Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

  “No,” Emmaline replied softly.

  “And I have never been a governess before,” Mercy said with a smile, hoping to get past some of Emmaline’s shyness. “You will have to help me do a good job.”

  Emmaline looked at her sharply, and Mercy suppressed a smile at the girl’s sudden flare of interest.

  Now that she had some idea of how to engage Emmaline, she glanced around. “Where do you suppose my room is? Can you show me?”

  They stood, and Emmaline took Mercy’s hand. Leaving the nursery, Emmaline took her across the corridor into a stale chamber with a narrow bed and a dusty wardrobe. It had obviously been unused for quite some time, but there were large windows similar to the ones in the nursery that looked out over a grove of tall beech trees that were just beginning to bud. Beyond it were the tall fells and the path she’d traversed to reach her destination here.

  With a thorough cleaning, the room would do. And yet Emmaline would not. As a vicar’s daughter, Mercy had come into contact with the parish children, and yet none was as quiet and reserved as Emmaline.

  Presumptuous or not, she needed to ask Lord Ashby a few questions about little Lady Emmaline.

  As soon as his niece and her governess quit the room, Nash turned his attention to his injured ankle. As inconvenient as that was, it was far better than thinking about Emmaline’s sad eyes or Miss Franklin’s enticing ones. He neither needed nor wanted any new entanglements.

  Yet it had been amusing to tease the girl when she’d stopped to help him in the road. He’d been surprisingly engaged by Miss Franklin, half drowned as she was with her soaked bonnet plastered over her hair. The situation had been absurd, but the delicate outline of Mercy Franklin’s face had compelled him, with her high cheekbones and daintily pointed chin. Nash considered that her eyes had to be the clearest green of any he’d ever seen, and they’d watched him warily, even critically.

  But it was her plush mouth that had captured his attention. That, and the lushly feminine form that had been patently obvious in spite of her prim coat.

  Who would have thought such sharp words could have emanated from those enticing lips? Who would have thought Nash would feel such acute arousal for a young woman who had accused him—to his face!—of being foolhardy.

  He almost laughed aloud. She had been so busy scolding him, it seemed she had not even noticed the damaged side of his face or his filmy eye, despite the fact that he had done naught to hide them.

  Nash turned to look at the fire. Miss Franklin was a puzzle he had no intention of solving. He needed answers to several far more important other questions, which had been the purpose of his visit to Keswick’s magistrate earlier in the afternoon.

  He wanted to know who had been present when his eldest brother, Hoyt, had been shot and killed. He wanted to know what Hoyt’s relationship was with each of the men who’d gone deer stalking with him that day, and if there had been any reason one of them would have wanted him dead.

  Lowell had not been present for the day’s deer stalking, but there had been an inquest, of course. And Arthur had written Nash to say that the investigation had been conducted with all due consideration. With so many hunters spread out in the wooded land north of the Hall, it had been impossible to know who had fired the fatal shot. And since no one but Arthur stood to gain from Hoyt’s death, the death had been ruled accidental.

  After more than a decade in the army, Nash knew it was possible for a stray shot to kill someone. But it was also possible for a man with a grudge to misfire, or to shoot wild, “accidentally” injuring the man he despised. Nash had seen it happen.

  Yet he’d never known Hoyt to have an enemy in the world, unlike Arthur, who’d been a toplofty prig all through his youth and beyond. Hoyt had been a gentle, good-natured sort who’d lost his wife three years earlier. His few letters after Joanna’s death indicated he had not yet recovered from her loss. He seemed to think he never would, which surprised Nash, since theirs had not been a love match. Clearly, Hoyt had developed a strong attachment to Joanna.

  Unfortunately, Nash’s trip into Keswick that afternoon had yielded naught but a nastily bruised ankle and the beginnings of a wicked headache. Keswick’s magistrate, Mr. Peter Wardlow, had offered nothing new about Hoyt’s death, even though he’d been present at the hunting party that day.

