A Bewitching Governess Read online

  Enoch levitated a card in that direction.

  Olivia stifled her impatience. The children were unusually gifted and would have no one to teach them once they returned home. She had to do her best now. “Have you seen this gentleman before?”

  Clare, the ghost-seeing twin, shook her head. “He’s very old.”

  Four-year-olds were not good at description.

  “Cat, what color are you seeing?’ Olivia didn’t turn in the direction of the cupboard. If the twins had any ability to read minds, she didn’t want them affected by what she saw.

  “He is green,” Cat said, turning back to the cards, dismissing colors that had little meaning to her.

  Olivia glanced over her shoulder at the corner indicated—definitely a murky green aura in the chest area. The ghost hadn’t been a very confident person, which would have made him a bad gambler. “He is curious,” she told them. “He likes cards.”

  “Then maybe he’s a bad man,” Enoch said worriedly. “Daddy says only bad men play cards.”

  A good governess did not quibble with a parent’s lessons. Olivia bit her tongue.

  “Can we light the candles so Daddy will see them and know how to find us?” Cat asked plaintively.

  “Let’s put your nightgowns on first,” she suggested.

  They’d set out an evergreen branch they’d cut earlier, in imitation of the big tree in the downstairs where the children weren’t allowed. Olivia had asked the butler for candle stubs. She’d hoped Mr. Blair could celebrate the occasion with them, but she was running out of excuses for his absence.

  Distracted, they ran to fetch their nightclothes and let Olivia help them change. Once they were settled around the table again, Olivia lit one stub. “Let me teach you the rules of the game, and then each time someone wins, we’ll light another.”

  The children cheered. Enoch floated cards to the center of the table and sent them to his sisters the way Olivia instructed. The twins struggled with adding the numbers to make twenty-one, but Clare lit up with excitement when the ghost apparently showed her what to do. Cat caught on quickly by reading Olivia’s aura when she had a good card.

  Daisy sneaked up with eggnog, and it was almost a proper celebration.

  Their upper lips smeared with cream, they were all indulging in merriment when the schoolroom door swung open, letting in a brisk wind. In the doorway, a furious, muddy giant roared, “What the Hades are you doin’?”

  Olivia could smell the whisky fumes.

  This was Mr. Blair?

  Two

  Simon unsteadily grabbed the door frame. He normally held his whisky well, but to his jaded eyes, he’d walked into Dante’s hell. Illuminated in a pagan circle of light from candles burning in an evergreen branch, his children—his lovely innocent bairns—were playing with the devil’s toys. Enoch without using his hands, naturally, but the twins. . . they were so young that they were barely talking! And now they were witches?

  And—he squinted through the alcohol and dim light. Beneath the table slept a witches’ familiar, a golden-haired cherub he was quite certain wasn’t his.

  The weans had been so absorbed in their witchcraft that they hadn’t noticed him until he shouted, but the governess had. Her eyes had widened in horror and disgust. The feelings were mutual. He growled. Simon was fairly certain he’d just growled like a feral wolf.

  He’d known the governess who had taken his children to this remote outpost was a Malcolm. The duke who owned this blamed monstrous castle was a Malcolm, for all that mattered. Simon’s late wife had been a prescient Malcolm—and she’d died for it. If he never saw another Malcolm again. . .

  The governess was another blond, blue-eyed witch like Letitia. Agony rendered him helpless. He wasn’t blotto enough to let his wince show.

  The children squealed, shouted, tipped their chairs over, and gratifyingly dashed to his arms. They hadn’t forgotten him. Stooping to claim them, Simon toppled back on his bum. They crawled on his legs, up his arms, and he simply fell backward rather than risk dropping them by standing.

  “Children, allow your father to right himself, please, presuming he is able to do so.” The crisp, precise tones bit like nasty midges.

  “I am capable of doing so,” he responded roughly, not trying to match her accents but imitating them anyway. “But it is more pleasant to play with puppies on the floor.”

