Jonathan swiftly mounted his spotted black mare, Beauty, and nudged her forward, toward Emmaline and Drake’s townhouse. He guided the horse through the crowded streets, all the while cursing the busy road, slowing his journey.
It only forced him to reflect on his meeting with Miss Marshville last evening. In the light of a new day, with a gentleman’s practical sensibilities, he realized the folly in bringing such a spirited beauty into his household, even if it was to care for his sisters. He grimaced. Or attempt to care for his sisters. Too many had come before Miss Marshville and he suspected many more, more experienced governesses would come after her.
Jonathan maneuvered past the carts that lined the street.
“A rose, yer lordship,” an older man called from behind his wood cart filled with floors, the striking crimson hue put him in mind of Miss Marshville’s vibrant tresses, and that sole lock that had tumbled past her shoulders and laid between her pert breasts.
He slowed his mount, and motioned the vendor over. “A rose, my good man,” he called, and tossed a sovereign to the older man.
The gaunt fellow with a bald pate eyed the coin like he’d received the king’s crown. “Thank ye, yer lordship,” he cried, and held up a rose.
Jonathan became aware, too late, of the rabid stares trained on him, and then his rose. Bloody hell. He could imagine the speculation that would find its way into the gossip columns about the mysterious young lady who’d earned a rose from Lord Sinclair. He gave his head a firm shake. What manner of madness had possessed him, purchasing a rose on the whim of a memory of last evening?
He’d never been more grateful to see a townhouse than his friend Lord Drake’s. He urged Beauty to a halt, and dismounted in a single leap. Jonathan scanned the area, and his gaze alighted on a young boy with a tattered garments and a cap low over his eyes. “You, boy,” he beckoned.
The young boy jabbed a finger at his chest. “Me, Yer Lordship?” He hastened over.
Jonathan handed him the reins to his mount. “Will you wait with her a short while?” He shifted the silly red rose to his free hand and tossed a purse at the boy who caught it easily.
The boy’s eyes formed full moons in his face as he studied the bag in his hands. “Yer Lordship?”
“There will be more when I return,” Jonathan shot over his shoulder as he climbed the steps of Drake’s townhouse. He pounded on the door. All the while his back burned with the interest trained upon the rose in his hand.
He raised his hand to knock once more, when it opened. Drake’s butler, a one-armed fellow who’d served alongside the marquess in the Peninsula War motioned him inside, pausing momentarily to eye the rose.
“Lord and Lady Drake are receiving visitors,” the butler, Jones informed him.
Jonathan fell into step beside the fellow who moved with the precise, clipped steps of one who’d spent years marching to the drum.
They arrived at the drawing room when Jones cleared his throat. “The Earl of Sinclair.”
Emmaline sat beside her husband on a too-small sofa, a book on each of their laps. She colored at Jonathan and Jones’ appearance, and quickly jumped to her feet. “Sinclair, how wonderful to see you!”
He sketched a deep bow, and flashed a grin knowing very well from the guilty flush he’d interrupted his friend and wife. “The pleasure is always mine, my lady.” He winked at her.
Drake snorted. “Stop flirting with my wife, Sin.”
Emmaline swatted at her husband’s arm. “Do behave.”
Jonathan held forth the crimson rose and Emmaline accepted it with a soft exclamation of surprise. “How very lovely,” she murmured, raising the fragrant bud close to her nose and drawing a deep scent. “Isn’t it lovely, Drake?”
Drake stretched his legs out in front of him, and yawned. “Yes, just lovely,” he drawled.
She motioned for Jonathan to sit. “Allow me to ring for refreshments.”
Jonathan sank into the nearest seat, a King Louis XIV chair. He looped his ankle over his knee and tapped his knee. “No refreshments, but thank you, Emmaline.”
Drake continued to study Jonathan with that deep, probing stare. “What brings you round this morning?” he asked bluntly.
Emmaline sank back into the seat beside her husband. She frowned up at him. “I said to behave.”
