The Earl's Runaway Governess Page 6

  He had gone through John’s financial affairs with the lawyer, and had seen enough to know that with care and attention and some of his own money he should be able to restore the accounts to good health in a year or two. Only John’s illness—and his inability to manage his affairs as a result—had led to the downturn in fortunes. Wages had not been paid, good staff had left, and everything had gone downhill from there.

  Ash had been busy in London these past two days. His valet and coachman were to follow him here tomorrow with his trunks, and he had charged his secretary with finding a good steward. He had found time to visit his closest friends to explain that he would likely be absent for a while. Most of them had thought it a great joke.

  ‘But, Ash!’ one had said, punching him light-heartedly on the arm. ‘You have never had any cares! I give it a month, then you will tire of this diversion!’

  ‘I only wish that were true, Barny,’ he had replied, somewhat sadly. ‘But I cannot see a month being long enough to fix this dashed mess!’

  Barny had been right about one thing, though. Ash had indeed never carried any responsibility. Nor had he ever wished to. He was blessed with a decent fortune from his mother’s family, which enabled him to live comfortably as a single man. He rented a house near Grosvenor Square, overpaid his servants to ensure he would avoid the inconvenience of hiring and training new ones, and spent his life entirely at his own leisure.

  He was at no one’s beck and call, he had no ties and he liked it that way. Responsibility meant limits and not being in charge of one’s own course.

  Wistfully, he reflected that if not for John and this confounded mess he would be at White’s right now, enjoying good company and fine wine. Instead of which—

  ‘We shall retire to the parlour and leave you to your port.’

  Belatedly he realised the table had been cleared and the three ladies were departing. Rising swiftly, he nodded politely, then sank back into his chair with relief when they had gone.

  Although a favourite with the ladies—one of his tasks in London yesterday had been to bid farewell to the dashing high-flyer whose company he had been enjoying for nigh on two months—he was nevertheless unused to domesticity, families and, frankly, histrionics. His life was normally calm, devoid of drama and well-organised. And he liked it that way.

  His mama had died when he was young, leaving her entire fortune in trust for Ash, and when he’d come home from school and university he and Papa would enjoy good food, fine wine and a wide range of male sports. Ash was a skilled horseman, boxer and fencer, and Papa had ensured he had access to all the best clubs.

  And always, always, Papa had ribbed his brother, the Third Earl, teasing him about his dullness and domesticity.

  John, Ash knew, had been raised from babyhood to be the next Earl Kingswood, and had taken his responsibilities seriously even in childhood. He would obediently leave Ash playing in the woods or fishing to go off with his father and his father’s steward to inspect a broken bridge or visit a tenant farmer, leaving Ash perplexed at John’s dutiful compliance.

  Ash had a sneaking suspicion that he would not be up to filling John’s shoes, and that thought scared the hell out of him.

  There! He had admitted it.

  Remembering that there was no manservant to appear with the alcohol that he suddenly craved, Ash rose and began searching in the rosewood sideboard. Success! Two bottles of port and some dusty glasses. Blowing into a glass to clear the worst of the dust, he then wiped it with his kerchief and filled it with port.

  Lifting the glass, he made a toast to his cousin, then sampled the ruby-red liquid.

  Not bad, he thought. A pity you aren’t here to share it with me, John.

  Not for the first time he thought with regret on the distance between himself and John since his cousin’s marriage. If they had been closer perhaps he could have helped during these last months—prevented John’s home from deteriorating, his financial affairs from spiralling downwards and his family from becoming distressed. Perhaps he could have learned a little about what he was supposed to do.

  And you are still adding to his family’s distress, a small voice in his head reminded him.

  He sighed. He knew it. Somehow, though, when Fanny was being Fanny his reason went out the window and it seemed he became eighteen again.

  Fanny had always been impractical, he recalled. Of course his eighteen-year-old self had not seen further than her deep blue eyes and blonde curls. Like John, he had become completely infatuated with Fanny when she and her family had moved to the district. Spending the summer at Ledbury House that year had been ecstasy, agony and ultimately a severe lesson. For of course she had chosen John.

  And he and John had fallen out over it.

  They had both said words intended to hurt the other and, stupidly, had never put it right. Ash had attended their wedding—as John’s cousin he had been obliged to—but afterwards had avoided him. At the time Ash had not been able to bear to see John and Fanny together. In his youthful mind he had thought that what he was experiencing was heartbreak, and the only way to recover was to cut Fanny out of his life—which had meant it was easier not to make the effort to repair his relationship with John.

  Somehow years had gone by, and then had come the message that John had died, following a long illness.

  His thoughts drifted back towards Fanny again. How did he feel about her now? Despite the momentary echo of his former infatuation when he had first encountered her in the library, it was clear that now he saw her differently. She was an attractive woman, certainly, and yet neither his heart nor his loins showed any interest in her. In fact, his predominant mood when he found himself in Fanny’s company was one of irritation.

  And she had known it—had seen straight through him. The governess—Miss Bolton.

  He pictured her in his mind’s eye. Now, there was a woman to stir him! She was gently bred—that much was obvious—and somewhere in her early twenties. She was also extremely pretty, with dark hair, gentle brown eyes and a pleasantly plump figure.

