Rob remained silent in the face of her anger, knowing that any response he gave would not be adequate enough to repair the damage he had inflicted on Lady Carlyle's pride.
"Mind you," Sarah continued blithely, "Of late our arrangement has been far from beneficial for this party—I was told you were the ton's greatest lover, Hemsworth. I know now that I was misinformed."
Ouch. Rob winced as Lady Carlyle soothed her own damaged ego by aiming her battering ram at the one thing she knew he took pride in; his prowess in the bedroom. Rob had a reputation as a skilled and generous lover, and he had never been short of ladies wishing to experience the great pleasures he was rumoured to offer. Sarah was right, however, in that of late, his skills had been considerably hampered by grief.
Grief and copious amounts of brandy, if he was honest; a mixture which was not known for its aphrodisiac qualities. Since the death of his closest friend, Michael, Lord Dunstable, Rob had frequently found himself falling out of his carriage after an evening's drinking in White's, and then stumbling through the servant's entrance of Lady Carlyle's dowager apartment in Kensington. All the effort it took to reach her boudoir in his drunken state meant, that by the time Rob actually made it to the bedroom, all he was fit for was sleep. He had—more often than not and with no consideration for his reputation—flung himself on to Lady Carlyle's feather mattress and passed into a state of coma. Don Juan, he was not.
It had been rather comforting, he could admit, to wake up next to a warm body—especially when mornings were the hardest. Every day, Rob was graced with a few blissful seconds of peace, before the memory that Michael was dead came back to him, and then the living nightmare began again.
The problem with seeking the comfort of a chaste bedmate was, that once one visited a lover, without actually making love to her, she began to think that perhaps one was interested in more than making love.
Just that morning, when Rob had woken groggy-headed and dry-mouthed, Sarah had lightly suggested a party. Not just any party, but a weekend gathering in his Kent estate, with her acting as a sort of de facto hostess.
"We'll be very discreet," she had said, her eyes lighting up with anticipation at the thought of it all.
Rob, aghast that what he had hoped would be a brief affair, seemed to be turning into something else entirely, had uttered a strangled, non-committal reply, and instantly hopped out of the bed. After donning his breeches and making himself presentable, he had then set forth to Rundell and Bridge, the prestigious jewellers, to purchase Sarah a parting gift.
In his hands he held a box, wrapped in paper and ribbons, which he lay down upon the coffee table, not entirely trusting Sarah not to fling the thing at his head if he handed it to her.
"I am sorry," Rob said sincerely, "For misleading you in any way. I have not been myself of late and for that I can only apologise."
"Grief can make one do strange things—things one wouldn't normally even consider doing in their right mind," Lady Carlyle replied, twisting the gold band upon her ring finger in a distracted manner. The pained, sad way that she glanced at him, let Rob know that she now saw him as such—as a strange act she had undertaken, despite her better judgement. The idea that Lady Carlyle still grieved for her husband had not occurred to Rob until now, nor had he considered that she too might have found some comfort from her grief in waking up beside someone.
"It's just something small," Rob said abruptly, glancing down at the gift, for guilt meant that he was no longer able to meet Sarah's eye, "A token of my appreciation."
Lady Carlyle lifted her chin, and for a moment Rob thought that she might tell him to take his gift away with him, but she did not. Rob's reputation as a generous lover—in more ways than one-- meant that Sarah knew that, within the box upon the table, was a piece of jewellery that was worth more than her annual allowance; something with no sentimental value attached to it that she could pawn, if the need ever arose.
"Let me know if..." Rob waved a vague hand in the direction of Lady Sarah's midsection.
"I know that you have a reputation, Hemsworth," Lady Carlyle replied, an amused smile softening her expression, "But not even you are so virile that you could produce an heir without actually carrying out the required act."
Rob snorted in appreciation; in another life perhaps he and Lady Carlyle might have got on famously—though, given her soft heart, she would have tired of his errant ways soon enough.
"You won't have to worry about seeing me about town," Rob continued, as Sarah walked him to the door, "I'm leaving London this afternoon."
