by Deborah Hale
“That was exciting,” Sophie announced as she skipped down the gallery on their way back to the nursery. “I wish we could do secret things like that more often.”
The child’s remark smote Grace with a pang of conscience. It was her job to bring up Sophie and her sisters as well-educated, accomplished young ladies of good character. Teaching them to sneak about, keeping secrets from their father hardly qualified as the latter.
Sophie’s skipping drowned out the sound of approaching footsteps until suddenly Lord Steadwell’s valet rounded the corner moving faster than Grace had ever seen him. He almost collided with the child, who sought refuge in Grace’s arms. They all started in a guilty fashion.
“I beg your pardon, ladies.” The valet seemed very flustered about something. “I did not expect to meet anyone in this part of the house. What are you doing here?”
Tempted as Grace was to resent his accusing tone, she had to admit the man had reason to be suspicious.
Phoebe came to the rescue. “Papa likes us to learn about our family history. All the oldest paintings are in these rooms.”
Both statements were perfectly true and the child had not actually claimed that was what they were doing. Still Grace felt she was setting a very poor example for her impressionable young pupils.
“Back to the nursery, girls.” She shooed them on their way then fixed the valet with a questioning gaze. “Is something the matter, Mr. Willis? You don’t seem quite yourself.”
“It’s the master who’s not himself,” muttered the valet, who was ordinarily the soul of discretion. “He’s in a foul humor this morning. If he wasn’t the most temperate gentleman I ever served, I would swear he was suffering from a bad morning after.”
“That does not sound like his lordship at all,” Grace agreed, trying not to show how much the news troubled her. “Perhaps he did not sleep well after all the excitement last evening.”
Mr. Willis did not look as though he gave her explanation much credence. “Lord Steadwell sent me to tell the cook we might have guests for dinner. Might, indeed! The cook will give me the sharp edge of her tongue over that, you may be certain.”
“Did his lordship say who might be dining with him?” Grace did not like the sound of his plans, tentative though they were.
“Mrs. Cadmore and her son, if the boy has recovered from whatever was ailing him,” Mr. Willis replied. “I’m to deliver the invitation to Dungrove as soon as I’ve spoken to the cook. If you’ll excuse me, I had better be on my way or he’ll have my head, the temper he’s in.”
“Yes, of course.” Grace was sorry to have detained the poor man, though she appreciated the information. If only she knew what it meant.
After the attention Rupert had shown her last night, why was he inviting Mrs. Cadmore to dine? Grace pondered that question as the valet hurried off. Had the baron meant nothing he’d said last night? Had he only been flirting with her from behind the safety of his mask?
No! Rupert Kendrick was not that kind of man—she would stake her life on it. But if he was sincere, how might he have reacted to her abrupt disappearance? Not knowing who she was, he could not begin to guess her motives for running off. Did he assume she had deserted him? Could that be what had put him in a foul mood this morning and perhaps driven him back to Mrs. Cadmore?
Just then Sophie appeared at the end of the gallery, her hands planted on her hips in a perfect imitation of the cook when she was vexed. “Aren’t you ever coming, Miss Ella?”
“Yes, of course, my dear.” Grace followed Sophie back to the nursery, her head spinning with worries and regrets.
“Gather your sketching boxes, girls,” she bid them. “Let us go outdoors and find some flowers to draw.”
She did not want the children making a racket that might disturb their father if he were trying to rest.
The air was warm, still and heavy when they ventured outside. A light haze veiled the sky. Though many garden plants were in bloom, Grace suggested they walk down the lane in search of wild flowers. The further they stayed from the house the better.
Just beyond the rows of linden trees the girls found plenty of scope for their artwork—daisies, betony, red campion and heartsease. They did some fine sketching and were just beginning to tire of it when Lord Benedict’s carriage turned down the lane and drew to a halt nearby.
Grace flew toward it, casting a guilty glance in the direction of the house. “Rebecca, how are you feeling today? I was sorry to hear you’d taken ill last night.”
Her friend waved away her concern, ever stoical as their time at the Pendergast School had taught her to be. “It was only a digestive upset, probably from eating richer food than I am used to. I felt so badly for leaving you behind. I was relieved to hear that you had the presence of mind to look for our carriage.”
“It was my own fault,” Grace assured her friend. “I should not have wandered off while you were dancing.”
“But you enjoyed yourself, I hope.” Rebecca searched Grace’s eyes for the truth. “You were by far the most beautiful lady at the masquerade. I overheard more than one gentleman asking who you might be.”
The interest of those gentlemen did not flatter Grace—quite the contrary. There had been only one man present whose admiration mattered to her. But at the moment, she could only fear that he might look out a window and spy Lord Benedict’s carriage.
As if he had read her thoughts, the viscount spoke. “We are on our way to London and from there to visit Miss Fletcher in Kent. I thought I might pay my compliments to Lord Steadwell before we leave. I have long admired the diligence with which he undertakes his duties in the House of Lords. I only wish there were more peers like him.”
Much as Grace would have liked to grant Rebecca’s husband his wish, she feared a meeting between the two gentlemen might expose her growing cache of secrets.
