Shev (3 page)

Prey upon
. Such an interesting choice of words for an aristocrat who was nearly untouchable in the eyes of the law.

His plain speaking unnerved her. She had never been around someone of his status who spoke so boldly, especially to the fairer sex. Did he do so for the pleasure of seeing her reaction? Could she afford to care?

She had left the Whitfields’ household a month ago before securing another position. And now her inability to find suitable employment had caused her to become a burden to her aunt and uncle.

Despite the inappropriate manner in which the marquess shared his rule, his declaration felt sincere. Could she trust him to keep his word? Could she trust herself?

“You know as well as I,” she said, “that men break their code of honor all the time.”

“Some do, yes. But I’m not one of them.” He cocked his head to the side. “What did you say to Jacqueline before you left?”

“Pardon?” Was the man incapable of finishing one topic before moving on to the next?

“You whispered something into the girl’s ear that made her cry. What did you say?”

“I made her cry?” The last thing she had intended was to cause the child more grief. It had been obvious that Jacqueline had suffered greatly from being away from her mother.

“And she left her grandmother’s presence rather abruptly thereafter.”

“I assure you, my lord, I didn’t intend for my comment to elicit such a reaction.”

“Then you won’t mind sharing what you said.”

Anne hesitated. All she had wanted to do was make Jacqueline smile. A secret between the two of them. But she hadn’t thought it through. She had acted on instinct—and wound up hurting a child.

“I mentioned something about second chances.”

“Second chances,” he mused aloud. “An unusual topic to bring up to one so young.”

Not wanting to expound, she produced her best authoritative governess voice. “I will visit your daughter tomorrow morning and apologize for my thoughtless comment.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because it’s the right thing to do. I hurt your daughter’s feelings, so I must make amends.”

“Jacqueline is five years old. No doubt a sweet or new ribbon will restore her normal banshee self.”

Anne stared. Did he truly believe damage to a child’s feelings could be repaired by something so cold and impersonal? “It has been my experience that if you wish a child to act respectfully, you must first treat the child with respect.”

“So you’ll accept the position?”

She must be getting used to his abrupt changes in topic, because his question failed to jar her this time.

“Obviously,” he went on, “I’m ill equipped to rear a child. Jacqueline’s been torn from her country and her family. She needs you, Miss Crawford.” His voice lowered. “I need you.”

Had Anne believed in sorcery, she would have sworn he’d hidden a compulsion spell within his last three words.

An image of Jacqueline sobbing into her pillow surfaced. How many times had she done so since coming to this foreign land? The girl must feel utterly alone, being so far away from her friends and the only family she’d ever known. The steel lock holding back Anne’s rash actions broke, and she heard herself say, “Three months, my lord.”

“Pardon?”

If Anne hadn’t been so terrified by the events she’d just set in motion, she would have celebrated her small victory of baffling this unflappable lord. “I accept the position of governess for three months. Long enough to help settle Jacqueline and find her a more appropriate governess.”

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his too-handsome face, and Anne knew then she had made the biggest mistake of her life.

Chapter Three

Shev tiptoed toward the schoolroom adjacent to the nursery on the third floor of his London town house to see what mischief Jacqueline was causing her new governess today.

Since Miss Crawford’s arrival at Shevington House five days ago, the banshee had lived up to her moniker. One look at Miss Crawford’s traveling trunk had been enough to send Jacqueline shrieking up the stairs, shouting,
“Go away, go away. I don’t want you. Go away.”

He had to give the governess credit. She hadn’t blinked an eye at her new charge’s hysterics. She simply smiled at his mother and housekeeper, complimenting both on such a beautiful, well-maintained home. Which, of course, immediately endeared her to his mother and Mrs. Frickert.

“Jacqueline,” came Miss Crawford’s muffled voice, “if you practice your numbers, we can go to the park later.”

Shev leaned closer, pressing his ear to the schoolroom door.

