The Wicked Governess

by Mary Lancaster

  Curiosity as to where the passage led, if it joined with others inside the walls of the house, propelled her onward, down the narrow steps. She expected the stone to be damp and dank, but in fact the passage surrounded the chimney, the warmth from which seemed to have kept it dry over the years.

  At the foot of the steep steps she found herself in another cave-like room, similar to the one at the top. There was only one passage leading out of it. Above her, hurried footsteps clattered down the steps.

  “Caroline?” Javan’s voice, unexpectedly anxious.

  “I’m here,” she called, though part of her wished to punish him with silence.

  She held the lantern high and saw that he’d come in such a hurry he’d brought no light of his own. The lantern cast a soft glow over his harsh features, and in spite of everything, her heart lurched just at the sight of him. “There seems to be just one way out,” she managed, moving forward again. He said nothing, not even to chastise her for foolhardiness in coming down here alone, or to persuade her to return. He simply followed her.

  Her every nerve seemed to tingle in awareness of his silent closeness behind her. At last she reached a dead end, the wall being a panel made of old, slightly warped wood. Javan brushed past her and found a lever similar to the one above.

  “Stand back,” he warned, pulling it. The panel swung open and he walked forward.

  Following, she found herself in the chill of a natural cave. She could hear water close by, but she couldn’t see it for the heavy fronds and thick tree roots that almost blocked the cave entrance.

  “It must be in those rocks by the river,” Javan said. He touched the boulder by his side. “I suspect they roll this across the entrance to hide the panel from casual view. A way out for priests, perhaps, or rebels in the civil war. Or Jacobites, maybe.”

  She shivered, imagining the tragedies and stirring escapes of long dead men and women associated with Haven Hall. “I would have expected this sort of thing at the castle more than here.”

  “The castle would have been a lot more secure than a mere country house. Come back. It’s too cold out here.” As if he’d forgotten their quarrel, he took her hand and drew her back behind the panel, which he closed again.

  They stood too close, and he still held her hand. Her body, her whole being ached. He must have seen it in her face, for he dropped her hand at once.

  “Christ,” he muttered. “You are better with Richard.”

  “It appears I have no say,” she retorted. “But, in fact, I do, and I want neither of you!”

  “Good choice,” he approved, and led the way around the winding passage toward the steps.

  The lantern began to flicker.

  “Stay close,” he muttered. “I think it’s about to go out.”

  It died, just as they reached the steps.

  “Give me your hand,” he said roughly. She obeyed, and he began to climb. She tried not to stumble as she followed. The pitch darkness was disorienting and yet strangely…liberating. She let her fingers cling to his.

  Abruptly, he stopped and stepped back down, pinning her to warm stone wall. “You don’t want me, Caroline,” he ground out. “You don’t. You deserve a good, clean man, unsullied by life and dishonor.”

  “Dishonor?” she repeated, startled. “You have every honor—”

  “No.”

  She could make out only deeper blackness where he stood, but she could feel his hardness, his heavy breathing. This, she thought, whatever this turned out to be, was the root of his damage.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, raising their joined hands to his cheek.

  “I betrayed the Fort of San Pedro,” he blurted. “The French walked into it, chasing the British out, because of me.”

  The agony behind his short, abrupt tone made her want to weep. “How because of you?”

  “I told them,” he whispered. “I blurted it all out and I don’t even remember.”

  I told them. The same agonized words he’d uttered in his dream last night. “Where?” she asked bewildered. “Where did you tell them this?”

  “In my prison bed.”

  “You were asleep?”

  “I told.” He tried to push away, but she clung to him.

  “I don’t care, Javan,” she said clearly. “I don’t care whether that is true or not.”

  He stilled. “You should care.” And with that, he stepped back, climbing onward and all but dragged her after him into the light of the library.

