Chapter Three
Neil stared at the closed door for a full minute after Miss Winter had gone. He found himself unsettled in a way he had not been for years. What was it about that woman that had so discomposed him?
She had been defiant, forthright, and perhaps rather more quick-tempered than a governess ought to be. She was also, in his opinion, uncommonly pretty. There was nothing wrong with a man observing the beauty of a woman, provided he kept such observations to himself.
He reached for his pen and noticed, with irritation, that his hand was shaking. How absurd.
Miss Winter was certainly not the prettiest governess he had ever employed.
Miss Swaddle—the second of the three who had come and gone in as many months—had been truly beautiful.
Golden hair, clear blue eyes, a doll’s perfect face.
Half the menservants had been in love with her, and, unless he was much mistaken, she had been making eyes at him as well.
It had made little difference. Emma had disliked her, and Mrs Thornton had soon followed suit. Miss Swaddle had left in floods of tears within a fortnight.
So I return to my original point, Neil thought grimly. Why am I so distracted by Miss Winter?
It could only be her manner—so outspoken, so unexpected. No doubt that had thrown him off balance. Perhaps, at least, her spirit would be good for Emma. The child needed confidence, and Jenny Miller was too mild to inspire it.
Neil bent again over his correspondence, determined to focus, but concentration would not come.
His pen hovered so long that a fat blot of ink fell and ruined the sheet.
With a muttered oath, he set the pen aside, crossed the room, and poured himself a measure of brandy.
It was far too early in the day for brandy, but he felt shaken.
What was it she said? That she knows how a child feels, bereft of a mother’s love.
He tightened his grip on the glass.
She believes that I am a bad guardian.
There was no reply to make, even in his own thoughts. It was not a new accusation; he had seen the same quiet judgment in the eyes of several governesses—and a few so-called friends. They thought him wrong to keep Emma far from London.
“How will she marry, when the time comes?” somebody had said once.
“She is seven,” Neil had replied, tartly enough to silence further questions.
He took a long swallow of brandy and set the matter aside.
Miss Winter, sharp as she was, knew nothing of his life, nor of the choices he had made.
He had no intention of explaining himself.
She need never know why he frequented the gaming tables, nor why Emma must be kept away from Town.
There were men—and women—in London who would stoop to anything, even to using a child as leverage.
A sudden drumming of hooves sounded on the drive. Neil turned to the window and saw a lanky young man riding towards the house as if hellhounds were at his heels.
Sighing, Neil turned back to the decanter and poured another glass. A moment later came hurried footsteps in the passage, a murmur from Crawford—and then the door burst open.
“He won’t be upset, Crawford!” the man shouted over his shoulder. “He’ll want to see me, I promise!”
“Don’t be too sure, Simon,” Neil said dryly, holding out the brandy. “You only ride like a madman when you bring bad news. Out with it.”
Simon grinned, shedding his jacket and tossing it carelessly onto a chair.
“Your butler does not like me bursting in,” he remarked, taking the brandy and downing it in one gulp.”
“Nor do I. You take too many liberties for a steward, my friend.”
Simon’s grin widened. “Ah, but not for a cousin.” He dropped into an armchair, stretching his long legs over the side.
As tall as Neil but far slighter, Simon had earned the name Beanpole at Eton.
His nose was hooked, his brown curls rebellious, his face pleasant and clever.
He was said to have a better head for figures—and a far better temper—than his cousin.
“Where’s the new governess?” Simon asked. “Arrived yet?”
“She has. I have just concluded our interview.”
Simon groaned. “I told you to wait.”
“And why should I require your presence to engage a governess?”
Simon leaned forward, bracing one bony elbow on his knee.
“You’ll wish you’d waited when you hear what I have to say. Victor is on the move again. He’s in a state.”
Neil stilled. “I thought Lord Bramwell had every intention of sitting quiet while we kept him under watch. Our men said he’d been as good as gold of late. I was beginning to believe we would never gather enough evidence to convict him.”
Simon gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes. And to convict a member of the Parliament, one needs a mountain of proof. The man’s a murderer several times over, but no one has ever seen him misstep.”
“But you say you have new information?”
“Of a kind. You see, our Lord Bramwell has his mind set on love.”
“On what?”
“To marriage. You must have heard the talk. No formal notice yet, but—”
“Oh, yes,” Neil said grimly. “He was pursuing someone. A Miss Camden, was it not? I imagine she was well dowered. Lord Bramwell would never marry for love.”
“Ah, that’s the thing. Miss Camden was poor as a church mouse. Her father owed Bramwell a ruinous sum, and everyone thought the marriage would clear it.”
Neil nodded. Nothing from Lord Bramwell could surprise him.
They had scarcely scratched the surface of his offences, yet what was known already was various and appalling: murder, of course; extortion, blackmail, and bribery; violence and frauds of every description.
The man was vile through and through. In his rages, he beat his servants, and pretty housemaids were sent weeping from his doors in the small hours—enceinte and no prospects.
Much like a swan—hard flurry beneath the water, all grace above—Bramwell showed Society none of this ugliness.
He was accounted a man of scandal (servants will talk), yet remained welcome enough: rich, well-born, and a Member of Parliament.
