A Governess of Discretion (The Governess Bureau Book 2) Read online

  “Of course, Miss Clarke,” she said aloud. “I was engaged two years ago by the Earl of Allun to care for his three children. Lady Maria Grantchester is now seventeen, Lord Grantchester is fifteen and departed three years ago to Eton, and the Right Honorable Gordon is eleven and followed suit last week. All three children have been educated to a high standard, and Lady Maria will enter society this Season––at Almack’s in two weeks, I believe. No unusual circumstances. A happy family.”

  It was a concise summary, and one she had rehearsed in the carriage ride back to London. The earl had been very good about that. Well. He did owe her a favor.

  Anne had expected Miss Clarke to speak, to agree with her summary, ask a question, anything. But the older woman just sat there, staring.

  The silence elongated to such an extent Anne started to feel the prickle of nerves creeping down her spine. Why wasn’t Miss Clarke saying anything? Was there a chance the report from the earl, clearly sitting between them, said anything different?

  She swallowed, tasting fear. When one joined a household, you trusted your master and mistress with your reputation just as they trusted you with their child. The grander the title, the higher the expectations. That was natural. But she had always given her best. There was nothing in her memory that suggested she had ever done something indiscrete. Had she?

  Miss Clarke’s glare had raised the temperature of the room by several degrees, but after what felt like an eternity, she picked up the letter with the earl’s seal.

  “It says here,” said the proprietress after another minute’s silence, “that you are a governess of discretion.”

  It was evidently not a question, so Anne waited.

  “And why would the Earl of Allun say such a thing?”

  It was not like Anne to hesitate, but this was a… A delicate situation.

  At the end of the day, she had not intended to do it. She had not planned to walk into that bedchamber on the hunt for Lady Maria’s blue spring bonnet, and she had therefore not intended to walk in on the earl making love to his mistress.

  She had quickly departed, and endured a rather uncomfortable conversation afterwards.

  Anne knew Miss Clarke was waiting for her response, but what was she supposed to say? That the earl had offered her money for her silence––money!––which had offended her conscience far more than the indiscretion.

  “I am a member of the Governess Bureau,” she had said coldly. “My master’s secrets are as closely guarded as my own.”

  “I am waiting,” said Miss Clarke, her voice cutting into Anne’s thoughts.

  Anne took a deep breath. “I really could not say what he means.”

  There was a laugh but not from Miss Clarke. The voice was low, mischievous––masculine.

  Anne whirled around and saw to her surprise a gentleman, tall and with closely cut chestnut hair, was standing by the door. She had not heard him come in which meant…

  Which meant he had been there when she herself had entered the room, but she simply had not noticed!

  Cheeks flushed, Anne quickly recounted all she had said. No, there was nothing there she was ashamed of.

  “My God, look at you,” the man breathed.

  Anne’s stomach twisted. Now what could he mean by that?

  “You do not know what he means?” Miss Clarke persisted, and Anne turned to face her. “You refuse to tell me?”

  This was not how it was supposed to go at all. Anne had not expected wild and extravagant praise, exactly, but she had worked hard for the Alluns and had hoped for a similarly impression station next.

  “I said,” she said clearly, “I do not know what he means.”

  The gentleman behind her snorted. “A governess of discretion indeed!”

  Whoever this man was, Anne thought irritably, he was most rude not to introduce himself and listen to her conversation with Miss Clarke.

  Besides, she had given her word to the Earl of Allun. Even if that promise had not precluded ensuring that her mistress, the Countess of Allun, had discovered the presence of her husband’s mistress accidently…

  Technically, she had not told anyone.

  Anne smiled. Just because she had discretion, that did not mean that she did not have a moral center.

  “She’s perfect.” The gentleman stepped forward and dropped lazily into the chair beside her. “I’ll take her.”

  “B-But you have only just––don’t you want to see others?” spluttered Miss Clarke. “There are plenty of governesses currently on my books who––”

  “No, I have seen all I need,” said the gentleman with a wry grin.

  His gaze scanned over Anne. If she had known she was to be judged by a future master, she would have done something more with her hair, and certainly given a longer report of her time with the Alluns.

  As Miss Clarke spluttered on about the variety of different expertise available to him within the Governess Bureau, Anne took the liberty of examining what appeared to be her future employer.

  He was young, younger than she had expected, if he was indeed the Earl of Clarcton. For some reason, she always pictured earls as elderly gentlemen, doddery, stuck in their ways.

  Most earls were not as attractive as this one, either. His jaw always seemed to be held at a jaunty angle. His eyes were sharp, a dark blue, and uncompromising in their view.

  Yet if Anne had passed him on the street, she would not have taken him for an earl. Though well dressed, his waistcoat was barely embroidered at all, his cuffs frayed.

  An earl was supposed to be…well, more dashing, Anne mused. He appeared subdued.

  No mistress either. Where was the Countess of Clarcton? Anne had always been interviewed by both mother and father whenever her services as governess were required. Perhaps she had not wished to make the journey to London.

  The gentleman’s gaze caught her own, and he chuckled, his eyes teasing her as though she had been a maid caught in the act of sitting on the mistress’ bed.

