The Runaway Governess

‘Not that we’d let wed you,’ one of the men answered. The rest laughed.

‘I will have Marvel and Ivory back.’ William released his cousin’s shoulder.

‘Well, I’m going to wager the horses if I run out of funds. Of course, with the way my luck is going tonight, I’ll own everyone’s livestock before I leave.’

‘I’ll buy them from whomever you lose them to.’ William leaned forward and briefly met eyes with the others at the table. ‘If any of you men win those horses from Sylvester, I’ll buy them from you at double what you’d get at Tattersalls.’

The others grinned, chuckling.

‘That’s why Uncle is concerned about you, William.’ Sylvester pulled out a card, waved it for others to see the back of and then dropped it on to the table with a flourish. ‘You’re planning to buy a pair of old horses not worth a pence when you might be able to win them with a single game of chance. Yet, you gambled away a carriage once. You’ve even lost your own boots and then threw in the stockings. It’s all a game to you, but you don’t care if you win or lose.’ He raked in the coins. ‘I play to win.’

‘I enjoy the sport,’ William said. He’d had enough of the night.

Turning to leave, he made it as far as the door before looking back at that feathery trimming. His youngest sister had once pulled such an adornment from his middle sister’s bonnet and the roof had barely stayed on the house in the aftermath.

He retraced his steps to the sticky mug. He sat, staring straight ahead. The joy of being called a wastrel by one’s father meant William could sit all night watching a plume on a bonnet. He tried to imagine the bird that lost the feather, but he could only see a caricature of a bird prancing, preening, and sprouting a blast of unnatural feathers from its head, while wobbling under the weight.

He needed to stop with the ale.

The singer returned to the stage and opened her mouth. He would not call it singing, exactly, but if one didn’t care much about quality of voice, then it could pass the time. He swatted at a fly that landed on the edge of the mug. Just because he didn’t want the drink didn’t mean he intended to share.

The woman with the tear in her dress adjusted the bag in her lap. The singer hit a high note, or had her foot mashed by a carriage. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could do the same for his ears. As the note ended, he opened his eyes while pulling the cleaner mug to his lips. His hand stopped when he caught Miss Plume watching him.

She looked away and his hand moved again. He finished the drink, not tasting it. He would wait until her husband arrived to take her home. If the husband walked in with some woman hanging on him, William would make sure to give the man a reminder of propriety. A man didn’t embarrass his wife so. To let her wait alone in a place like Wren’s was unforgiveable.

William looked directly at her, not able to see through the glove on her left hand, or into her mind to see what memories resided there.

He eased back in the chair. He wasn’t leaving until she did.

* * *

Isabel knew the man who wanted his horses was aware of her. But he was hoping to get his stock returned and he wanted them fed properly. The other men even seemed more decent after he’d spoken with them. When she’d noted him walking to the door, leaving, fear tremored in her midsection and she’d had an urge to follow, not wanting to remain without his presence. But he’d paused and returned to his chair. He must want to be certain he received those horses.

She peered around her bonnet brim, searching for Wren.

Mr Wren should be about. Earlier she’d asked that barmaid and the woman had glared and mumbled that he’d be in when he walked in. Wren had told Isabel he would meet her. He’d said he spent each day working, except when he attended Sunday Services. She no longer believed that, unless he attended with her aunt.

The one, William they’d called him—his face had pinched when the singer got stuck on that dreadful note. Apparently he could hear quite well. And when he’d opened his eyes and caught her examining his expression, he’d looked startled.

He was rather ordinary except for those legs that didn’t want to fit under the table, but yet, he made her feel safer.

Then the barmaid approached and brought him another mug. He’d not requested it, but he took it. The woman brushed a lock of his hair over his ear, which hadn’t needed touching, but Isabel couldn’t blame the woman. That hair did make a person curious about what it felt like.

The woman whispered something to him. He laughed, changing everything in his face, and creating the same thump in Isabel’s heart that she felt when the music was perfect. His smile could carry its own tune.

He saw Isabel watching. He gave a flicker of a smile and shrugged his shoulders.

She ducked her head, pleased not to feel so alone.

The barmaid was a tart, but Isabel couldn’t blame her for noticing him. He was the only man in the place who didn’t make her feel like bathing.

