A Bewitching Governess Read online

  “A very wise choice, sir. I see education has broadened your mind.” Olivia nodded approvingly.

  Following the argument, the boys swiveled their heads like bouncing balls. Deciding they’d had enough edification for the moment, Olivia shooed them away. They departed reluctantly. It was nice to see that they were already forming bonds.

  Emma and her mother sat wide-eyed, without saying a word. They were Malcolms. Olivia was fairly certain they did not object to whist or whisky, but they might be under the impression that men ruled the roost in public. She’d once thought that. Without a husband to play the public role, she did not have that restriction any longer—Mr. Blair’s rage did not count.

  She turned to the working men in the room. They were managers, betwixt and between like a governess. “Mr. Hill, Mr. Wallace, I hope you will have time to join us as well. I know you may have obligations elsewhere, but I think it is good that your faces become known to the gentry, so if you could stop by early in the evening, it would be appreciated.” The real Hogmanay celebrations began after an evening of drinking, she knew. They’d want to be where the liquor and laughter flowed freely, not at a card party for ladies.

  Looking like a thundercloud under that hank of unruly black hair, Mr. Blair managed to restrain his blunt tongue while he waited to see what she was up to. Olivia almost wished she could lean over and kiss his bristly cheek for keeping a lid on his temper. But this was for his own good, as well as hers. What she’d heard this afternoon was so appalling that she was determined to prove she owned Owen’s estate.

  Emma barely concealed her delight at the idea of a party. Mrs. Montgomery nodded her purple plumes in approval. Aunt Maggie had not joined them, but Olivia suspected Mr. Blair’s side of the family would not approve. Olivia knew there was a reason her family did not always have the support of the locals. Malcolms tended to be high-handed, willful, occasionally rag-mannered females who did not know their place. Witches. She hid her smile at the silly designation.

  The managers looked resigned to attending a formal affair, then relieved as Mr. Blair rose and stomped out of the room, gesturing for them to follow.

  “Well, I think that went well, didn’t it?” Emma said brightly.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, my lady,” the minister said, rising to leave. “Hargreaves has powerful friends.”

  Olivia smiled. “No, he doesn’t, sir. I have seen his current guest list. You forget, I was raised in his world. I know the players, and that is precisely what his guests are, players, younger sons, bored heirs, and moochers. It would be better if they did not learn of my presence until after the party, but all I can do is hope they’re so involved in carousing that they will not hear gossip. I prefer to build support from people of more worth.”

  “I am pleased to be considered of that number, my lady.” The young teacher stood and bowed, with an extra nod to Emma, who blushed prettily.

  Ponder Hamilton was no aristocrat, but he appeared to be a good man, which was far more important as far as Olivia was concerned.

  Once the visitors left, and it was just family, Olivia leaned forward. “Ladies, now our task begins. How does a good haunting sound?”

  Still irked at having his wishes overruled, Simon sought out the damned lady governess later that evening. He’d had dinner at the tavern to avoid the scheming women, but he’d not be driven out of his own home more than that.

  He started at the nursery because he wanted to see his children now that he finally had them home. Lady Hargreaves was there, of course, reading them a story. Even Aloysius seemed enrapt. They glanced up when he entered but continued listening. He took a seat in a chair by the grate. Clare climbed into his lap, and he bounced her on his knee like the old days.

  “I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard,” the lady read, sounding appropriately dismal.

  “That’s mean,” Aloysius declared.

  “Ghosts should be beaten with a good stick,” Enoch cried, in the spirit of the story.

  “Could we send the bad ghost to the bad place?” Cat asked anxiously, wrapping a blanket around her.

  “Do you think being a miser is evil?” Lady Hargreaves asked, directing the attention to the story’s meaning. “Only evil people should go to the bad place.”

  “Mean is evil, isn’t it?” Aloysius asked. “Doesn’t the Bible say we should share with others?”

