Dangerous Lord, Innocent Governess

by Christine Merrill

  But the man in the suit was as different as his clothes. He was not the hot-tempered Lord Colton that she had met upon arrival, nor the warm Timothy Colton of the afternoon. This man was as cool towards her as a stranger might have been. He would not meet her eyes, seeming to be most concerned with the children and their happiness.

  He treated Daphne as though she were the governess. Invisible. Just as she had wanted from the first. The fact might have been laughable had it not been so frustratingly unexpected.

  The children felt the change as well, and grew more quiet and reserved as the meal went on. Her host threw aside his napkin in frustration long before the dessert course and retired, claiming illness. She and the children finished the meal in silence and returned to the nursery to prepare for bed.

  It was a disaster that undid much of the progress of the last few days. Daphne frowned. Perhaps it was all too much, too soon. It had left the children overwhelmed. But she was hard pressed not to lay the failure at the feet of the one responsible: Lord Timothy Colton. It had been his sudden foul mood that had spoiled everything. The children decided to take the next day’s meals back in the nursery, and returned to their usual study habits. There was very little she could do about it.

  She attempted to beard the lion in his den, going down to the conservatory without the children to demand an explanation. But she found only the occasional gardener, or under-gardener, tending to the plants at the instruction of his lordship. The man in question was by turns riding, resting, walking the grounds or missing. He was avoiding both her and the children.

  Had something happened to change him profoundly, between four in the afternoon and six in the evening?

  She doubted it. The thing that had changed them all had happened months ago, on the night that Clare had died. Unless she managed to exorcise the malevolence, there was little chance of lasting happiness for any of them. So she returned to her original intention of solving the mystery. There were still rooms unsearched, and questions unanswered.

  After lunch on the next day, she made sure the children were settled and took herself to the ground floor.

  It was there that Mrs Sims found her, one hand upon a desk drawer knob in the library.

  ‘Was there something you needed, Miss Collins?’ The woman seemed surprised to find her there.

  Daphne struggled a moment for a plausible answer, moving her hand out from beneath the desk. ‘I’d come to see if there was another pot of ink that I might borrow, to write some letters. The one in the schoolroom is thinner than I normally use. But while I am here, there is something that you might help with. It is almost embarrassing to ask, after all this time.’

  ‘There is no need to be embarrassed, Miss Collins. I will help, if I can.’

  Daphne gave her a relieved smile. ‘It is a small thing, really. I have spent so much time above stairs with the children that I am barely acquainted with the common rooms. A stranger who had stopped to see the grounds would know more about the house than I do.’

  Mrs Sims smiled in return, to find the request so small. ‘You would like a tour of the house.’

  ‘If you are not too busy. The children are so good with their studies, and so obedient. They do not need me for several hours at least.’

  Mrs Sims was obviously surprised at their transformed character. But then she said, ‘You have done much to help them. They are good children by nature, just as their father was.’ And she launched into a story of how things used to be, when the children haunted the library they were standing in, rather than hiding above.

  They moved from library, to drawing room, to morning room, and in each Mrs Sims seemed to have a story about the master or the children and how things used to be. Daphne observed carefully, but had to admit that there was little to see. The rooms were orderly. Nothing about them made her suspect that she would find secrets in the drawers, concealed panels or any other gothic nonsense.

  The only thing absent from Mrs Sims’s narrative was mention of the previous mistress. Apparently, the decoration of the rooms had been done by Lord Colton’s mother, classically but simply. In her twelve years Clare had left it unchanged. Daphne remembered the Colton town house, which she had visited frequently. It had been in the first stare of fashion, and Clare always seemed to be changing the silk on the walls, the rugs or the furniture, to reflect any passing trend or fancy.

  Of course, in all the visits Daphne had not met Lord Colton, or heard anything but unflattering commentary about him, his house and Wales in general. None of those things was as important to Clare as the fact that she be seen in the best places, with the best people, dressed in the height of fashion.