  Enoch chattered about how he could add to twenty-one. Cat just nattered. Clare, as always, purred and cuddled and murmured to him or her invisible companions. The tyke under the table woke in the commotion and her round eyes blinked.

  “It is past their bedtimes. I have kept them up in hopes you might arrive as promised.” Scorn and disapproval laced every word out of the prim and proper teacher’s mouth. “Even their nursemaid has gone to celebrate the night of Christ’s birth.”

  And the governess had chosen to celebrate with candles and evergreens and probably a burning cauldron, aye, right. Malcolms were descendants of druids, and this was a pagan ritual if he ever saw one.

  “I don’t believe the drunken carousal belowstairs can be called worship. I had to beat on the kitchen door to gain entrance.” He loved his children, but he was tired, soaked, and furious enough to take umbrage at a mere governess’s disapproval.

  With the anger of righteousness, he tossed the twins over his shoulder. To their squeals of delight, he stood. “Enoch, my lad, lead me to your room so I can tuck you in properly.”

  “Will you be here in the morning?” the governess asked in tones of ice. “They have gifts for you, and it would be a disappointment if you disappeared before they woke.”

  He’d have punched a bloke who spoke to him like that. Curbing his notorious temper, Simon attempted the courtesy his poor ol’ mam had beat into him. “I’ll be taking them with me when I leave in the morn. The nursemaid can have them dressed and ready. You’re free to sleep late and go back to your infernal school whenever you choose.”

  She froze. Her eyes formed shards of blue ice. “We will speak of that after the children are in bed.”

  “Or what? You’ll hex me?” He marched off, thinking he should be wearing his dirk and guarding his back.

  Olivia carried Evie to the trundle bed in her own room. She was only guessing at Evie’s age, but everyone who’d known the child before Olivia adopted her said she was four or five. She gabbled softly in her special language and rested her head on Olivia’s shoulder. Tears lined Olivia’s eyes as she recalled another tawny head that had once rested there. Bobby would never see another Christmas.

  She tucked Evie in, kissed her forehead, and gave her Snuggle Bunny to hold.

  Then she returned to the schoolroom, prepared to face her inebriated employer. She’d met his cousin, the inventor Andrew Blair, and had never expected the children’s father to be this. . . this black-bearded brute. Andrew had seemed a perfectly civilized gentleman, a trifle busy and absent-minded perhaps, but by no means a crude giant with a rude tongue.

  Square-jawed, unshaven, broad-chested, with shoulders that would fit an ox, Simon Blair was the sort of drunk who heaved people out a tavern window. She’d seen the like and knew them well.

  She should be afraid, but she wasn’t. She’d faced the worst and survived. She was a viscountess, after all, no matter what the damned earl and his ignoble son claimed. She was granddaughter of a baron and had every right to be treated with respect. She was acting as governess as a favor, not because she needed the coin.

  Well, coin was always convenient. Someday, she hoped to hire a lawyer. After Bobby’s death, she’d lost incentive, but for Evie’s sake, she should try again. She wanted her home back. After a lifetime of virtual homelessness, she needed a nest, and so did Evie.

  In the meantime, those beautiful charming children would not be left at the mercy of a drunken barbarian. She had promised to keep them safe, and she would, even if it must be from their own father. She owed their Malcolm mother, the one haunting poor Clare, that much.
/>   She heard the children chattering, too excited to settle down. In the other room, the brute sounded weary, impatient, and then spoke a little too sharply for her taste. The children so badly needed their father’s attention—but as she knew well, fathers were not mothers.

  When Clare began to weep, Olivia gave in. She swept into the nursery, picked up the quiet twin, and rocked her. “Hush, darling, your daddy’s tired, just like you. Tomorrow is Christmas. You need to sleep so you can see your presents after church.”

  She kissed a teary cheek and tucked Clare in. Catherine was still chattering. Olivia placed a finger over her lips, whispered in her ear, then kissed her too. With a Cat-smile, the child settled down.

