A Bewitching Governess Read online

  Now even the lady’s eyes were on him. He thought her lips curled up just a little, and Simon sighed in relief that he’d stopped a weeping session.

  To his startlement, she dropped a curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cargill.” She gestured at the staring children. “Come along now, greet our guest, please.”

  Simon beamed with pride as his brood raced over to show their best curtsies and bow. Even Evie stumbled over and squatted and muttered in her incomprehensible language.

  Relating better to the children, the new boy bowed stiffly. “A pleasure to meet you all.”

  “Good choice,” Simon crowed. “You’ll be polished up fine in no time. Do you know anything of the new kirk schoolteacher? Mr. Napier said he’s a fine fellow and suggested you and Enoch might attend when school opens again.”

  Enoch looked interested, then suddenly wary, casting a glance to Lady Hargreaves. She stiffened, pursed her lips, and touched his son’s shoulder as if she understood some unspoken question that Simon did not.

  “Mr. Hamilton?” Aloysius asked cautiously. “He seems a good sort.”

  “Would he be familiar with. . . the eccentricities of the late Mrs. Blair’s family?” the lady asked.

  Ah, now Simon understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood. “He’s Sir Harvey’s nephew. He’ll be as superstitious as the rest of the lot, I wager. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t learned from his university education. You can’t condemn a man for his family, right?”

  Aloysius looked from one to the other, obviously trying to follow context. As intelligent as he looked, he didn’t comment.

  “Then we should at least try him,” the lady agreed. “Aloysius, you and Enoch will have a few days to learn to know each other. Perhaps we should suspend the schoolroom and spend some time just doing things we truly enjoy. And then when it’s time for school to start, you’ll understand each other better.”

  “I’ll invite the schoolteacher for dinner, shall I?” Simon suggested. “Along with the minister, since he’ll be out visiting on his own sooner or later.”

  “The children are too young for the dinner table, but tea should be fine. You’ll have to persuade your Aunt Maggie that tea has its purpose.”

  Simon could swear the lady sent him a conspiratorial glance, as if they were equals and friends. She obviously didn’t know that if he believed that, he’d do his damnedest to seduce her, then scoop her up and carry her to his bed.

  Jarred by that realization, he hastily backed out of the nursery with promises of invitations for the coming days.

  Maggie was bearing down on him with fire in her eyes. His family had a tendency to rage given the slightest excuse, so he recognized the warning signs. Without respect for his elders, he caught the older woman’s arm and marched her down the hall, straight past the nursery where the children were happily chattering.

  “She mentioned her husband’s son—she didn’t say he’s a bastard!” Maggie whispered, loudly. “You have a reputation to keep, if only for the sake of your bairns!”

  “And my reputation is of an honest man, not one who will leave a boy cheated out of his inheritance to muck stalls. Do not test my patience, Mags. That boy cannot help what his parents did—and from what I understand, they did all that was proper under the circumstances. He’s from good family, and the lady is a guest in my house. I’ll not deny her wishes.”

  The breeze blew his hair again, and he swiped at it in irritation. One of these days, he’d take the time to hunt down the draft.

  “You’ll rue the day,” Maggie warned. “Nothing good comes of that sort, mark my words. Think of your wee daughters!”

  Simon snorted as he descended the stairs. “I should be warning the boy. My wee daughters are their mother all over again. They’re hellions in disguise. If anyone is to rue the day, it will be you for thinking you wished to live here. Where’s Emma?”

  “She and Lady Hargreaves were conspiring,” Maggie said with a sniff. “Letitia was a breath of fresh air, but her family. . . You’d do better to go looking for a nice, sensible girl raised in the kirk as you were.”

  “They’re not witches, Maggie,” Simon said sternly. “Don’t be giving me that blither. The weans need their mother’s family as well as mine. Now I’m inviting the minister and the teacher to tea tomorrow. Talk to the cook aboot it, will you? I’ve got to be back to my work.”

