by Amy Lake
Lady Pamela sighed, but was spared further explanation, as just then the parlour door burst open, and her brother walked in.
* * * *
Lord Quentin stood at the entrance to Noble Oaks manor, his fists clenched at his side.
“As I told you before, my lord,” said Sir Malcolm, licking his lips nervously, “Miss Phillips is no longer in our charge.”
Charles fought the temptation to box the man’s ears. “And she left when? How?”
“Ah, well, that is the question, you see,” said the squire, “but I can assure you that, however it may have happened, she is no longer here.”
Of all the dunderheaded, half-witted–
“She walked right out the front door into the cold?” hissed Charles.
“Ah. Well, I believe–”
“Show me where she was being held,” demanded Lord Quentin.
“Oh, now, my lord, I can assure you–”
“Show me.”
Squire Brigsby led him to the second floor room. The bed had not been slept in, and Charles–remembering a certain evening when he had been unable to leave Miss Phillips’s bedchamber by the door–immediately crossed over to the window.
He opened the window, the squire sputtering behind him, and looked down.
Lord Quentin was seized with a number of conflicting impulses; to strangle Sir Malcolm, to strangle Helène–and to burst into laughter. Jumped out the window, did she? And managed not to break any bones, either, from the looks of those tracks in the snow. My resourceful little half-wit!
Charles turned toward the squire. “And you have no idea where she went?” he inquired amiably.
“No, my lord. But–”
How stupid was the man?
Or perhaps he knows perfectly well where Helène has gone, thought Charles. Someone must have closed that window. But he doesn’t want to admit he’s lost her or go to the trouble of getting her back.
An envelope on the writing table, addressed to Lady Pamela, caught Lord Quentin’s eye. He pocketed it and turned to the squire.
“Very well,” said Charles. “Good day to you, sir. I’ll show myself out.”
He left Sir Malcolm gaping at him. Charles took the staircase by twos, and strode out the front door, yelling for the boy to bring Alcibiades.
* * * *
“Not to worry, Pam,” said Lord Sinclair. “Lord Quentin is already on his way to Noble Oaks Manor. Be back with Miss Phillips in a trice.”
“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?” said Lady Pamela. “She isn’t there!”
“Why,” said the duke, with exaggerated calm, “was my cousin locked into a room?”
Jonathan looked around as if he had just noticed Lord Torrance. “Grentham,” the marquess said genially, “glad you’re here.”
Pam frowned. “How do you know Lord Torrance?” she asked her brother.
“Don’t know him,” said Jonathan, “but if he’s Miss Phillips’ cousin–” Lord Sinclair turned to the duke. “Heard you were back in England. I take it my message found you.”
“You’re Luton?” asked the duke.
“Indeed, indeed,” said the marquess. “Now, Miss Phillips should be returning with her fiancé at any moment–”
Fiancé?
“Good heavens, Amanda, what happened to your eye?” inquired Jonathan.
Lady Pamela turned to see Lady Detweiler standing in the doorway to the parlour.
“Have I missed any of the fun?” asked Amanda. She was regarding the duke quizzically.
Finally, thought Pamela. A woman. Someone who makes sense.
* * * *
Helène–miserably cold, and once again engaged in pulling a shoe out of the snow–never heard the rider until he was a scarce ten yards away.
She ducked down behind a bush but it was too late. The man jumped off his horse and was in front of her with a few strides. It happened so fast that she had only just recognized Alcibiades when Lord Quentin hauled her unceremoniously up out of the snow and kissed her. She sputtered as he threw her over his shoulder.
“What are you doing? Let me down!”
Lord Quentin did not reply. He tossed her up onto the stallion’s back; as she continued to protest and squirm, he said–
“Sit still, my absurd little ninny. The poor horse is tired enough as it is.”
“I am not your absurd little anything. Now let me go!”
Lord Quentin laughed. He jumped up behind her and clucked to Alcibiades. The stallion began to trot off in the direction of Luton Court.