  Enoch was talking earnestly to his father, who nodded as if he was listening. Olivia placed a finger to her lips again and indicated the sleepy twins. Dark-haired like his father, Enoch scowled, but his mother had raised him well. He said good-night and slid under his covers. Olivia wanted to kiss his cheek too, but the brute was in her way.

  Mr. Blair caught her elbow and practically dragged her back to the schoolroom.

  “What the hell have you been teaching them? We’re hiding them because bastards are calling them witches and trying to kill them. And you have them talking to ghosts?”

  “Only Clare talks to ghosts, her mother, apparently,” Olivia corrected. “Cat sees auras and might detect the presence of an apparition, but she cannot speak with one. And as far as we’re aware, Enoch only levitates objects. I’m sure your wife explained this.”

  “They were playing with the devil’s toys around a fire! I expected a bubbling cauldron! You’re supposed to keep them safe, not make them targets.”

  “And you were a day and a half late and arrived drunk! You obviously have no idea what that means to a young child. I had to keep them amused. And they’re far better off learning to use their gifts than ignoring them. Those gifts will keep them safe.”

  “Their gifts are abnormal. All the world knows that! Letitia’s gifts got her killed. I’m taking them home. They’ll be safer with me than in this cavern with lunatics. Good-night, Mrs. . . .” He hesitated, obviously having forgotten her name.

  “Lady Hargreaves,” she said spitefully. Her brother-in-law might deny her status, but Owen had married her in a church, in front of a man of the cloth, and she would never pretend otherwise. “And you will not take those children anywhere with only an elderly servant to mind them. Clare becomes ill with the train’s motion. Cat falls almost catatonic. Enoch will slip away when you’re not looking. I was hired to keep them safe, and I shall.”

  “I don’t trust a bloody damned Malcolm who teaches them to play cards!” He kept his voice to a muted roar. “We will catch the first train in the morning.”

  She was a lady. She did not roar. Nor did she kick and punch. She fought the first flush of rage as she’d been taught and smiled up at his broad, unshaven visage. “They will attend services on the day of Christ’s birth. Then we will exchange gifts, as promised. They are very excited by the ones they’ve made for you. If you forgot to bring them anything, you may beg sweets from the kitchen to wrap. And then I will pack our bags, and we will take the afternoon train. They will need to rest in Edinburgh before going on, so I will telegraph my cousin that we are coming. I will see them to a household where they are safely looked over by people who don’t drink and forget their existence.”

  She swung on her heel and stalked back to her room, shutting the door in his furious face.

  How the bluidy hell could a woman with the face of an angel sound like the wicked ice witch of the north country?

  Simon wearily ran his hand through his muddy hair and let himself out of the nursery. The butler had not been happy with his appearance. The housekeeper had haughtily sent a boy to show him to a room on the nursery floor. He vaguely remembered where it was.

  He needed a bath, but the water was long cold when he arrived in the chilly room where he’d left his portmanteau. He’d washed in worse. He didn’t dare hope for warmth in the morning if all the staff gathered for services. He’d never been in a duke’s castle before. He had no notion of how things worked.

  He just needed to hang on to his temper and use his wits and he’d be out of here with the children in the morning—without the nagging governess—as soon as he could find the carriage house. He was not a poor man by any means. Now that transportation was available, he could bribe his way to the train station.

  He was nearly naked and clean when someone rapped at his door. He yanked on fresh drawers. A young maid bobbed a curtsy and asked if he had clothes or boots needing polishing. Simon handed over the sodden mess, never expecting to see them again. He’d leave barefoot if necessary.

  In the morning, when Simon dragged his heavy head out of bed, warm water awaited him. As if left by fairies, his newly cleaned and pressed suit hung from the door, and his boots, beautifully polished, sat beneath his clothes. He was so grateful that he left a large tip and hoped it reached the right hands.

  Perhaps duke’s castles had advantages.

  Carrying the gifts he’d brought, Simon set out down the hall, hoping to spirit his children away in the early morning dawn. Instead, the bluidy governess had raised them from their beds, and all he saw was their backs as they bounced down the stairs. The girls wore their hair in plaits and bows, and Enoch was in a new suit. His son had grown these past months and probably needed new everything.

