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

by Linfield, Emma

  Sampson tried to ignore the stab of jealousy his friend’s harmless question brought, knowing full well Miss Brent’s good looks might attract other men’s eyes. Yet, he forced the emotion down and shrugged. “Of course, that is what makes her an excellent governess.”

  “Is that all she is? Lady Henrietta’s governess?”

  “What else would she be?” Sampson found George’s interest in Miss Brent odd, and he frowned slightly.

  “I merely thought you may have found cause to expand her duties,” George replied easily, sipping his brandy.

  “You sound ridiculous. She is Henrietta’s friend, which of course is all to the good. My sister needed a companion and Miss Brent is good for her. You are not thinking to offer her marriage, are you?”

  George snorted. “No. When I choose a wife, I will pick one for her good breeding, not her intelligence. In fact, I would not want an intelligent wife. Just one who is obedient and bears me an heir. Nor would I marry a commoner.”

  “That is indeed a pity,” Sampson said, watching the brandy swirl in his glass. “Miss Brent will someday make a man a most excellent wife.”

  “If you are looking to sell her, Oliver may be interested.” George stared out the window, his lips twisted.

  “Oliver has his sights set on someone already.”

  “I hope you are not considering marrying her,” George said, turning his face back toward Sampson. “That, I fear, would be a dreadful mistake.”

  Hs jealousy gone, Sampson found annoyance taking its place. “By the acerbic tone of your voice, George, I am guessing you do not like her.”

  “I neither like nor dislike commoners,” George retorted. “They are beneath me, and thus I care only if they do not serve me properly.”

  “This is a side of you I have not seen before. I believed you cared about the people of your household. As I do.”

  “Your heart is too soft, Sampson,” George replied, a hint of a sneer in his voice. “You can be certain your household does not care about you. All commoners want is food and a warm bed with a few shillings to spend. Nothing more.”

  Sampson watched George closely. While he knew the Baron paid little heed to the people he employed, he had never heard him disparage them before. Not like this. “You are sounding bitter. Is something troubling you?”

  George laughed. “My only worry is that you coddle your staff so much you will make them lazy. Then you will be forced to change tack and show them the whip.”

  Sampson hid his alarm behind a lazy shrug and sipped his brandy. “Then I suppose that is my problem, I expect. Is that what you do? Whip your servants into working harder?”

  “I do not have to,” George replied, smiling. “They know what they can expect if they do not perform their duties to my satisfaction.”

  “It seems to me your departed mother had a soft touch with the servants,” Sampson said, his tone bland. “Would she approve of such harsh measures from you?”

  Instantly, George bolted from his chair. “Do not speak of my mother,” he snarled.

  “Then perhaps we should shift the conversation to something less, shall we say, inflammatory?”

  George returned to his chair, but with far less grace than what Sampson was used to in him. He scowled darkly, his lips thinned, his normally affable and smiling demeanor long vanished. Never before had George appeared so temperamental, his temper on a such a thin line that Sampson stood close to asking him to leave.

  “Perhaps I might inquire as to your cattle, George?” Sampson asked, his tone neutral. “Do they thrive this year?”

  George nodded, and spoke at length about his cattle-selling achievements, his anger only partially mollified. Sampson listened, nodding in places, but the rage in George’s eyes kept him on edge.

  Whatever is the matter with him? Perhaps his cattle business is not what he says it is. Poor decisions may have affected him and thus he lashes out when he does not mean to.

  After nearly an hour, George seemed his normal self again, and Sampson tried to forget the nasty scene between them. Perhaps he is under stress he does not wish to share with me.

  Sampson set aside his empty snifter, and stood. “Shall we walk to the stable, my friend?”

  “Of course.”

  George rose with him, and in companionable harmony they walked side by side through the house, past the bowing and curtseying servants. Outside, the late afternoon felt unseasonably warm, and Sampson’s ruffled shirt stuck to his ribs and back almost immediately. “Is a storm brewing, I wonder?” he asked.

  George glanced up at the cloudless blue sky, shrugging. “It may. We have not had much rain this summer.”

  At his order, the grooms brought out the two black horses George wanted to see, parading them up and down for his inspection. Where once he had gloated over them, he now pursed his lips critically. He examined teeth and hooves, ran his hands down their legs and even listened to their hearts beat. Sampson watched with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

  “They have stamina and endurance,” he said. “At three and four years old they are ready to be broken to saddle or harness. Nowhere else will you find such a matched pair.”

  George nodded thoughtfully. “All black without a single white hair on them.”

  “They are full brothers, as well.”

  Still continuing to walk around the spirited, prancing horses, George shook his head more than he nodded in approval. “How much for them?” he asked at last.

  “One hundred fifty quid each,” Sampson replied. “And that is because you are my friend. Otherwise, they are two hundred apiece.”

