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

by Linfield, Emma

  “Miss Brent, are you all right?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, quite all right, thank you.”

  “He knocked you down,” Sampson went on, “I saw this knife in his hand. What happened?”

  “Well, I—was forced to defend myself.”

  Strangely, Miss Brent’s face turned bright pink, and she turned her face away as though to hide it. The sound of running feet from behind him forced him to turn, and he found James, blunderbuss in hand, rushing toward them.

  “Is Miss Brent all right?” James gasped, his grizzled face a mask of tight worry. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, no, I am quite all right,” she replied, still blushing furiously.

  As James rolled the crying man onto his belly, he quickly tied his hands behind his back with a short length of rope. Their prisoner thus secured, Sampson turned back to Miss Brent. She wiped her face with her hands as though trying to wipe the blush from her face, yet she was unwilling to look him in the eyes. Puzzled, he glanced from her to Bloom and back again to her very pink face.

  “Miss Brent, I saw him try to stab you while you both were on the ground,” Sampson said slowly. “Just how did you defend yourself? With your own knife?”

  “No, that is still in my sleeve, Your Grace.”

  Once again, she avoided eye contact with him, and stared away over the hills, her arms crossed over her chest. James stood up, his blunderbuss back on his shoulder, confusion narrowing his eyes. Behind him, the Londoner rolled on the ground, cursing, informing them that he was going to bleed to death.

  “Did you see what she did, James?” Sampson asked him.

  James shook his head. “No, Your Grace, the moment they both hit the ground I was up and running to the rooftop door. I saw you, and yelled at you that she might get killed.”

  “Obviously, she did not.”

  Sampson turned back to Miss Brent, trying in vain to make her look at him. “Miss Brent, what did you do to him?”

  “I—I, hmm, I would rather not say, Your Grace,” she replied, finally facing him. “It would not be ladylike.”

  “Will you effin’ stop the bleedin’?” Bloom cried. “’Ere I be, bound and bleedin’ while you chat up a berk. Crikey, mate. Do somethin’.”

  “Quit your whining, Bloom,” James snapped. “And watch your language or I will shove a gag down your throat.”

  “She done walloped me in me bally, that what she done,” Bloom shouted. “Evil berk, that she is.”

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Brent said, blushing hotter than before. “I must go. By your leave, Your Grace.”

  Offering him a very brief curtsey, Miss Brent hurried toward the house, not looking back. Sampson and James stared after her, stunned, even as Bloom shouted more curses at her back. They stared at one another, then glanced at Bloom’s fury. “Did she really—?” Sampson began.

  “I think so,” James replied, a grin forming across his face.

  Sampson chuckled, trying to smother it, then burst out in a roar of laughter. James howled along with him, tears leaking from his eyes. A few grooms, drawn by the noise, trotted across the grass toward them, curiosity and confusion clear on their faces. Sampson ignored them, his ribs on fire as he continued to laugh uncontrollably.

  At last, James reined in his own amusement, wiping his tears from his cheeks, and tied a small rope around Bloom’s bleeding leg. “You will live, mate,” he said.

  “Ah, go stuff yerself, ye effin’ maggot pie.”

  Before James could move, Sampson grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket, and, bending, shoved it into Bloom’s open mouth. He glanced up at the grooms. “One of you give me a belt.”

  He was handed a stiff leather belt, and he tied it around Bloom’s head, effectively keeping the gag tight in his jaws. Bloom’s eyes glared naked fury, but he lay on the ground, helpless and ineffectively trying to renew his curses around the gag. Sampson gazed down at him, then chuckled to himself. He glanced at the puzzled grooms.

  “We caught someone who planned to steal my horses,” he said to them. “What shall we do with him, gentlemen?”

  Collectively, the grooms closed the distance between them and Bloom, their anger and rage radiating out from them like the sun’s heat. Grumbled suggestions ranged from ‘hang ‘im’ to ‘cut ‘is throat’ and no few ‘strip ‘im and flay ‘im alive’ came from the small crowd who loved the horses they cared for.

  Bloom’s eyes bugged out of his head as he listened to them, shaking his head, muffled and unrecognizable words emerging from behind the gag.

  “Unfortunately,” Sampson said to them, “I must ask him some questions, so any and all of those excellent ideas must wait. Please return to your duties, gentlemen.”

  The grooms bowed, and slowly, reluctantly, returned the way they came, often glancing over their shoulders. James bent down, and hauled Bloom to his feet. “Come on, mate,” he said cheerfully. “We are going to have a little chat.”

  * * *

  Sampson’s house did not have a dungeon, but it did have a deep cellar under the kitchen where his ancestors often stored food. He himself seldom used it for such, but it was deep and the trapdoor held a stout lock. Under the astonished faces of the kitchen staff, he and James forcibly hauled Bloom across the kitchen and down the steep steps to the cellar.

