To Walk in the Sun (Wiggons' School for Elegant Young Ladies - Book 1)

by Charles, Jane

  Vincent leaned against the window but held back his own laughter. Veronica would have found great enjoyment in these current rumors surrounding her.

  “Of course, all they saw were her feet and pale nightgown, but they are completely convinced it was she.”

  “That explains Sophia’s question at breakfast this morning,” Miss Crawford acknowledged in dry humor.

  “And when did she apparently come back to life?” Miss Morris asked.

  While Miss Morris and Miss Pritchard laughed, Vincent noted that Miss Crawford had become very quiet.

  “During the storm,” Miss Pritchard announced. “According to Eliza, this has been the first time he was able to bring her home and the poor woman has been hiding since the tempest.”

  Miss Morris howled with laughter and was joined by Miss Pritchard. Miss Crawford remained silent and the women turned their attention to her. Vincent could observe the mischievous look on Miss Pritchard’s face from where he stood. “So, Tess, who do you think Lord Atwood was actually carrying through the house? I know it was not I.”

  “Nor was it I,” Miss Morris added.

  “All right.” Miss Crawford stood and placed her cup on the table. “He came across me in the library and we spoke for a short time. When I tripped on your robe going up the stairs, he insisted on carrying me so I didn’t injure myself.”

  Both ladies sat back and looked at her thoughtfully. Neither said a word.

  “What?” Miss Crawford demanded and flopped back down in the chair, exasperated.

  The other two ladies exchanged a perplexed look. “Why, nothing,” Miss Morris insisted, “but you do seem rather defensive.”

  Miss Pritchard leaned forward. “How long did you talk and what exactly did you discuss?”

  Miss Crawford made a show of filling her cup with tea, and then with slow deliberation added sugar. After she settled back, she answered their questions. “He asked me about my life, my family, where I come from, why I did not make a match in London.”

  Both ladies stiffened. Vincent found their reaction rather odd. Had he missed something?

  “What did you tell him?” Miss Morris asked in an ominous tone, as if she feared the answer. She placed her cup on the table and it rattled in the saucer.

  Miss Crawford fixed her gaze on the woman, her mouth firm and serious. “I told him as much as I dare.”

  “Go on,” Miss Pritchard prompted.

  “That my parents died when I was fourteen and that I chose to remain in the country with my uncle and forego a season and that he had died.”

  The two other teachers looked at each other then back to Miss Crawford. “Did you mention your betrothal?”

  Betrothal? She definitely left out that particular detail for he would have remembered such a pertinent fact.

  Miss Crawford shook her head.

  “So, he knows nothing about your association with Lord Percer.”

  “No, and I would like to keep it that way.”

  Vincent turned from the window. It felt as if a fist had been slammed into his gut. The one man he hated above all others was betrothed to Miss Crawford. Why did she insist on keeping it a secret? Truth be told, had he known he would have never allowed her into his house. How could such an apparently kind woman be engaged to that deceiving bastard? Further, what possessed her to remain mum about her involvement? Any other woman would gloat about an engagement to a lord, so why hadn’t Miss Crawford?

  His mind turned back to the first time he had seen her. At first he thought she had caught the girls spying on his house, when perhaps she had actually joined them. Perhaps she had encouraged it for an excuse to get close.

  Then, she was out walking late at night, by the cemetery when the entire town knew he would be there at that time of night. Was she in the county for reasons other than to teach those young women? Had Percer sent her on the mission because he had failed himself?

  Vincent poured himself a brandy. The pounding in his head increased with each second that passed. He downed the first glass and refilled another.

  What a fool he was. He took her at her word, for who she was, when all along she had been sent here to do Percer’s dirty work. He drew his arm back and flung the tumbler against the wall. Shards of glass flew in every direction.

  How fortuitous it was that a tempest came through on the very night she was out and demolished the school. Had she not been spying on him, she would have been killed and then where would Percer be?

  Vincent wondered how she had managed to contain her glee at being invited to stay in his home. He no longer believed it had been chance for her to end up in the room next to his, but planned all along. As for the library last night, he sincerely doubted her trip at one in the morning had anything to do with reading material.

  No, he knew why she was here and she would go away empty handed, just like Percer did the night he helped kill Veronica.

  * * *

  She thought that after losing sleep last night and all that transpired today, she would fall into an exhaustive slumber tonight. Such was not the case. With a sigh, Tess threw the covers off her bed and placed her feet on the cold, wood floor. This was ridiculous. She should be able to sleep sooner or later, shouldn’t she?

  Tess slipped her feet into her new slippers, enjoying the softness against her skin and shrugged on the thick, pale blue robe. It was just past midnight. Given the hour she knew she could retrieve a book from Atwood’s library and return before he ever suspected she was out of her room.

  Having wandered the house enough at this hour already, Tess did not bother with a candle. She knew the way, and the number of the steps. As before, the door of the room was ajar. She stepped in and noted the seat behind his desk was vacant. She picked up a lamp and once again perused the titles on the shelf.

  “I am beginning to wonder if you continually hope to find me alone, Miss Crawford.”