  Simon tried to work out how they’d gone from a children’s Christmas tale to the Bible and what Cat meant by sending ghosts anywhere. But then a ruler rose from the table and smacked an armchair, and Aloysius leaped up to engage it with another ruler, and turmoil ensued.

  “Mama says you shouldn’t fight!” the blond angel in his lap cried in indignation.

  “We want to hear the story,” Cat shouted. “Sit down or I’ll tell Papa about the puppy.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. . . Simon waited with interest for explanation.

  Enoch glared at his sister. Holding his youngest, Simon stood, prepared to put a kibosh on further warfare.

  “How do you know about the puppy?” the lady asked, seeming unconcerned by the rowdiness. “Enoch, put the ruler in the drawer so you won’t be tempted to lift it again.”

  Enoch reluctantly did so. Aloysius, glancing nervously at Simon, did the same.

  “I can see it,” Cat declared with a pout. “It’s a puppy shape. And it’s in the blue room.”

  “Tale teller!” Enoch cried.

  “You can see a puppy’s colors?” the lady asked. “That’s exciting. We’ll have to study other animals tomorrow. Enoch, you should have asked permission before bringing in a pet. Mr. Blair, are pets allowed upstairs?”

  There was a reason he’d left the children to Letitia. He liked giving orders, but he hated being judge and jury. And he had no notion of colors or floating rulers or ghostly admonitions except that they weren’t normal. “I just wanted to hear the story too.”

  He gave his son a stern look. “No, puppies and kittens dinnae belong upstairs. They make messes. But it’s fair freezing out, and weans shouldn’t be in the cold. Heaven forbid I should be called mean and attacked by vicious haunts should I deny the creature warmth. You’ll have to take him down to the kitchen and listen to Cook complain.”

  The boys shouted in relief and ran off. The teacher hid a smile and hugged the girls.

  “We’ll continue the story another night. Perhaps we should take the kittens back to the kitchen too?”

  Simon refrained from rolling his eyes as the twins scurried away to retrieve a basket of mewling kittens they’d hidden in a wardrobe. “I’m raising brats,” he muttered for only the teacher’s ears.

  “No, you are raising loving, caring children who want to do what’s right but haven’t quite learned the rules yet. And because their life has been in upheaval this past year, they’re testing their limits a bit. Did you wish to speak with me?” She rose in a swish of petticoats and skirts.

  She’d changed out of the fancy gown she’d worn earlier. This one was made of sturdy blue wool with fewer petticoats and less acreage. She still looked like a sweet he wanted to gobble up—probably a poisonous one, but her words eased his conscience a little.

  “How do you know I’m not here just to tuck the bairns in bed?” He was tempted to follow the children down to the kitchens to see to the animals, but now that he had the interfering woman alone, he wanted to take advantage.

  “I’m sure you are not averse to accomplishing two tasks at once,” she answered obliquely. “We can wait here for their return.” She returned to the schoolroom reading chair.

  Now that he had the floor, Simon wasn’t entirely certain what to do with it. Fear of losing his children to killers seemed far distant from this cozy scene. But it had almost happened once. It could happen again.

  He paced instead of sitting. “I have enemies.”

  She nodded. “I know. I’ve heard the tale from my cousin Phoebe.
You are upsetting the way things have always been done, and the men who have held the locals under their thumbs for generations hate losing their grip. I understand.”

  He ran his hand through his shaggy sideburn. “I have no reason to believe your Viscount Hargreaves is one of my enemies, but he has refused to answer my letters requesting a business meeting. I don’t think he’s on my side, at the least.”

  “I once thought Lawrence a decent man. Now I see he is weaker than I knew. Weak men are easily influenced by the company they keep. I am doing what I can to find out more. We talked about this. Why is it distressing you?” Her hair fairly gleamed like a golden halo in the fire’s light, and her eyes had become the silver blue of a foggy sky.

  He was objecting because she was small and easily breakable—like Letitia. Simon bit back a groan and glared at the embers in the grate. The intimacy was making him mad. It had been a very bad idea to bring her here.