  There were a few ramshackle tables, but no chairs. Sampson let Bloom fall to the dirt floor, then glanced around. “Do we need to tie him to something?” he asked James.

  His hands on his hips, James shook his head. “Let us just tie his feet so he cannot wander too far. Then leave him bound and gagged.”

  “What about his wound?”

  James bent over and removed the belt from Bloom’s thigh, inspecting the wound in the dim light. “Already stopped bleeding and I can see the ball. Had he been a few feet further away, the thing would have slapped him, then fallen to the ground. He will be fine.”

  Standing over his prisoner, Sampson regarded him with detachment. “Well, Mr. Isaac Bloom. Are you going to cooperate and tell me what I want to know?”

  Bloom furiously shook his head, his beady eyes defiant.

  “James, do we still have those old torture devices in the armory?”

  “Well, I think we still have a Pear of Anguish,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “That would get him talking sure enough. Let me think, I believe we also have a strappado. Oh, we also have a Judas Cradle. I just remembered.”

  Sampson frowned. “Is that not a bit bulky to bring down here?”

  “Bah. It is easy enough to break down and rebuild in this cellar.”

  Sampson glanced down at Bloom’s face. Sweat streaked his blond hair and dripped down his chin, his eyes wild, and he shook his head from side to side. “Are you going to answer my questions? Or must you make me work for them? I have not had the luxury of torturing anyone for quite some time, but it might become entertaining.”

  Bending, he removed the belt and the gag. “Well, Mr. Bloom?”

  “I cannae talk to ye, Yer Grace,” Bloom cried. “He will kill me.”

  “I will torture you before I kill you,” Sampson replied easily. “Which is a worse fate?”

  “I cannae talk ‘t ye.”

  “Tell me who wants me dead, and I will see to it you are set free in Scotland, or even France. You will be safe from him.”

  Bloom shook his head, his lips closed tight and thinned. With a sigh, Sampson returned the gag and belt, and straightened. “This will take some time, James.”

  James gazed down at Bloom. “I suggest we leave him here for a space. Let him think of the consequences of his actions today.”

  “Very well. We can examine the devices in the armory and decide which will work best on this miscreant.”

  They two climbed out of the cellar and closed the trapdoor, and Sampson locked it again. He gazed around at the staff, at all the faces who gazed at him and forgot to bow or curtsey in their collective shock. “He tried to steal my horses,” he snapped. “Now get back to work.�
��

  As he walked, James at his side, out of the kitchen, he received the quicks bows and curtsies to his departing back. “You know damn well I cannot torture the man,” he said.

  “That is good, since we do not have any torture devices at all,” James replied. “We might have to get creative.”

  “If he does not tell us who his employer is, then what?”

  “Let us give him a few days,” James said. “If he does not, then we send him to London and let the gaolers have him. He at least then cannot try to kill you, and it leaves our enemy without his helper. He will have to do his dirty work all by himself.”

  Chapter 25

  “How did you get so dirty, Luce?”

  Lucretia glanced down at herself at Henrietta’s words, finding a mixture of dead grass, leaves, and brown earth on her gown. “Oh, I stumbled and fell in the orchard. How clumsy of me.”

  “You have sticks in your hair.”

  Rosemary, smiling, set her embroidery aside and helped Lucretia brush the dirt and dead stuff from her gown, and comb out her hair. She had hurried, still shocked and breathless at what had transpired in the orchard, straight from there to the solar, unaware of her disheveled appearance.

  Starting the afternoon’s lesson in Latin, Lucretia could not keep her mind on what she was doing. It kept returning to the scene in the orchard, Bloom lying on the ground, and how close she had come to being severely injured or even killed. Her initial emotions of anger over Bloom’s attempt to kill her, and her triumph at preventing it wore off, and she trembled.

  She stumbled over the Latin words, mispronounced, and in general frustrated Henrietta to the point the girl began to cry. Lucretia rushed to pull Henrietta into her arms, shushing her, and rocking back and forth.

  “I am sorry, Henrietta,” she murmured against her hair. “I am terribly distracted today. It is not your fault.”

  Still, Lucretia could not get the scene from the orchard out of her mind. She had been forced to protect herself from a boy at the orphanage in the same way, and, like this moment, shook with the aftereffects of the heady rush to survive. She had listened to the laughter from His Grace and James as she hurried toward the house, and it echoed in her head even now.

  “Come,” she said, raising Henrietta’s face from her bosom. “Why do we not simply read poetry for the rest of the day?”

  “I would like that,” Henrietta replied, wiping her tear-stained face with her hands.

  Thus they took turns reciting poetry from the books, and the quiet afternoon hours finally calmed Lucretia’s soul and mind. She dreaded seeing the Duke, or James, and worried about what they might be doing to Bloom even now. Surely His Grace will not consent to torturing the man. She doubted he would stoop so low as to torture another human being, but would he permit James to do so?

