Governesses Under The Mistletoe: The Runaway Governess / The Governess's Secret Baby

About the Authors

LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com.

JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police callhandler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor (vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!).

ISBN: 978-1-474-08540-3

GOVERNESSES UNDER THE MISTLETOE

The Runaway Governess © 2016 Harlequin Books S.A. The Governess’s Secret Baby © 2016 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Authors

Title Page

Copyright

The Runaway Governess

Back Cover Text

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

The Governess’s Secret Baby

Back Cover Text

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

About the Publisher

The Runaway Governess

Liz Tyner

In the arms of Prince Charming...

When Isabel Morton’s desire to sing leads her from a prospective governess post to a disreputable and dangerous establishment in London, she’s rescued by dashing William Balfour. But when her savior is accused of being a party to her misfortune, it’s Isabel’s turn to save William...by becoming his bride!

Brought together by fate and now bound by a vow, it’s time for these two strangers to explore the unexpected passion of their new marriage—and find a way to live happily ever after as husband and wife!

Dedicated with gratitude to Laura McCallen who

helped me find the story I wanted to tell.

Chapter One

Isabel watched from the window as the older couple’s driver stepped on to his carriage perch and called to the horses. She’d not believed her luck when she’d spotted the man and woman waiting for their carriage to be readied. It had taken her all of a minute to find out their destination and pour out her sad tale.

She didn’t want to think of what might happen when the other coach arrived in Sussex without her. But the family could find another governess. This was her one chance. Her chance to soar.

Isabel turned to the man whose eyelids almost concealed his vision and the woman who matched him in age, but her eyes danced with life. Isabel clasped her hands at her chest and promised herself she would never again lie, except in extreme circumstances such as this. Taking a deep breath, she let the words rise from deep within herself. ‘You have saved my life.’

A barmaid, hair frazzled from the August heat, stood behind the couple. She looked up long enough to roll her eyes heavenward.

‘Miss...’ the wife patted Isabel’s glove ‘...we just could not bear that your evil uncle was selling you into marriage to a man old enough to be your father—and your betrothed a murderer as well.’

‘Thank you so much.’ She sighed. ‘If my parents were alive today...’ they were, but they’d understand and forgive her once they discovered how famous she’d be ‘...they would fall upon their knees in gratitude for your saving my life.’

The barmaid snorted and Isabel sighed with emphasis, knowing she mustn’t let the couple notice the scepticism.

‘You’re sure if you go to London with us, your family will give you a home?’ the wife questioned.

‘Oh. Yes.’ The word lengthened to twice its usual length. ‘Aunt Anna, my mother’s sister, who has no idea of the tragedy that has befallen me as my great-uncle would not allow me paper or ink, would give me refuge in a heartbeat. I have always been her favourite niece, of course. It is just that my uncle told her I was...tragically killed in a fall from a horse, trampled by hooves and had to be immediately buried because the sight was too exceptionally hideous for anyone to see as I would not have wanted to be remembered as such.’

The woman’s eyes could not have been more kind. ‘Tragic.’

‘Yes. Frightfully so.’

The man arched one brow, enough that Isabel could see the scepticism. ‘We will certainly deliver you to your aunt in London,’ he said. ‘To her doorstep.’

‘I will be in your gratitude for ever.’ Oh, good heavens. That might not end well as she had no aunt in London. ‘It is near Charles Street—Drury Lane.’ She almost shivered, just saying the words Drury Lane. Not that she was going to be an actress. Oh, no. Not something so disreputable as that. Her voice would be her fortune. Her very best friends, Joanna, Rachel and Grace, had told her time and time again at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies that she could sing better than anyone else they’d ever heard. Even the headmistress, Madame Dubois, had commented that Isabel’s singing voice was bearable. Since Madame Dubois had called Grace Bertram ‘passable,’ whom Isabel thought favoured a painting of a heavenly angel—then to have a bearable voice was the highest praise from Madame Dubois.

She’d been so lucky Mr Thomas Wren had heard of her when he attended one of the school presentations. Now he was her patron—albeit a secret patron. She would be the lead of his new musicale. She would sing her heart out. Even though her voice was not perfection itself, something about the way she sang stirred people. When she was performing, others would listen and eyes would water. Nothing made her happier than when someone gave her that rapt attention and they were brought to tears. She loved making people cry in such a way.

She gathered her satchel and linked her arm around the older woman’s. ‘My Aunt Anna will be so grateful.’

‘We must meet her and make sure she will not return you to that dreadful man.’ The woman’s voice oozed concern.

Isabel leaned forward and batted her lashes. ‘Of course. You simply must meet my aunt.’ Easily said, albeit completely impossible.

The couple’s meal was left behind, crumbs still clinging to the man’s waistcoat, and they spirited her to their carriage.

