The Duke's Governess in Disguise

by Claudia Stone

  "Mr Brown said that you are not to touch anything bar the books," Emily called, as the children were let loose upon the library. It was an impressive room, lined with mahogany bookshelves, which were filled with leather-bound volumes. The duke's writing desk stood by the window and on the opposite side of the room, by the fireplace, were two Chesterfields. Emily allowed the children to browse the bookshelves, whilst she wandered across to the chairs, where a newspaper upon the coffee table caught her eye.

  At home, her father read all the papers at breakfast, tutting over news from the House of Commons, or from abroad, whilst he sipped on his coffee. Once he was finished, she would usually secret them away, to peruse the gossip columns. She had not seen a paper since her arrival in Hemsworth House and feeling curious, she sat down upon one of the Chesterfields and began to read.

  There was much news from London; Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg had been sighted in Brighton, apparently on his way to an interview with the Regent, to see if he was a suitable match for Princess Charlotte. Much of the paper was given over to speculation of a forthcoming engagement, so much so, that a small piece in one of the columns on the back page almost slipped Emily's attention.

  Following the rumours of an altercation, the D of K and Lady E were spotted yesterday on the Row, looking much happier. The sound of wedding bells cannot be far off...

  Gracious—it was obvious that they were referring to Kilbride and Ava. She wondered how her sister was faring with the dull Duke of Kilbride and hoped that she had made some inroads into entangling herself from her engagement.

  My engagement, Emily corrected herself; heavens, it was confusing!

  Rumours of an altercation sounded rather promising and Emily paid no mind to the pair having been spotted looking "much happier". The papers had oft reported on her own outings with the duke, describing her as "misty-eyed with love", when she had been anything but!

  The children began bickering over the ownership rights of a book, pulling Emily from her deep reverie. She stood, brushing down the skirts of her plain, grey day-dress, and wandered over to break them apart.

  "It's mine," James yelled, holding tight to a particularly battered looking volume.

  "I saw it first," Cressida argued, reaching out to snatch it away from her younger sibling.

  "Heavens, children," Emily chided, "Neither of you own it! It belongs to His Grace. Now give it to me."

  James reluctantly handed over the book, the title of which was A Meditation on the Impact of Field Rotation Upon Tillage Yields.

  "Why on earth are you fighting over a book about farming methods?" Emily asked with a laugh.

  "The heart wants what it wants," a voice called from the doorway.

  Emily started at the interruption and turned to find a young, fair haired man, standing in the doorway, watching them all with amused eyes.

  "Uncle David!"

  James raced over to the man, whom Emily presumed was the brother of the late Lord Dunstable, and threw his arms around his legs.

  "Lud, you'll knock a man over," David complained, as he lifted James bodily into his arms.

  He was, Emily observed, a very striking young man; his clothing was of the highest quality, his hair arranged in the latest mode, and his face was handsome and set into a pleasant repose.

  "I don't believe we've met," Dunstable said, as he carried James across the room to where Emily and Cressida stood. "I am David, proud uncle of these two hellions."

  "I am E—e—Ava Smith," Emily replied, hoping that Mr Dunstable would not think her afflicted with a stammer.

  "Ah, I presume you are the new governess?" Dunstable replied, with an easy smile, "Pleased to meet you, I'm afraid that I did not chance to meet the last girl, before her unfortunate accident. I hope I'm not interrupting anything? I was just passing by and thought to call on Hemsworth and visit with the children."

  "We were just selecting a book to read together," Emily replied, charmed by Dunstable's easy manner, "His Grace is in town, but I am told he should return shortly."

  "Wonderful, perhaps I shall stay and help you select something?"

  The children appeared delighted by their Uncle's presence and he was led, by the hand, to the bookshelves, where he spent an inordinate amount of time helping James and Cressida to select a novel. Emily was rather taken by the touching scene and so was taken unawares by the arrival of Hemsworth.

  "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" Hemsworth said, in a perfect echo of Mr Dunstable's earlier question. The duke, however, showed no trace of Mr Dunstable's earlier charm—he actually looked the perfect picture of forbidding, ducal displeasure.

