Cheryl Holt (5 page)

Michael Farrow gazed around the seedy parlor of the boardinghouse where Emily Barnett rented lodgings.

Though he usually went out of his way to offend, and could not care less for the opinion of others, he had a conscience—a buried, ignored, rarely used one—and he felt awful about what had happened.

The placement agency, with which he’d promptly severed his business connection, had given him her address, and he’d sent a footman with a note, which hadn’t been answered. A second footman had gone, with orders to obtain a response, but he’d waited in vain. Then Fitch had been dispatched, with instructions not to return without her, but the intrepid fellow hadn’t brought her back.

So Michael had lowered himself to visiting, certain that she couldn’t refuse to speak with him.

If he had to grovel, if it cost him every penny he possessed, the obstinate female would be his employee. Like it or no.

He abhorred that he’d been reduced to pleading, but
Pamela and Margaret Martin—his two wards, whom he scarcely knew and had no desire to assist—were about to arrive, and he had to have a governess hired.

He understood nothing about children, had none of his own, and never intended to have any. Eighteen years earlier, when Michael had been twelve, his father had killed Michael’s mother in a jealous rage by tossing her off a balcony. Then he’d killed himself with a pistol shot to the head. Michael was terrified that their insanity ran in his veins, and he wouldn’t risk passing on his tainted blood to any unsuspecting offspring, so he was in desperate need of guidance and advice.

He simply couldn’t watch over the Martin girls, and why their father—his main partner in a decade of depravity and vice—had deemed Michael a suitable guardian was a mystery. His reputation for corruption was so low that no other woman had had the courage to apply to be his governess. Emily had been the only one with the gumption to seek the position, but without his realizing her purpose, she’d foolishly plopped herself in the middle of his search for a new mistress.

Amanda had been his consort for ages, having weaved her greedy presence through every facet of his life, until it was difficult to split with her. Their public fighting, their breakups and reconciliations, were legendary, but lately, she’d grown too sure of her relationship with him, so he’d decided to solicit for a different paramour. In hopes of wresting the spot away from her, the courtesans of the demimonde were flaunting their sexual prowess.

All of London was aware that he was conducting his outrageous interviews, so how had Miss Barnett stumbled into the despicable carnal foray? She truly was the
virtuous country maiden she’d professed herself to be, and when he thought of what she’d seen and heard in his home, he rippled with an unaccustomed wave of shame.

He and his younger brother, Alex, were renowned scapegraces. They philandered and gambled and drank with a reckless abandon. What sensible female would work for them? How could he convince Miss Barnett that what she’d observed was an aberration when everything she’d witnessed was a factual rendering of how he carried on?

Footsteps sounded, and he rose, anticipating Miss Barnett, but it was the landlady.

“Beg pardon, milord,” the woman started, “but Miss Barnett insists that she’s unavailable.”

“Unavailable?” he sputtered. “That’s what she claims.”

“Have you apprised her that I’m downstairs?”

“Yes.” The woman nodded, edgy as a dog about to be beaten. “May I apologize for her rudeness?”

“You may.”

How dare the little nymph decline to attend him! Obviously, she had no idea with whom she was dealing. No one denied him. No one snubbed him or failed to do his bidding. He told others to jump, and they asked,
how high?
She had no say in how the situation would be resolved.

“For how long a period has she paid her rent?” he questioned.

“It was due last Saturday. She’s behind.”

He opened his purse and proffered a few gold coins. “Should Miss Barnett inquire, you won’t accept a late payment, and her apartment has been let to another.
Beginning tomorrow.” He marched toward the stairs. “Which room is hers?”

“You can’t go up! This is a feminine establishment. No gentlemen are permitted. Not even an exalted one such as yourself.”

“Which room, madam?” He slipped another coin into her avaricious hand.

“Third on the left,” she mentioned without hesitation.

He climbed the dank, narrow stairwell, crinkling his nose at the odors. It was a dismal abode, and it bothered him that Miss Barnett was reduced to residing in such squalor.

In her rush to flee his mansion, she’d forgotten her reticule, and when he’d peeked into it, it had been stuffed with scones she’d pilfered from his parlor. Was she starving, too?

