TEMPTATION OF A
PROPER GOVERNESS
CATHY
MAXWELL
To Kevin Michael Maxwell
You were right, Max.
Life really is all about love.
It’s the only thing that truly matters.
Contents
As the Sea Serpent sailed through mist and…
One Miss Lillian Wardley’s bed was empty.
Two Michael watched the woman walk to him, her expressive eyes…
Three Michael’s patience was stretched thin. Wardley had attempted to trick…
Four Isabel wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly. “I beg your…
Five Michael did not dream. His was the sleep of the…
Six Isabel walked straight out of the cottage but stopped in…
Seven Isabel was outside helping Mrs. Oxley hang the laundry late the…
Eight The sound of Mr. Oxley clearing his throat broke their kiss.
Nine Isabel wanted to grab hold of the edges of her…
Ten The two men were so involved in their conversation that…
Eleven Bolling had protested Michael’s leaving alone. He’d wanted him to…
Twelve Isabel spent the most amazing day, and it wouldn’t have…
Thirteen Michael was taking his time getting dressed. They would be…
Fourteen Isabel closed the door. “You were there?”
Fifteen Michael drove the hack. Isabel sat by his side. He’d…
Sixteen “You love me?” Michael repeated dumbly as if amazed.
Seventeen Michael sensed something was wrong the moment he entered the…
Eighteen Michael moved to his brother and lowered him to the…
Epilogue
What miracles a year could work!
About the Author
Romances by Cathy Maxwell
Copyright
About the Publisher
December 1803
A s the Sea Serpent sailed through mist and fog toward the long ridge of land, Michael Severson leaned over the ship’s rail, mesmerized by the first sight of his homeland in over a decade.
England.
He’d not anticipated this surge of emotion, this hunger for what he’d missed.
When they had left Canada, the leaves had fallen and the grass had gone brown. Now, although the season was more advanced and they had reached at a higher latitude, England was green. The sight of gardens and grassy knolls beyond the sharp rocks that compressed the waters into a narrow strait, coupled with the gloomy days at sea, gave this homecoming a sense of stepping back into a world he’d almost forgotten.
“So, this is civilization,” his business partner Alex Haddon’s unconvinced voice said from behind him.
Turning to him, Michael said, “Some claim it is the center of the universe.” Neither man wore a hat. Salt spray dampened their hair, which hung down past their shoulders. Michael would get his cut when they reached London. He doubted if the half-Shawnee, half-white Alex would let anyone touch his. It had been a major concession for him to give up deerskin leggings and shirts for cotton and wool.
Michael had no such hesitation. One of his first acts in London would be to make an appointment with a Bond Street tailor. Society judged a man by the cut of his coat.
Ironically, Michael appeared more Indian than his blood brother. Alex’s father had given him gray eyes and a hint of wave to his hair, while Michael’s eyes were brown and his hair straight.
Alex leaned against the rail, frowning at the shore as if he wished to remove its existence. “You are making a mistake.”
“In returning?” Michael shook his head. “I’ve been preparing for this moment from the day they ran me out of the country.”
“And what makes you believe they are waiting with open arms now?”
“One of them isn’t. Aletta’s killer will not be happy to see me at all. But the time has come. The man who did murder her and almost got me hanged for the crime will pay.” It was the only way he was going to find a measure of peace in his life. Aletta’s death haunted him. No, he might not have murdered her, but he’d been passed out drunk while someone else had done it.
He and Aletta had been occasional lovers, one of her many. As the reigning queen of the London stage, Aletta had been all the rage and she’d reveled in her popularity. Michael had been an earl’s wastrel second son with empty pockets, good looks, and charm.
“I know this weighs heavily on your soul,” Alex said. He paused as if wanting to say more.
“Go on.”
“What if there are no answers?”
The thought was inconceivable to Michael. “There will be.”
“How do you know? It’s been ten years. Who will care about a dead dancer?”
The man who murdered her. That man waited for Michael to return. One could not murder an innocent soul and not expect an accounting.
“I had the dream about Aletta’s death again last night,” Michael said. He’d first had the dream two months ago. It had been the impetus for his decision to return.
“Could you see the man’s face this time?” Alex asked.
“No. He is still in shadows.”
“But you know him?”
“Yes,” Michael answered, and added with frustration, “If only I could see more of him.”
“Your dream is speaking to you. In time, you will know. Just wait a bit longer.”
“I’ve waited long enough,” Michael answered. “I’m going after Elswick, Alex. He’s the only one who wanted to destroy me.”
“Because his son wanted to marry the dancer?” Alex retorted, his doubt clear.
“Because he feared his son killed her and he wanted me to take the blame,” Michael responded.
“Do you think the son killed her?”
Michael nodded. “Yes.” He’d thought hard about this. It was the only explanation that made sense. Otherwise, why would the powerful marquis of Elswick actively campaign to see Michael found guilty of the murder? He’d used all his influence, including printing flyers and passing them to the masses declaring Michael’s guilt. The only thing that had saved Michael’s neck was an honest judge who had demanded hard evidence. Not even his own family had supported him.
