The Earl and the Governess. Sarah Elliott

her today. How long would it take a letter to reach India?’

      Will thought of the scrawny, unloved girl. It didn’t seem right to plan her departure before she’d even arrived. ‘By the time word reached her, I’m sure another school will have agreed to take her.’

      Henrietta brandished the letter. ‘Really? I wish you luck convincing another school to take her. It says here that she cut off Amelia Fitzgerald’s hair.’

      He sighed. ‘Apparently.’

      ‘Your lack of concern is most alarming, William, considering you plan to allow this assassin into your home. I know the Fitzgeralds vaguely. They’re a most respectable family, and Amelia has an angelic head of golden curls.’

      Will thought of Mary, who he’d met just a few times. Tall, plain and quiet—not someone for whom the adjective ‘angelic’ would ever be used. ‘She had, you mean.’

      ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘The curls. And I’m sure there’s an explanation for this. Perhaps Amelia asked her to do it. Maybe short hair is becoming—’

      ‘Becoming what, fashionable amongst twelve-year-old girls? I assure you, William, it is not. You’ll have to take Miss Weston-Burke firmly in hand.’

      He’d always bristled at authority, and he didn’t like the domineering tone of her advice. ‘Unlike you, Henny, I am not a natural despot. I met this Miss Hume a few days ago, and she’s quite fierce, so you see a firm hand doesn’t always work.’

      ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s supposed to be an excellent school.’

      ‘Yes, well, apparently Mary didn’t think so.’

      Henrietta realised he wouldn’t be persuaded. ‘If the girl is this ill mannered now, I shudder to think how’ll she’ll behave after spending the summer with you. You’ll have to hire a governess immediately. You’ll have to change your entire way of life.’

      ‘Have you finished?’

      ‘Quite.’

      ‘Then you’ll help me, won’t you?’

      ‘Help?’She cocked her head slightly, ever sensitive to the rise and fall of the upper hand. ‘How can I possibly help you?’

      Will suppressed a sigh, knowing he was temporarily at her mercy. ‘Well, as you pointed out, I don’t know anything about children.’

      ‘Yes, and if you promise to come tonight I’ll consider advising you on occasion. I’ll certainly place an advertisement for a governess for you—I know just the journal. And, if you dance with Vanessa Lytton, I might even offer to select your governess.’

      ‘I’ll have some say, Hen, as I’ll be paying her salary.’

      ‘You don’t trust me?’

      ‘Not in the least.’

      ‘Very well—I will winnow the list down for you, and you can make the final decision. It will save you hours of tedium.’

      Since Will had no desire to interview scores of potential governesses—and, for that matter, to spend another minute with his cousin—he agreed instantly. ‘It’s settled. You’ve won.’ But then he thought it wise to ask, ‘By the by, who’s Vanessa Lytton?’

      Henrietta smiled. ‘She’s a definite prospect, I should say. Well mannered and exceptionally pretty. Accomplished, too.’

      ‘And no doubt well connected.’

      ‘The granddaughter of a marquess. Or would you rather marry some farmer’s daughter?’

      He didn’t want to marry anyone, but he knew she had a point. His own parents’ marriage had been convenient and for mutual benefit, but not for love—although he’d never actually witnessed their relationship firsthand. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father remarried a year later, this time to a woman he’d been in love with for many years. Will loved his stepmother, too; she was beautiful, intelligent and charming. But she’d also been an actress, and her background had caused a serious rupture in their family. The marriage had led, if he wanted to be brutally honest, to a great deal of unhappiness for many people.

      So when it was his turn to marry, he would be more practical about things.

      Luckily, he didn’t have to admit to his cousin that she was right. She’d already risen and was arming herself with her parasol. He rose, too, out of courtesy.

      ‘You’re leaving?’

      She nodded. ‘I have to prepare for tonight. It takes me longer these days to look presentable. I’d avoid these dratted débutante balls all together if it weren’t for you. They make me feel practically ancient.’

      ‘And if it weren’t for you, then I wouldn’t go, either. It’s most illogical of us. Perhaps we should reconsider?’

      The look she gave him as she exited the room was answer enough. He would see her later that evening or pay the consequences.

      Isabelle’s tiny room was on the top floor of Hannah Standish’s boarding house. It measured about seven feet by eight and the ceiling sloped sharply, making it suitable only for leprechauns and sundry members of the fairy world. The only personal items it contained were three sturdy, leather bags—stuffed full of clothes and books—and a plaster bust of Athena, given to her by her father. Other than that, it contained a bed, a dresser and a threadbare but clean carpet. A child’s sampler, worked in violent red letters, hung above the small fireplace; FEAR HIM, it said, followed by the entire alphabet and all the numbers from one to ten.

      That was the last advice she needed at the moment. She was terrified. What would—could—she do? She probably already faced debtors’ prison, and now she was a thief, too, through no fault of her own.

      From her tense position on the bed she could see William Stanton’s watch, gleaming and golden on top of her dresser—proof that yesterday wasn’t just a bad dream. She couldn’t help wishing she’d begun her criminal career in less expensive style.

      She could sell it, of course. She needed money, and it was probably worth more than she could earn in a decade as a governess. But selling it would only make things worse. Then she’d be an actual, rather than merely an accidental, thief. She shouldn’t even entertain the thought. She’d think instead about what she could do to improve her situation.

      Like finding employment, and since she had an interview later that afternoon, she felt justifiably sanguine. True, she’d no real skills, nor any history of employment. But at least she was well educated, thanks to her father’s tutelage. A good education and a large debt were practically the only possessions she had left. Her father was responsible for both counts, in fact.

      He’d raised her alone since she was six, when her mother died; he’d been, as far as she could surmise, unable to cope with the responsibilities of parenthood without a wife to guide him. He led a rarefied life as a dealer of ancient sculpture, and she…well, she was left feeling rather inconsequential most of the time, if not downright inconvenient. So, she’d learned to be interested in his interests. She could speak intelligently about Roman sculpture, Etruscan painting and Attic vases. She could read Greek and Latin, as well as French and German. In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been much of a childhood. She certainly didn’t love these topics in the same way he did, but she’d always hoped her aptitude might make him love her, as well. At least they’d have something to talk about together.

      Her early memories of her father were few. Before the war made maritime travel impossible, he’d gone to the Continent for months on end, and it was only when he returned from a long voyage that she realised he did care about her, despite his awkward way of showing it. He always brought back the most exotic treasures: mysterious fragments of crumbling buildings, bits of sculpture, and, when she was seven, a beautiful, carved marble goddess taller than she. Even Napoleon hadn’t impeded his purchases; when hostilities