Never Gamble Your Heart (The Secret Society of Governess Spies #2)

Chapter 1

August 1838

London, England

J asper Jones lowered the letter of recommendation from Perdita’s and studied the governess who was impertinently scanning the oil paintings in his sitting room. She was a slip of a thing, with wheat-colored hair that curled in wisps around her face and a complexion that spoke of hours indoors. A high-necked gown of serviceable dark green concealed her from wrist to boot. If her oversized spectacles and dull dress were any indication, she was a plain and severe woman.

The governess, Miss Francis Turner, finished her perusal and returned her attention to him. Jasper was struck by surprise when her gaze boldly met his. Having been distracted by the ridiculously large spectacles, he’d almost missed how sea-blue and thickly lashed her eyes were. He had several female acquaintances who would kill for eyes like those.

Miss Turner adjusted her spectacles and gave him a lopsided grin.

Jasper frowned. What was Perdita’s Governess Agency about? He’d requested a mature and experienced governess to help his niece deal with her circumstances, and instead they’d sent him a woman who appeared to be about five and twenty.

“How long have you been a governess, Miss Turner?”

“Two months and six days.”

“And do you consider your two months and six days enough experience to handle a fifteen-year-old girl who has recently lost her father?” he asked, lifting his brows.

“Yes.”

That was it. No explanation, no detailed list of her accomplishments, no attempt to convince him she was the right person for the position.

Jasper waited.

Miss Turner stared back with those guileless blue eyes. Finally she said, “When can I start?”

Jasper was not caught off guard often, but twice now the governess had surprised him. He stood, straightened his cravat, and glanced at his pocket watch. It was already half past eleven, and there were menus that needed his approval at Rockford’s.

“I fear your two months will not suffice for the difficult task at hand, Miss Turner.”

Miss Turner frowned. “Then why did you ask me if it would?”

“It was sarcasm.”

“I have a difficult time comprehending the use of sarcasm. It seems to me a very lazy form of expression.”

Jasper’s lips quirked involuntarily. He’d always had a perverse soft spot for candor. “Do not consider my concerns a comment on your abilities, Miss Turner. My niece is a handful, and because she lacks a female presence in her life, she requires a governess who can guide her with consistency and firmness. I will write to Perdita’s first thing in the morning. Until another governess arrives, you may do your best with Cecelia. However, you must know I require two things of all my servants. First—”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, interrupting him. “You are mistaken, Mr. Jones. I am not a servant. I am a gov-er-ness.” She said the word governess slowly, as if he were an imbecile.

Jasper’s eyes widened. As the son of a fishmonger, he’d been raised rough, and it had taken years of polishing to become the man he was today. He had more money than most of the men who visited his gaming hell, more power than half of Parliament, and a ruthless reputation for punishing cheats. He had climbed to the top with nothing but his rapier-sharp mind, and yet this innocent-eyed governess was acting as if he were as dumb as a bag of bricks.

“Are you well, Mr. Jones? You look”—Miss Turner waved her hand over her face—“frozen. Yes, that is the word. You froze up a bit. Do you need a drink? Perhaps a nice, fortifying brandy?”

“Miss Turner—”

She had already found the bell and rung it. Jasper watched in astonishment as she promptly ordered the maid to bring him a stiff drink.

“Miss Turner!”

“Mr. Jones!” she replied, raising her voice to match his. “There is certainly no need to shout. I assure you my hearing is quite adequate.”

Jasper was speechless.

“Oh, I understand your reservations now,” she said, her eyes landing on the clock on the mantel. “My apologies. I suppose eleven thirty in the morning is a tad early for liquor. I should have ordered tea. Can I meet Cecelia?”

“I am not sure that would be wise.”

“Well, I want to meet her !” a young voice cried from the door.

Jasper closed his eyes, counted to three, and turned to bare his teeth at his niece. “Cecelia. How long have you been standing there?”

