Chapter 1
Chapter One
Where Our Heroine Becomes an Accidental Governess
A Warm Parlor in a Cold Country
Of all the salons in London, he had to walk into hers.
Although he didn’t notice her.
Which wasn’t a surprise as she wasn’t noticeable.
Francine Shaw recorded Lord Remington’s brazen entrance, recognition rolling through her like a wave off the ocean she’d crossed to get to this grit-choked city. During her time in England, almost six months now, he was the only man who had sparked her interest.
A fascination that ticked upward each time she’d seen him.
A notorious libertine who didn’t even know her name.
While Franny’s job, according to her father, was to attract a destitute nobleman, not a rake, and unite centuries of English nobility with her family’s common-yet-prosperous lineage.
Two unremarkable people in an unremarkable world.
An unremarkable marriage but a solid business venture.
Franny grimaced behind her gloved hand, recognizing the irony.
She was exactly as expected. A covetous American in want of a title.
While William Allerton, fourth or fifth Viscount Remington, she couldn’t recall without consulting Debrett’s , was exactly as expected as well.
A handsome scoundrel fighting to retain his masculine liberties while protecting a legacy he feasibly hadn’t wanted in the first place.
She’d heard the story numerous times batted about society parlors like a ball.
No one in London seemed to have the funds to maintain the burdens they’d inherited.
In America, most inherited nothing and fought for everything .
As the viscount crossed the room, Franny tucked herself tighter into the recessed alcove, her back butting the chilled windowpanes overlooking the Thames.
She peeked around the velvet drape, perfectly content to hide during this exchange.
Damn and blast , she vowed, her heart giving a hard kick.
Lord Remington looked as delectable as ever.
Stylish but not flawless. Sturdily rumpled.
Dark hair in relaxed disarray. Tall and trim, with an athletic grace few men in society could claim.
She sighed softly, giving her hands a tremulous clench.
Thankfully, the echoes of ships banging the dock and the shouts of stevedores unloading crates funneled inside her nook, hiding any sound she might make.
Interestingly enough, at least to Franny, Mrs. Hildegard Streeter, recently married to Mr. Tobias Streeter, rogue king of the Limehouse docks or so the scandal sheets claimed, occasionally chose to conduct business from her husband’s rookery warehouse.
Today that business was with Franny. In a vibrant, vile neighborhood her father would faint upon learning she’d agreed to visit.
This morning had been the most exhilarating Franny had experienced in months. Which said much about her state of boredom and her predisposition for trouble.
“You’ve got to help me,” Lord Remington said, his first words spoken, the casualness of the statement detailing a startlingly close relationship with Mrs. Streeter.
The viscount didn’t stop until he practically bumped the desk Hildy sat behind with his lean hip, casting a twisted grin her way, charm he was renowned for.
He was taller than Franny had realized, a shade too thin perhaps.
But with broad shoulders and chiseled features one didn’t easily forget.
Something apart from his physical gifts, however, captured her attention.
Lurking beneath his careless smile was serious intent.
Even, possibly, a hint of vulnerability.
Franny wasn’t the only woman enthralled. He’d been known to dance not a set, yet leave the ballroom with the most beautiful woman in attendance.
Hildy, perhaps the most stunning creature in England, calmly placed her quill beside her folio, her brow winging high.
Daughter of an earl who had married a smuggler-cum-architect for an improbable love the likes of which London had never seen, she had it all.
Had what Franny wanted . Aspirations considered silly on this side of the ocean, and the one she claimed across the way.
For once, England and America were in agreement.
Wishing to be someone’s once-in-a-lifetime anything was pointless—when marriage was a business. She’d been raised by a father who believed in nothing but business.
Love had never factored into the equation, not once.
Bringing Franny from her musing, Mrs. Streeter laughed and smoothed her hand across the desk, her elegance truly admirable when Franny recognized the defiant personality buried beneath. “Chance, you’re coming to me, oh, about a year sooner than expected. But I did expect it.”
Chance. Franny pressed her palm to her belly, her cheeks heating. Chance .
Remington choked out a groan and dropped into the chair across from Hildy.
