“But I’ve not come for you, Trevor. I didn’t even know you were back.” Lady Blackstone glanced up and made eye contact with Lucy. Her brow furrowed, but just as quickly, it was replaced by a wide smile. “I’m calling for Miss Greenleaf.”
Lucy curtsied as the visitor glanced between her and Trevor. The countess would have to be dimwitted not to sense the tension crackling in the air between them. Unfortunately, although they had only been briefly acquainted, Lucy knew the woman was anything but dull.
“By all means,” said Trevor curtly, “don’t let me interrupt.” Bowing his head at each of them in turn, he pivoted and was gone. Lucy sagged back against the counter in relief.
“What’s got his feathers all a-ruffle?” the countess asked, taking off her bonnet and seating herself on a tall stool adjacent to a work surface.
“Oh!” Lucy exclaimed, spurred into action. “Don’t sit there! The parlors aren’t furnished yet, but we can at least sit at a proper table.” She gestured toward what would become the servants’ dining table at the far corner of the kitchen.
“I like sitting up here,” Lady Blackstone said. “It reminds me of my childhood. I used to help my nursemaid make bread on a counter very much like this one. We’d invade the kitchen—much to Cook’s dismay—and get to kneading. My nursemaid thought it important for children to feel useful.”
“I’m sure she was right.” Lucy relaxed a little as she contemplated the image of this fine lady with her arms covered in flour. “Probably that bread tasted better than any other because you made it yourself.”
“You know, it did!” Lady Blackstone beamed. “I wonder if that would still be true?” She looked around, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Have you the ingredients for bread?”
Lucy let out a giggle that was half shock, half delight. “I haven’t any yeast, but I have been experimenting with some biscuits. I’ve been trying to develop a recipe for a tart but sweet lemon biscuit.” She refrained from telling her aristocratic guest she was trying to recreate infamous biscuits of her childhood, the ones Trevor used to steal because Lucy liked them. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a baker. My initial attempts went right into the rubbish bin, but I’m improving, so I’m optimistic. Perhaps you’ll be able to sample some next time you call, my lady.” She stopped herself there. That had been an overstep. Why would the countess call again? It wasn’t as if they were friends.
“Yes, next time! But don’t call me ‘my lady’. I’ve told you, it’s Emily!” Lady Blackstone—Emily—didn’t wait for a response, just clapped her hands with excitement. “But I’ve forgotten the point of my visit. I think I may have found you a situation. A good one! The Clark family. I’ve met Mrs. Clark only a few times on the street—she lives around the corner, and we’re new to the neighborhood. But she has four daughters. Four! Can you imagine? She is determined they will marry well. I saw her in the park yesterday, and I told her about you and asked if she knew of anyone in search of a governess. I couldn’t have imagined she’d volunteer herself, but apparently the current governess is quite old, and her French is poor. Mrs. Clark is very keen on French—you do speak it, don’t you?”
“Yes, and a few other languages, too,” Lucy answered, her heart sinking at the prospect of going back to governessing so soon. “Languages are a particular hobby of mine.”
“Wonderful!” Emily clapped her hands again. “Then you must come for tea this afternoon and meet her. Trevor can come, too, to entertain Eric. Then the four of us will dine together after Mrs. Clark leaves, and with any luck, we’ll be able to toast your new situation!”
“That is so kind of you,” said Lucy. And it was, she reminded herself. It was a better outcome than she had dared imagine. Less than a fortnight ago, she’d been on the street, and now, despite her lack of references, she was almost back in the security of gainful employment. It seemed that once again, Trevor was to succeed in pushing her away, sending her out into the same city he lived in, but into a life that would never overlap with his.
“But?” said Emily, eyebrows raised.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I sense a but. This is so kind of you, but…”
Yes. Trevor aside, there was also another “but,” which was that the idea of drilling four young ladies in French conjugation and suffering through four sessions of pianoforte practicing every day made her want to weep. Of course, she couldn’t say that any more than she could explain about the man who kept pushing her away. “But I don’t want to be the cause of the existing governess losing her position.” That was true, even if it was not the extent of it.