The door opened and she saw the familiar checked waistcoat of Mr Thomas Wren, his eyebrows as light as the gold buttons on his coat. She wasn’t as impressed with the fastenings as she’d been before.

* * *

He made his way to her bench, his grin almost suffocating her. She scooted away, gently wedging the soiled side of her satchel in his direction as she put it between them. Half her bottom was already off the bench, but she could not let Mr Thomas Wren’s breath closer. Apparently he’d had something to do with the fish she’d seen in the street.

She forced a positive lilt to her voice. ‘Mr Wren, I do believe you forgot to tell me something in your letters.’

‘No.’ His eyes widened. ‘I can’t think I did.’ He put an arm at the back of the bench. He could not possibly have eight hairy fingers on one hand, but that’s what it felt like when his knuckles brushed at the top of her glove. ‘You really do sing quite well, Miss Morton, and I am happy to have you on my stage.’

‘You mentioned a suitable chaperon.’

‘Why, yes, I believe I did. And if you look around, you’ll notice there are plenty of women here to...’

She lowered her chin, but raised her brows at him. He didn’t appear chagrined at all. Instead, he grinned while his eyes devoured her.

The air in the room boiled into her and she could hardly force the words past the sweltering heat. ‘I fear that on the way here,’ she spoke, ‘I realised that I cannot forgo my duties as a governess. I will not be able to accept the position.’

She didn’t know how she’d manage or what she’d do. She had hardly enough coins in her satchel to buy bread. She could only hope for another married couple to notice her and this time she would tell the truth. Some of it. She hoped she had not totally used her portion of lies for the year.

‘Oh, my.’ Wren’s words mocked themselves. ‘I seem to recall in your correspondence a distinct aversion to those duties and a sincere wish to follow your true talent. And you are quite talented, Miss...Morton.’

‘I can’t. I wouldn’t be—’

He leaned forward, his voice covering her with fumes of the summer heat. ‘I am saddened. But I admit, I considered the possibility you would not wish to continue in our bargain.’ He stood, his tongue clucking as if he’d caught her doing something terribly wrong. He whisked one hand to the bottom of the satchel and the other over hers on the grip. Involuntarily, she jerked her hands from his touch.

Brows lifted, he turned, striding away. ‘Come with me to my office and I will see what we must do now.’

‘We can discuss it here.’ She stood, running a hand down the side of her skirt, hoping to pull that rend together just a little more.

He paused, turning back. ‘Will you be needing funds to return to your home?’ His voice faded so low that she read the words on his lips more than heard them.

He hadn’t given her money for the trip to London, saying he’d once done so and the woman he’d hired never arrived.

She couldn’t answer.

‘Then come with me,’ he continued. ‘We can discuss it in my office. The funds are in my safe.’ He looked to the window. ‘The hour is getting late. I hate to think of you alone on the streets, in darkness and finding your way. It’s not safe at night for a woman out and about. Just last month, one of the women, Molly, went out. They found her the next morning, bruises on her neck. Blood on her hands. Buried her in a pauper’s grave.’

Before she answered, he was at the curtain, her satchel clasped in his hand.

She stood, glancing around, hoping no one would see her follow. She would be ruined. If she wasn’t already. But it was better to be ruined than buried in some lost grave. She didn’t quite think Mr Wren would be rushing to see that a proper burial would take place.

She watched his retreating coat. She would never again complain about being a governess.

He had the only funds she had—hidden in the bag. An unmarked grave would not quite fulfil her dreams. She followed, planning to grab the satchel as soon as he released it and run.

Stepping through the curtain and into a cramped office, relief brightened her spirit. A copy of a Mrs Radcliffe novel lay on his desk. Surely a man who liked to read had some refinement.

* * *

‘Please sit.’ He indicated a chair, one rung missing from the back. She did, noting he sat the satchel down at his right side, his body between her and the bag. He still stood. He turned.

‘I don’t believe you realise what position you put me in.’ He shook his head while picking up the novel. ‘We can’t have that.’

‘I just—’ She moved to rise, the fish smell wafting over her.

He crashed the novel to the wall. Before she could believe what her eyes told her had just happened, his hand clamped on her shoulder. The surprise and force thrust her on to the wooden chair seat.

