Chapter Twenty-One
“You kissed her?” Simon echoed, his voice betraying a mixture of incredulity and that particular pleasure men take in scandal that is not their own.
“Don’t look so scandalised,” Neil snarled, pacing up and down. “I invited you here for your advice, not to hear my confession. Not for—” He cut himself off, aware of how suddenly defensive he sounded.
Simon pursed his lips and folded his arms. “Well, it is a little scandalous—the Duke of Burenwood conducting himself in such a fashion with his governess. I confess, I find it rather rich coming from you, who scolded me for thinking of Jenny. And yet—” He shook his head with mock solemnity, then a hint of real irritation threaded his next words.
“And let me say at once: Jenny has no wish to wed a gentleman. Don’t worry on her account. ”
Beneath the surface of Simon’s jest, there ran a thin seam of bitterness.
Neil, watching his cousin’s face, saw it: an unexpected creasing at the corners of Simon’s mouth, a shadow that hadn’t been there before.
Had Simon been nursing some private disappointment?
Had he, too, been letting himself hope for something that would never be?
Neil felt a sudden, cold shame. I have neglected him, he admitted inwardly. I have been an inattentive cousin. He stepped closer, trying to find the gentler tone that might unpick the tension. “Has something happened between you and Jenny, Simon?” he prompted, trying to sound gentle.
Simon shook his head quickly, decisively. “No. That is not the point. The point is this: you must understand, as the master of this house and as a duke, you cannot pursue a servant.”
“Maggie is not a mere servant.” Neil interrupted sharply. Simon shot him a look.
Simon’s look was level. “Perhaps not in name, but she is in your employ. That fact alone stacks the odds against her.”
“To be precise,” Neil countered, feeling oddly petty, “so are you—and yet you do not find yourself constrained from speaking plainly to me.”
Simon, sitting on the armchair with one leg crossed over the other, leaned forward.
Simon snorted. He was perched on the arm of the chair with one leg crossed over the other, the picture of casual ease that belied the tension in his jaw.
Leaning forward, he let his hands rest between his knees and spoke with the directness that made him an effective ally in estate management and in life.
“I am your cousin, Neil. We have many years of friendship behind us. Do you really think you can compare such a relationship to what Miss Winter feels for you? You cannot put her in such a position, and I believe you know that.”
Neil clenched his teeth so tightly he thought they might break.
He crossed to the tall window and stood with his palm on the sill, looking out though not yet seeing.
Below, the courtyard was a small, ordered world—paths neat as stitches, clipped box hedges, the gardener’s cart parked where it always was.
It was human life in miniature, controlled and predictable.
And there, like a sudden bright thing in the middle of an ordinary day, Maggie walked across the grass hand in hand with Emma.
Jenny hurried a few paces behind, saying something that made Maggie toss her head and laugh.
The sight struck Neil with a physical jolt.
His chest tightened as if a hand had closed round it.
An impossible, ridiculous impulse rose in him—to fling open the window and call to her, to stride down and thrust himself between the laughing governess and the nursemaid, to stake his claim in a manner neither dignified nor sensible.
He turned away from the pane before the sill of propriety could be cracked.
“I made it plain to Lady Constance that I will not marry her,” Neil said at last. “In front of everyone.”
“Yes, so I heard,” Simon responded. “Before or after you kissed Miss Winter?”
Neil’s cheeks coloured. “Watch your tone, Simon. You may be my cousin, but don’t imagine I won’t lay you flat on your backside if I must.”
Simon gave a hoot of laughter. “The Gambling Devil resurfaces!”
“That silly nickname,” Neil groused. “It haunts me.”
“Well, some names do stick,” Simon said, rising and falling into step beside him at the window.
“Listen to me. This business with you and Miss Winter is a grave mistake. There’s a serious imbalance of power—you a duke, she a governess, or a plain Miss—and besides that, she’s being pursued by one of the most dangerous men in England.