He’d listened to stories about what befell young women when they moved to the city, but he’d never pondered the social problem. He made it a point to remain detached, yet Miss Barnett had crossed his path in an unexpected way, and for no reason he could specify, he liked her very much. She’d become a real person who was in trouble. If she didn’t find a post, and soon, there weren’t many rungs to the bottom of the ladder, and he couldn’t stand to consider what dire fate loomed.

Outside her door, he paused and rapped once, and it was yanked open.

“Mrs. Smith, you may tell Lord Winchester that I—” Appearing as if she’d seen a ghost, Emily Barnett halted in mid-sentence.

In the stark morning light filtering through the lone window, she was prettier than he recollected. Her auburn
hair was down and brushed out, the curled tresses restrained by a single ribbon.

Instead of gray, she was attired in a fetching gown of green muslin, with a scooped neckline and puffed sleeves that accented her thin figure, her pert bosom and tiny waist. The color of the dress set off the emerald in her eyes and the pink in her cheeks.

He shifted, uncomfortable with how attractive he found her, and he masked his reaction. His parents’ scandals had hardened him, so he was a master at covering up his emotions. He’d never allow her to discern any heightened sentiment.

“Hello, Miss Barnett.”

“Lord Winchester?” She gulped with dismay.

“We meet again.”

Before she could slam the door in his face, he strolled past her.

“Wait a minute,” she scolded. “You can’t barge in.”

“I already have.”

As he assessed her pitiful surroundings, he wondered what abominable predicament had delivered her to such a juncture. From her demeanor and speech it was clear she’d been raised in a good family, that she was educated and cultured.

What catastrophe had transpired?

Another woman sat on the bed, as well as a girl of eight or nine. There were three of them living in the dilapidated space! How wretched!

“Who is it, Emily?” the other woman queried.

As she turned toward him, Michael concluded that she was Miss Barnett’s sister. Her hair was darker, and her eyes more hazel, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
From how she blankly stared, he was stunned to acknowledge that she was very likely blind.

“It’s no one, Mary,” Miss Barnett interjected. She urged him toward the door, saying, “If you’ll excuse us, sir, it’s a violation of the rules to have male visitors.”

She gave him a heartrending look—beseechment coupled with fury—but he ignored her and approached her sister.

“I am Michael Farrow, Earl of Winchester.”

“Oh my!”

When she started to rise, he added, “Don’t get up.”

She stood anyway and curtsied, which was awkward in the cramped area. The girl stood, too, and joined her. “I am Mrs. Mary Livingston,” the woman announced, “Emily’s elder sister. This is my daughter, Rose.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Livingston? How do you do, Rose?”

“Very well, thank you,” Rose answered politely.

He glanced around again, trying not to gawk, determined not to be affected by their plight, but he couldn’t help himself. “Are you a widow, Mrs. Livingston?”

“Why, yes. I have been for several years now.”

So . . . there was no man in the picture. Just the three females. On their own. One a child, and one disabled.

Miss Barnett had to locate a salary that would support them, but how could she? They’d never make it. What would happen to Mrs. Livingston? To Rose?

He fought off a shudder of dread. Except for his constant struggles to aid his brother, Alex, he never immersed himself in others’ difficulties, yet he was horribly concerned over this trio’s dilemma and suffering from the worst need to save them.

What was he? Some bloody knight-of-old out to rescue damsels in distress? He hadn’t a benevolent bone in his body, yet he was scared to peek down, lest he suddenly find himself decked out in shining armor.

“It’s kind of you to stop by,” Mrs. Livingston was commenting. “We’re very honored. I wish we were at home in Hailsham, where we’d have had more suitable environs in which to receive you.”

“I had to call on you.” He perceived a rational soul in Mrs. Livingston. Plus, her civility indicated that Miss Barnett had not discussed the sordid events she’d witnessed. “Your sister applied to be my governess. We had a misunderstanding”—Miss Barnett swallowed down a choking sound—“and I feel awful about the confusion, so I thought it best to personally offer her the job.”