“I am behaving,” Drake, said, a defensive note to his words. “Something brings him here.” He looked back to Jonathan. “Am I correct? Something brings you here this morning, no?”
Of course, having known Jonathan since they’d been boys of three and ten, Drake correctly surmised something more than a mere visit between friends had brought him round. “I need help,” Jonathan said without preamble.
“Absolutely, Sinclair.” Emmaline replied instantly. “How might we be of assistance?”
Drake draped an arm around his petite wife’s shoulders. His fingers brushed the exposed skin. “You should know not to offer unconditional support without knowing for certain what this scoundrel intends.”
“You’re unpardonable,” Jonathan shot back. “He’s unpardonable,” he said, this time for Emmaline’s benefit.
They shared a commiserative nod.
“Well, on with it, then,” Drake said around a grin.
Jonathan rested his arms on the sides of his chair. “I’ve hired a new governess,” he said, because that seemed the least complicated place to begin.
“Again?” Drake said with a pitying shake of his head.
“You’ll find out the perils of rearing young ladies soon enough,” Jonathan muttered under his breath. The young couple, recently wed already had a small girl of nearly two years.
“How can we be of assistance, Sinclair?” Emmaline encouraged.
“I was tasked with the job of finding the sixth governess.” Technically, the seventh if one counted Mrs. Jenkins…which he did not. Still, it would have been seven.
Drake brushed back a strand of brown hair that had fallen over his wife’s forehead. “Dare I even ask?” he asked.
“It would be best if you didn’t,” he said under his breath. The less Emmaline, Drake, or anyone for that matter knew of the circumstances surrounding the hire of Miss Marshville the best off all would be. “Mother is concerned with how and where I found this particular governess.”
Drake’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
Jonathan glared at him, not appreciating this display of amusement. He found the whole situation rather bothersome.
“Who is this young woman?” Emmaline asked Jonathan, even as she frowned at her husband.
“Her name is Miss Marshville. Uh—but for all intents and purposes, we shall refer to her as Miss Marsh.”
Drake’s brow furrowed. “Marshville. Why is that familiar?”
Jonathan shifted in his seat. He had nothing to feel guilty about. It was hardly his fault that Sir Albert Marshville had wagered both his fat purse, and modest cottage, which Jonathan hadn’t yet bothered to visit, in a game of chance. “I may have won Sir Albert Marshville’s cottage in a hand of cards.”
Emmaline blinked. “You stole the young woman’s home and are now forcing her to work for you.” She shook her head looking like a disapproving nursemaid.
Which only made him think of governesses. Which in turn only made him think of Miss Marshville.
“I am not forcing the young lady to work for me,” he said past gritted teeth. “She’s chosen to work as a governess for my sisters.” All to acquire her family’s cottage, but that was neither here nor there. If he’d truly had his way, well then, she’d have been his mistress before his governess, but alas after having felt the sting of her fingertips upon his cheek, he’d known with great certainty just how Miss Marshville would have felt toward an indecent proposal on his part. “There is more,” Jonathan felt inclined to share. Because the more is what had brought him round posthaste.
Emmaline and Drake exchanged a look.
“I may have suggested you were a one-time frie
nd of Miss Marshville.”
“You may have suggested? Or you suggested? Because those are two very entirely different things, Sinclair,” Emmaline said on a frown.
“The former.” He softened the truth with his most roguish grin.
“I already ordered you to stop flirting with my wife, Sin,” Drake snapped.
Filled with a restive energy, Jonathan shoved himself to his feet and wandered over to the pianoforte. He depressed a single, discordant key that resonated through the room and his mind.
I’m proficient upon the pianoforte.
Jonathan imagined those long, delicate fingers moving over the keys.
“And how am I supposed to know this Miss Marshville?” Emmaline called, jerking him from his reverie.
He yanked his hand back from the instrument, and returned his attention to Emmaline.
“Furthermore, I know nothing of her. Why, she could be utterly horrid,” she said, repeating Penelope’s very same concerns.
