Rexanne Becnel (15 page)

The man left, James paced back to the window, and Kerry sipped his whisky. For a man who was about to regain the woman and the life he thought he’d lost, James seemed curiously agitated. “I say, James, I hadn’t considered how difficult it must be to find decent servants out here in the hinterlands.”

“Nor had I.”

“I wonder, was your previous housekeeper truly worse than having no housekeeper at all?”

“Yes.”

Kerry’s brows rose at the curt response. “I see. Well, perhaps Miss Churchill could suggest someone to replace her. Perhaps Miss Churchill herself might be a good candidate for the position.”

At the mention of the governess, James’s gaze shot to Kerry. “She’s already agreed to be governess to my girls.”

So it was as he suspected. No sooner had James lost Catherine than he’d found someone to take her place. Catherine would not be pleased about that. Then again, maybe it was time for Catherine to recognize that James Lindford didn’t love her—at least not to the exclusion of other women like Kerry did. Though it was churlish, he pressed on. “Yes, your governess. I wonder, though, how secure her commitment is. Besides, she seems a well-organized sort of woman. How hard can it be to issue a few orders to the staff and select a menu every day?”

“It’s a big house. And what do you mean, her commitment?”

“I mean that Miss Churchill seems to be a born organizer. Plus, she wasn’t born to be a governess. She’s the sort that was bred to be a wife, to keep some man’s hearth—and his bed—warm. Mark my words, if you don’t hire Miss Churchill to manage things around here—you know, keep her
very
busy—some other man may well snatch her up.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “Since there are no other big households around Swansford in need of a housekeeper, and she’s already agreed to teach the children, I doubt that will be a problem.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. After all, she’s still maintaining her own household, isn’t she? Why do you think that is? Until she agrees to live in at Farley Park, anything could happen. Have you ever considered that she might have plans of her own?” He had to suppress a grin of satisfaction when James’s mouth turned down in a frown. He went on. “I’m speaking of housewifery, James. Now that you’ve freed Miss Churchill of the responsibility of her niece’s care, she’s also free to see to her own needs. For a young woman like her, the number one goal is always finding a husband of her own.”

With each point he made, James’s expression soured more. Though James was his closest friend, Kerry had no compunction about twisting the knife. He’d loved Catherine from afar, suffering in silence as his friend courted and won her. It seemed more than fair for James to suffer as he had. “In case you haven’t noticed, Miss Churchill is a damned handsome woman, with a surprisingly elegant manner about her. Perhaps too elegant for most of the country bumpkins in these parts, but all the same, eminently marriageable. You had better secure her and get her moved in here before she gets away, James.” His eyes danced as he delivered the final blow. “Catherine will be eternally grateful.”

Izzy and Helen sat up in Izzy’s bed, the bed linens tented over their heads to create their own private domain. From the open curtains moonlight streamed through, illuminating the room. But it was still awfully dark compared to London at night.

“But I want my old bed,” Helen said, fighting back tears.

Izzy put an arm around her. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m here and you can sleep with me. Every night if you want. There’s lots of room for both of us.”

“It’s too big.” Helen bowed her head and fiddled with the ruffled hem of her night rail. “And this room’s too big. And this house is too big. I want to go home. So does Bruno.”

At the sound of his name, Bruno’s tail thumped the bed between them.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“But I want Phoebe.”

Izzy sighed. “So do I. Come on. Lie down by me.” They snuggled together beneath the counterpane, two little heads on one pillow, with the growing puppy stretched between them, and their kittens curled together in a fluffy tangle at the foot of the bed. Izzy slid her arm around Helen and patted her shoulder. “There. That’s better.”

Helen sniffled. “You’re nice. I’m sorry I didn’t like you before.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t like you. I was just mad at everybody.”

“That’s how I feel. Mad at everybody. Except not you. And not Bruno. And not Mr. Fairchild either.”

“Just Lord Farley and Phoebe, hunh?”

“Yes. How come she doesn’t try to keep me at Plummy Head with her?”

Izzy shrugged. “She can’t keep you. She’s not your real mother.”

“Then how come she doesn’t come to live here with me?”

They lay in silence a long moment before Izzy said, “Did you ask her to?”

“No.”

“I think you should. You know, if you cry and beg and act really, really sad and scared and lonesome, I bet you could get her to stay here with us. There’s lots of bedrooms for her to sleep in.”

“You think it would work? She would move here? But what about the chickens and goats?”

