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

Epilogue

M iss Ivy Bennett had been reading, along with the entirety of London, about the Dowry Thieves scandal in the newspapers all week. She folded the newspaper, the latest headline having finally pieced together what was turning out to be a stunningly audacious operation meant to silence strong women and sway the vote.

This, Ivy thought, was exactly why she’d begun her secret women’s self-defense classes. She firmly believed that every woman should know how to defend herself in a variety of situations. It was a shame that so few were taught the basic skills, and so Ivy had decided to fill in the gap.

“No one has seen him since he was at Harrow,” a maid whispered to another servant as she loaded a tray with tea. Ivy had decided to break her fast in the kitchen instead of the sitting room because it was where she heard the best gossip. Ivy had a shameless love for whisper networks and regularly read gossip rags and The Tatler. “I hear he’s grown into an awfully surly fellow. Made a fortune abroad, he did, and now he’s been called back and he innit happy about it.”

Ivy had arrived at the crumbling Brackley country estate a month ago as the newest in a string of governesses, and had been presented with eight lively girls who stumbled through poetry and made clumsy stitches, but could not throw a decent punch. They had just lost their father, although as far as Ivy could tell they’d barely noticed. Their half brother, born to the deceased viscount’s first wife, had been called back from the Continent to take up his father’s mantle. He was expected to arrive any day now, and the house was in an uproar as the servants scrubbed and polished and prepared with an eye toward pleasing the new master of the house.

“Do ye think he’ll still be handsome? Cook says he used to be a cunning lad, with chestnut hair and eyes as green as a cat’s.” Another maid, Roberta, sighed dreamily.

Cook turned from the stove and growled at them. “Best to work your hands instead of your mouths.”

The maids scurried from the kitchen, and Ivy, confident that she had heard all the juiciest bits of gossip for the morning, rolled up the newspaper, stuck it under her arm, and strolled out of the kitchen. Once in the corridor she unrolled the paper again, remembering an article she had seen on weather patterns that she thought would make an interesting lesson, when she smacked into something solid and warm. Ivy’s knees buckled, and she would have sunk to the ground had that something solid and warm—a man—not caught her inelegantly under the armpits and hauled her to her feet.

“Thank you,” Ivy said breathlessly.

“Perhaps you might extricate your head from the newspaper and watch where you are walking in the future.”

“Watch where I am walking?” she repeated in surprise, looking up at the man from whom the surly reprimand had come. He was glaring at her, his eyes an unusual emerald shade and bloodshot from either too much drink or exhaustion. His hair was richly brown and a touch too long, and his strong jawline had not been shaved in at least a week. Despite his rumpled appearance, he smelled not unpleasantly of horses and leather. “It is you who ran into me . I suggest you pay more attention. Clearly you are new here, so I will tell you that the viscount is expected tomorrow, and from what I hear he will not tolerate clumsy servants.”

The new footman, or perhaps a valet hired to wait on the viscount, arched a brow and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that so? Are you acquainted with this viscount?”

“No, he has only recently inherited the title.” Ivy tucked a strand of curly hair behind her ear and smiled up at the servant, knowing it would bring out her dimples. He may have been rude at first brush, but everyone deserved a second chance. “Do not fret; I am sure you will excel at your duties.”

“And what, pray, are your duties around here?”

“I am the governess.”

“Ah,” the man said softly. He leaned against the corridor wall as if he intended to speak with her for a while. “The eight girls. How are they?”

“This is my first month,” she said, hedging the question. Why should a valet or footman care about the educations of eight young girls?

“A month, and yet you know that a viscount you have never met does not tolerate clumsy servants?”

Ivy lifted a shoulder. “I cannot help hearing gossip.”

“What other gossip have you heard?”

Ivy was about to say more but thought better of it. She did not know this man well, and gossip, although integral to a servant’s daily life, was still frowned upon. “You shall have to listen for yourself. All I will say is that he has a reputation for being quite the grump, so take care you do not antagonize him.”

The new servant glowered down at her, a line appearing between his brows.

“Oh, I am sure he looks just like that! You must have a gift for the theater.”

At that moment the butler approached from the end of the corridor, halted in his tracks with an expression of horror, and bent into a formal bow. “Lord Brackley,” he stammered, “we were not expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I rode ahead.”

Ivy’s lips parted. Lord Brackley? She squeezed her eyes shut and wished with all her might that she were anywhere else in the world but standing beneath the half-amused and half-disgusted gaze of the new Viscount Brackley, whom she had just told was a grump to his face. When she opened them again she was, unfortunately, still standing in the corridor.

“Please see to my luggage, Evans,” Lord Brackley said.

The butler nodded and slid past. When he was behind Lord Brackley’s back he motioned with his head, a not-so-subtle message that Ivy should move along. He did not have to tell her twice.

“Excuse me, Lord Brackley,” she squeaked and began to edge by him. “I am late to my duties.”

“What is your name?”

“Ivy. I mean, Miss Ivy Bennett.” Was this the part where he dismissed her after only a month in her new position? Ivy had taken the position rather than marry the monster her father had chosen for her to wed. It would not do for her to be dismissed after two fortnights.

“Miss Bennett, perhaps you had better focus on the education of my sisters rather than idle gossip about my demeanor.”

“Yes, my lord.” Ivy snapped her heels together, saluted smartly—as she had seen her military brother do dozens of times—and turned her back on the viscount’s stunned visage before he could see the smile spreading across her face. The viscount was indeed grumpy, but Ivy had always had enough cheer to go around. The most important thing was that she lay low enough that he did not get wind of what she was teaching his sisters.

Ivy turned the corner and started to whistle a spritely tune. In truth, she was not terribly worried about the grouchy viscount halting her lessons—she had always been excellent at keeping secrets.