A Little More Discreet Madness: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  “And you are no longer a governess?” He urged her on, a kind note in his voice.

  “No,” she replied shortly. “I was dismissed from that position.” Again she lifted her chin. “I became a maid for a while, then worked for a seamstress.”

  “And?” he prompted.

  She took a deep breath. “The circumstances of my birth have followed me like a malevolent shadow,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and fixing her gaze on them. “I have a likeness to the man who fathered me.” The hands clenched tightly. “The man who did not die bravely in Europe, but who roamed London’s ballrooms selecting his choice of a partner for the evening.”

  Suddenly a warm hand covered hers. “You are one of Maitland’s bastards, then,” he breathed. “Yes, you do have the look of him. Very strongly.”

  She wanted to pull free, but the comfort of his touch was too much for her to refuse. “Yes, Sir Gerald. I am indeed a Maitland bastard. And unfortunately, I am thus tainted goods, unfit to instruct a child, stitch a seam or wait on ladies.”

  “How absurd,” he muttered. “A mind such as yours should be celebrated and utilised. You are not responsible for the circumstances of your birth, nor the taint of madness and violence that has besmirched some of your siblings.”

  “A noble sentiment, sir, but you and I both know the truth of the matter. I may have escaped those stains, by the grace of God, but I will never be free of their shadows.”

  He was silent then, still covering her hands, his eyes staring from the window. Jessie had to wonder where his thoughts roamed.

  Then he released her. “Who was your mama, Miss Nightingale, if I may make so bold as to ask?”

  She blinked at the question. “Er…Daphne Southwood, sir. Mrs Daphne Nightingale, of course, as I knew her to be for many years.”

  “Daphne Southwood,” he smiled then. “You know, I remember a Miss Southwood. She was quite lovely, as I recall, but not in town for long.” The smile faded. “I have to assume Maitland was responsible for her disappearance, damn him.”

  “You knew her?” She turned to him, her heart in her throat.

  “I did, but casually. I believe she attended a ball or two where my daughter was present. I cannot be sure though…”

  Jessie shook her head. “This is most strange.”

  “Coincidences can take your breath away, can’t they?” The carriage slowed. “And here we are, at Barnsley’s. I believe you’ll find that some of your clothing is a little drier. Let’s have some tea and continue our conversation, Miss Nightingale. I have an idea forming, that I’d like to propose.”

  As they drew to a halt, and she found herself being helped from the carriage, Jessie wondered what he might have in mind. If it was anything like some of the suggestions that had been thrown her way, she would be gone within minutes.

  She would never be a whore again, no matter how dire her circumstances—the thought of the brothel made her shiver. Neither would she be a mistress. Not now. Not after that night. There had only been one man in her life, in her body. And after him, there could be no other. She knew that with overwhelming certainty.

  It wasn’t easy to picture Sir Gerald in the role of anyone’s protector, but God knew she’d experienced more than a few such surprises over the past couple of years.

  So she accepted his hand, stepped to the pavement, and reached inside for her small bundle of belongings.

  “If you will trust me, Miss Nightingale, you may leave your bundle here. Let us talk of some ideas that you might find appealing over tea. If they meet with your approval, then we’ll return to the carriage. If not, you may retrieve your belongings when we are done, and be on your way.”

  She looked at him, knowing this was the point where she had to listen to her intuition, and obey it or ignore it. Should she turn tail and run, trust him, or stay and listen and reserve the trust for after their discussion?

  A rumble of thunder helped her with the decision, and she let her bundle lie inside the carriage. “Very well, Sir Gerald. Tea and conversation. I confess to a thirst for the first and an interest in the second, so…”

  She accepted his arm and allowed him to lead her into Barnsley’s, where—to her surprise—she was greeted as normally as anyone, despite her bedraggled appearance, and soon seated at a table near the roaring fire. She wondered if she might steam like a Christmas pudding whilst drying out.