  *

  As she stepped into the carriage the following evening, she made to sit as usual with her back to the horses, until Richard urged her to the better seat facing the direction of travel and sat beside her. Javan slouched on the bench opposite, his scar livid in the gloomy shadows. She was sure it was his gaze that made her skin burn, and yet she refused to glance at him to see. If he truly wanted her, why was he tolerating, even urging her engagement to his cousin? To punish her? For what? Even last night’s strange revelation seemed to have been made to drive her away rather than to ease his own soul.

  Richard appeared unaware of the tension and conversed amiably for most of the journey without much response from either of his companions.

  Caroline was almost relieved when Javan excused himself in the theatre foyer, leaving her and Richard to make their way to the box. As she took her seat, Caroline was only too aware of the scrutiny from many other boxes around the theatre. She was the governess who’d hooked a wealthy baronet’s heir—after failing to secure her earl, she was sure it was said. Being used to the unfairness of life, she wouldn’t have cared, except for the fact that she hadn’t actually “hooked” anyone.

  Fortunately, the arrival of Lord and Lady Tamar reduced the stares, although they must have been intrigued beyond endurance when the tenant of Haven Hall himself entered the box with none other than Mrs. Gallini.

  Sought after by the highest hostesses in polite society, the singer was in something of a unique position. The tarnish of the stage did not quite cling to her—in Blackhaven at least—as it would have to a mere actress or dancer, and yet she was an odd choice to chaperone Caroline, if that had ever been Javan’s intention.

  Worse, just as the curtain went up, Caroline sensed a different kind of observation, and she glanced down at the pit to discover Thomas Swayle bowing to her. Her stomach jolted nervously, for she had no idea how Javan would react to his presence.

  Although Caroline normally loved the theatre and rarely had the opportunity to indulge her passion, she could not enjoy this evening. Her nerves jangled too much and she simply wanted to go home.

  Home. It seemed she regarded Haven Hall as home, despite Javan’s recent behavior.

  At the first interval began the true purpose of the theatre—visiting each other’s boxes and comparing gossip. Tamar and Richard went off together, although Javan lounged in the back of the box, silent and brooding. While Serena exchanged conversation around the pillar with their nearest neighbor, Mrs. Gallini drew her seat closer to Caroline.

  “Forgive me, Miss Grey, but I saw that man Swayle trying to attract your attention earlier. You must know he is the source of rumors against your employer.”

  “I can imagine,” Caroline said with a sigh. “I can only hope no one believes such nonsense.”

  The singer shrugged. “Those who know him will not. However, he is also saying that you became engaged to Mr., Richard Benedict in order to avoid the lascivious attentions of Colonel Javan Benedict, of whom you are afraid.”

  Caroline’s jaw dropped. “That is ridiculous! He cannot say such things!”

  “I am afraid your waltz at the castle was noted by many. After all, he did not dance with anyone else. And now you are engaged to his cousin. It fits Swayle’s story, which is always more interesting than the truth.”

  “I wish I had the luxury of not caring what people say,” Caroline said intensely.

  “So do I,” Mrs. Gallini agreed. “Women who must work are at the mercy of all.”
<
br />   Caroline’s smile was twisted. “What comforting thought you bring me, Signora.”

  Casting a quick glance behind her at Javan, the singer lowered her voice further. “I wanted to be sure you did not believe these calumnies against him. We are old friends, he and I, and after what he suffered at the hands of the French, it makes me angry if his own people abuse him, too,”

  “He was a prisoner of the French, I believe.”

  “For several months.” The singer’s gaze was direct. “They tortured him.”

  The blood drained from Caroline’s face. “Why?” she whispered.

  Mrs. Gallini shrugged. “The kind of fighting he did. They assumed he knew secrets.”

  “Dear God…” No wonder he had nightmares from which he sought to escape. No wonder he had betrayed San Pedro or was afraid that he had.

  And in reality, when he finally had escaped his terrible prison, when he reached home, he had found his wife with her lover, a daughter who couldn’t speak, and a lot of vile rumors and accusations. With the flood of pity came the beginnings of an understanding. He doubted his worth.

