A little scandal

by Patricia Cabot

  If Lord Wingate noticed she’d left a sentence unfinished, he didn’t let on. Instead he said, noticeably relieved, “Well, that’s all right, then. What I’ve come to ask, Miss Mayhew—and you’ll excuse me not writing first, but I felt a personal application would be better received, considering our somewhat ... unconventional meeting last week—”

  Here he pegged her with such a piercing look that Kate nearly staggered backward, but saved herself just in time by seizing hold of the corner of the wooden stand that held the family atlas.

  “I’m wondering,” his lordship continued, “whether you might consider leaving your employment here with the Sledges, and come to work for me as chaperone to my daughter, Isabel, with whom you are, I believe, somewhat acquainted.”

  Kate blinked. Just once. And tightened her grip on the wooden stand.

  “I’m quite certain,” Lord Wingate went on, “that I can offer at least as comfortable accommodations as you’ve been afforded here—” He looked about the library distastefully. Though expensively furnished and very well stocked with all the classics, the room had remarkably uncomfortable furniture, and was quite small, besides, being quite the most unused room in the house. “And at twice the salary.”

  Kate felt her jaw drop. It was perfectly uncouth to stand with one’s mouth open—something she’d tried, unsuccessfully, to impress upon the youngest Sledges—but she simply couldn’t help it.

  The Marquis of Wingate had just asked her to come work for him. It was extraordinary. It was more than extraordinary. It was unbelievable.

  Wait until she told Freddy!

  “Oh,” Kate said, finally managing to lever her jaw back into place. “Thank you kindly, sir, but I couldn’t possibly.”

  It was Lord Wingate’s turn to stare, and he did so admirably. Kate felt quite sure he intended to make her feel as if she were as small and insignificant as the tiniest crumb on his table. But she would not allow herself to be cowed. She stood her ground, holding her chin high.

  His too bright gaze bored into her with all the intensity of a blaze from a furnace.

  “Why,” he said slowly, with a patience that was in absolute contrast with the look on his face, “not?”

  Kate couldn’t help reaching up with her free hand and laying her fingers upon her heart. It struck her as far too dramatic a gesture, of course—he was not able to burn a hole through her chest with his merest gaze, as she rather fancifully imagined—so at the last minute, she played with the cameo at her throat, instead.

  She couldn’t, of course, tell him. Not the truth. There was no need for that. There were plenty of other reasons she couldn’t possibly go to work for him. Besides the fact that he had the worst reputation in the world—only just the other day, she’d heard he’d shot and almost killed a man in Hyde Park, in a duel, it was rumored, over something to do with Sara Woodhart—he was the most physically intimidating man she had ever seen.

  Not that he wasn’t good-looking. He was attractive enough, she supposed—though he was by no means handsome. Freddy was far better looking, with his fair hair and dimples—a true Englishman, in both looks and empty-headedness. Burke Traherne, on the other hand, had the look of the gypsy about him. There was nothing irregular about his features, certainly, but they hardly seemed to have been arranged with any intention of pleasing. His face was compelling, she supposed—in a fierce, almost cruel way—but certainly not anything to swoon over.

  Those shoulders, on the other hand ...

  “I just,” Kate said, swallowing. “Couldn’t.”

  “Then I’ll ask again, why?”

  Well, this was certainly awkward. Why couldn’t the man simply take no for an answer, and go away? But a glance at Lord Wingate reminded her that he was not a man to whom the word “no” was uttered very often. A plague take him! What was she going to do?

  She took a deep breath, but before she could say anything, the marquis demanded, “How much is your current annual salary?”

  Suddenly, Kate saw a glimmer of hope. That was it. She’d simply be too expensive for him.

  “A hundred pounds a year,” Kate said at once, pulling from the top of her head the most outrageously high number she could think of.

  “Fine,” Lord Wingate said calmly. “I’ll double it.”

  Chapter Five

  For a moment, Burke thought the girl might faint. She was clutching the side of a mahogany atlas stand, and he saw her knuckles go white—as white as her face had been, when she’d first entered the room. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks as they’d talked, but it was all gone again now as her lips moved, and she whispered, like someone in a daze, “Two hundred pounds? Two hundred pounds?”