  “I planned to offer you fifty for both.”

  Sampson laughed, noticing the flash of anger cross George’s face as he did so. “I am sorry, my friend. Even for you, I cannot go less than one fifty for each.”

  George shook his head, grinning. “You ask more than three times the going rate for horses, my dear Sampson. How do you manage to sell them at all?”

  “I have no lack of people wishing to buy them, George, you know that. My horses are of exceptional quality and breeding. Naturally, I can command higher prices.”

  “I expect I shall have to sell more cattle in order to afford one,” George said, shrugging. “My apologies, but I believe I will pass on them.”

  Sampson clapped him on the shoulder. “Actually, I am quite relieved to hear you say that.”

  “Why?”

  “I had the idea to keep them for myself,” Sampson replied, taking one of the horses from the groom and stroking his hand down the horse’s face with affection. “I would have sold them to you, as you are my good friend. But I like them enough that I will keep them.”

  “Ah. But sentimentality will not make you a profit, my friend.”

  Sampson nodded, chuckling, and sent the horses back into the stable with their grooms. “Perhaps not. But I am wealthy enough to allow myself a little sentimentality here and there.”

  As they walked back toward the house, Sampson asked, “Will you stay for supper and the night, George? You are welcome to do so.”

  “I wish I could, my friend,” George replied. “But I must oversee my business, as I cannot afford the sentimentality you display. Thank you, however. Perhaps next time I might take you upon your invitation.”

  “You are welcome anytime.”

  As Sampson called for George’s horse be brought out to him, he glanced at George’s face. Somehow, he caught his friend unawares and gazing out over the hills, and his tight expression took him aback. “George,” Sampson asked, his hand on George’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  “What? Of course I am. Just thinking.”

  Watching him mount up, yank on the animal’s reins with an undeserved harshness, and then spur his horse into a gallop, Sampson felt glad George decided not to buy his horses.

  I certainly would not want those beauties treated like that.

  Chapter 27

  Lucretia discovered having Mr. Kelley around to carry th
ings made her feel very spoiled. With his assistance, she brought more books to Henrietta’s apartments for her to teach from. She sent him on errands, and the Duke even permitted her outside in the garden again if Mr. Kelley stood by. Although she was not permitted to walk in the orchard, she hardly missed her free time in the afternoon there. With the footman waiting on Henrietta, Lucretia could spend an hour in quiet contemplation in another part of the house, and did not feel constrained.

  The Duke had not yet lifted Henrietta’s confinement to her chambers, despite the girl’s complaints, and Lucretia spent her hour after lunch in the solar. A wicked storm had blown up through the morning hours, and as she sat in the solar reading one of the books the orphanage matron had pressed upon her at her departure from the Foundling Hospital, rain lashed the windows. Under the book, in her lap, sat letters from Mrs. Marsh and Willie, telling her how big Rose had grown and that she was learning to read Lucretia’s letters to her.

  Thunder growled outside as lightning flashed, startling her from her reading. Lucretia gazed out through the glass streaming with water, thinking that the previous two days of high heat resulted in this heavy storm. Soon it will be winter with its snow and blizzards and deep cold. She shivered at the thought. Winter was never her favorite time of the year.

  The door to the solar opened. Glancing up, she found the Duke peering around the edge. “I thought I might find you here.”

  Lucretia leaped up, dropping her book, and curtseyed. “Your Grace. I did not expect you.”

  “I like to pop in from time to time unexpectedly,” he said with a smile. “Keeps people on their toes.”

  “You are certainly keeping me on mine.”

  The Duke gestured for her to return to her chair, and he took one near her, facing the wind and rain-swept windows. “Tell me, is my sister properly disciplined? Is it time for me to lift her chamber restrictions?”

  Lucretia nodded. “I was hoping you would. She has become quite petulant and disagreeable. She also chafes at the lack exercise.”

  He leaned back in his chair, putting his boots up on a footstool, watching the storm rage outside the house. “I suppose it is time. It has been five days. Do you think she has learned her lesson?”

  “Can anyone properly know that, Your Grace?” she asked with a laugh. “Until she does it again or does not, I will presume she has.”

  “I fear her proclivity for breaking the rules is my fault,” the Duke said. “After our mother died, I let her have her way more often than not and spoiled her.”

  “She is far from spoiled. A little headstrong, yes, but she is a kind and thoughtful child, not given to temper tantrums, asks rather than demands, and more prone to laughter than to tears. I do not believe there is a servant in this house who does not adore her.”

  “Indeed? That is good to hear. Then I will inform my sister she is free to resume her normal activities, and you can continue to educate her in here or anywhere of your choosing.”

  “Thank you,” Lucretia said. “I am certain Lady Henrietta will be overjoyed to hear it.”

