A Bewitching Governess Read online

  But mostly, he was vainly attempting to please pretty blue eyes. It was a curse, he knew. He liked women, and he wanted them to like him. But he could never have another Letitia, so he should not show interest. The last thing in the world he wanted right now was another wife. He might never want one again. Ladies required marriage for what he really wanted, so he needed to pretend Lady Hargreaves didn’t exist.

  Except Emma would tear him to shreds and bring all her family down on him should he send Lady Hargreaves to the nursery where a governess belonged. Thus, he would do well to hire a new governess, an ancient hag, as soon as possible.

  That decided, he tugged at his starched collar, straightened his cravat, checked that all his buttons were in the proper place, clenched his molars, and headed down to dinner.

  Emma’s tea time had been a disaster. Lady Hargreaves had been visibly disturbed by her encounter with Mr. Hill and had returned to the nursery after pretending to sip her tea and listen to Emma’s chatter. Simon had never been a man to take tea, so he’d scarfed a few sandwiches and fled.

  But he couldn’t flee dinner. He’d be grateful when Maggie arrived. His aunt was a sensible woman who could sit in his place at the table, letting him go into the village and talk with other men. But for tonight, he had to endure a proper meal at a proper table with only the nattering Emma as a shield between him and temptation.

  He clambered down the stairs and aimed straight for the dining room as he always had when Letitia. . .

  He shut down that thought after he found the table set and no one waiting. Did he sit down and wait here?

  When Letitia held a fancy dinner, she’d had everyone meet in the drawing room. Just in case, he returned to the main hall and continued on to the small parlor. He could hear Emma before he reached the door, and he grimaced. Of course, the child had dreams of aristocracy. She’d probably been instructed by her mother on how to entertain guests.

  He walked in to discover Emma returning a sgian dubh to her lace-up shoes and Lady Hargreaves displaying a lethal-looking hat pin. They both smiled brightly at his entrance. The lady tucked her tortoise-shell hatpin into her chignon.

  “I’m glad to see you are prepared to defend the weans with pins and needles,” he said wryly. “Shall I teach you the use of the dirk or a pistol next?”

  “We already know pistols,” Emma said brightly. “We would like to practice with targets. Dirks are hard to conceal.”

  “Aye right, of course. You’d need a slit in all that frippery to reach a proper dirk, and then it would tangle with all. . .” He shut up when he realized he was about to mention unmentionables.

  The women regarded him with amusement. He was glad to see Lady Hargreaves had overcome her dismals. His heart lifted just seeing those bowed lips turn up at the corner.

  “We could sew slits,” Emma agreed. “But all this fabric weighs enough as it is. I don’t want heavy metal slowing me down too.”

  “Are you preparing to battle bandits?” he asked. “And may we discuss this over dinner? I’m fair starved.”

  “You are fair rude,” Emma retorted. “You are supposed to offer us sherry. Or hire a butler to do so.” She jumped up from her chair anyway.

  He knew enough to offer Lady Hargreaves his hand to assist her from her chair. She wore a gray shimmery gown with a modest lace collar, but the bodice clung to ripe curves and slim waist and the skirt swayed tantalizingly as she walked.

  “A butler is unnecessary in a small household,” the lady patiently instructed. “One might have a bell pull to call for a maid or footman, depending on the service required. But when it is just family, we should be able to serve ourselves.”

  “That’s a relief,” Simon said, feeling like a gruff bear beside the delicate lady. “Since I have better things to do than install bell pulls when I can just bellow for what I want.”

  Lady Hargreaves giggled. Emma glared. He seated them both at the table anyway, one on either side of him.

  “How do you expect to entertain important people without the proper courtesies?” Emma demanded as the soup was served.

  “I don’t,” Simon said. “Unless you or Maggie take to holding state dinners, I’ll be dining at the tavern as I’ve done this past year. Men don’t need foofaraws.”