“Men kill out of jealousy,” Alex said with a shrug. He knew the story. Michael had told it to him numerous times.
“It is usually the only reason men kill,” Michael countered. “They want what someone else has. Henry wanted Aletta and killed her when he found me in her rooms.” Henry was Elswick’s son and heir.
Alex shook his head. “You’re wrong. Men also kill for revenge. Remember that, Michael. Don’t do anything foolish.”
Michael glanced out the corner of his eye at his friend. “Is that why you insisted on coming with me?” he challenged.
“One of the reasons,” Alex said, unintimidated.
“And the other reason?”
“Perhaps I thought it time to see the other side of the world. After all, we do own a ship,” he said, referring to the very one beneath their feet.
“Or perhaps you have a thought to finding your father?” Michael surmised gently. Alex’s father had been a British general who had betrayed his country to the French. To a man who valued honor the way Alex did, his father’s traitorous actions and subsequent desertion had sent him back to his mother’s people, where he’d saved Michael’s life when he’d been captured by the Shawnees.
Since that day, almost nine years ago, the pair had been close friends as well as business partners. They’d hunted and trapped together, watching their fortunes grow alongside their friendship. Each had his own purpose for finding wealth: Alex to prove h
imself more honorable than his father, Michael to gain the resources needed to reclaim his good name.
Alex studied his friend a moment before admitting, “If my father crosses my path, we will talk.”
“When Elswick crosses my path, we shall do more than talk,” Michael promised.
He turned his attention back to England. Elswick would soon learn that Michael wasn’t the same frightened, callow youth who had once run away. He was a fitting adversary now and one unafraid to take on the most powerful man in England.
One
March 1804
Miss Lillian Wardley’s bed was empty.
Isabel Halloran, her governess, greeted the sight with a combination of frustration and panic. Lillian had a reputation for being promiscuous. Curbing her wild ways was one of the duties Isabel had been hired to perform three months earlier.
Isabel did not need a clash of wills with Lillian tonight. She was fighting her own demons or rather, one demon, Lord Riggs, Richard, a man she once believed she’d loved until he had attempted to take her by force. He was a guest under this roof, and she was determined to avoid him. She didn’t want him to know she was there. The pain of his betrayal was still too fresh.
Isabel had no desire to be out wandering the halls, looking for her errant charge.
She should have known Lillian was up to something. The seventeen-year-old had been too quiet, too accommodating, and had excused herself far too early for bed that evening. Her unquestioning obedience was out of character and had disturbed Isabel enough for her to rise from her own bed, throw her brown day dress over her nightgown, and check on Lillian.
It was half past midnight…and she had a sinking suspicion where Lillian might be.
Holding a protective hand around the candle flame, Isabel hurried across the hall to knock on Nanny’s door. It took more than one knock to disturb the older woman’s sleep.
The door opened. “Miss Halloran, is there something with the children?” Nanny rasped, squinting at the candle flame. She had the care of Mr. Wardley’s three younger children by his second wife, a very buxom former tavern girl with ambition to match her husband’s.
“Lillian is missing.”
“Missing?” Nanny repeated without comprehension.
“She’s not in her bed. I need your help finding her.”
Nanny came awake. “Oh, dear.” She opened the door while she reached for her dressing gown hanging on a nearby nail. “The last time she did this we found her with the stable lad. ’Twas before your time. I know you’ve heard about it.”
“I thought I was making progress with her.”
“I thought so, too.” Nanny slipped her arms into her gown, leaving her nightcap on her head. “The Master had the boy transported to Australia.” Isabel had heard this story, but Nanny never tired of repeating it. “He begged for mercy, he did, but the Master would hear none of it. Them with the money makes the rules. That’s what my mother used to say. Let’s pray Miss Lillian’s not got another young laddie in trouble.”
“No, I think she has her sights set higher.” Isabel started for the stairs at the end of the hall. Her nightly braid had come loose, but she wasn’t going to waste time rebraiding it.
Nanny moved with surprising speed and caught Isabel’s arm. “One of the guests? Why, the Master’s friends are all rakes and scoundrels, even if they do have titles to their names. They’d gobble up a young girl, spit out her bones, and the Master wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.”
“I know,” Isabel answered. She couldn’t answer for all of Mr. Wardley’s guests, but Richard certainly fit that description.
“We could lose our positions.”
“Yes.” Isabel was relieved that Nanny grasped exactly what was at stake.
“We’d best hurry,” the older woman said as she picked up a candle stub from the hall table and lit it off Isabel’s. The two women hurried toward the stairs. “I wish the Master would marry Miss Lillian off as soon as possible. Yes, she’s young, but she is going to come to grief with her wild ways.”
Their master was Mr. Thomas Wardley, a merchant who had made his fortune brokering wool to the army and fancied his money could buy his way into Society. He was fond of expanding on how he was part of the “new social order,” where a man didn’t need a title to be accepted. But the servants knew he desperately wanted one; they often called him “Sir” Thomas behind his back.
