Lady Dearing's Masquerade (7 page)

“Yes, I am.”

She paused. For a moment all that could be heard was the finches’ song and the sound of the shrubs on the terrace rustling in the breeze. He looked away, striving vainly to ignore the appeal in her eyes.

“I hope you will not persist in that plan,” she said at length. “I do not think she is ready. When she first came here, she was so . . . subdued. She seemed shy of accepting a simple embrace, and cringed at the mildest rebuke. But she has become more comfortable, more affectionate. She likes to work in the kitchen with Cook, and she likes to mother Robbie, my littlest one, and help him with things like tying his shoestrings.”

“I was told she used to enjoy singing.”

“She will sit and do needlework while I practice on the harp or pianoforte, but when we sing in the evenings she will not join us. I think she could if she wished but fears we will think she was lying when she said she could not sing in the choir. For some reason, she dreads being sent back to the Hospital.”

He frowned. “I should hate to think she was mistreated there.”

“It perplexes me, too,” she replied. “Mrs. Hill and the rest of the staff have always impressed me with their kindness. But I truly believe Mary will in time give me her confidence.”

“I
am
grateful for your efforts on her behalf.”

She paused, removing her spectacles and holding them in her lap. “Sir Jeremy, if you take Mary, who is to care for her? You are not planning to take on her education yourself, are you?”

Now she met his gaze squarely. Her questions were fair.

“I shall engage a governess, but for now my plan is to take Mary to my aunt, who lives in Russell Square with my cousin and his wife. My aunt has raised a son and daughter of her own and she has always been more than kind to me. She and my uncle became my guardians upon my parents’ death. She has had some experience dealing with . . . difficult children.”

Her gaze softened, as if she realized he spoke of himself.

“I see you have given this much thought,” she replied. “Perhaps your aunt may succeed with Mary. Still, I wish you would allow me to continue trying.”

Whether it was the sympathy in her voice or some other enchantment, he did not know. But her pleading struck him with something like an inward pang. She
did
love Mary.

“I will consider it.”

She lowered her gaze, coloring a little, then looked up again. “Thank you.”

For a moment he returned her gaze, pierced by the depth of feeling in her voice. Her eyes were bright with the hint of tears. Such eyes . . . Beautiful as they were, they seemed older than her fresh, glowing complexion implied. They were eyes that had seen pain. The eyes of a mother.

He cleared his throat. “May I see the schoolroom now?”

As they got up to leave, he reminded himself that even if she doted on the children, that did not mean she was a fit person to care for them.

No one knew better than he that love was not always enough.

But as he followed her out of the room, her scent—of roses, narcissus and sheer femininity—tugged at his senses, along with the rustle of her skirt, the natural undulations of her hips as she climbed the stairs ahead of him . . .

What had gotten into him? He was here on Hospital business. He was here for Cecilia.

But he’d not felt so powerfully affected by a woman’s charms in years.

At the top, Lady Dearing turned and led him down a hall into a large room painted the same cheerful yellow as the drawing room. Jeremy turned his attention to the colorful artwork adorning its walls: framed samplers, pastels and watercolors.

“You are seeing some of the children’s work,” Lady Dearing explained, in something of a rush. “I realize the foundlings are not taught drawing at the Hospital, but Miss Burton and I have discovered that allowing them to exercise such talents has proven beneficial.”

“It is unusual. But so are these children,” he concurred, wishing she would be more at ease. Was this the sort of thing she was nervous about?

“I am so glad you see it so,” she said, with a slight smile.

The breathless quality in her voice drew him to look at her again. She seemed so nervous, standing there with her long filigree earrings swinging slightly, her hands clasped together. He felt an absurd longing to reassure her.

Instead he looked about some more. Long shelves lay against one wall, for the most part filled with books, although one bore toys ranging from a hoop to a carved and painted Noah’s ark set. A side table held a globe, a microscope and several small boxes whose contents he could only guess at.

“I see the children enjoy a rather broader education than those at the Hospital,” he observed.