  “Unfortunately, if you wish to bend the ear of Viscount Hargreaves or Sir Harvey, you will need to entice them with fine wine and good company.” The governess primly covered her lap with the linen serviette. “The tavern in town isn’t known for either.”

  “And why would I wish to bend their ears? Hargreaves won’t even reply to my request for a business meeting.” Disgruntled, Simon attempted to sip his soup with a spoon, although drinking it from the bowl would be much simpler.

  “I do not know Lawrence Hargreaves well. He visited infrequently and did not strike me as possessing a. . . strong character. Owen worried over him. I do remember he enjoyed good wine and cards. You could offer an invitation to a card party, but you’d have to let him know there would be people of interest to him available.”

  The lady sipped delicately at her soup, as if she had all the time in the world to savor and consume it.

  “We don’t know anyone interesting,” Emma announced with a pout.

  “We know Lady Hargreaves,” Simon gallantly pointed out.

  The lady sniffed her disdain. “That would not be a plus to the viscount. We will need to find out more about him if this is a direction you would like to take.”

  “I have heard he has taken an interest in Miss Charlotte Hamilton, Sir Harvey’s granddaughter,” Emma said with satisfaction. “Or she has taken an interest in him. I have never laid eyes on him. Viscounts are elusive beasts.”

  “If he has sent Mr. Hill packing, I don’t know if he’s kept the cook or housekeeper or I’d send a note around to them. He may not be in residence. My late husband complained that his brother preferred the idle vices of London to learning the career he needed to support himself.”

  “If he has a new estate agent, the man is as elusive as his employer,” Simon muttered. “It’s not as if they’re using that parcel of land for anything. All they seem to be doing is collecting rents.”

  “And not paying for upkeep on the house and land, I wager,” the lady said sourly. She set down her silver and waited for the maid to replace the soup with the meat course. Once the servant departed, she spoke again, with more care. “I need a solicitor, one familiar with trusts and such. I have reason to believe the viscount is under the influence of his father and that they have not been honest with me or anyone else in Greybridge.”

  “The Earl of Basingstoke, not honest?” Simon said with a snort. “Imagine that, a Sassenach who can’t be trusted.”

  “Simon!” Emma complained loudly. “If I am to marry into the nobility, you cannot say things like that.”

  “You would do better to marry a merchant. Letitia did not do so badly in marrying me, did she?” Except his wife had died because of him. Simon bit his unruly tongue.

  Lady Hargreaves had the grace to take up his side. “Titles are not an indication of character. There are mean, evil, and ignorant people in every class. Actions serve as a far better sign of worthiness than wealth or birth.”

  Simon liked the lady a little more. The proprieties still did not allow him to drag her off to his office where he could interrogate her. He couldn’t even inquire into the late viscount’s natural son, not with Emma clinging to every word. He doubted it was proper to speak to the lady about the lad either, but something must be done.

  “I know of several good solicitors,” he said tentatively. “Perhaps after dinner we could discuss them.”

  Emma grimaced. “You should wait for Maggie. She likes that sort of thing.”

  “Maggie?” Lady Hargreaves asked.

  “My widowed aunt,” Simon explained. “She wants to take over running my household now that Letitia isn’t here to do so. Her children are grown, and I think she is lonely. I’ve invited her to visit so
you might be properly chaperoned. I’ll not have the village whispering.” There, he’d said it. He did not mean to marry again, and he didn’t want the lady compromised by staying here.

  “How soon will she arrive?”

  “She lives just outside Glasgow. It will not take long once she packs her bags.”

  Emma intruded. “She knew of your return the same as I did. She’ll be here by morning. Her landlord is a terrible person, and she’ll be much better off here. Between us, you’ll not have to lift a hand around the house, and you can go about your business just as if Sis were still here.”

  Lady Hargreaves hid a smile behind her serviette. Simon stifled a curse at this usurpation of his choices. The women in this family were entirely out of hand.