“She most certainly is not horrid,” he interrupted. He hurried on, as Emmaline and Drake shared some indecipherable look between them. “Miss Marshville strikes me as just the kind you’d get on with.”
“Oh?” Emmaline quirked an eyebrow.
He waved a hand. “Honorable.” She’d perform honest work all to acquire the property lost by her brother. “Courageous.” After all, he couldn’t identify a single young lady who’d brave St. Giles, and wrestle herself free of a lecherous gentleman with such skill and calm. “And exceedingly beautiful,” he murmured more to himself.
For an infinitesimal moment, he detected a slight tug at Drake’s lips, but then he coughed into his hand, and when he dropped his fingers back to his side, his serious, guarded expression was firmly in place.
“Honorable and courageous,” Emmaline repeated, tapping a finger against her chin. “Very well, I’ll trust your judgment on this matter. But,” she held that same finger up. “If she’s in anyway horrid to your sisters…”
“They’ll deserve it entirely,” he said.
“Then you are to release her from her obligations immediately.”
He held a hand to his chest and bowed his head. “Certainly.” He might be a rogue bent on fulfilling own selfish pleasures, but he’d not tolerate cruelty toward his sisters. Which is probably why they’d grown into these unruly hoydens. Jonathan bowed. “Thank you, now if you’ll excuse me?”
“You’re leaving already?” Drake called after him.
He paused a moment and spun back. “I have to fetch my current governess.” His toes fair twitched with the desire to take flight and gather the tart-mouthed miss.
“You’re seeing to it yourself, Sinclair?” Heavy skepticism underscored Emmaline’s question.
Jonathan bristled and tugged at his lapels. “I’ve always taken a particular interest in my sisters’ rearing.” He frowned when Drake snorted. “I have,” he said defensively. Granted, he’d not seen to the hiring of a single governess or nursemaid prior to this, but well, his mother had charged him with this particular responsibility and he’d see it carried out correctly.
It had only the very slightest smidgeon to do with an eagerness to again see his Miss Marshville whose Christian name he still did not know.
Drake waved a hand. “Are you all right?”
Jonathan started. “Fine,” he said indignantly.
“Because you appear to be wool-gathering.”
Emmaline nodded. “Yes, you do appear to be wool-gathering.”
“I do not wool-gather. Why, I’m the Earl of Sinclair, and…” he gave his head a shake, resisting the urge to make a crude gesture for his far-too amused friend. “Good day,” he said on a final bow.
Drake’s laughter carried through the door and down the long corridor as Jonathan made his way out of the house.
Now, to the pleasurable business of collecting his Miss Marshville.
Chapter 6
Juliet glanced across the room at the clock atop the fireplace mantle. The Earl of Sinclair’s carriage should arrive any moment. Last evening, before he’d returned her home, he’d been very specific in his plans for her.
She stared down at her simple, black valise. The midnight coloring put her in mind of the devilish lord whose carriage she now awaited. Nervous trepidation warred with the oddest, most inexplicable longing to once again see the grinning rogue. Which made little sense. She should want to send him to the devil for his having laid claim to her precious cottage and yet, there was more of this desire to see him.
Her maid, Lillian, buried her face into her hands and let out a particularly loud sob pulling Juliet back to the moment. Lillian wept bitterly sad, little tears. “A governess,” she wailed. “A governess,” she repeated for surely the hundredth time since Juliet had returned from her late night meeting with the earl and shared her intentions with the girl who’d become more friend than maid to her over the years.
Juliet patted Lillian on the back. “It is fine,” she assured the young woman. “More than fine,” she hurried to add. Serving as governess to the Earl of Sinclair’s sisters was not ideal, but it was preferable to the sad, sorry state she’d dwelt in since Papa’s death more than a year ago.
Lillian blew her nose rather noisily into a kerchief. “Sir Albert is correct on this score, Miss Juliet. And Sir Albert is not correct on so very many scores,” she said.
Yes, that was true. Albert was more often incorrect than correct. “Then perhaps this time he is wrong as well, Lillian,” she said gently.
