His Tempting Governess: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2

by DeLand, Cerise

  “Thank you, sir. I am appreciative.”

  “My lord,” said Hill to Win, “I am most pleased to see you looking so well.”

  “And you, Mister Hill. I think you have the right idea with that chair,” Win told him.

  “My invention. I like it,” said the thin man. “And how’s the leg, sir?”

  “Better. Much better these days, Hill.”

  “May it always be so, sir.” Then he turned to her. “Miss Swanson, the High Sheriff and the Borough Magistrate will attend the auction at our invitation. And I have more news. Information about the filings by the man in question.”

  “Filings?” she was not certain to what he referred.

  Hill shot a glance at Win. “May I speak freely, Miss Swanson?”

  “Please do, sir. There is little now Lord Cartwell does not know of my circumstances.”

  “Very well. You see, since your grandfather named Tottingham his executor, that man had to by law take an inventory, list all assets and creditors’ amounts due before the will could be probated. It seems Tottingham paid a considerable amount of money from the estate to one man who was not a creditor.”

  “This is illegal?” she asked him.

  Win said, “It certainly is.”

  Gibbs piped up. “He had no right to pay money from the estate to anyone prior to the approval of the probate.”

  She had a suspicion who this creditor might be. “Do you know who this person is?”

  Hill nodded his head, his gaunt face flush with success as he wheeled his chair closer. “We do, indeed, Miss Swanson.”

  “And his name?”

  “Anson Fortescue.”

  She set her teeth. A man who once might have become her husband. “Can we compel him to return the money?”

  “I think we have proof to show conspiracy to defraud you, Miss Swanson.”

  Win’s grip on her arm told of his joy in this. Her own mingled with fury over Tottingham’s and Fortescue’s duplicity and drove her onward.

  “Excuse me, please, gentlemen,” she told them, fixing her eyes on the front door. “I have work to do. I will see you at the auction at one.”

  Wending her way from room to room, she relived birthdays, dinner parties, moments when she’d taken tea with her mother and breakfast with her father. She spied a portrait of herself as a five-year-old and her pet, a winsome spaniel. He’d always scampered alongside her, much as Kringle did with Daphne. Pushing back old griefs, armed for her challenge, she headed for the estate office at the far end of the house. Figuring that Tottingham would not need to be there today, she hoped she’d be able to enter, get what she sought and leave quickly.

  She rounded the corner leading to the office when she heard voices. She stepped backward into the alcove. The voice of their former cook met her ears. Cook who’d been at the Reach for decades could surely recognize Belle even in a mummer’s costume. She waited, her breath rapid and hot, as the woman and her companion left the kitchen.

  “He’s selling the lot, I tell you, Cass. An excellent kitchen gone to them thieves. Never find a better set of molds or copper in your life.”

  Since Tottingham wished to sell the house, Cook had most likely been dismissed by him. And where would she go with her skills at tasty puddings and pies? No one nearby had as large an establishment. The woman would have to seek employ in London. What ruin of so many lives.

  Their voices faded as the two women took the stairs for the kitchen gardens.

  Belle hurried along, gained the office door, listened a moment and pushed it open. She whirled inside and grinned. Alone. How convenient.

  She rushed to the broad desk, once the purview of Tottingham. She pushed aside the chair and went down on her knees. Reaching under the desk, she slid her hand along the bottom of the drawer and curved her fingers over the back edge. There, she slid her hand up, pushed and with a pop, opened a trap door. Into her palm fell sheets of paper.

  She curled her fingers around the folded sheets and drew back her hand. Hoping that they might be the ledger sheets she’d hidden in her grandfather’s handwriting, she prayed that Tottingham had not found them—and destroyed them.

  In the light from the high windows, she skimmed the script. Yes. Yes. These would help to show anyone that the will Tottingham showed was not legitimate.

  She shoved the sheets in her reticule and leaned down once more to pop back in place the trap door behind the main drawer. Pushing to her feet, she replaced the chair before the desk, just so, and hurried to the closed door.

