"These are rather sturdy," Emily offered,not wanting to seem ungracious, as she attempted to walk in Ava's boots. She tried to arrange her features into an expression that looked as excited as Ava's, but feared that she had not managed it.
"Hush," Ava whispered, as in response to her twin's stomping, Boris banged on the ceiling below—presumably, Emily thought, with a sweeping brush.
"We'd best be away, child," Mary said, casting a fearful glance at the door, as though she expected this Boris chap to burst in at any second. "Now, don't forget to take your ticket with you to the coaching inn tomorrow. I'll have a boy meet you outside at ten bells, with some nice, warm clothes to see you through. And, if at any stage you feel homesick, just leave and come home. You're always welcome back in the nest, my little bird."
"Thank you, Mary," Emily said, giving her lady's maid a hug, before turning to Ava and doing the same. "I beg you, don't worry about me; how difficult can being a governess be?"
Mary opened her mouth, as though she wanted to educate her mistress on just how difficult the life of a servant was, but she closed it again with a snap.
"Come," the maid said instead to Ava, "We'd best be on our way."
"I shall write," Emily whispered, giving Ava's hand a squeeze, "To let you know how things go in—in—"
The name of where she was going once again escaped her, as she was overcome by a wave of nerves.
"Kent," Ava helpfully supplied with a worried smile.
"Yes, Kent!" Emily grinned, hoping to assuage her twin's worries. "Don't fret about me, dear. I fear it is you who has the harder task."
Emily gave Ava and Mary a quick hug, and then they were gone, disappearing through the door and down the rickety stairs.
Heavens, Emily thought, as she closed the door behind them, what have I done?
In order to distract herself, Emily picked up the letter which lay upon the bed and read through it again. It was from Mr Hobbs, who had—Ava had informed her—been the original proprietor of the library.
The mailcoach for Kent leaves every morning at ten, from outside the Gloucester Coffee House on Piccadilly, he wrote. I have enclosed a voucher for your safe passage. I know little of the position, except that you will be entrusted with the care of the duke's wards, James and Cressida. His Grace was most impressed by your fluency in Latin. I need not tell you what an extraordinary opportunity this is, my girl, but do not be overwhelmed by it all. The children will be lucky to have such a fine governess as yourself, who is better equipped as an educator than most finely-bred ladies.
Fluent in Latin?
Emily dropped the page into her lap and bit her lip nervously. Gracious—how was she supposed to feign fluency when she had never learned a word of Latin in her life? She could speak French tolerably enough, but she rather thought that wouldn't matter when the time came to conjugate Latin verbs.
The duke will not be at home, she reminded herself, as fear began to eat away at her, and the children aren't likely to ask you for lessons. She had never met a child who was interested in any lessons, let alone Latin ones. She recalled that Timothy, the youngest of her brothers, abhorred the language, and had made every excuse to attempt to get out of spending time with his Latin Master. This memory cheered her slightly, and Emily quickly began to get ready for bed.
Once dressed in Ava's thin, night-rail, Emily quickly scrambled under the covers, for the attic room was cold. The mattress she lay on was lumpy and decidedly ungenerous, and the covers were not as warm as she was used to, but still she managed to sleep.
The next morning, after a broken slumber, Emily was awoken by the sun, as it streamed through the window.
She was about to call out for her maid to close the drapes, when she remembered where she was.
She had no maid and—with a quick glance to the window—she saw that she also had no drapes.
Noise drifted up from the street below; unfamiliar, early morning sounds of a city getting ready to start the day. Emily listened to the sound of carriages, carts and horses, clattering on the cobblestones below, and of street hawkers and farmers, bellowing out their wares. She dressed quickly, into the clean dress which hung on the back of the door, eager to be on her way.
It's probably Ava's best, Emily thought, as she noted that the hem was far cleaner and the collar and cuffs far less worn, than the other dresses her sister owned.
In a rush to be gone, Emily then hastily threw Ava's few possessions into a battered portmanteau, scanning the room to see if anything had been left behind. The bareness of the small attic left a lump in her throat; there were no decorative items, or anything personal of Ava's to be seen. Once all her sister's clothes had been packed away, one would never know that she had lived there.
Now is not the time for melancholy, Emily told herself; she had a mail coach to catch—and in order to get it, she had to navigate the streets of London alone.
In all her years, Emily had never walked anywhere by herself. In fact, she rarely walked anywhere at all, given that she had a carriage and four at her disposal. The streets and alleyways of London, which had always seemed rather benign when viewed from inside a carriage, now seemed filled with danger. Men, working men with calloused hands and stained clothes, leered at her as she passed, whilst young ruffians with dirty cheeks, trailed her begging for a penny and staring covetously at the bag she clutched.
Feeling rather overwhelmed by it all, Emily marched on. It took her nearly an hour to walk from Cecil Court to Piccadilly, though it would probably have taken less time, had she not got lost so often.
The road outside the Gloucester Coffee House was lined with coaches, when she arrived. Crowds swarmed the footpath, jostling and shouting, as passengers fought to find their carriage.