  His connoisseur’s eye had assessed her at the inn as she had stood there gaping at him. Miss Bolton possessed an indefinable quality that had attracted his attention. At the time he had felt as though something significant had passed between them, but had dismissed the notion as fanciful. Had the circumstances been different, he believed he would have tried to strike up a conversation with her.

  Today, though, filled with irritation at having had to leave London and come to this godforsaken place, Ash had not been in the mood to charm unknown young ladies. He had not followed up on his attraction towards her but instead had been consumed with the frustrations of an earldom, an estate and a ward that he had never wanted.

  When he had discovered he was to be forced to convey Miss Bolton to the house his annoyance had increased. And that had been before she had criticised his driving! Oh, he had heard her gasp, seen how she gripped the side of the phaeton. For goodness’ sake—did she think him a cow-handed amateur? Why, he was known as one of the best drivers in London!

  To be fair, he had warmed towards Miss Bolton a little as they’d neared the house—her innocent approval of his driving skills had amused him, and he had felt sorry for her when he’d heard Fanny call her a lightskirt. As if he would be so crass as to bring a paramour to Ledbury House!

  But then he recalled that Fanny had never been known to show insight. Or common sense. Suddenly the qualities that had attracted the eighteen-year-old Ash—particularly Fanny’s flightiness and love for drama—seemed much less attractive in a thirty-year-old Dowager Countess.

  And Fanny had never read him as the governess had tonight at dinner. Somehow Miss Bolton had known that he was about to react to Fanny again—that he was prepared to keep the argument alive. Her still, calm gaze had discomfited him.

  He shifted uncomfortably. What right had she—an almos
t-servant in his employ—to behave so towards him? Miss Bolton, he decided, was much too presumptuous.

  Draining his glass, he set it down with a thump and went in search of the ladies.

  Chapter Six

  Thankfully the fire in the parlour was high, and the room was actually warm. For the first time since arriving in Ledbury House a few hours ago Marianne felt warmth getting through to her bones. The excellent food had helped, of course—though the frosty atmosphere had somewhat spoiled her enjoyment of the best meal she had had since leaving home three days ago.

  Frowning, she reflected on the difficult situation she had found herself in. Lady Kingswood and the Earl were at loggerheads, and likely to remain so. And Lady Cecily, she thought, was caught in the middle—loyal to her mama but disliking the conflict. Surely Marianne’s first duty was to her charge? It was not in Cecily’s interests for her to witness what might prove to be an ongoing open battle.

  Marianne herself hated quarrels, and often acted as peacemaker between her friends, and even occasionally between the servants at home. She knew that sometimes even difficulties that seemed intractable could be resolved, and wondered if that might be the case here.

  She also knew that if people were determined to hurt others—if they genuinely had no care for others—then walking away was the only safe option. Which was why she herself had left home. There was no misunderstanding between her and Henry. In fact, it was the opposite. She had finally realised who he truly was, and the fact that he had no compassion or morality left within him.

  Gazing into the fire, Marianne reviewed what she knew of the situation here at Ledbury House. Lord Kingswood had inherited the estate and the law allowed him to do as he pleased with it. Lady Kingswood and her daughter had no choice but to submit to the law, and to his mastery.

  As he was, apparently, also Lady Cecily’s guardian, he had invited the Dowager Countess and her daughter to remain living in the main house for now. Lady Cecily had confessed that the Dower House was in a bad state of repair, so she and her mama were relieved to be still living there.

  Since Ledbury House itself was in no great condition, Marianne shuddered to think how bad the Dower House must be. However, although the estate seemed to be in financial difficulties, and had lost most of its staff, they had still hired her to be governess to Lady Cecily, and both Cecily and her mother had elegant clothing. So Cecily’s future and current needs had been a priority when economies were being made.

  Other governesses had left—perhaps because they had not received their wages, or perhaps, as Mrs Gray had reported, because Ledbury House was simply too quiet, too remote for those used to the bustle of London. But had there been other reasons?

  Knowing that a number of footmen and maids had left their positions in her own home after Henry had become master, she wondered if perhaps something similar was at play in Ledbury House. Was someone or something making the servants’ lives difficult in Ledbury House?

  From what Marianne could tell so far, Lady Cecily seemed to be calm, polite and unassuming. Lady Kingswood’s conduct had been challenging today, but then, she was a newly bereaved widow, experiencing the powerlessness and frustration of the law’s preference for men. It was too soon for Marianne to judge whether she was habitually demanding.

  So had some of the staff left because of Lord Kingswood’s manner? She could well believe that! But, no—he had stated clearly that he had not been at Ledbury House for many years prior to this week. So whatever had been occurring it was not due to him. And yet his arrival looked to have increased tensions within the household.

  The thought recalled her to the present. Lady Kingswood was sitting peacefully in an armchair near the fire, while Lady Cecily busied herself with some sewing. Unlike the sitting room they had sat in earlier, this parlour was clean and comfortable. Mrs Cullen and Agnes had clearly had to choose which rooms would receive attention. Although Lady Kingswood seemed outwardly serene, Marianne noted with concern the slight crease in the woman’s forehead and the fixed way she was staring into the fire.

