Secrets and Sensibilities: A Regency Romance Mystery (The Lady Emily Capers Book 1) (2 page)

Emily grunted, Ariadne grimaced, and Daphne nodded in
agreement. Priscilla eyed Hannah thoughtfully.

“You say educational as if we were the ones to be educated,
Miss Alexander,” she replied, smoothing down the skirts of her lavender wool
traveling dress. “You might find you’ll learn something as well. I don’t
suppose you ever went out much in Society before you became a spinster.”

It took all of Hannah’s strength not to return the unkind
remark with one of her own. She was aware that she was on the shelf, but
somehow the reminder rankled. Her own mother, widowed at a young age, had tried
to raise Hannah and her younger brother Steffen as their knighted father would
have wished, but it was clear from the outset that Steffen must receive the
schooling and training to make his way in the world. Hannah, it was hoped,
would marry a country squire and raise children. But Hannah had fallen in love,
with her painting. Given the choice of marrying an elderly vicar like her grandfather
or finding a post, she had elected to apply for the position of mistress of art
at a school in far-away Somerset. Hannah was probably the most surprised of
anyone when she had been given the job.

“I’m sure we’ll all learn something,” she replied to
Priscilla, hoping her slight frown would reinforce her meaning that Priscilla
had things to learn as well, such as manners. As usual, the subtle look was
lost on the girl.

“I don’t see how,” Ariadne muttered. “Priscilla’s already
admitted that there won’t be any young men.”

Hannah shook her head at their obsession. “Come now,
Ariadne. There is more to life than flirtations.”

At that, they all protested at once, forcing her to hold up
her hands in mock surrender.

“But Miss Alexander, how are we to practice for the Season?”
Ariadne cried. “We have only a few weeks left before we are presented, and Miss
Martingale has yet to allow us a single male on whom to practice our wiles.”

“And I’m sick of playing the boy every time we practice
waltzing,” Daphne put in.

“And I of playing the boy while everyone tries their insipid
conversations,” Lady Emily grumbled.

Priscilla made a face, somehow managing to look charming at
the same time. “There you go complaining again. Isn’t a week in the country
better than staying alone at school?”

“Easy for you to say,” Lady Emily muttered. “You have a beau
waiting for you at Brentfield.”

Ariadne clapped her hands over her mouth as if she’d been
the one to spill the secret.

“You weren’t supposed to tell!” Daphne scolded.

Hannah glanced around at the three worried faces and
Priscilla, who preened once again. She had a sudden vision of a strapping
farmer’s son riding up on a stallion and sweeping the fair Priscilla off to
Gretna Green the moment the coach stopped at Brentfield:  Hades Carrying Off
Persephone. The elopement would surely be followed by the outraged Lady
Brentfield demanding Hannah’s resignation. Worse, her reputation would be
ruined--she might never get another commission.

“Beau?” she ventured, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Priscilla’s eyes glowed. “My aunt the countess is arranging
for me to marry the new earl.”

Hannah gaped. “But he’s your cousin, and he must be years
older than you are.”

“He isn’t my cousin,” Priscilla maintained. “He is a distant
cousin of the previous earl, who was my aunt’s second husband. My father is
related to her first husband. And he isn’t so terribly old. He’s younger than
Mother.”

Hannah opened her mouth to comment, then thought better of
it. She could not imagine why a man would want to marry a near-child he hadn’t
even met. It was certainly natural, she supposed, that he felt some duty toward
the widowed Lady Brentfield, but he hardly had to marry her niece.

The description of the chaperone Lady Brentfield had
requested suddenly struck Hannah anew. Her ladyship had wanted someone quiet,
unassuming, dutiful. Priscilla’s confession proved what Lady Brentfield was
seeking:  someone who would keep the other girls occupied and provide no
competition to the beauteous Priscilla, either in looks or in trying to
ingratiate herself with the new earl. Hannah, more interested in her art than
Society, was a perfect choice. She wondered whether Miss Martingale had known,
or whether Hannah had truly been the only teacher available.