  The Duke rose from his chair and paced to the window, staring out. “I also wished to speak with you on the matter of this enemy who wishes the three of us dead. Have you any further thoughts, Miss Brent?”

  “I do not,” she replied, eyeing his tall masculine frame now that he could not see her admiring him. “I have considered and rejected many potential suspects.”

  “Such as?”

  Though he still had his back to her, Lucretia ticked them off her fingers. “Very well. Let us consider your staff first. From the top we have James—absolutely loyal to you. And for argument’s sake let us say he is feigning his dedication, but what reason would he have to harm you? Revenge? Money? Neither of those motives fit. Nor do they extend to either Lady Henrietta or myself.”

  “Very good. Please continue.”

  “Mr. Kirkwood, is next, I suppose. You hired him to care for your mother, thus his loyalty may be in doubt. He is a physician, and would know how to administer poison on the needle and to the horse. However, what does he stand to gain by your death? Nothing I can see.”

  “Very good.”

  “The butler and housekeeper. Their loyalties are unknown, but their motives? Non-existent. They stand to lose more than they gain by killing the three of us. For who knows if your heir will keep them on after he takes over the estate after your death.”

  “Then shall we consider my cousin?”

  “Very well. I have asked a few discreet questions of both James and Mr. Kelley regarding the Viscount of Montrose. He is barely fifteen years old. James knows your aunt, and informed me she is in poor health. On your behalf, James has written discreet letters to Yorkshire.”

  The Duke turned suddenly. “He has? Why did he not tell me?”

  “He is your steward, Your Grace,” Lucretia replied. “It is his duty to perform tasks such as these and leave you free to run your dukedom. If there were anything alarming in the letters he received, I know he would have told you.”

  “You are quite correct. What information did he receive?”

  “The Viscount’s father, your uncle, tends to both drink and gamble heavily. Rumors in Yorkshire speak of him wasting the family fortune.”

  “That certainly gives him motivation,” the Duke said, pacing, his head down and his hair tumbling over his brow in that fashion Lucretia loved seeing. Her hands itched to push it back and run her fingers through its rich, glossy texture. When he suddenly turned again to face her, she glanced away, feeling her face flush. “If he is indeed gambling away his son’s inheritance, he might seek to expand it by ensuring my cousin inherits my wealth, titles, and estates.”

  “However, Mr. Bloom came from London, Your Grace,” Lucretia continued, pretending to adjust the folds of her gown, “not Yorkshire. The Breckenridge estate is closer to London, and it makes more sense that your enemy would hire Bloom there. In addition, Mr. Kelley’s time in Tewksbury did not just find Bloom, but he also kept your Yorkshire relatives in mind during his investigation.”

  “Oh?”

  “He did not hear rumors of anyone from the north hanging around the town, and Tewksbury is not large. People with Yorkshire accents are remarked upon. As are many from various parts of England, Scotland and Wales.”

  He nodded. “All true. However, I believe we should keep my noble uncle in mind as a possibility.” Continuing to pace, his hands behind his back, he continued to speak, his tone thoughtful. “Although he is a drunkard, and not reputed to be very bright, he may be capable of sending to London for a hireling.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Smiling, he asked, “Do we have any others in mind, Miss Brent?”

  “The only others to visit the estate are your friends, the Lords Egerton and Gillinghamshire,” Lucretia said. “I believe they are incapable of wishing you harm. And again, if they did, then why? They cannot possibly be after your inheritance as they cannot inherit your titles and estates.”

  “Quite right. So where does that leave us?”

  Lucretia gazed at him as he walked about, his head down and his hands behind his back. “Then that leaves a political motivation, Your Grace. Perhaps you have made enemies among your peers in Parliament. Are there any controversial bills that you have introduced or are a party to?”

  “That would answer the London question, certainly,” the Duke said, “but no. There is nothing being discussed at the government level that would lead to murder, and Parliament is not even in session right now.”

  “Then I fear I have no other suspects in mind then, Your Grace,” Lucretia said, shrugging. “I fear there is a motivation we have not yet considered.”

  The Duke ticked off his fingers. “Money, revenge, jealousy, politics, personal hatred of me are the only motives truly available. We have eliminated all but greed and personal hatred, and I cannot think of anyone who hates me enough to want both myself and Henrietta killed.”

  “I believe I wa
s added to the list because I stand in the enemy’s way.”

  He stopped his pacing mid-step, spinning toward her, his eyes blazing green fire. “You are personally responsible for thwarting him. I agree with that assessment because you halted the attempt on Henrietta, and you halted her before the needle could scratch her, but how did our enemy know that you found the needle in time?”

  For once, Lucretia had no answers. Her mouth worked as she stared at him, but nothing cohesive emerged.

  “I believe, Miss Brent,” His Grace said, his tone hard, “if we find the answer to that question, we have our enemy.”