by Karen Ranney
“Do you think my methods amusing?”
“You’re so very earnest, Miss Sinclair. You seem to care very much whether or not Robert learns from you.”
“Of course I care. What sort of governess would I be if I did not?”
“My tutors didn’t seem to care,” Robert offered.
“That’s because you put frogs in their beds.”
“I put a snake in yours.”
“Did you?” Devlen asked.
“He did.”
“What did Miss Sinclair do?”
“She gave the snake a funeral,” Robert said.
“Miss Sinclair has a very soft heart.”
She glanced at him and then away.
“You’re a very good teacher,” Devlen said.
She really shouldn’t have been so pleased, but she was, of course.
“I have an errand to do this afternoon,” Devlen said. “Would you like to accompany me?”
Her initial response was the same excitement Robert immediately showed. Instead, caution reared its head, and she shook her head. During the day she was Robert’s governess. At night she was Devlen’s lover. The two roles never overlapped. In the library she was Miss Sinclair. In the bedroom she was dear Beatrice.
“I think it would be better if Robert and I take a walk. The snow has kept us inside for days. I need to stretch my legs.”
“There are several shops you might enjoy not too far away.” He glanced at Robert. “You must make a point of stopping by Mr. McElwee’s Confectionary Shop. They make excellent sweets.”
Robert looked hopeful again. Beatrice smiled at him and nodded. “You’ve been working very hard lately. I think that deserves a treat.”
They finished their morning lessons. Devlen left the room before they did, calling her attention to a pouch he left on his desk.
“A little money for your outing.”
She didn’t bother arguing with him, only thanked him and watched as he left the room. Instantly, she missed him.
The day was cold, but the sun was shining. Beatrice bundled up in her cloak and ensured that Robert was similarly attired. He needed new gloves but for this outing was using a pair of Devlen’s. They were much too large, of course, but he insisted upon wearing them, waving the fingers comically at her.
She wrapped a scarf around his throat and wished the snow was not so deep, but they would look for a well-traveled route so they could avoid the worse of it.
“Shall we take the carriage, Miss Sinclair?”
“I am heartily tired of riding in a carriage, Robert. Aren’t you?”
He nodded a moment later, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
“You’ll see. The walking will do us good. We’ll be hungry for lunch when we return.”
“I’m hungry now.”
“You,” she said, ruffling his hair, “are hungry anytime.”
He didn’t fuss any more about the walk, and twenty minutes later she was grateful she’d decided to go on foot.
Edinburgh’s streets were narrow in places, and mostly cobbled. London had the reputation of being the city the world came to visit, but it felt as if Edinburgh also shared that distinction this morning. She heard French being spoken as well as three other languages, one of which was German. The other two she couldn’t identify, but she stood there unabashedly listening to the speakers in an attempt to do so.
The city was perched on several hills, so walking was a vigorous exercise. Devlen’s home was in the newer section of Edinburgh, its neatly arranged streets and parks a marked contrast to Old Town.
“The residents of Edinburgh are certainly well-read,” she said, when they passed yet another bookstore.
“Yes, but do they eat any sweeties?” Robert frowned up at her, a not-too-gentle reminder they were on a quest for a confectioner’s shop.
She consulted her directions and led him to the shop Devlen recommended. There, she spent some of the money Devlen had given her on fudge in various flavors, including chocolate with raisins, hazelnut, and something delicious called Highland Cream. At Robert’s insistence, she tried a sweet that made her feel as if the top of her head was coming off.
“It’s hot, isn’t it, Miss Sinclair?”
She waved her hand in front of her mouth. She’d tasted cloves and cinnamon, but there was something else in the chewy toffee as well—pepper and ginger?
“You put another snake in my bed, didn’t you?”
The boy laughed, the first time he’d done so in so long that her discomfort was worth it.
