Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride. Elizabeth Rolls

Her hair as neat as she could make it, she turned back to Miss Trentham.

      ‘Are you ready?’ asked the young woman. ‘It will be famous having you here, you know. Leave your bonnet. One of the maids will take it up to your bedchamber.’

      Christy left the bonnet and followed Miss Trentham from the room. ‘Ah, Miss Trentham, I believe Lady Braybrook said that she did not want a companion. I dare say I shall be dispatched back to Bristol tomorrow.’

      Leading the way along the corridor, Miss Trentham shook her head so the black curls bounced. ‘Oh, pooh! Of course you won’t. That is what is so particularly annoying about Julian—he persuades people to do precisely as he says! Even Mama. And he is always so…so insufferably certain that he knows what is best. Mama says he means well, but if you were to ask me, he’s a tyrant!’

      ‘Explain, if you please, Julian.’ There was a distinct bite in Serena’s voice.

      Julian had wheeled her into a small parlour off the hall. ‘A ploy,’ he said, closing the door and turning to face her. ‘The companion part is a blind. She’s actually here to keep Lissy in order.’ Bringing up a chair for himself, he explained his reasoning.

      Serena’s eyebrows rose. She was silent for a moment, thinking it over, and he waited.

      ‘I see,’ she said eventually. And he had the sneaking suspicion that she did see. Every single machination anyway. He hoped to hell she couldn’t see the inexplicable attraction Miss Daventry held for him. Not that it mattered, because he wasn’t going to do anything about it.

      ‘I suppose she’s dowdy enough for a companion-governess,’ said Serena thoughtfully.

      Dowdy? ‘Nothing of the sort,’ he said stiffly. ‘She is still in mourning for her mother, Serena!’

      Amusement crept around Serena’s eyes and mouth. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. Well, I dare say some of my own mourning garb can be altered to fit her. It will certainly give Lissy pause for thought.’

      ‘She stays, then?’ What the hell was that jolt of relief in his midriff?

      Serena blinked. ‘Oh, I think so, dear. I’m sure she will suit admirably. She’s not at all mealy-mouthed, is she?’

      ‘No.’ Along with meek, that was the last adjective he’d use to describe Miss Christiana Daventry.

      Christy tried not to let her shock show. Lit with more candles than she would have used in a year, the small dining parlour was somewhat larger than the entire ground floor of the Christmas Steps house. And, since these were wax candles, without the reek of tallow.

      ‘Ah, here they are.’ Lady Braybrook was already seated at a circular table with his lordship and Matthew, who both rose politely.

      ‘Come and sit beside me, Miss Daventry,’ said Lady Braybrook. ‘I apologise for my lack of tact earlier. You must have thought yourself in a perfect madhouse! Unfortunately Braybrook did not see fit to apprise me of his intentions.’ She glared at her stepson, who had strolled around the table to pull out a chair for Christy.

      Christy managed to look demure and murmured her thanks as she seated herself. There was no faulting his lordship’s manners, even if his high-handed assurance left a great deal to be desired.

      ‘I beg your pardon, Serena,’ said Lord Braybrook, sitting down again.

      Christy doubted the sincerity of his lordship’s contrition. And she observed that, far from kicking puppies, his lordship was obviously very fond of dogs. The setter, Juno, lay as close as possible to her master’s chair, chin resting on a stretcher.

      ‘Mama,’ said Miss Trentham, ‘Miss Daventry is Mr Daventry’s sister!’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Should I send him a note to say she is here?’

      Christy caught Lord Braybrook’s eye, and said, ‘How kind, Miss Trentham. On accepting his lordship’s offer, I took the liberty of writing to Harry myself.’ Spurred on by malice aforethought, she added, ‘I would be most grateful if you were to inform him that I have returned to Bristol and will write again soon.’

      An odd choking sound came from Lady Braybrook. Christy turned quickly and her ladyship patted her lips with her napkin. Laughing grey eyes met hers.

      ‘No, no, Miss Daventry. That will not be necessary. Now Braybrook has explained all the particulars, I am delighted to have you here.’ She glanced at her daughter. ‘Yes, Lissy, Julian explained the connection. A kind thought to assist Miss Daventry in this way. And so pleasant for me.’

      Miss Trentham brightened. ‘Oh, famous! You see, Miss Daventry—I told you Julian would talk Mama around. I’m sure Mr Daventry will come to see you as soon as may be.’

      Christy had not the least doubt of that. His lordship was one of those annoying persons who always contrived to achieve their ends.

      Lord Braybrook met her gaze blandly. ‘Naturally, ma’am, when he does so, you must take a morning or afternoon off to spend with him. I dare say you have not met for some time.’

      ‘No,’ said Christy. ‘We have not.’ Not since Mama’s funeral.

      It had rained unrelentingly. And they had stood there, soaked to the skin, wondering if he would come. If he would have the decency…well, she had wondered. Harry had thought it unlikely. Indeed, unnecessary.

      Don’t be a peagoose, Christy. I dare say he has much to occupy him.

      She would never forgive Alcaston for that. Never. Not to come to the funeral. Nor send so much as a wreath. Discretion, of course. That had been his reason for not attending little Sarah’s funeral all those years ago…but she had foolishly thought that he would attend Mama’s funeral. She shivered. If anything further had been needed to drive home the necessity of standing alone, that had been it.

      ‘Miss Daventry?’

      Horrified, she realised that his lordship was speaking to her and that she had been staring into space.

      The bright eyes were focused on her, faintly frowning.

      ‘I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering.’

      Heat pricked behind her eyes, but she kept her voice steady. He was still watching her, with eyes that peeled away too many defences.

      ‘I fancy Miss Daventry is very tired, Julian,’ said Lady Braybrook. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Your room will be prepared by the time you have finished your supper and you may go to bed. We need not arrange anything tonight. Do have some chicken soup. And, Lissy, please pass the rolls to Miss Daventry.’

      As she helped herself to the soup and accepted a roll, Christy wondered what sort of establishment she had landed in. A greater contrast with her previous live-in situation could not be imagined. A sense of dislocation niggled at her. Rather than treating the governess-companion as a lesser being, Lady Braybrook treated her as if she were a favoured guest. If she were not on her guard, she would forget her place. Never before had that been a problem. Never before had she imagined herself belonging. Not caught forever on the half- landing. She must remember that, all kindness aside, Lady Braybrook was her mistress.

      And Lord Braybrook her master?

      She gritted her teeth. She was a dependant. Not their equal. If she could not remember that, how could she convince Harry?

      Christy spent the next morning unpacking, or rather she spent twenty minutes unpacking, and the rest considering how best to fit into the household. Lady Braybrook, she discovered, did not usually leave her bedchamber until late morning, when a footman carried her down to the drawing room. This was explained by Grigson, an unsmiling female whose fashionable clothes proclaimed her Lady Braybrook’s dresser, when she came to tell Christy that her ladyship awaited her in the drawing room.

      Lady Braybrook was seated by a sunny window, the tabby cat enthroned on her lap. ‘Thank you, Grigson. That will be all. Good morning, Miss Daventry.