  His blue eyes narrowed as he glanced at Emily and, had she not known any better, she could have sworn that he was jealous. Which, of course, was perfectly preposterous. The Duke of Hemsworth was far too haughty and high-ranking to even dream of being interested in a mere governess.

  "Just fetching something for the children to read," Mr Dunstable called cheerfully, not noticing Hemsworth's displeasure, "I feared it was an impossible task, but at last we have decided upon one of Mr Smollett's works."

  Mr Dunstable held up a copy of The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, for the duke to view, and his expression was so innocent, that Hemsworth relaxed.

  "Can't say I've read it," the duke replied, with a gruff laugh, "Though I'm sure Miss Smith will read it most admirably to the children."

  Hemsworth cast her an approving glance, that made Emily blush beneath her mob-cap. She saw a speculative gleam in Mr Dunstable's eye, as he watched the exchange between them, and she decided that she and the children should make their exit.

  "Come," she called out to Cressida and James, "I'm sure that His Grace and your uncle have many important matters to discuss."

  Hemsworth gave a snort, and muttered something about the race-pages and the form at Newmarket, but Emily resolutely ignored him. She herded the children toward the door, but paused as Mr Dunstable spoke.

  "Allow me to walk you to the school room," he called, "I would like to talk to the children a little more."

  Emily acquiesced to his request with a smile, and she allowed Mr Dunstable to lead the way from the library. It was obvious that he had visited Hemsworth House often, for he knew the way to the school room without having to be told, and lithely skipped over the third step on the staircase, which was prone to creaking loudly when trod upon.

  Mr Dunstable chattered to the children about how they were getting on with their French, their reading, and Cressida's newfound interest in the pianoforte, as they made their way along the corridor, pausing as they reached the door of the schoolroom, and offering both of the children a smile.

  "Well," he said, with a neat bow, "This is where I leave you. Cressida, take care to keep up your practice, and James, make sure to look after your sister."

  James drew himself up to his full height—which was not much—and nodded seriously to his uncle. Cressida, however, looked rather annoyed at having been cast into the role of charge, and looked ready to object.

  "How lovely it was to meet you Mr Dunstable," Emily quickly said, pre-emptively cutting the little girl off before she could voice her annoyance, "Say goodbye to your uncle, children."

  James and Cressida both chorused their goodbyes and trod into the schoolroom. Their earlier enthusiasm for an afternoon of reading seemed to have disappeared and Emily supposed it was because they would have preferred to spend the afternoon with their uncle. The poor little dears had experienced so much upheaval, it was only natural that they would wish for the presence of a familiar figure.

  And soon I will cause them even more upset, she thought with a pang of guilt, for her plan involved her leaving at month's end.

  She tried to quash her maudlin thoughts and concentrated on reading to the children. They had only managed a few chapters, when the door of the school room opened to reveal an unfamiliar man.

  "Fabio!"

  Cressida was the first to spot her brother, and she jumped
from her seat at Emily's feet and ran toward him. James followed suit and soon the trio of siblings were chattering excitedly in Italian.

  Emily did not understand a word of what was going on and she stood, awkwardly, waiting for someone to remember that she was there.

  "Ahem," she coughed politely, after five minutes of waiting.

  Fabrizio looked up with irritation from his brother and sister, his dark eyes slowly taking in Emily from top to toe. She blushed a little at his impudent gaze, though it was clear that what he had seen had not interested him, for his lip curled into a sneer.

  "I am Miss Smith," Emily offered, sensing that no introduction was forthcoming, "The children's new governess."

  "Fabrizio Piraino," came the swift, disinterested reply, "I will take the children for the afternoon. You may leave."

  Emily blinked a little in astonishment at his curt manner. This was the first time that anyone had addressed her as a servant since her arrival and she was not ashamed to say that it smarted. A sharp retort sprung automatically to her lips, but she quelled it. She had to remember that to Fabrizio she was not Lady Emily, but rather Miss Smith, a paid servant.

  "I shall be in my rooms, if I am needed," Emily said brightly in reply, not wishing to let her anger show, lest she upset the children.