She saw the carriage as they left the confectioners, but other than to remark upon its similarity to Devlen’s vehicle, didn’t pay it much attention. But when it was still there, lingering on the crowded street when they emerged from a bookshop, she studied it with more care.
The horses looked the same. She wasn’t an expert on the animals, but their coloring was similar, and they were perfectly matched.
Had Devlen sent a carriage to wait for them?
She walked a few feet before realizing that Robert wasn’t with her. She turned to see him standing at the edge of the street, his attention caught by a dead rodent.
“Come away, Robert.”
“It’s dead.”
“Robert.”
He glanced at her and for a moment she thought he might disobey, but he kicked at the animal, then stepped back when a score of flies swarmed upward.
The coach was looming directly in front of them. There was something oddly reminiscent of the first time she’d seen Devlen’s carriage on the winding road to Castle Crannoch.
Before Robert reached her, however, the carriage swerved, heading directly for the boy. For a horrified second, Beatrice froze. In the next breath, she ran for Robert, grabbing him by both arms and pulling him with her. They both slammed into a retaining wall beside the road.
Beatrice reached down and grabbed the boy under the arms, pushing Robert up to the top of the wall. His shoes scraped her forehead as he scrambled to reach the top.
Please, please, please. There was no way she could escape the carriage. She buried her head below her arms, and pressed herself as close to the wall as she could.
She couldn’t think, could only feel time measured in tiny blips of seconds. She wanted to run, as quickly as she could, but was trapped against the wall. Her arms stretched wide to minimize her breadth. The horses were so close she could feel their heated breath on her face.
Screams of equine terror echoed in her ear.
Help me.
“That’s all,” Devlen said to his secretary.
“Sir?”
“I can’t work.”
“Are you feeling all right, sir?”
“Fine, damn it.”
“Could I bring you something to drink, sir? Or ring for Mrs. Anderson? She could bring you some tea. Or chocolate.”
“I’m not hungry, Lawrence. I simply can’t work.”
“You must make a decision, sir, on the new cotton mill.”
“Later.”
“What about the new hull design?”
Devlen leaned back in his chair. “Tomorrow.”
“But the negotiations for the mine, sir, in Wales. That can’t wait. Sir?”
“Have you ever been in love, Lawrence?”
“Sir?”
The young man’s face flamed. Deven had employed Lawrence because he’d been impressed with the young man’s business acumen. His youth, however, was always an issue.
“Never mind.” He thumbed through the stack of papers on his desk. “Do you think my empire is going to be in shambles if I don’t work today?”
“With all due respect, sir, you haven’t worked very much for the last three weeks. Not since…” His face deepened in color.
Devlen didn’t bother to answer his accusation. Lawrence was right.
Even if his own business affairs were done, there was the matter of the solicitor’s report. He wanted to amend Robert’s guardianship, and there was a
slight chance the courts would grant him custody of the child, only because of his father’s infirmity. He didn’t want to fight Cameron, especially in the courts, and he didn’t want to bring to light—and to the public—what had happened to him. But Robert’s welfare was greater than Cameron’s reputation, and if the latter needed to be sullied in order to protect the child, then Devlen would do so.
If, however, he could get his mind off Beatrice. He’d come to the wharf office to do some work, approve the off-loaded inventory, and meet with two of his captains. Not sit here like some weak-minded lad, remembering Beatrice as if he hadn’t just left her.
One particular memory was his favorite. They were studying Plutarch’s Lives, and when he’d inquired as to whether doing so was a little advanced for Robert, she’d smiled.
“He dislikes Aesop’s Fables, and Plutarch offers stories about mortal men who really lived. But the study of their lives also offers a moral.”
“Did you always learn that way? Every lesson having a moral?”
She considered the question for a moment. “My father once said animals can teach their young without seeming to do so. A kitten will obey its mother, or perhaps its nature, while a baby has no inkling of the lessons the parent has learned. Education must fill the gap. We must learn from the mistakes and triumphs of others. It’s not enough simply to know the sum of a column of figures, or to be familiar with a poet’s work. Learning must be about a man’s life. How to make it better.”
