tyrant like his grandfather. He could only hope that time would ease the misapprehension. “Yes, Francis?”

  “Beg pardon, Your Grace. There’s a governess come from the agency.”

  “The appointment is scheduled for eleven tomorrow morning,” Banfield interjected. “Kindly ask her to return at the appropriate hour. The duke is far too busy to be disturbed just now.”

  Guy had found the secretary’s diligence in acting as a buffer against unwanted visitors to be useful, especially when ambitious mamas invented an excuse to bring their marriageable daughters to call. However, since this situation involved Sophy, he felt the weight of urgency.

  “On the contrary, we’ve done enough for one afternoon,” he said. “Send her in at once.”

  As the footman departed, Guy pushed back his chair and stood up, his legs cramped from hours of sitting. Pray God this new governess would be more adept at managing his daughter than the others. It perplexed him how one tiny girl could rule the nursery with an iron fist. He knew Sophy needed discipline but couldn’t bear to be the one administering it when he already felt culpable for abandoning her.

  The trouble was, he couldn’t bear for anyone else to punish her, either. It wasn’t her fault that her manners been neglected.

  As he donned the coat that he’d slung over a chair, Guy feared that he’d failed Sophy. He’d departed England shortly after the death of his wife, Annabelle, believing his infant daughter would be better off raised by her maternal grandparents. After all, how could he succeed at fatherhood when he’d failed so miserably at marriage?

  But Lord and Lady Norwood had disregarded his order to dismiss Annabelle’s testy old nursemaid, Mooney, and to hire someone more competent. Under Mooney’s slipshod care, Sophy had become a terror. Now half a dozen governesses had come and gone in the past month. The last one he’d dismissed this very morning when he’d caught her thrashing his daughter with a switch.

  Sophy’s bloodcurdling screams had sent him flying up to the nursery, envisioning her mangled from some horrible accident. As it turned out, she had bitten the governess in a fit of pique when asked to leave her toys and practice her alphabet. Her small teeth had left an angry red crescent on the woman’s hand.

  Nevertheless, the sight of his tiny daughter lying over the governess’s knee had infuriated Guy. It brought
back painful memories of his grandfather wielding the cane. Sophy had run to cower in the corner, and even now, the memory of her woebegone face made his chest clench. By damn, there had to be a better way to make a four-year-old girl behave!

  What that method was, though, eluded him.

  He strode to the gilt-framed mirror behind the door to adjust his coat. This morning, he had dictated a stern letter to the agency, requesting they send their most experienced governess, someone with the skill and competence to handle a contrary little girl. He grimly resolved to subject this new applicant to a more thorough scrutiny than the others. She must be made to understand that he would accept nothing less than absolute success in taming Sophy’s unruly behavior.

  Clasping the tidy pile of papers, Banfield bowed respectfully. “I presume you wish for me to finish these in my office?”

  Guy gave an impatient wave. “Yes, yes. Go on.”

  As the secretary started toward the door, the footman returned. “Miss James, Your Grace.”

  A petite woman appeared in the corridor. Guy’s view was partially blocked by the door, but he had the impression of her gawking like a tourist at the opulent surroundings. Her features half hidden by the wide brim of a chip-straw bonnet, she stepped into the study and halted before Banfield.

  Darting a glance up at the secretary, she grasped the skirt of her dark blue gown and dipped an elaborate curtsy worthy of the queen’s drawing room. “I’m ever so pleased to meet you, Your Grace.”

  Her voice was soft and melodious yet careful, as if she was concentrating on the proper enunciation. Before Guy could step forward and correct her misapprehension, Banfield spoke. “The agency sent word to expect a Miss Williston. Nothing was said of a Miss James.”