“Oh, I’ve thought of that.” Emily waved a hand dismissively. “She can teach at my friend Catharine’s school. She runs a school for pauper children, and she’s always looking for teachers.”
“Catharine and James Burnham’s school?” Lucy asked, temporarily distracted from her dismay.
“Yes. You’ve heard of it?”
Lucy nodded. Who hadn’t? All of London knew the outrageous story of the fallen viscountess who’d married a reformer and started a school with him. She had been unmasked in dramatic fashion at a masquerade held at a house of ill repute. Lucy wasn’t sure if it was that crime or the fact that she’d taken up the cause of universal education and started a school with her common husband that made Catharine Burnham so scandalous—both offenses were unseemly in the eyes of the ton. Either way, she wasn’t received by many in polite society, though apparently the Earl and Countess of Blackstone weren’t such high sticklers.
“The Clarks’ soon-to-be-former governess is old. I can only imagine the energy required to be a proper governess to four girls. She’s bound to welcome the change. Teaching at the school will give her more independence, too—she won’t have to live in.”
Exactly, thought Lucy. Being a governess meant giving up any measure of independence. One’s every action—eating, sleeping, taking holidays—was dictated by the whims of the family one served. Yet, she felt guilty for even thinking such selfish thoughts. The same was true of everyone who served. A scullery maid, for example, was also subject to the whims of the family she served, and her life was a whole lot harder than that of a governess. So Lucy pasted on a smile, determined to be grateful for this opportunity. A fresh start. This time without any books—there could be no evidence to connect her methods to Mary; otherwise she risked losing a third position because of her controversial methods.
And a new position meant she needn’t continue being a burden to Trevor, which was a tremendous relief, not only because she bristled at having to rely on a man but because of the very confusing sensations that assailed her when she thought of their kiss in the garden. “Thank you, my lady.” The countess’s scowl prompted her to correct herself. “Thank you, Emily!”
Her guest stood. “And now I will find Trevor, for unless I prevail upon him personally, I fear he will not show up tonight, preferring instead to fall back on his habit of immersing himself in work. Good-bye for now, Lucy,” Emily said. She grinned. “And I shan’t even ask permission to use your Christian name. After all, we are soon to be neighbors!”
Lucy started to protest that although a countess and a governess might live in proximity to each other, they were hardly neighbors in the sense that they would fraternize or share their lives in any fashion whatsoever. But Emily was gone before she could form the words, leaving Lucy blinking in bewilderment, just as she’d been at the outset of the visit.
Just as she’d been most of the day, in fact.
Chapter Seven
Trevor sat in the library surrounded by shelves of neatly arranged books. With increasing dismay, he paged through a document that had been left on the side table near his favorite chair. It was a neatly lettered guide, a cataloguing system listing the major categories represented in the library. Each category contained surnames of all the member authors. Greek Drama: Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles. Politics: Everything from Burke to, of course, Wollstonecraft. And she’d drawn a hea
rt around the latter name.
She might as well have shoved a knife through his actual heart.
He was a blackguard. An utter numbskull. It was just that the idea of strangers walking around his hotel—his home—while he was away…well, it made him twitchy. Add in the fact that those strangers were discussing Mary Wollstonecraft? It was too much to countenance.
Most people worried about their children. He worried about the Jade. Perhaps it was an unfortunate side effect of his career in espionage, but he could imagine every possible ill befalling the place. But all he would have had to do was tell Lucy he didn’t want people here while he was gone. Tell her to suspend her reforming ways until they could get her settled in a new situation. He’d already told her he wasn’t rational about this place. He just needed to say…what? I’m concerned that your friends aren’t really governesses, but crazed burglars. Or perhaps French spies who will tell my investors that I’m harboring an unmarried female reformer.