When she stepped into the vehicle, she slumped a bit, keeping the man’s frame between her and the windows of the coaching inn. It would not do for anyone from the other carriage to note her leaving before the end of the brief stop. She grasped her satchel and settled into the seat, ever so pleased to be leaving the governess part of her life behind. True, she had enjoyed the friendships of the school. But as she became closer and closer to graduation, she’d felt trapped. Mr Thomas Wren’s notice of her was indeed fortunate. Apparently another student’s father had informed him of Isabel’s voice. Mr Wren had known the rules of the school and had known to be secretive in their correspondence. He’d offered her the lead in a new production he’d planned.

She could barely concentrate on the task at hand for thinking of the good fortune of her life. This change of carriage would even make a grand tale. She could imagine recounting the tale of how she stowed away, risking all to travel with a couple she could but hope was reputable, and who transported her at great personal risk to help her achieve her life’s dream.

Isabel spoke as quickly as the wheels turned on the carriage, not wanting to give the couple a chance to think too much of the events of the day. She recounted honest tales of her youth at the governess school, leaving out the parts about the visits to her parents—and keeping as close to the facts as possible. She had already used her share of untruths for the year and it would not be good to blunder at this point.

* * *

When the carriage neared Drury Lane, Isabel kept one eye to the road, knowing she must make a quick decision.

A woman wearing a tattered shawl and with one strand of grey hanging from her knot of hair walked near an opening between two structures. Isabel saw the chance she had to take.

‘My aunt,’ she gasped, pointing. ‘It’s my aunt.’ She turned to the man across. ‘Stop the carriage.’

He raised his hand to the vehicle top, thumping.

She bolted up and tumbled out the door before the conveyance fully stopped, scurrying to the woman. ‘Aunt. Aunt,’ she called out. The woman must have had a niece somewhere because she paused, turning to look at Isabel.

Isabel scurried, then darted sideways behind a looming structure, running with all her might, turning right, then left. When she knew she was not being chased, she stopped, leaning against the side of a building. She gulped, and when her breathing righted she reflected.

She would become the best songstress in all London. She knew it. Mr Thomas Wren knew it. The future was hers. Now she just had to find it. She was lost beyond hope in the biggest city of the world.

Isabel tried to scrape the street refuse from her shoe without it being noticed what she was doing. She didn’t know how she was going to get the muck off her dress. A stranger who wore a drooping cravat was eyeing her bosom quite openly. Only the fact that she was certain she could outrun him, even in her soiled slippers, kept her from screaming.

He tipped his hat to her and ambled into a doorway across the street.

Her dress, the only one with the entire bodice made from silk, would have to be altered now. The rip in the skirt—thank you, dog who didn’t appreciate my trespassing in his gardens—was not something she could mend. She didn’t think it could be fixed. The skirt would have to be ripped from the bodice and replaced. That would not be simple.

How? How had she got herself into this? Oh, well, she decided, she would buy all new clothing when Mr Thomas Wren gave her the funds he’d promised.

Yet, she didn’t quite know where to begin in her search for him and she’d have to find him before nightfall. She would certainly ask someone as soon as she left this disreputable part of London. The dead fish head at her feet didn’t give her the encouragement she needed.

But then she looked up. Straight into a ray of sunshine illuminating a placard hanging from a building. A bird on it. She didn’t have to search. Providence had put out its golden torch and led her right to the very place she was searching for. This sign—well, the sign was a sign of her future. This was Mr Thomas Wren’s establishment. The man with the ill-mannered eyes had gone inside but still, one did sometimes have to sing for unpleasant people and one could only hope they gleaned some lesson from the song. She had quite the repertoire of songs with lessons hidden in the words and knew when to use them.

She opened the satchel, pulled out the plume, and examined it. She straightened the unfortunate new crimp in it as best she could and put the splash of blue into the little slot she’d added to her bonnet. She picked up her satchel, realising she had got a bit of the street muck on it—and began again her new life.

Begin her new life, she repeated to herself, unmoving. She looked at the paint peeling from the exterior and watched as another man came from the doorway, waistcoat buttoned at an angle. Gripping the satchel with both hands, she locked her eyes on the wayward man.

Her stomach began a song of its own and very off-key. She couldn’t turn back. She had no funds to hire a carriage. She knew no one in London but Mr Wren. And he had been so complimentary and kind to everyone at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies. Not just her. She could manage. She would have to. His compliments had not been idle, surely.

She held her head the way she planned to look over the audience when she first walked on stage and put one foot in front of the other, ignoring everything but the entrance in front of her.

As she walked through the doorway, head high, the first thing Isabel noticed was the stage. A woman was singing. Isabel concealed her shudder and hoped her ears would forgive her. She supposed she would be replacing the woman. The songstress’s bosom was obviously well padded because it would be hard for nature to be so overzealous, but perhaps it had been to make up for the error of her voice.

