by Amy Lake
What was this?
“Miss Helène! Watch out!” A child’s voice–
A snowball, launched by the smaller of the two children, landed squarely in the middle of the adult’s back. A woman, Lord Quentin now realized. A burst of feminine laughter rang out as she turned and released a missile of her own. More shrieking and whooping from the children, but Charles’s attention was now diverted. The hood of the woman’s cape had fallen back, revealing the slightly disheveled figure of Miss Helène Phillips.
Alice and Peter. The governess. Of course.
Thud. Giggles erupted from the direction of the two children, and Charles looked down at the front of his fine, many-caped riding coat in shock. He had been hit by a snowball.
Afterwards, Lord Quentin could never explain why he became so angry. Snowball fights were a regular feature of his own youth, and these were Jonathan’s children, after all; he had known them from infancy. Only last summer he had played swing-the-monkey with Peter until his arms ached, launching the boy again and again into the river and getting drenched for his troubles.
Undoubtedly, his reaction would have been different if the children had been the only participants. But the sight of the governess raised his ire. She was involved, and how dare she–
“Oh! My lord!” said Miss Phillips, pushing a tangle of curls back from her face and dropping him a brief, snowy curtsey. Her nose was red from the cold, and Lord Quentin had the impression she was hiding a smile. The two children had rushed up and were peeping out at him from behind her skirts, still giggling.
“Lord ’Wentin,” said the smaller child, only now recognizable as Peter– “Lord ’Wentin, come have a snowball fight with us! It’s fun!”
That was quite enough.
“Peter–” began the governess.
“Your father has not employed Miss Phillips for the purposes of fun,” said Charles.
Good grief. Had he truly uttered something so rudely pompous? The words hung in the cold air for a moment’s shocked silence. The governess frowned, and Charles, despite his inner chagrin, gave her a quelling look. Alice and Peter stared at him, their eyes wide and anxious. Lord Quentin found this reaction even more annoying. He wasn’t an ogre. Children adored him!
“I’m quite sure Lord Sinclair would have no objection to his children stretching their legs,” said Miss Phillips, finding her voice. “They’ve spent the entire morning indoors.” Her tone was unrepentant, and Lord Quentin became convinced that the governess was laughing at him. This was unacceptable.
“You know nothing of the matter, mademoiselle,” he said.
“Of what matter?” came her retort. “I know nothing of my own profession?”
“Apparently you do not!” Charles, provoked, now decided that it was time to put this headstrong young woman firmly in her place. “This is Luton Court, not the local London middens, and these are the children of a marquess. I should report this questionable behavior to Lord Sinclair.”
Alice started to cry. Miss Phillips–who had narrowed her eyes at his peremptory words–bent down to comfort the girl.
“Hush, sweetheart. It’s all right.”
“But– He said–”
“Take Peter in and warm up. I’m sure Mrs. Tiggs will have fresh scones and raspberry jam for you, if you ask please.”
The sniffling stopped.
“Come on, Peter,” said Alice, and the two children–chins thrust into the air, refusing to look in Charles’s direction–ran off toward the house. The governess’s watchful gaze remained on them until they reached the kitchen doorstep; then she rounded on Lord Quentin with blazing eyes.
“You can’t possibly be that much of a prig!” she said. “Alice is but seven years old! Peter is five! Should they have no time whatsoever to play?”
Charles, who had just begun to consider that one or two things he had said might have been a bit unfair, felt the renewed flare of anger.
“Whether they play or not is hardly your decision,” he told her. “As the marquess’s friend, I can assure you that Lord Sinclair would want to be consulted–”
To his surprise, the governess looked suddenly uneasy.
“Lord Sinclair has not yet spoken to me concerning his children,” she said slowly. “Nor has Lady Sinclair. I am carrying on as I think best.”
“Not spoken to you–?” Lord Quentin stopped himself. That was indeed odd. Jonathan had never doted on his children–tending toward the same cool detachment with which he recently favored his wife–but it was not like him to ignore their care in the hands of a new governess.
