Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (7 page)

“Of course, I have references,” he infused all the hurt he could into that pronouncement. Hopefully, she’d not delve too deeply into the first part of her line of questioning.”

One of Mother’s ice-white eyebrows shot up. “And how did you find her?”

“Through a friend,” he said automatically. He’d never consider Sir Albert Marshville any kind of friend, but for this, that would do. “Her references are splendid.” Non-existent, splendid, it was all the same.

After all, the previous six governesses had each come more highly recommended than the next. In the end, none of those highly recommended young women, or old women if one was to consider two of the frowning governesses, had managed to even do an adequate job in seeing to his sister’s proper deportment.

Mother planted her hands upon her hips. “What is her name?”

“Miss Marsh—”

“How old is she?” Mother tossed at him.

“Two and twenty.”

Her eyebrows dipped. “Her family connection?”

“She is the daughter of a now deceased baronet.” He picked up his port and took another long swallow, praying above all else that his mother ceased with her infernal line of questioning.

“When does she begin?”

Jonathan rolled his glass back and forth between his hands.

I want to begin immediately.

“I intend to send the carriage ‘round for the young lady shortly.”

His mother gave a pleased nod and started for the door. She spun back around. “And who was your friend?”

Jonathan’s mind spun. “Friend?” Some of the droplets of port spilled over the rim of his glass and landed upon the surface of his desk.

Mother’s eyebrows knitted into a single line. “You said you found this Miss Marsh through a friend. Who is the friend?”

Miss Marsh?
He opened his mouth to correct the error but then thought better of it. Perhaps it was for the best if he withheld the lady’s true surname, lest his mother make the connection between Miss Marshville and a certain baronet.

“Jonathan?”

“Er, uh, Lord Drake,” he said quickly. “Miss Marsh is an old,” as in never was. “Acquaintance of Lady Emmaline.” He would have to pay a visit to his oldest and closest friend, the Marquess of Drake and his wife, Emmaline and just
remind
them of this particular acquaintance.

A pleased smile split his mother’s wrinkle-free cheeks. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Drake? Well-done, then, Jonathan. I look forward to meeting Miss Marsh.”

Once she sailed from the room, and pulled the door closed behind her, Jonathan released a pent up sigh. Now, he really needed to pay an immediate visit to Drake and Emmaline, and of course remember Miss Marshville was now to be referred to as Miss Marsh.

He took another small sip of port. She’d been skeptical as to how he’d come by Miss Marshville, that much was clear. Knowing Mother, she’d even now launched her own inquiry into Miss Marshville’s connection to Emmaline. Why, she’d probably sent ‘round a servant to speak to Emmaline and Drake’s servants who hopefully were a good deal more loyal than Jonathan’s, whose loyalty seemed pledged to his mother the countess.

Bloody hell.

Jonathan downed his port in a single swallow and set the empty glass down. With a sense of urgency he set out to see Emmaline and Drake. He all but ripped the door from its hinges and sprinted through the house, back down the corridor—

A small figure stepped into his path.

Penelope, his thirteen-year-old sister with her crop of black curls glared at him. She planted her arms akimbo looking entirely too much like another mother in that moment.

He sighed. “What is it, Penny?”

Her glare darkened. “Do not call me, Penny.” She gave a toss of her curls. “Why, I’m—”

“I know. I know. You’re thirteen, now.” These girls with their tendency for the dramatics would be the end of him. No wonder his father had died an early death. God rest the old earl’s soul. Jonathan made to step around her.

“Do not move another step, Jonathan Marcus Harold Tidemore,” she ordered. “What is this I hear of another governess?”

Which only reminded him of the utmost urgency in getting to Emmaline and Drake’s and remind them of their acquaintance with Miss Marshville…er Marsh.

Jonathan matched his sister’s stance and planted his hands on his hips. “Yes. I’ve found you a new governess.”

“I’m sure she’s horrid.”

Miss Marshville’s visage flashed behind his eyes, and a swift desire filled him. Enticing, entrancing, and captivating but never horrid. “She’s not horrid,” he assured Penelope.

She leaned close, a glint in her eyes. “What was that?”

“What was
what
?”

“You had that, that,” she waved a hand. “Look. You know, the one you had when you began taking on with that opera singer.”