  Mrs Sims was walking Daphne back towards the nursery, and they passed the bedroom that she was sure must have belonged to Clare. She could imagine what she would see there. It would be decorated as the town house had been, totally out of step with the stately pace of the rest of the house, to suit the changing taste of the occupant. But there was no good way to request a tour of it.

  She glanced at the waist of the housekeeper, walking just ahead of her. The ring of keys hanging there probably contained the solution to her problem. And as if it was a sign from heaven, the knot holding them in place appeared to be loose.

  The temptation was too much to resist. ‘Mrs Sims?’

  The woman stopped and turned back to her with a questioning look.

  Daphne pointed to a large oil on the wall. ‘I have been walking past this portrait, every morning, and wondering who it might be. Did Lord Colton have a brother?’

  Mrs Sims launched into another, rather animated description of the subject, Tim’s father, who had been plain Mr Colton, living here until his death. It had been the death of a distant cousin that had brought the title…

  Daphne stood just behind the woman, as though admiring the portrait over her shoulder. She gave the slightest tug on the ribbon that held the keyring. She could feel the keys beneath her fingers begin to slip. And with a move worthy of a London cutpurse, she collected them in her hand without so much as a jingle, and drew them slowly away, stuffing them into her own pocket.

  The housekeeper was so involved in her story that she did not feel the change. Daphne kept up the pretence of interested questions before admitting that it was time for her to return to the children, but thanking Mrs Sims most sincerely for her wealth of information.

  She stayed long enough with the children to be sure that she was not needed, and then checked the hall again. The old servant had returned below stairs, and the way was clear for her to visit her cousin’s room. She looked both ways, up and down the hall, before proceeding quietly to the room at the end. What explanation should she give, if she was seen entering? She could think of nothing. Perhaps something concerning the children. Although what they would want from their late mother’s room, she had no idea.

  She tested the door again, and found it still locked. Then she removed the purloined keys from the folds of her dress. She fitted them quickly into the lock, one at a time, until she came to the one that turned the mechanism. Opening the door, she slipped inside and closed it silently behind her.

  The room was dark, for the curtains had been drawn to keep the sun from damaging the furnishings. But there were no holland covers over them, and no layer of dust. It was all neatly kept with the bed smooth and well made, as though the mistress would be returning shortly. It was an attractive room as well, with pale green silk on the wall to match the hangings on the bed.

  Daphne swallowed a wave of sadness. They matched the light in Clare’s green eyes as well. She could imagine her cousin choosing the colours that would show her beauty to best advantage, sitting at the dressing table as a maid fixed ribbons in her beautiful red hair.

  And then she remembered the disturbing pictures that Sophie drew and shuddered involuntarily. Clare would never sit at this table again. And however horrible she might have been to the people closest to her, she had been kind to Daphne. The death of one so full of
energy resonated deeply with her, as though she had lost a part of her own life.

  She glanced quickly around the room as her eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from the cracks in the curtains. Then she hurried to the wardrobe, and flung open the doors to see the gowns neatly arranged, and in the bright colours that Clare had loved so well. Each drawer she opened was the same: an intimate glance into the life of her cousin, and a reminder of how suddenly and unexpectedly it had ended.

  The jewel box was still sitting on the dresser. She found it odd. Tim should have taken the thing and locked it away to avoid tempting the servants. But no, when she popped the lid the necklaces, rings and ear drops lay forgotten in sparkling perfection on the velvet.

  And beneath them was a small bundle of letters, tied with a ribbon.

  She untied it quickly and drew the first out, stepping closer to the window to read.

  My darling Clarissa,

  I know I must not see you. Even writing is wrong. But how can I bear this torture? I long for a taste of your lips, the perfection of your breasts in my hands, the feel of your body when you yield to me and your cries of passion in my ears…

  Oh, dear Lord.

  Her hands trembled as she read the letters, and then her body, for they were more shocking than anything she had read or seen before. On reading them, there was no doubt what had been occurring. It was all described in detail for her. As she read, the room grew hot and her clothes constricting, as though her body was licked with the flames of someone else’s passion.

  Each letter, in the same masculine hand.