Hooking a boot certain to be Hoby on his opposite knee, he drummed a silent tune on his thigh.
“Oh, no . No matchmaking, Hild. No Countess Society or whatever it is you’ve got going.
I need help, but not that kind.” His smile dimmed, the song on his thigh going silent. “Not yet, anyway.”
“We’re not matchmakers,” Hildy murmured.
Although in a roundabout way, they were.
She and the Duchess of Markham, Georgiana Munro, had created the Duchess Society with the thought to empower women on the cusp of marriage.
Review of marital contracts and placement in a union not solely benefitting the husband.
In the course of business, matchmaking had occurred even if Hildy and Georgie preferred to lightly conceal this fact.
Their endeavors also included investigation into prospective partners, which is why Franny was there.
Men in want of a wife often lied about their circumstances.
Franny’s father had someone he thought would make an adequate husband.
Adequate was all he was shooting for. A baron he wanted to ensure wasn’t in worse financial trouble than he'd stated.
Remington dropped his head back, his gaze crawling to the ceiling.
Franny drank him in like brandy, drawing the strong line of his stubbled jaw on her palm.
He had a crook at the top of his nose from some misadventure.
Her fingertips itched to sketch him. The pad of paper and pencil hidden away in her spencer’s pocket fairly shouted to be released.
“You’ve made quite an exceptional life for yourself, Hild.
Queen to the rogue king, the two of you ruling Limehouse.
If I hadn’t seen you together, I’d likely never believe it myself. ”
Hildy’s cheeks pinkened as they did when anyone brought up her husband, Tobias. Her love, a glow that radiated like a flame to brighten the room. “Enough flattery, Chance, out with it.”
“I’ve got a problem,” he finally said, his voice sullen. Swiping a thick strand the color of charcoal from his brow, he slid lower in the chair. “An immense one.”
Hildy rearranged a folio on her desk, patience personified. “Is it Arthur?”
Remington grunted softly and yanked again at his hair.
It was longer than current style dictated, the locks snaking around his slim fingers like a vine, dusting the edge of his collar.
He’d apparently left his hat in his carriage because Franny could see an indentation where it had recently sat on his head.
“Unbelievably, my brother has managed to remain at Cambridge for the term. I negotiated a settlement of sorts for the brawl in the Wren Library. It’s been around since the 1600s, so they’re fairly protective of the place.
As if the crumbling roof on the estate in Hampshire wasn’t enough to deal with.
“Tenants in Derbyshire are set to revolt after the way my father left things. The townhouse in Berkeley Square is not in the grandest condition, either. This title is killing me. If not for my side project, and your husband’s valued partnership, I’d be in appalling financial shape like the rest of the ton .
My dipping my toe in trade sickens them but saves me . For the moment. ”
Hildy braced her palm on the desk and rose.
Strolling to the stack of crates serving as a mock sideboard, she shot Franny a fast look and brushed her index finger across her lips— quiet .
A command Franny was exceedingly happy to follow.
“You know Toby and I are more than willing to assist if you need a loan. I’ve known you since we were children, Chance.
There aren’t many friendships I value, but yours is one of them.
My mother even said, if we traced our lines back far enough, we’d find we were cousins. ”
“Well, Cousin, my solicitors have informed me that I have a ward. A little girl. Six years old. Her father was my uncle, a distant relation three times removed or something. He left the care of her to my father, so she now falls to me along with the rest. When I’ve never even had a sister to look after.
Only one unruly brother. I’m vastly out of my element here. ”
Hildy popped the tumbler to the sideboard, thankfully cutting off the sound of Franny’s gasp. “A ward?”
“Hence my frantic need for a governess.”
Hildy lifted the glass she’d likely intended for Remington and took a stunned sip. “You have frantic need of a wife .”
Massaging the bridge of his nose, Remington closed his eyes. Franny couldn’t determine their color from this distance. And she’d never been close enough to see. “I’m begging you. Through Christmastide. A fortnight. In the new year, I’ll secure a proper arrangement.”
“You’ve pedaled through a dozen mistresses. Ask one of them. The Duchess Society does not supply governesses. Or wives, for that matter.”