  “Yes,” Burke said firmly. “That seems a reasonable sum to me.”

  It didn’t, of course. He’d had Miss Pitt and all of her previous incarnations at thirty a year. The girl was lying, of course. There wasn’t any possible way that that sniveling mole Sledge could afford her at a hundred a year. Well, he could afford her at a hundred a year, but he wasn’t the type to spend that kind of money on something as important as his children’s education. No, Cyrus Sledge would think nothing of throwing a hundred pounds at that wretched missionary of his. But spend it on insuring that his sons grow to be clear-thinking, well-brought up members of society? Perish the thought!

  But it was clear—for whatever reason, and Burke, having come to the conclusion that he would never understand females, wasn’t even going to bother himself wondering very much what that reason was—Miss Mayhew didn’t want to come work for him. So if he had to pay her two hundred pounds a year, then by God, he’d pay it.

  And it would, he’d already decided, be money well spent. He had passed the better part of the past few days observing the much-debated—in his home, anyway—Miss Mayhew, and he had come to the conclusion that she was the ideal solution to his problem. Not as terribly young as he’d first believed—he didn’t guess she could be more than few years over twenty—Katherine Mayhew carried herself with an assurance that belied her station in life. In church—yes, he’d even gone to the effort of dragging himself to mass with Isabel on Sunday morning, all in an effort to ascertain Miss Mayhew’s worth—she’d kept the four young Sledges, the eldest of whom could not have been more than seven, quiet, a feat at which Burke, who well remembered Isabel at that age, could not help but marvel. On the street, she was greeted pleasantly by everyone she met, and returned those greetings with equal pleasantness, every bit as polite to icemen as she was to duchesses. She dressed soberly, yet attractively, maintaining at all times a neat appearance. And she had already proved that as a chaperone, she was matchless in both courage and resourcefulness: hadn’t she attempted to assault him with an umbrella, when she’d believed Isabel to be in danger?

  In all, despite her tender years, Katherine Mayhew seemed the ideal employee. It was only her appearance which gave him pause. He had noted, when she’d accosted him on the street, that she was on the puny side—especially considering the fact she’d thought to fell him with an umbrella. But what he had failed to realize until the moment she walked into Cyrus Sledge’s library was that Miss Katherine Mayhew was absurdly pretty.

  Not beautiful, by any means. She was much too small to be labeled any sort of beauty. But Isabel hadn’t been at all wrong when she’d declared Miss Mayhew pleasant to look at. In fact, Burke found it rather hard to look away from her. She certainly wasn’t the type of woman he normally admired—he preferred dark-haired women to blondes, and liked, on the whole, a more robust figure, than the one Miss Mayhew possessed. Yet her honey-colored hair seemed to suit her, the fringe in which it had been cut across her forehead emphasizing the enormity of her grey eyes, the lashes of which were a darker shade than her hair. Her plain, neat dress—a blouse and skirt, entirely suitable attire for a governess—only made one more aware than ever of the narrowness of her waist, and if she hadn’t a lot to fill the front of that blouse, what she had was at least perfectly in proportio
n with the rest of her.

  It was her mouth, however, which Burke found difficult to ignore. Miss Mayhew’s mouth was, like the rest of her, exceedingly small—smaller than any mouth he’d ever seen, except perhaps on a child. And yet it was an undeniably appealing mouth, the lips delightfully curvy and surprisingly mobile, twisting into all sorts of different expressions in the same manner that a flag twisted in the wind. Currently it was hanging open, as she stared at him in astonishment. He was awarded a glimpse of some straight white teeth and a sharp little tongue, and found the glimpse quite charming ....

  Then wondered if perhaps he wasn’t overtired, since he normally didn’t find views of the interior of anyone’s mouth charming, to say the least.

  “Miss Mayhew,” Burke said, since it didn’t appear to him that the pretty Miss Mayhew was going to be able to speak again anytime soon, so great was her astonishment over his proposal. “Are you all right?”