And as for Celia... Charles had heard the marchioness say on several occasions that young children made her nervous. She had tried, he knew, to make some approach to Alice and Peter, but with little success. They seemed to sense the marchioness’s discomfort, and had yet to welcome their stepmother into their lives. Lady Sinclair had probably thought her husband should be the one to sort out a new governess. Why had he not?
“The marquess is a very busy man,” he told Miss Phillips, trying to think of some excuse that might make sense. “He will no doubt consult with you as his schedule permits. In the meantime–”
“In the meantime, I shall do as I see best for the children. And what I think best is none of your affair.”
Lord Quentin looked down his nose at her, glaring. He had little previous experience with governesses, but he was the heir to an earldom, and she was–she was nobody.
“I think you will find that I can make it my business in short order,” he told Miss Phillips. “And that the Marquess of Luton will be a great deal more interested in my opinion of the matter than your own. So I would suggest–”
He stopped abruptly, unable to believe his eyes. The girl, with a defiant expression, had stomped her foot, and started to walk away. No one in Charles’s experience had ever dared walk away from him while he was still speaking.
“Miss Phillips, I am not through–”
“Lord Quentin.” The governess stopped, turning to address him. He caught a flash of green, angry eyes. “Lord Quentin, I’d like to ask a favor of you.”
A favor! Charles forced himself to rein in his anger and ignore those eyes. Lud, but the girl could be beautiful. He cocked an eyebrow at the governess, saying nothing.
“When you speak with Lord Sinclair concerning my... position, please tell him that both his children are marvelously bright and making an excellent start to their studies. Peter’s maths are perhaps a bit weak, but he’s very young and I’ve no doubt he will come right along. Alice will be speaking French like a parisienne within the year.”
“Miss Phillips–”
“And they have both been very lonely. If he wishes to dismiss me it would be best for the children if I were replaced as soon as possible.” The governess turned on her heel and left.
* * * *
What an insufferable man! Helène, fuming, tramped through the snow and back into the house. Make it his business! Well, he had certainly done that, hadn’t he, the pompous, condescending... jackass! She cursed Lord Quentin sotto voce all the way to the nursery, trying to drown out the little voice carrying an undercurrent of stark fear.
If the marquess dismissed her she had no place to go.
* * * *
“I wish you’d stay, old man,” Jonathan told Charles. “Celia has been on about it for days. She’ll be devastated if you leave before Christmas.”
Indeed, thought Lord Quentin, with an inward sigh. He had yet to decide if the marquess was so wrapped up in current estate matters that he didn’t notice his wife’s growing flirtatiousness, or saw it and remained indifferent. The two had once been much in love, he knew. Had the glow had faded so quickly from their relationship?
Perhaps Celia had carried her games too far.
“Branscomb has sent me a list of improvements needed over the next year,” Charles informed his friend. “Some of them should really be in place before the coldest months. Indeed, they should have been done well
before now.”
“Another few weeks can make no difference, surely.”
“Unless ’tis your cottage missing a piece of its roof.”
“Mmm.” Jonathan nodded, but Lord Quentin knew he was unconvinced. Cottages? Roofs? Luton’s roof did not leak, why should anyone else’s do so? Charles did not believe that Lord Sinclair was completely wanting in intelligence–he had managed to survive Oxford after all–but he was stolid and unimaginative in his thinking. Latin had provided fewer problems for the marquess than literature and its confusion of fictional characters.
“I’ll be back shortly after Boxing Day,” he told Jonathan. “Father saw to the servants’ gifts personally, and I’ll do no less.”
Tradition and duty were two aspects of a nobleman’s life that Lord Sinclair comprehended very well. “Of course,” he said, surrendering the point with grace. “Celia and I will look forward to your return.”
“Ah. Yes,” said Lord Quentin. He left the library shortly afterward, not realizing until much later that he had never mentioned anything to Jonathan about the governess.