“You see, Miss Alexander,” Ariadne grumbled. “It’s just as I
said. She’ll spend all her time billing and cooing, and the rest of us will be
bored to flinders.”

“Lady Brentfield is far too good a hostess, I’m sure, to
invite you to no good purpose,” Hannah replied, hoping she was right. “She must
have all sorts of diversions planned for your visit.”

Lady Emily looked unconvinced, but Ariadne and Daphne
brightened. As graceful as a bird, Priscilla waved a languid hand at the
passing scenery.

“You will find out soon enough,” she told them. “We are
about to enter the estate.”

Daphne and Ariadne scrambled over Lady Emily for a view out
the carriage window. Only Priscilla sat back in her seat, arms crossed under
her breasts. Hannah, however, could not resist a look out her own side of the
carriage.

Since leaving the school shortly after Palm Sunday services,
they had circled the west end of the Mendip Hills, passing by the village of
Wenwood and running over the River Wen. Shortly thereafter, they had passed
through vineyards, vines greening with spring. Now a two-story stone gatehouse
hove into view. The carriage slowed. An elderly man clambered out of the house
and set about opening huge wrought-iron gates topped by balls of gold. As the
gates swung open against stone columns, the horses sprang though. The man
offered the girls a deep bow.

Hannah knew she should sit back in her seat and not gawk
like her charges, but she had never seen such grandeur. Majestic oaks crowded
on their left, and an emerald meadow dotted with jonquils swept away on the
right. The meadow led up to the placid waters of a reflecting pond, which
mirrored the front of a rose brick great house. The drive led up over a white
stone bridge arching the stream that fed the pond and onto a circular patch of
white gravel encircled by a shorter wrought-iron fence with gold balls on each
post. A gate from the drive opened to a garden-edged path that led up to the
porticoed porch of Brentfield.

Hannah stared. The wings of the house led off in each
direction, three floors full of huge, multipaned windows edged in white.
Liveried footman as smartly dressed as the house strode out to assist the girls
in alighting. Grooms sprang forward to hold the horses. The girls crowded past
her, giggling and chattering. Hannah was so mesmerized that she didn’t even
realize they had all left until a footman peered into the coach and started at
the sight of her.

“Can I help you down, miss?” he asked. Hannah blinked, then
offered him her hand. Her half boots crunched against the snow-white gravel.
She gazed upward, holding her straw bonnet to her head with one gloved hand,
staring at the three golden urns that topped the pedimented porch.

“They tell me,” said a warm male voice, “that the house was
designed to mimic Kensington Palace.”

“I was thinking of Olympus, actually,” Hannah replied. She
glanced at what she had thought was another footman and froze. Standing beside
her was a gentleman who took her breath away.
A Modern David in the Field
,
her artist’s mind supplied, noting the tweed trousers and jacket. She wondered
whether she’d brought enough brown with her to capture the warmth of his thick,
straight hair. She’d need red for highlights too, or perhaps gold. No, she’d
paint his eyes first, a deep, soft blue that would change, she would wager,
with what he wore. And she would have to find a way to immortalize that
welcoming smile, tilting more at one corner as if her wide-eyed stare amused
him.

And she was staring, she realized, although she couldn’t
seem to help herself. She wanted to commit every detail to memory, as she did
before painting a subject. She wanted to remember that his lower lip was more
full than his upper lip, and both were a seashell pink. There were a dozen
other things she needed to catch if she was to capture the man on canvas.

“Are you all right?” he asked when she remained silent in
study.

