Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Murderer?” Mrs. Oxley echoed, turning so abruptly to Isabel that she poured hot tea on the squire. With a yelp, he practically threw his cup and saucer in the air, splattering more hot liquid around. The pottery hit the floor at his feet, smashing into a dozen pieces.

  Mr. Oxley was no less shocked. Isabel caught a glimpse of his concern and attempted to avoid it by scooting off her chair and kneeling to pick up the broken pieces of teacup.

  Seeing that the Oxleys apparently didn’t know the true character of their guest, Squire Nolestone took it upon himself to inform them. “Yes,” he said in that officious manner Mr. Oxley had warned her about, “he stood accused of killing a young woman. An actress. They were—” He hummed for the right word. “They were particular friends.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Oxley, not really understanding and then, as meaning took hold, drawing out the word, “Oooohhhhh.”

  The broken pottery pieces in her hand, Isabel stood. “The charges were dismissed against him.”

  Squire Nolestone sat back in his chair, secure in his opinion. “For lack of evidence. From what I hear, many believe the judge took too much upon himself. He claimed there wasn’t enough information to convict Severson,” he informed the Oxleys, putting a finger to the side of his nose, “even though there was a witness who saw Severson at that woman’s apartment that very evening.”

  “And what does that mean?” Isabel demanded. “Just because he may have seen the woman doesn’t mean he was the one who killed her. Many other men saw her that evening, too.”

  “It also doesn’t mean he left her alive either,” the squire responded, apparently not accustomed to being challenged.

  Isabel wondered who had given him this information. Richard? If so, what did he gain by blackening Michael’s name? Nor was she going to let Squire Nolestone smugly shirk his responsibilities. “Then, according to your logic, Mr. Wardley and all his guests—and the servants, too!—are guilty of shooting Mr. Severson. After all, they were all in the vicinity!”

  “Nothing of the sort,” the squire said, glaring at her for her impertinence. “I said nothing like that!”

  In truth, Isabel didn’t know what had come over her. She was usually more aware of her station in life, yet she was angry. She’d grown up suffering enough innuendoes from the smug and the self-righteous to last a lifetime. She wasn’t going to tolerate it now, not when Michael’s life could be at stake. She demanded justice.

  She dumped the pieces of pottery unceremoniously on the tray and told the squire evenly, “Then don’t trivialize the attempt on Michael’s life because you’d rather believe gossip than the verdict of a judge.”

  Mr. Oxley jumped in to soothe the bluntness of Isabel’s words. “You must understand that Miss Halloran has been very concerned for Mr. Severson.”

  Squire Nolestone squirmed under her gaze. “I’m concerned, too. We don’t like things like this happening in the parish.”

  “Of course, we don’t,” Mrs. Oxley said, and, using a fresh cup from the tray, poured another cup of tea for her guest, who accepted it with a wounded expression as if he deserved pampering after such an unwarranted attack. She further demonstrated her concern by picking up the broken pieces off the tray, and Isabel felt guilty.

  She retired to her chair and sat. She placed her hands in her lap, forcing herself to be pleasant. No good came of losing one’s temper. Wasn’t that one of the lessons she had always taught her charges. “So what did you discover?” she asked the squire.

  “That it was a hunting accident,” he said, reaching for mulberry elixir to add to his tea.

  Isabel’s indignation shot to the surface. “It was no accident.”

  “Of course it was. Hunting accidents happen all the time,” he insisted, stirring his tea with his finger.

  “I was there. No one had started hunting, unless they were hunting for Mr. Severson.”

  “Then it is your word against Mr. Wardley’s and Lord Riggs’s,” the squire said. “And quite frankly, they have the better character.”

  “What do you mean by that?” she countered. She sat up, her back straight. “Are you saying you believe that Mr. Wardley, of all people, has more integrity than I? Is that what you are saying?”

  But the squire didn’t answer. His beady gaze had shifted to a point beyond her shoulder, and his face paled considerably. He set his teacup back on the tray as if preparing to make a hasty exit, and Isabel knew Michael stood behind her.

