The Reluctant Governess

by Maggie Robinson

  Boring. Shriveled-up. And whatever other nonsense he said. He didn’t mean any of it, she knew; it was just a way to try to protect her from Preble. Eliza’s handbag might offer some real protection—it was equipped with various useful objects, a leftover from creative dealings with Jonathan Hurst, but that, alas, was in the morning room along with her hat.

  She had only her wits and the clothes she stood up in. Eliza knew Nicholas’s mind was racing along with his heart, and she did so hope he wouldn’t try to do something foolishly heroic. She had no intention of nursing him through a bullet wound.

  But how to get the gun from Preble?

  What would Mrs. Evensong advise? Any problem was solvable. She’d seen pretty much everything in her time, and had given her niece Mary and anyone else in the office who would listen a crash course in understanding the human mind. Look for their weak and strong spots, and act accordingly. Sometimes all people need is a little nudge in the right direction, and the rest will take care of itself.

  As revolting as the idea was, Eliza would have to nudge Preble into bed. Eliza did not think it would be a difficult task—the man had already expressed interest in her. Preble fancied himself a great cocksman, did he not? Oliver had said so. And Preble had used that very blunt Anglo-Saxon word about her that Nicholas had been so careful about, except for last night when he forgot himself in his ecstasy.

  No, she couldn’t let herself think of last night. No distractions. No longing for what could not be. The last thing Eliza needed was her head in some sensual cloud even if her body was flush against Nicholas’s.

  How could Preble handle a gun if his concentration would be on other things, namely her? And once he put the gun down, Nicholas could snatch it somehow and Eliza could aim a well-placed knee and that would be that.

  To be sure, there were holes in her plot. Preble might tie Nicholas up or knock him unconscious, which would be unhelpful. And she was entirely uncertain whether she should play the role of unwilling maiden or eager adventuress. Which would Preble prefer?

  Remembering Oliver’s description, Eliza sensed a cruel, controlling streak. Better to pretend innocence, then—Preble was the kind of man who’d gloat over stealing a march on his friend. If he thought he succeeded where Nicholas failed—

  What if he tied her up and tried to take her by force? Oh dear. To think she’d begun her day anxious about handing over a solicitor’s card. Now she was thinking of the best way to seduce a perfect stranger.

  No. Daniel Preble was not perfect in any way, though he was fastidious about washing his hands. He still managed to train the gun on them, however. Nicholas gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  “Now then, where were we?” Preble asked too cheerfully.

  “Let’s go into the morning room and discuss your terms,” Nicholas said. He stepped out of the shower stall and managed a smile.

  Yes. Yes, please.

  “I suppose that would be fitting. Barbara still hangs there, does she not? I always did like that painting you did. But Miss Lawrence might object.”

  Eliza had no objection at all. She might dive into her bag under the pretense of fishing out a handkerchief and come out with her policeman’s whistle. And if she wasn’t mistaken, Jonathan’s confiscated peashooter still resided there even after all these months. Maybe she could startle Preble into dropping the gun by pinging him in one of his cold gray eyes.

  “Why should she?”

  “A rival for our affections, my boy. I wonder if Miss Lawrence can match her. You have to admit Barbara was most accommodating no matter where we—”

  “Daniel, that’s enough! Miss Lawrence is an ignorant virgin.”

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Tell you what. I’ll give up my efforts to gain custody of the brat. Just turn over her inheritance to me, give me back my house, and buy me that little apartment in Paris. You can have your villa back—I’ve decided it doesn’t suit me after all. Oh! And then there’s Miss Lawrence. Something needs to be done about the virginity you spoke of.”

  Eliza was truly grateful it had been disposed of last night. She would at least have that memory no matter what happened today.

  Nicholas shrugged. “Leave her out of it, and I agree. I’ll even put it all in writing. Although it probably won’t hold up if it gets out I was coerced. My solicitor might make a fuss. Put the gun away and let’s get out of the damned washroom.”

  “You are in no position to dictate anything. After you, my good fellow. Now you, Miss Lawrence.”