‘I—’

‘You wish to hear me out.’ She could feel all of the fingers again. This time they pressed. Pinched. His hand slid, not releasing, until his thumbnail rested in the soft skin at the base of her jaw. He took a step, moving his body forward, still beside her, her head held back by his thumb. Her backbone firm against the chair, him above forcing her neck back. He untied her bonnet strings and pushed it to the floor.

Her mouth dried. She could breathe—just. Her hands clasped his wrist, pushing. But she could not move him.

‘Sweet, you have to understand, I looked for a long time to find just the right woman. Just the right blend of woman. Taller than most so she stood out. A haunting voice that could also trill in happiness. A look of freshness. Eyes that made a man think he could see her wanting him. Lips that he could imagine on his body.’

‘No,’ she gasped.

‘Do not interrupt.’ He put his other hand over her mouth and leaned closer. She shuddered. All of his bulk loomed over her, his cheeks ruddy. ‘You understand that even the other women would increase their coin by satisfying your cast-offs. You would even be a boon to them.’ He paused. ‘Feel free to nod.’

He took his hand from her throat, but not her mouth. One of his legs pressed against hers.

‘Nod.’ His eyes glistened with an intensity that covered her like the coil of a serpent’s skin against hers.

She didn’t move. Her lower face was in his vice-like grasp. She could feel the pressure of his thumb. The tightness. But no pain. Nothing hurt. Nothing. Except she could not breathe.

His clothes rustled and he moved so that she could see nothing but his face.

‘You understand, I have to have you. I have no choice. No choice. I’ve spent too much time finding you and waiting on you.’ He reached to his waistcoat and a thin sliver of steel flashed in front of her. The blade pressed at her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’

She did—the barest amount.

‘You understand there are rules one must observe to work here. You will learn them in time.’ The knife moved, tracing the circle of her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’ He moved her head up and down with his hand. ‘Get used to that.’

She remembered how easy it had been to convince the couple of a lie. She nodded, moving her hand from his wrist. He trailed the blade in the same way of an artist’s pen making swirls on a page. He slipped the tip to her shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about me hurting your face, permanently. But a man might be aroused by a gentle scar trailing away under clothing.’ The blade caught her sleeve, but rested at skin, pressing. Testing. Drooling, he stared at the blade. ‘He might wonder where a scar led. Where it ended.’

The blade pressed harder, and the sleeve pulled, fabric falling away—no barrier to the steel. Pressure flared at her arm.

Spit pooled at the edge of his lips. ‘Scars, in their way, can be beauty marks.’

* * *

William glanced across at his cousin. Sylvester scratched his earlobe, stared at the cards, and grumbled.

Something had thumped in the back, but none of the others’ attentions wavered from the cards.

Miss Plume was beyond the curtain with Wren. William tapped the side of his mug and pushed his chair back, standing. With the woman on the way to finding whatever she looked for, he had no wish to continue enjoying the smell of worn boots.

He stared at the curtain, unable to move, imagining the look on the woman’s face as she’d left the room. Wren had swooped up the bag and darted to the back. Miss Plume had hesitated before moving.

He shrugged, noting the worn threads where so many had touched the curtain before him, but striding towards it.

He walked through and saw several doors. This would not be the time to open the wrong one.

Ignoring his misgivings, he pressed a hand to the first door and pushed it.

Wren stood over a woman, a blade at the woman’s arm. Instantly, it moved to her throat. In seconds Wren could slice and nothing would be able to erase the moment, ever.

William’s breath left his body. His mind took a moment to adjust to the sight his eyes tried to make sense of. The woman was one movement from death. Wren’s face had the look of a rabid animal, all thoughts absorbed by the sickness. No way to understand reason.

William could not move forward to rescue the woman because Wren could act on impulse. The knife pressed against the slender neck. Wren could kill in the moments it would take William to close the distance. A jolt against Wren’s arm would press the blade into skin. She would be dead and nothing could ever change those seconds.

Chapter Two

Wren increased the pressure of the blade. Isabel’s pulse thumped against the tip.

‘My pardon,’ the man at the door spoke. ‘I didn’t realise this was a private conversation.’ Nothing flickered on his face. He didn’t even seem to see her.