* * * *
Charles sighed, tightening his arms around the bedraggled Miss Phillips. The girl had looked too cold to be making so much of a fuss; if she would only stop squirming . . .
He had found Helène at almost the same spot they had first met, Lord Quentin realized. He wondered if she remembered it, too. She had been even more bedraggled those months ago, of course–in rags, nearly, and hungry as well.
I should have seen what she was worth even then, thought Charles. No matter what she looked like, I should have known.
And what if he had not found her just now? What if she had become lost walking to Luton in that snowstorm, or if the squire had manage to send her on to London, accused of theft, to rot in some miserable prison–
Never again, thought Lord Quentin, shuddering. I will take care of her forever. She will never again have anything to fear.
* * * *
“I’ve been in Virginia for the past several years,” the Duke of Grentham was saying. “If I’d known I had a cousin–”
“I understand that Miss Phillips’s father refused the connection,” Jonathan said. “He was bitter and wanted nothing more to do with Matilde’s family.”
Lady Pamela looked at her brother, puzzled. Matilde? How did the marquess know anything about Helène’s aunt?
“Jonathan–” she began.
“We have guests?” The petulant female voice sounded from outside the parlour door. “Why was I not informed?”
The marchioness. Pam looked at Amanda in alarm as the door was flung open and Lady Sinclair entered. The marchioness spared a glance for Lord Torrance–clearly dismissing him as poorly dressed and therefore of no account–before seeing her husband. She turned pale.
“Jonathan,” she said. “Why... why are you here?”
“My dear, may I introduce–” said Lord Sinclair.
“Jonathan, it was all an awful mistake! That horrible squire, and those men he brought with him–”
“Celia–”
“And I’m sure the necklace must have been misplaced by accident. But what,” added Celia, “what if I had been robbed? No one seems to care for my feelings at all!”
The marquess regarded his wife without a word, one eyebrow cocked.
“Lady Sinclair,” began Pam, “I don’t know how your necklace came to be in the nursery, but I can assure you that–”
“Well, keep–keep her as governess then, for all I care!” cried Celia. She seemed to be on the edge of hysteria, and to hardly know what she was saying. “ ’Twill be all she ever does! If you think Lord Quentin will be willing to take her as his mistress after this–”
There was a short, shocked silence. The duke bounded to his feet.
“Mistress–?” said Lord Torrance angrily.
“Your grace,” interrupted Lady Detweiler, smiling as if nothing untoward had been said, “may I present Lady Celia Sinclair, the Marchioness of Luton?”
* * * *
“Sit still, my love,” said Lord Quentin.
His love? “I can’t go back to Luton,” said Helène, trying to turn in the saddle. She wanted to be off this horse, out of this man’s arms, and on her way to London. Whatever dangers town might hold, they would be far easier to bear than seeing Charles Quentin again.
“Nonsense,” said Lord Quentin.
“You don’t understand, and I don’t wish to explain. Please let me down.”
* * * *
Lady
Sinclair’s eyes widened; she turned to Lord Torrance in bewilderment.
“Your... your grace?”
“Lord Benjamin Torrance, the Duke of Grentham, as I believe,” added Amanda helpfully.
“Lady Sinclair,” said the duke, nodding coolly. “I have the honor to be the cousin of Miss Helène Phillips, your governess.”
Confusion warred with panic on the marchioness’s face; she looked at her husband–at the duke–and back at her husband again.
“I... I beg your pardon?”
“ ’Tis a long story, my dear,” said Jonathan easily. “Now, come, let’s have some tea.”
* * * *
“What is it that I don’t understand?” said Charles. “That you were arrested for stealing Celia’s necklace? Or that you would run away from Luton rather than trust to the loyalty and common sense of your friends?”
The girl looked away from him, silent.
“Just let me down,” she said finally. “I’m going to London, and–”
“London!” sputtered Charles. “I think not.”
Another silence, that stretched on until he felt her shoulders shuddering against his chest and realized that Helène was weeping.