  And when the tea appeared, a large pot, cups and saucers, and a variety of charmingly presented edible treats, she sighed with pleasure, and looked at her companion.

  “Thank you, Sir Gerald. Indeed, this is an unexpected delight and I am most grateful.”

  “Hell is looking quite tasty, isn’t it?”

  She laughed. “I apologise. That was rather dramatic of me, even though it expressed my sentiments at that precise moment.”

  He chuckled. “I do understand.” He passed her cream and sugar and made sure her plate held several delicate pastries, along with the famous scones. “So you say you are comfortable with mathematics and figures, Miss Nightingale.”

  She nodded around a mouthful of deliciousness, chewing with relish on the sweetness.

  “Good. Have you ever administered the books of an estate?”

  She nearly choked, but managed to swallow before her surprise got the better of her. “Er, no, sir. ’Tis not the custom to allow women anywhere near such matters, is it?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not. But I am in dire straits. Mr Haskings, my estate manager, has succumbed to age and, sadly, illness, leaving me with nobody to take over his duties.” He poured tea for them both. “You must understand that Crawford Hall is a small holding, just outside of town. My family has lived there for several generations, and it will, of course, pass to my son. As is the way of things. But for now, it’s just myself and Piers. And he’s away more often than not.”

  “Does Mr Crawford pursue a career?” Jessie asked carefully. All too often, heirs sowed wild oats and frittered away their inheritance.

  “Indeed he does. His interest is in animal husbandry. Crawford Hall boasts a line of sheep he hopes will revolutionise the British wool industry.”

  “Goodness.” She blinked. “How…how fascinating.” She noted his lips twitch at her words.

  “I know, not the usual activity for a well-bred gentleman, and scarcely an occupation designed to arouse curiosity in any lady’s heart,” he sighed. “I despair of him giving me grandchildren, since he shows no interest in selecting a wife. There's time yet, but he’s not getting any younger.”

  Slightly discomfited by these revelations, Jessie simply nodded and sipped her excellent tea.

  “He’s going on for twenty-five,” revealed Sir Gerald. “Past the time he should’ve wed. But there it is. He’s hopeless when it comes to the business end of running Crawford Hall, and I’m not much better. We’ve relied on Haskings for so long that it has come as a horrid shock to be without him.”

  “I would imagine it is.” There was little else for her to say.

  “So. Would you be interested in taking over his position?”

  Sir Gerald made the outrageous suggestion while casually selecting another choice pastry, as if it was an everyday occurrence to offer a woman the job of running an estate.

  “Me?” she blinked, fighting for breath, and praying not to choke on her heart, which seemed to have thrust its way up into her throat. “You can’t be serious. I don’t know how to answer…” She frowned. “Although I would enjoy such a role, there’s the subject of my birth, not to mention my gender. There might be repercussions for Crawford Hall…”

  “Trivial matters that will not even be mentioned.”

  She shook her head. “I still don’t know what to say…”

  He met her astonished gaze and returned it with his gentle smile. “That’s easy, Miss Nightingale. Say yes.”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  *~~*~~*

  “Marian, come here, girl.”

&nb
sp; The tall man in the field called across the green grass and clicked his fingers, laughing with pleasure as a huge sheep lumbered towards him.

  Naming his prize ewe Marian had been done in a moment of whimsy, but as soon as he did she seemed to respond. Her mate, and the driving force behind the flock, was—of course—Robin. As yet there was no Sheriff of Nottingham, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

  He grabbed a handful of Marian’s fleece and rubbed it, pleased at the softness beneath the outer coat, and the honey gold colouration spreading across her skin. The tips were white, or would be after washing, so his work was progressing well.

  Marian and her fellows had the winter to develop this unusual covering; it would be lush and full come shearing time, and he looked forward to introducing the Crawford wool to the market. It would, indeed, cause a bit of a stir.

  He grinned as his stomach rumbled and reminded him of dinner. The terrible rain had stopped, the flock was doing well and he was hungry. A brisk walk over the fields toward Crawford Hall would give him just about enough time to clean up before joining his father for the evening meal.