‘Get the hell out,’ Wren rasped.

Isabel swallowed. Could the man not understand there was a blade at her neck?

‘I certainly will,’ the man at the door spoke. He leaned back a bit, turning his head.

His hand tightened on the door and he was going to leave, letting Wren do as he wished. She could tell. The stranger had not once looked at her eyes.

‘But, I was thinking of making an investment.’ Soft words from the man at the door. His body stilled before turning in her direction.

Finally, he noticed Isabel. His brows lifted and he wet his lips. He appraised her in the same way a butcher might decide which chicken was to be the first to the block. A nausea filled her.

‘I would like to invest, Wren.’ He chuckled. ‘And all it would take would be a bit of pleasure to convince me.’

‘I need no investors.’ The knife didn’t lessen. ‘I own everything under this roof. Everything.’

‘True enough,’ the man spoke. His eyes were again on Wren. ‘I hear nothing but good about this establishment. Nothing. And an investor like myself feels a bit left out.’ His gaze locked on Wren’s face. ‘I have a good bit of coin. A good bit, and I certainly can find better ways to spend it than on gaming.’

The pressure at Isabel’s throat lessened.

‘A man cannot have too much coin,’ Wren said. ‘But he can have too many women about.’ At those words, the knife jabbed forward, tapping Isabel’s neck like a pointed fingernail with a razor at the end.

The stranger’s eyes widened and he caught his breath, speaking as he exhaled. ‘Don’t damage the goods, Wren.’ His voice strengthened. ‘Wouldn’t want to hurt an investment.’

Wren took the knife from Isabel’s neck, looking at it as if he’d forgotten he had it in his hand.

In that moment, the man threw his body in front of Isabel, knocking her backwards with a crash.

For less than a second she could only see the ceiling. She pushed herself up, scrambling to her feet. Wren’s back was on the desk and the stranger’s right fist plunged into Wren’s face.

Wren rolled, falling from the desk, kicking the man’s ribs when he moved forward. But the stranger only turned with the blow. He continued forward, driving on to Wren, using his body as a battering ram. His left hand gripped Wren’s neck and he rose, just enough for leverage, keeping Wren pinned to the floor.

The stranger’s fist rose and hammered Wren’s face, pummelling a groan from him.

She could not bear it. ‘No,’ she shouted, the words more a scream than a command. ‘Stop. No. I beg you, please stop.’ The words could have carried to the top of the Tower.

She shuddered, her voice now pleaded. ‘Please stop.’

The stranger looked at her. His eyes held no recognition of the moment, but his fist stilled on the upswing. Nothing from inside him acknowledged her words, but he stopped pummelling. Again his arm moved up, ready for a downswing.

‘No...’ The word pulled her last thread of strength.

* * *

William stopped, pulling the world around him back into focus. The woman’s body trembled in a circular motion. Another second and she would topple. Dazed eyes locked on him, but he didn’t think she truly saw anything.

William lunged upwards and scooped the knife from the floor so Wren couldn’t grab it. He had to get the woman away from the place. Neither she nor his family would be helped by tales of these events.

In one stride, William had a hand at her shoulder. ‘Miss?’ He tightened his clasp.

She blinked, but didn’t speak and her glance fell to his hand.

‘Miss?’ he repeated. ‘Where do you live?’

He released her shoulder and took her chin in his gasp, pulling her gaze to his. His heart slammed against his ribs with a stronger punch than any Wren had managed.

Seizing her around the waist, he lifted her to the door. Stopping outside, he let her feet flutter to the floor. She kept moving downwards and he pulled her up, tight against him. Her colourless face wasn’t far from his own, yet she offered no resistance.

He had a knife in one hand and a woman in the other. The door still open, he led her to the taproom, trying to keep her on the side opposite the patrons.

Everyone in Wren’s looked towards the curtain when he strode through. They’d heard the commotion apparently, but hadn’t moved. Sylvester’s cards fluttered to the table.

A customer entered at the door. Light filtered on to the woman’s hair, showing the unusual colour to all in the room. The stranger stared at William, unmoving. Uncertainty stilled him as if he couldn’t decide whether to enter or run for safety.

Sylvester’s voice jarred the moments, reminding William of the others. ‘Cousin—you must introduce us to your friend.’

