“Of course I do. I am a governess.” I am a governess, she repeated silently. If she believed it so would he.
“At this moment, I’d rather you were a cook.”
She smiled at the fretful fellow. “Do I look like a cook?”
His face reddened. “Not at all. It’s just that . . . well, we need to eat and Albert is the second one we have lost in two days.”
“He said the kitchen was filthy. Perhaps if it was clean . . .”
Blackett brightened up. “It’s worth trying. Thank you. Now what can I do for you?”
She reached into her pocket and retrieved the advertisement torn from The Morning Post. “I am here about the governess position. Whom should I speak to? It says only that applicants should apply at the Duke of Denford’s residence.”
“I’ll take you to His Grace at once.”
“What about Her Grace?” she asked, following Blackett along a chilly passage into the bowels of the mansion.
“There is no duchess.”
The duke must be a widower and the lady she had seen only a visitor. “And you, sir?”
“I am His Grace’s secretary.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Two weeks.”
She wondered if the duke was a particularly difficult employer to suffer such staff turnover. She prepared to manage a crotchety old man, or perhaps an arrogant beast. She’d dealt with worse.
They ascended the stairs and emerged into a hall of suitably ducal proportions. While a double stairway curved gracefully, the banisters needed polish and flakes of plaster from the ceiling were strewn on the worn carpet. Along the painted paneled walls were lighter rectangles where pictures had obviously once hung. The place gave the impression of having been looted. She smiled sourly. Even in England, where the nobility had kept their heads, apparently they hadn’t always kept their money.
Still, she enjoyed the luxury of space, the generously large windows that made the place bright, even on a cloudy day. Lowering her eyelids she let herself imagine that her years in pokey Paris apartments had never happened. But such reminiscences were dangerous. She couldn’t afford to encounter her prospective employer with even a glint of tears to disturb the projection of calm authority she deemed the paramount quality of a governess. A quality much needed in this household, judging by the anxious step and apologetic shoulders of Mr. Blackett.
At the top of the first flight of stairs, a broad landing offered a choice of three doors, one double and all massive, hewn from some dark polished wood with carved architraves that spoke of long established substance. Fortescue House might lack the rococo extravagance of the Hôtel Falleron, but its superficial shabbiness did not disguise the importance of the family.
Without first knocking, Mr. Blackett opened the door on the left to reveal a library. She’d barely had time to admire the ranks of gilded leather spines, when she noticed the room’s sole occupant, at which point observation of architecture and furnishings ceased and she might as well have been in a field, a market square, or a monk’s cell for all she noticed of her surroundings.
She’d seen him before, coming in and out of the house, but too far away to experience the full impact of his presence. He was young, much younger than she’d expected, only about thirty years old, if that. Examining a landscape painting over the fireplace, he presented a striking profile dominated by a slightly hooked nose. He wore his black hair long and tied with a black ribbon, a style that had gone out of fashion since the Revolution, whose citizen leaders favored unaristocratic crops. But there was nothing ancien régime about his attire. His tall, lithe figure was clad entirely in black, from his well-polished boots to an intricate neckcloth. Only the white collar of his shirt relieved the sartorial gloom.
At a cough and a “Your Grace” from Mr. Blackett, he turned around and she was transfixed by a pair of startling sky blue eyes that seemed to pierce her through and through.
This was how a duke should look and so rarely did: a model of refinement, elegance and authority. Her stomach lurched and forbidden tears threatened again.
“This lady is here about the governess position.”
“Her name, Blackett?” The deep voice stroked her spine like chords from a viola da gamba.
Blackett appeared nonplussed, his favorite expression. “I forgot to ask.”
The duke’s finely wrought lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Well?” he said. “Since you have reduced Blackett to incoherence, not any great achievement, we’d better introduce ourselves. I am Denford.”
For a mad moment she considered telling the truth, sweeping a magnificent curtsey and introducing herself as Mademoiselle Jeanne-Louise Marie-Adorée de Falleron, eldest daughter of the Marquis de Falleron and a worthy mate for any nobleman, even a duke. Especially a duke.
But she’d put all that behind her and behind her it must stay if she was to fulfill her goal. Nothing else mattered. He wasn’t merely a duke, but also a Fortescue, the most detestable of names. He was her path to the discovery of the man who had killed her family and destroyed her life.
She made her curtsey restrained and obsequious as befitted her supposed station. “Miss Grey, Your Grace,” she said. “Miss Jane Grey.”
“Come in, Miss Jane Grey. You may go, Blackett.” As the secretary scurried out, the duke crossed the room, his movements sleek and economical to match his figure. From a distance of perhaps four or five feet he looked at her, his blue gaze making her dizzy. Never in her life had she set eyes on a man and instantly desired him. How frustrating that this was a man she’d be unwise to encourage, let alone seduce.
Ignoring the bloom of heat in her blood, she pulled herself together and looked him in the eye. She would not bed him, neither would she let herself be intimidated. Since he was the duke and she was being interviewed, she waited for him to speak first. She sensed a controlled strength behind his complete stillness and found it hard not to fidget beneath a gaze whose intensity burned through her and a silence that seemed to spin out endlessly.