  Mutely, the girl nodded.

  “Can I get something for you? Water, perhaps? Or a glass of wine? Perhaps you ought to sit down. You look quite done for.”

  The girl shook her head. Burke, perplexed but resolute, went on. “Well, then, I suppose the thing to do would be to make arrangements to have your things brought over. I’ll send my footmen, Bates and Perry. How soon do you think you can be packed? Would this evening be too soon? Isabel has some dance or other she insists on going to, and it would probably be just as well if you started right away. In fact, if you like, I can send my housekeeper over to pack for you—”

  The little pink mouth snapped shut, as if the girl were a marionette, and the puppeteer in control of her had pulled an unseen string.

  “I couldn’t possibly!” the girl declared, in tones, Burke couldn’t help thinking, of horror. But why should she be horrified? A fanciful imagining on his part. Her tendency to fantasize was contagious, perhaps.

  “Well,” he said. “I suppose you feel you need to give the Sledges time to find a replacement for you. I quite understand. What was your agreement with them, then? A week’s notice? Not two weeks, I hope.”

  “I—” The girl shook her head. As she did so, strands of dark blond hair that had fallen from the knot atop her head swayed around her face. Not curling—she hadn’t a single curl about her—but swaying, like seaweed in water.

  “I’m terribly sorry, my lord,” she said. Her voice, Burke found, was as pleasing as the rest of her, low in pitch and not at all screechy, as young women’s voices often were.

  A second later, however, he didn’t find her voice half so nice, when she went on to say, “But I couldn’t possibly come work for you. I’m very sorry.”

  Burke didn’t move. He was certain he didn’t so much as twitch a finger. But suddenly, Miss Mayhew darted behind the atlas stand, as if desirous for some sort of barrier between them. Clutching both edges of the wooden structure, which came up to her chest, she added, “Please don’t be angry.”

  Burke stared at her. He wasn’t angry. Exasperated, maybe, but not in the least angry. He had given up anger long ago. His temper was something he’d never had much skill at mastering, and so he’d simply given over being angry about anything. Except Isabel, perhaps, and that young man of hers. The name Geoffrey Saunders was possibly the only thing that could still send him into a rage.

  “But I’m not angry.” Burke was making an effort to sound calm. “Not a bit.”

  The girl behind the podium said, “I don’t believe you. You look very angry.”

  “But I’m not.” Burke took a deep breath. “Miss Mayhew, are you under the impression that I might strike you?”

  “You have something of a reputation for violence, my lord,” she said, readily enough.

  Burke felt he really would like to break something, preferably the podium she was clutching so hard. He felt as if he would like very much to rip it out of her hands and hurl it through the hideous stained-glass window on the opposite side of the room. But then he remembered he’d given up that kind of thing, and he controlled the impulse.

  “I’m afraid I must take umbrage at that, Miss Mayhew,” he said instead. “While I certainly haven’t made any sort of effort to restrain my inclinations toward force where men might be concerned, I have never in my life struck a woman.”

  He saw her slim fingers loosen from the sides of the atlas stand. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said. “But the look on your face, when I said I couldn’t come work for you—it was rather ... startling.”

  “Are you afraid of me?” Burke demanded irritably. “Is that why you won’t accept the position? You certainly weren’t afraid of me the other night, when you tried to skewer me with your umbrella. Why should you be frightened of me now? Unless ....” He experienced another wave of annoyance. It wasn’t anger. He refused to call it anger. “Unless someone’s been prattling to you about me. About my past.”

  “Not at all,” Miss Mayhew said, too quickly.

  “They have.” Burke glared at her. “How else would you know about my reputation for violence? Well, you already thought me a vile abuser of innocent women. It must be gratifying to know that you were right.”

  “How you conduct your personal business,” Miss Mayhew said stiffly, “is hardly any of my affair, my lord.”

  “It oughtn’t be,” he replied with a grunt. “But I can see that you’ve already formed an opinion about it. Have you an objection to the fact that I divorced my wife, Miss Mayhew?”