  Maybe he should take a little more time to reacquaint himself with the children he’d barely seen in a year.

  The governess and the cherub followed behind them. The lady wore a dark tartan skirt that seemed somehow both too frivolous and too solemn for the occasion. Layers of petticoats swaying, she held the hand of the lace-bedecked little girl, who in turn held a prayer book. The governess. . . Lady Hargreaves. . . wore her fair hair in a simple chignon with some flat piece of gauze and nonsense on top. She strode so straight and graceful that he could very well believe she was a princess.

  Hargreaves. . . surely not. The titled bastard he’d been attempting to reach was in London. The governess must be some shirttail relative or widow, judging by her dark colors.

  Simon glanced down at the gifts in his hands, shrugged, and proceeded on to the nursery. The evergreen bough looked more innocent in the light of day, adorned with ribbons, oranges, and candy. Small gaily wrapped packages snuggled among the needles. He added his offerings. Then with a growing sense of doom, he followed the others down the stairs for the services he seldom attended at home. He’d grown up with the teachings of the church, but he didn’t have time for it these days.

  But he didn’t want to let his children out of his sight for fear they’d be spirited away again. He didn’t trust a devious Malcolm. He had loved Letitia, only she’d proved as devious as the rest of them. And his cousin’s wife was a Malcolm. Lady Phoebe appeared as open and charming as a child, but she had driven off murderous thieves with ferrets and ravens and rats. There was nothing innocuous about her. And Lady Hargreaves had already shown her defiance.

  Restless, the children spotted him at once. The household had gathered in a parlor where, adorned with candles and gifts, a pagan evergreen filled a corner of the cavernous room. While the vicar preached, Simon’s disobedient bairns slipped through the servants to take his hands and bounce impatiently. He could steal them now. . .

  But they expected gifts and sweets and a holiday, and he could deny them nothing.

  His heart broke knowing Letitia would never share these special moments with him again. She might have Malcolm blood, but she’d been a cheerful saint who’d made his every day a joy. He hated that their children would never really know her.

  Clare tugged his hand until he lifted her. “Mama loves the tree,” she whispered, nestling against his shoulder. “She’s happy you’re here.”

  Simon figured it was more a matter of Clare loving the glitter and sparkle and the happy occasion, but he let her words warm him anyway.
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br />   As much as he’d loved Letitia, her so-called prescience had nearly got them all killed and did get her killed. Prescience might exist, but this past year had convinced Simon that it was safer to let the world see that his children were normal and not the least bit dangerous.

  He avoided being introduced to the duke’s household—thank all the heavens the duke and his family weren’t present—by leading the children out the instant the vicar stopped speaking.

  Undeterred, the governess was close on his heels, leading the plump angel, who smiled so broadly at nothing that Simon feared she was the least normal of the lot.

  His brats raced each other to the schoolroom. The slow one followed on chubby legs. What was she, five or so? The governess did not look old enough to have a child of that age.

  “Did I add a fourth child I didn’t know about?” he asked, watching the tribe race down the hall.

  “Evie is my adopted daughter. Her mother died, and she had no one else. And yes, she’s simple and doesn’t talk clearly yet, but your children have been kind to her. You have no notion of how blessed you are to have such good-hearted, well-behaved offspring.”

  Lady Hargreaves had a pleasant, heart-shaped face with pink lips that curled in a cupid’s bow when she was pleased. Last night, they had been drawn in a grim, straight line, and those sky-blue eyes had shot icy blades. Simon vowed not to be fooled by her placid expression this morning.

  Shrieks of excitement emerged from the schoolroom. Apparently, the governess had not allowed them to see the gifts before services.

  “I thank you for caring for them,” he said stiffly, minding his manners now that the fury had worn off.

  “It was my pleasure. Children need to be surrounded by loving adults who will protect them until they’re grown enough to take care of themselves.” Petticoats swishing, she swept into the schoolroom, leaving him to make what he would of her declaration.