Tainted by Temptation (12 page)

“Perhaps you could introduce Miss Pendar and her governess to the local families,” said Lucian smoothly. He lifted the portmanteau he’d carried to the aisle over Velvet’s protestations. “Iris, take out the dolls to show what you have to offer.”

Iris reached in, pulled out a doll and cradled it close to her. She approached a tiny girl with braids no thicker than twine and said, “If I give her to you, would you take care of her and give her a good home?”

The girl nodded, and Iris pushed the doll into the tiny girl’s outstretched arms. As the little girl’s face lit up, Iris trounced back to the open portmanteau and drew out a second doll. Four girls almost en masse wiggled their way in front of the group of village women. They watched Iris with hungry eyes.

All the adults had gone silent as they watched Iris approach the next smallest girl. “Will you love her and take good care of her?”

The second child answered with a tremulous, “Yes.”

Velvet’s chest tightened as she realized there would be one less doll than girls.

One of the older girls shoved forward, “I would very much like a doll.”

Iris gave her the doll with chipped fingers. Now there were two girls left and only one doll. Iris pulled out the last doll and looked between the two girls. Both appeared near her age, and both were dressed in very simple gowns with homespun aprons. They both glued their eyes to Iris’s every move.

She stepped toward one and held out the doll. The girl grabbed it and cast a smug look toward the other child.

The doll-less girl ducked her head and started toward the door. Iris caught up to her. “I shall be friends with you, and I hope I do not have to bribe you with a doll.”

The other child looked up with dew-filled eyes.

“Besides, we are too old for dolls, aren’t we?” Iris laced her arm in the other girl’s and headed for the doorway.

With relief and pride in Iris’s skillful handling of the situation, Velvet turned toward Lucian. His gaze was cold.

He inclined his head slightly. “I’ll be outside.”

He strode for the door, and the people shied away, opening a path for him. Several of them all but crossed themselves.

Velvet searched for a friendly face in the crowd. In one of the back pews, Mrs. Bigsby was engrossed in tying her bonnet strings and Nellie glared. But not one of the others would meet her eyes.

“Surprised he didn’t burst into flames,” muttered one older woman. “Coming into the church as if he was innocent as a lamb.”

“Hush, Mother,” said a younger woman with a baby on her hip.

Velvet looked behind her for the vicar. He shouldn’t allow his parishioners to speak so. But he was gone.

She walked past the rows of rough, blackened wooden pews.

“Left her mark on him, she did,” muttered the older woman. She turned her gaze in Velvet’s direction. “You watch your step, missy. Or you’ll be next.”

“Excuse me?” Icy fingers ran down Velvet’s spine.

“Mother!” The woman with a baby on her hip hauled the older woman toward the door.

Velvet greeted a woman about her age, only to have the woman turn her shoulder as if she hadn’t heard.

“Lucifer’s whore,”
muttered someone in the back.

A cold chill tightened Velvet’s spine. They couldn’t know her reputation here in this tiny little fishing hamlet, could they? But why else would they include her in the aspersions against Lucian if they didn’t know the slurs cast against her?

Lucian stalked toward the gig and threw the empty valise on the floor. All the village girls chased after Iris and the child she’d decided to grace with her smiles and wiles. Iris had inherited her mother’s endless reserve of charm, but it would all be for naught. She would only be hurt by their perfidy. None of the village girls would be allowed to be a true friend to her. They might take the dolls, but once their parents got them home, the girls would be told they could have nothing to do with the devil’s spawn. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

His reputation was far worse than Velvet’s. He hadn’t wanted her to hear the rumors, but it was hardly better when the attacks against him spilled over to include Iris and her governess. But he could do nothing or he would only confirm the belief that he was a violent man.

As the churchgoers spilled out into the yard, he caught the looks of fear, anger, and repulsion. His fists clenched in his pockets, he stalked toward the empty churchyard. The gate squeaked as he opened it. He didn’t know why he tormented himself, but his feet knew the path to the six graves.

Dry leaves crunched underfoot. The air smelled of decay. The trees were spindly, and their denuded branches reached out like a witch’s talons, catching his coat as he passed.

