The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “Very nice,” he said as Henrietta completed her poem. “You speak French as though you were born to the language, Henrietta.”

  The girl offered him a quick curtsey. “Thank you, Sampson. Luce is a very good teacher.”

  Lucretia forced herself to stand quietly, without fidgeting, as His Grace’s gaze slowly traveled up and down her body, lingering over her hair. She wished she had bound it up, and fought to prevent her hands from quickly coiling its mass into a thick bun at her neck. “I apologize for my appearance, Your Grace,” she murmured. “I had no idea you might stop by this day.”

  His right brow rose. “We are in private, are we not, Miss Brent? Please, do not concern yourself on my account. Your hair is quite beautiful, and I like looking at it.”

  Taken aback by his statement, she did not know what to say. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She managed those few words before her tongue froze in her mouth. He himself had dressed almost casually in a pair of black breeches with tall riding boots that reached his knees. Coatless, he wore a black waistcoat over a white muslin shirt and a light blue cravat. His hair had not been slicked back, and tumbled over his brow in a fashion that caught her breath. She turned back toward Henrietta before he not just caught her staring, but before he discovered the admiration on her face she knew she could not conceal.

  Abruptly, the Duke rose, tugging on his waistcoat. “I will leave you to it, then.”

  Before Lucretia had the chance to curtsey, he walked to the door, and was gone. Henrietta gazed at the closed door, her fine brows lowered and her lips puckered in a small pout. “That was rude of him.”

  “Perhaps he remembered an urgent errand,” Lucretia commented. “He is an important man, after all.”

  “He did not used to be so distant,” Henrietta said, sitting down on her stool. “He used to tease me, make me laugh. Now he ignores me.”

  “I am sure he does not mean to.”

  Her words of reassurance did not have any effect of Henrietta’s pout, but it was lost as the next French poem occupied her attention. While she stumbled over the pronunciation, Lucretia walked to the window and stared down. The Duke emerged into her view a few moments later, walking with long strides toward his saddled horse. Grooms held the animal as he mounted, and Lucretia recognized the other riders down there – James the steward and the Baron of Gillinghamshire.

  The three reined their mounts around and cantered down the road. Sighing, Lucretia turned back to Henrietta, helping her with the correct French pronunciation. An hour or so later, Lucretia ended the French lesson as Rosemary came for Henrietta.

  “It is time for your lunch, My Lady,” she said cheerfully. “Luce, may I bring you a tray?”

  “That would be lovely, Rosemary,” Lucretia began.

  As she stood near the window, movement caught her attention. Three riders approached the house, yet one rode slumped in his saddle. Footmen and grooms rushed toward them, and though she could not hear their words, she knew they yelled urgently. Within moment, Charles Kirkwood hurried from the house. Lucretia gasped.

  The rider who rode bent over was the Duke.

  Chapter 13

  He had to get out.

  As he sat in the solar, pretending to listen to Henrietta’s recital, Sampson could not keep his eyes off Miss Brent. Caught in the sunlight streaming in through the solar window, her hair seemed to blaze with gold fire. Falling from her head to her tiny waist, it rippled as she moved, captivating his gaze. She fascinated him. From her light smattering of freckles, to her up tilted nose, down to her full breasts beneath her bodice. Reminding himself to breathe, Sampson watched her more than he did his sister – and she knew he did.

  His scrutiny obviously made her uncomfortable, her tell-tale fingers entwining together, the rapid looks she shot him informed him that she felt both embarrassed and confused. She was not offended, however. And if he read her face correctly, she, too, admired him discreetly. He discovered he liked the governess looking at him.

  Thus, he bolted, knowing that if he stayed longer, he might do something very foolish. Like take her into his arms and kiss her. As he had intended to only visit his sister for a moment and stayed far longer, he hurried down the hallways and down the broad staircase. He, George, and James planned to visit the stud farm and see the three foals he had been told were born while he was in Wales.

  Taking his mind off of Miss Brent, Sampson recalled the conversation he had with James and Charles Kirkwood. Both advised utter discretion regarding the hunt for the assassin. The fewer who know is best, for those who do not cannot speak of it, even by accident. Thus, Sampson did not tell George or Oliver of the attempt on Henrietta’s life. Oliver still recovered from his wound, and spent much of his time resting under Mr. Kirkwood’s care. James, on the other hand, insisted upon following Sampson everywhere.

  “You need a bodyguard, Your Grace,” he had said. “It will be unremarked upon if I accompany you.”

  Since Sampson could not dissuade him, James waited for him in the drive. George had ridden his horse from his own estate ten miles away to accompany Sampson, as he wished to examine the prize Breckenridge horses and perhaps choose one for himself. The two, already mounted and waiting for him as he walked out of the house, offered him quick bows as he stepped into the stirrup and swung into his saddle.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said, nudging his stallion into a swift canter.

  “James was just telling me you have new foals,” George said, keeping pace while James hung back half a length. “I would like to see them, and if they strike my fancy, I may well purchase one from you.”