  Tentatively, Marianne offered, ‘This is a beautiful room.’

  Her hostess lifted her head and looked at her blankly before focusing on what Marianne had said. She smiled slightly. ‘Thank you. I had it redecorated just before John—just before my husband became ill.’

  Keen to prevent Lady Kingswood focusing on her bereavement, Marianne began asking her about the various furnishings, the colours chosen and the layout of the room. She complimented her on her good taste and commented on the warmth and cosiness of the room, highlighting how welcome it was after her cold journey earlier.

  The air thawed a little between them, and the conversation began to flow with something approaching a natural rhythm.

  Until the door opened and Lord Kingswood joined them.

  Lady Kingswood’s reaction was immediate. She drew herself up in her chair, raised an imperious eyebrow and stated generally, ‘Is it that time already?’

  The implication—that Lord Kingswood had not tarried long enough over his port—was evident to all present. The air was positively bristling with tension. Yet the Earl, ignoring it, made for the fire. Holding his hands to it briefly, he then turned to face the room, allowing the fire to warm his back and legs.

  ‘Finally!’ he pronounced. ‘A decent fire!’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lady Kingswood fixed him with a steely glare. ‘The room was warming up nicely until your arrival. Please do not block the heat from the rest of us.’ She glanced down at her hands, addressing no one in particular. ‘I have often thought that consideration for others is a virtue sadly undervalued.’

  He snorted. ‘I myself have often bemoaned the loss of politeness in society. An important virtue, sadly lacking at times, would you not agree?’

  Lady Kingswood’s hands became fists in her lap. ‘Are you accusing me of rudeness?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied urbanely, moving to seat himself in an armchair. ‘I was speaking generally. Surely you do not see yourself as being rude?’

  Lord, here they go again! thought Marianne.

  She decided to intervene. ‘I have often noticed,’ she offered, ‘that what seems acceptable to one person may seem unacceptable to another. Surely there are individual differences that must be allowed if people are to get along with each other?’

  He turned his head and deliberately, coolly, looked at her. And kept looking at her. She could feel her colour rising. Had she said something wrong? Surely he could see that she was simply trying to help?

  Lady Kingswood had stood up, and now retrieved a book of sermons from a side table. Deliberately, she opened the book and pretended to read, ignoring everyone around her.

  ‘Sermons, eh, Fanny?’ Lord Kingswood chuckled. ‘From what I recall you were never one for sermons when I knew you.’

  ‘That,’ she snapped back, ‘was nigh on fourteen years ago—when I was but a child myself. You know nothing about who I am now.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, making a careful study of his signet ring, ‘I suspect you are not much changed, Fanny. At heart, you are as you ever were.’

  Marianne frowned. Lord Kingswood’s comment had reminded her of how she had agonised over Henry’s character. Was there any good in her stepbrother? Could she do anything to help him behave better towards the people around him? She had often asked herself these questions—until that last night, when he had showed himself to be beyond redemption.

  Henry had never accepted his father’s second marriage and had tried his best—even as a child—to make Marianne’s life miserable. He had always been careful not to let his papa or Marianne’s mama see his true self. Marianne had tried to speak to him about it once, when she was aged about ten and Henry had been fifteen. He had simply laughed at her.

  ‘Your precious mama,’ he had sneered, ‘should not even be in this house. It is my mother who is the true mistres
s, and she should never have been replaced. I cannot wait for the old man to die and then I will throw both of you out! Oh, how I long for that day!’

  Shocked, Marianne had decided not to tell Mama about it, for fear that she would be upset. But she had spoken to Mama about Henry in general terms. ‘Why is Henry so angry, Mama?’

  ‘Hush, now, child,’ Mama had responded. ‘He is angry because he misses his own mama, and that is a sad thing, is it not?’

  ‘If you and Papa die, where will I live?’

  ‘You will always have a home here if you want it. Now, do not worry about things that may never happen!’

  Yet it had happened, and Henry had, in fact, forced her to leave her home simply by making her life intolerable if she stayed. She would be twenty-one in April and, in theory at least, might have had more freedom after reaching her majority. However, she did not understand enough about the law to be certain, and there had been no one she could ask.

  She shivered. Despite the tension of today’s events, at least here she was not in imminent danger of any assault upon her person. And her bedroom door, she had noted, had a lock and key.

  She really must be careful about confusing Henry with other men. Yes, she needed to be wary of any man, yet there was nothing to suggest that Lord Kingswood was anything like Henry. He was gruff, yes, and seemed miserable—but, she judged, there was no badness in him.

  Her heart went out to this little broken family. She looked at each of them in turn. They all looked unhappy. All three of them. And they were all bound together here. She would have to help them make the best of it.

  * * *

  Marianne shook out her dresses and hung them in the armoire. The hour was late, but she did not feel like sleeping. The hostile atmosphere in the parlour had persisted until at last Lady Kingswood had announced that she would retire. All the ladies had risen with her, leaving the Earl to his solitary enjoyment of the fire.