“I don’t want it!” Miss Barnett vehemently declared.

“Emily!” Mrs. Livingston admonished. “Mind your manners. The earl has journeyed all this way to see you.”

Emily scowled. “Mary, I must speak with Lord Winchester. Alone.”

She grabbed his arm and dragged him into the hall, closing their door with a sharp click; then she whipped around. “Are you insane?” she hissed. “How dare you come here!”

“My wards will arrive Wednesday afternoon. You begin today.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“You’ll travel to my residence with me in my carriage, and I’ll send a wagon for your things.”

“I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last man on earth!”

“You have no choice.”

“I’m not a slave. I’m not in bondage. I’m not indentured to you. You can’t force me.”

“Actually, I can.”

She wagged a reproaching finger. “I realize you have a high opinion of your importance, and you’re used to lording yourself over others, but you’ll have no success with me. You’re like a big, spoiled baby. You think you can act however you please.”

“What’s the advantage of being an earl if you can’t have your own way?”

“You’re likely to get me evicted.”

“It’s a definite worry,” he said, “but you can’t blame me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your rent is overdue, and your landlady has let the room to someone else. They’re moving in tomorrow. She’s about to notify you to vacate the premises.”

“You’re lying, you despicable swine.”

“Shall we go down and ask her?” She studied him, searching for evidence of deceit, but he kept his expression carefully blank. “You’re about to be tossed out on the street. When you are, what will become of your sister and niece?”

The terror of the prospect gripped her. Her knees grew weak, and she collapsed against the wall. He reached out to steady her, holding her up lest she slide to the floor. They were thrown into an intimate position, their legs tangled, their torsos melded. Quietly, he advised her, “You don’t have an alternative, Emily.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Her nearness elated him. His senses reeled; his pulse pounded. Idiotic as it sounded, he was happy, merely from
being around her. He couldn’t fathom why, but he intended to exploit the impression whenever he had the chance.

“Look, about the other night—”

“Don’t remind me.” Mortified, she glanced away, and he was chagrined anew.

It was disgraceful that he’d exposed her to his brand of dissipation. There’d been a time in his life when he’d had principles and standards, when he’d abided by the tenets that guided others. When had he drifted from the straight and narrow? He’d wandered so far past the bounds of civilized behavior that he no longer recognized when he was being an ass.

“I was interviewing for a . . . a . . . mistress.” He had sufficient conscience left to blush with embarrassment.

“Which is the most contemptible thing I ever heard.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to be my governess. I assumed you were there to . . . to . . .”

His voice trailed off. He couldn’t utter the word
fornicate
in her presence, and his inane need to clarify such a ghastly error was proof that he’d spent entirely too many years wallowing in sin.

“Is your confession supposed to make me feel better?”

“You deserved an explanation.”

“Thank you for supplying it. Now go.”

“What you saw . . . that’s not the kind of man I am.” A huge fib, but he hoped it would suffice.

“Hah! It’s
precisely
the kind of man you are. You’re a lecher. A reprobate.”

“I am not!”

“Have you no shame? No morals? How could you bring your wards into such a den of iniquity? Have you no decency remaining?”

“None of that twaddle will be occurring once they arrive,” he asserted. “My brother, Alex, and I are bachelors, and we’ve carried on as bachelors, but that’s about to change. The house has been cleaned and tidied. The . . . the women are gone, and they won’t be invited back.”

“Where will you entertain them? At your club? At your country estate?”

As that had been his exact plan, he gnashed his teeth, hating that she could read him so well. “I’m resolved to be the perfect guardian.”

“Bully for you.”

He’d never encountered anyone who was so unimpressed by his rank and title. Her disregard was so aggravating, yet so invigorating. He wanted to shake her; he wanted to hug her.

“Emily . . .”

“It is
Miss Barnett
to you.”

“Emily,” he sweetly coaxed, “would you be my governess? Please?”

“No.”

She stepped away, into a darkened corner, and he stepped with her. He relished how he felt when he was around her. She was like a bracing tonic, a fortifying dip into brisk ocean waves, and he had to stay close so that he could bask in the sensations she produced.