  In a second, she was back in the hall, headed for her former bedroom suite.

  * * *

  Win checked his pocket watch. Belle had only twenty more minutes before the public auction. Whatever she did, she needed to hurry.

  Headed toward the back of the public room, Win didn’t care to attract attention. But the auction house was jammed today. But of all the damned luck, two of his former colleagues strode toward him.

  “Good afternoon, Cartwell!”

  “How are you, Cartwell? Haven’t seen you at the club in weeks.”

  “Hello, St. George. Lassiter.”

  “Up to bid on this house?”

  “A friend told me I might be interested in the silver.” Win needed more silver like Midas needed gold, but well. There was the ruse.

  “Understand you’re to be leg-shackled soon.” St. George rolled his eyes.

  Ah, his mother at work again. No doubt.

  “Found one you favor finally, eh?” said Lord Lassiter. “It’s what succession does to a man. Makes you think of nappies.”

  Win feigned a grin at both. “I dare say neither of you is here to buy a supply of those.”

  “Jewelry for me,” said St. George. “I understand this lot’s to be had for a pittance. I’m here to impress my lady with my investment. One ruby, I understand, is big as an apple. Soap, they say, can buy enough rubies for a maharaja’s harem.”

  Win would like to wash his mouth out.

  Lassiter gruffed. “He’s pulling your leg, Cartwell. I’m to outbid him on that piece.”

  He pointed to the dining room. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I’m on a mission.” Anywhere to escape these two. “We’ll review later, shall we?”

  * * *

  Escaping up the servants’ stairs, Belle had no problems gaining the second floor and the long hall where her bedroom suite was located. She longed to see her old sanctuary, her refuge, her joy. All her books, her two favorite dolls, the grand doll house her father had bought for her on her fifth birthday. Her gowns, her hats, her gloves. Yes, she’d relished her wardrobe, her laces and pearls. If they were still here…But why wouldn’t they be? That dodger Tottingham couldn’t sell her clothes, by God! Whom would they fit?

  She raced into her sitting room and halted at once in sighing satisfaction. The white Alençon lace curtains billowed in the breeze from the south lawn. The windows were open and the June fragrances swept in with abandon. She rushed to the windows and at once sank back into the wealth of the heavy pink silk draperies. So many people were on the lawn that they could look up and see her there, in black mourning, but still one might recognize her and destroy her plan.

  She would not wish to be discovered now.

  She took two steps to the double doors of her boudoir and froze.

  Behind those doors, a woman giggled. “Oh, you are such a fiend, Totty.”

  Totty?

  Belle glared at the door. Totty, was it? Perhaps she should have brought a pistol and relieved the man of such a ridiculous name. He might have thanked her.

  A man guffawed and Belle heard a smack. A hand to buttocks, perhaps?

  “Get dressed now, Mabel.”

  Mabel? The downstairs maid?

  They were…playing…in her bedroom? Her bed?

  She would kill them.

  Footsteps marched toward the doors.

  Belle fell backward. If he came out…where…where could she hide?

  The handles turned. />
  She drifted back back back into the welcoming folds of the draperies.

  “Put your gown on, Mabel. Quickly! The auction begins.”

  “Oh, and I want to be there. We’re going to be soooo rich, Totty.”

  Belle lifted her gaze to the ceiling and sought forbearance not to murder them both with her bare hands.

  Totty marched away.

  The far door latched shut behind him.

  And Belle held her breath, listening to the sounds of Mabel humming in her bedroom. Hers.

  She yanked aside the drapes and strode to the open portal.

  There in her shift was the portly little blonde struggling into one of Belle’s green silk afternoon gowns. The dress was too small for her, which she did not seem to mind, but nonetheless, stuffed herself inside it, overflowing at the bosom. Belle was not surprised. Mabel—so said their former butler—had often enjoyed many of Cook’s excellent puddings. But her enjoyments had not ended there. She’d had many an afternoon delight with the footman, the farrier and even the chandler from the village. The butler had warned Mabel often to contain herself but his warnings had fallen on deaf ears. And clearly, Mabel had reached ever higher for the estate manager’s affections. Totty, as Belle would always remember him. Henceforth and forever more.