  Eliza followed Nicholas into the morning room, keenly aware of the pistol pointed at her back. He went directly to a small glass-fronted secretary in the corner and dropped the leaf. “See? Paper and pen. You can deliver a letter to Coningford and he’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”

  “Sit down then and get to it. Miss Lawrence, my travels were exhausting. I believe we’ll sit down, too.” He patted his lap, and Eliza shivered.

  Maybe Nicholas could lob the inkpot at them. Hurl the chair.

  “Come now. Don’t be shy.”

  Eliza’s feet would not move. How had she thought she could lure him anywhere? She’d never make it up two flights of stairs to the bedroom.

  “Enough!” Nicholas roared. “Leave the poor girl alone or I won’t write so much as an ink blot.”

  “I hate to repeat myself, but you are not setting the rules here. Now, Miss Lawrence. Let’s get better acquainted, shall we? The faster Nicky writes, the sooner you can retreat to your previously dull life.”

  “If anyone is being dull here, it’s you.” Both pairs of eyes turned to her in shock.

  “I mean, really, enough with this pattern-card villain nonsense. The only thing you’re not doing is twirling your moustache, Mr. Preble. Which looks, by the way, like it has a few crumbs in it. I realize you rushed across the Channel, but there was no need of that. Mr. Raeburn strikes me as a reasonable man. You don’t need a weapon to get what you want out of him.”

  Eliza was shocking herself as well, but it seemed she wasn’t finished. “You don’t care about Sunny, so no one is ever going to believe you’d kidnap her, even for half an hour—what would a man like you do with a four-year-old child, anyway? She’d cramp your style, if you have any. All you want is money. Well, fine. Mr. Raeburn has plenty of it. He’s said he’ll give you some, and your house back besides. Good riddance, I say—the place is like a museum run amuck. It wants a judicious curator and some removal men to cart most of the stuff away. So put the gun down and behave like a normal human being.”

  Preble’s flinty eyes narrowed. “What about you, Miss Lawrence?”

  “What about me? I’m only the temporary governess, not a harlot. A stranger, practically. I am certainly not going to sit on your lap or kiss your crumb-laden face or fornicate with you, even if you hold a gun to me. You’ll have to shoot me first, and I don’t believe sporting with a corpse would be much fun. Though I could be wrong—I do not know if necrophilia is to your taste.”

  Nicholas made a choking sound, but she didn’t dare look his way to see if he was laughing. This situation was not especially amusing.

  “You don’t seem to take me seriously, Miss Lawrence.”

  “How could I? You’re acting like an evil stock character from a Dickens novel. A Daniel Quilp, although I acknowledge you’re not a hunchback dwarf. Everyone in London knows how wicked you are—there’s no need to flaunt it.” Eliza’s legs were trembling beneath her skirt with every word and she’d have to sit down soon. But not on Preble’s lap.

  “She’s right,” Nicholas said with calm assurance. “Put the gun away, and I’ll write whatever you want.”

  “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust the pair of you, but I’ll have that letter my way. Miss Lawrence, come here. Now.”

  Nicholas put his fountain pen down. “Stay where you are, Miss Lawrence.” Not that she could have
moved an inch at present. “We’re at an impasse, Daniel.”

  “This is getting tiresome.” Preble cocked the pistol. To Eliza, the sound was as loud as an actual report would be. “On the sofa.”

  The gun was pointed at Nicholas.

  “If you shoot him, he won’t be able to write anything.”

  “If I kill him, I won’t need a letter. I have Barbara’s. The courts will give me the child.”

  “Not if you’re a murderer.”

  “Oh, but Miss Lawrence. It will be you who pulls the trigger, or so I’ll say. Your employer was making advances at you, and wanted me to join in, just like the old days. You lost your head, I’m afraid. Before I could stop you, you were standing over poor Nicky’s body. Weeping? No, not you. You’ve got too much pluck.”

  Weeping. If she could get at her handkerchief—she had three in her bag—she could find something with which to stop him.

  “Take that horrible jacket off and let’s begin. How convenient the reporters are right outside.”

  Eliza’s fingers were too numb to unbutton the short fitted coat. Her tears were real.