“Jane Grey,” he said at last. “Like the queen.”
She’d borne the name for so long she thought of it as her own, though she had a faint recollection of the true Miss Grey mentioning her namesake. She knew the kings of France inside out but, despite a recent review of the subject, she still got her English monarchs confused. Perhaps this other Jane was one of the wives of that terrible Henry.
She lifted her chin and stood her ground. “As far as I am concerned there is only one Jane Grey.”
“Forgotten your history have you? Never mind. She only lasted nine days before they cut off her head so she hardly counts.”
Jane suppressed a wince at the reference to beheading. It was not a topic she could consider with any degree of insouciance. “Your daughters must be too small to learn history,” she said firmly. The daughters of so young a man had be little more than infants. It wouldn’t stretch her abilities to teach them what they needed to know.
“I am thankful to say I have no daughters, nor any other progeny to the best of my knowledge. I am also blissfully unwed. You mean my half-sisters.”
Not so good. “How old are my charges?”
“Your charges?” He said, raising an eyebrow at her presumption of employment. “I’m not entirely sure. I’m sure they’ll tell you, if you take the job. And yes, Miss Grey, I am a most unnatural brother for not knowing such details, but my half-sisters, whom I barely know, have only recently been deposited in my care by our mutual mother. I believe they are old enough to study history and any number of other useful topics.”
“More useful than history. Languages, deportment . . .”
The duke interrupted the recitation of her major assets as a governess, luckily since it was about to come to a rapid halt for lack of material. “Before we discuss your doubtless unimpeachable qualifications, tell me about yourself. There is something in your voice, an intonation more than an accent, that is not quite English.”
&nbs
p; Jane expected the question and had an explanation for her slightly less than flawless English. “I come from Saint Lucia in the West Indies. The island has been passed between the English and the French so often that we are a mixture of both nations.”
“I see. And which nation owns it now?”
Experience had taught Jane when in a tight spot to tell the truth whenever possible but always to have a story ready and to lie with conviction.
“France.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, not sure about the current ownership of an obscure island she’d never visited, only read about in the Gazette Nationale. It had seemed ideal for her purposes and she gambled that Denford was equally ignorant of Saint Lucia’s present status. “I was employed as governess by an English official and decided to leave with the family when they were called back to London. But now Mr. Johnson has been posted to America and I preferred to remain here. I have a letter of recommendation written by Mrs. Johnson.”
He took the paper, a product of her own pen and imagination, glanced at it for perhaps two seconds, and set it on a table. “Come,” he said. He turned his back on her, offering her an admirable view of his figure from behind. His well-tailored coat showed off shoulders broader than she’d first noticed, narrow hips, shapely calves and a grace of movement that made her mouth water. There was no reason to believe that the controlled energy he displayed was any promise of bedroom skills and stamina, but Jane was sure the Duke of Denford would make a superior lover. A wave of the hand told her to follow him, and at that moment she’d have let him lead her to perdition and beyond.
This was not why she was here. She clenched her teeth and remembered that the man was a Fortescue, even if he wasn’t the man she sought, who hadn’t possessed a title.
“Show me your island,” the duke said.
She hurried past him to a corner occupied by a large globe in an elaborately carved, gilt-chased stand. If this was her only test she would pass easily. Study of geography had been one of her favorite lessons with the real Miss Grey. She spread out her hands and hovered over the North American continent, admiring the quality of the engraving and colors. “This is a very fine globe, a Vaugondy product if I am not mistaken.”
Without making a sound he crept up behind her, so close that the deep rumble of his words had an almost physical effect on her skin. “Nothing but the best for the Fortescues. They always lived well.” It was an odd thing to say, as though he were not the head Fortescue, and as though the state of his house didn’t contradict the statement. But she was too busy resisting her attraction to this member of the cursed family to dwell on it. She adjusted the position of the globe, noting the solidity of the orb, skillfully mounted so that when she found the place she wanted it stopped moving on her slightest command. The one in the schoolroom at the Hôtel Falleron–a smaller Vaugondy model–was too loose and took only a little push to spin wildly, sending one off to the wrong part of the world. She blinked away an incipient tear, glad the disturbing duke was behind her and couldn’t see. Returning to aristocratic life, even in another country, affected her more than she had expected.
“Here,” she said, finding a tiny island not far from South America.
She felt the duke’s chest warm her back, his breath on her neck. “This one?” Her ear buzzed. A black-clad arm snaked around her waist and a long finger touched the little blob of Saint Lucia, brushing her hand.
Enough. Catching her breath, she stepped sideways out of the lee of Denford’s tall figure and retreated so that the globe lay between them. She had a position to win and a task to complete.
Julian had decided within a minute of Miss Grey’s entrance; the position was hers. Of his mistress. Such a delightful creature was wasted on his sisters when she could be in his bed. It was quite possible she could serve in both capacities but he supposed he’d better find out if she was qualified for the schoolroom. Of her suitability for the bedroom he had no doubt.