Cecelia was a tall girl with big brown eyes and thin, chestnut hair that looked pasted to her scalp. When Jasper had clawed his way out of poverty, he’d brought his only brother and niece with him. His brother had worked in the kitchen at Rockford’s, and Jasper had bought him a quaint house in a quiet district of the city where he could live with Cecelia and Cecelia’s great-aunt.

Jasper had seen his niece on special occasions, but he had never spent much time with her, or even noticed her beyond bestowing a generous dowry upon her. Then his brother had died in a carriage accident, and Jasper, Cecelia’s only living relative under the age of eighty, had had the sullen, angry girl thrust upon him. And because he could not simply leave the great-aunt to her own devices, he’d taken her in, too.

The great-aunt, Madam Margaret, was fine—she spent most of her day sleeping or gazing out the window, and Jasper quite enjoyed the silence of her company. Cecelia, on the other hand, had only been with him a fortnight, and he already had the distinct feeling that she hated him. If she sensed Miss Turner made him unhappy, she would insist on keeping the odd governess.

“Long enough to hear Miss Turner order you a drink.” Cecelia flounced into the room, her gown a bright yellow confection of far too many ribbons and bows, designed for a much younger girl. She took Miss Turner’s hand in hers and gave her a dazzling smile. “Are you to be my new governess?”

“No,” Jasper said quickly. “She is standing in as your governess until the real one arrives.”

Cecelia stuck out her lower lip like a child and crossed her arms over her chest. “Phooey!”

Jasper pinched the bridge of his nose. When had his life come to this? He was a gambler. A rake. The devil of sin. His goals in life were to make money and enjoy himself, and everyone else be damned. But here he was, standing in a far-too-sunny receiving room with a fifteen-year-old who despised him and an awkward governess, both of them staring at him as if he’d sprouted a tail and horns—and not the devil-of-sin type.

“’Tis all right,” Miss Turner said, smiling gently at Cecelia. “I am sure we will get along splendidly in the meantime. Mr. Jones has to leave and we are delaying him. I will have the head housekeeper show me my quarters, and then I will meet you in the schoolroom so we can become acquainted. What do you say, Cecelia?”

Jasper’s eyes sharpened on Miss Turner. When had he told her he needed to leave?

Cecelia gave Jasper a defiant look and assured Miss Turner it was a wonderful idea before skipping from the room.

“Now if you will ring for the head housekeeper, I shall see my way out,” Miss Turner said, bending to pick up her valise.

At that moment the maid returned with a crystal glass of brandy, and damn it all if Jasper didn’t drink it. He usually made it a point not to drink until the early hours of the morning; he needed his wits about him on the hell floor. Today, being an exercise in irritation, was the exception.

“Send Mrs. Hollendale to me,” he ordered the maid, who giggled and blushed before exiting the room. He frowned into the half-empty crystal glass in his hand. “Why do you assume I am in a hurry to leave, Miss Turner?” Something about her put his senses on alert, and Jasper had learned never to ignore his instincts. They had served him well over the years.

Miss Turner was fingering a doily on a table and jumped when he spoke to her. “Please, call me Frankie. I cannot stand to be called Miss Turner.”

“Unfortunately, you will have to grin and bear it, Miss Turner, as I am not in the habit of calling the women in my employ by their given names. And you may continue addressing me as Mr. Jones.”

His lips twitched when she barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “ Mr. Jones , I assume you are eager to leave because you have glanced twice at your pocket watch and you have been edging toward the door since I arrived. I must be keeping you from something terribly important. I shall find the head housekeeper myself.”

Miss Turner—or Frankie, as she’d called herself—curtsied, rather mockingly he thought, and went to slide past him. Jasper reached out without thought, grasping her slender arm in his hand. The moment his palm made contact with her skin, the impropriety of the act struck him, but it was too late. She was as soft as satin, and for an insane moment Jasper fought not to rub his thumb over her bare arm.

“You are not going anywhere.”