  As he strode through the wet grass breathing in the clean country air and ridding his lungs of the last vestiges of London smog, Piers Crawford turned various matters over in his mind. Sheep, as always, were top of the list, but at the moment that was a topic he could set aside, having seen for himself that all was as it should be.

  The two shepherds he had hired knew their jobs well, and between the three of them satisfactory progress was being made. Unfortunately, the matter of Haskings lurked just below. The books had to be kept, because wages had to be paid. Income had to be reported and other financial matters dealt with promptly and accurately.

  He allowed a frisson of anger at himself to linger; knowing that he was hopeless at such things didn’t make it all right that he couldn’t take the job on. His father was worried, too. Piers could see the concern etching a tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows.

  Something had to be done.

  Then there was the matter of taking a bride. This was personal, much more personal, and much as he adored his parent, he knew he would not marry just anyone to keep his father happy.

  He knew what he wanted in a wife.

  She had to be unique, impossible though that might seem. But he also knew his father would insist upon him at least looking at the current crop of debutantes. Somehow or other he vowed to be polite, but noncommittal. His father had his best interests at heart and was behaving just as he should, but the choice would be his, and his alone.

  They both knew that such a decision would last a lifetime, thus it had to be right. The sun emerged briefly, illuminating the warm brick walls of Crawford Hall.

  To Piers it was home. And it always would be.

  He’d do his duty to his father of course, and at some point he hoped to sire a son to carry on the line. He hoped the child would share his interest in sheep too, but that was a matter he could not control. What he could control was his choice of mother for that child. All he had to do was find her.

  As he saw the windows sparkle in the waning light, he also noticed his father’s carriage nearing the driveway, which meant he’d returned from town in good time.

  Looking forward to their evening together, Piers quickened his step, then slowed…his father wasn’t alone.

  A woman was getting out of the carriage.

  Good God…

  Chapter Two

  Jessie found herself admiring the facade of Crawford Hall.

  Neat, elegantly finished, but not overwhelming. This was obviously a house that was well cared-for, and the plants were trimmed, the trees just behind were flaunting their autumn colours, and the brickwork echoed that glow as a brief glimpse of sun illuminated everything.

  “I hope you like it,” said Sir Gerald as he helped her down.

  “It’s lovely,” she answered. “And welcoming.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” He led her up the stairs and into a foyer that held two servants, one obviously the butler and another a maid, both with surprised expressions on their faces.

  “James, this is Miss Nightingale. She will be staying with us and taking over the position of estate manager.”

  The butler’s eyes widened and his throat moved convulsively for a moment before his training took over. “Ah. Of course, sir. Thompkins will take care of the…er…young lady.” He beckoned to the waiting maid, who also looked quite stunned. “Show Miss Nightingale to the Spring room and see that it she’s made comfortable.”

  “Yes sir,” the girl bobbed a curtsey. “This way, Miss.” She turned to go up the staircase which led off the hall and up into a gallery of sorts. Jessie assumed the bedrooms for guests were arranged off those corridors, and the servants would have their domain above on the other floors.

  “Go along and make yourself at home, Miss Nightingale,” said Sir Gerald. “We’ll meet in an hour or so in the library.” He turned. “That room there.” A half-open door revealed massive bookshelves.

  “As you wish, Sir Gerald. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Dipping her head, she followed the maid, noting the spotless bannister and equally spotless carpeting. She felt almost grubby as she stepped upward, thankful that at least her shoes no longer squelched.

  “Here we are, Miss,” said Thompkins, stopping in front of a large door. “’Tis a lovely room. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I shall,” smiled Jessie. “And I’m fairly sure you’re wondering what on earth I’m doing here.”

  “Not at all, Miss. If Sir Gerald says you’re to be the estate manager, then that’s what you’ll be.” She nodded her head decisively. “He’s a good master in a good house. He may do a few things that are out of the ordinary, but he’s well liked hereabouts.” She pulled back curtains, letting the light into a delightful room that was doubtless assigned to favoured female guests.