  “Perhaps we could talk over coffee or tea in the drawing room later,” the lady suggested. “Does your aunt have an address other than Maggie? I cannot call her so familiarly.”

  “Aye, she’s Margaret Dunwoody now, but we’re none of us much on formality. I’m Si and she’s Maggie, and you’ll not hear us say otherwise.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “I might as well marry a blacksmith,” she said dramatically.

  “If I remember rightly, the blacksmith has a rather handsome son,” Lady Hargreaves said with a smile. “He planned to attend the university and become a veterinarian. And you said you wished to be addressed as Emma and not as Miss Montgomery, as is proper.”

  Emma scowled, ate the rest of her meal in silence, and departed in a huff the second Lady Hargreaves stood to leave Simon to his whisky.

  Except he had no interest in drinking his whisky alone. “Will you trust me to join you in the drawing room?” he asked politely.

  He might normally despise the aristocracy, but he could see the lady held information he might find useful. He was not one to turn his back on useful knowledge, even if it came from a woman.

  Now that she understood Mr. Blair a little better, Olivia was a little less intimidated. Admittedly, he was large, but he’d shaved, trimmed his thick dark hair, dressed as a gentleman, and his square jaw was not hard to look upon.

  He was certainly not his polished, civilized, city-dwelling cousin Andrew, but he appeared to be bluff and honest. Best of all, he did not roar and tell his young sister-in-law to be seen and not heard. Nor had he ignored Olivia’s request. He was currently out of his depth a bit, trying to determine the protocol for entertaining a woman not of his family.

  If he would only stay away from the drink. . . she might not have to worry so much.

  He offered his arm as any gentleman might and escorted her to the drawing room. This chamber showed signs of his late wife in the rich new draperies, carpet, velvet sofas, and a piano in the corner. Letitia had been a Malcolm, after all. She would have known fine goods. She simply hadn’t been given the time to feather her new nest.

  Which made Letitia’s hovering ghost a little unsettling but understandable.

  Olivia settled on the wine-colored sofa and waited for the maid to deliver the coffee tray. She tried not to notice the way the tailored coat clung to Mr. Blair’s muscled shoulders, and how his matching trousers revealed narrow hips and a flat abdomen unmarred by the fat of a man given to leisure. He did not even seem aware of her observation as he paced, waiting for the maid to depart.

  She did not like to pry, but if she was to trust her host. . . She opened her inner eye just a little, just enough for a quick glimpse of his aura—and shut it quickly.

  Mr. Blair was a very passionate man.

  She should concentrate on the soft blue of innate honesty at his throat and not the red of his lusty nature, but had that been a violet streak? She only saw that in the gifted. . . She shook her head and refused to look again.

  “What kind of solicitor do you anticipate needing?” he asked the instant they were left alone, interrupting her unsettled thoughts.

  She had spent several hours trying to find a delicate way of saying this, but really, there was none. “My esteemed brother-in-law, the current viscount, witnessed my marriage to Owen, the trust documents, and settlements. My father was still alive at the time, and he saw to it that my dowry reverted to me should Owen precede me in death, along with a settlement from his estate. Owen also left his mother’s land to me and to his children.”

  Mr. Blair listened without comment. Olivia took that as a sign that he believed her and continued. “Owen was very careful to do everything properly. He filled out the registry forms. He hired a solicitor from Glasgow. He had the family minister officiate. He had his brother and my father attend as witnesses, along with the solicitor. I think he knew his father would object to the marriage. I come from a minor family, after all, and Owen would be earl one day.”

  Mr. Blair scowled and pounded the iron poker at the coals in the grate. “Yet you are now living with your aunts instead of the home he left to you.”

  “The earl and Lawrence came to me a week after Owen’s funeral. They said they’d had the deed of trust investigated, and that it did not exist. I know they lied. But Lawrence stood bald-faced in front of me and declared he witnessed only a sham ceremony, as if his brother was so cruel and devious as to pretend to marry me just to have me in his bed. Owen would never do that.”