  She dropped her gaze.

  “I’d appreciate an answer, Miss Mayhew. In matters such as this—business matters, I mean—I find that honesty among all parties concerned is generally best. And so I repeat my question. Do you disapprove of the fact that I divorced my wife?”

  “There isn’t much about the life men like you lead, Lord Wingate,” she said, to the atlas, “that I find worthy of approval.”

  Burke stared. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “That’s frank, anyway. I can see that whoever’s been prattling to you about me has done a fine job of filling you in on the particulars.”

  She looked up. “Lord Wingate,” she said, and if he hadn’t known better, he might have suspected she was angry. “I told you before, your private life really isn’t any of my business.”

  “Oh, I see. And that’s what you were doing the other night on the street, when you came at me with your umbrella? Minding your own business?”

  Miss Mayhew stuck out her rather sharp little chin. “I thought a young woman was in peril,” she said, and there was a dangerous light in her grey eyes.

  “Oh, of course, of course,” he said. “And you were quite convinced you and your umbrella were going to stop a man three times your size and weight.”

  “I thought I had to try, at least,” she said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.”

  The reply sent a shiver down Burke’s spine. He told himself that the absurd physical reaction he felt to her words was actually relief, because she was exactly what he’d been looking for all along in a chaperone for Isabel. It certainly wasn’t due to anything else. Certainly not because he thought he’d happened to find—and on his very own street, no less—that rarest of all things in London: a truly good, truly honest person. And certainly not because all that goodness and honesty came wrapped in such irresistibly lovely packaging.

  Still, her words took him so by surprise, that he momentarily forgot himself and burst out with a laugh. “Miss Mayhew, what if I were to pay you three hundred pounds a year? Would you come work for me then?”

  She said, looking quite appalled, “No!”

  “Why in heaven’s name not?” Then a horrible thought occurred to him. It ought to have occurred to him before. “Are you engaged, Miss Mayhew?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Engaged.” He stared at her. “It isn’t such a strange question. You’re an attractive young woman, if rather odd. I imagine you must have suitors. Have you impending plans to marry one of them?”

  She said
, as if the idea were entirely preposterous, “Certainly not.”

  “Well, then, why the hesitation? Are you in love with Cyrus Sledge? Is it that you can’t bear the thought of leaving him?”

  She burst out laughing at that. The sound of Miss Katherine Mayhew’s laughter had a curious effect on Burke. It made him feel as if thirty-six was not quite so advanced an age, and that there might possibly be more to his future than flannel waistcoats and books by the fire.

  Perhaps a madness seized him. There was no other explanation for it, really. His valet was undoubtedly correct, and Burke was beginning to slip into senility. But at that moment, it seemed to him the most perfectly natural thing in the world to cross the room, snatch Miss Mayhew up by the waist, and lay a hearty kiss upon that laughing mouth.

  Or at least, that’s what he’d intended to do. And he succeeded in most of it, catching her quite unawares, and pulling her easily against him. But when he stooped to kiss her, she brought the atlas up, quite hard, against his forehead. Though the blow didn’t hurt, it was unexpected to say the least, and in his amazement, he loosened his hold on her—

  And she darted away, flinging open the library doors and leaving him alone in Cyrus Sledge’s library.

  It wasn’t any wonder, really, that he picked the atlas up and hurled it, with all his strength, at the stained-glass window.

  Chapter Six

  Kate didn’t stop running until she reached the schoolroom. Once in its relative safety, she snatched Lady Babbie up from the hearth and began to pace, her face buried in the cat’s fur.

  Oh, Lord, she prayed. Please don’t let them give me the sack. I am begging you, please, please, please don’t let them give me the sack. I haven’t anywhere—truly anywhere—else to go.

  It was a prayer not at all dissimilar to the one she’d uttered when the Reverend Billings had assaulted her in the pantry. The only difference, really, was that she’d crowned the reverend with a pie dish because he’d repulsed her, and she’d whacked the marquis with an atlas ... well, for different reasons.