And Isabel knew he was wrong about a new social order. The divide between the aristocracy and everyone else was deeper than the ocean. Richard had taught her that, just as he’d taught her that a title didn’t make a man a gentleman. The five titled gentlemen visiting this week were supposedly there for hunting—although no one had gone hunting yet. Instead, the downstairs reeked of port and brandy, and Nanny and Isabel had their hands full keeping the children away from bad influences.
The two women reached the floor where the guest bedrooms were. Candles in wall sconces had the area ablaze with light. Mr. Wardley might be stingy with his servants, but no expense was spared for guests.
Isabel paused. The footman who usually sat in a chair at the top of the stairs leading down to the main floor was missing from his post. She felt a cold suspicion.
The quiet of the hall was broken by a burst of boisterous male laughter drifting up the stairs from the dining room where the gentlemen liked to play cards. “They are having a rowdy good time tonight,” Nanny muttered.
“I don’t know why Mrs. Wardley tolerates it,” Isabel said.
“The Mistress is usually down there with them.”
Isabel frowned but feared she’d already said too much. A governess walked a fine line. She was a servant and yet had a higher standing than the others. It didn’t help the situation that Isabel was not good at being subservient. Pride washer besetting sin, and she didn’t like it when her employers pretended she was invisible.
“You don’t think Miss Lillian is down there with them?” Nanny wondered in round tones.
“No.” Isabel studied the closed doors lining the hall. “Which room do you believe is Mr. Severson’s?”
The mention of the man’s name brought forth a gasp of horror from Nanny. “You can’t be serious.”
“He’s all she could talk about from the moment she saw him arrive this morning.”
“He’s all any of the maids can talk about, too. I went down to the kitchen after the children were in bed, and even Cook was sighing over his looks. Have you seen him?”
“No, and Miss Lillian shouldn’t have either. Her mother took her downstairs for introductions. I don’t know what Mrs. Wardley was thinking introducing her daughter to any of those men.” Especially Richard.
“He’s rumored to be very wealthy.”
“Who?” Isabel asked, confused, her mind on Richard. In spite of his title, Richard was a fervent gambler who rarely had a penny to name.
“Mr. Severson,” Nanny answered.
That was even worse. “I don’t care how much money he has. He’s also been accused of murder,” Isabel stated.
Nanny’s jaw dropped. For the first time since Isabel had met her, the older woman was speechless.
“It happened years ago,” Isabel explained. “He killed a woman in a jealous fit. The judge claimed there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do,” Isabel said with a shrug, realizing that she’d been so upset by Richard’s appearance at Wardley Manor, she’d barely given a thought to a man who had once been of great interest to her.
Isabel knew of Mr. Severson’s murder trial because she had her own secret—she was the bastard daughter of the marquis of Elswick, a piece of information she kept to herself. She was the by-blow of an affair between the marquis and her mother, who had loved him madly. That love had not been returned. Indeed, Isabel doubted if the marquis ever gave a thought to her existence.
On the other hand, Isabel had grown up aware of everything about the marquis. Fro
m the moment she could read, she had collected London papers to scan for mention of his name.
The windfall had been Severson’s trial for the murder of an actress. From the stand, Severson had accused her half brother, Henry, Lord Tainter, of being the murderer. It had made for sensational reading. The murdered actress had been popular in London, and even in a parish as small as hers, people wanted details. Isabel had even been inspired to write the marquis a letter telling him she didn’t believe anyone in their family could commit such a foul deed.
She had never received a response.
And now, the murderous Severson was a guest under the same roof where she was living, and she was more concerned with avoiding Richard.
Life took strange turns.
“That is the best bedroom, right?” Isabel nodded to the one at the end of the hall.
“It’s the biggest,” Nanny agreed.
There was another burst of crowing male laughter, then the crash of glass. Isabel drew a deep breath. “We start there. Keep guard while I talk to his valet.”
“He doesn’t have one,” Nanny said, and added, “Servants’ gossip. Only one of the lot not to bring a man with him.”
Isabel nodded. Sometimes gossip was good. She walked to the door, placed her hand on the door handle, and drew a fortifying breath. Who knew what sight would greet her on the other side of this door? Her mind flashed on the memory of Richard trapping her, attempting to force her to his will—
She pushed the shame aside and opened the door.
The room was in blackness. There was not even a fire in the grate. Isabel held her candle high. Its light shone on the huge, four-poster bed covered in blue silk that dominated the space in the room. In the middle of the bed, Lillian glared at her with open defiance.
To Isabel’s eternal relief, Mr. Severson was nowhere in sight.
“Go away,” Lillian ordered. “I’m not going upstairs with you.”
“Yes, you are,” Isabel said. She set her candle on the bedside table. “Now, we can do this rationally. You can get out of that bed and come with us, or you can be carried upstairs. The choice is yours.”
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