  “He is a proud man, Miss Grey,” the singer said quietly. “But a lost one. I do not pretend to know what’s going on between the three of you, but please, please do not let him down.”

  Whatever she had expected of Mrs. Gallini, it was not this. “How are you friends?” she blurted, for the first time doubting her assumptions of their past, if not present intimacy.

  “In my profession, I travel,” Mrs. Gallini replied. “I sang in Spain for Joseph Bonaparte…and for Lord Wellington, which is where I met Javan. He escorted me safely out of Spain, when it was time for me to return to Italy. And we met again after I escaped to England.” She spread her fan, raising it to her face. “He is a fascinating man, Miss Grey, but he never loved me. And if I ever loved him, it was only a very little. I have a…weakness, it seems, for strong Englishmen.”

  Mrs. Gallini sat back, smiling, as Lady Serena drew away from the pillar and two gentlemen entered the box. As the world went on around her, Caroline felt a little as if she’d been struck on the head. Javan doubted her to some extent at least because he doubted himself. In his heart, he suspected she preferred Richard.

  What she didn’t know, of course, was how he felt about her. A few kisses to a man, a soldier, didn’t necessarily mean anything. He’d been starved of female company for some time, and the times he’d touched her had been in moments of stress or drunkenness. Her heart tightened painfully. She didn’t want to be just anyone to him. She wanted to be his all, as he, God help her, was hers.

  Tears gathered threateningly in her throat, but fortunately, the curtain went up again and she could focus on the stage.

  It was only as they finally left the theatre that the inevitable encounter between Javan and Swayle occurred. Although he’d wandered out of the box to stretch his legs a few times, he never seemed to have met the man he regarded as his enemy.

  Perhaps Swayle grew too bold. Though he really didn’t want to encounter Javan, Benedict’s over-casual attitude must have given Swayle the wrong impression of his observational skills. In company with Serena and Tamar, Caroline was following the Benedicts out the theatre door when Swayle stepped up to her from the shadows.

  “Miss Grey,” he said nervously. He licked his lips, his gaze flickering to right and left. As well it might, for several people seemed to be avidly watching the encounter.

  Caroline inclined her head and would have walked on, only he took a step nearer. “Please, Miss Grey, I wish only to be assured of your wellbeing.”

  To her relief, for she did not want there to be a fight, Richard had walked on without noticing. Javan, however, paused and turned slowly to face her and Swayle. The eyes of the two men met, the one large, scarred, and just a little frightening, the other slight and fragile and, apparently, bravely facing up to the monster.

  Don’t hit him. Please don’t hit him…

  With an effort, Caroline forced her shoulders to relax and bestowed the most dazzling smile she could summon. “As you see, sir, I am very well. Very well indeed.” She stepped nearer Javan and set the tips of her fingers on his proffered arm. Paying no more attention to Swayle, she prattled, “Did you enjoy the play, sir? I found it quite charming.”

  “Nicely done,” Javan murmured. “Thank you.”

  “It does not suit my dignity to be thought afraid of you,” she said coolly.

  “Nor mine.”

  There was time for little more. Lord and Lady Tamar were going to the hotel for supper, and so said farewell to Caroline and the Benedicts.

  “Did that little slubber speak to you, Caroline?” Richard demanded as he climbed into the coach beside her.

  “He timed it well. I think he meant to separate me from you both and see what trouble he could cause in front of the crowd.”

  “She sent him about his business with a most believable display of happiness,” Javan observed. “I don’t really understand why he’s still here.”

  “I expect he thinks you won’t hit him now that he has a walking stick,” Richard said.

  Javan curled his lip.

  “Seriously,” Richard added, “I think he’s looking for revenge against you for making him look like the cur he is when Louisa died.”

  Javan scowled. “I don’t want him skulking in Blackhaven when Rosa’s there.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The following morning, for the first time in several days, Caroline woke with a feeling of optimism. The silly engagement to Richard could easily be fixed and the world made right if Javan only cared for her a little. And as she began to understand him more, she thought he did. Now, she could try to help him heal.