Also: I’m sorry I kissed you before I yelled at you.
Yes. He was a beast.
It was time to get ready for dinner. The last thing he wanted to do this evening was dine at the Blackstones’. But however much one preferred to barricade oneself in one’s library and get thoroughly foxed, one didn’t say no to Countess Emily. Besides, he consoled himself, it would be good to talk to Blackstone about the mines. The earl looked to Trevor for investment counsel and was awaiting a report on the Cornwall trip. And he would have to report that he’d turned up nothing from Gelling’s former lieutenant.
Trevor got up and went into his bedchamber. She hadn’t been in his room. He peered into the sitting room beyond. No sign of her crusading tidying there, either. The layer of dust that had covered everything since some plaster work had been done remained undisturbed. Nothing in the apartment apart from the library and the foyer had been touched. It was as if she sensed his desire for privacy and kept herself to the more public areas—the foyer and library he’d invited her to use. She had been careful not to intrude, and for some reason, that made him feel even more contemptible.
He shucked off his shirt and lathered his face with soap. Time to go get Lucy a new job. She didn’t have notice to give, so if things went well with this Clark family, she could start tomorrow.
She’d be back on the correct path, which was a relief because she obviously wasn’t safe here with him.
…
Blackstone had been careful not to mention Lucy. A little too careful, Trevor thought. He’d felt the spymaster’s signature intense scrutiny as he and Lucy had been ushered into his friend’s town house. No doubt Blackstone could sense the waves of tension flowing from both of them. The silent carriage ride over had been excruciating. Trevor had intended to apologize, but he hadn’t known where to start. Every time he opened his mouth and turned to her, she’d been staring intently out the window as if the streets of London were paved with gold and therefore worthy of her uninterrupted attention, and the words caught in his throat.
He wondered what she was doing now. Was she making a good impression on Mrs. Clark? Had the woman brought her daughters to meet their prospective new governess? “What about this Clark family?” he asked, trying to sound unstudied. He and Blackstone had been hustled upstairs before he could catch a glimpse of the scene in the drawing room. And in the last hour, they had discussed the mines, the murdered officer, and, uncharacteristically, the latest issues before Parliament. Emily had inspired her husband to finally take up his seat in the House of Lords, and dashed if the earl wasn’t taking the responsibility moderately seriously.
The one thing they had decidedly not discussed was the Clarks. And Lucy.
Blackstone raised a brow. “What about them?”
“Do you know anything about them? He’s a second son, isn’t he? Where does the money come from? Was Mrs. Clark an heiress? Who are her people? Do they spend all year in town, or have they a country property?”
“Her people? Since when have you ever cared about bloodlines?”
“Of course I don’t care about bloodlines. I just want to know that they’re…” He trailed off. What did he want to know? And more importantly, why?
“You want to know that she’s going to be well treated,” Blackstone said. Trevor didn’t know whether to be grateful that his friend had so succinctly captured his thoughts or annoyed that his thoughts were so apparent. You want to know that she’s going to be well treated. Though his mind screamed its agreement, Trevor merely shrugged.
“I don’t know much about them,” Blackstone continued. “If Emily recommends the situation, I’m inclined to trust it. But I can look into it.”
Of course he could look into it. The man had the resources of a massive intelligence ring at his fingertips. “I would appreciate that,” Trevor said.
“They get to you, don’t they?” One corner of his Blackstone’s mouth quirked up.
Trevor was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Emily.
“Gentlemen.” She shot her husband a passing but fond glance and made for Trevor. “Miss Greenleaf is taking a moment to refresh herself before we dine, so I have decided to seize the opportunity to meddle in your affairs a bit, Trevor.”
“Ha!” barked Blackstone. “Better you than me, my friend.”
“Lucy does not want to be a governess.”
“I beg your pardon?” That was the last thing he’d expected Emily to say. When she’d announced her intention to meddle, he’d imagined forged character references for Lucy, or prying about their shared childhood.