“But you do not think it wrong?” The strain in her voice was almost painful to hear.

“I wish such subjects were in the reach of every child in England.”

“You do?” She watched him wide-eyed, not the first to be surprised by his highly progressive views on the matter.

“Most of the Governors do not agree. In any case, we cannot afford to pay masters to teach geography or natural philosophy,” he continued. “The most we can do is to provide an education to prepare the children for a trade or domestic service.”

“I know. They are taught their letters and how to do sums, which is far better education than they would have received otherwise. Had they lived at all,” she added earnestly. “I am sure the Committee must weigh every expense against the possibility of saving more children’s lives.”

She
did
understand. Not even Cecilia could have expressed herself with greater sensitivity.

And Bromhurst said she had done well by these children, which now seemed likely. It would explain why, as President, he was so reluctant to allow anyone to interfere with Lady Dearing. Perhaps that was why he had avoided any discussion of her and her controversial methods at meetings.

It made Jeremy’s current dilemma all the more difficult.

“We do,” he agreed, then cleared his throat again. “Do the children attend Church?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And—forgive me for asking—how are the children regarded by your neighbors? Sometimes there is a prejudice against foundlings.”

“Not everyone approves, of course, but most follow the lead of our good vicar and his wife, who have been most kind to the children,” she said with a smile. A real one this time, no polite facade. It lit up her eyes.

“I am glad to hear it.”

Her smile deepened. A breeze from the window lifted her hair, brought a hint of her perfume his way.

He turned his head aside. “May I meet the children now?” he asked quietly.

“Of course.”

She preceded him out of the room and he followed, focusing on everything but her. But the image remained to taunt him: her smile, the ruffled golden curls. Luscious breasts, trim waist, feminine hips, all discreetly, elegantly swathed in lace and fabric but mutely beckoning him. A woman made for loving: for touching and kissing and caressing and . . .

And she might be Arlingdale’s mistress.

Even if she was not, her tarnished reputation and his role as an inspector made such thoughts grossly improper, even dangerous.

But he continued to wrestle with them as they entered the library and headed for the open French doors. Before they reached them, a young woman with light brown hair dressed in a sober brown dress burst in from outside. The governess?

She looked distraught.

“What is it, Miss Burton?” Lady Dearing asked.

“I am so sorry,” said the governess, wringing her hands. “I would not have let it happen for the world. I needed to visit the—the—and I thought they would be safe—and—”

“What is it? Is something wrong?” asked Lady Dearing, her voice still calm but a fraction higher in pitch.

Miss Burton swallowed, her face pale, her eyes imploring her mistress’s forgiveness.

“Please forgive me, L—my lady! The children have disappeared!”

Chapter 5

Livvy could have screamed.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the grim disapproval in Sir Jeremy’s expression. How could the children do such a thing, just when it looked as if she’d won him over?

“Please calm yourself,” she told Jane, keeping her voice tranquil. “Where were the children last seen?”

“On the south lawn, but that was almost a half hour ago. We have been searching ever since. I did not wish to disturb you while you were speaking to Sir Jeremy.”

“It is not the time to worry about what is done. We have to decide how to proceed now.”

“There’s one more thing, ma’am. Cook says the sandwiches prepared for the children’s nuncheon are missing, along with some of the bread and cheese that were in the larder.”

Livvy recalled the noises she’d heard outside the library doors. She’d set them down to the wind, but . . .

She turned to Sir Jeremy, squaring her shoulders. “Do you recall when the shrub rustled on the terrace? I fear one of the children was hiding behind it and overheard our conversation.”

“Are you saying they ran off rather than allow Mary to come with me?” he asked grimly.

“They do not know you. Perhaps they fear you. I realize it does not excuse their naughtiness, but—” She swallowed, bracing herself for his anger.

“The important thing is to find them now.”

She nodded.

“Shall I have someone make inquiries in the village?” asked Jane.

“Not yet.”