  “I said I would write solicitors,” he argued. “There is no need for proving anything to Hargreaves by gathering the village against him. He does that well on his own. A party is a fine thing, but there is no need to conspire over card tables.” He didn’t know why he was so uneasy about her scheme. He knew all of society played foolish games. He simply preferred honest action to. . . whatever chicanery she planned.

  “We are very different people,” she said softly, as if considering her words. “A woman is seldom allowed the luxury of straightforward action.”

  He startled at this repetition of his thoughts. Was she a bluidy mind reader?

  “Women must work behind the scenes, so to speak,” she continued. “I did it for Owen to smooth troubled waters. Hargreaves has made a mockery of all of our hard work by his neglect. I think it would be wise to have the community’s support when it comes time to prove my case. And it can’t hurt having the church, school, and village behind you should your enemies object to your plans for the new mine. We have to persuade them to want change.”

  Simon growled and gritted his teeth, but she was probably right. He preferred men to like him for his actions and honesty, but not everyone knew him. “Persuasion smacks of peddling,” he objected.

  “Let us say commerce. We are in the business of selling ideas. If we could rely on everyone to always do the right thing, it wouldn’t be necessary. But people only understand what affects them personally. They relate to people like yourself easier than they do to whether mines are good or bad for the countryside. Show them you’re good and honest, and they’ll trust whatever you say.” She stood up at the rising voices of the children arguing on the stairs. “I don’t suppose I’ve answered your questions.”

  “I don’t suppose you have,” he grumbled. “Meet me in the parlor after they’re tucked in. I want to understand better what you plan with this party.”

  He wanted a lot more than understanding, but if she was fomenting revolution, he needed to know that as well.

  Ten

  Olivia wasn’t certain what to expect when she approached the parlor that evening. Mr. Blair seemed a reasonably rational man when he wasn’t drunk or in a rage, which was almost unfortunate. She found strong, masculine, sober men dangerously attractive.

  They shared a goal in wishing to wrest Owen’s land from the current viscount, but she doubted they had anything else in common. She’d broken her own rules and watched his aura as he paced in the schoolroom—it was like watching the crystal colors of gems. Mr. Blair was no pastel rainbow.

  And he would never believe her if she told him so.

  He was waiting for her, elbow on the mantel, whisky glass in hand, his tweed coat straining at his wide shoulders, and his waistcoat impolitely unfastened to display the powerful muscles of his chest straining his linen. She focused on her disapproval of the drink and took a seat near the fire.

  “Why whist?” he demanded.

  Well, that was straightforward. Olivia crossed her hands in her lap and tried to look innocent. “It is a perfectly genteel pastime. It requires mathematics, concentration, and camaraderie, people working together.”

  “And against each other—it’s a competition. And gambling.” He began to pace.

  “And you do not like gambling as I do not like whisky drinking,” she said pertly. “You are very large and intimidating when you stalk about like that. Is it possible for you to sit and not drink?”

  He set the glass down beside the decanter, dragged a chair closer to the fire and her, and sat down. His toe immediately began to tap. “I am a big man. I grew up drinking whisky. I do not notice its effects.”

  “You were drunk when you arrived at the castle,” she corrected. “I grew up with a drunk. Did you grow up with a gambler?”

  His dark lashes blinked in surprise, an unusual look on his virile features. “I did not, but I know people who lost everything on the turn of a piece of cardboard. And if you heard my tale of trying to reach York on Christmas Eve, you’d be driven to drunkenness as well. I would have frozen in the mud without the heat of some very bad rye. Holding grudges is a bad policy, blinding the holder to other possibilities.”

  She frowned, unaccustomed to being corrected. “I suppose, but a woman must protect herself without use of guns and knives, so knowledge seems most effective. Drunks cause harm, therefore, it is wise to stay away from them.”

  “And you are diverting the subject. Why whist?” He sat back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the arm. “Why not charades?”