  And each one signed, Adam.

  Was Adam the Duke of Bellston’s given name? It had to be, for it proved so much. The reason for the estrangement between the houses. The reason for Lord Colton’s jealousy. And for Clare’s untimely death. It had been wrong of Clare, so horribly foolish, to openly betray her husband. But wrong of the Duke as well to betray a friend.

  Perhaps, if there had been love between the two, she could understand. She read on, searching the pages for some sign that the relationship had been more than what it appeared. But he said nothing of love, just the torment of a man nearly demented with desire, and graphic descriptions of their adulterous coupling.

  Seeing the words felt…wrong. She knew they were not meant for her eyes. But still, she was driven by curiosity. If there was a truth to be revealed in the letters, she would not find it by shying away from them.

  Or perhaps her desire to read was merely voyeurism. It made her feel strange inside. Hot and trembling, and eager. As she read them, she could not help but imagine bare flesh and twining bodies, and to remember the feel of the stolen kisses in Vauxhall Gardens and Simon’s stealthy hands playing at the bodice of her dress. What would it be like to drive a man so mad with desire that he would have reason to write her such letters? And to be so lost to decency that she would save them, and pore over them, reliving each illicit moment?

  And although she knew the words were not his, her mind turned to Timothy Colton. The dark look in his eyes when he saw her. The deep, smoky sound of his laugh. His hands and lips, as they might feel upon her body if he threw restraint aside.

  She took a deep breath and dragged her eyes from the letters, refolded the papers, then thrust them deep into the pocket of her skirts. The contents showed her nothing she needed, other than the name at the bottom, which was the only thing of use. She could not very well show them to the Duchess. But perhaps, if the Duke knew what she had discovered, he would be willing to treat the matter of Clare’s death more seriously.

  She turned to the writing desk, and pulled open the little drawer to find stationery and more letters. Things from her and from the family. And some things in Clare’s hand. Notes to herself, and letters begun and then forgotten. And thrust deep into the stack, with the ink smeared, as though it had been hidden while in progress.

  My darling,

  My marriage has grown intolerable, and my husband near to violence. Things cannot continue as they are. I fear for my safety. I mean to come to you, with the child which I know to be yours. If you cannot give me your love, at least offer me sanctuary…

  This was even more serious than what had gone before. Had she truly been with child, or was it merely a ruse to gain the Duke’s attention?

  And if it was true…

  An angry husband. And a lover, powerful, but recently married, who would have no desire to see his reputation sullied by a woman who would not quietly disappear once he was through with her. How easy would it have been to stand by and let her husband remove the problem, and then hide the truth from gratitude?

  Or worse yet, to wait until an opportunity presented itself, and then remove the problem himself. To allow suspicion to fall on the man who had been wronged. Would it be better to let him hang for his wife’s death, or would guilt prevent the murderer from going so far? Just as easy to spare the life of his old friend, but allow him to remain under the cloud of suspicion. For with Timothy Colton alive, no one would ever suspect…

  ‘What the devil…?’

  Light flooded the room, catching her, and she thrust the last letter into her pocket with the others. When she turned, the interruption had come not from the hall, but from a connecting door that lead to Tim Colton’s room.

  He was striding towards her, face contorted with fury. ‘You. I was a fool to have trusted you, to be swayed by recent events. I knew there was something wrong and chose to ignore it.’ He saw her withdrawing her hand from the fold of her skirts. ‘Here, thief, what did you just put in your pocket?’

  She reached in quickly and grasped the ring of keys that she had taken, holding them out to him.

  He caught her by the wrist. ‘And what did you mean to do with those?’

  ‘I found them,’ she lied. ‘On the rug in the hallway. And I meant to return them.’

  ‘But the owner is not in this room, as you well know.’ He caught her by the wrist and squeezed until the keyring dropped upon the rug. ‘You had to see, didn’t you? To come to this room, of all the rooms in the house.’

  ‘The door was locked,’ she said, knowing that it did not justify her behaviour.

  ‘Because I wished it so. But you have had no respect for my wishes in the past, so why should it matter to you now?’

