Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05]

by The Governess Wears Scarlet

  He chided himself for being so self-indulgent. She was counting on his integrity; he couldn’t breach that trust. He forced his face to be impassive, praying that she couldn’t discern his reprehensible thoughts.

  She looked into his eyes. “It’s not too tight, is it? Your jaw is clenched. Are you unwell?”

  “Ah, no. I’m fine.” He moved to stand, and she quickly stepped back. He needed to get away from Miss West before he’d do something they’d both regret. Stepping over to the sideboard, he grabbed the bottle of brandy and poured himself a glass.

  Turning, he sipped, fortifying himself with the familiar burn. “Ah, yes, well, ah…thanks.”

  Miss West’s cheeks were glowing pink, her lush breasts rising and falling with quick intakes of breath. Clearly she was disconcerted by his rude behavior. “Can I do anything else for you?”

  Fantastic images of Miss West doing things for him rose up in his mind. He choked on his brandy.

  “Are you all right?” She stepped closer.

  “Yes.” He coughed, waving her away. He needed to escape, fast! “I should take myself off to bed.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  Oh, dear Lord in heaven! It was too much!

  To his great shame, he practically sprinted from the room. “Another time perhaps!”

  Rushing out the door, he wanted to knock himself over the head for his stupid reply. Another time? Wishful thinking, he knew.

  There would be no other time as far as he and Miss West were concerned. In another life perhaps.

  Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad after all?

  Chapter 29

  Mr. Patrick Devonshire was led into a drawing room furnished with expensive Chippendale furniture and the kind of magnificent antiques that would adorn any duke’s manor.

  But the beefy, ginger-haired man sitting in the luxurious armchair by the crackling fire was no duke. Despite the trappings of civility, the man in the chair was the worst kind of scum that England had to offer. He was the Prince of Darkness in London’s crime-ridden streets, and his enemies had aptly named him Lucifer to prove it.

  Patrick swallowed, hard. He owed Lucifer Laverty more than one thousand pounds, in addition to a debt no man could easily repay. The only thing keeping him alive at this point was the plan he’d concocted to exact revenge on his uncle and pay back the master criminal, fivefold.

  Patrick’s armpits were sweating and his breath was tight in his chest. He eyed the dark-skinned, heavyset thug standing by the window, who had fists as big as mugs. A whooshing sound brought Patrick’s attention to the wiry, pasty-faced man perched on the table in the corner. The man flipped a knife in the air, eyeing Patrick as if he’d slice Patrick’s throat without blinking. Patrick gulped, knowing that the bastard was just trying to intimidate him, and recognizing that it was working.

  The master criminal looked up from the newspaper he was reading in his hand, his icy blue eyes as sharp as any razor. Intelligence and grit blazed from Lucifer Laverty’s eyes, and Patrick understood that a mere nod from this man would have him beating at death’s door and begging to get in.

  “Look who’s here,” Lucifer Laverty drawled in his thick, working-class accent.

  Patrick had heard many rumors about Lucifer’s parentage, but the one he most believed accounted Lucifer as born in a brothel and raised by a gaggle of whores. That story gave Patrick an even stronger sense of superiority over the ruffian and was also quite…titillating. Since Patrick had been reared by a string of governesses that he’d alternately seduced and then had fired, the notion of working women who had little opportunity to say no was deeply satisfying to him.

  The master criminal did not rise from his chair. “It’s one of Madame Chantal’s pretty ladybirds.”

  The wiry man sniggered and the muscular thug by the window sneered.

  Patrick bit his inner cheek; if being likened to a filthy whore was what he had to suffer to exact his revenge on Viscount Benbrook and claim his due, then so be it.

  Smiling, Patrick tilted his head in acknowledgment. “I have been told on occasion that my appearance is more than acceptable to the ladies.” He paused. “And those were the ones not being paid.”

  Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled. “You do have balls.” He smacked the newspaper pages with his hand. “You attacked the Solicitor-General of England in broad daylight.”