“Has learning made your life better?”
She glanced at him and then smiled. “Some would say learning is wasted on women. I’ve heard that thought espoused on more than one occasion. Plutarch taught me to be resigned rather than angry about my life.”
“I think a little anger wouldn’t have been amiss. Less logic and more feeling, perhaps.”
“Do you think I don’t have any feelings?”
“I think you push them down so deep inside so they’ll not trouble you. Even Plutarch acknowledged the weaknesses of men. He believed men could be promoted to angels but for their passions.”
“He also believed men are subjected to death and re-birth. Do you believe that?”
“A clever way of deflecting the subject, Miss Sinclair.”
He’d stood, then, and left the room. Otherwise, he would have kissed her, in front of Robert and the young maid who’d entered with a tray of biscuits and chocolate.
She had the most alluring voice. Low, but imbued with a rounded tone to it, as if laughter hid just behind the words. She looked as if she hid a smile as well, her lips curving as if teasing him to leave his desk and come across the room to kiss her.
Beatrice. The name truly didn’t suit her, and yet at the same time it did. It was much too modest a name for such a wanton creature. Only he knew how wanton. He leaned back in the chair and contemplated a series of memories, plucking one at random. Until the day he died, he’d remember how she looked this morning as he’d opened the curtains and watched her sleep. The sun had filtered into the room, stealing across the carpet to rest at her feet, and then, catlike, creeping to bathe a hand, and then a cheek. She’d blinked open her eyes, shielding them with that same sun-warmed hand, and smiled at him, a look of such beauty and delight he’d been charmed to his toes. And something else. He’d been struck by a fear so pervasive and sudden he’d lost his breath because of it.
What would he do if she left him?
She couldn’t.
Where were they now? Had they already visited the confectioner’s shop? Was she tired of walking Edinburgh’s endless hills? Should he send a carriage to bring her home?
How could he keep her with him?
Too many questions, and regrettably, he didn’t have the answers.
The carriage missed her by an inch, no more. Beatrice could feel the heat of the horses, then the slap of their leads against her back. The axle of the wheel grazed the back of her legs, tearing her skirt.
The wheels ground against the cobbles, combined with the whinny of the frightened horses, and Robert’s shouts.
When it was gone, she sagged against the wall, feeling herself slip to the ground, her palms abraded against the brick.
“Miss! Are you all right?” She was suddenly surrounded by strangers, people she didn’t know, whose faces were as white as hers must be.
“Criminal, the way some people drive!”
“You’re bleeding, miss.” A woman pressed her lavender-scented handkerchief into her palm, and Beatrice dabbed at the cut on her lip.
“Miss Sinclair! Miss Sinclair!” She folded herself against the wall, her cheek pressing against it. The carriage was careening down the crowded street, pedestrians turning to witness its departure, more than a few people surrounding her, inquiring as to her well-being. She had to get up. She was causing a scene, sitting there.
She stood with some difficulty, her legs shaking beneath her.
“Miss Sinclair?”
She turned to see Robert standing there. How had he descended from the wall?
“Miss Sinclair, are you all right?”
She wasn’t, but she forced a smile to her face. “How are you, Robert?”
“It happened again, didn’t it?”
There was no point in mistaking his meaning. Someone had tried to run him over, in a carriage looking too much like Devlen’s for comfort.
“It was Thomas, Miss Sinclair.”
“Thomas?”
“The driver. He works for my uncle.”
She pressed her hands against her waist, and prayed for composure.
Beatrice grabbed Robert’s hand and started retracing their steps to Devlen’s house. The return trip was mostly uphill and too long. She was trying not to think as she walked, but she couldn’t do anything about the fear. It was there like a third person.
Robert was silent at her side and she wanted to reassure the child they were safe, but she couldn’t lie to him. Edinburgh was proving to be as dangerous as Castle Crannoch.