“Will you not leave me alone?” she cried. “I cannot stay at Luton. And I will not be your mistress.”
“My mistress?” said Charles. “What a shocking idea.”
“But–”
“Of course you aren’t going to be my mistress. You will be my wife.”
* * * *
The tea arrived. Lady Sinclair poured, her face still pale, saying nothing. The duke seemed to have forgotten about Celia’s outburst and was chatting amiably with the marquess concerning Miss Phillips. They had determined that the governess was actually the duke’s first-cousin-once-removed, being the son of the old duke’s youngest brother.
Amanda had eschewed tea and was sipping brandy. She and Lady Pamela conversed in low tones, both still concerned–despite Jonathan’s assurances–as to the whereabouts of Lord Quentin and Miss Phillips.
Nobody mentioned an emerald necklace.
Lady Pamela wanted to speak to her brother privately and ask him what he had meant by Helène’s fiancé, but she hesitated to bring up the subject of Lord Quentin with Lady Sinclair still in the room. And was Jonathan even referring to Charles?
Celia made a tiny hiccough, and Lady Pamela looked over to see–
Good grief, the marchioness was crying.
“Jonathan,” said Lady Pamela. Her brother looked up, then rose and walked over to kneel beside his wife.
“Now, what’s all this?” he said gently, taking Celia’s hands in his own.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean–”
“Sorry about what?”
“The necklace! I didn’t think–I didn’t know–”
The marchioness was staring at the ground. Jonathan tipped her chin up with a finger.
“What about the necklace, my dear?” he said.
“Miss Phillips didn’t take it,” said Lady Sinclair. “I hid it in the nursery myself.”
The marquess was nodding. “Why would you do that?” he asked his wife.
“I don’t know!” cried Celia. “I don’t know! But everyone thought she was so wonderful! The children, Lord Quentin–even you! Everyone thought so much of her, and she was so pretty, and–” The marchioness broke off, burying her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook with sobs. “No-one cares about me at all!” came the cry, faintly, from between be-ringed fingers.
The duke was regarding the marchioness gravely; Lady Detweiler hid a smile behind her hand. Jonathan took one of Celia’s hands and raised it to his lips.
“I care about you, my love,” he said. “I care about you very much.”
“Oh!” Sobbing, the marchioness collapsed into her husband’s arms.
* * * *
“You don’t want to marry me!” Miss Phillips said. “I’m not good enough for your–your name, or your family–or your anything!”
“You are more than good enough,” replied Charles. “Helène, I am sorry. I was a fool to think any of those things important. I love you and I want to marry you. That’s all that counts.”
The girl was silent for a moment. She twisted around in the saddle to look directly at Charles.
“You want to marry a ‘dirty little nobody’?” said Helène softly.
“Who dared speak to you in such a manner?” said Lord Quentin, outraged. “I’ll call him out–”
“You did.”
“What?” Then Charles remembered one night, in the library, with Lady Sinclair. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and had he really said–?
Oh. Yes, he had. Lord Quentin chortled. “In the library? Don’t tell me you were hiding behind the drapes?”
“As a matter of fact, I was,” the girl said indignantly.
“Well, my love, I do apologize,” said Charles, and he kissed the top of her head. Helène said nothing. “But if you will insist on sneaking into libraries and hiding where you ought not be–”
“I might hear the truth?”
“No,” said Lord Quentin. “You might hear a very foolish man, saying something very stupid about a woman he should have admired from the beginning.”
“Mmm,” said Helène.
“Do you forgive me? Or,” said Charles, “perhaps I should ask you another question. Do you love me?”
Miss Phillips had turned forward in the saddle, away from him. She said something Charles could not hear. He leaned forward and whispered the question once more, in her ear.
“Well?” said Charles.
“Yes,” said Miss Helène Phillips. “Yes, I do.”