  “I didn’t attack him,” Patrick corrected. “I gave him a message to pass along to my dear uncle.”

  Lucifer’s face was hard as granite. “If one shred of shit touches me or my circuit, then you’ll wish yer ass had never left India.”

  Patrick shook his head. “As I told you before, nothing leads back to you. No one knows that you were behind the carriage accident that killed my cousin and his wife. You have no motive; there’s no connection.”

  Lucifer’s smile was terrifying. “Except you.”

  Patrick pulled at his suddenly tight neck cloth. “Without me you won’t get a pound of the thousand pounds I borrowed.”

  Lucifer raised a brow. “Just the thousand pounds you borrowed?”

  “I misspoke. Fivefold of what I borrowed…and my eternal gratitude.”

  Lucifer’s eyes glistened with satisfaction. Even after Patrick paid off Lucifer in pounds, Patrick would be forever in the pocket of the Prince of Thieves.

  With a calculating look in his eye, Lucifer motioned for Patrick to sit in the chair opposite. “I still don’t understand why ya don’t just kill the old goat and the boys and be done with it?”

  Sitting, Patrick shook his head. “I want Benbrook to suffer the way he made me suffer. He needs to know fear and impotence…and that there’s not a damned thing he can do to stop me from decimating him.”

  “I thought you’d never met the man.”

  “I didn’t need to meet him for him to have destroyed my life. And now I’m simply returning the favor.”

  Patrick’s stomach roiled with hatred. “He ostracized my father for no good reason, cut him off from everything and everyone until he felt that he had no choice but to be relegated to that hell pit India. My mother died from one of their filthy diseases in less than a month. After that my father begged for forgiveness, begged to come back. But Benbrook warned him that no money would be ours, no society would accept us, and no place could we call home.”

  Lucifer tilted his head. “An’ now yer father’s dead.”

  “He was too weak to take his due.” Patrick clenched his hands. “I won’t make that same mistake. Everything that was denied him will be mine!”

  Lucifer leaned back in his chair, assessing Patrick. “You really have no trouble killing two innocent boys? Your own flesh and blood?”

  “They’re Benbrook’s kin who are set to inherit what’s mine. That’s plenty of incentive.”

  “But you wouldn’t let Claude finish the job, and now he can’t go back to his position as a footman in Steele’s house.”

  “The fall in the duck pond was to give me entrée with Steele.”

  Lucifer shifted in his seat, his stony face filled with aggravation. “I grasp the whole part about not being known as Devonshire while in London—”

  “No one can know that Patrick Devonshire, heir to the Viscount Benbrook, is in England. That way no suspicion will settle on me when Benbrook and the boys die.”

  Lucifer scowled at the interruption. “But what I don’t understand is this whole tutor business. I got you the fake references—”

  “You couldn’t pick a name better than Littlethom?” Patrick groused, his pride pricked. “Littlethom?”

  The beefy brute by the window sniggered and the wiry fellow jeered, “Wanna show us yer little Thom?”

  Patrick glared. “I only lower my pants for the women who beg me, sewer scum.”

  The wiry fellow stepped forward menacingly, but Lucifer held up his hand. “I gave you that name because you need to remember your place, Littlethom.”

  Patrick realized that the m
an was a master of manipulation. Every time Patrick used that belittling name, he was reminded of Lucifer and all he owed the knave. He forced his fists to unfurl. “Well, everyone will know who I am when I claim the title of Viscount Benbrook.”

  “But why the ruse? Why pretend to be a tutor?”

  Patrick opened his mouth to interrupt, but Lucifer’s eyes glared with warning and Patrick clenched his jaw closed.

  “And don’t the boys have a governess?” the criminal asked.

  The image of Miss West rose in his mind, and Patrick felt his passion stir. She was such a pretty little thing, and reminded him of the first governess he’d ever bedded. Of all the women he’d had, the memory of plowing her was the one he always savored. “A governess is especially helpful when there is no mother.” He spoke from experience. “But often tutors are retained as well if they have a specialty. I am presenting myself as a language master.”