  “Good afternoon, Mabel.”

  Belle thrilled to the way the maid stumbled around to face her and shriek. “Oh! Oh! A ghost! Oh! Who are you?”

  Belle strode forward. “You know who I am, Mabel.”

  The girl held the bodice of the green silk to the bounty of her bosom. “Oh, I—. No. You cannot be Miss Swanson. You’re dead. Totty…Mister Tottingham said.”

  “Did he? The rascal.” She walked forward, and Mabel in her shock, dutifully retreated. “How did he know? Did you ask him?”

  “You…you are dead. Ohhh.” She gave up a wail, her back sliding along the wall.

  “How could he know, Mabel?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “Unless—” she let the word linger in the air, “he did me in himself.”

  “Ohh, he wouldn’t do that.” Mabel shook her head to and fro.

  “No? Come touch me.” She put up an arm.

  “No, no!”

  “But if he has, will he do the same to you one day?”

  “No, no. He wouldn’t. Would he?”

  “What has he promised?”

  “Me? To wed me.”

  Belle cocked her head. “Do you really think that with all his newfound money, he will wed a downstairs maid?”

  “He will! He will!”

  “I suggest you leave me, Mabel. And leave that gown here, too.”

  The girl stepped from it as if she shed water. In her shift and bare feet, she fled the room.

  Belle whipped up the veil and whirled toward her escritoire. Next to the window, the desk benefitted from the sun that streamed in.

  But it was gone! Gone!

  Totty had moved it? Sold it? Already?

  No. He mustn’t.

  She needed her grandfather’s papers she’d hidden in there to prove that her bank accounts were hers and hers alone. The house and grounds were one thing that now, having seen Totty and Mabel carousing in her bedroom, she might not ever wish to inhabit. But her money was hers, the fortune her family had built from a pittance. Totty could not have it. Not at all.

  She pushed down her veil and rushed for the stairs and the auction.

  Chapter 15

  The auctioneer Hargate was a stick of a man who looked like he hadn’t eaten in ten years. But he was on for the game today, his silver eyes flashing in anticipation of the day’s profits. He and his paymaster walked to the front of the room as if they themselves owned the huge house. With a flourish, the paymaster opened his ledger upon a small tabletop and pulled up a chair behind it. The auctioneer strolled from item to item and checked each against his sheet. Those milling about in the room took seats. Hill and Gibbs sat at the front of the room. Whatever their plans, they’d kept them to themselves. But beside them sat Sir William Curtin, the local magistrate, whom Win had known since a boy. Hill was a good man. Curtin too.

  Consoled by half by their presence, Win folded his arms and braced himself for the chaos to come. Belle had to win the day here.

  But where is she?

  He took another glance at his watch. Ten minutes late.

  The auctioneer took center stage and welcomed those in the room. “This afternoon, we offer here notable items from the estate of Gerard Swanson, now of Mister Theodore Tottingham. We will begin with the collection of jewelry, move on to art, then to furniture.”

  In a bustle of black crepe, Belle was beside him. Veil down, she leaned near. “I have one set of proofs, but need another. Have they sold anything yet?”

  Win told her the order Hargate had announced.

  “Good. I have time then.”

  “Darling, what can you buy for five pounds?”

  “I must try.”

  “Which?” he asked but his words fell on vacant air. Belle rushed away to take a seat in the second row in front of him on the aisle. There she perched on the edge of a gilded chair. Attentive, nervous as a chick, she glanced this way and that. Acquainting herself with the audience? Judging them? Assessing her chances? But to bid on what?

  The first item up was a diamond necklace with earrings and ring, a parure that Hargate declared must be at least half a century old. Throughout the bidding Win watched Belle and she did not bat an eye at the loss of such a fabulous piece. Whatever she needed, it was not jewelry.