If Bramwell thinks you’re involved with her, he’ll assume you’re complicit.
He’ll use whatever means he has to get at you.
He won’t stop short of burning this house down if it serves him. ”
Neil shrugged free of his cousin’s hand. “I am not afraid of Lord Bramwell.”
“No?” Simon’s voice tightened. “You should be. We all should. He might take your aunt as leverage—or Emma even!”
A cold shiver ran through Neil. “Don’t say that.”
“I will say it, because I must,” Simon snapped.
The laughter had gone out of his eyes, and his expression was blazingly serious.
“Neil, this has gone on for long enough. We must sit Miss Winter down and discuss this matter with her in earnest. She must tell us what she has witnessed, and why she fled. Every detail she knows of Lord Bramwell must come to light.”
“I shall speak to her when I judge the time right,” Neil answered, turning away.
He had, it seemed, underestimated Simon’s resolve. His cousin stepped round him, forcing him to face him once more.
“The time is now, Neil,” Simon murmured, his eyes intent. “Do not think me blind. I know you are falling in love with Miss Winter. And if Lord Bramwell perceives it—what horrors do you suppose he would visit upon her, merely to wound you?”
Neil recoiled at that. “I… I do not love her. This is not fair, Simon. You must not speak to me so.”
There was a note of panic in his voice now, and he became aware that the sharp, tingling sensation in his chest was fear—cold, unrelenting fear.
He recalled his encounter with Lord Bramwell at Lord Pemberton’s card party—the older man’s smile, that of a wolf poised to sink its teeth into prey.
He was, he realised too late, the prey.
“The Gambling Devil cannot afford a weakness,” Simon said softly. “If you have one, your enemies will find it—and pry at it, widening the crack until you break.”
Neil turned away, his fist striking the wall before he could think better of it. The blow landed with a dull, splintering thud; cracks spread through the plaster where his knuckles had met it. He drew back his hand, examining the grazes across his skin, and flexed his fingers.
Simon did not flinch. After a long breath, he said quietly, “I will send for Miss Winter to be brought inside. We must be honest with her—explain our purpose, how we intend to bring Lord Bramwell to justice. Then we shall hear what she knows.”
Neil swallowed hard and turned toward the window. “She will think that everything I said or did was meant to draw her out—that I am a liar.”
Simon bit his lip. “Perhaps. That is a risk we must take. Once she has told us what she knows, we should see her safely away—out of England, if possible. I’ll arrange her passage, find her a pleasant little cottage somewhere quiet. She will be safe, so long as she remains abroad.”
“Out of England,” Neil echoed. It felt as though his lungs refused to fill. He longed to sit, yet pride forbade the display of weakness, even before Simon.
Down below, something stirred among the trees—a shadow gliding between trunks.
Neil’s gaze sharpened, but the movement did not return.
Likely a deer, strayed from its herd and picking its cautious way through the garden.
The gardeners would find it soon enough and nudge it back towards its companions.
If Lord Bramwell catches Maggie, her life will not be worth living. That is, if he allows her life at all.
Can I truly condemn her to such a fate, merely because I cannot bear to lose her? No. I cannot.
Sighing, Neil turned away from the window and met Simon’s eye squarely.
“Very well, cousin,” he said, his voice low, hollowed out. “We’ll do it your way. We’ll speak with her. Only—not now. Let her enjoy the day. We’ll talk once Emma is abed. After all, I imagine Miss Winter will be gone by morning.”
***
Maggie sat upon a damp stone bench, watching Jenny and Emma chase each other across the lawn. Emma squealed with delight, darting just out of reach of Jenny’s grasping hands, and both collapsed into helpless laughter.
“Did you see, Maggie? Did you see how I escaped her?” Emma cried, beaming. “You are still the chaser, Jenny!”
“Enough, Miss Emma! I am exhausted,” Jenny laughed breathlessly. “You are entirely too swift for me. I must sit and rest a moment.”