  She whipped around. Why hadn’t she looked toward the corner, the same place he had sat last night?

  “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at the cemetery?”

  She could see him smile in the muted darkness.

  “I once had a purpose of visiting Veronica’s grave. Now, I have a purpose to remain home.”

  What an odd statement. “I shall leave you in peace.” Tess turned to leave.

  Atwood stood. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Miss Crawford. You did come here tonight and it would be a shame to leave without what you came for.”

  Why did he make it sound as if she wanted something more than a book? Did he think that because she had shared a brandy with him two nights in a row she wished to spend more intimate time with him? “I am sure I will finally be able to sleep, even without a book.”

  “Ah, yes. The same excuse you had last night.” He stepped further into the room and the light from the fireplace illuminated his features. His eyes were cold, his lips firm. “Besides, if I recall, I have mentioned that a brandy is the best tonic for a sleepless night.”

  Tess took a step back. Would she ever be able to keep up with his ever-changing moods? She should simply stay in her room at night. Tomorrow, after class, she would choose a book so she would have no reason to venture here at midnight.

  He poured her a glass without asking permission and held it out to her.

  “No thank you.”

  “Come now, Miss Crawford, indulge me in my one pleasure.” He held the tumbler out to her.

  Tess took it with reluctance. At this moment she was almost afraid to refuse him. “Perhaps you indulge a little too often, Lord Atwood,” she said with caution.

  “Pardon?” He tilted his head and looked at her.

  “It seems to me as if you drink quite a bit of brandy. It concerns me for it certainly cannot be healthy.”

  Lord Atwood tossed back the contents of his glass and poured another. “Are you an expert on the consumption of spirits, Miss Crawford?”

  “No.” She wished she could understand what was wrong. He almost seemed a
ngry, cold. She knew Atwood was often irritated with the presence of all the females in the household, even surly at times, but this mood was different from any of the others she had seen. It almost frightened her.

  “Drink, Miss Crawford.” He pointed to her glass. “Sit.” He indicated to the chair. “I promise not to bite.”

  She looked up at him and slowly sat.

  He grinned down at her. “Unless you want me to.”

  A chill ran up her spine. How did one deal with this Lord Atwood?

  He took a seat in the chair opposite of her. “I would like to know more about you, Miss Crawford.” He took another drink.

  Tess fidgeted with the tie on her new robe and looked down at her hands. She really had nothing more to tell him. Or, nothing else she dared share with him. Wouldn’t he feel it his duty to turn her over to the authorities? “What is it you would like to know?”

  “I find it difficult to believe no one pursued you, asked for your hand in marriage.”

  She glanced up at him, startled to find that he had moved and now stood before her. He sank to his knees and brought a hand to her face. “A man would need to be blind not to desire you.”

  Tess tried to pull back but he held her chin in place. “If you recall, I did not have a London Season.”

  He smiled at her again and his lids dropped. “Gentlemen reside in the country as well. Not one approached your uncle? No one wished for even a courtship?”

  His eyes locked on hers and she was mesmerized by the dark pools. Oh, she was a horrible liar, but what could she say? The truth would damn her but he made it impossible to lie. “Tell me about your wife,” she changed the subject. “Did you meet her in London?”

  Atwood reared back and looked down at her. “Very impressive, Miss Crawford. I find it fascinating how you always manage to change the subject when the topic becomes uncomfortable.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It has happened before.”

  She sputtered.

  Atwood chuckled and took a seat on the couch beside her. “As neither one of us wish to discuss our pasts, shall we discuss the present?” His arm rested along the back and she could feel the hardness of his bicep behind her head. This was a very dangerous situation and she willed herself not to bolt from the room.

  What would he do if she did flee? Run after her? The thought brought a chuckle to her lips.

  “Do you find something humorous, Miss Crawford?”

  She swallowed her laugher and looked at him. He had an eyebrow cocked in question.

  “No, I just, oh, I don’t know why I laughed. I apologize.”

  “Oh, Miss Crawford, life is far too short not to enjoy every moment.”

  He was out of his mind. That is all she could conclude. Or, his intake of brandy was higher tonight than normal. She leaned forward and placed her glass on the table. “I should return to my room.”

  His hand reached behind her, grasped her shoulder and pulled her back against the couch. His other hand picked up the tumbler and handed it to her. “No, stay.”

  “Don’t you have work to do?” She cradled the glass on her lap.

  “I needed a rest. The eyestrain was giving me a headache.”

  Tess glanced around the dark room. The only light came from the fireplace and a few lamps. “Perhaps if you lit more lamps, or perhaps worked during the daylight hours, your eyes would not suffer.”

  “Or, perhaps I could use the help of a proficient secretary.” He leaned toward her.

  Tess pulled back. “I am sure if you placed an advertisement, you would have several candidates apply.”

  Atwood chuckled and toyed with a wayward curl. He wrapped it around his finger and studied her face. “No, I don’t think so, Miss Crawford. In fact, I think I have the perfect candidate right here.”

  Surely he wasn’t suggesting. . . “Me?”

  “Of course.”