His parents’ graves were side by side, and then came the three stones marking his two sons’ and a daughter’s resting place. None had survived an hour. They were all born fully formed, but blue and lifeless. Then there was Lilith’s grave. He remembered the day after Iris was born, when Lilith repeated again and again, “I’m sorry.”

But he’d seen the gleam of amusement in her eyes that she tried to hide by keeping her head down. He hadn’t believed her words of contrition. She hadn’t been the least bit sorry.

Cold seeped through him and settled in his bones. Not that it was anything other than a typical brisk day in late fall. But he always felt hollow here. He glanced to the knot of parishioners and saw Velvet standing apart.

She took a few steps toward the vicar. The man turned his shoulder and guided a woman toward the village. Velvet drew to a halt and her head dipped. Inside his pockets his hands curled. He should have warned her. Or he should have stayed home. She might have found a grudging tolerance if he hadn’t staked his claim on her.

The village girls were peeled away from Iris, their parents yanking the children away one by one.

Iris moved toward her governess and slipped her hand into Velvet’s. He was too far away to hear their conversation, but he didn’t miss the way Velvet stroked Iris’s golden curls.

After a few minutes the vicar reentered the church and closed the door with a thump. Velvet led Iris toward the gig.

A few seconds later the leaves rustled along the pathway. He supposed it was rude of him to make them wait.

“Still think it is a good idea to attend church?” he asked as Velvet neared him.

She drew to a halt behind him. Silence stretched between them. He turned to face her, and Miss Campbell ducked her head.

“I believe Iris’s spiritual education is necessary,” Velvet said in a reedy voice. Then more sharply she asked, “Do they know of me here?”

“I am afraid you are tarred by your employment in my household.” He turned back toward the graves. “Any woman who would work, live, and eat with evil incarnate must be damned to hell.”

She didn’t answer.

“They might have thought your soul could be saved if you sat far away from me.”

“But . . .”

Yet, he had all but sat with his arm around her. “I do not think they have read any of the scandal sheets in which you were featured,” he said.

He heard her stiff intake of breath. “But you have.”

“I have seen what was written in the newspapers, but probably not the more scurrilous attacks. That is the trouble when one is connected to up-and-coming political figures with rivals.”

She made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “But you hired me anyway.”

“I cared about your abilities to teach. Iris needed a governess dedicated to instruction, not drink. The vice of which you are deemed guilty would hardly interfere in the schoolroom.”

“You knew her previous governess drank?”

“That and her stealing was why she was dismissed.” There had been many more tried and failed attempts to hire another governess. His choice had been carefully considered. “I have an agent in London who questioned why you were denied a reference by the first family who hired you when you were kept on nearly a decade. By all the professors’ accounts, the boys you taught were more learned when they arrived at Oxford than most are when they leave.”

He turned, and she watched him with her hands carefully folded in front of her. “Your second family, while it was clear you had too close a relationship with the master of the house, kept you nigh on three years. And in spite of your being a female, they hired you to teach their sons.”

Pink crept up from her high neckline to infuse her pale cheeks. She lifted her chin as if trying to negate her shame. “I see you did make inquiries.”

He waited for her to elaborate on her relationship with her previous employer, but she remained mum.

“I have too many times paid for a governess to travel here only to have her quit when she learned of my reputation or had to deal with one of Iris’s tantrums.”

“I see,” she whispered.

He stared at the white stone marking Lilith’s grave. It was bigger than the markers on his children’s graves. He’d had more money when he purchased it than when he commissioned the granite stones for his parents and babies, but it seemed monstrous to him. As if he could pretend a love for his wife by an ostentatious display. “I understand what it is to be alone and to have moments of weakness.”

In stepping toward her, he must have moved out of her line of sight, because she gasped. Her gaze was on the small granite stones.

He waved to the graves. “My children.”

“Oh, I am sorry.” Her green eyes turned toward him, horrified and full of pity.

Funny, he didn’t doubt her sincerity. She stepped closer to the graves and markers. And him.

Her eyes flicked to the dates and the names on the markers. His parents’, the babies’, Lilith’s. The questions were in her eyes, but she pressed her lips together.