  “But why do you want to be in the house? What good will it do you?”

  “I want to know what Benbrook is up to. Get close, but not too close. So being in the house with the boys is ideal. Next, I want to be able to choose the perfect way to inflict the most damage on Benbrook and I want to witness his suffering.”

  “What if someone recognizes you? This is Lord Steele’s house! The bloody Solicitor-General of England!”

  “I assure you, no one will know that Nigel Littlethom”—his lips curled in distaste—“is Patrick Devonshire. And if they do, then I’ll take care of them.”

  Lucifer’s brow rose, and his face was skeptical. “That’s a mighty long tally a’ deaths yer startin’ ta build.”

  “After Benbrook and his grandchildren are gone, I will inherit over fifty thousand pounds and the estates. As you well know, money can be quite persuasive.” Anticipation swirled in Patrick’s middle, and he could almost taste his revenge. “I’m committed to making every effort to see this through.”

  Lucifer sniffed. “The bloody Solicitor-General of England won’t be bribed. I know.”

  Patrick laughed. “Why do you think I need to get into his house? Money isn’t the only way to put someone in your pocket. Being in his house I can find out his weaknesses and his secrets.” Rubbing his hands together, Patrick beamed. “Oh, I’ll make certain he cooperates…don’t you worry.”

  Chapter 30

  Abigail lurched up in her bed, her heart racing from the screams of her nightmare echoing in her mind. Sweat coated her skin; her throat was tight with fear. Scrambling, she kicked off the sheets. She was coated in sweat, her nightgown clinging to her like an extra layer of skin.

  Jumping from the bed, she moved to the door connecting her room to Lord Steele’s and set her ear to the smooth wood. Straining, she couldn’t hear anything except the wind as it whispered through the eaves of the house.

  Abigail swallowed, trying to bring her rational mind to the fore. But her dream had been so vivid, the agony of Steele’s pain so real. Her skin felt as if pecked by tiny birds, and anxiety pierced her heart.

  With her heart in her throat, she raised her fist to knock on the door. He’s your employer, for heaven’s sake! You can’t disturb him in his bedchamber! And certainly not in the middle of the night! And how will you explain yourself? “I had a nightmare.” Don’t be a fool!

  She shifted on her bare feet, trying to understand what irrational fear drove her. In her dream, Reggie had been captured by the authorities and had to build his own gallows. But his face kept changing, first becoming Seth’s. Then when the job was completed, he turned and suddenly was Lord Steele. Then out of the blue, brigands started throwing stones at Steele. Then they were upon him, savagely attacking. Steele fought and fought, but the thugs were like flies on a corpse, swarming him, hurting him.

  Crushed by frustration and fear and a terrible sense of impotence, Abigail had screamed, and then she’d woken up.

  Dreaming of Reggie was not new to Abigail. In her dreams she was always reaching for him, trying to protect him from terrible danger. Seth changing places with Reggie made a certain kind of sense. Abigail felt responsible for him, too. And she loved them in a similar way—like family.

  Dreaming of Lord Steele being struck by stones also made sense after the incident today. But it was the feelings that went along with the dream that had her so shaken. She’d been overcome by fear and caring and a certain sense of…connection. As if he were part of her, and if anything happened to him, then she was…lost. That harming of him was harming her. She’d been overcome by the tragic sense that if he died…she’d die. Then it struck her like a bolt of lightning, searing her skin. I’m in love with Lord Steele.

  The truth of it felt so right, so overwhelmingly in harmony with her feelings and thoughts, that she stood transfixed.

  Then her eyes widened with horror.

  Oh no!

  Laying her head in her hands, she curled into a ball and sank to the floor. The one thing she’d sworn never, ever to do again, she’d done. And it was entirely her fault.

  Oh why, oh why did he have to be so strikingly handsome? Or so wretchedly nice? Or so upstanding in character? Or such a kind guardian to Seth and Felix? And considerate and funny…

  And he deserved to be loved. No one took care of him. He was always the strong one, the stiff-upper-lip gentleman. The island weathering storms. He needed love just as much as anyone—even more so since he was so good to others…

  I am well and truly heels over my head in love with him! She groaned into her hands.

