The Governess Affair
Page 7

She was watching him. “How do you know this?”
He waved his hand. “Everyone knows this—all the servants around here, in any event.”
She nodded. “Go on. If this Wolf is to be my nemesis, I need to know everything about him.”
“Clermont was not without resources. His estates brought in a pittance—with a few months’ grace, and the benevolence of a few lenders, all might have been brought around. But the duke didn’t have a few months. And so the Wolf focused on the duke’s most prominent creditor. Everyone has secrets, and that creditor’s secret was that his money had been made in the slave trade years after it had been banned. The Wolf made sure every sordid detail went to the papers. The family was shunned. And do you know what the Wolf did then?”
She shook her head.
He looked her in the eyes. “He paid the debt,” he said. “Publicly. Without once having to voice a threat, the Wolf made Clermont untouchable. Insist on payment, the gossips said, and he’d ruin you. Startling, the number of people who are willing to agree to easier terms of payment when their own future is on the line.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Miss Barton,” he said quietly, “with whom do you think you are speaking?”
She sucked in air. But her expression did not change one iota at that confession.
“You see how it is,” Hugo said. “I am going to get rid of you. But ruining someone is a messy, complicated business. It is much less work to help you than to break you. Let me help.”
She had not taken her eyes off him during that speech.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I want him to pay.” Her chin lifted. She folded her hands—a dainty motion—but there was nothing dainty in the determined way her fingers tangled together.
“Money?”
“Recognition.” Her jaw squared. “He wants me to stay silent. Well, I want him to speak out. To feel one-tenth of the censure that I have.”
There was no chance of that. No wonder Clermont had passed this woman’s demands on to Hugo. Any form of recognition would destroy the duke’s chances at reconciling with his duchess. With so much at stake, including Hugo’s own five hundred pounds…
“He’ll never do that,” he said. “I like you, Miss Barton. I don’t wish to have you on my conscience.”
She picked up the twig he’d laid across the bench and held it out to him.
“Do your worst,” she said. “That is what you’re known for, is it not?”
He stared at the twig in her hand for a few moments before taking it from her and laying it back across the bench. “I will,” he said. “If I have to. I’d prefer not to.”
THE INK FROM THE evening paper had stained Serena’s gloves black, but still she stood on the street corner, trying to make out the advertisements on the back page without straining her eyes.
Rents for properties with small acreage were close to fifteen pounds per annum, and with expenses calculated at almost twice that, plus sustenance and the cost of someone to stay with her…
Once, she’d dreamed of what she’d do with the money she carefully set aside from the wages she earned as a governess. She’d planned to lease a small farm, to grow lavender, when she had saved enough. From there, her wistful hopes had built a thousand possibilities. Freddy had pooh-poohed her ambitions, and perhaps she had the right of it. Purchasing a paper now, when her dreams had never been so far away, was the height of foolishness. It served only to underscore how much she had lost—how far removed her girlish dreams were from reality.
Serena had forty pounds saved from three years of wages. She had enough for the present, but not so much that she could afford to dwell on the past. But she could not get free of her situation by escaping into an elaborate day-dream. Reality waited for her: She was pregnant, and she had no income.
Serena folded the paper in quarters, hiding away the list of properties for lease and looked up into the darkening night.
She made herself repeat those damning words. She was pregnant. She had no income. And she had just suffered a blow—a terrible blow.
Mr. Marshall had seemed so safe, so ordinary. She had not felt so comfortable around a man in months. When he’d picked up that twig and set it between them, some foolish part of her had really believed it was a wall, and that she might breathe easily.
He’d made her dream of a might-have-been: an afternoon spent with a man who made her smile, who didn’t look at her as if she were some ruined thing. She’d dreamed of a world where any future could be open, if only she could find the right key. She’d wanted attraction. Affection. Security.
Love.
Foolish to leap from a conversation in a square to love. But if one man might smile and converse with her, a second could as well.
As she’d sat on that bench, her might-have-beens had glowed with sunlight.
But Mr. Marshall was no smiling, friendly fellow. He was the Wolf of Clermont, a man known for his mercilessness. With a few sparse sentences he’d smashed all her hopeful might-have-beens into a single wasn’t.
Her future stretched like a dark road before her: all hope in eclipse.
He’d fooled her. I do not curse. I do not drink spirits. And I don’t hurt women. I don’t do any of those things because my father did every one.
Serena crumpled the paper.
He was good—very good. And she was the damned fool who had teetered on the brink of trusting him. But he’d offered to help not because he took an interest in her affairs, or because he cared about her welfare. It was just because it was simpler to buy her off than ruin her.
Black clouds loomed on her horizon.
Serena set her hand on her stomach. Despair couldn’t be good for the baby. When she let it settle around her, it seemed to fill her belly with a bitter, starving impossibility. She could scarcely digest it; how could a life so fragile and tiny manage what she could not?
No. Her baby would have no nightmares, no doubts, no fears.
When one climbed trees, it was a fool’s game to look down. If one did, one risked vertigo. So Serena looked up now, past the oncoming gloom of the night. She focused on the warm orange glow of the lamp and the dimmer light of the stars beyond. She looked up and refused to think of falling.
Chapter Three
PERHAPS HE WAS GROWING SOFT, but Hugo started with the most simple of expedients. He tried to rid himself of Miss Barton by taking her seat. It cost him all of six shillings to hire four pensioners to sit on her spot on the bench. He watched her arrive early the next morning. She drew up when she saw that the bench was occupied, and then set her hand in the small of her back. Just that little note of complaint. Then she smiled, shook her head, and walked idly around the square, as if she’d planned to perambulate in any event. She glanced at the old men as she walked. She made another slow circuit, and then another. After half an hour, she seemed to realize they weren’t leaving.