Jonathan scrubbed his hands over his face. Oh, by all the saints in heaven. He shook his head back and forth.

“You’ve hired a fancy piece, haven’t you, Sin?” his sister hissed.

“Do not call me, Sin,” he automatically corrected, and he frowned. “I most certainly have not hired a fancy piece. Nor should you be speaking as…oh, hell, this is why I’ve hired Miss Marsh.”

Poor Miss Marshville did not stand a chance in earning back her cottage.

Penelope waggled a finger at him. “You shouldn’t curse in the presence of a lady.” Her cat-like eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “There is more here, Jonathan, and I intend to find out just what the more is. Do you hear me? And when I do, your Miss Marsh—”

“She’s
your
Miss Marsh.”

“Will be gone just like the others,” Penelope continued as though he’d not spoken.

He bowed. “I have to leave. I have a meeting. I’ll be glad to speak with you more about Miss Marsh when I return,” he lied. He considered this matter at an end.

“Liar,” she called out after him.

He didn’t even pause to glance back and fuel her already accurate suspicions.

His butler, Smith, God love the man held the door open and he sailed through it, where his horse had been readied for him. The female members of his staff would lay down their lives for his mother, the Countess, but the male members of his staff must have taken pity on him. They seemed to anticipate his frequent need to flee the gaggle of females under his care, even before he himself did.

Jonathan swiftly mounted his spotted black mare, Beauty, and nudged her forward, toward Emmaline and Drake’s townhouse. He guided the horse through the crowded streets, all the while cursing the busy road, slowing his journey.

It only forced him to reflect on his meeting with Miss Marshville last evening. In the light of a new day, with a gentleman’s practical sensibilities, he realized the folly in bringing such a spirited beauty into his household, even if it was to care for his sisters. He grimaced. Or attempt to care for his sisters. Too many had come before Miss Marshville and he suspected many more, more
experienced
governesses would come after her.

Jonathan maneuvered past the carts that lined the street.

“A rose, yer lordship,” an older man called from behind his wood cart filled with floors, the striking crimson hue put him in mind of Miss Marshville’s vibrant tresses, and that sole lock that had tumbled past her shoulders and laid between her pert breasts.

He slowed his mount, and motioned the vendor over. “A rose, my good man,” he called, and tossed a sovereign to the older man.

The gaunt fellow with a bald pate eyed the coin like he’d received the king’s crown. “Thank ye, yer lordship,” he cried, and held up a rose.

Jonathan became aware, too late, of the rabid stares trained on him, and then his rose.
Bloody hell
. He could imagine the speculation that would find its way into the gossip columns about the mysterious young lady who’d earned a rose from Lord Sinclair. He gave his head a firm shake. What manner of madness had possessed him, purchasing a rose on the whim of a memory of last evening?

He’d never been more grateful to see a townhouse than his friend Lord Drake’s. He urged Beauty to a halt, and dismounted in a single leap. Jonathan scanned the area, and his gaze alighted on a young boy with a tattered garments and a cap low over his eyes. “You, boy,” he beckoned.

The young boy jabbed a finger at his chest. “Me, Yer Lordship?” He hastened over.

Jonathan handed him the reins to his mount. “Will you wait with her a short while?” He shifted the silly red rose to his free hand and tossed a purse at the boy who caught it easily.

The boy’s eyes formed full moons in his face as he studied the bag in his hands. “Yer Lordship?”

“There will be more when I return,” Jonathan shot over his shoulder as he climbed the steps of Drake’s townhouse. He pounded on the door. All the while his back burned with the interest trained upon the rose in his hand.

He raised his hand to knock once more, when it opened. Drake’s butler, a one-armed fellow who’d served alongside the marquess in the Peninsula War motioned him inside, pausing momentarily to eye the rose.

“Lord and Lady Drake are receiving visitors,” the butler, Jones informed him.

Jonathan fell into step beside the fellow who moved with the precise, clipped steps of one who’d spent years marching to the drum.

They arrived at the drawing room when Jones cleared his throat. “The Earl of Sinclair.”

Emmaline sat beside her husband on a too-small sofa, a book on each of their laps. She colored at Jonathan and Jones’ appearance, and quickly jumped to her feet. “Sinclair, how wonderful to see you!”