“
Maman
said the sun is a spinster maker,” the girl said in French.

Silence.

“I’m not sure I understand,” the governess replied in English.

“Spots.
Maman
said boys don’t like girls with spotty skin.”

“There are ways to protect your skin from the sun’s harsh effects and still enjoy the outdoors.”

Jacqueline prattled off more objections in her native tongue. The two had been playing tug-of-war over language ever since Miss Crawford announced they would begin working on Jacqueline’s English. The girl had only a rudimentary grasp of the language—enough to make her wants and desires clear, vociferously. And now she refused to speak the little bit she knew, convinced her mother or French father would arrive soon.

When had Jacqueline’s mother begun teaching her daughter English? Shev wondered. The moment her doctor diagnosed her condition? From the instant the girl could speak?

Giselle had been both intelligent and beautiful. She had been an accomplished lover and political conversationalist as well as a ballroom gossip. The latter two characteristics were the reasons why she had drawn his notice. He was in the information-gathering business, and Giselle enjoyed sharing the bits of political intrigue she came across.

Had he been a better man, he would have mourned her return to France. But the only emotion he’d been able to muster was relief.

“Can we get an ice?” Jacqueline asked, drawing him back to the war of wills going on behind the door.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On you counting to ten in English.”

Another long silence.

“Jacqueline?”

“Why do I need to learn English if I’m going home soon?”

“Because for now you’re in an English-speaking household. A household full of dedicated staff whose job, in part, is to take care of you and keep you safe.”

“Why can’t they learn French?”

Shev lifted a brow, appreciating the girl’s tactic, but cringing at the selfishness of it.

“Lord Shevington’s staff is very busy. Their duties don’t allow them enough time to learn a new language.”

“He shouldn’t make them work so hard.”

He
. Another one of Jacqueline’s acts of defiance. She never referred to him as Father or Papa. Only
he
or
sir.

In truth, Shev didn’t mind. He certainly didn’t feel like a father. If the girl didn’t look so damned much like him, he would question her paternity.

“To whom are you referring?” the governess asked. When Jacqueline said nothing, Miss Crawford announced, “No ice today, then.”

Jacqueline emitted a noise that sounded a great deal like a wounded boar—right before the schoolroom door swung open.

The weight of his body propelled him forward. He grasped the frame of the door a mere second before he plowed into the governess.

“Oh, my lord!”

He straightened, scrambling for a legitimate reason for eavesdropping. When nothing came to light, he simply ignored the obvious. “Miss Crawford, my apologies for startling you. I came up to see if you and Jacqueline would like to take luncheon with us below.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she motioned for him to step back so she could join him in the corridor. She closed the door behind her and led them a short distance away. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lord.”

“If you’re still concerned about your virtue, my mother will be in attendance.”

“I no longer fear you’ll act in an ungentlemanly way toward me. You—and your mother—have convinced me that you will honor your word.”

It was a good thing the governess could not read minds. She would have known the exact moment his thoughts no longer matched his gentlemanly actions.

Something about this unassuming woman compelled him to listen for her voice when he passed by a room, look for her coiffed head during a gathering, and strain for the smallest whiff of her delicate scent when nearby. As he did now.

He had kept company with far more visually stimulating women, but never had he been so
aware
of their existence. His growing preoccupation with the governess had to stem from her desire to be around him as little as possible. Most ladies of his acquaintance tried to suffocate him with their nearness and nonsensical prattle.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He moved back a fraction more. “If you’re not concerned about your good name, I can only assume propriety makes you hesitate.”

“That and—”

“If you have not yet noticed, my mother runs this household in a less-than-conventional manner. I am only surprised she has not yet insisted you join us before now.”

The Marchioness of Shevington ensured she never forgot about her humble beginnings. Once or twice a year, she invited her childhood friends to Shevington House for dinner and the latest gossip. Tradesmen, maids, physicians, shopkeepers, and even a known pickpocket had dined at his table.

