Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

  Grief, heavy and volatile, ignited in the pit of Nash’s stomach, causing a slow burn. “And now?”

  “Does it not strike you as being a bit too coincidental? Two perfectly healthy young brothers—who hadn’t even reached their prime—dying accidentally within a year of one another?”

  Nash shook his head, thinking of Philip Lowell. “How would anyone profit by my brothers’ deaths?”

  Sir Will narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. But it might be wise to watch your back, Nash. It seems somebody wants the Ashby line to end.”

  As it would do with Nash’s death. There was no one to become earl after him—no male relatives, no distant cousin who could inherit. The earldom would become extinct, with Ashby lands reverting to the crown.

  It occurred to Nash that the king was the only one who would actually profit by the demise of the Farris family, but that was absurd. The Ashby estate was nothing special. In fact, it was a wreck. Why would Prince George want it? To raise sheep on it?

  “What do you know about the land surveys being done?”

  Sir Will gave a lopsided shrug. “I hadn’t heard. But every now and then, someone commissions one.”

  A dull ache rose up between Nash’s brows. “What about the crown?”

  “What about it? You mean the surveys were ordered by the crown?”

  “That’s what Wardlow said.”

  “I suppose so, then.”

  The ache in Nash’s forehead intensified with Will’s next question. “Have you written your will yet, lad?”

  Nash looked away. “Aye. While I was in the army. Not that I had much to bequeath to anyone. I suppose I ought to change it now, though there’s not much for Emmaline to inherit.”

  “You have unentailed lands that could go to your niece.”

  Nash raised a brow as Emmaline followed two maids into Sir Will’s sitting room, and came to stand beside him. It was a change from her usual, timid attitude, and it took him by surprise.

  She twisted her neat plait of blond hair between her fingers and spoke so softly, Nash had to strain to hear her. “Lady Metcalf and . . . and Miss Franklin will come in a moment.”

  He felt an overwhelming urge to reassure her somehow, but hesitated, unsure of her reaction if he touched her. Doubtful of his own.

  Sir William patted the chair beside him, relieving Nash of the need to act. “Come and sit close to me, child.”

  Emmaline kept her head down and did as she was instructed.

  “Tell me what you like to do. Are you a climber like your uncle?”

  Nash could see Emmaline’s eyes grow wide, even as she kept them averted. “I like to draw.”

  “Are you any good at it, lass?” Will asked.

  “Yes,” Emmaline replied simply, and Nash felt a swell of pride, as well as gratitude, rise up in his chest. “Miss Franklin said . . .” She licked her lips and spoke somewhat louder. “Miss Franklin said I am very good.” Hoyt’s daughter had begun to flourish under Mercy’s care.

  “Did Lady Metcalf tell you about the time your uncle climbed that big oak tree there?” He pointed to the tree that was an infamous part of Nash’s childhood. Or rather, Arthur’s. Nash could not recall ever feeling so frightened, not until a year ago at Hougoumont Farm, when John Trent had shoved him aside and was killed for his trouble.

  Far too many emotions warred inside Nash’s chest. And he did not want to feel any of them. What he wanted was to get outside, choose a dog, and take his leave.

  But Lady Metcalf came into the room, with Mercy walking beside her. Nash stood, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked to the window and looked up at the high branches of the big oak tree. He could see the very notch where Arthur had perched that day so long ago, when Nash had felt a truly desperate fear for the first time in his life.

  “Are you waiting for us, gentlemen?” asked Lady Metcalf, bringing a much-needed breath of fresh air into the room. “How lovely.”

  She was clearly not about to allow her husband’s illness to dampen the tone of their visit, and Nash welcomed the change of mood. His was bad enough without having to think of Will Metcalf’s impending demise.

  “Miss Franklin, will you pour?”

  Mercy did as she was asked, her graceful hands taking over the gentle ritual he had not had the opportunity to observe in many a long month. Watching her was a balm to his nerves. His headache receded.