  ‘It is only a room, just as the stairs are only stairs.’

  ‘And they both hurt, do you understand? It hurts to be constantly reminded of her, and of what happened. To come across things, perfectly ordinary things, that dredge the memories to the surface. It hurts the children. And it hurts me.’ And for a moment, it was as if she could see inside him, and the torment roiled there like black smoke, always just below the surface.

  ‘And now that you have seen, are you satisfied? I did not keep my wife in chains, if that was what you thought. I was not hiding some dungeon behind a locked door. It is just a lady’s bedroom. She had everything.’ He threw open the door to the wardrobe, and swept the dresses on to the floor. ‘Silk, satin, feathers and bows.’ And then he turned, knocking the jewel case on to the floor to join the dresses, emeralds and pearls scattering across the carpet. ‘And more jewels than a woman could wear in a lifetime. She treated it all as dross, and me as well.’

  Then he turned back to her, and closed the distance between them.

  She stepped backwards to get away, until the wide green bed blocked her retreat.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back until she fell on her back into the softness of the satin counterpane. And he stood over her and laughed. ‘You have found the thing she liked best about this room, although if you truly wish to know Clare, you must understand that she was never satisfied to lie alone.’ He reached up and tugged at his cravat until the knot came free, then cast the thing aside. ‘And now, perhaps it is time for you to take a lesson, instead of giving them.’ And he fell upon her.

  Her mind was swirling with a confusion of thoughts. It would be bad to be caught in this room by
a murderer. But even worse if she had provoked an innocent man past the point of reason. She might have pushed a peaceful man to violence by her own actions. If she cried out now, no one would see him for what he had been, only for what he had become.

  She could not do that to him, for she could not bear to think her foolish meddling would be the cause of more suffering.

  His lips came down upon hers, and she opened her own to let him do as he wished. He used the opportunity to take her mouth, thrusting into it, his hand reaching to twist in her hair and force her to greater intimacy. It was totally unlike the kiss in the conservatory had been, burning through her resistance, leaving her weak and helpless, and happy to be so.

  When she did not fight him, he slowed to a gentle rhythm, exploring her, teasing, trying to provoke a response as his fingers crept into her hair, loosening pins until it fell free.

  The bed was seductively soft, and he was spreading her hair upon it, combing with his fingers as though readying her for sleep. And when he released her lips, a sigh escaped them, as though she wished him to continue.

  He felt her tremble under him, and whispered, ‘Are you afraid? For you should be. Do you know what will happen to you if I do not stop?’

  And Lord help her, she did. Every touch, every thrust, every feeling it might arouse had been laid out in the letters as though they were a primer for the act that was about to occur.

  He leaned away from her, staring down as if in challenge, his smile just as cold as it had ever been, but the light in his eyes was blazing like a flame. ‘Perhaps your silence is permission to continue.’ He slid his hand from her hair, slowly down her throat, over her shoulder, to the swell of her breast, and stopped very deliberately, cupping the flesh in his palm.

  She felt a surprising wash of warmth at the intimacy, and her body tingled to life. He must have seen the response in her eyes, for he gave a small, satisfied nod. ‘What is it that you really wanted in coming to this room? Not what you are likely to get. Whatever it was, you are welcome to take it, after I am through with you. It means nothing to me.’ And then he began to move his hands over her, squeezing, stroking, working with his fingertips, until she was sure he must feel the nipples, which had grown hard and sensitive under the fabric of her gown. His lips settled into the hollow of her throat, teeth and tongue against the soft flesh there, and her body gave a sudden shudder, as she began to wonder what it might be like to feel his mouth wetting the fabric of her dress, or against the bare skin. And without thinking, she brought a hand up to touch the back of his head, holding him against her. The satin of the counterpane was smooth and cool against her cheek, just as his lips were hard and hot. Her head was filling with visions of what had occurred here, and what was likely to occur, and, instead of fear, she felt a trembling eagerness. She heard the voice in her head that had always urged her on, when a sensible girl would have run for safety.