“My main concern,” Miss Crawford said, “is Jacqueline’s withdrawal.”

“From what?”

“Everything English. She’s convinced someone will come for her and take her back to France.” Her attention shifted to his shoulder a moment before settling back on his face. “Has no one explained the situation to her?”

Shev didn’t know the answer to her question.

The only information he had was a five-page letter from Giselle. She went into great detail as to the reasons why she had sent Jacqueline to him. One of which was her desire for Jacqueline to have the benefit of a strong father. She claimed to have seen through his rakish façade and knew him to be as honorable as her father. Another reason was the unstable political climate in France. Even though her parents had strong ties to Napoleon, Giselle believed Jacqueline would be safer in England.

But Giselle had mentioned nothing of what she told her daughter. Within a day of her arrival, he had explained what he could. However, without verified details, he found the conversation challenging.

How does one tell a five-year-old her father is not her father and that she should start calling the English-speaking stranger in front of her “Papa”? Given her young age, he couldn’t even be sure what she understood and what she didn’t.

“I’m in the process of verifying Jacqueline’s mother’s death.”

“You don’t know for certain?”

His lips twitched. “I wondered how long it would take for that expression to appear.”

“What expression?”

“The one that conveys, ‘You’re an idiot.’”

“You’re seeing no such thing. I’m simply confused by the circumstances.”

“No more so than I, Miss Crawford. Until a month ago, I was blissfully unaware of my parental obligations.”

She began pacing the narrow space. With one arm propped atop the other, she thrummed her fingers against her chin.

“Let me see how much of this I understand,” she said. “Your French lover may or may not have died before sending her daughter to you—her natural father.” She glanced at him for confirmation.

Shev did his best not to smile at her easy use of the word
lover
. “Correct.”

“Jacqueline arrived on your doorstep with a letter, I’m assuming, from her mother.”

“Also correct. A trusted servant of Giselle’s escorted Jacqueline and her nursemaid to London along with a letter addressed to me.”

“Giselle, your lover?”

Although he didn’t smile, he couldn’t keep the amusement from his tone. “A fact we’ve already established.”

“Since you have not mentioned your lover’s name before, I wanted to make sure we were speaking of the same person.”

“Former lover.”

She lifted a brow.

“You seem captivated by the details, so I thought I’d clarify my current relationship—or lack thereof—with Giselle.”

The governess nodded and continued her circuit about the room. “I take it the letter identified you as Jacqueline’s father.”

“Yes. Though one only has to look at the girl to divine the truth.”

“Do you have a profligate brother? Uncle? Cousin? Someone who carries similar facial characteristics as you and might have had relations with Jacqueline’s mother?”

“Only a sister, and I’m quite certain she is not responsible for Jacqueline’s birth.”

She sent him a “none of that” look. An expression not dissimilar to ones he had received from his mother on occasion.

“Why do you believe Giselle is dead?”

“At the time she wrote the letter—a month and a half ago—her doctor predicted she only had a short time to live.”

“Patients have been known to survive their doctors’ predictions.”

“Precisely why I’m not taking any chances and have dispatched someone to the Continent to verify her existence or demise.” His indifferent statement sat between them, stark, raw, and perhaps far too revealing.

“You don’t seem particularly upset about your former lover’s possible death.”

“Upset, no. I knew Giselle for only a short time. However, for Jacqueline’s sake, I hope the news is otherwise. No child should lose her mother at such a young age.”

“No, indeed.” Her gaze drifted away a moment before returning to his. “What’s become of Giselle’s husband, the gentleman who raised Jacqueline?”

“According to Giselle’s letter, Bélanger turned his back on Jacqueline the moment he learned she was not of his blood. He banished both Giselle and her daughter to the country. After receiving her doctor’s diagnosis, Giselle sent her daughter to me on the misguided notion I would be a better father than the one she has known her entire life.”