* * * *
Helène relaxed back into her bed with a contented sigh, all thoughts of a certain high-handed lord forgotten for the moment. She looked at the supper tray, realizing that she had–oh, the wonder of it all–left a bit of meat pastry uneaten. Three meals that day, and tomorrow, too, no doubt! An entire wax candle at her disposal, and a warm, clean bed.
All that I lack, thought Helène, is a book. I’m not complaining. But with an entire candle, and without Papa to see to in the middle of the night, when he came home roaring and jug-bitten from the Cook’s Goose–
Helène took a slow breath, her pleasant mood threatening to evaporate. Her poor father. Her poor, charming but often imprudent father. Convinced to the last that he could once again, someday, be a “Purveyor of Fine Équipage” to the mighty of the ton. Even as he sickened, and they marched down to their last few pounds and bits of jewelry to sell.
Nathaniel Phillips had been a puzzle to many who knew him. Orphaned as a boy, raised by a country parson and his good wife to have fair manners and a share of book learning, he had eventually been apprenticed to a carriagemaker in London. Years of providing fine carriages to people who were no better in wit than himself, but who would barely deign to touch his hand, had left him untouched until her mother died. Then the bitterness had surfaced, and in force–
No. She didn’t want to think about Papa right now. If she was to be thrown out into the snow tomorrow she could still enjoy tonight. A nice, long book was all that was missing, and Helène was determined to find one. The library, according to Alice and Peter, was almost directly beneath her own room, two floors away, and if she used the back staircase it should be easy to slip in and out unseen. Helène felt convinced that the fine lords and ladies of the house would now be doing–well, whatever it was that they did in the evening. Playing cards, perhaps. Or gambling large sums of money on trifles. Surely not reading.
* * * *
The Luton Court library struck Lord Quentin as the most unexpected part of the marquess’s estate. There were times one could swear Jonathan didn’t have two thoughts in his head, but with regard to books Charles could detect no fault in his friend’s judgment. The collection of medieval illuminated manuscripts, for example, was marvelous. All under lock and key, of course. Charles’s interest this evening was in something more prosaic, something to lull him to sleep.
The slightest breath of a draught stirred the fire, and Lord Quentin looked around to see–
The devil take it. Lady Sinclair, still dressed in her evening gown–thank heavens–but with hair déshabillé, closed the library door. She set the lock and stood eyeing him without a word.
Silence. It seemed to stretch on forever.
“Good evening,” said Lord Quentin en fin. He made no move to approach the marchioness and suddenly felt quite tired of the whole situation. Had the marchioness expected to find him here? Was she dipping deep yet again? “I was about to retire, so I shall leave you in peace.”
“Oh! Well, there’s no need to run, my dear,” said Lady Sinclair, with a light laugh. “I’m in search of fresh reading material, not you.”
“Afraid the books might escape?” said Charles, with a pointed glance at the locked door.
“Pah!” Celia’s mouth turned down in a pout. “Charles, I can’t see the problem. It’s not as if Jonathan pays the slightest attention to anything I do–”
Lord Quentin wished that just once Jonathan would listen to his advice concerning women. “I’m sure that the marquess–” he began, but Celia waved her hand in furious dismissal.
“I don’t want to hear about the marquess,” she cried. “Not tonight.”
Drink, and the lateness of the hour, had combined to make her rather cross. Charles was annoyed himself, not the least with Jonathan. Lady Sinclair was a beautiful woman, and–as he well knew–a delicious bed partner. How long did the marquess expect him to act the saint?
Still, the rules of the game must be followed; honor and loyalty to one’s friends, and even consideration for the lady in question, who was no doubt once again drunk. Charles summoned self-control. There was really only one way to convince Celia that he was not interested. A cruel way, perhaps–
“Please excuse me, my lady,” he said. “I find that I’ve lost all interest in present company.”
It was a lie as he spoke it. Nevertheless, the words hung in the air, certain to infuriate, and the marchioness responded in kind.
