The Rogue's Reform. Regina Scott

       He was smiling encouragement, all charm. She could not feel so easy about the situation. Why hadn’t he known about Samantha? Was Lord Everard ashamed of his daughter? Was that why he hid her here in the wilds of Cumberland instead of bringing her to London with him? Or was Samantha’s father so unsure of his nephews?

       She began to suspect the latter. That red-haired fellow looked as if he should be hiding along hedgerows, waiting to ambush the next coach. The other one seemed used to relying on his sword. And as for their leader, Jerome, one moment he was nothing but soft charm, the next all hard decisiveness. And he seemed adept at giving answers that were no answers at all.

       But she could play that game, if that’s what it took to reach her goal. For the last ten years, her life had been spent planning for one moment: when Samantha Everard took her rightful place in Society. It hadn’t been easy. Samantha was a rare handful. One moment, she poured over fashion plates, and the next, played catch-me-who-can with little Jamie Kendrick on the estate next to theirs. Still, she was a dear girl, full of warmth and generosity. She was every part of what had been bright and good in her mother and nothing, nothing of the bad. Adele had made sure of that.

       And unlike her mother, Samantha was destined for a wonderful life: one or two marvelous Seasons in London, a sweet courtship, marriage to a proper gentleman and a life of happily ever after. They were so close to achieving that dream, Adele could almost smell the wedding cake baking.

       She was not about to let Lord Everard’s untimely death hinder Samantha’s future. As negligent as he’d been about seeing to the management of Dallsten Manor, she was almost afraid to hear what he might have left Samantha as a dowry or independence. She must convince these men to honor the girl’s right to a Season, for only by being properly introduced to Society did Samantha stand a chance of making a good match.

       Adele would have to go carefully. Some things were best left unsaid, family secrets she dared not share with anyone. Already Jerome Everard doubted her. Why else ask how she’d come to be Samantha’s governess? She’d been worried about Samantha’s future, but perhaps she should have worried for her own. If Mr. Everard took her in dislike, she could very well be sent packing.

       “Pardon me, Miss Walcott.”

       Mrs. Linton’s strident voice had never been more welcome. Adele rose and hurried to where her housekeeper stood in the doorway. Mrs. Linton had been caring for Dallstens and Dallsten Manor since before Adele was born. Her figure might be motherly and her braided hair nearly white, but her gray eyes were sharp, and her rosebud mouth was tightened in protest that her normal routine had been disturbed without appropriate notice.

       “Mrs. Linton,” Adele said, keeping her tone calm, though her palms were starting to sweat, “we have been given bad news. Lord Everard has passed on.”

       The housekeeper clutched the chest of her gray gown. “No!”

       “I fear so. This is Mr. Jerome Everard, the heir. He and his brother and cousin will be staying with us. They will need rooms.” She glanced at Jerome. “Perhaps you could provide the details. I should go to Samantha.”

       She was afraid he’d argue, but he merely inclined his head. “Of course. I look forward to meeting my cousin soon.” He offered her a bow, as if she were a great lady instead of his cousin’s governess. Well, perhaps all was not lost. He certainly didn’t act as if he were considering sacking her.

       She curtsied with all the grace her mother insisted upon, and the folio knife she’d taken earlier for protection slid from the sleeve of her gown to fall to the carpet with a soft thud. It lay there, pearly handle gleaming in the light.

       Adele stared at it. Jerome stared at it. Mrs. Linton washed as white as her hair.

       “Ah,” Adele said, word ending in a squeak despite her best efforts. “I’d wondered where that had gotten to.” Without another look at Jerome, she retrieved it, handed it to her housekeeper and fled from the room.

       She heard a step behind her, and her heart beat faster. Don’t look, don’t look. She had to look. He was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her climb the stairs. Her breath caught once more. Why was he watching? Did he doubt her so much?

       Did he admire her so much?

       Unseemly thought! Yet it raised gooseflesh along her entire body. Ridiculous! He was her employer. He would admire her no more than a soft chair, a polished floor. Certainly that’s all she’d been to Lord Everard. Even Gregory Wentworth had rejected her when she’d been forced into service, and she’d been certain he loved her.

       But if her new employer thought so little of her, why was he watching her every movement as if she were an eagle soaring up a mountain and not a very confused governess plodding up the well-worn staircase?

       Catching her gaze on him, he grinned, and she stumbled on the last step at the landing. Cheeks heating once more, she hurried up the stairs to the schoolroom.

      Chapter Three

      Jerome smiled as he turned from the doorway. An interesting woman, this governess. She was elegant, she was refined, yet one glance from him flustered her. He did not think it was an act. Could it be she was merely a pawn in his uncle’s game? Or was Caruthers more of a liar than Jerome had suspected?

       Next to him, the little housekeeper bobbed a curtsey. “How long will you be staying, then, Mr. Everard, you and your family?”

       Now here was a determined female if he’d ever met one. Her silvery eyes were narrowed, her snowy head cocked, and he’d have guessed she had already taken his measure and found him lacking. Still he smiled at her. “I’m not certain, Mrs. Linton. A week at the least. I hope that won’t be too much trouble.”

       Her annoyance was evident in the way she tightly clasped her plump hands. “Certainly not, sir. We generally have dinner at six. Will that suit you?” Her look pinned him in place as if daring him to countermand a sacred tradition.

       He generally ate much later in town, but he saw no need to enforce his requirements here so soon. Besides, eating at six would still give him a few hours for some reconnaissance of his own. “Perfectly. Thank you. In the meantime, perhaps you’d be so good as to point me to the estate records.”

       With those thick, white brows, her frown was nearly as fierce as her gaze. “Records, sir?”

       “Yes. Someone must keep track of the goings on here at Dallsten Manor. Where does the steward keep his information?”

       She snorted. “Dallsten Manor has no steward. If it’s facts you want about the estate, you’d best speak with Miss Walcott. Now, I’d better see to those rooms you’ll need. Will there be anything else, sir?”

       So Miss Walcott kept the records. An odd role for a governess, but then maybe everyone here at Dallsten Manor performed more than one function. Still, records had to be kept somewhere. Perhaps he could find them while Miss Walcott was busy.

       He thanked the housekeeper again, and she hurried from the room as if she couldn’t wait to do his bidding or leave his presence. She passed Richard and Vaughn in the entry hall, pausing long enough to eye them and then move on, shaking her head. The footman trailed just behind them, for all the world as if he’d been herding them like a sheep dog.

       “Thank you, Todd,” Jerome said as his brother and cousin crossed into the library. “That will be all.” He had the satisfaction of shutting the library door in the fellow’s face.

       “Not very welcoming, are they?” Richard drawled before going to seat himself in the chair Adele Walcott had vacated. “The horses are stabled. The groom seems competent enough.”

       “There’s a kitchen door and a side door from the south tower,” Vaughn reported. “Both were locked. The footman caught up with me in the back garden.” He fingered the hilt of his blade as if wishing he’d made better use of it.

       “Well done,” Jerome