She took a deep breath, half-closing her eyes. Panicking about Sir Jeremy would do the children no good; for their sakes, she had to deal with the situation as if he were not present. To imagine where a child might go to hide.

She opened her eyes again. “I think I know where they have gone. There is no need to raise a stir just yet. Sir Jeremy, if you allow me some time I shall bring them back to you.”

“I am coming along.”

She nodded, unsurprised. Now everything depended on how she managed things; any mistake would no doubt result in
all
the children being removed from her care.

A few minutes later, she’d exchanged her slippers for half boots, pulled on a shawl and bonnet, and rejoined Sir Jeremy. They hurried out the French doors, sped across the terrace, then descended the steps to the garden level.

One look at his face and her stomach twisted.

“I hope—I hope you are not too angry with the children,” she said, skirting the garden wall and heading toward the lawn and the woods beyond it.

“I’m not an ogre. Why would they regard me as one?”

“I told them only that you were here for an inspection.”

She set a fast pace across the lawn; he kept up easily, his expression still stony. Her stomach clenched even as the fast pace stole her breath.

“You will not—you will not make any hasty decisions about the children, will you?” she blurted out, unable to bear the silence any longer.

She suffered a long, unblinking look.

 “I never make hasty decisions.”

She bit her lip and hurried on.

“Where do you think they have gone?” he asked as they passed the Grecian folly on the edge of the woodland.

“There’s a cave,” she said, struggling for breath. “Near the eastern border of the park. About . . . ten minutes’ walk from here.”

“A
cave
?”

“My grandfather had it . . . excavated. He built that folly. Later he developed a taste for…Gothic features. My father thought the cave . . . unsafe, and had it blocked up. As a child I found a way in.”

“Is there any danger?”

“I hope not. If it has not . . . collapsed in all these years . . . perhaps the roof is solid.”

She redoubled her pace and skidded over a particularly slippery patch, and would have pitched face-forward into the mud had Sir Jeremy not reached out to catch her. For a moment, he held her tightly, one arm around her shoulders, another just under her breasts. Her heart all but stopped as his large hands steadied her, their firm grasp bringing back memories of his protective embrace at the masquerade. Of their kiss. Knees shaking, she summoned up all her strength to regain her balance and pull away.

“Thank you,” she breathed, risking a look at his face.

His face was even stormier than before, but she saw no signs that he’d recognized her. A moment later he looked calmer, as if he’d forced back his anger.

“What do you intend to do when we find the children?” he asked, a hard edge to his voice.

His question brought a sick taste to her mouth. How
did
he expect her to deal with them? She’d never beaten the children, and in fact the staff at the Hospital now used isolation in preference to physical punishment. But if Sir Jeremy was of the old school . . .

“I shall talk to them . . . of course,” she said, a sharp running pain across her chest adding to her sense of nausea. “To try . . . if I can discover why they did this. Then I must devise a suitable punishment.”

An anxious moment passed before he answered.

“I trust you do not intend anything too harsh,” he said at length.

Stunned, she turned to look at him, and her legs nearly buckled under her. He’d reddened, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He did
not
wish her to beat the children.

Relief brought her renewed strength. She ran up a slight rise and down into the next hollow, a lovely quiet spot in the center of the ancient woods, where drifts of bluebells released their wild-sweet scent.

Now she could see the entrance to the cave, a narrow, almost invisible gash among the tree roots, overgrown with ivy. “Philippa! Ben! Mary! Robbie!” she called.

Nothing could be heard but birdsong and the rushing of the nearby stream.

As she approached the entrance to the cave, Sir Jeremy beside her, Livvy prayed once more that she was right.

“Come out. You are discovered,” she shouted.

There was no answer.

She moved a tangle of ivy aside to reveal the opening. It was smaller than she remembered, and too dark to see the interior. She heard a scuffle and a muted whisper. Her shoulders sagged with relief.

“I know you are in there. Come out this instant, all of you,” she said in a fierce tone she rarely used.