The Runaway Governess. Liz Tyner

ran a hand over his knuckles and swollen fingers, inspecting them. When they healed, he might visit Wren again.

      Then he brushed a smear of dried blood away. But before the singer left London, he would make his way to his sister’s house and ask Isabel to sing something for him. He smiled. He imagined them standing side by side at his sister’s pianoforte and music filtering through the room.

      * * *

      The thought remained in his head until he walked inside his parlour. The view from the window was not fascinating, but he never seemed to tire of it. He stood at the middle of the three windows looking down and could hardly see outlines in the darkness below. Another row of town houses, just like his. Another row of windows, just like his. He didn’t care to see the interiors of them or what lay beyond the panes. He feared he might see a rug, just like his. But he knew he wouldn’t see furnishings like his. The room had almost none except for the two tables, the stiff-backed chair and a pretence of a desk with serviceable lamps. The servants’ quarters were better fitted than this room, he hoped. The starkness suited him. Kept him from getting too close to the memories of the past where the picture of home could be painted by the fripperies spread about and the little flower shapes sewn into table coverings.

      None of that appeared in his domain and his bed was the only softness in the entire house. A large beast of a bed that had once been his grandfather’s and had been no easy chore for the workman to reassemble.

      But he didn’t want to go to bed because he kept reliving the quiet moments with the woman in the carriage, trying to think of the exact tilt of her nose. The colour of her hair was easier to recall and in all the upheaval he wasn’t quite sure what had happened to the plume.

      He shook his head. He was standing at the window, thinking of a bit of fluff just as a schoolboy would do. His head must have been hit harder than he realised. But the moment he’d stepped into the room at Wren’s and seen the knife and her eyes widened in fear had left more than a few scrapes on his hand. The knowledge of how fast a person’s life could turn to dust shook him. Now his insides shivered.

      His eyes flittered to the decanter on the side table. Half-empty. The servants were not allowed to refill it until it became completely empty. If his father had walked into a room in the family home and not found it full, someone would have heard about it. If not everyone.

      His father. William wished the man still looked at the world through hazed eyes.

      William resisted the urge to walk forward and put a boot through the bottom glass. That would change the window, but as soon as a servant became aware, the window would be fixed.

      One by one he could smash out each pane, yet the world would go on as it always did before. He could not change the way the world rotated and even if he broke the glass, other people would rush to bring the order back.

      And his father, after years of a waking sleep, had truly awoken and decided he needed order back and he wanted the world on his path, a path he’d ignored the presence of for years. His father didn’t remember the broken panes swept into the dustbin. He didn’t remember the shattered glass.

      Now, the Viscount just cared that his son be married and provide an heir. He had instructed William much like he might tell him to go to a sideboard and pick a confectionery.

      The man planned to force marriage on to his son by any means possible—taking the rents William lived on would accomplish a lot. Removing the funds wouldn’t hurt William alone, though, and William knew it. Twelve servants lived in the town house. Thirteen if he counted the little child he pretended not to know about—a boy who had some claim on the cook the housekeeper had hired the year before. He’d only found out about the lad because one of the servants had hidden a badly written note near William’s pillow. Apparently life always didn’t run smoothly among the staff either.

      William took the decanter and filled his glass almost to overflow—just to see how close he could get to the edge without a spill. He placed the decanter on the table and slowly brought the liquid to his lips, not spilling a drop. He drank the liquid in one gulp, enjoying the burn.

      The glass still in his hand, he stretched and strode to the windows. The servants needed their employment.

      William would somehow get the horses back, then he would attend a soirée and dance with all the unwed ladies. Give his father some hope. Fruitless hope, but it wouldn’t do to torment the man.

      Everyone would be happy. William would find a way to have the horses returned to the stables. His father would believe a search for a bride had commenced. Sylvester would know his son would inherit the Viscount’s title. Everyone satisfied if not happy. End of plan.

      * * *

      William slept well into the next morning and lingered through his morning wash. His dreams had been of birds fluttering about with feathered bonnets.

      When dinnertime came, he would be at Sophia’s house. He pulled a book from the table where it had sat for a year, planning to read enough of it so he could say he’d finished, then he would return it in time to sit for a meal with his sister, and her guest, and hopefully an evening around the pianoforte. It was only natural that he might want to visit and make sure their plans were progressing well and offer assistance.

      * * *

      With the mostly finished book tucked under his arm and his chin feeling raw from the second shave of the day, he strode to the front door when a carriage pulled to the front of the house.

      Sophia didn’t have a town coach. It could only be his father.

      William put down the book and walked to the staircase before the butler could answer. The front door shook with a violent knock.

      William opened the door. His father brushed by him, bodies connecting as a shove, and William stepped back.

      His father raised his eyes to his son’s face, slammed his beaver hat and gold-tipped cane into William’s hand and said, ‘Get used to that.’ He continued up the stairs. ‘I will see that if you are not hanged, then you will be transported. It is apparently your wish.’

      Transported? Hanged? His father was daft. Completely. The years of liquid grief had turned his mind into pudding.

      The Viscount rushed ahead, more at a run than William had ever seen him. William followed, knowing he didn’t want his father’s conversation carried to the servants’ quarters. His father stopped inside the parlour, whirling around. ‘You thankless piece of conceited tripe. You’ve gambled your name away and mine, too. Generations of our heritage. Destroyed. For ever. By you. I thought you cared more for your sisters than this.’

      William put the hat over the globe of a cold lamp and propped the cane against the wall. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘My sister—’ his father jabbed his own chest ‘—my sister, Emilia, came to me in tears. You are less than a son.’ He splayed his hands, fingers arched. He pulled in air through his teeth. ‘You called my bluff, only it was not bluff. I merely threatened to circumvent the inheritance laws. But I had no need. You were quite willing to take care of that yourself.’

      ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’ His voice grated on each word. ‘I only wished for the horses.’

      The Viscount whipped his head away from William and stared to the windows. ‘I cannot even bear the sight of you.’ His words raced. ‘I didn’t think you would perhaps jump to marry someone suitable, but I didn’t expect you to destroy our entire heritage.’

      ‘I’ve done no such thing.’

      His father waved his hands in the air. ‘You wanted to make sure no woman would consent to wed you. You abducted a woman in daylight, in front of as many witnesses as you could find.’

      ‘Abducted? Are you foxed?’ His voice rose. The man had lost his senses.

      ‘Do not try to turn this back at me.’ He rushed by William and to the windows. He stretched his arms at each side of the window, as if holding himself erect. His head dropped.