"The coach for Kent is at the end of the line," a man in uniform said in bored tones, when Emily asked. He then proceeded, much to her horror, to hawk up a lump of phlegm from the back of his throat and spit it out onto the footpath.
"What?" he asked with a fearsome frown, seeing Emily's look of horror.
"N-nothing," she stuttered, hurrying away quickly. If there was one benefit to being a lady, she thought with a shudder, it was that no one would ever dare spit in front of her.
The Kent-bound mailcoach was near ready to depart; the roof was loaded with parcels and packages of every shape and size, and passengers milled about, getting themselves in the way of a vexed porter. A young boy detached himself from the crowd when he spotted Emily, doffing his cap to her politely.
"Mary sent me with this, Miss," he said, proffering her a bag, which she took gratefully.
The young boy left before she had a chance to thank him, leaving Emily very much alone.
"Kent! Passengers for Kent!"
The loud bellow from the porter caused her to start, and she turned to see that all the passengers were now scrambling toward the mailcoach. Emily blinked as she watched a family of four—decked out in coats, hats and scarves—climb atop the carriage, to sit on a low bench.
Gracious; were they going to sit outside the whole way to Kent? She looked down at her thin dress and the shawl around her shoulders, then up at the sky, were a low, grey ceiling of cloud obscured the sun. She would surely freeze to death!
"Kent?" the porter asked, as Emily approached him, with her voucher in hand.
"Yes," she nodded, with a dubious glance at the family above her, who were cheerfully settling themselves in behind the piles of parcels and packages.
"Inside Miss," the porter said as he looked at her ticket, giving her outfit a non-subtle look up and down; evidently he did not think her appropriately attired for "inside".
Ignoring his disapproving leer, Emily gratefully scrambled into the carriage compartment. Like her father's Landeau, inside there were two benches facing each other, however unlike her private Landeau, the upholstery was rather worn and there was already an elderly gentleman snoozing in the corner. Emily took a seat opposite the slumbering gentleman, pushed her bags u
nderneath the bench, and settled herself in as best she could.
They were soon joined by two other passengers; a plump woman, who smiled hello before taking out some embroidery, and a young man with a rather dour face.
Once everyone was aboard, the heavily-laden carriage took off, moving slowly through the streets of London.
Having only ever travelled by private carriage, Emily initially found the journey quite entertaining. The coach stopped every fifteen miles or so to change horses, and whilst this was taking place, the porter would unload some of the parcels and take on even more. It was fascinating to see how it worked, but after a few hours, Emily soon tired of it.
Their progress from London was slow, given all the stopping and starting, but by teatime they had reached Maidstone. Much to Emily's relief, the young man with the surly face disembarked there, taking with him the bag of boiled eggs he had been munching on since Aylesford.
"Thank heavens," the lady seated beside Emily said, as the carriage door shut behind him. She looked up from her embroidery and wrinkled her nose in distaste at the smell of egg which still lingered. The woman did not speak again, however, until their other travelling companion, left them at Southborough.
"Are you going to Dottington, dear?" she asked curiously, as the coach continued on its way.
"Yes," Emily nodded, offering her a smile, "I have been offered a position as a governess there."
"Really?"
The woman's eyes lit up with interest at this news. It was obvious that she had thought Emily to be rather insignificant—given her modest attire—but given that only the wealthiest of families would employ a governess, her interest in Emily now visibly increased.
"Tell me, dear," the woman breathed, "Where will you be staying?"
"Hemsworth House," Emily replied and the woman's nostrils flared in response.
"Good gracious," she whispered, setting her embroidery aside, "How brave you are."
Brave?
Of all the replies that Emily had been expecting, brave was not one of them. Her confusion must have shown on her face, for the woman reached out and patted her arm with a pudgy hand.
"Did you not know about the last governess?" she asked, to which Emily shook her head, and so her companion continued. "She died in most mysterious circumstances—fell down the stairs, apparently. Now, I am not one for gossip, but given that His Grace's wards are known arsonists, it's not beyond the realms of possibility that they had a hand in the poor woman's demise."
"Arsonists?" Emily asked, near choking on the word.
"And half-Italian," the woman added, as though that settled the matter entirely.
There was a slight look of glee on the woman's face as she watched Emily sink back against the upholstery of her seat in shock. Emily had known that there was something suspicious about a duke seeking to employ a young woman with no societal connections to care for his wards, and now she knew she had been right in her thinking. Even a nabob or a cit would demand a governess with only the most respectable and genteel of backgrounds, she thought furiously to herself, how could she have been so silly not to see that?
"What will you do, dear?"
The woman was looking at her with barely concealed glee, waiting with bated breath for Emily to respond. Her smug look, and the sure knowledge that she would repeat this story to all and sunder, inspired a sense of defiance within Emily. This feeling was only heightened when she thought that—were it not for a twist of fate—it could have been Ava sitting there, being delivered bad news with glee rather than sympathy—and Ava would not have had the confidence her sister had.
"I shall go to Hemsworth House," Emily replied with a light shrug, adopting the haughty tones of a lady of the ton. "I do not believe mere children to be capable of such evils, and I do not indulge in idle gossip."