  Nicholas rose from the desk. “You’re not going to kill me.”

  Preble lifted a silver eyebrow. “I’m not?”

  “Eliza, run! There’s someone in the garden who can help you. Go on—Daniel can’t shoot both of us at once.”

  And then Nicholas launched himself across the room, pushing her out of the way. “Go!”

  There was no saying no. She unlocked the back door just as a shot was fired, and ran into a wall of a man. Rough-looking, with a scar on his lip, he did not look at all familiar. By now, she thought she recognized most of the newsmen that loitered on the pavement.

  “Please,” she sobbed. “Nicholas. Preble.” She was afraid to go back inside, afraid of what that stupid Nicholas Raeburn had done to himself.

  The giant’s face lit. “Preble, eh? Just the man I’d like to see.” He reached into the pocket of his checkered pants and pulled out a gun.

  Black spots danced before her eyes. She knew what that meant. She was fainting for the third time, completely useless.

  Chapter 36

  This was much better. Nick was the one on Daniel’s lap, with his paint-smudged hands around Daniel’s throat. Daniel’s shot had gone wide once Nick advanced upon him, zigzagging across the room like the rugby player he used to be. Once he’d tackled Preble, the gun had spun away under the sofa where it could do no harm.

  Eliza would return any second with a member of the press. Someone could call the watch and Preble could be the second person in a week locked up for the attempted murder of Nicholas Raeburn. Nick wasn’t sure why he was attracting madmen this week, but he had plans to change his life. From now on, things would be much quieter. Civilized. If he had to, he’d paint trees instead of naked women. Maybe take up chess. Checkers. He’d spent many a cold Scottish night trying to outwit his brothers, sometimes succeeding.

  “Eliza, is it?” Daniel croaked.

  “Shut up.”

  There was pounding on the front door, but Nick was too busy to answer it. “Eliza!” he yelled. He’d caught a glimpse through the window of someone creeping around the overgrown bushes in the garden. It had been the only thing that gave him hope. Eliza had been magnificent, but even she could not outtalk a gun.

  Daniel would get nothing from him now. Nick didn’t even care if his ex-friend confessed all to the newspapers as he was shuffled into the police wagon. Sunny would be protected, safe and secure. By the time she was old enough to read, the story would be dead. There would be other scandals, other tragedies. If he divided his time between Italy and Scotland, she never need know about Daniel Preble at all.

  “Eliza!” What was keeping her? Nick hoped she didn’t think he was dead. He was very much alive, the blood buzzing in his ears, his heart filled with plans.

  “Run off. Can’t hold on to me forever,” Daniel mumbled.

  “Try me.” He flexed his fingers deeper under Daniel’s dirty collar.

  “Well, well.”

  Nick looked up at the doorway. By the gods, not precisely who he wanted to see. Whom? His grammar was deserting him.

  “Good morning, Phil. You don’t need that gun. I’m truly sorry about our little misunderstanding the other night. I’d be happy to explain to the authorities. I’m afraid I was under the weather when you were arraigned.”

  “None of your fancy talk. Is that Preble?” Cross took a step over the threshold.

  Nick nodded, his throat dry.

  “He hired my Maisie. Told her she would be famous in a picture. She came to this house and then he—then he raped her. You rich artist blokes think you can get away with anything, don’t you?”

  Daniel struggled but Nick held him firm. “I never touched Maisie like that, Phil. Ask her.” Nick prayed she’d tell the truth.

  “Your friend did.”

  “Does he look like my friend? I’m trying to strangle him, Phil. He just tried to shoot me.” Where was Eliza? If Cross had hurt her—

  “I told her not to come here to pose for you, but she did. I only punished her for her own good. I don’t see how she could’ve come back here to begin with. If you’d seen what he did to her—”

  Nick could imagine. “I just took a few photographs, Phil. Maisie was with two other girls, and they were perfectly safe. I would never harm any of my models.”

  Daniel snorted and Nick wished the man had a tie on so he could shove it in his mouth.

  “You’re a popular fellow today, Nicky,” Daniel goaded. “Shoot him, Cross. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did.”