  He left his aunt dithering in the downstairs hall while he strode off to fill his flask before visiting his mines. He’d avoided the narrow tunnels this past year, but he could still talk to sensible men who knew about coal seams and air quality and profit.

  He loved women, but they were a sore trial upon occasion.

  Olivia had other reasons for halting lessons. While the children got to know each other by playing dolls and soldiers in the schoolroom, she kept an eye out for Emma. Once the girl returned, chattering about her visit to the village, Olivia left guardianship of the children to Daisy and led Emma downstairs.

  “This is exciting,” Emma whispered, her freckles standing out in a face pale from the nippy wind. She threw her coat over the sofa in Olivia’s suite. “I’ve learned the viscount has just arrived from London with a hunting party. The household is in an uproar.”

  “You did not go to the Hall?” Olivia asked in alarm. This news was disastrous. She had hoped the house was empty for the holiday.

  “No, no.” Emma accepted the tea Olivia made from the pot boiling over the grate. “The cook sent maids into the village to buy flour and sugar and whatnot. I know most of the Hall’s servants. They like to talk.” She sat back in satisfaction to sip her tea.

  “Did they say how long the hunting party plans to stay? I wanted to talk to Reverend Willingham, but I don’t dare step foot on the estate while the viscount is in residence. I’m hoping Hargreaves won’t learn I’m here.”

  “No, kitchen maids aren’t given information on their betters. They’re more worried that the men will be too drunk to hunt. The staff has already eaten almost the last of the geese. Apparently, the viscount does not pay his debts, and no one wishes to extend credit, so the household must do with what they grow on the estate. It sounds like a very sad situation. I wish I could ask Simon to hire them all.” Emma wrinkled up her nose and accepted a biscuit.

  This was a great deal of information from a morning’s gossip. Olivia refrained from asking the girl if she had a gift of persuasion. It was impolite to ask. Emma might not even know if she had a gift.

  “I suspect Mrs. Dunwoody will have something to say about hiring servants,” Olivia said, remembering her former staff with fondness. “But if Mr. Blair can afford more, I believe he can use them. We could talk to your cook and housekeeper. It would give me great pleasure to have half the viscount’s household disappear overnight while he’s holding a drunken bacchanal.”

  “You’re quiet, but you’re mean.” Emma munched contentedly, considering. “Simon doesn’t like to waste money, and he’s lived without servants most of his life. My family is the same. But if he is to entertain lords and ladies, he needs proper staff.”

  Olivia settled into an armchair by the grate and regarded her guest with amusement. “You are the one who wishes to entertain, not Mr. Blair. But you are correct. If he is to move up in the world, fill the role represented by this estate, then he does need a full staff.”

  “The kitchen maids might know nothing, but if we subvert the upper servants, they might be so grateful that they’ll tell us all the viscount’s secrets,” Emma declared in delight.

  “I would not go quite that far,” Olivia warned. “Hargreaves is unlikely to say Burn the trust agreement and gut the registrar’s office aloud. But Reverend Willingham may know more than he’s willing to admit. Is he still there?”

  “He’s aging, but he holds services on Sunday, just as always. His wife passed some time ago. She was the one who tended to his flock. He performs marriage ceremonies and christenings and the like, but they say he keeps to himself
and drinks too much. Why is it that men drink in grief but women don’t?”

  “I’m sure there are many reasons,” Olivia said absently, pondering the means to reach her former minister. “Men are accustomed to hard liquor and women are not, for one.”

  “I could go in as one of the staff,” Emma suggested. “Hargreaves never stays long enough to recognize anyone. I’m sure no one will object to extra hands at a time like this. Maybe I could poke around in desks and the like.”

  Olivia regarded her with horror. “Never! If we become that desperate, I’ll go myself. For now, we’re just reconnoitering, like good soldiers. Mr. Blair would have an apoplexy and send me away if he thought I was endangering you in any way.” She studied the fire and rubbed her hands. “There are times when I wish I were a man. I’d like to know more about Hargreaves and his friends, but they’re not likely to invite me to a friendly card game.”