“Let us sit down,” he said.
She ignored the divan against the far wall, which he’d planned to share with her, and lowered herself into a sensible chair next to the central library table, moving with innate grace and quiet deliberation. Her posture was flawless yet the straight back and demurely folded hands didn’t make her appear anything like a prickly spinster.
She had managed to snub his advance very neatly and his admiration grew, as did his determination to win her. This was no strait-laced virgin beneath a sensible gray cloak and plain bonnet. At first glance she was nothing extraordinary, pretty but not a beauty, with agreeable features and slightly rounded cheeks. From what he could discern, her figure was neatly proportioned. But after a minute in her company Julian had detected the indefinable appeal of the siren. Something in her eye and the way she carried herself sent a message straight to his groin.
She might be gray by name and in her dress, but there was nothing dull about this governess. She wore her drab attire with a certain air of confidence and style that reminded him of Paris. Neither for a second did he believe her a virgin. He tamped his growing interest in her sensual experience and tried to consider the duties of a governess.
“You must have questions for me,” she said, drawing him out of a lust-blurred perusal of her pink mouth.
“How old are you?” he asked, taking the chair next to her so that his knee was only a tantalizing foot away from hers.
“Twenty-seven.”
“You look younger.” She had the dewy skin of youth yet there was nothing innocent about her eyes. “How long have you been a governess?”
“Eight years.” He wondered if she told the truth, but when it came down to it he didn’t much care. Perhaps this Johnson fellow, her late employer, had been her lover too. That would make a useful precedent.
“What age children?”
“I have taught young ladies of all ages.”
“What about your experience with gentlemen?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Don’t governesses teach young gentlemen, too?”
“I understand,” she said firmly, “that there are no boys at Fortescue House.” She knew what he was about and would be no easy conquest. Excellent.
Meanwhile, he must pretend to take the interview seriously. Mentally he consulted the list of qualifications Cynthia had enumerated. “Do you teach music?”
“But of course,” she said, tilting her chin provocatively and meeting his eye with a mixture of severity and amusement. “What kind of governess does not? Do you wish me to demonstrate?”
“There is a music room next to the drawing room but I will take your word for it for now.”
“Perhaps you should not,” she said. “To tell the truth my skills at the piano and harp are only rudimentary but I sing very well.”
“Do you want this position?”
“Of course. But I don’t want to promise more than I can deliver. I can oversee the musical education of young ladies of average aspirations. What level have your sisters reached?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. If they have progressed beyond your abilities we can hire a music teacher to come in. Do you draw and paint?”
“Indifferently.”
“Never mind. I know a young artist named Oliver Bream who is always in need of a guinea or two. You mentioned languages?”
“French, bien sûr.” She switched to that language. “In Saint Lucia we speak French as well as we do English.” She displayed a purity of accent and grammar he’d heard among the French nobility before the Revolution.
“Italian?”
“Only a little,” she replied, in French.
“Never mind. I’ll hire someone.” He’d hire someone to tie her shoes if she wasn’t up to it, just as long as she stayed. Come to think of it, he’d take care of any dressing and undressing problems himself.
“I have many excellent and more important skills,” she said.
“I’m sure you do.”
“I can teach dancing and table manners
, and prepare your sisters for presentation at court.”
“You learned court customs in your West Indian island?”
“The English governor’s wife had an exaggerated notion of her own importance. She held drawing rooms like the queen for all the notables of Saint Lucia society.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“All the young ladies on the island had to attend her en grande tenue and exit backwards after making their curtseys.”
“I always thought that sounded like nonsense.” Julian Fortescue had never been important enough to attend court and since he’d become duke he hadn’t bothered. “It’s not important. I doubt the girls will need to come out before my mother returns. What I need is someone to keep them busy and out of mischief. The things my mother would do if she’d hadn’t gallivanted across the Atlantic. Can you do that?”
“Certainly I can.”
“Very well. Blackett will settle with you about salary and find you somewhere to sleep.”
Cynthia would find it reprehensible that he hired a governess more for her suitability as his mistress than for her skills as a preceptress. Too bad. She’d had a chance to find someone better. Besides, no one expected Julian to behave properly, least of all himself.
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Author’s Note
The silk industry centered on Spitalfields in the East End of London was huge and prosperous, employing thousands of skilled workers in the eighteenth century. The series of laws known as the Spitalfields Acts regulated the wages of the silk workers. Economists, then and now, disagree about the consequences of the acts. For the purposes of my story I decided to interpret them as beneficial; I also invented an extra act between those of 1792 and 1811.
I slotted Damian into Sir John Malcolm’s embassy to Persia, intended to protect British interests in India and prevent a Persian alliance with the French. The new Shah Futteh Aly (Fath-Ali in modern usage) was a patron of the arts and a cultivated man. He is said to have read the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica, a fact I couldn’t fit into this story so I’m sharing it with you now. Alt-Brandenburg and its prince, on the other hand, are entirely invented, as is the Falleron collection of paintings. Exactly what the Duke of Denford was up to in France will be revealed in my next book.
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