“There’s lots of room for the goats and chickens too. And if she won’t come even if you cry really hard, then I have another idea. We’ll run away, just you and me.”

“But I don’t want to run
away
. I want to run
home
.”

Izzy rolled her eyes. “Good thing you was born here and not in Seven Dials. You wouldn’t’ve survived. You have to be sneaky, Helen. That’s the only way to get your way. You have to trick people.”

“That’s not what Phoebe says. She says you have to be honest. To always tell the truth.”

“Well, the truth is, we want Phoebe to live here with us and Leya. Right?”

Helen thought about that a long moment. Then in the dark of their moonlit bedroom she smiled at her new sister. “Right. We want Phoebe to live here with us.”

Phoebe stared at the impressive three-story mansion that was Lord Farley’s ancestral home. Bolstered by wealth and history and political power, it was a mighty fortress indeed, one which the likes of her was not likely ever to pierce.

The smaller of Lord Farley’s carriages had come just as she finished milking, bringing word that Izzy had a sore throat and that Lord Farley preferred not to have the child go out on such a raw, blustery day. Would Miss Churchill please come up to the Park?

She should have said no. But after Mrs. Leake’s visit yesterday, she’d gone to consult with Mr. Blackstock regarding Helen’s situation. Sadly, it was as she feared. She had no legal claim whatsoever to her niece. Neither her efforts, her time, nor her love counted one whit against the rights of Helen’s natural parents.

During the long empty night that followed, she’d resolved to make the best of an unbearable situation. And her most important duty to Helen was to help the child find happiness in her new circumstances. She couldn’t do that if she refused to go up to Farley Park.

So she’d made her hasty ablutions, changed her clothes, and now she leaned out the carriage window and closed her eyes against the damp wind. It was a raw, blustery day, but not nearly so cold as it had been. Maybe spring had finally arrived.

Helen met her in the foyer, throwing herself weeping into her arms. “My goodness, what’s all this?” Phoebe exclaimed, her voice warm and gently chiding, though she, too, felt like weeping. This was her own, dear child in every way except that which the law recognized. She forced a smile, and ruffled her beloved niece’s fair hair. “Have they been treating you so badly as all this?”

“She missed you,” Izzy said in a voice that didn’t sound scratchy at all.

“I missed you.” Helen hiccuped the words.

“She missed you,” Lord Farley said from the open doorway to his study.

Though Phoebe had tried to prepare herself for this—after all, if she spent time with Helen, she’d be forced to see the man quite often—nothing could quite prepare her for Lord Farley leaning against the doorjamb, smiling indulgently at his girls. As seemed to be his wont, he was dressed casually, in doe-colored breeches, a chocolate-brown waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, and a simply tied stock. He looked every bit the fine country gentleman.

But beneath that façade lurked the dangerous allure of a pirate, of a marauding heartbreaker of a man. Though her heart thundered from the very sight of him, Phoebe knew she must keep herself under the strictest control. He was her employer, a viscount, and the father of her niece. The only emotion she could allow herself to show him was anger.

Behind him on a blanket in the middle of a rich red Aubusson carpet, Leya sat surrounded by toys and piles of crumpled paper. What a relief to have her downstairs with the other children. She was a strange sight, her delicate olive skin marred with red blotches and daubed over with pale oat paste. But her smoky blue eyes lit up when she spied Phoebe, and with a squeal and a toothy grin, she charged on all fours toward the foyer.

Thankful for a focus other than Lord Farley, Phoebe said, “Helen may be sad, and Izzy’s throat may be irritated, but it appears that Leya is on the mend.”

When the baby reached her father, she grabbed on to his high boot top, then pulled herself to a wobbly two-legged stance.

“That’s my girl,” he said, beaming down at the baby. “Isn’t she something? Watch this.” Bending down he let Leya clutch his fingers, then helped her stagger over to Phoebe.

Already Phoebe was hard-pressed to maintain her anger at him. But seeing him doting over Leya’s ordinary, very natural triumph completely did her in. She crouched down, clapping with glee for the grinning baby.

“What a big girl you are. Look at you!”

“Mamamama.”

“She thinks you’re her mother,” Izzy said. “Just like Helen does.”

Phoebe’s gaze met Lord Farley’s, rising the long length of his muscular thighs, trim waist, and wide chest. If she was their mother and he was their father—

She banished the thought.