  As usual, her hair was neatly bound at the back of her neck, but one recalcitrant, silky curl had escaped its mooring and lay softly against the delicate skin of her cheek. He ached to take her into his arms again, and wished he had taken their interlude on the moonlit roof a great deal further.

  He should have carried her down to his bedroom and made love to her properly, kissing every inch of her body as he undressed her, pleasuring her until she cried out his name in ecstasy.

  She handed him his tea, but Nash looked at it blankly for a moment while he scrambled to gather his thoughts.

  Such wayward fancies would not do. Not at all.

  “I’ve decided to send Mrs. Jones to you at Ashby Hall, my lord,” Lady Metcalf announced.

  Nash took the cup from Mercy, but could not keep his hands to himself. He allowed his thumb to graze her fingers, and as a jolt of energy arced between them, he was only partly aware of the rest of Lady Metcalf’s words.

  “Mrs. Jones can serve as your housekeeper until you find someone who suits you better.”

  A housekeeper, she’d said. She was sending Mrs. Jones to help put Ashby Hall to rights. Mercy could go back to the schoolroom, and Nash could entertain as much as he needed. It wasn’t that he wanted guests wandering about the house, for he preferred the quiet at Ashby Hall. But how else was he to gather together those men from Hoyt’s fatal deer stalking?

  “Are you certain, Lady Metcalf?”

  Perhaps he was rushing things. There was so much that still needed to be done at Ashby Hall, it would be some time before he could host any sort of party there.

  Then it occurred to him that he would likely encounter a good number of the very men he wanted to speak to at the Market Inn ball. He could ask his questions there, and listen to the gossip.

  “Our needs are simple here at Metcalf Farm,” said Lady Metcalf. “Ruthie Baxter will go and help out in the nursery, but mind you don’t let any of your men get fresh with her.”

  “Of course not.” Nash was the only offender in that realm, the only one who’d taken improper liberties with anyone in Emmaline’s nursery.

  Nash wondered if Mercy would meet a handsome young swain at the Keswick ball. He recognized that it was part of his reason for buying her a ticket to the event—to give her the possibility of a situation somewhere other than at Ashby Hall.

  And yet he dreaded the prospect of seeing her wooed by the local bachelors, and perhaps married to one of them, knowing her husband owned the right to kiss her, to touch her, to bed her . . .

  He trained his gaze upon Lady Metcalf, because the barest glance toward Mercy made him lose his resolve.

  “I think we can spare a couple of our young grooms, too, don’t you, Will?” Edwina asked.

  Sir William nodded. “We’ll help the lad get the place into a decent condition so that Miss Carew will have no complaint when she comes to it as a new bride.”

  The sudden silence in the room was deafening.

  Chapter 20

  Oxford, England

  Gavin Briggs stopped at the inn in the main road in Oxford, some distance from the university. He went into the taproom and ordered a glass of ale, then sat down to take his ease before going on to find the bookseller who’d employed Miss Thornberry as his child’s nurse twenty years ago.

  He didn’t have much to go on to find her, but he’d succeeded in the past with far less.

  He was more concerned with the possibility that whoever had been following him in London was still tailing him on this journey. A skilled man might have taken a coach, or even ridden past Gavin on horseback, an
d Gavin would never have known his true purpose.

  He’d seen no one who’d roused his suspicions, and yet there was still that eerie prickle at the back of his neck, warning him that something was not right.

  Gavin was tired. He was tempted to just finish the drink, take a room, and deal with it all later, but it was early enough that he could still go round to a few bookshops and ask some questions. He could sleep when the shops closed for the day.

  He left the inn and took what he hoped appeared to be a leisurely ride north, keeping to the streets west of the university. Since he would be staying the night no matter what he discovered in Oxford, he secured lodgings in a small lane near the canal. Stabling his horse for the night, Gavin started walking the streets nearby, stopping in various shops to browse. He didn’t limit himself to bookshops, because he didn’t want to leave a clear trail for whoever might be behind him.