"Well—don't say I didn't warn you, dear," her companion replied with a sniff, turning back to her embroidery. They travelled the rest of the way in silence and Emily was not offered so much as a goodbye when they arrived in Dottington.
The small village square was quite deserted, and once the mailcoach had departed, Emily was left standing alone in the dark, with her two bags at her feet. She had thought that a footman from Hemsworth House might have been waiting to meet her, but after standing stupidly for twenty minutes, she realised that she would have to walk.
The proprietor of the local tavern happily obliged her with directions, and with her two bags in hand, Emily set forth. She made her way through the village, and out onto a country road, where the hedgerows cast long shadows as she walked.
It's just a fox, she told herself as a shriek shattered the stillness of the night—but despite her reassurances, she clutched her shawl closer to her and quickened her step. At long last, the gates of Hemsworth House loomed large before her. In the distance, Emily could see the lights of a large house, shining out into the dark night. Relieved to have finally reached her destination, she began her journey up the long, winding drive.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not hear the sound of hoofbeats, until the horse and rider were nearly upon her.
"Watch out!"
Emily turned at the shout, and saw a large beast racing toward her. She reacted quickly, flinging her bags from her hand and throwing herself out of the horse's path, though unfortunately she managed to throw herself into a rather thorny bush.
"Are you alright?"
A man rushed toward her as Emily extracted herself from the bush, concern lacing his deep voice.
"I am fine, thank you," Emily called, hastily brushing her dress down and tearing a few stray twigs from her hair. Once she was certain she was as presentable as she could possibly be, Emily looked up, and in that instant all her breath left her body.
Gracious, she thought, as she tried not to stare too blatantly at the fine specimen of manhood that stood before her. He was tall, so tall that she had to tilt her head upward to fully take him in, broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip. She looked down, then quickly looked back up again, blushing at her reaction to his strong thighs, which were encased in buckskin breeches.
Looking up however, soon transpired to be a fatal mistake.
Her green eyes met with shocking blue and a shiver ran through her at the connection she felt. In the few moments that his gaze held hers, she read hunger, desire and lust. Having only ever met men in the sedate, dry atmosphere of Almack's, this raw wildness left her rather shocked.
"I apologise," the man said quickly, perhaps reading the fear in her own eyes, "I did not see you."
"I am fine, thank you," Emily repeated again, rather stupidly. She sensed that she should say something else, anything, to break the tension between them, but her mind had turned to mush and her legs to jelly and she could not find any words.
The man gave an irritated little sigh, his eyes still traversing her body impudently, before he spoke again.
"I am Hemsworth," he said, his luscious mouth offering her a tight smile, which quickly vanished.
Hemsworth?
Emily tried not to show her shock at finding the duke she had believed she would never meet, standing right before her, and she dropped into a curtsy to hide her confusion.
"Oh, your Grace. Forgive me, I did not know it was you. I am—," Emily paused just before she blurted out her real name, "—Ava Smith. I believe I am expected?"
"Indeed," Hemsworth replied shortly, turning away from her quickly once she realised she was the help, "You were."
Hemsworth leaned over to pluck her discarded bags from the ground and with an impatient wave of his hand, gestured for her to follow him.
Oh dear, Emily thought, as she hurried after the duke, she had not known what to expect at Hemsworth House, but a sinfully beautiful duke had not ever crossed her mind.
No wonder he has a reputation as a rake, Emily thought, as she observed his lithe, athletic movements; there wasn't a lady alive who could resist a man so handsome.
But you are not
a lady, Emily reminded herself, you are a mere governess—and judging by the way Hemsworth was now ignoring her, he didn't think her a lady either.
Though why she felt a stab of disappointment at this realisation, Emily could not say, nor did she want to probe the feeling further.
CHAPTER FOUR
4
"I pity the woman who is foolish enough to ever truly love you, Hemsworth, for there is nothing but dust where your heart should be."
Robert Charles Adrian De Lacey, Sixth Duke of Hemsworth, tried not to flinch at the venom in Lady Carlyle's voice. He had, of course, had insults flung at him by women before—rather more than he cared to admit to, in fact—but this time the words smarted sharply. Oh, more than one woman had told him that he had no heart, a few more had professed that he lacked any feelings, and dozens more again had wished him to the devil—and worse—but today, his lover's words were like a dagger to the heart. Which, if he were in the mood to note, was quite ironic, given that so many ladies had professed that he had none.
"I told you from the first, Sarah, that this was nothing more than..."
Rob awkwardly swallowed the end of his sentence, belatedly sensing the mood of his audience. The beautiful, widowed Lady Carlyle did not look like a lady who wished to hear that he had considered her nothing more than a bit of "fun". Nor did Robert wish to admit to her—or himself—that he could be so callous. Which was a rather new experience, given that he had spent the past decade or so cultivating a reputation as the most profligate rake the ton had ever seen. Sarah, her chin held proudly high, cast him a withering glare as she managed—despite his pathetic efforts—to piece together the end of his sentence.
"Nothing more than an arrangement?" she asked lightly, raising a disparaging eyebrow, "A mutually beneficial agreement between two adults, if you will."
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