  This caught Sampson by surprise, as George employed no horse master, and he himself could not train horses to ride or drive. “Of course, my friend,” Sampson replied. “But I thought you wanted one already under saddle with perfect manners.”

  “That does not mean I cannot buy both,” George said with an easy grin. “If one is a filly, I can breed a Breckenridge for myself.”

  Sampson shook his head. “George, you are my good friend. But you know my rules. I refuse to sell potential breeding stock, even to close friends.”

  George merely shrugged. “Ah, I had to try, Sampson. You certainly have an eye for horseflesh. Who would have known you had such a talent when we were boys?”

  “I got lucky, as you know,” Sampson said, “when I bought that colt at the market.”

  “Others thought him worthless,” George said, nodding. “But you saw his potential immediately. Is that not one of his sons that you ride?”

  Sampson stroked the bay’s thick neck with no little pride. “Yes, indeed. I call him The Iron Knight, as he reminds me of the knights of the old stories. And one day he will join his sire as a stud, breeding more of his like.”

  “You must come see my prized bull,” George went on, increasing his horse’s pace. “Magnificent animal. He will breed a fortune for me. Did I tell you the army is doubling their orders for my beef? At that rate, they can feed Napoleon’s troops as well as our own.”

  Sampson also urged his horse to keep up with George’s steed, enjoying the feel of the wind in his hair, the smooth motion of the powerful stallion beneath him. He caught George’s challenging grin and laughed, then kicked the bay into a dead run. Laughing, his friend tried to keep up, yet his horse was no match for the Breckenridge stallion. The bay easily outran the lesser horses, both George and James shouting for him to slow down and let them catch up.

  Sampson heard the sound of leather snapping. Instantly, his saddle slid to the left, taking him with it. Frantic, he grabbed for the horse’s black mane – and missed. Trying to maintain his balance aboard the running stallion, he sought to pull on the reins, to slow the beast down. He was too late. Sliding out of control, his body fell down the side of the horse with the saddle. Startled, the stallion leaped sideways, and Sampson crashed to the hard graveled road. The air whooshed from his lungs at the same instant he felt his ribs break.

  Dimly,
he heard voices shouting his name, the sound of hooves galloping. Lying on his side, he tried to regain his breath as the pain of his cracked bones flooded through him. He could not gasp nor groan, for both required the breath he did not have. Both George and James leaped from their saddles before their horses skidded to untidy halts beside him, their hooves stirring up the dust in a cloud around his face.

  “Your Grace,” James said, dropping to his knee beside him, his hand reaching but not actually touching. “You are hurt. Tell me where.”

  Wordlessly, Sampson half-sat up, still trying to get his breath, and pointed to his left side. With George hovering anxiously behind him, he wrapped his left arm around his chest, and used his right to try and push himself upright. But James’ firm hand on his shoulder kept him down.

  “Not yet, Your Grace,” he said. “Get your breath first. That’s it, just relax and breathe.”

  Spots danced maliciously behind his eyes as he tried to drag in air. Finally, his lungs relinquished their hold, and could breathe again. “Ribs,” he gasped. “Broken, I think.”

  “I suspected as much.” James glanced up at George. “Might you catch His Grace’s horse, My Lord? We must get him back posthaste.”

  “Of course. He stopped just ahead.”

  With his arm over James’ shoulder, Sampson rose awkwardly to his feet, his head spinning. The pain receded a fraction, but he wondered how he could possibly ride in his condition.

  “I do not like you riding,” James said, “injured as you are. But saddles do not just come off. My gut is telling me someone caused your spill off your horse.”

  “I am all right,” Sampson said. “The saddle is over there. Go take a look.”

  After a dubious glance, James nodded and walked the short distance to where the saddle lay on the dusty road. Picking it up, he fingered a leather strap, then walked back to the Duke. His brown eyes grim, James showed him the strap that kept the girth tight around the horse’s belly.

  “Cut right through,” he said, his tone low and filled with rage. “Not worn – cut.”

  “A groom?”

  “It is something to think about, Your Grace. But here comes the baron. I beg you, Your Grace, let us not speak of it to anyone just yet.”

  “But –”

  “The fewer that know.”

  “Then fewer can let something slip. All right.”

  George arrived, leading the bay stallion by his bridle. He glanced from the saddle to Sampson’s face to James’. “Did something break that should not have?” he asked.

  James nodded. “The strap holding the girth broke. Think, My Lord, we can help His Grace back onto his mount?”

  “Should he ride, James?” George asked, his forehead puckered in concern. “That fall, at that speed, could easily have killed him. How badly are you hurt, Sampson?”

  “Not bad,” he replied, taking the reins from his hand. “I will be fine after a few days.”

  Offering his knee for a leg-up, Sampson gritted his teeth at the tearing pain getting on the horse caused him. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, but he scrambled onto the stallion’s bare back. Sitting there, he waited for the worst of the pain to pass, before finally nodding to his friends. “I am ready.”