  He questioned every bookstore owner, but it seemed none of them had heard of Miss Thornberry.

  Finally, at the end of the day, he came upon a well-heeled book-selling establishment with fresh paint on the outside and glossy oak shelves creating narrow aisles inside. It was full of books as well as students, browsing at their leisure.

  It was nearly closing time, for it would soon be dark. Gavin selected a book and approached the proprietor—a very prosperous-looking man—and asked him if he’d ever known a Miss Thornberry.

  The man quirked a brow. “Aye. She was in my employ for several years.”

  “And now?”

  “Still lives in Oxford, though she is married now. What’s your interest in her?”

  “For a very short time, she served as nurse for my . . . client, who needs to have a few questions answered.”

  “Who is your client, might I ask?”

  “No. But I can tell you this much: He is a very high-ranking nobleman who would take it seriously amiss if you did not share what information you might have about your family’s former nurse.”

  “Is that a threat, young man?”

  “Not at all.” He noticed a man walk past the shop window, wearing a greatcoat and a hat pulled low on his head. He did not appear like any of the young students who were on the street. Gavin turned back to the shopkeeper. “I just need to know where I might find Miss Thornberry in order to ask her the questions my employer would like answered.”

  He placed his coins on the desk in payment for the book while the man picked up a pencil and jotted down an address on a scrap of paper. He turned it to face Gavin. “Last I heard, she lived here.”

  Gavin glanced about, looking for anyone who might be paying too close attention to the transaction. He looked down at the address in Norfolk Street and memorized it, then tore the scrap into pieces and pushed them back across the desk. Years of clandestine work for the crown had taught him never to carry such information on his person.

  And if the man who’d just passed was the one who’d been on his trail, he would not want him to find Miss Thornberry first.

  “Thank you very much,” he said. Tucking the book under his arm, he left the store and started back to his room by way of a few more shops that had not yet closed.

  He kept his eye out for the man in the greatcoat, but did not see him anywhere. Yet the sensation of being watched grew even stronger as Gavin walked toward the canal.

  Candles were extinguished and shops closed. It became dark in the streets, and Gavin joined the stream of students and other pedestrians, hoping to lose himself in the crowded streets. He suddenly took a detour, ducking into a narrow alley to watch for his pursuer. Standing in the shadows, he pressed his back against the wall and watched, hoping to catch sight of the man looking for him.

  A sudden attack from the other direction startled him, and then the man in the greatcoat came at him in a full frontal attack.

  The blow to his belly doubled him over, but he struck out with one elbow and caught his secondary attacker off-guard. The man grunted and released him, and Gavin charged at the man in front.

  He butted him in his midsection, knocking him down just as the second man recovered and came at him, delivering a vicious blow to his jaw. What a fool he’d been to assume his pursuer was working alone. He should have known better.

  He circled the bearded attacker, hoping for an opening to attack, but the other man recovered and kicked Gavin’s feet out from under him, knocking him down.

  “Hold him down, Hank!” rasped the one in the long coat. The man tried to pin Gavin to the ground, but Gavin rolled away and came to his feet.

  But there was no place to go. Both of them were quickly on him, like cats on a fresh kill.

  Darkness fell far too quickly in that alley. Gavin could barely see as a pitched battle ensued. He fought hard, using every trick he’d learned during his tenure as one of Lord Castlereagh’s agents.

  He used his fists, his knees, and feet to defend himself, but he was outnumbered, and he felt his opponents gaining the upper hand. They were brutal with their fists, giving him a pummeling that made him taste blood. He felt dizzy and off-balance, and just when he thought it was over, he took a sudden hard blow to his back—a strike that had to have been caused by a heavy rod, either metal or wood.

  It knocked the breath out of him and he pitched forward, losing his grip momentarily on one attacker’s wrist. The man beneath him took advantage and rolled to the top. But when Gavin caught the gleam of a knife coming at him, he got a burst of strength from somewhere and grabbed the man’s jacket, shoving him aside. He heard the knife drop to the ground.