He spoke with an accent, a twang that softened his speech.
She had heard French, German, and Gaelic at the school, but she did not think
this accent was a result of their influence.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she managed. She glanced about and found
that the footmen were tossing down the luggage from the top of the carriage and
the boot. The man beside her appeared invisible to the servants, who bustled
past with loaded arms. He was equally invisible to the groomsmen who held the
horses. None of them met his gaze as he glanced about. She wondered suddenly
whether her bemused brain had conjured him, like a fairy from a mushroom
circle, to grant her wish to paint. But no fairy she had ever read about
dressed like a shepherd.

“You’re the chaperone from the Barnsley School?” he asked
politely.

He was making conversation, and she was gawking again. She
forced a smile. “Yes. I’m the school’s art teacher.”

A light sprang to his eyes, making her catch her breath
anew. “You’re an artist? What medium?”

“Oil painting,” she replied a little surprised at his
interest. “Although I like charcoal as well. There is a way of shadowing that
gives the subject depth.” Realizing she sounded as if she were lecturing, she
blushed.

“Do you prefer landscapes, objects, or people?” he prompted
eagerly.

“People,” she answered.

“Classical or portrait?” he quizzed.

She was beginning to feel like the student for once.
“Classical,” she responded before she could think better of it. Then, knowing
how scandalous that confession was, she quickly corrected herself. “That is, I
hope to one day paint portraits.”

“Have you studied, then?” he asked. “Would you know a
classical piece if you saw one?”

Was this some kind of interview? She seemed to remember
being asked such questions when she had arrived at the Barnsley School.

“I am self-taught,” she told him proudly. “My family did not
have the funds to send me to school. But I can assure you I know the Masters.”

He grinned. “Then maybe I could show you a few of the
Brentfield pieces.”

She looked him askance, still trying to determine why he was
so interested. She had met few who were interested in her painting, even among
those she painted. “Are you an artist, too?”

His smile deepened. “I’ve been called that a few times. But
I work in leather, not paper or canvas.” He held out his hands, which she saw
were stained brown. His smile faded. “Although my badge of honor looks like
it’s wearing off. The mark of a gentleman, I guess.”

Even with his gentle voice and accent, he made it sound as
if being marked as a gentleman was a shameful thing. He shook himself and
offered her a smile that was a pale copy of his original. “I’d love to see your
work. And I do have a project that I’d like your help on. You’ll be staying
until Easter, I hope?”

“As long as the girls need me,” Hannah replied. Belatedly,
she glanced up the drive after her charges. Not a single girl was in sight. She
rolled her eyes at her own ineptitude. Her first assignment as a chaperone, and
she hadn’t even escorted them into the house!

A tall, elderly dark-skinned gentleman in tan knee breeches,
navy coat, and the undisguisable air of command, was making his way toward
them.
Othello Coming to His People
, her bemused brain suggested.

“I’m in trouble now,” her companion murmured. “Derelict in
duty once again.” He heaved a sigh, but the twinkle in his eye told her he was
hardly sorry.

“You’re needed inside,” the older man intoned with a nod.
Hannah wondered why the Tenants would have use for their own in-house leather
craftsman, but she felt a shiver of pleasure that she would be able to see him
again during her visit. Perhaps she might find a moment to help him with his
work here.

The older man turned to her with a bow. “You’d be the Miss
Alexander for whom the young ladies are searching?”

“She’s still beside the carriage, so they can’t be searching
very hard,” her David quipped. “Now, don’t glare, Asheram. You wouldn’t want to
reduce me to a quivering pulp in front of Miss Alexander, would you?”

“Perish the thought,” the man replied.

“Good. Earn your keep and introduce me the way you tell me
these Brits insist on.”

The older gentleman rolled his wide-set eyes. “If you would
be so kind as to tell me your first name, Miss Alexander?”

Her David leaned forward as eagerly as when he had asked
about her painting and set her blushing again. “Hannah,” she murmured.

“Miss Hannah Alexander,” the man said solemnly. “May I
present David Tenant, Earl of Brentfield?”