  Jessie swallowed. “Thompkins, I have no baggage, other than my bundle. Nor do I have clothes to change into. It’s a long story, but sadly I am at a bit of a loss…”

  “Never you worry, Miss. There’s always a dress or two here. Mrs Chalmers, Sir Gerald’s daughter, likes to leave them here for when she visits, in case she needs an extra change.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t…”

  “Sir Gerald would expect you to, Miss. That’s why he suggested this room.” She smiled. “He’s a kind man and I’m sure he wouldn’t dream of mentioning anything like clothing to a guest. He’d leave that up to me. And it looks like you’re not far off Mrs Chalmers in size.”

  Jessie sighed. “It would be nice to change out of these damp garments, I’ll confess.”

  “Hot water’ll be here in a tick, Miss. We’ll have you tidied up in next to no time.”

  Surrendering to the inevitable, Jessie allowed Thompkins to assist her in her toilette, enjoying the attentions and the hot water.

  A charming dress was fetched and whisked over Jessie’s head, which—with a tuck here and there and a pin or two—was pronounced an excellent fit.

  Slippers were also presented, a little loose but with a bit of tightening served their purpose. Thompkins insisted Jessie sit before the vanity, and for the first time in years she found herself enjoying the luxury of having someone else brush her hair.

  “Thank you, Thompkins,” she breathed, staring at her reflection. “You’ve worked miracles.”

  The girl grinned. “No such thing, Miss. Just needed a good brushing and the right pins.”

  Whatever she’d needed, the result was astounding.

  When her hair had been smoothed and pinned into a simple knot at the back of her neck, she noticed there was a bit of a shine to it, and a few loose ends tumbled free around her ears. The soft rose of the dress and the matching lace trim both contributed to turning her complexion a creamy white, rather than the wan shade of what she thought of as pale grey. Used to seeing that in the tiny cracked mirror she’d been using, this reflection
was completely unexpected.

  “Goodness, is that me?”

  Thompkins chuckled. “Yes indeed, Miss. And I expect Sir Gerald will be waiting, so you’d best hurry along.”

  “Of course.” Jessie rose and fought the urge to hug the maid. “Thank you again, Thompkins. You’ve brought a bit of sunshine back into my heart.”

  “Oh Miss,” blinked the girl. “That’s the nicest thing.” She dropped a curtsey. “I’ll straighten up here for you. You remember where the library is?”

  “I do.” Jessie headed for the door, letting her hands stroke the soft fabric of the gown. She was a little nervous, since this day had provided so many surprises, but at least she was warm, dry and had a place to sleep. With a quick smile at the maid, she left and made her way back down to the hall and the library.

  Where she heard male voices. And their tone was not moderated at all.

  “You what?”

  “You heard me. I have hired a new estate manager for us.”

  “And it’s a woman.”

  “Yes. She’s a well-qualified woman.”

  “No woman is qualified to be an estate manager, Father. What the devil were you thinking? And to bring her here?” There was a snort. “It’s unheard of. Absurd.”

  “I beg to differ, Piers. There’s no reason a woman cannot handle the position, especially one with a fine grasp of the mathematics behind such a job.”

  “A woman? With a grasp of mathematics? A wonder indeed.” The tone was scornfully sarcastic. “Tell the truth, sir. Did you find some wench that pleased you? Or worse, did you find some wench you thought might please me?”

  “Good God, son. Disabuse your mind of any such notion. What kind of monster do you think I am?”

  Jessie’s eyes were wide as she remained frozen in the hallway, the argument roaring through the rooms and echoing in her ears. Her own temper rose at the acrimonious discussion, and although she applauded Sir Gerald’s defence of her, the attacks from the other man, presumably his son, were arrows to her heart.

  A door opened further down and the butler walked out. She sighed, knowing she had to move.