It was no wonder to Neil that such a man had found a bride.
“Well, the wedding’s off,” Simon said with satisfaction.
“I cannot blame her. She came to her senses?”
“No, she ran. The girl vanished without trace. Bramwell is making the most determined enquiries—and he is looking for a governess.”
Neil stopped pacing. “A what?”
“A governess.” Simon reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet. “He’s sent this round through his network. All London is looking for her.”
Neil unfolded it. “And she has not been found—which suggests she has left London. A sensible girl. Where is her father?”
“No idea. But if she was willing to marry Bramwell to save him, what changed her mind?”
“Better question,” Simon said dryly, “why hasn’t he changed his? Bramwell is not short of prospects. Why so intent on one simple governess? Take a look at the sketch—she’s pretty enough, but no Society beauty. There’s more in this, Neil, you mark my words.”
Neil said nothing because he was staring down at the paper; jaw agape. The paper was dominated by a sketch of a young woman, staring angrily out, and a few lines of description were written below.
She was, unquestionably, the very same woman who had left his study only moments before.
“This—” Neil managed, waving the paper at Simon, “—is Miss Winter. The woman I have just hired as Emma’s governess.”
Simon let out a low whistle. “I feared as much. Governesses flee London all the time, but this coincidence seemed too neat.”
Neil leaned against his desk, staring down at the sketch. Even rendered in ink, those eyes stared back at him defiantly.
What made you run, Miss Winter? What did you see?
“Who is her father?” he heard himself ask quietly.
“Thomas Camden. A cloth merchant, by trade—and a fool. He owes Bramwell ten thousand pounds.”
Neil gave a low whistle. “Plus interest.”
“Naturally. He could never pay it, so he offered his daughter in lieu. To everyone’s astonishment, Bramwell accepted.”
“And did she accept?”
Simon frowned. “I do not recall anyone saying. I assumed she had.”
“Assume nothing,” Neil said sharply. “From what I have seen of this woman, she would never allow herself to be bartered so. Still, it matters little. What matters is that Bramwell believes he has a claim upon her—and means to find her.”
“He’s offering gold for information,” Simon warned. “And gold loosens tongues. You must send her away.”
Neil’s head came up. “Send her away?”
“Yes. Otherwise Bramwell will trace her here.”
Neil paced the room, rolling the paper into a tight cylinder and tapping it against his palm.
“If I send her away, and he follows her trail, he’ll come here regardless,” he said at last. “Besides—she must know something about him. There’s a reason she fled. Why not simply refuse him?”
“Perhaps she feared he would turn his wrath upon her father.”
“And running away would not do that? No. It takes courage—desperation, even—for a young woman, alone and penniless, to flee her home. There is more to this.”
Simon pursed his lips. “She did not strike you as na?ve?”
Neil allowed himself a faint smile. “Not particularly.”
“Then she knows her own mind. All the same, I’d send her away. Think on it.”
Neil turned back to the window. He realised he was still holding his half-full glass of brandy and set it down. Simon immediately claimed the decanter.
“You don’t mind if I have another, do you, old boy?”
“Would it make any difference if I said no?”
“None whatever,” Simon said cheerfully, pouring himself a generous measure. “It’s too late now, but I should like to meet this Miss Winter—Miss Camden, I should say. What was she like?”
“Intelligent. Outspoken. Rather insolent, truth be told.”
“I like her already,” Simon laughed, settling back. “What does Mrs Thornton make of her?”
“She has not said. Though she took her straight to meet Emma—that seems a favourable sign. She never allowed Miss Swaddle that privilege so soon.”
And what if Emma loves her? Neil thought suddenly. She seems the sort a child might attach herself to. How could I send her away if she is exactly what Emma needs?
It was a sobering question.
“What did Jenny think of her?” Simon asked casually.
“I did not ask.”
“Ahem. You should. Jenny has a knack for people. Everyone in the village says so. Clever little creature, that Jenny—very clever indeed.”
“Indeed,” Neil murmured absently. His mind was elsewhere.
He had no doubt that love had nothing to do with Bramwell’s pursuit. There was something else—something darker—and Neil meant to uncover it. Miss Winter might hold the key, though she would not reveal it willingly. Not yet.
Could I win her trust? he wondered. Unlikely.
Charm was Simon’s domain, not his. Neil was too severe, too blunt; people found him unapproachable. How unlike his sister he was—Catherine, the kindest soul that ever lived.
At the thought of her, his chest tightened painfully.
“If Cat were here,” he murmured, “she’d have Miss Winter charmed in a heartbeat.”
A long silence followed. Then came the creak of the armchair, and Simon’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
“I know you want Bramwell brought to justice,” he said quietly, “but you’re not the only one pursuing him. I fear this quest is consuming you, Neil. Vengeance won’t bring Catherine back. Meanwhile, her daughter lives under your roof, longing for your notice. Emma—”
“Emma will be best served to know her mother was avenged,” Neil said sharply, turning away. “That will do, Simon. You know what to do.”
Simon sighed. “I’ll make further enquiries—see what more can be learned.”
“Good. That’s what we need—information. As for Miss Winter, she stays. For now.”