David watched as the adorable little woman gasped and
blanched. His grin faded as he thought for a moment she might actually faint.
He caught her arm as she swayed, but she snatched it back, staring at him as
fixedly as she had when he had first encountered her on returning from his
walk. Then he had found it flattering. Now he felt downright alarmed.

“Miss Alexander, welcome to Brentfield,” he tried, bowing
lower than was probably socially acceptable. “Shoulders for a peer,” Asheram
had explained during one of their many tutorial sessions on the boat over,
“chest for a better, and waist for royalty.” Well, Miss Alexander was a
princess in his book. And she was by far the most interesting person he had met
since arriving in Brentfield. With any luck, she would be able to help him
confirm his suspicions about the missing art treasures.

His gallantry only served to make Asheram narrow his dark
eyes and the lady tremble. She dropped a curtsey deeper than his bow, and he
wondered if that made him the Archbishop of Canterbury. “My lord, you are too
kind. Please forgive my impertinence. I didn’t know who you were. I promise not
to be so encroaching in the future.”

David sighed. All he needed was another doting follower. Of
course, it couldn’t be any worse to the way the dowager Lady Brentfield was
treating him.

It took a great deal to anger him. Those who had known him
during his youth and apprenticeship in Boston would have called him
even-tempered, jovial, every man’s friend. Those who had in turn been apprenticed
to his leather shop had been known to term him generous, broad-minded, and
fair. The fine ladies of Boston praised his carved and colored works of fine
leather, and smiled and dimpled at his rakish compliments, telling their
friends what a charming and handsome fellow David Tenant was. One month in the
company of Sylvia Tenant, the widow of the former Earl of Brentfield, and he
found himself wondering whether he was capable of murder.

It wasn’t that he misunderstood her. From the moment he had
arrived at Brentfield to claim his inheritance a month ago, she had been
working in the most obvious ways to ensnare him. She had started by following
him about with the simplistic adoration she seemed to think men found pleasing,
introducing him to the aged estate and telling him how much he was needed to
return it to its former glory. He could see that the place did indeed need
work. Some of the plaster in the little-used rooms was peeling, and he was
afraid the dampness that was the apparent cause had resulted in structural
damages as well. There were any of a dozen things he needed to do to determine
the core of the problem and fix upon a solution, but he found it impossible to
move with the lovely widow hanging on his arm. In an effort to keep her
occupied, he had commented that she needed a purpose and set her to work
inventorying linens. Only later did Asheram, his steward and friend, inform him
that one did not set countesses to such a task.

However, her ladyship was not to be deterred. She had then
tried flirting outrageously with him, to the point where he was embarrassed to
be in the same room with her. Hoping to kindly refuse her, he had
lightheartedly asked whether she might be catching the croup, as her voice was
decidedly husky and she seemed to have something in her eyes by the way she
kept perpetually batting them. When she had stomped from the room in a fit of
pique, he had begged Asheram to find them a suitable chaperone. He was
beginning to realize that if he spent too many nights alone in this house with
the woman, someone might suggest that he marry her. But the elderly female
relative to whom Asheram had written never arrived. David had been forced to
move his things to the more dilapidated east wing, putting over a city block
between them.

Still, she had refused to give up. Playing the widow
grieving over the deaths of her late husband the previous earl and his only son
from an earlier marriage had given her several opportunities to sob on his
shoulders and press her head against his chest. She had sighed long and
bitterly over the fate of widows who were inadvertently left out of their
husbands’ wills. He had patted her on the back, set her on her feet, and
assured her she would be well taken care of. Unfortunately, she did not seem to
believe him.

He supposed the woman was attractive in her own way. Beneath
the powder, rouge, and kohl, she did seem to possess some natural beauty. She
was perhaps five to seven years older than he was, yet her golden blonde hair
was thick and wavy, her eyes a startling blue. She was forced to wear the black
for her late husband, but the dark silk gowns were designed with tucks,
ribbons, and laces, all calculated to bring attention to her considerable
curves. He did his best to give those curves as little attention as possible.