  He walked into the middle of their circle, his towering presence filling the small room. He wore shirt and breeches, and Isabel could only imagine how difficult it must have been for him to pull on his boots with one arm, but he had done it. To add to the drama, the shirt he was wearing was the one he’d been shot in. She had washed it and attempted to remove the bloodstain with limited success, but had not even tried to repair the hole where the shot had entered his back. That hole was damning evidence that someone had attempted to see him dead, and she was certain he’d chosen to wear it for that purpose.

  “I’m certain this gentleman wouldn’t say such a thing,” Michael answered Isabel, his sharp gaze on the squire, “because that would be an insult, and he would not want to insult the woman honoring me with marriage.”

  “No,” Squire Nolestone squeaked out.

  Michael held out his hand. “Severson.”

  Obviously unnerved, the squire half rose from his chair. “Nolestone,” he muttered, “Squire Nolestone,” he added, as if needing the protection of a title.

  “Please, sit,” Michael said with the gracious air of host. “Is it possible that I could have a cup of tea, Mrs. Oxley?”

  “Of course,” his hostess said, and hurried into the kitchen to toss away the broken bits and fetch another cup and saucer.

  Michael pulled another wooden chair around, one just like Isabel’s, and placed it beside hers. He sat in it with the careless elegance of any town buck, the only person completely at ease in the room.

  Mr. Oxley watched all of them, his cold pipe in his mouth.

  Mrs. Oxley returned. “Would you care for some of my mulberry elixir in your tea?” she asked Michael.

  “Thank you, but no,” he responded.

  “Should have it,” the squire said gruffly, attempting to regain his composure. “Very good.”

  Taking the cup and saucer Mrs. Oxley offered, Michael said, “I don’t take strong spirits.”

  “Don’t drink spirits?” Squire Nolestone said incredulously. “What kind of man doesn’t drink?”

  “A man who values his scalp,” Michael answered, reminding all in this room that he had lived another, very dangerous life.

  “I hear tell that Indians can’t handle drink either,” Squire Nolestone was saying.

  “Some can, some can’t,” Michael answered. “Just like white men.”

  The squire’s brows came together in interest. “I’d heard you’d been out fighting savages. How dangerous were they?”

  “Far less dangerous than the ones I’ve met in England,” Michael answered. “And there isn’t a savage foolish enough to believe my shooting was a hunting accident.”

  Squire Nolestone’s face flushed with the charge. “I’ve spoken with everyone at Wardley Park. They all agree. Even the servants.”

  “Which man admitted firing the shot?” Michael asked.

  Isabel and Mr. and Mrs. Oxley looked at the squire for his answer.

  He paused in the act of bringing his teacup to his lips. A dull red crept up his neck. “Never asked.”

  “Why didn’t you?” The words popped out of Isabel’s mouth before she considered their wisdom.

  Squire Nolestone latched on to them as a means to get himself out of a tight spot. “I will not have you speak to me that way—”

  “Be careful,” Michael said, placing a hand on the back of Isabel’s chair. The quietness of his voice did not lessen the effectiveness of his message.

  “Besides, she is a witness, too,” Mrs. Oxley said. She sat in
one of the straight-backed chairs. “She told you she didn’t believe it was a hunting accident.” Frowning, the rector’s wife said, “And I don’t either. The whole incident doesn’t make sense.”

  Isabel could have kissed her and, by his grin, Michael must have felt the same.

  Squire Nolestone set his teacup on the tray and stood. “What do you want me to do? Tell titled gentlemen they are lying?”

  “One of them is,” Mr. Oxley said.

  “I did what I could,” the squire countered. “It’s very political. One must be careful.”

  “But thorough,” the rector insisted. “Can you not see the bullet hole?”

  “He’s alive, Forrest. Look at the man. He’s not the worse for wear.” Squire Nolestone shrugged. “Perhaps if he was dead, we could be more forceful. But there’s no sense in upsetting everyone.”