If he was embarrassed by Izzy’s blatant remark, he hid it behind the dark intensity of his deep blue eyes. But then, he was an expert at hiding his emotions from view—all but one. For she saw a flicker of heat in his gaze, a spark of physical hunger that almost toppled her backward.

Fortunately, Leya teetered forward, drawing Phoebe’s attention away and allowing her to steady her own shaky self.

He still wanted her. He lusted after her.

She shouldn’t be surprised; after all, a part of her still lusted after him. But she was done with that and he must be done with it as well. They were employer and employee now; that’s all they could ever be.

The children took up the rest of the morning. Lord Farley kept to his study; Phoebe kept to the schoolroom. She told herself that was exactly what she wanted. She even sent word that she and the children would dine upstairs.

But Lord Farley and Mr. Fairchild came up along with the luncheon. “Hello, pigeons,” Mr. Fairchild said to the girls. “I’ve treats in my pockets, but you must earn them. Show me what you’ve learned today.”

While Izzy and Helen clamored around him, Lord Farley came over to Phoebe. “Are you all right?”

Phoebe looked at him, then away. “Of course.” She placed the
First Reader
precisely in the middle of the table she sat at. “We had a very good morning.”

“I’m not referring to the children’s lessons, Phoebe. Miss Churchill,” he amended when she sent him a censorious look. “How are
you
?”

“I told you. Fine. Very well. Never better.”

He looked doubtful. “I worried that your first night without Helen might have been difficult.”

Phoebe swallowed hard. “I managed.”

“I almost rode over to check on you.”

“There was no need.” Lord preserve her if he’d come upon her in the state she’d been in last night. “You must never come there.”

“Why not?”

Phoebe stood. “Because it would put my reputation in question,” she hissed, though not loud enough to carry to the others. “As it is, this whole situation is the talk of Swansford.”

“You’ll only make yourself miserable if you listen to the talk of small-minded people.”

“That’s easy to say if you’re rich and titled and male. Tell me, you have sisters and daughters. How would you feel if they had to work for a man like you?”

She stalked away, not allowing him to respond. But though she’d had the last word, Phoebe wasn’t comforted. She didn’t want to argue with him. She didn’t want to interact with him at all.

Liar
. She cringed at her conscience’s painful honesty. The truth was, she wanted to interact with him all right, though it was generally known by another, coarser word.

After that she stayed as far from him as possible. After lunch, while Leya slept, Phoebe took the girls for a walk. They were in the herb garden, identifying the various plants and reciting their uses and spelling their names, when Mr. Fairchild rejoined them.

“Don’t worry. James isn’t with me,” he whispered when Phoebe glanced warily beyond him.

At once she drew herself up and folded her hands tightly at her waist. “Worried? Why should I be worried?”

He gave her a knowing wink. “I’ve known James since our days at school, so I’m well acquainted with the sort of effect he can have on a woman.”

If it were possible, Phoebe grew stiffer still. “You quite mistake the situation, Mr. Fairchild. Besides, I rather doubt any other woman has been in the same situation I find myself in with regard to Lord Farley. At least I certainly hope not.”

“Are you saying you don’t like him?”

Ahead of them the girls had plucked mint, rosemary, and bergamot sprigs, breaking the leaves and comparing the fragrances. She turned to Mr. Fairchild. “I’m just his employee. I don’t have to like him.”

“It’s because of Helen, isn’t it? You liked him until he took her from you.”

She shot him an annoyed look. “How astute you are.”

But he just grinned at her ill temper. “Perhaps this will make you feel better. It seems Lord Farley’s former fiancée is having second thoughts—about being the
former
fiancée, that is. With any luck he and she will repair their differences and renew their betrothal.”

That was the last thing Phoebe expected to hear, and in the sudden silence she went cold. But with Mr. Fairchild’s shrewd gaze upon her, she knew better than to reveal her feelings. “I don’t see how Lord Farley’s plans to marry affect me, save perhaps—” She broke off when a horrible thought gripped her like a cruel hand around her throat. “You don’t think he’ll move to town and take Helen with him, do you?” If he did that, she would die. She would simply wither away and die!

Mr. Fairchild chuckled. “I assure you, Lord Farley’s fiancée will not want to take his daughters back to town with her. Nor do I think that she’ll be content to molder out here in the country. So you see, my dear Miss Churchill, should James wed her, it’s very likely that you will spend most of the year alone here with the girls.” He gestured with one hand back toward the towering house. “And you’ll be living in far better circumstances than you have in the past.”