She ventured a furtive glance back toward the house. Was it only her guilty imagination or was someone looking out from an upstairs window?
“I’m certain Lord Steadwell would be honored by your praise, sir. But I am afraid this would not be a good time for him to receive visitors.” She cast Rebecca a look that pleaded for understanding.
“Very well.” The viscount seemed disappointed and perhaps even a trifle offended. “If he is indisposed, I do not wish to disturb him.”
Rebecca and Grace parted with rather strained goodbyes. “Please give my best wishes to Hannah and our other friends when you see them. I hope one day we may all meet together again.”
To Grace’s relief the coachman managed to turn Lord Benedict’s vehicle in close quarters without going all the way to the house and rousing unwelcome questions.
As she and the girls waved to her departing friends, Grace could not help thinking what an exhausting and worrisome business it was to maintain her pretense. More and more she wished she could tell the truth and be herself. If only there was not so much at stake...
Who in blazes was Miss Ellerby talking to down at the end of the lane? From his bedchamber window Rupert could only glimpse bits of distant figures partially shielded from sight by the linden trees. He could see enough of the vehicle to recognize it as a travelling carriage of the kind in which he drove back and forth to London.
What was it doing here, lingering so long in the distance rather than coming straight down to the house? Had the people lost their way perhaps and stopped to ask directions? The more time passed, the less likely that explanation seemed. The occupants of the carriage could have gotten directions all the way to Dover in the time they spent talking to Miss Ellerby.
By the time the carriage made a tight turn and drove away, Rupert’s curiosity and suspicion had been roused to a keen pitch. He donned his coat and strode off in search of answers.
He found his daughters and their governess at the end of the lane sketching wildflowers. The girls did not call out and run toward him as they usually did, and Miss Ellerby seemed to shrink from his approach. Did he look so formidabl
e?
Perhaps so, he acknowledged ruefully, making a determined effort to relax his severe frown, stiff stride and arms clenched behind his back. It was not easy after the events of last night.
“Sketching again, are you?” He glanced at Sophie’s drawing with an approving nod. “Very good. Perhaps later you could go over it with your watercolors.”
“I think I will, Papa.”
He wandered past his two older daughters, casting admiring glances at their work as well. They seemed to concentrate very hard on what they were doing—too hard to make eye contact with him.
Their governess kept her gaze downcast and seemed to brace herself as he approached. Rupert had never observed anyone look so transparently guilty. What she might be guilty of, he had no idea. But he intended to find out.
“Miss Ellerby.”
“Sir.” She dropped a furtive curtsy and refused to look up at him.
“I thought I saw a carriage stop here and the occupants speak to you.”
“Yes, sir.” The governess clenched her lips in a thin, stubborn line, as if she feared he might try to pull her teeth out.
“I thought it odd that this carriage did not continue on to the house. Can you offer an explanation?”
She swallowed visibly. “The people only stopped for a moment, sir. They were on their way to London. I did not want them to disturb you after your late night out.”
“How do you know I was out late?” The question came out sharper than he intended.
It made Miss Ellerby start. “I just assumed, sir. Since you were away to a ball...”
“As a matter of fact I was out late,” Rupert admitted. Furthermore, he had not slept well once he reached home. Was that what made him so gruff and suspicious this morning? “But I am wide awake now. Tell me, were the people in that carriage acquaintances of mine? Or yours?”
She drew a deep breath. “Of mine, sir. The lady is an old friend from my school days, recently married. She and her husband stopped by on their way to London.”
Rupert glanced toward his daughters, who had been staring at them but now returned to their drawings with fierce concentration. “Girls, why don’t you take your sketch boxes back to the nursery? Then I will take you for a punt on the river.”
“Yes, Papa,” they chorused but without the enthusiasm Rupert expected.
They packed up their drawing materials with lightning speed then headed for the house. Their governess tried to follow, but he stepped into her path. “A moment if you please, Miss Ellerby. I sent the girls on ahead because I wanted a private word with you.”
“What about, sir?”
“About the people in the carriage, of course!” he snapped, vexed with her for pretending she didn’t know. “If they were friends of yours, why did you not invite them in for a visit?”
She continued to keep her gaze lowered. “Because it is not my house, sir.”
Her answer took him aback. The house might not belong to her, but he liked to think it was her home now. “I am dismayed by your assumption that I would not allow you to receive guests at Nethercross.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But it is not usually permitted.”
“So you sent them on their way just like that—a friend you have not seen in how many years?”
She hesitated. “Nine, sir.”
“I’m afraid I do not believe you.” Rupert hoped that might shock the truth out of her. “I see no reason for you to be so evasive about an old friend paying a call. Admit it—you are seeking a new position with another family!”
The possibility made him feel betrayed and strangely... jealous? No—that was ridiculous! It must be some residual feeling from last night.
He had come to believe Grace Ellerby was one woman who would never abandon him and his children. At first he’d thought that because she had no other options available to her. But lately he had come to trust in her loyalty and devotion. Her evasive answers to his questions made him feel like a fool for placing his trust in her. The notion that she might be making plans to go elsewhere felt like a personal betrayal.
It took Miss Ellerby a moment to produce an audible reply.