  There was the naked truth. Nothing would be done about the attempt on Michael’s life. The one person in the room who did not act surprised was Michael.

  “It’s not right. It’s not justice,” Isabel said.

  Squire Nolestone pulled his waistcoat down over his belly. “It’s what is best. It’s all I could do.”

  Isabel found that unacceptable and would have said as much, save for Michael’s standing. “Thank you, Squire,” he said, offering his hand.

  The squire came to his feet with obvious relief. “Wish I could have done better,” he said, taking the offered hand.

  “I know,” Michael answered. He released the squire’s hand. “By the way, whom did you interview at Wardley Park?”

  “Wardley himself and Lord Riggs.”

  Michael nodded. “You know, Lord Riggs was infatuated with my betrothed. He was very angry she preferred me over him.”

  “Are you suggesting he would be jealous enough to shoot you?” the squire asked.

  Isabel had not considered herself as a reason for Richard to shoot Michael, but knew he was capable of more than what most people imagined. She knew what he could do when crossed. Thinking back to the morning of the shooting, she didn’t remember seeing Richard with the others immediately. He could have placed himself at the proper angle to fire the shot.

  “No,” Michael said, answering the squire. “I merely raise the possibility that Riggs might not be as honest in his answers to you as you wish him to be.”

  Squire Nolestone nodded, his frown deep. “I can do no more.”

  “I understand,” Michael said.

  The squire nodded to the Oxleys, ignored Isabel, and, taking his hat, left.

  Mr. Oxley looked at Michael. “You should return to bed,” he advised him.

  “When should we see the messenger with the special license?” Michael asked.

  The rector frowned. “I imagine today.”

  “How quickly can we marry?”

  His question surprised Isabel. Mr. Oxley drew his brows together in concern. “Anytime you wish…once we have the license.”

  “We’ll marry at the church?”

  “You may,” Mr. Oxley said.

  Michael said to Isabel, “Come outside with me. I think we need a moment alone.” He didn’t wait but left, going through the kitchen to the back of the cottage, where the women had been hanging laundry.

  As Isabel started to follow, Mr. Oxley stopped her. “You knew about his past?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s been honest with me.”

  The rector studied her a moment. His opinion had changed. She knew he wondered if she was committing a grave error in judgment. So, he surprised her then when he said, “I believe he is innocent, too.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, the words heartfelt, and left the room.

  Isabel found Michael off to the side of the cottage. There, between the forest, the church building, and the laundry waving in the breeze, he’d found a modicum of privacy. He waited beside a stone wall and motioned with his hand for her to sit without looking at her, and she felt uneasy. She didn’t move.

  “What are you not telling me?” he asked.

  His stern question brought her guard up. “About what?”

  “Riggs,” he said, at last looking at her.

  “What makes you believe there is anything to tell?” she hedged.

  “The moment I mentioned he could have shot me out of jealousy, a look crossed your face that led me to believe it could be true,” he said quietly. “So, I’m asking what really lay between you? I knew he had wanted you.”

  “How did you learn that?”

  “He told me. He was waiting in my room when I returned from speaking to you that night. He was drunk but very much interested in whether I’d been with you or not.”

  “Then you know everything you need to know,” she replied.

  “I haven’t heard it from you…and I may be wrong, but I sense there is more here.”

  The words were on the tip of her tongue to deny it. After all, she was the one who had put herself in harm’s way. Unfortunately, someone could tell Michael the story in London, and it would be the one Richard’s aunt liked to spread.

  Best he hear all from her first. “He attempted to rape me.”

  Anger flashed in Michael’s eyes. “What happened?”

  She didn’t want to say. The story threatened to choke in her throat.

  Michael crossed to her and pulled her down to sit beside him on the stone wall. Placing his arms around her, he repeated in a gentler tone, “What happened?”

  Isabel looked over at the laundry she and Mrs. Oxley had been hanging on the line. “I should have been wiser,” she confessed.