‘Yes, I must.’ William tramped forward. ‘Just not today.’

He glared at the man at the door, gesturing him aside—and then Will realised he gestured with the knife. He dropped the weapon and the man jumped backwards, pulling the door with him. William stopped the swing with his boot. The man darted away.

Sprinting the woman into the fading sunlight, William moved towards his carriage. He shouted to the driver, ‘Just go. Keep us moving.’ The driver stared, then his posture straightened and his chin snapped up in agreement.

Once inside the vehicle, William reached across her to lower the shade on her side. She gasped and the sound slashed into him. She pressed against her side of the carriage.

With the same control he’d used when he spoke to Wren, he turned to her.

He opened his mouth to ask her where she lived, but closed it again. He could not deliver such a bedraggled miss anywhere. She’d been so prim on the bench. And her dress had been ripped even then.

‘You must stop shaking.’ He spoke in the tone that could soothe two sisters trying to strangle each other over an apricot tart.

One at a time, he reached for her hands, holding tight to one when she tried to pull away, but freeing the other. He couldn’t have her darting from the door of a moving carriage.

He stared at the slice on his own knuckles and then remembered her arm. If it had meant losing the horses to put himself in Wren’s while she was there, then he would thank Sylvester—at least silently.

He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. Even in the darkening light, he saw the moisture, but the wound on her arm only trickled blood.

He pressed and waited, making sure it wasn’t serious. ‘Just relax,’ he spoke in the apricot-tart tone, ‘you’ll be all better in a minute.’ If it would have been his sister, he would have started singing a nursery song, because it always worked, even if they complained about the nonsense.

‘You’re hurt,’ she said.

Relief flooded him. She was aware of something other than the fright.

‘I’m fine.’ He daubed at the dried blood on her shoulder. ‘My horses give me worse bruises and we call it fun.’

She looked at the handkerchief and then her shoulder. ‘Oh,’ she squeaked, not in pain, but surprise.

‘Yes.’ He pressed the cloth at her injury again, not really needing to. ‘But it will mend quickly. I’m sure you’ve had worse.’

She reached up to relieve him of the cloth and for a moment their fingers tangled, then their eyes met, and she breathed in and pulled away.

He hated to move, but he did. He would ask her the location to deliver her and he would see that she arrived safely. Even if it was some distance away, he could direct the coachman easily enough. But his question changed before he spoke.

‘Why were you in Wren’s?’ he asked.

She gazed at him. ‘I was seeking work there.’

He’d been so wrong. His voice strengthened and the first words he thought flew from his mouth. ‘In a brothel?’

Life returned to her eyes. ‘You insult me.’ She straightened. ‘Do I look like someone who would—?’ Her eyes opened wide. She cried out, using both hands to pull the dress over her bare shoulder, then adjusting her grasp, pulling the rip in her skirts closed. ‘Do I look like a...fallen woman?’

‘Not... No. No. Not at all.’ She looked well past fallen, but he had learned as a youth that a pre-emptive reassurance was easier than stopping tears.

‘I must go back,’ she said. ‘You must take me back to that terrible, forsaken place.’ Her eyes widened. Pleading. ‘I need your help.’

‘No. You are not going back.’

‘You don’t understand. I left my satchel. All I have in the world. A dress. My funds.’ She held the handkerchief at her shoulder while reaching to clasp his wrist. Her eyes searched his face and then she sighed, and relaxed.

Letting her hold him, he extended an arm around her shoulders, barely touching, but close enough that he could free her hand of the fabric and hold it in place for her.

‘Is it a great sum of money?’ he asked. She certainly shouldn’t have been in Wren’s if she had funds.

Her voice barely reached him and her head tilted so he couldn’t see her expression. ‘It’s not truly all I have in the world,’ she said. ‘It is not truly all I have. It is just the rest of my things are on the way to Sussex.’

‘How much did you leave in Wren’s?’ he pressed.

‘My songs. A dress. A fan which had paste jewels on one edge. Hair ribbons. Enough to buy a bowl of soup.’ She made a fist. ‘I cannot believe I left the fan. The fan was a gift from three dear friends, but I’m sure they would understand if I sold it to buy food.’