  Nor could he say much about the accident that had killed Arthur and Georgia. The magistrate had investigated their deaths, of course, and found only that the ground he’d traveled on the high road to Braithwaite had given way under their carriage wheels.

  Nash remembered the stretch well. It was a dangerous piece of narrow road, but a careful—a sane—driver would never have driven too close to the edge of the cliff. Nor would he have taken it too fast.

  Mr. Wardlow’s report had mentioned heavy rains in the days before the accident. And Philip Lowell had spoken of Arthur’s stubborn insistence on traveling to a local baron’s house party at Braithwaite in spite of the poor road conditions. Nash could easily believe it of his brother. Arthur had never changed from the headstrong youth who refused all sorts of advice—even their father’s.

  The three brothers had been close, each of them with his own particular strengths, and perhaps his own weaknesses. Hoyt had been far too mild-mannered, but he was as kindhearted as a man could be. Arthur was by far the most intelligent of the three brothers, but he was laughably stubborn. Nash had more physical prowess than either of his brothers, and his father had dressed him down more than once for frightening his mother with his dangerous feats of daring. But the three Farris brothers had stood for one another in their boyhood scrapes and backed each other up at school.

  Life at Ashby Hall was painfully hollow without his brothers.

  Philip Lowell returned to the library and stood across from Nash. He bore a familiar expression—of a man whose interest had been piqued by a woman.

  No doubt Miss Franklin found favor with the man’s unblemished visage. “I take it your little foray up to the nursery went satisfactorily?” Nash asked, unable to check his caustic tone.

  Lowell gave a nod. “Aye. Miss Franklin seems to have matters well in hand.”

  “Which matters would that be?” He felt unaccountably irritated that Lowell had taken the opportunity to dally with Emmaline’s governess. The woman was to manage his niece, and nothing more. Certainly not to flirt with Lowell, the youngest son of a Gloucestershire baron.

  Nash did not know why Lowell had stayed at Ashby after Hoyt’s death. Surely Arthur had been a difficult, off-putting master, and the estate had declined under his inept management. Nash could easily imagine his middle brother taking control of all his accounts and giving the steward little more than a few schoolboy assignments. But Lowell’s assistance in deciphering Ashby’s account books had been invaluable to Nash during the past month.

  Lowell was not much of a sheep man, however. Hoyt had had a head shepherd who’d resigned on Arthur’s accession, and of course Arthur had deemed such a man unnecessary. According to Lowell, Arthur felt that since he’d grown up in sheep country, he knew how to manage the herd.

  He could not have been more wrong, as was blatantly evidenced by his ledgers and account books.

  Nash hoped that with an infusion of capital and the right advice on rebuilding and managing the sheep herd, the Ashby estate could very well become a thriving estate again in a few years.

  “What did you think of the report Mr. Wardlow showed you, my lord?” Lowell asked.

  Nash had looked over the official accounts of his brothers’ deaths, the interviews with possible witnesses and servants who had knowledge of the events. Nash rubbed the mounting ache at his temple. “Which?”

  “The, er . . . shooting incident.”

  “Hardly sufficient. There was not even a list of the guests who went out hunting with Hoyt that day,” Nash said, frowning. “You were not here even for part of the day, Lowell?”

  “No, my lord. I was down in Grasmere that day. But I beli
eve your brother’s usual guests would have been present for the hunt.”

  No doubt. But Nash had been away for years, in active military service. He knew only a few of the most prestigious men of the district these days, and next to nothing about running an estate.

  Nash thought of the hundreds of entries he’d read in his brothers’ journals and wondered if he would ever be able to make sense of them. He’d seen ample evidence of Arthur’s pigheadedness in his receipts and ledgers, and it seemed he’d become even more arrogant after his marriage to Georgia.

  “Wardlow mentioned some of the men who’d been at the hunt—and they, no doubt, can identify the others.”

  “Will you send them queries?” Lowell asked.

