Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  The marquis’s astonishment to her charge appeared genuine. “Murdered?” He held out his hands. “I know nothing of that.”

  “Just as you know your son wasn’t with Aletta Calendri the night she died?” Michael returned. This was obviously an old score between them.

  “Aletta Calendri was a whore,” the marquis answered. “She was with many men every night. You know that. You were there yourself.”

  “And so was Henry. We fought over her that evening,” Michael said. “He was eaten up by jealousy—”

  “Aye, because his friend was sleeping with the woman he loved,” the marquis said. “His friend, Severson. That’s what my son considered you, and you took his confidence and crushed it. Remember? You were all about conquest in those days. Too full of yourself to see the people you walked over. You had charm, looks, and Henry wanted to emulate you. He’d not listen to his father or anyone reasonable. Learning that you went to Aletta’s each night after he left was a knife in his back.” He looked to Isabel. “See what sort of man you have married? My condolences.”

  Michael held his hands up, palms out, as if asking for quarter. “I have no justification,” he admitted. “I did think only of myself in those days.”

  “And you’ve changed?” the marquis drawled. His pointed look in Isabel’s direction spoke volumes.

  “Yes,” Michael said bleakly. “I have.”

  “Only time will tell, won’t it?” his lordship said. He shook his head. “Henry was angry that night. But he’s not a killer. He didn’t murder that girl.”

  “Then why did you try to pin the blame of her death on me?” Michael asked, and Isabel heard how much he needed to know the answer to this question. “Did you not consider that the judge could find out that you bribed witnesses against me? Or that you financed the printing of all those pamphlets accusing me? Why,” he asked, “did you not grant me a moment of your time when I returned and was no longer a danger to you or Henry?”

  “When was the time you weren’t a threat?” the marquis countered. “Henry followed you like a dim-minded lamb. Once your influence was removed, he turned into a fine man. Castlereagh has him on his staff. He tells me Henry shows a true talent for diplomacy. There is no telling how high his star could ascend—then you return, asking questions, and protesting your innocence on a matter that has long been forgotten.”

  “Not by me.”

  “No, I suppose you couldn’t,” the marquis said. “But now you have returned, and people are linking Henry’s name to yours and stirring up an old scandal that is best left forgotten.”

  “I can’t forget it,” Michael said. “I value my name as dearly as you do yours.”

  “Your name?” The marquis threw his hands up in exasperation. “You are the only one in your family who has appeared to have made something of yourself. Certainly you are proving to be more useful to Society than the rest of your rackety family. That brother of yours pretends to be a high flyer without the blunt to pay even his grocer. Sold off everything that wasn’t entailed. Fancies himself part of the Carleton set. Can you believe it?” He sniffed his disgust. “And the ironic thing is you wouldn’t have accomplished half of what you have if you’d continued pursuing the path you were following before the murder. You’d probably be in debtors’ prison or worse.”

  Michael fell silent, and Isabel knew he agreed.

  The bluster left the marquis. He attempted a more conciliatory tone. “I mean no insult. I’m only protecting my son. There is no crime in that.”

  “No,” Michael agreed, his voice heavy with disappointment. “But if I didn’t kill Aletta, and Henry didn’t, who else could have?”

  “You really didn’t do it?” the marquis asked as if still uncertain.

  Michael shook his head.

  The marquis considered the problem. “It could have been any of a number of men. She played every one of you for fools. Henry squandered every shilling on her, and I doubt if you were much better.”

  “I didn’t have money. She took nothing from me.”

  “Well then,” his lordship said, “if she was manipulative enough to exploit one man’s affections after another for money, then offering her favors to you freely, I can see a temper unleashed. And what a perfect plan it turned out to be, because not only did the killer make her pay for her deceitfulness, but he also exacted revenge on you. Brilliant.”

  “Do you mind if I don’t agree with you?” Michael asked dryly.

  “Not at all,” the marquis answered. “I’d feel the same in your shoes. Unfortunately, there may be no way of ever learning who did it. Too much time has passed.”

  “Except that someone is trying to kill him now,” Isabel said. “Possibly the same person.”

  The two men looked up as if they had forgotten she was in the room.

  “Of course, that is assuming,” she continued, “someone doesn’t have another motive for wanting to murder you.” She could think of a few good reasons herself just then.

  “Yes,” the marquis agreed. “Of course, if these attempts on your life are connected with Aletta, all you have to do is wait. The killer will come after you.” He started toward the door. “Either way, I’m out of it. I wish you well, Severson. I shall be interested in learning the outcome.”

  “One last question, my lord,” Michael said.

  His lordship paused. “How did you know when to be waiting for me to return home?” Michael asked.

  “My spies are everywhere,” the marquis said arrogantly. “There was little you could do in this city and I not know. I always protect my interests.” For the briefest moment, his gaze flicked over Isabel. He turned away. “Good-bye.”

  He opened the door and left. They could hear him asking after his hat. From her vantage point in the room, she could see him go out the door. It slammed behind him.

  And she and Michael were left alone.

  Only minutes ago, her life had centered around him. Now she wondered how she could have been so blind?