“You should have seen her. I haven’t known your friend very long, but I would characterize her as a vibrant woman. Intelligent, engaged. Charming, even. Do you agree?”
He could only nod. Lucy was all that and more.
“Well, during our interview with Mrs. Clark, she became a different person. Withdrawn, docile.”
“I suppose she was trying to act the part? Aren’t governesses supposed to be meek, unassuming? Perhaps as an extension of the axiom that children should be seen and not heard?”
“Aha!” Emily wagged her finger at him. “That’s exactly my point. Perhaps those are the qualities society expects of its governesses. But clearly those are exact opposite of the traits your Lucy naturally possesses.” She took a step toward him, as if addressing a jury. “It was as if she was trying to twist herself into a too-small mold. Stifle herself. And what about the Ladies’ Society in Support of Mrs. Wollstonecraft?”
“What about it?”
“She was positively vibrating with excitement when she told me about the group. I gather she’s been trying to run the society in secret all these years while she’s held various posts, holding clandestine meetings in parks. But she’s determined that this time, with the Clarks, no one will know of her admiration for Mrs. Wollstonecraft. The society cannot survive if she accepts this post.”
He was starting to feel sick. He didn’t want the society meeting at the Jade, but that didn’t mean he wanted her to have to disband it when it clearly meant so much to her.
“Let me give you one piece of advice,” said Blackstone, who had been sipping brandy and watching the exchange between his wife and friend in silence until now. “Do not get between a woman and her cause.”
“What else can she do, though, if not be a governess?” Trevor asked, increasingly unsettled. He thought back to their first morning together, the day they’d done the marketing. He’d outright asked her if she wanted to be a governess, and when she didn’t answer, he’d let the matter drop but not before pressing her to finish the quote from Mary Wollstonecraft she’d been reciting. Life glides away, and the spirits with it.
Why hadn’t he heard what she wasn’t saying? The idea of Lucy contorting herself in order to play a role that didn’t suit her made him feel ill, as if he’d had too much to drink. Yet he hadn’t even touched the glass of brandy Blackstone had poured for him.
Emily stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she folded
her hands almost primly and straightened her spine, playing the aristocrat, though he knew full well she was a radical reformer who was only assuming the role because it suited her just now. “She can teach at Catharine’s school.”
“She’s not teaching at Catharine’s school,” said Trevor at the same time that Blackstone said, “Is that your answer for everything?”
“Catharine is thinking of pulling the older girls out into a separate class and running a reading group. Burke, Rousseau, Wollstonecraft. When she meets Miss Greenleaf, it will seem as if she was sent from heaven. It’s perfect. She’s perfect. She can stay here until she finds rooms. Or there are a few rooms at the school if she’s interested in supervising the girls’ dormitory.”
The idea landed with a thud in Trevor’s gut. It was perfect. She was ideally suited for the job.
“No,” he said.
“I’m not asking your permission,” Emily said calmly. “I merely thought to consult you since you’ve been acting as her champion. But you have no authority over her.” She smiled. “I think Mrs. Wollstonecraft would agree.”
“I have to concur, my friend,” said Blackstone. “It’s up to Miss Greenleaf.”
All he could do was shake his head. Lucy was not moving into Catharine’s school. She would be swept away, lost in all these women’s causes. It wasn’t that he didn’t support them in the abstract. God knew, given the wretched life his mother—and Lucy’s—had led, forced to sell themselves out of desperation, he could probably sympathize with many of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s ideas, but… He clenched his jaw. But nothing. She wasn’t going to start openly teaching about Mary Wollstonecraft. Aligning herself publicly with such an infamous woman was not the way to the peaceful, settled, comfortable life that Lucy should be leading.
Not on his watch.
…
Lucy couldn’t sleep. Really, how could anyone be expected to sleep after the day she’d had?
The Likelihood of Lucy Page 8