"Where will you go?" Lady Carlyle asked, her voice so polite that Rob could almost believe he had imagined the past quarter-hour's bickering. Her face, beautiful and high-boned, wore the impassive expression of a seasoned society hostess, and he felt a stab of gratitude for the uncanny ability of well-bred ladies, to turn even the most awkward situations into bland, polite nothingness.
"Kent," Rob replied in clipped tones, "I recently acquired two wards and I am sorry to say I have been neglecting them of late."
"Yes," to Rob's surprise, Lady Carlyle allowed a nervous giggle to escape, "I had heard."
Dash it; Rob smothered a curse at her words. Did the whole of the ton know of his trouble with Michael's two brats? He frowned; his staff were most discreet, but even they would not have been able to smother whispers of arson and dead governesses.
Dead governess, he corrected himself quickly, no need to pluralise—one was bad enough.
"I am afraid I have been rather remiss in my duties to James and Cressida," Rob continued shortly, "And as such, I don't expect to be back in town for the rest of the season."
"Of course," Sarah soothed, sensing that talk of Rob's two wards had raised his hackles, "The poor—eh—dears; they will need a strong hand to guide them at such a tumultuous time."
There it was again, Rob thought with admiration, as Lady Carlyle ended her diplomatic response—that quintessential, upper-class ability to smooth over unpleasantness. He did not, he thought with another stab of guilt, deserve such tact and kindness from Sarah.
"Until we meet again," Rob said sombrely as he reached the door, turning to bow to Lady Carlyle, who raised her eyebrows in response.
"Indeed," she replied faintly, her expression that of a woman who clearly had no desire to lay eyes on him ever again.
With much haste and little fuss, Rob turned and left, stealing out of the Kensington apartments by means of the servants' entrance. Lady Carlyle's status as a widow afforded her a degree of protection from gossiping tongues, but just because society allowed Sarah her indiscretions, did not mean that Rob was not at pains to be discreet as he came and left her apartment.
His carriage, a plain, black Landeau, was waiting to take him back to his London residence in St James' Square. It took but half an hour to reach his palatial abode—a three-story, white stucco fronted townhouse in the capital's most exclusive square. Once inside, Rob fully intended to instruct his valet to begin packing his things, but before he had a chance, he was accosted by Wilkes, his butler.
"There is a visitor for you, your Grace," Wilkes called, as Rob strode through the door, "He's waiting in the green saloon."
"Who is it?" Rob asked irritably, he was in no mood to entertain guests. He frowned in annoyance at Wilkes, who was usually far more diligent in dealing with unwanted visitors.
"It is—ah—Signor Piraino, your Grace," Wilkes replied, looking vaguely discomfited at having to use a foreign prefix, "He was most insistent on waiting."
Rob stifled a sigh of annoyance; Fabrizio was the son of the late Lady Dunstable, a product of her first marriage to an Italian merchant. Fabrizio was a surly, unfriendly young man of just twenty years, and despite his recent loss, Rob found it difficult to warm to the young lad. The difficulty arose from the fact that Rob had been assigned control over Fabrizio's financial affairs, until his twenty-first birthday, and the boy was a spendthrift—not to mention that he seemed to care not a jot for his
younger brother and sister.
"Have someone send in brandy," Rob said, sensing that he would need some spiritual assistance whilst dealing with Fabrizio.
The young man was sprawled across the leather Chesterfield, staring vacantly at the corniced ceiling, when Rob entered the saloon. Upon hearing the door close, Fabrizio sat up to attention.
"Lud," Rob stared at the young man aghast, "What on earth happened to your face?"
"I was set upon by footpads, on my way home last night," Fabrizio replied sullenly, "If a passing carriage had not frightened them off, I swear they would have killed me."
"Where was it," Rob asked thoughtfully,ignoring the boy's pitiful demeanour, "That you were walking home from?"
"Crockford's," Fabrizio admitted, refusing to meet Rob's eye.
"Pah," Rob shook his head in annoyance, "If you are fool enough to walk home from Pickering Place late at night, then you deserve a beating for your stupidity. Why did you not take a carriage?"
"The funds for vehicular transport were not at my disposal," Fabrizio answered cryptically, with a sniff.