But the lady before him was another matter, a petite package
designed to call to him. He tried to tease her out of this sudden fear.

“If by not encroaching you mean you’ll treat me with the
same stuffiness everyone else does, I’ll cheerfully put you back on that coach
and send you home.”

“My lord!” she cried.

Asheram cleared his throat, and David returned his glare
with a wink.

“His lordship is inordinately fond of joking, Miss
Alexander,” his friend explained in his calm, deep voice. “I’m sure you’ll give
the young ladies good service while you’re here. If there’s anything I can do
to make your stay easier or more enjoyable, you have only to ask. Now, I must
insist you join us in the rotunda. Lady Brentfield is expecting us.”

David could have cared less what her ladyship expected, but
Miss Alexander was biting her lip and looking even more worried. He offered her
his arm and was relieved when she accepted it. She had long-fingered hands,
artist’s hands, he thought, and her touch on his sleeve was light but firm, for
all she looked like she wanted to tremble. He felt oddly chivalrous as they
followed Asheram to the front door.

He sincerely hoped she wouldn’t retreat into formalities as
she had implied. Funny, but Boston society was often cited as the most formal
in America. He’d worked for the wealthy, who for all their delight in his work
would refuse to acknowledge him outside his shop, let alone invite him to
dinner. In his own circle of merchants and artisans, things had been less codified.
A man was judged on his intelligence, his character, and his skills. David had
never been found wanting in any area. Yet here, just because of a thin and
distant bloodline, he was expected to behave as if he had been elevated to the
status of demigod. It was downright blasphemous, and he refused to do it.

Still, he found himself wanting a chance to get to know the
woman who walked beside him. From the moment she’d looked up at him, those eyes
had caught his attention. Wide-spaced in her pale oval face, they were almond
shaped and a deep warm brown finer than any coffee brought from Jamaica. Inside
the bonnet she wore, her hair appeared to be darker as her eyes. She had a pert
nose and a generous mouth. Kissable, his assistant in Boston would have called
it. The stiff black traveling dress failed to hide her womanly curves. And best
of all, like him, she knew what it meant to use her art to earn her keep.

A footman opened the door for them, and Asheram ushered them
into pandemonium. When David had first arrived, he’d been amazed that the
marble-floored rotunda of the entryway to Brentfield was bigger than his entire
workshop in Boston. Now it surprised him that four young ladies, three passing
footmen, two maids, her ladyship, and some luggage could make the place
actually feel crowded.

“Ladies, ladies,” Asheram declared, voice ringing to the
domed ceiling three stories above. “If I may have your attention. His lordship
would like to say a few words.”

His lordship would have liked nothing less. However, David
resigned himself to playing the part.

He hadn’t realized he was going to play host to four girls
not yet out of the schoolroom until Lady Brentfield had approached him two
nights ago. He’d been gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking to the
northwest across the fields that ringed the great house when he’d felt her gaze
on his back. Her ladyship could not possibly comprehend his fascination with
the acre upon acre of rolling Somerset farmland he had inherited. He had never
been out of Boston in his life, never been able to see beyond the end of the
street he was on. Here he could literally see for miles. He found he never
tired of the view. Her ladyship, he suspected, would say that no gentleman
should take such an inordinate interest in his lands, beyond knowing that they
provided amply for his upkeep.

But he was no gentleman, despite all her attempts to make
him into her perception of an earl. Ever since he had appeared at the broad oak
doors of the estate, head barred, carpet bag in hand, she had dropped hints,
made suggestions, and gently tried to nudge him toward her ideal. He had
resisted, feeling as if the woman were trying to take away some substantial
part of him. As a result, he was still dressed in tweed jacket and trousers
with a knotted scarf at his throat like some farmer from the field, even though
she had insisted he allow a tailor from Wells to build him a new wardrobe
befitting his station. He still spoke with what she considered the rough twang
of a Colonial, when he could have availed himself of the diction teacher she
had recommended. Worst of all to her mind, he knew, he still insisted on
walking about the estate daily when he had a perfectly good stable and her
offer to teach him to ride.