  Anne looked away, her cheeks flushed.

  “No,” he said with a grin. “This is the one.”

  Anne looked at Miss Clarke, who sighed.

  “So be it. Miss Anne Gilbert, Timothy Lexington, Earl of Clarcton. My lord, Miss Gilbert has just finished an assignment, and before her next she is due a certain amount of rest and––”

  “I’ll take her now.”

  This man was really starting to irritate her now. She was not some sort of parcel that could be wrapped and immediately sent!

  Miss Clarke was evidently thinking the same way. “My ladies are not so easily delivered, as though merely dropped onto a mail coach!” she snapped. “Please do not forget, my lord, that you are not ordering from a catalogue!”

  “Could have fooled me,” he said easily. “At least, that’s what the Duke of Rochdale told me.”

  It was Anne’s contrary nature that made her smile at this. The Duke of Rochdale had just wed one of Miss Clarke’s precious ladies, making him probably the least favorite person of the proprietress at this moment.

  “See, Miss Gilbert is all for it.”

  It was not in Anne to allow that to pass. “I said nothing, my lord.”

  “You did not need to,” he countered, rising to his feet. “You will take the position?”

  Anne swallowed. He was a strange man, not like the previous earl she had served at all. But there was something about him…something enticing. And there was that rumor she could not remember, and the whispers from Miss Fletcher…

  “If you ask me, he did it.”

  “I will,” she found herself saying.

  Their eyes met for a moment, then in a flash he looked away. “Excellent. Miss Gilbert, meet me at the George Inn, Southwark, in an hour. We leave at once.”

  With that, he strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Anne’s mouth dropped open. Well, of all the rude, arrogant, impulsive––

  “His lordship is seeking a governess of discretion,” said Miss Clarke quietly.

  “Why?”

  Miss Clarke stared for a moment, as though considering how to respond. “I suppose you will eventually find out.”

  Chapter Two

  2 November 1812

  The sharp pain in his shoulder was jolted once more against the side of the carriage.

  “Blasted roads!” Timothy Lexington, Earl of Clarcton, muttered. “You would think, all the tax I am paying, that the damned roads would be better!”

  As the curse words poured off his tongue he felt immediately better, the heat of his rage cooled by the heat of his words.

  It was only when he looked up and saw his companion in the carriage that he recollected himself.

  Damn and blast. If only he had remembered himself sooner, he would have saved himself the trouble of having to apologize. It was a shame that as he opened his mouth to do so, the carriage jolted again across what was presumably a stone in the road, tipping him once more into the carriage and causing another stream of oaths to pour from his mouth.

  “God damnit!”

  Timothy tried to stem the tide, but it was no use. That was what two years of being alone did to you––alone other than his gentlemen friends, who cursed far worse than he did.

  But he was not with them. He was in his carriage, rattling back to Clarcton and doing its best to deliver him there black and blue, in the company of the new governess.

  Timothy sighed heavily. Blast it indeed. It was most unfortunate she was to see such a poor side of his character, but if there was one thing he could be depended upon to complain about, it was the roads.

  “You always complain about the roads,” she had said all those years ago, that smirk on her face. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

 
Pain. Pain in his hands. Timothy looked down and saw he had clenched his fists so tight his fingernails were digging into his palm. On his left, there were marks. On his right, he was bleeding.

  Putting thoughts of her far from his mind and wiping his hand on his breeches, Timothy looked up to see if the governess had noticed the curses or self-inflicted injuries.

  It appeared not. At least, he could not exactly tell. Miss Anne Gilbert did not appear offended by the way he had spoken nor shocked at the anger he had turned on himself.

  She did not appear interested in him at all. From what Timothy could see, she was far more interested in the book behind which she had disappeared within five minutes of entering the carriage.

  Timothy shuffled in his seat, but the movement did not gain her attention.

  Not that he was attempting to. That would be pathetic. Though it was jarring to sit in such elongated silence, day after day. People usually hung on his every word.

  Tension grew in his shoulders, partly due to the bumping carriage, partly due to his own damned pride. This was foolish. Who was he to impress a governess? It was supposed to be the other way around; she would need to demonstrate her worth.

  It wasn’t as though he knew much of her, anyway. All that could be seen of the delectable––no, Timothy immediately halted himself. No, he was not going to fall into that trap which presumably most masters tipped over into whenever they had a new female servant enter the home.

  He did not select his servants for their looks, though it had been rather a shock to see her in old Clarke’s office. The resemblance, it was startling.

  “My God, look at you.”

  It was beyond anything that he could have imagined. Even if he had sought the mirror image of her, he would not have found a better. Except the hair, of course. Red, not blonde.

  But other than that, they could have been sisters. If he was not absolutely sure they were not the same person, he would start to wonder…

  Timothy cleared his throat, an uncomfortably guttural sound in the empty carriage. God in his Heaven, he was bored. He hadn’t thought to bring any entertainment for the journey, preferring to spend it asleep.