Rob, who as a young man had been quite the hellion himself, was easily able to translate Fabrizio's meaning. If the lad had not been able to afford the price of a hackney, it meant only one thing—Fabrizio had lost all his money at the gaming tables of Crockford's...again.
"So," Rob concluded, "You are not here for sympathy, but rather for an advance on your allowance."
"Well it is my money," Fabrizio replied mulishly, "I don't see why I have to come begging to you every month for it."
"The allowance I give you is for your quarterly expenses," Rob agreed, turning to pour himself a glass of the brandy that a discreet footman had brought for him. "So you'll forgive me if you find that I am as annoyed as you are by your monthly visits."
"What you give me wouldn't keep a horse in stable," Fabrizio snarled, his dark eyes narrowed in dislike. That the young chap loathed Rob was beyond doubt; Fabrizio viewed Rob as the man who was out to ruin his fun, rather than as a cautious guardian who wished the boy to learn the value of his money before he came into his inheritance.
"I will forward you one hundred pounds," Rob conceded, suddenly eager to be rid of the boy, "And deduct it from your next payment. Though, mark my words, I'll not give you another groat before April, so make it last."
Rob turned to the desk in the corner and hastily scribbled a note for Fabrizio to take to his man of business. Sensing that the boy was not above a little forgery, Rob wrote out one hundred pounds in figure and words, so that there would be no misunderstanding.
"There," Rob handed the torn page to the lad, who reached out and took it sulkily from him without a word of thanks.
"If you are finding London living rather more expensive than you had envisaged," Rob added as an afterthought, as a stab of guilt pierced him, "You are always welcome in Kent. I know your brother and sister would be delighted to see you."
"And how would you know that, when you have seen them even less than I?" Fabrizio gave a smirk, before offering Rob a neat bow and exiting the room.
Lud. Rob gave a sigh; if even young Fabrizio was judging him as a poor guardian, then things were bad. With a sense of urgency in his step, Rob went in search of Harley, his valet.
"I'll need you to arrange for my clothes to be sent to Kent," Rob called as he entered his dressing room to find young Harley, flat-iron in hand, bent over one of his cravats.
"Wonderful, your Grace," Harley said, standing up straight and offering him an eager smile, "How long does your Grace intend to stay in Kent?"
"Indefinitely," Rob replied brusquely, as he began rummaging through the chest of drawers for a pair of riding gloves.
"Perfectly splendid," Harley replied, sounding—despite his words—rather dubious.
Rob stifled a sigh; Harley was new to his position and prone to getting himself into a tizz over nothing. Rob's last valet, Simms, had served both Rob and his father before him, but just a month ago, at the tender age of nine and seventy, Simms had declared that he intended to retire. Which had been something of a bittersweet relief, for Rob had begun to feel that it was he who should have been dressing the arthritic septuagenarian, and not the other way around.
"Just throw my things into a trunk," Rob instructed in an offhand manner as he continued his search for his gloves.
"All your things?" Harley pressed nervously, to which Rob replied with a grunt of agreement.
"Aha," Rob cried, as his hand seized on his thick, York-tan gloves, buried at the bottom of the drawer. He turned, to offer Harley further advice on what else the young lad needed to do, and found the valet standing still, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated upon the shelves of clothes before him.
Rob stifled another sigh; his housekeeper, Mrs Ilford, had highly recommended young Harley for the position, but the more Rob got to know the chap, the more he began to suspect that Mrs Ilford had been more impressed by Harley's broad shoulders and blond hair, than his actual skills as a valet.
"Just chuck it all in a trunk," Rob offered, "Then follow me down to Kent in the carriage."
"With the trunk?" Harley clarified, his baby blue eyes looking at Rob for reassurance.
"Yes," Rob replied through gritted teeth, "With the trunk."
"Jolly good, your Grace," Harley said, sounding relieved, "You can count on me."
"Thank you," Rob replied, turning to leave. He paused at the door and sniffed the air, before continuing; "Harley, be a good chap and remove that iron, before it burns through the board—as well as my cravat."