“My parents died of cholera after they took me to London.” His voice was steady. Time had eased the pain of their passing, but he never spoke of his children or of bringing them here wrapped in blankets. Laying them in their fresh little caskets. Waiting while they were put in the ground without ceremony. Tipping the grave digger. Biting his tongue when the vicar told him that God worked in mysterious ways.

The sunlight caught on the smooth cream and peach curve of Velvet’s cheek. She had been pale as skimmed milk when she first arrived. Already she’d begun to glow. She was achingly beautiful and full of life, carrying life. She didn’t belong in the cemetery. She didn’t belong with him. And he sure as hell didn’t want her pity. “We should go.”

Her fingertips settled on his arm. “Iris—”

“Is waiting,” he finished for her. He pushed his hat down on his head and strode down the path to the gig.

There were days when he didn’t know if he hated Lilith because of Iris or in spite of her. Lilith had taken his love and twisted it until he didn’t know if he was capable of being a good man again. Iris deserved better. Velvet deserved more than he could offer her. And he wanted so much more.

V
elvet mumbled a quick prayer over each of the small graves before following Lucian. Children died, but there were single dates listed on the tombstones. Only the first two had names, a boy and a girl. The last was simply listed as Baby Boy Pendar. No wonder Iris’s survival surprised Lucian and his wife.

The deaths had followed year after year, beginning with his parents and ending with the last baby, then a gap to his wife. The tragedies surely explained the dark withdrawal in Lucian. No doubt so many losses had strained his bond with his daughter.

He and Iris needed the serenity found in worship. She understood how accepting God’s plan could lead to healing. She could guide Iris to a better existence, and perhaps help Lucian find redemption. He wasn’t a bad man, even if he had sinned—not that she believed the accusations of the villagers. In a gruff way, he was kind; not the sort of man who could cold-bloodedly murder the mother of his children.

She turned and ducked under the overgrown tree barring the path. Other graves were better tended, their grass shorn and the freshly fallen leaves swept away. Did they hate Lucian so much here?

If they had seen him as she had, standing by the graves of his family with a stark yearning on his face, they could not think so badly of him. It was the first time she’d seen Lucian vulnerable. She’d wanted to wrap him in her arms and hold him the way she would have held Steven or James when they fell or were taunted by other boys. If only she’d realized that Steven had taken those embraces in a way she didn’t intend.

“Psst.” Behind the church a woman stood pressed against the wall, as if she didn’t want to be seen by Lucian out front.

Her shawl was over her head, preventing Velvet from seeing her face.

Velvet veered toward her. “Yes?”

The woman pressed a finger to her lips, then beckoned her closer.

Warily, Velvet moved to the wrought-iron fence separating the graveyard from the garden behind the stone structure.

The woman looked over her shoulder and moved closer. “That’s the grave you’d be wanting to know about,” she whispered.

Velvet followed the line of the woman’s finger. Tucked in the far back corner of the graveyard a single grave lay set away from the tended graves, almost unnoticed. A metal plate with the raised letters
MYRA GOWAN
marked the spot.

“I seen how you looked at him,” hissed the woman. “She looked at him that way too. Got herself with child.”

Fighting the rising heat in her face, Velvet moved closer and looked at the date. Calculating in her head, she concluded that Myra would have died a few months after Iris’s birth. “Who was she?”

But only the sough of the wind answered her. Velvet turned, and the woman was gone. Shaking her head, she moved to the gate and the gig where Lucian and Iris waited.

He stared ahead stonily, and she didn’t dare ask him who Myra Gowan was or how she had died. He didn’t hand her into the gig, but then she was only the governess.

She ducked her head, looking anywhere but at Lucian.

They drove along, passing the Bigsbys on the rutted lane. The moors stretched out in a desolate sweep of land, but the day was mild. London this time of year would have been damp and dreary with dirty streaking rain.

Here the clear sunlight sparkled off mica specks in the granite boulders. The carpet of grass remained largely green in spite of the lateness of the year. Velvet couldn’t decide if she liked the open expanses or missed the trees and manicured parks of London. Nature was wilder here, not tame and ordered as in the city.