  That was no option now, not with a lady in the carriage. He supposed she expected conversation, but on the few occasions when the book descended and Timothy could look directly into her eyes he had…

  Said nothing. What was there to say? He was desperate for conversation, connection. He had been at Clarcton Castle too long. He had been alone too long…

  But whenever those blue eyes met his own, it was too much. Too much like her.

  The coincidence, for coincidence it must be, was disconcerting. Timothy had almost mentioned it when he had first heard her give her little report to Miss Clarke. It had been on the tip of the tongue.

  “You are the spitting image of…”

  Timothy coughed. His mouth which had gone dry at the very thought.

  But there was no chance––Louise had no sisters, he knew that. Or at least, he thought wryly, that was what she had always told him. Now he was not entirely sure what to believe.

  His gaze raked over the little he could see of the woman seated opposite. A simple gown, covered by a thick pelisse. A muffler laid beside her as delicate fingers turned a page. He could not see her face. He did not need to; he had its every curve memorized, every inch was known to him.

  The hair, a brilliant red, almost scarlet, peeped out over the leather tome that was so absorbing. Timothy’s mind rebelled, expecting to see the blonde he had beloved on Louise.

  A pox on this silence. He had to break it!

  “Miss Gilbert…” he began quietly.

  He had expected to her to speak. To jump at the chance for conversation, to put the book down and smile.

  Miss Gilbert merely turned another page.

  A flicker of irritation curled around his heart. He had not expected such reticence. Who was she to be reticent about speaking to him?

  The Governess Bureau. It was Rochdale’s damn fault. He’d said the place had the best reputation, and it was not as though Timothy was an expert in the field. It had been many years since he had needed a governess.

  And he had asked around, as any caring parent would…Timothy sighed at the very thought. As any parent would. And Rochdale was not entirely wrong; even princes from the Continent had availed themselves of a governess from the Bureau.

  Miss Anne Gilbert, if he remembered her name correctly, had already proved herself a governess of discretion, and that was what he required.

  The House of Clarcton [if Author means the household and not the House of Clarcton, recommend rephrasing] didn’t need an educator. It needed a guardian, someone who knew to keep their mouth shut and their tongue to themselves.

  Timothy shifted uncomfortably. Blast, these long carriage rides would be the death of him. If only someone could be convinced to do something about these accursed roads! That was the problem with Rochdale; he never did anything in government.

  He was not a cruel man. He did not consider himself such, at least. But he was a clever man, and he saw opportunities where others just saw problems.

  He was looking at Miss Gilbert now, and she was an opportunity.

  He had not planned this. He was no mastermind, and Miss Gilbert had just fallen––well, not into his lap, worse luck, but still. Close enough.

  Timothy smiled at the thought. She would be part of the Clarcton household, and so like Louise…

  An idea was forming in his mind, and there was no doubt it was a wild one. It would never work, and even if it did, she would never agree to it. She was a governess of discretion, which was what he had wanted, but that did not mean she was willing to do the ridiculous.

  Another page turned. Timothy tilted his head to make out the title.

  The New Critique of Reason.

  He sat back in his seat. God’s teeth, that anyone, let alone a woman, could bear to read such a thing––and with apparent enjoyment, if her silence meant anything!

  No, his was a foolish idea. Timothy should not have permitted it to cross his mind. There was no chance Miss Gilbert, prim and proper, corseted up with the decorum of society and the prestige of the Governess Bureau weighing on her, would acquiesce to such a wild scheme.

  Timothy almost laughed at the thought. No, why would she agree? She did not know him, had no loyalty like the other Clarcton servants. She had no reason to trust him, no reason to see how the whole thing could be so simple. He wasn’t about to bribe a woman for such a task. Not yet. He wasn’t nearly desperate enough.

  The carriage swerved, the wind getting up as it whistled past them, and Timothy swore quietly under his breath as he was once again thrown into the side.

  “Damned roads,” he muttered.

  Even he could hear how petulant he sounded. Christ and all his saints, he was better than this!

  It appeared that particular curse was sufficient to interrupt the governess.

  Her book lowered to her lap, Timothy was for the first time in hours able to look directly into the eyes of the woman he had secured as governess for the child. She was looking rather more directly than he was accustomed to, and her tone––frank, direct, with no servility to speak of––was another surprise.

  “What would you like to talk about, my lord?”

  Timothy blinked. Well, that was rather unexpected. Instead of the gentle servility that was the typical approach people took when speaking to him, Miss Gilbert spoke as though she was speaking to a butcher: ordering and expecting a response.

  It was so odd, he found himself self-conscious under the focus of her gaze.

  Or was it that she was so similar to Louise?

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said sternly, as though speaking to a footman who had brought him the wrong book.

  Miss Gilbert looked unfazed. “Really? Because you have complained about the roads twenty-six times over the last three days.”

  Timothy’s mouth fell open. The woman had been counting how many times he had complained––and nary once had she bothered to respond or engage in conversation!

  “That suggests to me you wish to talk, but are unsure precisely which topic to raise,” Miss Gilbert continued smoothly, her eyes never wavering. “Am I correct?”

  Timothy closed his mouth hurriedly. Here he was, an earl, a Clarcton, and he was making himself look a complete fool before a governess!