Rob shut the door on the valet's startled cries and made his way to the stables, silently cursing his luck at having been saddled with four children to care for—Fabrizio, James, Cressida, and—now—Harley.
Luckily his groomsman was more capable than his valet, and Rob found his horse ready and saddled when he arrived at the stables. It would have been far more comfortable to travel to Kent in his carriage, but after weeks cooped up in London, Rob was rather looking forward to a good ride.
The journey to Dottington, a small village near Tunbridge Wells, would take the best part of the day, so once he had passed over the busy Blackfriars Bridge, and through the parish of Lambeth, Rob urged his steed into a gallop as he reached the quieter Kent Road. He had not, for a long time, been so alone, with so little distraction from his thoughts—mostly because he had designed it that way. After the initial dark days, following the tragic carriage accident which claimed the life of Michael and his wife, Rob had fled Kent for London, and abandoned himself to all the hedonistic pleasures the capital could offer a man of means.
Wine and women had consumed both his days and nights, though the former had not worked out so well. An image of Sarah's hurt face flashed across his mind's eye and Rob felt another stab of guilt at how he had treated her. In trying to forget his own hurts, he had brought hurt onto another.
There were two more people that he was certain were as sore with him as Lady Carlyle; James and Cressida, Michael's orphaned children.
Rob could not say what had possessed his late friend to entrust the care of his children to he, and not a family member, but whatever motivation Michael might have had, he had been sorely misguided. Rob had spent every day, since he had learned he had two wards, actively trying not to think of them. He had instructed the pair be moved to Hemsworth House, to be cared for there by his staff and their governess, and then he had left for London. His plan for their care had worked swimmingly, until he had received a letter from Mrs Ilford informing him that the governess had meet a tragic end, after tripping on her way down the staircase, and that his two wards had allegedly set fire to the rectory in the church.
I would employ another governess for them, Mrs Ilford had written, but alas, given the tragic demise of Miss Gretchen, coupled with the children's tendency toward arson, the agencies that I have contacted have struggled to find a replacement. Perhaps, your Grace might see if he can find a lady t
o care for them?
Michael had, initially, snorted with derision at reading this; it had been clear to him, that Mrs Ilford was not struggling to find a replacement for the late Miss Gretchen, but rather that she was punishing him for abandoning the pair. However, after several attempts with agencies in town, Rob had been forced to admit defeat. It seemed that in the world of governesses, much like with the ton, rumours spread quickly. It was also insinuated, by a buttoned-up, disproving proprietress of one of the agencies, that Rob's own reputation was adding to his troubles.
"I prefer to place my ladies in family homes, your Grace," the woman had said with a sniff and a look which implied that she thought a devil's tail was hidden underneath the tails of Rob's coat.
"These children don't have a family," Rob had irritably retorted, "That's why I need a ruddy governess."
His outburst did little to help the situation—in fact, the agency's proprietress had taken such a fit of the vapours at Robert's uncouth language, that the seamstress from the shop next door had seen fit to rush to her aid and shoo Rob out the door.
All, it had seemed, was lost, until he spotted a paragraph, hidden between advertisements for Bentley's Brown Windsor Soap and Madame Vestris' Song Sheets, in The Morning Post.
GOVERNESS- A young lady, of respectable background, whose education has been liberally attended to, seeks position. She has been placed, these last two years, with the family of a country-gentleman. She is fully competent to teach Latin, Greek and French, and general school duties. The most satisfactory references will be given. Salary rather unimportant, a comfortable home being of the most consequence. Letters of interest to be directed—post paid—to A.H. at the Post Office, Plumb Field, Hampshire. NB. A clergy-man's family preferred.
Rob had ignored the part about the young lady's preference for placement with a man of the cloth—he was a duke, for heaven's sake—and had scribbled a hasty note to this A.H., requesting a letter of reference and confirmation that the girl could start as soon as possible. Not a week later, which was good timing, given the state of the roads after the early spring rain, Rob had received his reply. An Ava Smith, with a glowing letter of reference from Mr Albert Hobbs, would arrive at Hemsworth House in a sennight's time.
The Duke's Governess in Disguise Page 5