For the first time in a long time she felt she had a purpose. Lucian, angry at life’s injustices, had turned from God and neglected Iris’s spiritual well-being. Iris needed to be shown the path to, if not holiness, at least goodness. With her own upbringing in the church, Velvet was confident she could bring Iris into the fold.

Iris chattered about her new friend as Lucian let the horse walk home. He left them at the front steps and drove the gig toward the stables. Velvet tried not to watch like a loony bird as she led Iris inside the still house. Was her attraction to Lucian obvious to everyone?

She sighed as she climbed the stairs. With only the few remaining hours of her day off, she needed to find the laundry room and do her washing. After piling her linens in a basket, she headed down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen.

Mrs. Bigsby pulled an apron around her ample frame, while Nellie backed out of the larder with a covered platter.

“Luncheon will be on the table soon, miss,” said Mrs. Bigsby. “If you’ll go wait in the morning room.”

“Where is the laundry room?”

“You can’t do washing now. It’s the Sabbath,” said Mrs. Bigsby. “Leave your things, the washerwoman comes on Wednesdays.”

Velvet resisted rolling her eyes. Her things were so threadbare she didn’t dare risk a rigorous scrubbing and boiling. Without her wages, she needed her underthings to last another year. She walked across to one of the half-dozen doors and opened it to find a stillroom. “I still need to know where the laundry is.”

Nellie nodded toward a far door.

Velvet headed toward it. As she backed toward the hinged door, she said, “Mrs. Bigsby, who was Myra Gowan?”

Nellie dropped the covered platter and it thudded on the floor.

Mrs. Bigsby’s face turned red and her eyes became slits. “Nellie, what is wrong with you?”

Velvet set down her basket and went to help gather up the spilled roast beef. Nellie dropped to her knees and hung her head down as she picked slivers of meat from the floor.

“I noticed Myra was rather young and buried alone.” She had been nineteen when she died.

Mrs. Bigsby thumped a heavy pan on the stove with a resounding clang. “We don’t speak of her here.”

Nellie’s mouth was pressed so tightly closed, Velvet doubted she’d get an answer from her. Velvet shivered. Who was Myra, and why had a villager thought to warn her about a long-dead girl?

Lucian stared at the letter on his desk. It was written on watermarked paper, the creases perfect thirds. He hadn’t expected anything like this when he decided to spend the remainder of the afternoon catching up on correspondence before he left tomorrow. Of course he hadn’t know what to expect when he saw the precise script on the envelope and the return address for Mrs. Langtree in London.

He didn’t expect a reference at this late date.

Instead it read:

Dear Mr. Pendar
,

It has come to my attention that you have recently hired a person to instruct your daughter. I feel it would be remiss of me to not warn you of the viper you have taken to your bosom. I hesitated to write, but felt it was my Christian duty.

Rather than pass judgment, I shall simply lay out the facts. A certain Miss C— was a member of our household. She developed a peculiar interest in my husband and his acquaintances. I may be a fool, but I took him at his word when he said Miss C— helped him with his political endeavors. I was even grateful for her interest, because I do not have the constitution to follow the discourses on governance. Little did I know I was being played for a fool.

On the fifth of January my youngest son suffered an injury. My husband had a guest, a rather prominent older MP, and had engaged the services of Miss C— to take some notes for them during their meeting. I will not give you the name of this man, although it has been suggested in the papers, but I should not like to cause him further harm. But I digress. My husband was called away to help. Sometime later, my son was begging for his governess, and in an effort to soothe my distraught child I sought her out.

I was mortified to catch her closeted with the MP in the library. She was in a wicked state. Her skirts and petticoats were about her waist, and her pantalets were about her ankles. She was sprawled upon the sofa. The MP was standing still fully clothed. So I know she was playing the wanton, displaying her private parts with such abandon.

I fear she had indulged too much in the drink my husband kept in the room. I was so shocked I could not speak. I had never had any reason to suspect she was immoral. If you doubt this, I will tell you Miss C— has a crescent moon birthmark on her hip. You might have one of your female servants confirm this. The MP quickly fastened his clothing and left.