  And she knew, without a doubt, that he would never feel the same. She was unworthy of such a man. Unequal to his character. Scarlet woman!

  Scrambling up, Abigail slowly backed away from his door. Lord Steele must never learn about her secret excursions as the wicked widow. She couldn’t face having him find out that she was such a scarlet woman.

  And more importantly, he could never, ever learn that she loved him.

  The next morning, Steele sat in the breakfast room, his toast and eggs sitting uneaten beside him as he read the Morning Chronicle.

  The newspaper had written an account of the attack the day before, under the bold, large-type headline, ATTEMPT ON SOLICITOR-GENERAL’S LIFE.

  And underneath that headline was a sketch of his likeness.

  Looking up from the paper, he scowled. “Blast those journalists!”

  So if the widow who’d struck him unconscious the other night had taken a look at his face, if she hadn’t recognized him then, she very well could now. Examining the sketch, he noted that the artist had made him appear much older than he was. A smattering of lines encircled his eyes and mouth, and the gray at his temples was far wider than Steele had last seen in his mirror that morning. His pride was slightly affronted, but he took it as a stroke of good luck, maybe keeping his identity safe. But he doubted it. The widow seemed sharp as a whip.

  Pointedly ignoring the sketch, he continued reading the article. The piece went on, quite irresponsibly, to conjecture about who might wish to see him dead. His scowl deepened. The list was astonishingly long given the fact that the journalist had decided to include a host of criminals he’d prosecuted in recent years.

  He dropped the broadsheets onto the table with a crackle of pages.

  At least no one thought that the children might have been the target. That was definitely a good thing.

  He picked up the pages once more and continued reading.

  “Oh no!” The article before him reported that gossips about town were speculating on his potential search for a wife. He tossed down the paper with a force that scattered the crackling pages. If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was the matrons of society sizing him up for market.

  Maybe the attack had a benefit? Maybe he would be seen as an unfavorable candidate for marriage? And how did people hear about that anyway? Sir Lee had some answering to do.

  As he stared across the table, his eyes fixed on the empty chair opposite him. An unfamiliar longing speared his heart.

&nbs
p; The notion of a companion, a true partner, tempted him as never before. He supposed it was Felix and Seth’s influence. He was beginning to feel like part of something greater than himself. Benbrook, through Sir Lee, insisted that he marry to provide a mother for the boys. And they deserved a loving home…

  Yet when he thought about bringing another lady into his house, an intense feeling of rejection cut through him. He did not want to have anyone else in his home, in his bed. He didn’t want his carefully controlled existence to change. He liked things as they were…with Seth and Felix and Miss West…

  Steele’s breath caught. The shadow of an idea whispered in his mind.

  But Lord Benbrook would never approve. And thus Steele would not be made the heir, and he certainly would lose any chance at custody of the boys. The whole scheme would be for naught. For without Felix and Seth, Steele had no need for a wife. Or did he?

  Shaking his head, he pushed the idea of marriage and Miss West from his mind…yet they lingered there as if unwilling to let him go.

  “Ahem.” Dudley stood in the doorway.

  Finally pushing the irrational notion from his mind, Steele looked up. “Yes, Dudley?”

  “A Mr. Gabriel Cutler and Mr. Andrew Cutler to see you, my lord. They claim an acquaintance and desire an audience with you.”

  Steele felt his eyes widen. “Here? Now?”

  “Yes, my lord.” A look of discomfort washed over the butler’s face. “I feel I must warn you, it seems that they are under the impression that you invited them to stay here for an extended visit.”

  Steele jumped up from his seat. Wiping his mouth on his napkin, Steele felt his heart racing. He couldn’t recall feeling this kind of nervous anticipation since he was a young greenhorn at the Inns of Court. “Well don’t just stand there, show them in!”