“Then you are determined to stay here this Season?” she had
asked with a suitably regretful sigh.

David had looked at her at last and found that she had
artfully arranged herself across one of the blue sofas the immense withdrawing
room possessed. Seeing the knowing look in those kohl-rimmed eyes, he found
himself thankful that her seduction attempt earlier had failed. Thank God,
Asheram had interrupted him and thank God David had been strong enough to
resist her blatant pleas to follow her back to her room. The woman thoroughly
frustrated him. Sometimes she seemed determined to become his lover, and other
times he wondered whether he had anything to do with this lust of hers to
remain the reigning Countess of Brentfield.

He knew by reviewing the many portraits of Tenants past that
he bore some family resemblance to her late husband. He was tall, with dark
hair and blue eyes. He had the Tenant nose, long, slender at the bridge and
wider at the tip, although he certainly hoped his own mouth was more expressive
than the ones in the paintings. He’d like to think he looked more amused than
foreboding, although with her ladyship, perhaps foreboding wasn’t such a bad
idea.

“Yes, I’m staying,” he answered her, once again refusing to
use her title. She took a deep breath as if to steady herself, and he wondered
what she found in his manner to annoy this time. Let’s see, she had already
lectured him that day on his demeanor (which was too familiar with underlings),
his choice of reading material (novels, apparently, were for women only), and
his vocal projections (which she continued to maintain were too gentle to
inspire the servants, although the household staff did his bidding more quickly
than he had seen them do hers). According to her ladyship, an earl should
command, he should sneer, he should bring the world to its knees with only a
look. It all sounded like so much nonsense to him.

“But don’t feel you have to stay here with me,” he felt
compelled to add in the face of her disapproval. “I know you want to return to
London. I’d prefer to remain until Asheram and I finish the projects we’ve
started.” He carefully avoided any mention of what those projects entailed. He
was not about to tell her that his friend’s inventory of the Brentfield estate
had indicated that several priceless works of art were missing. He honestly
didn’t think she was behind the thefts, but he wasn’t taking any chances until
he knew more.

“But you must be confirmed in your title,” she protested
earnestly. “You must take your place in Parliament. You must make your bows in
Society. Do you wish to appear a rustic?”

He shrugged. “I
am
a rustic. How many earls do you
know who made their living carving leather in Boston?”

She could not help wincing at the mention of his plebeian
background, and he found himself grinning at her. To his mind, it was a kind of
honor to rise to the top of one’s profession at the early age of thirty and
two. Her ladyship and the solicitor who had come to fetch him in America seemed
to have other ideas.

“You could show them how much you’ve learned by coming to
London with me,” she insisted. He watched as she obviously considered which
face and emotion would most sway him: should she hang her head pathetically, or
perhaps sniff in true regret? He felt his grin growing even as her eyes
widened. She realized he knew her game. She gave up the pretense and tossed her
head instead.

“Now,” he countered, “how can I run off to London when
you’ve been telling me how much the estate needs a firm hand?”

He had her there. She could hardly contradict her earlier
complaints that the place was falling apart without a man to run it.

“You’ve done so much since you arrived,” she hedged. “Surely
Haversham can manage in your absence.”

David gritted his teeth in annoyance as she once again
butchered his friend’s last name. “It’s Asheram, your ladyship, Mr. Asheram,”
he reminded her. “And I wouldn’t go anywhere without him.” Regaining his
equilibrium with difficulty, he winked at his friend, who stood sentinel beside
the double doors to the room. “What about it, Ash? Do you have a great desire
to see London?”

“Not at the moment,” the older man intoned in his deep
thoughtful voice. “I spent entirely enough time there caring for the Earl of
Kent before he died.”