  “Perhaps,” Nash said, although another idea had come to him just before his fall on the road. Before he’d encountered the ever-so-distracting Miss Franklin with her lush curves and impertinent mouth. “I’ve not entertained since my return to the Hall. Perhaps I should host a house party.”

  He really couldn’t afford it, but he was going to need to establish connections in the district. As Earl of Ashby, Nash was the highest-ranking nobleman in the vicinity—though perhaps the poorest.

  But social gatherings were generally rife with gossip and information. A casual party with all the notables of the district could very well afford Nash the opportunity to find answers to the questions he had about Hoyt’s death. If he used his existing funds carefully, he could manage it.

  First on his list of guests would be Sir William Metcalf and his wife, old friends of the Farris family. Their son, Jacob, had been a constant companion of Nash and his brothers, but he’d been killed a few years back, during the Peninsular Campaign.

  Nash realized he’d put off his visit to Metcalf Farm far too long. Sir Will might even know something useful about Hoyt’s death. Something that would put Nash’s mind at ease.

  “You’ll need servants in order to entertain, my lord,” Lowell said. “Proper servants, and not just old Grainger and your men.”

  Nash nodded, and the ache in his left temple responded with a sharp burst. He shut his eyes for a moment and it subsided, freeing him to consider the matter at hand.

  He’d inherited a modest sum from his father, which had grown somewhat over the years. It was certainly not enough to correct all of Ashby’s failings, but he’d heard an old adage that one needed to spend money to make money.

  Nash believed it would be well spent on an Ashby party, not only because it would provide a setting for idle talk and reminiscences about past events here, but because it would afford an opportunity for him to meet his neighbors and see if any of them would be interested in investing in Ashby.

  Nash had spent the past few weeks with Lowell, assessing what improvements the Ashby estate needed and estimating what it would all cost. Like Sir Will and most of the other landowners in the district, Ashby had always depended upon sheep’s wool and good mutton for its wealth. But it was clear even to Nash that the herd needed to be restored and they needed a competent head shepherd to manage it. In less than two years since Hoyt’s death, it seemed to have dwindled to naught.

  In addition, Arthur had allowed the arable fields to lie fallow for his entire tenure. The orchards were overgrown and there was flooding in the south fields. The roof of the Hall leaked in spots, and most of the rooms were musty and neglected. Worst of all were the risky investments Arthur had made that had plunged Ashby deeply into debt.

  He looked over at Lowell and caught him scowling. “Aye, it’ll cost me, but a house party will give me an opportunity to become acquainted with as many local landowners as I can,” Nash said. “And I’ll need those connections for the long term.”

  Lowell’s expression lightened somewhat. “Church, too, my lord.”

  “Church?”

  “You might consider attending—it’s a good place to meet people. To talk to other farm owners in the district.”

  It had been a very long time since Nash had gone to church. He’d deemed it a pointless endeavor ever since Waterloo. He’d seen action in many a battle, but the carnage at Hougoumont Farm . . .

  He turned his face toward the fire but the movement hurt his head. He rubbed his aching temple again. “You did well enough in finding a governess for Emmaline, Lowell. Perhaps you can ask if they’ve heard of an available sheep manager when you attend church Sunday morning.”

  “I’ll ask Reverend Swan. He and his wife know everyone in the parish . . . maybe in all of Cumbria.”

  Nash had some connections, too—wealthy officers he’d known in the army. He had already written to a few of his closest friends, asking for modest loans, but it would take time to receive answers from them.

  “You approve of Miss Franklin, my lord?”

  He glanced up at Lowell’s sudden change of subject. Nash had had absolutely no idea what to do with Emmaline. After thirteen years in the army, and most of those years at war with France, he was accustomed to dealing with men—especially of the rough and ready sort—like those he’d brought to Ashby Hall with him. What a mess. He was lucky the walls were not crumbling around him.

  But wait—they were.

  “She’ll do.”

  A light tap at the door interrupted his train of thought, and Lowell opened it to admit Miss Franklin, alone. Her posture was just as stiff as it had been during their initial interview, but this time, Nash noted a gleam of pique in her eyes.