* * * *
The marquess was about to take Celia back to her rooms when the parlour door opened once more. Miss Phillips and Charles Quentin stood there, the girl looking wet and tired, her shoes in tatters.
“Helène, thank goodness–”
“Ah, here’s Miss Phillips now,” said the marquess. “Lord Torrance, your cousin–”
Lord Quentin was frowning; the duke rising to his feet–
“My–my cousin?” said Helène.
“Benjamin Torrance, yes, indeed,” said Jonathan. Helène was staring at the duke in confusion as the marquess continued blithely. “Your grace, this is my friend, Lord Charles Quentin–”
Lord Torrance had moved forward to sweep a bow to Helène; he stopped now, frowning. He looked at Helène, then at Charles.
“Lord Quentin?”
Oh, no, thought Lady Pamela, realizing what had happened. If Celia had only kept her mouth shut–
“Lord Quentin?” roared the duke, and cocking his fist he knocked Charles to the floor.
* * * *
Celia started to cry again and Lady Pamela had caught one arm of the duke and was trying to explain that the marchioness had been quite mistaken–Miss Phillips would never–
Lord Quentin came to his feet, looking more puzzled than angry.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught–” Charles hesitated. “You are Miss Phillips’s cousin?”
“Charles.” The marquess stepped forward. “The Duke of Grentham arrived from the Americas just this past week. I asked him to Luton for a visit. With Miss Phillips being our governess and all–”
* * * *
Everything made sudden, perfect sense to Helène. The Duke of Grentham had arrived unexpectedly in England. Heaven only knew why he’d picked this particular time to leave the Colonies, or how he knew she had been employed at Luton, but–
And now Lord Quentin, asking her to be his wife–
“You knew!” cried Helène. She turned angrily to face Lord Quentin. I’ll knock him down myself, she was thinking. All that nonsense about a foolish man saying foolish things–
The marquess stepped between them. He took Helène’s shoulders gently in his hands.
“No,” Lord Sinclair told her. “No, my dear, as it happens, he knew nothing at all.”
* * * *
>
And so, the future Earl of Tavelstoke found himself on one knee before the Marquess of Luton’s governess, in front of the gathered company of Lord Sinclair’s parlour, once again offering her his hand in marriage.
“You certainly do not have to accept him,” the Duke of Grentham said helpfully. “I will be remaining in England and you will always have a home with me.”
“Is it true love?” asked Lady Pamela.
“Heaven help us,” said Lady Detweiler, rolling her eyes.
“True love? Yes,” said Helène. “I believe it is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The governess may well ask if she can marry...
’Twas a beautiful morning. Helène was enjoying the late winter sunshine streaming through the windows of the petit salon while she held two small children in her lap. The governess was to be married to Charles Quentin within the fortnight, and Alice and Peter chattered excitedly about the upcoming wedding, asking Miss Phillips if she really truly had to leave.
She would miss them, of course, and she had extracted a promise from the marquess that the new governess was to be approved by Lady Pamela. Helène had tried to explain this to Alice and Peter.
“You can still be our governess!” said the girl.
“Lord Quentin has asked me to marry him,” said Helène. “I cannot marry him if I am to remain as your governess.” She and the children had already discussed this at some length, but Peter, especially, was unconvinced.
“Yes, you can!” he protested.
“Your papa will find someone much nicer than I am,” said Helène, in mock seriousness. The children giggled. “And Tavelstoke is not so far away, you know. We can visit each other.”
“A visit! That’s not enough!”
“And then, when we have babies of our own,”–Alice and Peter quieted suddenly, their eyes opening wide–“you will have them to visit, as well.”
This, it seemed, was quite satisfactory. Soon they were discussing the number of children Miss Phillips and Lord Quentin should have–“Ten!” said Peter–when the Duke of Grentham walked in, Lady Pamela on his arm.
They are a striking couple, thought Helène. Blond on blond, with the duke’s rustic simplicity a counterpoint to the elegance of Pamela Sinclair.
“You have a lapful, cousin,” said the duke, laughing.