  Riding with one to each side of him should he start to fall off, Sampson distracted himself from the pain by pondering the implications of the day’s incident. First, the stable fire. Then while he was in Wales, someone tried to kill Henrietta. Now this attempt on his life by cutting the saddle strap. Who wants me and my sister dead? Was the fire an attempt to kill or was there some other reason for it? It was not until they rounded the bend in the road and sighted the house that another thought struck him like an arrow shot. We were attacked in Wales. Was that a coincidence, or the first attempt on my life from persons unknown?

  “I will ride ahead and inform your staff and your physician,” George said.

  At Sampson’s grateful nod, George kicked his horse into a gallop and raced ahead. Sampson turned his head toward James and spoke one word. “Wales.”

  “We are thinking the same,” James replied, his tone as fierce as his eyes. “I know not how to protect you, Your Grace, from enemies who strike at you through such deviltry as cut saddles and discontented Welshmen.”

  “We do not know for certain that what happened in Wales was indeed an attempt to kill just me,” Sampson said, bending over to help ease his pain. “That might have been a straight up attack on any Englishmen.”

  “Until I know differently, Your Grace,” James replied, his lips thinned in anger, “I will presume it was. And so should you. Come, let us not speak of this again until we are in privacy.”

  Sampson nodded, observing the growing crowd of servants and grooms massing outside his home. To his dismay, he found Miss Brent among them, her slim hand covering her mouth as her eyes widened in shock. Sampson turned back to James.

  “When she can be spared,” Sampson muttered from the side of his mouth, “I want her to look after me while I am recovering. She is one of the few I can trust absolutely.”

  James glanced at him, then focused on Miss Brent. He nodded without speaking, perhaps realizing that even Martin might not be above suspicion. Given Lucretia’s new arrival to the Breckenridge estates, and her obvious loyalty and dedication to the Claridge siblings, she could be trusted when others could not.

  George returned to Sampson’s side, along with Charles, to help him dismount. Locking a groan in his throat, Sampson slid down from the stallion’s back, strong hands seizing his shoulders to hold him upright. Once on his feet, he lifted his head high, and walked on fairly steady legs toward the house. They will not see me carried in like a sack of meal. He needed help to get up the stairs, however, but still managed it under his own power. Once in his rooms, Charles dismissed everyone save James. The two stripped him of his waistcoat, cravat and shirt, offering Charles the full view of Sampson’s purple and black left side.

  Charles gently probed his ribs, forcing a hiss of agony from Sampson’s lips. “I think you were very lucky, Your Grace,” Charles said, taking rolls of white linen from his bag. “I think your bones are cracked, but not fully broken. I will wrap your chest, and dose you with laudanum for the pain.”

  Sampson nodded, and met James’ stern glance. “What?” he asked.

  “I am questioning your opinion of Miss Brent,” James replied. “It appears to me that troubles began the moment she arrived. Are you certain you are placing your trust in the right person? Perhaps her saving Lady Henrietta was but a sham, and she and the assassin are in this together.”

  Sampson shook his head, feeling some of his pain ease as the physician’s wraps braced his chest and cracked ribs. “Then how did she arrange for the Welshmen to attack us? The saddle had to have been cut shortly after the grooms tacked up my horse. Despite our suspicions, I cannot see all the grooms involved in this charade. A groom would have seen the broken strap, and not saddle my horse with it like that. And her presence in the stable would raise comment.”

  “I would not raise the possibility of Miss Brent’s involvement without much thought, Your Grace.”

  “I, for one, do not believe her capable of such actions,” Charles added. “You gentlemen were in Wales, and did not see her after the rider fired at Her Ladyship. Her only concern was for Lady Henrietta. And I spoke to John Kelley afterward.”

  “What did he say?” Sampson asked, impatient and wanting only to lie down and hurt in peace.

  “He says he was looking at her when her face changed,” Charles went on, still wrapping the Duke’s chest. “Such an expression of horror and fear that he believes cannot be feigned. And she moved so quickly, according to his version of events. She spun around, shielding your sister, then Mr. Kelley heard the shot and pulled them to the ground.”

  James bowed. “Then I am convinced of the governess’s innocence and lack of complicity in these events.”

  “If she wished my sister and I ill,” Sampson
said, watching the last of the wrap go around his chest, “then why not stand by and let Henrietta be shot? Why the drama of saving her life? No one expects a woman to rush in and save a little girl.”

  “Your words make sense, Your Grace,” James said. “I fear I am jumping at shadows.”

  “We all are,” Charles added. “But our suspicions have not gone beyond the three of us?”

  “I wish Miss Brent to look after me while I am recovering,” Sampson said, finally allowed to lie back against his pillows. His ribs burned with a savage fire, and he hoped the promised laudanum would arrive shortly. “I trust Martin as much as I want to trust anyone on my staff.”

  “Yet, we all have doubts about everyone,” James said. “At least we know she will not be slipping any poison in your food.”