  “You’re not likely to find documents by playing cards either,” Emma said pragmatically. “I say you wait for Simon and his solicitor. Is it very awful having to stay here longer?”

  “No, not at all!” Olivia cried, meaning it. “I’m enjoying your company, and Evie loves the children. And I want to see Aloysius settled and happy. Perhaps I should think of buying a small cottage nearby instead of returning to the city.”

  Except her funds weren’t likely to stretch far if she must send Aloysius to school. And she wasn’t certain she could resist Mr. Blair’s potent masculinity for long. Even now, she longed to discuss strategy with him again.

  Owen had been the man who had discussed matters with her. Mr. Blair was not Owen. She must remember that.

  Eight

  The next day, Simon stomped in from the stable accompanied by his steward and mine manager, intent on having a warming nip and a discussion of the cost of hiring more laborers.

  Maggie met them before they could reach his office. “You are not going into tea looking like a menial. Upstairs and change, this instant!”

  Simon squinted at her quizzically, then recognized the voices drifting from the parlor. “The tea with the minister,” he said in dismay. “Aye, well, he’ll not mind me as I am, and he might lend insight to our dilemma. Come along, gentlemen, let’s sip brown water with our betters.”

  He gestured at the servant taking their heavy coats. “Bring along some glasses and my best whisky. The good clergyman might like a nip as well.”

  Maggie looked horrified, but this was his home, and Simon was king. He’d worked hard to reach that position, and he wouldn’t yield it to a nagging old lady.

  He probably should have better prepared his men for the sight in the parlor though. They froze in the doorway.

  In elegant gray, her skirts spread across half an acre of sofa, her blond hair dangling in sleek curls around her angelic face, Lady Hargreaves presided over a silver tea set. Wearing her best silk, adolescent Emma leaned toward the young schoolteacher, exposing far more of her bosom than she should. Simon’s dour mother-in-law, the formidable Hortense Malcolm Montgomery, sat beside her daughter, resplendent in purple and feathers, presiding over the scene as if she were queen.

  Before he and his men could retreat, Lady Hargreaves glanced up and gave Simon a breath-taking smile that nearly cut him off at the knees.

  “There you are. Will it be all right to bring the boys down to meet Mr. Hamilton, the new schoolteacher?” She waited with interest and a questioning glance at his guests.

  She didn’t glare at their unkempt, ungentlemanly presence but waited to be introduced to the one she didn’t know. Simon took a deep breath, remembered he was king and presented Wallace, his mine manager.

  The lady indicated empty chairs. “Please have a seat, Mr. Wallace, Mr. Hill. I know Mr. Blair wishes to appropriate you for business, but you should have a sip of coffee to ward off the cold while he interviews Mr. Hamilton. We won’t take you away for more than a few minutes.”

  How did the damned woman do that? She didn’t know him or his business, yet she’d offered a simple solution so that he could be in two places at once. And offered coffee instead of that mother’s milk people called tea. He sent a maid up to the nursery and led the way into the parlor.

  Letitia had arranged for sturdy furniture that did not feel as if it would crumble under him. He took a good solid wing chair and gestured at his companions to do the same. The boys joined them by the time the cups and plates had been passed around.

  “You look like young gentlemen,” the lady said in approval as Enoch and Aloysius warily walked in, spruced up in suits with their hair slicked back.

  Where the devil had she conjured a suit for young Aloysius?

  Simon sat back to consider Ponder Hamilton. The young teacher was sturdy and ginger-haired. He produced spectacles to read a pamphlet he removed from his capacious pockets. But the man spoke with assurance and sounded like a professor. He asked the boys about their interests. Simon hid his surprise when his son said mathematics. Aloysius, the older of the two, had no answer.

  The minister turned to Simon and spoke privately while the others listened to the teacher. “Both boys need to be part of the community if they are to lead it someday. I know Sunday is Hogmanay and most of the town will have aching heads, but I’d appreciate it if you’d bring them to kirk that day.”