  Once she had returned to her bedchamber, however, she allowed herself to let loose a string of expletives, all directed at the pompous, young Italian. Once she had vented her anger, she felt much better, and decided to try to enjoy her afternoon of freedom. She walked a little around the gardens, dropping into Mrs Ilford in the kitchen on her way back.

  "Lord Muck has returned," the housekeeper said, with a roll of her eyes, when Emily mentioned her encounter with Fabrizio. "I can't take to him myself, but the children seem fond enough of him."

  "Miss Gretchen was fond of him too," a scullery maid whispered to Emily, as Mrs Ilford disappeared into the larder in search of some jars of conserves.

  "Really?" Emily usually prided herself on being above gossip, but this titbit of information was too interesting to ignore.

  "Aye," the scullery-maid whispered, casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure that Mrs Ilford was still out of earshot. "One of the other girls caught them canoodling once, in the upstairs hallway, and I heard them arguing one night, out by the back door, when I was in the pantry."

  "What on earth were they arguing over?" Emily whispered.

  "Can't say Miss Smith," the girl shrugged, "But she was fierce upset, kept saying 'I thought I gave him enough', over and over. I knocked over a jar of something by mistake and startled them, so I heard no more."

  How strange, Emily thought, what could it mean?

  "Did you tell anyone about it?" Emily asked, and the girl flushed pink.

  "Well, I wasn't supposed to be in the pantry," she mumbled, with a defensive glance at Emily, "Though I wasn't up to anything strange. I just fancied something sweet and Mrs Ilford can be very mean with the sweetmeats."

  "I shan't tell a soul," Emily promised, before Mrs Ilford bustled back over to them, a dusting of icing sugar upon her top lip.

  "Did you forget the jam, Mrs Ilford?" the scullery maid called, causing the housekeeper to flush.

  "If you need jam, my dear, go and fetch it yourself," Mrs Ilford replied haughtily.

  Emily bit her lip to keep from laughing; it was quite clear that it was not just the scullery maids who raided the pantry for sweetmeats. She took her leave from the kitchen, for she sensed trouble was brewing, and went back upstairs to her room.

  A little tired after her busy afternoon, Emily decided to lay down on her bed for a nap, and awoke a few hours later to a knock upon the door.

  "Hullo," she whispered groggily, as she opened the door to her unexpected guest. Alice, the consistently surly chamber-maid stood in the hallway, a look of martyrdom upon her young face.

  "His Grace has requested that you take dinner with him in the dining room," she said, without a word of hello.

  "Why on earth would he request that?"

  "That Mr Piranha fellow is staying for dinner and the children will be there," Alice answered with a shrug, "I expect His Grace wants you there to keep them under control."

  "Of course," Emily flushed a little, hoping that the girl had not realised that she had initially thought the duke was inviting just her to a private dinner. You are a governess, she reminded herself, no duke in his right mind would take an interest in you. Still, she took more care with her toilette than usual and dressed in the best dress that Mary had packed for her, before she made her way downstairs.

  Sally was waiting in the hallway with the children, whose faces were shiny and pink after what Emily presumed had been a more vigorous bath than usual. They were dressed in their mourning-black, though Cressida's dress had white lace at the collar and James wore an elaborately embroidered waistcoat, over his velvet pantaloons.

  "I didn't want to bring them in myself," Sally whispered apologetically, letting go of the children's hands, "I know I'd trip and land flat on my face in front of the duke, if I did."

  "I shall take them in," Emily replied, glad to have Cressida and James act as a sort of shield as she walked into the room. The thought of Hemsworth's eyes upon her, had her feeling a trifle nervous too, and she fervently hoped that it wouldn't be she who tripped and made a fool of herself. Once Sally had left, Emily knocked upon the dining room door, and when it was opened by the footman, she led both children inside.

  "Ah, there you are."

  The Duke of Hemsworth pushed back his chair and stood, as he spotted Emily. It was unnecessary for a man of Hemsworth's status to stand for a mere governess and his overly solicitous act was noted by Fabrizio, who raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

  "Say good evening to His Grace," Emily urged the children, as heat flooded her face.