  “Get the knife, Hank!”

  Gavin scrambled to reach the blade before Hank, but could not see it. The other one came at him again and again, jabbing and punching, using whatever he could find in that dark alley to hit him with. Finally, the bearded one—Hank—pinned Gavin against the rough brick wall.

  “Where are they, Briggs?”

  “Don’t know who you mean,” Gavin rasped.

  “Windermere’s granddaughters.”

  Gavin brought up his knee and struck hard, but his opponent merely grunted and tried to thrust the knife into Gavin’s gut.

  Gavin caught his arm just in time, and the two men battled silently with the knife between them, only inches away from each other’s vital organs.

  Hank suddenly struck out blindly, and Gavin turned the knife, making the fatal thrust into the other man’s abdomen. “Briggs . . . you bloody . . .” the man said through a revolting gurgle.

  He slid down to the ground in a heap.

  “Hank?” the other one asked, unsure of what had happened. Gavin wasn’t about to tell him.

  But his partner groaned just then. “Bertie, I’m . . .”

  With Hank’s final sigh, Bertie dropped whatever weapon he had in hand and took off running. Gavin went after him, but he’d been badly beaten. His jaw was bruised and his ribs screamed in pain with every breath. He could not catch up.

  It was not ideal, leaving Bertie to discover his trail once more. Even though Gavin could lose him again, he knew there were ways of picking up a cold trail. He’d used some of those ways himself, many a time.

  Gavin cursed under his breath. Now that he knew how deadly serious Bertie’s mission was, he had to make doubly sure the man did not find the granddaughters.

  There was no longer any question that it was Chetwood who must have hired Bertie and Hank. It seemed clear the baron intended to see that Windermere’s grandchildren were never found.

  What a vicious, greedy bastard. The Windermere estate could certainly afford some very generous grants to the young ladies who had been discarded in their infancy. But Chetwood wanted it all.

  Gavin dragged himself to the stable where his horse was housed and managed to mount it. He didn’t bother to go back to his room, but started looking for Norfolk Street before Bertie had a chance to regroup.

  * * *

  Nash could not believe Sir William had just announced to everyone in the room that he intended to make Helene Carew
his wife. He shot Sir William a look of pure astonishment, but the older man was oblivious to Nash’s exasperation. Had he always been so obtuse?

  First the remark about Mercy being his intended . . . Now this. Likely it was his illness that made him less than circumspect.

  Edwina finally broke the silence. “Miss Carew? Of Strathmore Pond?”

  Nash gave a slow nod, purposely keeping Mercy out of his line of vision. If her clattering cup was any indication, Sir William’s revelation had upset her, and rightly so, for he’d had no right to take such wildly improper liberties with her on the roof. Even if he had not set his sights on Helene Carew, he should not have touched the innocent governess in his household.

  “I’ve never cared much for that Horace Carew,” Edwina said. “But his daughter will have a pretty dowry. You could make much of Ashby with it.”

  “He wouldn’t be marrying the old man, Edwina,” said Sir Will.

  “And I don’t know if I’ll marry Helene, either. I haven’t proposed. I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” Nash surprised himself a little with those words, and though he felt some measure of relief, the weight of his responsibility still weighed heavily on him.

  “But you mentioned her father is in favor of the match,” Will said.

  Nash nodded. “He encourages it.”

  “Of course he does,” Edwina argued. “What untitled father would not dearly love to snare an earl for his daughter’s husband?”

  “Might we speak of something else, Lady Metcalf?” Nash blurted. “There is no imminent betrothal.”

  But there would be, soon. Nash couldn’t avoid it, but he had no intention of discussing it with everyone who might have an opinion on the subject.

  Miss Carew was going to make a far different kind of wife than his penniless Mercy would ever do. Nash knew that life with Helene was going to lack color. There would be no energy, no fire in the marriage.

  He could not help but reflect that where Mercy had stood toe to toe with him, Helene was reserved to a fault. She could not possibly understand the meaning of interaction.