Lord Crayle's Secret World. Lara Temple
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anyone to be grateful to him and your ma for taking me in all those years ago, but I call a spade a spade and he had no business leaving the work and the worry to you all those years while he drank himself and his money under every night. He should have at least seen you married and then you might have had a husband’s helping hand with Charlie.’
She smiled somewhat crookedly.
‘To be fair, he did try when we returned to England after Mama died. We have it on excellent authority that I’m not marriage material.’
Mina snipped a thread and reached for another pair of socks from the pile before her.
‘Mrs Ruscombe and her kind are no authority you should be listening to, Miss Sari,’ she said in her soft voice. ‘Now put that down and let your arm have a rest, do.’
Sari shrugged and laid down her sewing thankfully. ‘Everyone else listened. Hector certainly did.’
‘Moresby was a weak young fool,’ George said roughly. ‘And your father was an even greater fool for not taking him to account for shying off instead of having at you for not being more ladylike like your ma.’
She flinched. Even four years later, the memory of that confrontation still hurt.
‘It wasn’t completely his fault. He was...still upset about Mama.’
Mina, usually taciturn, surprised her by looking up with unaccustomed fire in her brown eyes.
‘Don’t wrap it in clean linen, Miss Sari. He was dead drunk most days and nights and feeling sorry for himself. If anyone had the right to feel sorry for themselves over your ma’s passing, it was you, miss. I’m as grateful as any for what your pa did for my George, but it was the outside of enough watching him neglect his duties and you having to do all them translations when it should have been him all along. You are more a lady than that snooty Mrs Ruscombe ever was, even when you was in breeches and going on about politics and the like with your pa’s cronies in the desert. Your ma knew that well enough. No one knows better than me she wanted back to her life in England, but I know she was prouder of you and Master Charlie than of anything on this sainted earth and never regretted a moment of what she had with you two. And if that Mr Moresby was fool enough to have his mind made up for him by the likes of Mrs Ruscombe, well, good riddance, I say. So!’ she finished, plunging her needle into the pincushion with alarming violence.
George grinned appreciatively at his beloved’s outburst.
‘That’s right, love. You have at them.’
Sari wiped away the tears that had welled up. She hated crying, but she was just so tired. She knew George was right—she had to do something. George’s meagre pay as an ostler was barely enough to cover their living expenses and certainly not enough to continue to fund Charlie’s schooling. Whatever his commitment to her and Charlie, Sari knew it was not fair to expect George to support her and her brother indefinitely. The headmaster of Charlie’s school had agreed to give her more time to cover his fees ‘in consideration of Charles’s significant intellectual promise and personal integrity’. But he had made it clear there was a limit to his generosity and they were fast approaching it. There would be no choice now but to default. Charlie was old enough to work, but Sari felt sick at the thought of him having to give up his dreams. She knew he would never blame her, but she couldn’t stand failing him like this. She wanted so much for him.
It was not that she herself had not tried to find employment, but no one was willing to trust a mere woman with the translations her father had undertaken. Her claims that it had been she and not he who had actually done the work had been greeted with amused incredulity. And the employment agencies had been quick to point out that she had none of the skills required to be a governess—she could not sketch, or embroider, or play the harp or pianoforte. It appeared they shared Mrs Ruscombe’s doubts as to her suitability as a lady of quality.
It had been desperation bordering on lunacy that had made her suggest highway robbery as a means of survival. More proof that Mrs Ruscombe and her friends had probably been right about her—no matter if her parents had once been, she wasn’t quality. Certainly no young woman of quality would contemplate such an offer as the one made by this peculiar Lord Crayle. But twenty pounds a month seemed like a fortune to her after these lean years; it was more than most servants could make in an entire year and much, much more than she could ever dream of making as a governess. It would mean Charlie could stay at school and she could even afford to help Mina and George...
‘All right, George. You’re right. We’ll go to London tomorrow and hope our luck takes a turn for the better.’
George smiled.
‘It will, miss. I feel it in my bones.’
Lord Crayle had just sifted through his morning mail when his butler knocked gently at the library door.
‘Two...ah, individuals to see you, my lord,’ he announced calmly, staring at a point beyond Michael’s left shoulder, a clear indication that these visitors were slightly out of the ordinary, but that he was well accustomed to his lordship’s sometimes peculiar choice of guests.
Michael nodded absently.
‘Show them in, Pottle.’
At first Michael just stared at the couple that walked in, perplexed. If not for their relative sizes he might not have made the connection with his Hampstead Heath assailants. Michael was above average in height and breadth, but the man who stood crumpling his cloth hat nervously easily outstripped him.
Despite the giant’s size, it was the woman who captured his attention. At the moment she looked like a slightly dishevelled schoolmistress. Her pelisse was ridiculously outmoded and, contrary to convention, she had removed her simple straw bonnet and held it dangling by its ribbons. She might at one point have been wearing her hair in a bun, but the golden-brown hair appeared to have rebelled and unwound, and was now held back tenuously with a ribbon. It looked surprisingly lush against the drab grey pelisse and it framed an unusual, heart-shaped face with a determined chin. But her eyes were her most arresting feature. They were gently slanted beneath arched brows and a strange mixture of blue and green. Right now they were narrowed as she seemed to be caught between apprehension and nervous amusement.
Michael realised his guests were becoming increasingly uneasy at his silence and he waved them to the two chairs that faced his desk.
‘Please sit down. I trust your arm has healed?’ He turned to the woman, one brow cocked.
Something flashed in her eyes, but she smiled politely and took the seat he indicated.
‘Perfectly. I thank you for your concern.’
He ignored the slight sarcasm in her tones and focused on the voice. His memory had not deceived him. It was deep and cultured. Without the asperity it could be seductive. It was hard to reconcile her obviously high-bred tones and perfect posture with the highway robber who had placed a bullet a whisper away from his temple. But it was most definitely she and she was turning out to be better than he had expected.
‘Good. I am glad you decided to accept my offer. I admit I was not certain you would.’
‘We have accepted nothing yet, my lord. You were rather sketchy about the details...’
He almost smiled at her haughty tones.
‘I can see this may be as arduous as it was back on the Heath. I apologise if I am being difficult,’ he said with mild amusement.
To his surprise, instead of raising her hackles further, she appeared to relax.
‘Surely, my lord, you can appreciate this is a rather...uncomfortable situation for us? Perhaps if you told us what you want, we could all proceed more quickly?’
Very good, he approved silently. Perfection, down to the faintly coaxing smile that tilted up one corner of a rather pleasing