“Very well. I shall collect flowers for you both,” Emma declared grandly, before scampering off toward the distant flowerbeds.
Chuckling, Jenny crossed the grass and joined Maggie on the bench. Maggie shifted to make room, and Jenny sat with a weary sigh.
“It is thought likely that Lord and Lady Farendale will depart today,” she remarked.
Maggie glanced at her. “And Lady Constance as well?”
“Oh, certainly. I heard she spoke rather sharply to his Grace at breakfast—Crawford was scandalised. His Grace, of course, bore it with perfect composure. It must be a relief, knowing they’ll soon be gone.
We can go back to the way things were. I daresay his Grace detests being cooped up in the house for so long. ”
Maggie felt her throat tighten. She cleared it, attempting to swallow past the lump. “He is not usually in the house so much?”
“Oh, no. We often do not see him for days together. Then there are his travels—down to London, then up to Scotland, always on the move! He even goes abroad at times. We used to think that if ever he married, it would be to a lady from some foreign land. Imagine it, Maggie! A fine Italian beauty from Venice or Rome arriving to be our duchess. I think such a woman would suit him, don’t you? ”
Maggie felt faintly ill. Her thoughts had not strayed from Neil’s kiss—the warmth of it, the way his fingertips had brushed her cheek.
Did he mean it? Did he mean any of it?
It did not matter, of course. He had no notion who she truly was—not the faintest idea, for she had never told him.
“Maggie?” Jenny prompted softly. Maggie glanced at her and saw, in her friend’s perceptive gaze, that Jenny had already guessed far more than Maggie wished her to know.
Maggie swallowed. Jenny leaned forward and caught her wrist.
“There is something,” she said carefully, “that you are not telling me, my friend.”
Maggie closed her eyes. “I… I fear I have let my heart get away from me. Mrs Thornton warned me against it.”
Jenny gave a wry little smile. “She warned me too—and I did not listen either. What a pair of fools we are, falling in love with gentlemen so far above us!”
So, Jenny did know. Of course she did. Maggie had long suspected that Jenny was far cleverer than most nursemaids—sharp-eyed and keen, missing nothing. If Mrs Thornton had noticed Maggie’s glances toward Neil, Jenny surely had as well.
Suddenly, Maggie felt wretchedly foolish. Her very skin seemed to tighten, constricting her chest.
“Falling in love with a duke,” she muttered bitterly, springing to her feet and pacing. “They call him the Gambling Devil, for goodness’ sake—and I go and lose my heart to him!”
“Has something happened?” Jenny inquired, frowning.
Maggie sighed. She ought to tell Jenny about the kiss—she would tell her—but first, she must confess the truth at last: who she truly was, and what had happened in London.
It is only fair that Jenny should hear it first, she told herself. Drawing a deep breath, she began.
“My mother died when I was very young,” Maggie said cautiously, unable quite to meet Jenny’s gaze. “My father did his best, but his best was never enough. We lived well—like genteel folk—and I had an easy life. But I felt the loss of my mother every day.”
Jenny leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “I knew you had lost your mother. But you say you were genteel folk? How came you to be a governess? Is your father dead?”
“Dead? No, I think not,” Maggie replied with a thin laugh. “He has run off, I imagine—that would be the sensible thing. He was in debt, you see. He owed his soul to a monster—and that monster turned his eyes upon me.”
Jenny’s eyes widened; Maggie could almost see the gooseflesh rise on her arms.
“What on earth do you mean?” Jenny whispered.
Maggie sank down beside her again with a weary sigh.
“I have not been honest, Jenny,” she murmured. “Not about who I am, nor why I am here. And I fear my deception may have brought danger to this house. I dread that, once you know the truth, our friendship will be lost.”
Jenny reached out, taking Maggie’s hand.
“You and I are friends,” she said firmly. “We shall always be friends. Now, for goodness’ sake, tell me this terrible story before you burst.”
Maggie drew another deep breath. “Then I shall start at the beginning.”