  “I think I’ll shoot you both. I’m going back to jail anyway—might as well make it worth my while. Get off him, Raeburn.”

  “Phil, you don’t have to do this. I’m sure I can clear you, or at least get a reduced sentence—anybody would understand why you came after me. But I’m nothing like Daniel Preble. Nothing.”

  Once, he had been. Oh, he got no joy from inflicting pain, but he’d been thoroughly amoral. Nick probably deserved to get shot by Phil Cross. Better him than Daniel, anyhow.

  He released his hold on Daniel’s throat, backed off the sofa, and raised his hands. “The girl who ran outside—is she all right?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. Sit down over there and let me think.”

  Cross wiped the sweat from his forehead. Nick could smell the man from across the room—evading the police for days must have taken its toll. He sank onto the Jacobean chair and waited for the inevitable.

  But he couldn’t just sit mute waiting to die. “There are men outside you could tell your story to, Phil. Preble wouldn’t have the chance to bother anyone again after the papers got through with him.”

  “Hell, I never ‘bothered’ this Maisie person. If she told you I did, she was lying. If she’s who I think she is, the little slut enjoyed every minute.”

  Cross aimed the gun at Daniel. “Shut up, I said!”

  Daniel shrugged, folded his hands, and crossed his legs, looking as if he were awaiting the arrival of a tea tray. He’d always been an excellent bluffer.

  Like Daniel, Cross couldn’t shoot them both at the same time, but Nick didn’t like his odds if he tried to dash into the hallway. Getting around Maisie’s knight in tarnished armor might prove difficult—his bulk took up much of the doorway.

  The knocking at the front door had stopped. The gunfire would be hard to resist for newsmen in search of a story, though. Nick hoped the reporters were scaling the garden wall or breaking into the tradesmen’s door. He also hoped Eliza was safe, no matter where she was.

  There had been many times with Daniel when Nick was uncertain if he’d wake up in once piece. If he was a cat, he’d probably used up more than his share of lives, so it was almost fitting that he and Daniel were here together at the end.
At least Sunny was out of the house and would have happy memories. Nick trusted his brothers to raise her. Maybe Eliza would even keep the connection.

  By the gods, he was being maudlin. Nick closed his eyes. He really was very, very tired. So he missed seeing Eliza stand on tiptoe and raise Sunny’s favorite urn and bring it crashing down on Phil Cross’s back.

  The cursing did break through the mist. So did the gunshots. Nick opened his eyes to see Daniel slumping to the floor and Cross in a towering rage in the middle of shattered Chinese porcelain.

  Eliza didn’t wait for retribution. She raced to the front door and screamed and screamed. Goodness, but she had a pair of lungs on her. The house was soon swarming with newsmen shouting questions and the policeman they’d summoned after the first shot. Still armed, Cross had fled and run out the garden door. For a large man, he was fleet of foot. Would he be able to hoist himself over the wall? Nicholas almost hoped so.

  Nick should get up and thank Eliza. Explain something to somebody. But there was a ringing in his ears and a stinging burn in his shoulder.

  He looked down and saw the stripe of blood on his jacket. Why, he’d been shot! That big goon—whom he’d felt somewhat sorry for—had clipped him on the shoulder before he made his escape.

  Nick settled into the chair and expected more screaming to begin. He didn’t have long to wait. Eliza was barking orders when she wasn’t shrieking, the reporters cowering in the hall now, necks craning around the doorway to see him in his affliction. Perhaps she did care for him just a little bit. She’d saved his life, more or less, except for the shooting part. How was she to know that the vase wouldn’t fell Phil Cross and he’d still be able to get off a couple of rounds? It had been a valiant effort. Really, Eliza was the most amazing girl, and he wanted to tell her so if he could get a word in edgewise.

  A familiar face hovered over him. Audacious white eyebrows—Nick couldn’t forget such things; he was a portrait painter after all. That doctor fellow Samuelson. Nicholas thought he was coming tomorrow to remove the stitches on his thigh, but he was very glad to see him today. His shoulder hurt like the devil. But speaking of devils, was Daniel dead or just playing possum?