  “I don’t believe that,” he answered.

  “You don’t? After what occurred between us?” Isabel lifted her head to look at him. A shadow of a beard darkened his jawline.

  “Was that how it was with Richard?”

  “No,” Isabel said firmly. “I admit, I did fancy myself in love with him at one time. I worked in his aunt’s household. He sought me out, and his attentions were a very heady thing. He would leave notes for me and occasionally flowers and trinkets.” She could still remember her excitement the first time she’d found one of his gifts left in the schoolroom for her. She had been so foolish.

  “One day, I found him in the pantry, of all places, with the kitchen maid. I was so stunned.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I refused to have anything to do with him—”

  Her answer startled a sharp bark of laughter out of Michael. “What do you find amusing?” she asked.

  “I doubt if Riggs ever had a woman treat him in such a high-handed manner. He was probably unprepared to receive a set-down from you.”

  Isabel realized he was right. “It upset him,” she admitted. “He acted as if I should tolerate anything he wished to do. And that made me angry,” she said, her spirit returning. “Instead, I dedicated myself to my charges. I was disappointed but surprisingly not as heartbroken as I thought I would be.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in love,” Michael said.

  Isabel gave him a sharp glance, surprised by the turn of his thoughts. “Richard is one of the reasons I don’t,” she said.

  “Well, I can’t imagine anyone with good sense being enamored of Riggs,” he allowed before surmising, “since he forced himself on you because you ignored him.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Isabel nodded. “Yes. It was a miserable attack. He was waiting in my room at the end of a very long day and was a bit surprised when I fought back.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I kneed him hard.”

  Michael almost fell off the wall, roaring with laughter.

  Isabel couldn’t help but smile, too. “I grew up illegitimate in a small village,” she said, explaining herself. “My mother is the one who taught me how to defend myself.”

  “I wish I could have seen Riggs’s face,” Michael declared.

  “It was funny,” she agreed. “He was caught off guard. However, he was very angry.” The memory w
iped the smile from her face. “He shouted so loud, he woke one of the children, who woke the nurse. Then the duchess was summoned. They all blamed me. Richard claimed I had invited him to my room. I’d tempted him. The duchess dismissed me without references.”

  “Was the other night the first time you’d seen Riggs since then?” Michael asked.

  “Yes.” She made a motion correcting herself with her hands. “He’d sent a letter once, apologizing. I tore it up.”

  “What did he want the other night?”

  “To ask me to be his mistress.”

  Her point wasn’t lost on Michael. “Touché,” he said softly.

  “Yes, it was a busy night for me.”

  She’d answered offhand and immediately wished she’d measured her words better—except, Michael didn’t take offense. He laughed, as she would have wanted him to do. The doubt that made her restless and uncertain relaxed its hold a bit.

  This was the sort of man she could admire. One with whom she could speak honestly.

  He stopped laughing. They stared into each other’s eyes. He held up his hand, palm toward her. She placed her hand against his. He had big hands, strong ones, hands that knew what it was to work.

  In that moment, she wanted to believe in heroes.

  “I must clear my name,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I will do what I can to help.” She didn’t believe he was a murderer. She would not have this faith in him if she thought he was guilty. “Do you have any idea who did kill her?”

  He searched her face before answering. “I think I might know the man.”

  “Who is he?”

  Michael’s brows came together. She sensed he debated whether or not to confide in her. She was disappointed when he said, “This isn’t the time for this discussion.”

  “I want to help.”

  “You will, in London,” he assured her. “But for right now, this is what is important.” And he showed her what he meant by drawing her up and into his arms.

  Isabel lost herself in the kiss. Eagerly, she pressed against him, wanting to let him know she believed in him. She would make him a good wife, and he would never regret marrying her.

  His tongue brushed hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him tight, silently vowing never to let him go. Right or wrong, she was falling in love. It was a dangerous thing, this love was…and yet, how could she resist?