  Cressida and James performed their respective curtsy and bow, and took their places at the table. It was clear where each child was supposed to sit, for there were cushions on their chairs, to act as a booster. Cressida sat beside her brother, whilst Emily took the seat next to James.

  Dinner was an elaborate affair; six courses, each more mouth watering than the last. Trout coated in breadcrumbs, tender veal, pheasant and a bouillabaisse—it was heaven for Emily, though James was less enamoured with the richness of the food.

  "I want bread and jam," he complained, as a footman placed a plate of game—filled with roast-chestnut stuffing—before him.

  "Just try a little," Emily coaxed him quietly, "There are hungry children on the streets of London who would give their right arm for such a meal."

  "He is not a street urchin, Miss Smith," Fabrizio called, having overheard her, "He is the Viscount Dunstable—if he does not want to eat the bird, he does not have to."

  Silence fell at the table, as James looked at Emily uncertainly, unsure of how to proceed. Emily gritted her teeth in annoyance at the Italian man's rudeness; he had undermined her completely in front of the children. The unfairness of the fact that, as a servant, she had no right of reply, brought tears of frustration to her eyes.

  Do not cry, she told herself, blinking away the tears which stung her eyes.

  "Miss Smith is James' governess, Fabrizio; she may instruct him as she sees fit at my dinner table. Please apologise at once."

  The Duke of Hemsworth's voice was low and cold, though not as cold as the look he gave Fabrizio. Hemsworth's blue eyes were narrowed in distaste at the young man and he looked fit to do violence. Emily was rather flattered by the ferocity of his reaction. She had never had a man as fearsome as the duke defend her honour.

  Fabrizio's mouth twisted in annoyance, though he reluctantly heeded Hemsworth's warning.

  "My apologies, Miss Smith," he said, sounding anything but sorry to Emily's ears.

  Although she wanted to tell Fabrizio that he could stuff his disingenuous apology, Emily offered him a tight smile. Pretending to be a servant was all well and good, until one was forced t
o behave like one. If she had been seated there as Lady Emily, there was no chance that the pompous cit would have spoken to her in such a rude manner. And had she been Lady Emily, and not Ava Smith, she would have offered him a firm verbal lashing, or had the pleasure of giving him the cut when she saw him next.

  As it was, neither of those options were available to her, so she cast her eyes down at the table, and hoped the whole silly affair would be forgotten about.

  "Do I still have to eat this?" James asked, his face a picture of confusion.

  "Yes," Hemsworth barked, his patience evidently having worn thin.

  "Just a little," Emily whispered to the boy, "Then it's the sweet course, and I know how much you like that."

  "When I am your guardian you can eat sweetmeats for breakfast, if you like," Fabrizio called, whispering something in Italian as an aside to Cressida.

  "You are not yet their guardian," Hemsworth answered shortly, "And you would do well to remember it, boy. You would also do well to remember that you are a guest in this house and your presence here is conditional on my allowing it."

  Heavens; Emily wanted to drop her head into her hands in despair. She had tried to smooth over the awkwardness of the situation, but the two bulls seated at the table insisted on locking horns.

  "I don't want Fabrizio to leave," James wailed, casting Emily a worried glance.

  "He is not leaving," she said firmly, taking hold of the conversation, before it continued its downward spiral, and fisticuffs broke out. "I know that Mrs Ilford would be very disappointed if the syllabubs that she spent all afternoon preparing went uneaten. Perhaps we should all finish our pheasant as quick as we can, for it seems to have everyone in a flap, and then we can enjoy our desserts."

  "Yes, the bird does seem to have us squawking at each other," Hemsworth commented mildly, waving for the footmen to take the unfinished dishes away.

  The next course was far more palatable; the only sound to be heard as they tucked into their lemon syllabubs, topped with flaked almonds, were appreciative murmurs and some slurping from James. Hemsworth seemed to think that the peace which had descended would stretch a little farther, for he invited Fabrizio to the drawing room, to hear Cressida play.