“Not interested! What humbug! Who do you think you’re looking for Charles? A milk-and-water miss who’ll take your money and do her duty in bed? I’m the only woman who appreciates you for exactly what you have to give.”
Lady Sinclair edged toward Lord Quentin as she spoke; she now stood only inches from him and raised her arms to wrap around his neck. Charles braced himself, hardly breathing, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him react. There was enough truth in the marchioness’s words to make him uncomfortable. He had never met a woman who entered into the spirit of a physical relationship more enthusiastically than Celia Sinclair. He’d often thought that marriage to the type of schoolroom female she had just described would be nigh unsupportable.
He was not currently considering marriage, of course. A lifetime of feminine protests and shocked glances, sharing a bed with a wife who flinched at his every touch. It had never struck Charles as a situation to be much sought after.
He studied Celia’s face, seeing the doubt and uncertainty that belied her outwardly brazen manner. Lady Sinclair had traded on her charms all her life. She knew no other path of communication with the opposite sex, and was, in consequence, ever vulnerable to them. One could almost feel sorry–
The marchioness frowned. An unpleasant thought had apparently just occurred to her.
“Unless you’re having a bit on the side, ” said Celia, her voice becoming petulant. “I know you, Charles, you’re never long without company.” She paused, obviously running through the list of possible candidates in her mind. “Who is it? Lucinda Blankenship wouldn’t dare cross me–”
“As you say.”
Lady Sinclair gasped suddenly and stepped back from him. Charles started to straighten his neckcloth, thought better of it.
“Oh! It’s that governess, isn’t it!” cried Celia, pointing a shaking finger somewhere in the direction of his chest. “You’ve taken that... that girl to your bed!” Her voice rose to a screech. “Well I won’t have it Charles, do you hear me? I simply won’t have it! I’ll sack her at once!”
For a moment, Charles was too stunned to reply. The governess! Why had the marchioness picked Helène Phillips, of all people, as the object of her jealousy? He was both stung by the accusation that he would bed a chit of that class–there were rules about such behavior, as well–and outraged that Celia would threaten to dismiss her on his account. His anger grew. He was tired; tired and ashamed of the temptation he sti
ll felt each time he looked at Celia. The woman was married to his best friend, and this was enough–
“I’ve no interest in some dirty little nobody,” he drawled, the only response he could think of that might divert Celia’s attention from the unfortunate Miss Phillips. Charles forced himself to keep his voice low and calm. “But I’ve also no interest in you.” He moved toward the door.
“I’ll discharge her without reference! I can promise you of it!”
“Go right ahead,” Lord Quentin shot back. “And also explain it to Jonathan, if you will. I could hardly care less.” He twisted the key in the lock, opened the door and left, shutting it firmly behind him.
“Oh!” cried Celia, “Oh!” Other words seemed to escape her. She picked up a porcelain vase from the mantle and threw it at the door, where it shattered. She stomped angrily across the room, and then also left, slamming the door.
* * * *
Helène heard the library door close a second time, and let out a deep, shaky breath. Perhaps her heart would stop pounding in a few minutes, and she might dare to leave her hiding place. There had been plenty of room behind one of the floor-length velvet drapes that covered the library windows, although she had been shaking so much she was sure that Lord Quentin or the marchioness would notice.
Stupid. Why had she bothered to hide in the first place? It might have been a bit awkward, of course–meeting Lord Sinclair, or one of his guests at such a late hour–but a bit of awkwardness would have been far preferable to the scene she had just overheard.
Some dirty little nobody. Tears threatened, and she dashed them away in annoyance. One more arrogant, self-important lord and his odious lady. And to be threatened with dismissal twice in one day! The position of governess seemed a great deal less secure than one might have imagined, and Helène wondered if either Lord Quentin or Lady Sinclair would really take their complaints to the marquess. Surely if she was to be insulted on such a regular basis Helène would never survive, for her temper would break and she would tell these people just what she thought of them.
Some dirty little nobody. She didn’t care what a man like that thought. She just didn’t care.