As they walked past the wrought-iron gate and entered Devlen’s property, Beatrice felt some of the tension leave her. Devlen would know what to do. The thought brought her up short. When had she begun to place all her trust in Devlen?
“Miss Sinclair.”
She glanced down at Robert. The boy had stopped in the drive and was staring at the carriage parked in front of the house.
“It isn’t your uncle’s.”
She tugged at his hand, walked behind the carriage, and opened the front door. There, in animated conversation with Mrs. Anderson, was one of the most beautiful women Beatrice had ever seen.
The black cloak she wore was made of a soft wool, Beatrice could tell that much by the way the garment draped. Pearl buttons held it closed at the neck, while a white fur collar emphasized the blue of the wearer’s eyes, the delicate pale complexion, and the shine of her auburn hair, arranged in a style designed to be taken down with the artful removal of only a few pins.
She was shorter than Beatrice by some measure, enough that she felt like a giant in comparison. Everything about her was petite, from the pointed shoe peeping out from beneath her cloak, to the hand holding the white fur muff.
“Who are you?”
Even her voice was small. Small, and breathy, as if she was too delicate to take a full breath. No doubt doing so would test the stamina of her chest, and it looked like she was doing all she could to stand upright with such a massive bosom.
“Mrs. Anderson, who is this woman?” she asked, her voice accented with the barest hint of a Scottish burr. No doubt the men of her acquaintance thought it charming.
Mrs. Anderson didn’t even look in Beatrice’s direction. “His Grace, the Duke of Brechin and his governess, Miss Sinclair.”
“Devlen’s cousin,” she said, dismissing Robert as unimportant. Why not? He was only seven and therefore too young a male to attract.
“I’ll wait for Devlen in his library.”
Beatrice glanced at Mrs. Anderson. “I
s that wise? Devlen doesn’t like people in his library when he isn’t there.”
The other woman turned and surveyed Beatrice again. “You’re a bit forward to be the governess, aren’t you?” She hesitated for a moment, then began to smile. “You think to coax him to your bed, don’t you?” An instant later, her eyes narrowed. “Or have you already? How very convenient for Devlen to have installed you as the governess.” She smiled. “You’re available both day and night, and he gets two positions in paying for only one. Devlen does have a head for business.”
She calmly unbuttoned her cloak, revealing a green silk dress clinging to her overripe curves before falling to her ankles in a long, shimmering cascade of fabric.
“Does he give you presents as well?” She fingered a diamond necklace at her throat. “It’s his latest gift.”
Devlen’s mistress.
“It’s too showy for my taste,” Beatrice said calmly. “I prefer pearls. So much more understated.”
Felicia smiled, but the look in her eyes could have melted ice.
“You might want to thank him in the bathing chamber. He has a partiality for that room.”
Before Felicia could say another word, or the estimable Mrs. Anderson could comment, Beatrice took Robert by the hand, turned, and walked out the door.
“Where are we going, Miss Sinclair?”
“Somewhere safe,” she said.
“Will anyone be able to find us?”
“No.”
“Miss Sinclair? You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold, that’s all.”
She was shaking, but it wasn’t cold or even fear. Anger raced through her, as spicy as the chocolate she’d eaten earlier. How dare he! How dare he keep her in his house and keep his mistress as well.
Was Devlen to blame? Or was she the more culpable? She’d wanted adventure and excitement to the exclusion of good sense. She’d pushed down every condemning thought, every weak whisper of her conscience because of pleasure.
She should have been wiser, smarter, less innocent, unwary. Instead, she’d given him everything: her affection, her body, her trust. Her love.
“Miss Sinclair?”
“It’s all right, Robert. It will be all right.”
She reached into her reticule and pulled out the money Devlen had insisted she take for their outing. He’d been incredibly generous, and they’d purchased enough sweets to give Robert a stomachache for a week. The remainder of the money would be enough to leave Edinburgh.