  Only one lady offered for it. And the auctioneer was on to a pearl necklace, silver bobbed earrings and finally, the ruby which his friend quickly bought. Each item sold on the second or third bid. It seemed the goods of the estate were not coveted by many. In fact, Win could say that if these meager sales prices were to be the norm for this auction, the recipient of the proceeds at end of day would find himself very light in the pockets.

  “Our next item is this musket. Assessed at two hundred years old, this is a fine addition to any household. I will open the bidding at twenty pounds. Do I hear an offer?”

  The auctioneer droned on through the seemingly endless list of guns, blunderbusses, bows and quivers. It was nearing two o’clock when Win checked his pocket watch and the auctioneer’s assistant put up a Jacobean chair so heavily carved and formal it was sold for a pittance. Though Win noted Belle’s interest in the Queen Anne marquetry cabinet and her frown when someone purchased two Louis Quatorze silk dining chairs, she did not bid. But when the man announced the sale of a small writing desk in the style of Thomas Sheraton, Belle inched forward in her chair.

  “This piece,” said Hargate “is a recent acquisition by the owner. An imitation of Sheraton style. Veneer only. I open at two pounds.”

  Belle raised her hand.

  Win caught his breath.

  No one else bid.

  But then, his friend Lassiter who had bought the parure decided to raise her.

  Belle bid again. Four pounds.

  Win sidled up to his friend. “I’d consider it a favor if you did not oppose the lady on this.”

  “As you wish, Cartwell.” The man looked curious but complied.

  Belle bid and as his friend did not, she won the escritoire.

  “I’ll explain later, Lassiter. Thank you,” he told him and took Belle’s arm when she approached. Ignoring good manners to introduce him to her, Win excused himself and led her to the hall. There she paid her four pounds to Hargate’s assistant manning the books. He scribbled off a receipt for her to claim her purchase.

  “I say, sir, we must leave, don’t you agree?” She had this wide-eyed urgent look.

  “Of course,” he said, playing along.

  “Might we not acquire the desk now, Mister…?” She was all innocent charm to Hargate’s man.

  “Collins,” he supplied.

  “Mister Collins, it would be a great convenience to us.” Win was just as
beguiling as she. “A sick child at home, you see.” And then Win passed him two gold coins.

  “I do indeed, sir.” The man shot from his chair, pocketing his gains, eager to do their bidding. “Wait here.”

  “It’s small. Not heavy,” Belle fretted as she watched him climb the stairs and go along the hall to the drawing room. “He can carry it.”

  “We can strap it to the boot.”

  “No.” She shook her head, her gaze still upon the upper story. “I don’t want it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want what’s in it.” She fished in her reticule, withdrew a handful of papers and put them in his. “I must find the magistrate.”

  “He’s with Hill and Gibbs upstairs.”

  “Wonderful.” She kept her gaze on the upstairs hall. “I must get inside my desk before they sell the house. Problems will be fewer if we need contend only with Tottingham’s claims.”

  “I agree.” Win took her cold hands in his own as he saw the Hargate man appear in the hall with desk in tow.

  Belle could nearly not contain herself as she watched him descend the steps.

  “Oh, marvelous,” she exclaimed and gave her reticule to Win to hold. “Sir, right there is very good.”

  Then she tore into the desk, extracting one little drawer to the left. One little drawer to the right. Down on her knees, she reached under the right drawer, her gaze on Win’s as she felt underneath, licked her lips and turned her shoulder into her move.

  The June sun could not have shone more brilliantly than her beam of satisfaction as she yanked down some bit of wood that scraped and a flood of papers drifted to the floor.

  Win grinned at her triumph.

  The Hargate man gaped in confusion.

  Belle scooped up the papers, shuffled them together and read this one and that one. “Yes. Oh, yes! My, my. Perfect! Oh, Win! Win!” She sprang into his arms so quickly, he had to catch his balance.

  He cupped her cheek. “Shall we find the magistrate and your Misters Hill and Gibbs?”