The Wayward Governess. Joanna Fulford
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the implications of the words struck home.
‘Greville?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dear Lord, Marcus, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I read about his death in The Times, but the piece said he’d had a riding accident.’
‘The matter was hushed up and the story fabricated. The authorities didn’t want the truth made public. Greville was a government agent working under the alias of David Gifford.’
‘Ye gods.’ George sat down while he tried to marshal his scattered wits. ‘The news of his death made quite an impact in these parts, what with Netherclough Hall being virtually on the doorstep.’
‘I can imagine. It rocked London, too. Greville was well known in diplomatic circles. Besides which he left no male heir, only a young daughter.’
‘Then the title and the estate pass to you.’
‘Yes. Behold the new Viscount Destermere.’ Marcus accompanied the words with a humourless smile. ‘It is a role I never thought to have.’
‘But one you will perform well nevertheless.’
‘Thank you for that vote of confidence. I’ll do my best, though I never wanted to step into my brother’s shoes. He was always welcome to them, for it seemed to me that my destiny lay elsewhere.’
‘Circumstances have a habit of changing our plans, do they not?’ said George.
‘As you say.’
‘So what now?’
‘Officially I’m not back from India yet, but I shall have to put in an appearance soon.’
‘And what of your niece?’
‘Lucy is now my ward. At present she is being cared for by an elderly aunt in Essex. Hardly a suitable state of affairs. I shall bring the child to live here in Yorkshire. After all, Netherclough is her ancestral home.’
‘I see.’
‘After that I shall pursue my investigations.’ He paused. ‘The house is ideally situated for the purpose, being right in the heart of things.’
‘You can’t be serious. These men are dangerous, Marcus. They’ve murdered Greville and tried to kill you. I know they had no idea of your true identity but, even so, if they got wind of your real purpose here…’
‘Let’s hope they don’t. But come what may I shall find out who killed my brother. It is a matter of family honour that the culprit be brought to justice. That is the very least I can do for his daughter.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I owe it to his memory.’
George nodded reluctantly. ‘I can’t blame you for wanting to discover the truth, but have a care, I beg you.’
‘I’ll be careful. As soon as I’m able I shall leave for London and Mark Eden can disappear for a while. Give it out that he went back to his family to convalesce.’
‘Very well.’
‘How much have you told your sister and Miss Davenport?’
‘They don’t know your real identity. Apart from that I stuck as close to the truth as possible.’
‘Good. I regret the necessity for deception.’
‘So do I. Ellen and I are very close and I should not like to impose on Miss Davenport.’
‘When the time is right they will be informed. I owe them that much at least. In the meantime I take it I can rely on your discretion.’
‘Need you ask?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus sighed. ‘That was unpardonably rude after all you’ve done.’
‘Just promise me you won’t leave until you’re strong enough.’
‘You have my word. Besides, at this moment the thought of a journey to London fills me with dread.’ He ran a hand over his chin. ‘In the meantime I need to bathe and shave. I’m beginning to feel like a pirate.’
Having spent over two weeks abed, Marcus was determined to get up and, as George provided no opposition to the idea, he did so the very next day. Though still weaker than he would have wished, the pain of the wound had almost gone and provided he made no sudden movement it felt almost normal. Somewhat reluctantly he submitted to wearing a sling for a few days, but felt it a small price to pay, all things considered. A message had been sent to his lodgings and his things were duly sent round. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Marcus smiled wryly. The best that could be said was that the clothes were clean and serviceable and they fitted. They were hardly in the first stare of fashion. Just for a moment he saw his brother’s face in the glass and it wore a pained expression. Almost he could hear his voice:
‘Good Lord! What ragbag did you get those out of, Bro?’
Marcus grinned. A ragbag indeed, by Greville’s standards anyway. His brother had always been both extravagant and elegant in his dress. They hadn’t met since Marcus had been packed off to India ten years before. Now they would never meet again, or not in this life anyway. His jaw tightened. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find the men responsible for that.
He finished dressing and made his way downstairs to the parlour. When he entered he discovered he was not the first there. A girl was sitting by the window, bent over the open sketchbook in her lap. For a moment he checked in surprise, sweeping her with a comprehensive gaze from the dusky curls to the toe of a small slipper peeping from beneath the hem of a primrose yellow morning gown. She looked familiar somehow. Then he remembered.
‘Ah, Miss Davenport. Good morning.’
The pencil hovered in mid-air as she looked up. Claire had been so absorbed in her task that she had not heard him come in. For a moment she was rooted to the spot and could only stare. She had forgotten just how imposing a presence he was. In addition to that she was only too aware of the scene that had taken place in the sickroom earlier. Did he remember any of it?
If he was discomposed by her scrutiny it was not evident. Indeed, the cool grey eyes met and held her gaze. His expression gave nothing away. Recollecting herself quickly, she returned the greeting.
‘Mr Eden, I am glad to see you so far recovered.’
‘If I am, it is in no small part due to you.’
‘I did very little, sir.’
‘George tells me you have been a most excellent nurse. An unusual role for a young lady.’
‘I…it was the least I could do.’
‘It is my profound regret that I have no recollection of it.’
Claire’s spirits rose in an instant. ‘I’m so glad.’ Then, seeing his eyebrow lift, ‘I mean, so glad that I was able to help—in some small way.’ Knowing herself to be on dangerous ground, and growing warm besides, she changed the subject. ‘Please, won’t you sit? You should avoid tiring yourself unduly.’
His lips curved in a satirical smile. Ordinarily he would have treated such advice as presumption and responded with a pithy set down, but on this occasion he said nothing. Having taken the suggestion, he watched her resume her seat. As she did so he let his gaze rest on her, quietly appraising. The sprigged muslin gown was a simple and elegant garment, but it revealed her figure to perfection. A most becoming figure, he noted. Moreover the primrose yellow colour suited her, enhancing her warm colouring and dark curls.
‘What are you drawing?’
‘It’s just a sketch that I wanted to finish.’
‘May I see it?’
‘If you like, but I wouldn’t want to excite your anticipation.’
She rose and handed him the book, watching as he leafed through it, wishing she were not so aware of his nearness, wishing she could