“Yes.” Phoebe found it hard to swallow past the lump of fear that lodged in her throat. “I see what you mean.” Lord Farley would marry and go back to his old life. She’d been a fool to believe otherwise. So why was she so upset? This was a good thing, she told herself. It was. “I suppose then that I should be anxious for Lady Catherine’s arrival.”

“Oh, so you know her by name.”

“Yes.” Phoebe smoothed back a strand of blowing hair. “We do get the news from London, you know. Even out here in the moldering countryside.”

He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. “You mustn’t think too badly of James, my dear. He only has his children’s best interests at heart as, I assume, do you. In truth, the two of you seem in perfect alignment on that front. I suggest you relax and learn to enjoy your situation here, Miss Churchill. I certainly intend to.”

A cloud sat over Phoebe’s head all afternoon. The sun shone, the earth warmed, and the whole Yorkshire countryside seemed to stretch and bask in the face of the impending spring. But over Phoebe a dark winter hovered. James’s fiancée wanted him back, the woman described as the beauteous Lady Catherine, the undisputed star of London society, widely admired, grievously wounded, and the sort of woman whom men fought over.

A man would be a fool not to want to marry such a woman. And Phoebe would be a fool not to want him to marry Lady Catherine, especially if Mr. Fairchild was correct about the three girls being left at Farley Park, in Phoebe’s care.

But it seemed she
was
a fool, for the thought of Lord Farley wed to the perfect Lady Catherine with her politically powerful father made Phoebe’s stomach tighten and lurch so violently she thought she might become ill.

When the girls had their tea at four o’clock, Phoebe decided to leave. She needed to be alone with her dismal thoughts, to grieve in private, though what she was grieving was hard to explain.

But the moment she reached for her cloak, Helen began to wail, “No. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”

Phoebe ended up staying through the evening meal. Once Helen fell asleep, however, with darkness fast upon the land and a bone-chilling fog creeping up from the sea, there was no choice but to accept the offer of a carriage to deliver her home. The last thing she expected was for Lord Farley to be her driver.

“Get in,” he said when she balked.

Behind them the door closed, leaving them alone in the feeble torchlight of the rear courtyard. An owl hooted from near the stables, and the horse stamped impatiently, jingling the traces of the small chaise.

“I’d rather someone else drove me,” she said. There was no need not to be blunt, for there was no one else to hear.

“Yes. I know. Get in,” he repeated. When she hesitated, he grabbed her elbow and steered her to the conveyance. And when she balked at his high-handedness, he said, “Get in the chaise, Phoebe, or I will lift you in myself.” To prove his point, his other hand patted her bottom in the most familiar way.

The nerve of the man! But it worked, for Phoebe hopped right in. Anything to avoid him actually picking her up.

“Do you treat all your employees so familiarly?” she spat when he climbed in beside her.

“Only the ones I’ve been familiar with in the past.”

Her back went rigid. “I hesitate to speculate on how vast that number must be.”

“Only one,” he muttered. With a snap of the reins he urged the animal forward. “Only one.”

They had driven to the end of the long driveway, almost to the road, before he broke the icy silence. “I needed to speak with you, Phoebe, and since you’ve made it clear that for your reputation’s sake you don’t want to be alone with me, I had no choice but to steal these few minutes when no one else could see us.”

Phoebe kept her eyes fixed on the rump of the horse. Left, right. Left, right. Flick the tail. Left right. “Very well. I’m here. So what is it you want to say to me?”

He cleared his throat. “I want you to know that I appreciate how difficult this must be for you.”

He appreciated her.

A wave of emotion rose in Phoebe’s throat, but she ruthlessly squashed it down. What was not to appreciate? She’d made it easy for him to take her beloved niece away. Plus, she’d dived into his bed the very first chance she got. He’d be a fool not to appreciate her.

He went on. “I’ll never do anything to separate you from Helen.”

She made a rude noise. “You already have.”

“She’s my daughter and she needs to know that at least one of her parents wants her.”

Phoebe didn’t want to hear this. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears and not have to admit that he might be right. She stared fixedly on the horse’s rump. Left, right. Left, right. “She cries for me.”

“I know. But she wouldn’t have to if you would live in at Farley Park, accept the governess position full time.”

“I wonder how Lady Catherine would feel about that,” she said, her voice too tart.