  His thumb brushed against her cheek. She was surprised by roughness, though not quite calloused. Percer’s hands were as soft as a woman’s and she assumed all gentlemen were the same. Her skin heated where he touched and she fought the urge to squirm away, or was it lean closer. No. She would not move closer to him. To do so would be far to forward.

  Tess pulled back and scooted away. “I teach. I don’t have time to be your secretary.”

  “Your evenings are free.” He moved closer, his warm breath caressed her ear.

  “I have lesson plans.”

  “Think of it as repayment for me allowing everyone to stay in my house.”

  Tess turned her head to look at him and found his eyes a few inches away, his lips even closer. She feared he wasn’t talking about reading and writing correspondence.

  “It is not as if you sleep anymore than I do. Shall we begin tomorrow night, at seven?”

  She finally found the strength to nod her head after a few moments

  Atwood smiled and pulled back. His arm returned to his own side.

  Tess stood and took a step back. “Until then,” she nodded and practically sprinted for the door.

  Oh dear, what have I gotten myself into?

  thus did he bewail over her grave at the midnight hour,

  what time the spirit that presides in the troublous atmosphere,

  sends his legions of monsters through mid-air; so that their shadows,

  as they flit beneath the moon and across the earth, dart as wild,

  agitating thoughts that chase each other o'er the sinner's bosom:

  -- thus did he lament under the tall linden trees by her grave

  Wake Not the Dead

  Johann Ludwig Tieck

  Chapter 12

  Vincent followed Miss Crawford out of the room at a sedate pace. He stood in the entryway and watched her fly up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. If she were wise, she would pack and leave his house tonight. However, no doubt Miss Crawford still believed him to be the same gullible gentleman she had first met. A smile pulled at his lips. Oh, he would show her gullible and her fiancé too. He wondered how Percer would feel when he found the tables turned on him. The question was, would he seduce her before he exposed her?

  Once he heard her door close, Vincent strode toward the foyer, lifted his greatcoat from the chair where it was left each evening and exited out into the darkness. This would be his last midnight visit to Veronica’s grave.

  * * *

  Tess grabbed the footboard of her bed the moment she entered her chamber. It was all she could do to stop the tremor of her hands. If she did not calm herself soon, her heart would surely beat out of her chest. Goodness, what was she to do? What had come over Atwood?

  She sank onto the bed. She couldn’t be his secretary. Maybe before, but surely not now.

  She stood to pace. She could still smell his scent. Brandy and soap. Not the tobacco she recalled from her father and uncle, and it was intoxicating. His warm breath against her ear and his hand gently cupping her face had almost been her undoing. When she turned to find him so close, his lips a breath away from hers, she almost leaned forward, to taste.

  Stop that! Atwood was not intoxicating and she would do well to remember that. But what was he about tonight? Was he trying to compliment her by insisting she should have been courted or engaged? Or, was he questioning what she had earlier told him?

  No, that could not be it. Why would he suspect she had lied about her past? Her friends would never breathe a word of the truth. So, the only explanation was he found her attractive.

  That was just too hard to believe. Perhaps he thought she wanted him. She had appeared in his library, long after dark, in her night rail. What else was the man to think? Goodness, she never dreamed he would conclude that she was interested in something more than a professional, friendly relationship.

  She straightened and strode to the bed. Well, she would just have to make it known that she would not succumb to his charms and she was certainly not interested in an illicit liaison. From now on, when she left her room,
she would be properly dressed.

  * * *

  Vincent stood at the foot of Veronica’s grave. He sniffed the late roses and placed them on the ground. “I took these from our own garden. I thought you might appreciate that.” He knew she would not have cared for him stealing from others’ yards, but it gave him so much pleasure to do so. Had one of them even asked what he was about, he would have explained why he didn’t visit during the day, or why he had no maintained garden of his own at the moment. Instead, they let a fictional novel influence their common sense, if they had any to begin with, and simply watched him cut a small bouquet each night from the safety of their home all the while probably praying that he monster didn’t come for them that night.

  He bent to brush the leaves away from her headstone, as he did every night.

  “I know I don’t speak when I come here.” It always felt strange to Vincent to do so. “But, tonight I need to explain.”

  Vincent paused and looked around, to make sure he was alone. It was one thing to visit his wife’s grave at this odd hours, it was quite another to converse with her.

  What was he thinking? The town already thought him a mad man. Why should he care if their opinions lowered because he conversed with his dead wife? Well, it wasn’t exactly a conversation as there would certainly be no reply.

  He settled on top of the granite headstone.

  “I want you to know I don’t blame you. I lay everything at his feet.” Vincent took a flask from his pocket and sipped.

  “I have come here every night to remember, to nurse my rage and anger. Now, I finally have the opportunity for revenge.”

  He looked up and studied the stars. “I’ve never told you this, Veronica, but it is important that you know.”

  He stood and walked to the foot of the plot so he could face her, so to speak. “Percer had been my best friend since I was ten, as you know. I left instructions that if anything were to happen to me while I was on the Continent, he was to be here when the news was delivered. He was to lend you support.” Not seduce you.