The Governess's Secret Baby. Janice Preston

eyes twinkled as he raised his tankard in a silent toast to his wife’s back. He tilted his head back, drinking with evident enjoyment.

      ‘Sit yourself down, missy...’ he put the tankard down with a clatter, earning him another irritable look from his wife ‘...and tell us a bit about yourself while Miss Clara finishes her meal.’

      Grace took care to tell the Sharps no more than she’d already told his lordship. It was not lying. Not precisely. She merely omitted certain facts. Sharp—as garrulous and inquisitive as his spouse was taciturn—continued to interrogate Grace until, the minute Clara finished eating, Grace shot to her feet.

      ‘I must take Clara upstairs now, so she can become accustomed to her new room before it is time for her to sleep.’

      She smiled at Sharp to soften her abruptness and picked Clara up, hefting her on to one hip. She couldn’t wait to have her little girl all to herself, nor to get away from Sharp’s questions and Mrs Sharp’s suspicious looks. Quite why the housekeeper disliked her she could not begin to guess, unless...

      ‘Will Mrs Sharp miss looking after Clara?’ she asked Sharp. His wife was rattling around in the pantry and Grace kept her voice low so she would not hear. ‘Is that why she does not care for me being here?’

      ‘Bless ’ee, no.’ Sharp’s words, too, were quiet and he darted a glance at the pantry door before continuing, ‘It’s his lordship she’s protecting. She’s worried he’ll—’ He clamped his lips and shook his head. ‘Nay, I’ll not tell tales. You’ll soon find out, if’n you don’t already know.’

      ‘What?’ Grace hissed. Why would a housekeeper worry about a marquess? And protect him against whom? Her? That made no sense. ‘What were you going to say?’

      Mrs Sharp chose that moment to emerge from the pantry and Sharp smirked at Grace. She couldn’t question him further now.

      ‘His lordship dines at six,’ Mrs Sharp said. ‘And we have our meal after he’s been served. Do not be late.’

      Nasty old crow. Grace left the kitchen and carried Clara upstairs.

      ‘Alone at last, sweetie,’ she said, as she shut the nursery door firmly behind them.

      She shivered. There was no fire lit and the only illumination was from the single candlestick she had carried up to light their way. The room had bare, polished floorboards, a large cabinet, two wooden chairs and a small, low table.

      Grace lowered Clara to the floor. ‘We shall have to do something about this, Clara. This is simply not good enough.’

      She glanced down at her daughter, who was gazing up at her with worry creasing her forehead and her mouth drooping. Grace’s heart faltered and she crouched down.

      ‘Don’t look so sad, little one,’ she whispered. ‘I am not cross with you.’

      The enormity of the task she had undertaken dawned on her. What did she know about caring for such a young child? Had she thought, because she was Clara’s mother, she would magically know what to do and how to raise her properly? All her training had been about older children. She cupped Clara’s face between her palms and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

      ‘We shall learn how to go on together,’ she said. ‘But first, I shall talk to your uncle and I will make sure you want for nothing. And the first step will be a lovely cosy room where you can play and have fun.’

      ‘Unc’ Nannal.’

      Grace froze. ‘What did you say, Clara?’

      Clara—eyes wide, thumb now firmly jammed in her mouth—remained silent. Grace gently pulled Clara’s hand from her face. ‘Say it again, sweetie.’

      ‘She said “Uncle Nathaniel”.’

       Chapter Five

      Grace’s heart almost seized in her chest. She twisted to look over her shoulder, then scrambled to her feet to face the Marquess, who filled the open doorway. How long had he been there? What had he heard? Her thrill at hearing Clara speak faded, to be replaced by anxiety. She could barely remember what she had said out loud and what she had thought.

      ‘I did not see you there,’ she said.

      ‘Evidently.’

      Her heart began to pound as he continued to stare at her, frowning.

      ‘You shall have a fire up here tomorrow and Mrs Sharp will show you where there is furniture and so forth in storage. You may make use of anything you need to make these rooms comfortable for you and for Clara.’

      He does not seem to think of Clara as an unwanted burden. He accepts her as though she is truly his niece.

      ‘Thank you, my lord.’

      He looked at Clara and his expression softened. ‘You are a clever girl, saying my name. Will you say it again? For me?’

      ‘Unc’ Nannal,’ Clara whispered.

      Ravenwell beamed. ‘Well done, poppet. Now, where’s my goodnight kiss?

      Clara toddled over to the Marquess, her arms stretched high, and he swung her aloft, kissing her soundly on her cheek. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she kissed him twice, firstly on his left cheek and then—crooning softly and chubby fingers stroking—she kissed him on his scarred cheek. Ravenwell’s gaze flicked to Grace and then away. He turned from her, Clara still in his arms.

      ‘Come.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Let Uncle Nathaniel see your new bedchamber.’

      He strode from the room, leaving Grace to ponder that scene. She had thought Clara was scared of her uncle but—picturing again her first meeting with Clara, she now wondered if her daughter’s reluctance as she bumped down the stairs and dragged her feet across the hall was not wariness of the Marquess, but of Grace. The stranger.

      That will teach me not to make assumptions.

      A chastened Grace hurried from the room to join Ravenwell and Clara in the child’s bedchamber, which adjoined Grace’s.

      Grace froze by the door. Here, a fire had been lit—presumably by the elusive Alice—and the room had taken on a warm glow. A rug lay before the fire and there, stretched full length, was Brack. He lifted his head to contemplate Grace and his tail thumped gently on the floor. Twice.

      ‘I do not think...’

      Grace’s objection drifted into silence as Clara squirmed in her uncle’s arms.

      ‘Brack! Brack!’

      The Marquess placed her on the floor and, squealing, she rushed over to the dog and launched herself on top of him, wrapping her arms around his neck as his tail continued to wag.

      Grace watched, open-mouthed.

      ‘You do not think...?’ Ravenwell’s voice had a teasing note she had not heard before.

      ‘It does not matter. Clara is clearly fond of Brack.’

      ‘And she is not scared of him, despite his size.’

      Grace bristled at his emphasis on she. ‘No, but I did not know he was friendly when I first saw him.’

      ‘That is true. And as you said earlier, you will soon become accustomed to the dogs.’

      ‘I will try.’

      Watching Clara with Brack warmed Grace’s heart and she could not help smiling at the sight. She turned to the Marquess to comment on Clara’s delight but, before she could speak, the good humour leached from Ravenwell’s expression and he averted his face. It was only a fractional movement, but she did not miss it.

      ‘Come, Brack.’

      He stalked from the room.

      *