  In other words, Simon owed him, and he was calling in his debt. He could appreciate that. “We’re too far from the village to participate in the Hogmanay festivities, and the children are too young. I don’t think it would be a hardship for us to come in for services.”

  After he checked the carriage, as he always did these days. Over a year ago, he’d lost his wife on the way into the village because someone had sawed through the axle. The murderer and his accomplices had been dispatched, but Simon no longer took his family’s safety for granted.

  The preacher sat back, satisfied.

  “Yes, a small holiday dinner and perhaps a round of whist?” Lady Hargreaves suggested, continuing a conversation Simon had missed. “I’d like to re-acquaint myself with friends I haven’t seen in a while.”

  “The men will all be at the viscount’s party,” Mr. Hill, his steward, warned.

  The viscount’s party? Hargreaves was in residence finally? Simon came to attention.

  “He’s neglected the fields,” Aloysius said in disgust, gripping his sandwich in both hands and not trying to balance a teacup. “If they shoot any grouse, the birds will be skin and bones.” He bit savagely into his bread.

  Simon supposed he should correct the lad for speaking of his betters that way, but not only did he agree with the boy, but Aloysius was the son of a nobleman and Simon wasn’t. He held his tongue. Wisely, as it turned out. No one else corrected him either.

  “That’s a pity.” The lady peered into her cup as if it were a bubbling cauldron. “Owen always said we must care for the land first, and it will take care of us. How are the tenants faring?”

  Simon shifted uneasily at the direction of the conversation. The woman was mischief-making, he’d bet his books on it.

  “The tenants have been tilling and harvesting what they can,” Mr. Napier, the minister, replied. “But the equipment needs repairs, and they can’t buy seeds on their own. So they’re mostly growing for themselves and waiting to be thrown off the land for nonpayment of rent.”

  “Such a waste. The viscount promised to take care of the estate as it deserved.” The lady sounded noncommittal.

  Simon had an inkling that she was no such thing. But if she was seething inside, she gave no evidence of it in present company.

  “What a fancy London fellow thinks land deserves may differ from our opinion,” Hortense announced. “I, for one, hope the fellow drowns in his own pond.”

  Simon enjoyed his mother-in-law’s candor, but there was more than family here. Before anyone could be too appalled, he hastily stepped in with his own ideas, now that he knew how the land lay. “You mentioned a small dinner, my lady, but I do not think whist is the
answer. While the village celebrates Hogmanay in its own way, let us send out invitations to the landowners and people like the minister and teacher here for a celebration of the new year. Food and whisky and maybe some music?”

  “And whist,” she said placidly, folding her hands in her laps. “The ladies don’t drink whisky.”

  “There’ll be no gambling in my home!” Simon did his best to keep his voice to a low roar. “I’ll not allow the devil’s tools in my house.”

  “You will if you want the strip of land,” the lady warned, narrowing her eyes and looking the part of witch again.

  “The devil’s gifts come with a price!” he shouted, feeling his reins as the master-of-the-household slipping.

  Nine

  Devil’s tools, indeed! Olivia contained her exasperation and gestured at the schoolteacher. “Mr. Hamilton is cousin of Miss Charlotte Hamilton, Sir Harvey’s granddaughter,” she informed her irascible host.

  She’d show him a real devil, but she needed Mr. Blair’s goodwill to do so, so she’d behave—to a degree. “The Hamiltons have not been invited to join the viscount’s house party, no doubt because they are respectable people. This is how Hargreaves’ world works. Do you wish me to help you or not?”

  “No gambling,” Mr. Blair insisted, mulishly.

  “That’s like me telling you no drinking,” she countered. “Mr. Napier, what do you think? Does the church allow for cards and whisky?”

  The minister snorted. “If I banned either, I’d not have a soul in the kirk ever again.”

  “And Mr. Hamilton?” she asked. “Would you find it a hardship to attend a party of respectable people who might enjoy a game of whist or a nip of whisky?”

  The schoolteacher looked uneasy. “I do not approve of either,” he said anxiously. “But neither can I condemn the habits of others. It is not for me to judge.”