  Self-consciously, she untied the ribbons of the bonnet. Taking it off, she recognized it for what it was—a faded, out-of-fashion, silly memento to a woman who had not been wise.

  “You knew who my father was all along.”

  “Isabel—”

  “Didn’t you?” she demanded, her voice sharp.

  “Yes. Riggs told me.”

  “So you decided to meet my price,” she said, reminding him of their first conversation.

  He didn’t answer.

  Better to stare at the yellowing lace ruching under the hat’s brim than her husband. Everything inside her had gone hollow, even her mind. Her body had been one with his. She’d trusted him. She couldn’t believe she had been gulled so easily. Not even her father’s abandonment hurt as deeply as Michael’s duplicity.

  Bolling appeared in the doorway. “Is there anything you need, sir?” he asked Michael.

  “No, Bolling. Shut the door.”

  “Yes, sir,” the butler, said starting to withdraw, but Isabel suddenly needed to escape. She pushed her way out past Bolling—and realized out in the hall she had nowhere to go. She had nothing.

  “I want to go to my room,” she informed Bolling. She had to get away from Michael. Then she’d be able to think. She had a hard decision to make.

  “Isabel, we must talk,” Michael said from the doorway, but she was already going up the stairs, not even waiting for Bolling. There was no carpet to muffle sound, and she heard Michael’s heavier footsteps behind her.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw he was almost upon her. She threw the bonnet in his face, picked up her skirts, and, reaching the top of the stairs, ran for the first door, shutting herself behind it.

  There was no lock. She had no choice but to try and bar it with her body. She was angry enough to believe she might make it work.

  Her back against the door, she found herself in an ivory-colored room that had no furniture other than the bed and a chair. Everything appeared new. The spread and draper
ies were a sky-blue watered silk, the carpet the same ivory tones as the wall. It was a restful room that suited her tastes perfectly.

  The door handle turned. Isabel dug in her heels. He stopped when he felt her body weight against the door.

  “We must talk,” he said through the crack.

  Isabel stared up at the ceiling, noting the plaster medallions. She didn’t have to say anything…then again, she did have one burning question.

  “Tell me, Michael,” her voice sounded incredibly calm in spite of the burn of tears in her throat, “now that you’ve discovered the marquis didn’t have a hand in the murder, what are you going to do? You’ve taken the drastic measure of marrying me to no avail.”

  There was a beat of silence. She caught the scent of his shaving soap and leaned her cheek against the wood. Her heart hurt.

  “It’s not like that,” he vowed quietly. “Isabel, let me in. Let us talk.”

  “Did you know he would be here when we arrived?”

  “No.” He lowered his voice so she had to listen closely. “I had no idea. He surprised me.”

  “But you expected to let him know about our marriage?” she guessed. “Sooner or later, I would have been your trump card…even though I’d told you he didn’t give a care.” Dear God, those words hurt. She had to grit her teeth, to be strong.

  “I’m coming in. Let us speak face-to-face.”

  “I’m not ready for that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I must talk to you.” He pressed the door. She wouldn’t be able to hold him back, and she didn’t want to see him, not when she hurt in a way she’d never thought possible.

  Isabel pushed away from the door and crossed to the window. It overlooked the street. The roads were paved, and there was a charming fenced garden in the middle of the circle. She grabbed hold of the silk drape, clutching it as tightly as she could. Anything to keep herself together.

  He entered and shut the door behind him. She could feel him staring at her. “I should have told you,” he said.

  That was the least of what he should have done.

  “In the beginning it made sense to me,” he said. “I marry you, and Elswick realizes he can’t ignore me.” He paused, and she could imagine him raking his hair with his fingers in that way he had when he was tossing something over in his mind.

  “It all got mixed up,” he confessed. “I lost sight of what was important. From the moment I saw you, I wanted you in a way I’ve never wanted a woman before.”

  She had to look at him then. She was pleased she was still dry-eyed. “Men have been wanting women that way forever.”

  “Yes, forever,” he agreed pointedly.

  “Are you reminding me of our wedding vows?” she asked incredulously. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to think about them now. After all, I’m good and trapped, am I not?” She didn’t attempt to conceal her bitterness.

  His jaw tightened. “Our marriage seemed to be working—”

  “Why? Because you thought your scheme would work? Or because you were getting everything while I received nothing?”

  He jerked back as if she had slapped him.

  Isabel turned away, holding the drape and pretending to look outside, although she would have been hard-pressed to say what was out there.

  Still, he pressed on. “When I was shot, the game changed, Isabel. You were so brave. You saved my life.”

  No, she didn’t want to think on any of this at all.

  “I married you because you were honorable,” he said, “and marrying you was the honorable thing to do. Accuse me of whatever you want, but I have the impression that you enjoyed our marriage. You were happy until you walked into this house and saw your father.”

  “He’s no father to me,” she said ruthlessly, angry at Michael for daring to say such a thing.

  He immediately recognized he had made an error. “I know that now. I’m sorry I put you through an interview with him. But, Isabel, I had to know.”