I was swayed by her tearful entreaties and clearly intoxicated state that she had not known what she was doing and thus allowed her to stay on. In truth I believe I was so shocked I could hardly think straight.

I warned her that such wickedness would not be allowed in our household.

Barely a month later I went alone to the theatre. My husband begged off from attendance with excuses of urgent work. I returned early to find Miss C— in my bedroom in an open to the waist nightgown. My husband was in a frenzy, tearing off his clothes. She was making the most shocking noises. Of course he stopped when he realized I had returned. Miss C— continued to screech like a cat in heat.

You can understand why I insisted the footmen throw her out on the street right that moment. My husband tried to defend her, but I would have none of it. I told him I understand men have certain needs outside of marriage, but I would not condone that kind of woman in my household or in my bed. I believe he was tempted beyond rational thought.

I was not willing to be made a fool again.

I fear her wickedness does not end there. Lady D—, who recommended this viper to me, has informed me that Miss C— tried to ensnare her younger son. He made several visits to her apartments and gave her money. They had to threaten to cut off his funds so he would stay away from Miss C—. While he is a young man now, this is a boy she helped raise. Preying on a former pupil is certainly the most disgusting of acts.

Lady D— was profuse in her apologies, but she too had been fooled by the character of Miss C—. While I do not know all the details of this liaison with Lady D—’s son, I am convinced it was quite sordid.

Miss C— will certainly destroy the character of your child. Please do not be deceived by her modest behavior. She could hold butter in her mouth without it melting. This woman is a Jezebel whore who corrupts those who would treat her with goodness. At some future date should you wish to have your child accepted in society, having her name linked in any way with V— C— will only put her beyond the pale. I hope you will heed my warning.

The letter was signed with only an initial and a dash, as if it were an epistle to a lover. Lucian rubbed his face. He pushed back from his desk and went in search of Velvet. He had half begun to believe that Velvet’s reputation was undeserved, since she didn’t have the knowing way about her that Lilith had.

Velvet wasn’t in her room or the schoolroom. Iris was playing with her dolls in her bedroom. Upon seeing him, she popped up and ran to him.

“Where is Miss Campbell?” he asked.

Iris shrugged. “She took a basket of clothes downstairs.”

He nodded and pivoted out of her room.

If she was so indiscriminate in her lovers—an old politician, a married man, and a wet behind the ears boy—why was she refusing to join him in his bed? A white hot anger boiled in his chest. He fisted his hands.

“Papa,” called Iris. “Why do you want Miss Campbell?”

“Go back in your room. This doesn’t concern you.”

A few minutes later he stopped in the kitchen, a rare enough event that Nellie’s mouth dropped open. Bigsby stood so fast the chair he was sitting in toppled over. But it was Sunday. All the day servants had the day off, so the Bigsbys were the only household staff present. They had the minimal duties of heating and serving the meals Cook had already prepared.

“Mrs. Bigsby, I will be leaving at five in the morning. Be so good as to inform the rest of the household.”

“Mr. Evans—”

“Has already packed for me and will be accompanying me. The coach and coachman will stay in Plymouth until my return. Miss Campbell is in the laundry?” His words were clipped.

Nellie ducked her head and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Bigsby said. “Would you like Nellie to fetch her?”

“No, need.” He crossed the room.

“Do you need me to show you the way?” Nellie lurched toward him, seemingly recovering her composure.

“No.” He’d lived in the house all his life. He knew its rooms, even the ones he didn’t inspect on a regular basis.

When he entered the room, Velvet was bent over a washtub, her sleeves pushed back above her elbows. A strand of hair had slipped loose and caressed her flushed face.

“The washerwoman comes on Wednesdays,” he said.

Velvet looked up, her eyes wide and her lips parted. She straightened and pulled her dripping forearms from the washtub. “I’ve been told. I’m in the habit of seeing to my own washing.”

Behind her, two nightgowns, three petticoats, and a chemise dripped on the flagstone floor.

“I’ve received a letter from a Mrs. Langtree.”

The color drained from Velvet’s face.

He’d hoped she would look surprised or confused, but she looked . . . guilty, as if she knew exactly what the letter contained.