  She sat up as the maid crept in with her washing bowl.

  “Oh, you’re awake, Miss,” the girl said. “Good. There’s a letter here, came for you yesterday, but you’d gone out already.”

  As the maid laid it on the bedside table, Caroline saw that it was from her sister Eliza, which was rare enough to intrigue her. Breaking the seal, she spread out the sheet and began to read.

  A second later, she held the back of her hand to her cheek in fear and shock. Peter was worse, dangerously so, and more money was necessary for the doctor.

  She was out of bed and throwing on her clothes before she’d even finished reading, let alone planned what she must do. It was still early, so if she could persuade Williams to drive her to Carlisle immediately, she might just catch the Edinburgh mail coach and be home by the evening. Hastily, she threw her spare gown and undergarments into her bag and left by the passage door.

  Hurtling downstairs, she almost crashed into Richard, coming in the opposite direction.

  “Woah, there,” he exclaimed. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Home,” Caroline said distraught. “I have to go home. Do you think I could borrow Williams to drive me to Carlisle? Oh, and if I don’t have time to write, can you tell Rosa I’ll only be gone a few days, and apologize to Mr. and Miss Benedict—”

  “Slow down,” Richard begged. “If there is a family emergency, of course I’ll drive you to Carlisle—or all the way home, if you prefer. Let me get my man and then we’ll go.”

  Caroline seized her bonnet and cloak from their usual place, ignoring the foolish ache as she glanced along to the study door. Alert for sounds of Richard’s return, she dashed into the drawing room and scribbled a note to Javan. There wasn’t time to write much. Richard clattered down the stairs and the clop of horses’ hooves heralded the speedy arrival of his curricle in front of the house. In the end, she wrote only,

  My dear Sir,

  Forgive me, I have gone to Scotland. Please assure Rosa I shall return in a few days. My apologies to you and to Miss Benedict.

  Yours humbly,

  Caroline Grey.

  She barely had time to fold it and prop it up on the mantle shelf before she ran out to join Richard. In no time, she was seated beside him, her familiar, battered carpet ba
g on her lap, while Richard, with a practiced flick of his wrists, set his spirited team of horses into motion.

  As she drew away from Haven Hall, she had the peculiar fantasy that her heart was being ripped from her body.

  *

  Marcus Swayle was barely awake when the villainous but useful Mr. Miller—Killer Miller to his friends—was brought before him. From his bed, propped up on pillows, Swayle regarded his most recent henchman with disfavor.

  “They’re on the move,” Miller informed him.

  “Who are?” Swayle demanded testily. He wasn’t at his best before his morning cup of tea.

  “Folks at Haven Hall. Two of ‘em at any rate.”

  When no further information was forthcoming, Swayle snatched his tea from his valet and glared at Miller. “Which two?”

  “Benedict and the young lady.”

  Swayle paused with his tea half way to his lips. “Indeed?” he said softly. “Now you interest me, my friend. And…er…where are they on the move to? Blackhaven?”

  “No, sir, they took the north road.”

  Swayle almost choked on his tea and hastily set down his cup. “Truly? Then they are eloping? This is wonderful! He’s got so angry that she engaged herself to his cousin that he’s dragging her to Gretna Green!”

  Miller scratched his head. “Glad we’re pleased by the turn of events.”

  “We most certainly are. Now you must hurry, my man. Ride after them, and on a quiet piece of road, shoot her.”

  Miller blinked. “Shoot her? Got no call to go shooting women! I thought it was this Benedict we was out to get?”

  “Idiot, sirrah! We do get him! The world thinks he shot her, just as he killed his wife, my sainted Louisa. At best, Benedict’s hanged for it. At the least, he loses what’s left of his reputation and is furious besides at losing his latest toy.”

  “Toy?” Miller said, bewildered.

  Swayle scowled. “The governess, whom you will have shot.”