  Olivia had kept that ugliness pent up inside her for too long. She practically wept the words to this man who was nearly a stranger. The land meant nothing to her, but to besmirch Owen’s memory in such a callous manner. . .

  She didn’t anger easily, but rage rose every time she thought of that scene. “My father died not long after we were married and could not bear witness for me. A court of law would probably have rejected him as unreliable in any case. The solicitor never answered my letters.”

  Mr. Blair angrily whacked the poker against the stone of the hearth. “I have never heard a word against your late husband. Everyone sings his praises. I cannot believe the kind of honorable man he seemed to be would cheat a young lady in such a manner. I can believe a man who neglects his estate and tenants to dally in city vices would be capable of lying. But what we believe and what we can prove may be different matters.”

  “I know.” Relieved that he seemed to accept her story, Olivia took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I did not fight at the time because Lawrence promised to care for the estate as I knew I could not. And our son. . . Bobby would never be able to do so. I understood Lawrence’s need to claim the title. I even tried to believe that he was protecting me.”

  That caused Mr. Blair to raise his bushy eyebrows.

  Olivia shrugged a little. She understood his surprise, but at the time, she’d just lost the man she’d loved, and her only thoughts had been selfish. “I loved my home, but I loved my son more. I didn’t trust Basingstoke, and he didn’t like me, so I thought it safest to take Bobby out of his reach. If I accepted that the marriage was not real, then Bobby wouldn’t be viscount, and the earl would have no reason to harm him. It wasn’t as if we would starve. I had my dower settlement and my aunts, and we were welcome in their home where I could feel useful.”

  Her host finally settled in a chair and dumped a tot of whisky into his coffee before imbibing. “And then you lost your son?”

  Olivia nodded, trying not to cringe at the whisky. She should remember him as the drunken beast who had almost forgotten his children at Christmas, and not as this attractive, understanding man. But he had the power to help.

  “The physician warned me that Bobby had a weak heart. He caught the influenza and even my family’s healers could not save him. For this past year, I’ve been too devastated to care about much of anything. But coming back here. . . I see that I’ve been wrong not to fight.”

  He sat quiet for a moment, considering, looking for all the world like a devil in gentleman’s disguise. Beneath that black fringe of hair, his eyes were shrewd and his jaw was hard. Olivia would much rather have him on her side than against her.

  “So, if we can prove that you were properly married—and I can’
t see the difficulty in that if the marriage was registered—you might have a claim on the property and definitely the title, without need of the trust. I’m assuming the land was not entailed.”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “The land belonged to their mother. I don’t know how the deed was written. I think I must find Owen’s documents.”

  “All right. I know the man who can look into that. Surely more than one copy was made. There might even be clerks to attest to it if need be. I think if we prove the earl and his son lied about the marriage, they might very well lie about everything else, so we should find your marriage lines as well.”

  Olivia bit her lip and studied him questioningly. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because the viscount’s land includes a strip I need for an access road to a mine I want to dig. If we prove the estate is legally yours, I’m hoping you will sell me that strip at a fair price. Hargreaves refuses to even talk to me.”

  Olivia nodded in relief at his frankness. “This is business, nothing more. I thank you.”

  He could have made much harder demands that would have made her choice more difficult. Actually, she might have enjoyed meeting some of his harder. . . She reddened at her wayward thought.

  Six

  Simon liked a sensible, unsentimental woman who did not weep and proclaim her late husband’s land to be inviolable. He’d been worried for a moment that the lady would break into tears, but she had drawn on some inner strength and refrained.

  He’d been the one to rage and drink himself into oblivion after Letitia’s death.

  Simon would wager that after her in-laws’ criminal performance, Lady Hargreaves had turned up her aristocratic nose and walked out, spine straight, exuding ice shards.