  She didn’t want to hear apologies. They weren’t what she needed. Slowly she faced Michael. “I trusted you,” she whispered, “and it was all a sham.”

  “None of it was a sham,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. He dared to take a step closer. “Be angry with me, Isabel. Rant and rave, throw things, be as bloody savage as you wish. But don’t think for a second I don’t respect and admire you. What we’ve had is rare…” He broke off as if just realizing the truth of those words. “You can’t just toss it aside in a fit of anger.”

  “I’m not the one who tossed it aside,” she said evenly. “You made me believe in those things when I didn’t want to. And now I can’t believe in anything. Certainly not you.”

  His hands fell to his sides. He looked completely miserable, as if he accepted all blame.

  In another minute, she would break down completely, and her pride wouldn’t let her do that. Pride was the only thing she had left. “I don’t love you,” she said, her throat tight. “I sold myself into marriage to you.”

  “You didn’t sell yourself—”

  “Yes, I did,” she said cutting him off. “I was afraid to be on my own. Nothing I attempted to do on my own worked out. Then, when I was at the lowest point, and afraid, you made your offer and I took it. I will say this, Aletta Calendri was wiser than I was. She didn’t let herself be trapped.”

  “You were not trapped,” he came back, his temper rising. Obviously he didn’t like the idea of being treated callously any more than she did. “You came to me of your own free will.”

  “And how I regret it,” she answered.

  His own temper caught fire. “Do you want out? Is that it?”

  Was that it? Isabel didn’t know. She felt as if she’d been ripped open, that her pain was there for him to see if he would only look. But of course, that would mean he must consider someone beyond himself.

  In truth, it really wasn’t his fault. He’d been honest from the beginning. His sole purpose was to clear his name. She was a detail.

  She should have known. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

  “Isabel, I don’t want matters to be like this between us.” His voice sounded tight…as if he truly had regrets.

  “No,” she agreed. “That’s not the way men want it, is it? You believe all there is to marriage is what happens between us in bed.” She walked over to that piece of furniture and lay down on the mattress, her fists clenched, her body stiff. “I’m ready, Michael. Whenever you want me, I’m here, waiting.”

  “Don’t do this, Isabel,” he warned.

  “You don’t want to make love here?” she asked, unable to look at him, fearing she would break. “Should I go down to the coach—?”

  “Don’t make fun of what we had,” he answered through clenched teeth.

  “We had nothing.” She looked at him, wanting him to see how deeply he had hurt her. “This was all that was between us.” She placed her hand on the mattress. “Don’t you understand? There’s nothing else.”

  Michael took a step back. His dark eyes snapped with anger. She braced herself, uncertain of what to expect.

  He turned on his heel and walked out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

  Out of all the possible outcomes, she hadn’t anticipated that reaction.

  Isabel sat up. A moment later, the front door slammed.

  As if in a trance, she rose from the bed and walked to the window in time to see his tall frame stride down the street and around the corner. He was gone.

  And the house felt like nothing but an empty shell.

  She had entered it with hopes and dreams, and now stood in the middle of unused grates and cold rooms.

  Sinking to the floor, Isabel bowed her head and, at last, let the tears come.

  Eleven

  Bolling had protested Michael’s leaving alone. He’d wanted him to take along Langston, a footman. He’d said Mr. Haddon would have his head on a pike if anything had happened to Michael.

  Michael wasn’t in the mood to answer to
anyone. And, as he walked out the door, slapping his hat on his head, he’d announced he would welcome a good fight.

  Instead, he walked and walked and walked, not caring where he was going. It took a while before he could get his angry thoughts in order.

  And when he did, he didn’t like what he had done.

  Isabel was right. He had used her. The extent had only become clear to him after Elswick had left the house, and he’d seen the look on her face.

  He’d been more concerned about getting his questions answered than the well-being of his wife. And what good had it done him? Elswick hadn’t known a bloody thing!

  But she was wrong in thinking he didn’t care about her. He did. He had every intention of honoring his commitments. She’d not had anything to complain about yet, had she—?

  Suddenly, he stopped. His temper leaving as quickly as it had come…to be replaced by an overwhelming emptiness.

  Isabel was going to leave him.

  He knew that, even if she hadn’t quite realized it.

  The woman he’d married had walls around her—just as he’d had. He was familiar with what it took to scale those walls—and he had done it. She’d put her trust in him…

  The pain he had seen in Isabel’s eyes was haunting—

  Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  He’d seen that expression before. In Aletta’s eyes.

  Michael reeled back. He looked around him, surprised to see he had walked himself halfway across London, moving toward the docks. Not far from there was a popular tavern, the Crow, that he’d patronized years ago. He took a deep steadying breath and let himself remember.

  Aletta’s angry words echoed in his ears. Words he hadn’t been able to recall and, even now, had only vague recollections of.

  A trio of burly sailors rolled down the street on their way back to the wharves. Michael stepped back, but one of them bumped into his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” the tar barked out, keeping pace with his companions—and Michael saw himself saying sorry. He’d repeated it several times. Sorry. Flippant, offhand…slurry.