  “May I have a word with you, my lord?”

  “Leave us, Lowell,” he said, enjoying the disconcerted expression Miss Franklin quickly tried to hide.

  “But my lord—”

  “That’s an order, Lowell.” Not that the man wouldn’t seek out Mercy Franklin at a more convenient time. The steward exited the room, but left the door open.

  “Close it, Lowell.”

  The man did as he was told.

  “Abandoned your charge already, Miss Franklin?” Nash asked. For some perverse reason, he enjoyed goading her.

  “On the contrary, Lord Ashby,” she said, her feathers most amusingly ruffled. “She is with Mr. Blue at the moment. I wanted to speak to you outside her presence.”

  He gestured to the comfortable chair opposite him. She sat on its edge, her back fiercely unbent in her proper, dark blue gown, though her features were anything but prim. He could not recall any other woman with eyes so sharp a green, or skin that looked so enticingly soft. Miss Franklin might try to remain completely aloof, but her demeanor was sabotaged by the most sensual mouth Nash had ever seen.

  Dark buttons marched from the high waist of her gown to the collar at her throat, and he found himself shifting in his seat as he imagined her unfastening each one when she made herself ready for bed. No doubt her underthings appeared plain and white and just as stiff as her demeanor, but they would slide ever so softly from her shoulders before catching on the tips of her breasts.

  Nash allowed his eyes to return to her face, where he noted the most delectable flush of color on her cheeks. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this encounter far more than he ought.

  Chapter 7

  Gavin Briggs made the obligatory visit to his father’s estate near Durham, but relations between them were not improved. Lord Hargrove still resented the fact that Gavin could not tell him about his work during the war.

  And Gavin despised his father for turning out his sister when she’d become pregnant.

  Gavin had been away at the time, of course, for he’d been employed by the foreign office, engaging in clandestine activities, of which many were still ongoing in France and Russia. He would not risk the identities and lives of his peers, just to placate his arrogant viscount father who had no real need to know what information the Foreign Office was obtaining about England’s newest potential enemies. The information his father wanted about Gavin’s work would be reduced to gossip, puerile and trivial.

  And Gavin would have none of it.

  Of course Viscount Hargrove had shown his anger b
y pulling in the purse strings, which made it imperative that Gavin find the granddaughters of the Duke of Windermere and win the substantial reward promised by the duke, and quickly. There was a fine property Gavin wanted to purchase down in Hampshire, where he could bring his sister and her child, and give them a home. But the gentleman who owned it would not wait forever. Gavin needed to come up with some funds to show old Mr. Wickford he was in earnest. He intended to retire to the country as a gentleman farmer, a good many miles away from his spoiled family.

  His disgust was not limited to his father. He despised old Windermere for disowning his daughter. The aging duke should be horsewhipped for what he’d done to his granddaughters twenty years back. But that would only hasten the old gaffer’s death. Gavin wanted to see Lily and Christina Hayes spit in His Grace’s rheumy old eye.

  Just as Gavin wished he could see his sister spit in their own sire’s. Not that it would change anything. His family lived an insular life west of Durham, without any real knowledge of the war and the circumstances that made lesser people desperate.

  At least Gavin had the opportunity to win a significant treasure if he found the children—young women now. He had the skill and the wherewithal to track them down. This particular puzzle was going to be a challenge, however, since the steward who’d handled matters was long dead, and Sarah and her barrister husband had drowned in the Thames nearly twenty years before. Gavin had to go back to their roots, to the place where they’d spent their married years, and see if there was anyone in London who remembered them.

  More important, he needed to find someone who recalled what had happened to their children.

  It was a difficult task, but not impossible.

  Nash closed his eyes and took a deep breath, chiding himself for lusting after the tidy little governess. He’d bedded some of the most sophisticated women of Paris and London, and yet he found himself bewitched by this sassy, black-haired wench who didn’t know when to keep silent.

  “Lord Ashby, are you unwell? Should I call some—”