  His restlessness was about to drive her mad. It made her far too aware of his masculine physique. His shoulders filled the space between the wings of his chair. It was a ladies’ chair and not meant for a man of his size.

  “Because I can win,” she admitted irritably. “Because I wish to establish a social activity that will lure bored ladies and gentlemen to your parlor. Once people like the Hamiltons talk of your hospitality, the viscount’s arrogant crowd will see us as dupes, easily conned and beaten, and may accept the next invitation.”

  Her host sat back, crossed his legs, and bounced his boot up and down. He rubbed his thigh as if it might hurt. “I don’t want the viscount’s reprobates in my house.”

  “Holding grudges is bad policy,” she quoted, mimicking him.

  He shot her a scathing look, and she grinned. This was almost fun. She’d not had a challenging argument in a long while.

  “Would you rather I went to Hargreaves Hall?” she asked. “I can and will, if invited. I want to see if Owen kept a copy of our marriage settlements. I was not given time to search. I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. I’d lost my husband. My in-laws, the men I expected to protect his heir, were threatening him instead. I was losing the only real home I’d ever known. I fled like a pathetic rabbit.”

  “And you think you’re a roaring lion now?” he asked dismissively. “You are little more than a lamb to be sacrificed in their eyes. The idea of you going anywhere near that place gives me cold shivers. Your family would roast me in hell should I allow it.”

  As if to confirm his prediction, a cold breeze blew through the parlor, flapping the draperies. They both watched the heavy damask sway and settle again before speaking.

  Olivia kept her inner eye firmly closed. She had no desire to meet Mr. Blair’s wife in her spirit form. Turning a blind eye had a whole new meaning in her case. “Then we must bring the neighbors here. The idea is to impress the viscount with your stature in the community, even if you do not possess a title. You’re a newcomer and an upstart to him and his kind. They need to see you as a man of substance.”

  He pushed against the back of his chair as if resisting, then pounded the chair arm with a fist. “I hate that. I’d rather be down in the mine digging coal.”

  She admired his attitude and wished with all her heart that society worked that way. It didn’t. She reached over and covered his big hand with hers. “I understand. You are a physical person. I am not. Playing cards is my way of digging coal. You do not have to participate. But it might be better if y
ou’re to be seen somewhere besides a coal mine,” she added in amusement.

  He caught her hand and held it as if he were drowning. “You’re planning on witchy tricks, aren’t you? I always knew when Letitia had one of her. . . spells. One time, she got all misty-eyed, then ran flying into the garden carrying a broom. I thought she meant to take flight. But a fox was chasing Enoch, who’d sneaked out of the nursery. She had no way of seeing the child through the hedges.”

  “I am not having a spell. I learned cards at my father’s knee.” His big hand warmed hers, and she liked it a little too much. She didn’t dare pull away though, not if they were establishing rapport. “My father was not only a drunk but a gentleman gambler. That’s how he made his living. Before he took to drink, he was a very good one. He taught me to count cards and how to bluff and how to wager.”

  She also read auras when she was uncertain, but the strain of opening her inner eye gave her headaches, so she tried not to cheat.

  He stroked her wrist with this thumb. “Your mother allowed this?” he asked in what sounded like astonishment. “I am not thinking very highly of aristocrats.”

  “My mother enjoyed the parties and the traveling and the baubles he won. It’s a way of life. We weren’t traveling with circuses. His father was a mere baron with a small estate and few funds. His older brother liked being a country squire. My father was naturally gregarious and not suited for rural life. He didn’t have the funds to be a soldier or a vicar, so he used his charm to make his way. It was the drink that killed him.”

  “I don’t like it,” he repeated with a growl. “We should wait until we hear from the solicitors.”

  “And how long will that be?” she asked acerbically. “If I can drive Hargreaves out of town and reclaim my land before spring, I can feed the tenants and plan the planting. Waiting until summer would be disastrous.”

  “What are the chances that he’s mortgaged the property?”