“He’s going to be livid after you leave, Miss Juliet, and he’ll certainly take it out on the staff.”
That gave Juliet pause.
Her brother had alternated between spitting fury, and volatile rage when she’d arrived early that morning to find him waiting in the foyer for her to reappear. The rage first directed at her having clouted Lord Williams and leaving the vile reprobate locked in the parlor like a common thief had been miniscule compared to the palpable rage when she’d informed him of her intentions to take on the post of governess. Which had rather surprised her as she’d always thought he’d prefer to have her out of his sight.
She flinched, remembering the poor, porcelain shepherdess and her whole flock of porcelain sheep that had been shattered in his boy-like outburst. “If he harms any of the staff, Lillian, you are to send word.”
Lillian blew her nose once again. “And what will you do, Miss Juliet? There will be nothing you can do.”
Guilt twisted in her stomach, for Lillian spoke correctly on this matter. Juliet had managed to temper her brother’s childlike outbursts through the years, having learned long ago to diffuse his shows of temper. Who would help them now?
Lillian must have seen guilt stamped on her face, for she stuffed her soiled kerchief into her apron front. “Oh, miss, don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“All guilty like.” She brushed back the tears on her cheeks. “Why, you’re indeed correct. This is surely the best thing to happen to you.”
Well, Juliet hadn’t said that exactly. Fine, was a good deal different than the best thing to ever happen. She chose not to point out that very detail to the suddenly brightening maid.
The butler, Peter, appeared in the doorway, sadness etched in his heavily wrinkled face. “A servant has arrived from the Earl of Sinclair’s home, Miss Juliet.”
Lillian launched into another round of blubbering. She threw her arms unceremoniously around Juliet’s neck and squeezed hard.
“Oh, Lillian,” she murmured, and smoothed her hands reassuringly over the sobbing girls’ back.
A sheen of crystal drops glazed Peter’s warm brown eyes.
Oh, no, not Peter too. The stoic, somber servant who’d been with the family since she’d been a mere girl had never been given to shows of emotion.
He cleared his throat, and hurried to pick up Juliet’s valise.
Before Juliet’s courage deserted her, she gave Lillian a final, gentle squeeze, stepped
away, and began the short walk to the front door and her new life and role as governess. She made it no further than the foyer where the earl’s servant stood patiently waiting near the door.
Albert stepped directly into her path. A mere inch or so taller than herself, he’d never intimidated her with his height but more the cold, malevolent glitter in his unfeeling eyes.
She tipped her chin and boldly met his gaze. “Albert,” she greeted, and made to step around him.
He shifted his bulky frame and effectively blocked her escape. “You’ve become Sinclair’s whore,” he hissed.
Heat flooded her cheeks, and she glanced pointedly at the servants. “Have a care, Albert,” she demanded with quiet firmness. Regardless of their faithfulness through the years, Juliet had long ago learned that servants had loose lips. “I’d become his governess, because work as a governess would be preferable to the offer presented by your friend, Lord Williams,” she spat. Her gaze caught the Earl of Sinclair’s footman. The handsome, liveried servant averted his eyes. She shifted her attention back to Albert, studying him, as she tried to sort it all out. Why, why would her fool brother have such a volatile reaction to her leaving? He’d always treated her as nothing more than a nuisance. He had little intention of giving her a London Season having blamed it on the expenses.
Albert lowered his head. His lips pulled back in a snarl. “You’d reject Lord Williams’ offer and become a maid.”
“His was not a respectable…” Her words died on her lips. She had assumed her brother believed Lord Williams intended to make her an honest offer of marriage, and it occurred to her in that moment. “You knew?” she breathed.
Albert rocked back on his heels, but did not deny the charge she’d leveled at him.
Her brother had known of Lord Williams’ offer and had left her alone with the fiend, and…then all the pieces of the confounded puzzle slipped into their respective places. “You owe him money, don’t you?” she whispered.
Color suffused his cheeks. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 4) Page 6