  Lucretia felt relieved when the maid came to summon Henrietta to supper. As Rosemary led her out to go change her clothing, Lucretia continued to sit in the solar, staring out the window. While she felt good a man who set out to kill not just her, but the Duke and little Henrietta also, was captured, she felt little triumph. Depression sank its frigid fingers into her soul. I came so close to losing my life today. Am I not as ready to meet the Lord as I thought?

  The hours crawled by, and she finally roused herself from her chair to go to her rooms just as the sun sank behind the hills. She had no desire to eat, and hoped most of the staff were occupied and not in her direct path. She did not feel up to talking with anyone. Before she reached the door, it opened.

  The Duke stood there, gazing down at her, his eyes shadowed in the dim light. Lucretia dipped into a low curtsey. “Your Grace.”

  “Have you been in here all afternoon?” he asked.

  “Yes. After Lady Henrietta went to supper, I simply…sat here.”

  “You did not dine?”

  “I was not hungry.”

  “Mr. Kirkwood will not like hearing that, so soon after your recovery.”

  “I am sure he will not suffer overmuch, Your Grace.”

  The Duke closed the door and leaned against it. “Is something wrong, Miss Brent?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Not really. Come sit down. We should talk.”

  “No, Your Grace,” she said, imploring. “I should return to my rooms.”

  He turned, studying her. “Must I make it an order?”

  Reluctant, Lucretia followed him across the solar to the armchairs near the window. Outside, the sun set in a brazen array of color – orange, pink, purple, red. Dark crept across the lawns like a thief as the Duke indicated a chair for her to take.

  “Tell me,” he said, his tone gentle. “What is wrong?”

  Discovering it not worth the breath to deny it, Lucretia stared out at the dying sun and the encroaching dark. “I came so close to being killed today,” she admitted. “I expect I am still shook up somewhat.”

  The Duke glanced away. “I can certainly understand that.”

  Lucretia nodded, her fingers entwined in her lap. “I am grateful you do.”

  “Miss Brent,” he said, his voice soft in the near dark. “I wish that I had not been forced to put you in the position where you might get killed. Do you understand?”

  Lucretia nodded, still not looking at him. “I do know it. Nor do I place you in any blame.”

  The Duke reached out and carefully took her hand in his own. “Yours is a kind and sensitive soul, Miss Brent. I admire that in you. Just as I admire the courage in you. And the fire. And the tenacity to overwhelm a man who is intent upon killing you. What you did, you did in defense of not just your life, but that of Lady Henrietta. And my own. I can never thank you enough for that.”

  Lucretia finally gazed into his eyes. “What will happen to him? Bloom?”

  The Duke shrugged. “If he refuses to tell me who employed him, I have no choice. I will send him to the courts in London, and let the Prince Regent’s royal justice be served.”

  Lucretia felt a tension she had not known existed leave her. “You will not… harm him?”

  “Harm? As in torture?” the Duke laughed. “Of course not. Well, I let him think that was a possibility, but no. I have as little stomach for harming a person as you do. I will admit, that in the heat of a fight, I will kill or cause harm. But never in cold blood.”

  “I suppose that is what I did,” she said. “I have been forced to protect myself before, when I lived in the orphanage.”

  “The world is not always kind Miss Brent,” he said. “When your life is in danger, you must act or be killed. Though I would wish it otherwise.”

  Lucretia gazed thoughtfully out the window where the hills sat crowned in pale orange. “I, too. Protecting oneself and others is not easy, is it?”

  “No. Not always.”

  She turned back to him, trying to smile. “Well, you taught me to shoot, Your Grace. I certainly hope that if I am forced to it, I can shoot a man.”

  “I hope that as well,” he replied, his fingers brushing her knuckles. “Although I pray it does not, and never will come to that. My enemy is still out there, and will wonder what became of his employee. He may not try anything for a while, but I feel he will. And soon.”

  “Do you want me to remain in Lady Henrietta’s rooms at night?”

  “After today?” His Grace smiled. “More than ever. If you are with her, the devil himself will wish he had never entered her room.”

  Lucretia felt a blush crawl from her neck and rise to her cheeks. “You overestimate my abilities, Your Grace.”

  “It is you who underestimates yourself. The hour grows late. I would walk you to my sister’s rooms, if you will allow me.”

  “Gladly, Your Grace. I would be honored.”

  “Where do you keep the pistol James gave you?”

  “When I sleep, it is under my pallet. When I am gone from her rooms, I hide it among my personal possessions so the housemaids do not discover it.”

  The Duke rose, smiling, his hand still
capturing hers, and took her up with him. “I am pleased, Miss Brent. Once again, I will tell you that I am in your debt.”

  Lucretia bent her head. “It is my duty to protect the Lady Henrietta.”

  “No, that is my duty. Yours is to teach her. But in this instance, it appears you have surpassed me, Miss Brent.”

  “I live but to serve, Your Grace.”

  The Duke eyed her sidelong. “Well, we will have to see about that.”