“That is not true!” she burst out at last. “I have no intention of leaving Nethercross unless you wish me to go.”
She sounded sincere, but when he tried to seek the truth in her eyes, Miss Ellerby scowled and looked away—the very picture of a guilty conscience. It was bad enough if she meant to leave. That she would lie to him about it grieved Rupert beyond measure.
“Of course I do not wish you to go. But if you cannot trust me with the truth and I cannot trust what you tell me...” His words trailed off with a weary shrug and a sigh.
He did not mean it as a threat. Even if he had, his plea seemed to have no effect on Miss Ellerby. Her lips remained stubbornly shut, imprisoning any words she might have confided in him.
“Then perhaps it is just as well for me to wed Mrs. Cadmore as soon as possible.” He flung the news of his decision at her. “If she and her son can dine with us tonight, I mean to propose. Please make certain the girls are prepared and warn them to mind their tongues around the lady who will be their new mother.”
With that he spun on his heel and stalked off, his spirits sinking lower with every step.
“But you said everything went well at the ball last night!” cried Charlotte, when Grace informed the girls of their father’s plans. “What changed his mind? Was it seeing those friends of yours?”
“Don’t be silly, Charlotte.” Phoebe scowled at no one in particular. “How could that make any difference about Papa and Mrs. Cadmore? We’re going to have to get used to the idea of having a stepmother, that’s all.”
Grace wished what Phoebe said was true but she feared it was not. This was her fault as Charlotte had implied. Her cowardly flight from the ball must have made Rupert want a woman who would remain with him—even if the motive for her constancy was not love.
“I won’t ever get used to it!” Sophie wailed. “I don’t want a stepmother!”
“Nor do I.” Charlotte stooped and wrapped her arms around her little sister. “Especially not Mrs. Cadmore.”
“I don’t care for her either.” Phoebe flung herself onto one of the nursery chairs. “But if Papa is determined to marry, we could do even worse.”
Grace did her best to soothe the girls as she helped dress and groom them for dinner. But how could she hope to persuade them all would be well when she was more certain than ever their father was making a grave mistake—one into which she had pushed him?
“P-please, Miss Ella,” Sophie sniffled as Grace brushed her hair. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”
Was there? Grace’s conscience demanded even as she tried to pretend otherwise.
One possibility did suggest itself, though she quailed at the thought. Lord Steadwell had already hinted that he might dismiss her, and the action she contemplated taking would make it certain.
But if he married Mrs. Cadmore, Grace feared he would end up every bit as miserable as his children. She could not bear for that to happen, even if her effort to stop him made it impossible for her to remain at Nethercross.
“Hush now.” She wiped Sophie’s streaming eyes and pressed a soft kiss upon her forehead. “Perhaps there is something I can do to help. But I will need you to be on your best behavior at dinner and act as if nothing is wrong. Can you do that for me?”
The child gave a brave nod and her lips spread into an unsteady smile.
“Did you mean that?” whispered Charlotte as Grace looked her over. “Or did you only say it to keep Sophie from blubbering all through dinner and making Papa angry?”
“A little of both,” Grace admitted. “I don’t want her making this evening any worse. But there is one last thing I mean to try. I don’t know if it will work, but I cannot stand by and do nothing.”
In spite of the doubt she had expressed, a hopeful glimmer kindled in Charlotte’s eyes.
“Thank you for tryi
ng at least!” She threw her arms around Grace’s neck.
A lump rose in Grace’s throat as she soaked up the encouraging warmth of Charlotte’s embrace and exchanged a fond smile with Phoebe. She had come to feel so much more for these three dear girls than she had for any of her other pupils. Though she did not know how she could bear to be parted from them, she would rather do that than stay and see their family become as wretched as hers had been. The anguish of witnessing their unhappiness would be made doubly bitter by the knowledge that she might have been able to prevent it, if only she’d dared try.
“There now, you look lovely, as usual.” Grace could not resist bestowing a little touch upon each of the girls—smoothing hair, adjusting a ribbon, plumping a sash. “Bessie, will you kindly escort the girls down to the dining room? And please ask his lordship if I might have a brief word with him before dinner on an urgent matter.”
“Yes, Miss,” replied the nursery maid with a puzzled look as she ushered the girls off. “Is everythin’ all right? You’re not ill are you?”
Grace shook her head. Not ill—only sick with fear. Her instinctive response to that feeling was to run away and hide. It was what she’d been doing all her life. But now she must stand firm and throw off her protective disguise.
Turning toward the looking glass, she removed her father’s spectacles and her starched white cap with its unbecoming lappets. Then she picked up the brush and began to dress her hair in a style that complimented her appearance.
A while later, she stood outside the dining room, her hands clasped in front of her in an effort to still their trembling. She tried to draw slow calming breaths, but each one exhaled as a quivering sigh. If Lord Steadwell did not appear soon, she feared she would turn tail and scurry back to the nursery.
So taut were her nerves that the faint rattle of the door opening nearly made her scream. She stifled the sound while it was still only a squeak.
“What is it you wish to tell me, Miss Ellerby?” his lordship demanded in an impatient grumble as he closed the dining room door behind him. “I hope you will keep it brie—”