He sketched a deep bow, and flashed a grin knowing very well from the guilty flush he’d interrupted his friend and wife. “The pleasure is always mine, my lady.” He winked at her.

Drake snorted. “Stop flirting with my wife, Sin.”

Emmaline swatted at her husband’s arm. “Do behave.”

Jonathan held forth the crimson rose and Emmaline accepted it with a soft exclamation of surprise. “How very lovely,” she murmured, raising the fragrant bud close to her nose and drawing a deep scent. “Isn’t it lovely, Drake?”

Drake stretched his legs out in front of him, and yawned. “Yes, just lovely,” he drawled.

She motioned for Jonathan to sit. “Allow me to ring for refreshments.”

Jonathan sank into the nearest seat, a King Louis XIV chair. He looped his ankle over his knee and tapped his knee. “No refreshments, but thank you, Emmaline.”

Drake continued to study Jonathan with that deep, probing stare. “What brings you round this morning?” he asked bluntly.

Emmaline sank back into the seat beside her husband. She frowned up at him. “I said to behave.”

“I am behaving,” Drake, said, a defensive note to his words. “Something brings him here.” He looked back to Jonathan. “Am I correct? Something brings you here this morning, no?”

Of course, having known Jonathan since they’d been boys of three and ten, Drake correctly surmised something more than a mere visit between friends had brought him round. “I need help,” Jonathan said without preamble.

“Absolutely, Sinclair.” Emmaline replied instantly. “How might we be of assistance?”

Drake draped an arm around his petite wife’s shoulders. His fingers brushed the exposed skin. “You should know not to offer unconditional support without knowing for certain what this scoundrel intends.”

“You’re unpardonable,” Jonathan shot back. “He’s unpardonable,” he said, this time for Emmaline’s benefit.

They shared a commiserative nod.

“Well, on with it, then,” Drake said around a grin.

Jonathan rested his arms on the sides of his chair. “I’ve hired a new governess,” he said, because that seemed the least complicated place to begin.

“Again?” Drake said with a pitying shake of his head.

“You’ll find out the perils of rearing young ladies soon enough,” Jonathan muttered under his breath. The young couple, recently wed already had a small girl of nearly two years.

“How can we be of assistance, Sinclair?” Emmaline encouraged.

“I was tasked with the job of finding the sixth governess.” Technically, the seventh if one counted Mrs. Jenkins…which he did not. Still, it would have been seven.

Drake brushed back a strand of brown hair that had fallen over his wife’s forehead. “Dare I even ask?” he asked.

“It would be best if you didn’t,” he said under his breath. The less Emmaline, Drake, or anyone for that matter knew of the circumstances surrounding the hire of Miss Marshville the best off all would be. “Mother is concerned with how and where I found this particular governess.”

Drake’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Jonathan glared at him, not appreciating this display of amusement. He found the whole situation rather bothersome.

“Who is this young woman?” Emmaline asked Jonathan, even as she frowned at her husband.

“Her name is Miss Marshville. Uh—but for all intents and purposes, we shall refer to her as Miss Marsh.”

Drake’s brow furrowed. “Marshville. Why is that familiar?”

Jonathan shifted in his seat. He had nothing to feel guilty about. It was hardly his fault that Sir Albert Marshville had wagered both his fat purse, and modest cottage, which Jonathan hadn’t yet bothered to visit, in a game of chance. “I may have won Sir Albert Marshville’s cottage in a hand of cards.”

Emmaline blinked. “You stole the young woman’s home and are now forcing her to work for you.” She shook her head looking like a disapproving nursemaid.

Which only made him think of governesses. Which in turn only made him think of Miss Marshville.

“I am not
forcing
the young lady to work for me,” he said past gritted teeth. “She’s chosen to work as a governess for my sisters.” All to acquire her family’s cottage, but that was neither here nor there. If he’d truly had his way, well then, she’d have been his mistress before his governess, but alas after having felt the sting of her fingertips upon his cheek, he’d known with great certainty just how Miss Marshville would have felt toward an indecent proposal on his part. “There is more,” Jonathan felt inclined to share. Because the
more
is what had brought him round posthaste.