A man with silver hair and a gold-tipped cane sat gaping at the stage. The woman put her arms tighter to the side of her body and bent forward to emphasise her words.

Isabel turned her head. She could not believe it. She would have to have a word with Mr Wren about this, although—

Then her eyes skipped from person to person to person. It would take more than a word. Men sat around a table playing Five Card Loo, but it seemed only pence were on the table.

The men at the game could not decide whether to watch the stage or their hand. Two women obviously championed their favourites, alternately cheering and gasping at the cards. Then the game ended. Whoops erupted. A man stood, bowed to the table, and waited. The other players reached into their purses, took out coins and handed them to the women. The winner put his arm around the women’s waists and led them through a curtained hallway.

She let out a breath and all her dreams fluttered away with it.

* * *

William strode under the faded placard and stepped into Wren House, giving himself a moment to let his eyes adjust from the bright August sun to the dim light of a world only illuminated because men needed to see the cards in their hand. He’d have to go to a stable to get the scent of Wren’s out of his nostrils.

If his father knew this was where Cousin Sylvester spent every Wednesday night, things might have been different. But now Sylvester had Marvel and Ivory, the two best horses in England and the only ones whose eyes flickered regard when William neared them. The beasts would always stick out their necks for a treat when William appeared. ‘Spoiled,’ the stable master muttered each time.

William always replied, ‘And worth it.’

William surveyed the table, and spotted his cousin immediately. Sylvester mumbled a greeting and two others looked over, recognising William and giving him a grunt of their own before they returned to the cards. William jerked his head sideways, motioning for Sylvester to join him. The answer, a quick shake of Sylvester’s head, and a brief upturn of the lips, didn’t surprise William. He took a seat near the corner where he could watch the room. He didn’t want anyone at his back. A woman on stage finished singing, thankfully.

He ordered an ale and when the barmaid brought the drink, her brows lifted in question and she looked to the curtain at the back. He shook his head, smiling to soften the refusal. His fingers clasped the mug, but as he lifted it, he paused. Sticky residue lay under his touch. Jam? He gazed into the liquid, half-expecting to see something floating, but nothing looked alive in it. Then he sat the mug back on the table.

A perfect ending to a perfect day, but Marvel and Ivory were worth it.

And having a roof over one’s head did have some merit.

William’s father had visited early in the morning and had pontificated well into the day. The Viscount had picked a fine time to regain an interest in life and an excellent plan to disinherit his only son. The Viscount knew the entailment laws as well as anyone. He had to leave his property to William. But he could, however, lease his nephew the estate for the next fifty years. Upon the Viscount’s death, William would receive the proceeds of the lease. A bargain to Sylvester at one pound per year.

If his father had mentioned that once, he’d mentioned it one hundred times. And he’d had no smell of brandy on his breath.

The inheritance could be dealt with later. Marvel and Ivory were already gone from the stables.

Sylvester smirked at the cards, but William knew the smugness was directed his way. No hand could be that good.

William glanced around and, even though his eyes didn’t stop until they returned to his mug, he noted the woman sitting on a bench at the other side of the room. She sat close to the wall, her body slanted away from the group of men. The shadowed interior hid more of her than it revealed. He was certain she had a face, but she’d pulled the bonnet off-centre and it perched askew so he couldn’t see her features unless she turned his way. If not for the plume, he wouldn’t have noticed her.

In one movement to relax his frame, he twisted his chair just a bit in her direction so he could stare forward, but see her from the corner of his eye.

The barmaid sauntered by him. He waved a coin her way and asked for another drink, discarding any thought of asking for a clean mug. He didn’t imagine she would take kindly to that, particularly when he saw the crust at her fingernails.

He thought the lady at the bench was above the others in the room, particularly by the way her back didn’t leave the wall behind her and her hands gripped the satchel as if it might protect her. He wondered why she stayed.

The barmaid plunked another mug in front of him and brushed against his side before leaving.

Nothing floated in the liquid. Nothing stuck to his hand. He would take that as an omen that the ale was—he took a drink and smothered a cough. The mug’s contents could have been watered down more. He hoped his tongue hadn’t blistered. The owner apparently didn’t mind if his customers wobbled a bit and knew drink could loosen the ties of a purse.

The door opened and light dappled across the bonnet the miss on the bench wore. She turned towards the light. For an instant he could see wisps of her hair. Copper.

He took a small sip. The ale tasted better than it had before.

Copper. Just under the ghastly plume. His favourite colour of hair—now. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman with just that shade of hair. A shame the bonnet covered it.

Someone from Sylvester’s table belched and the woman with the falling plume stiffened even more and twisted away from them.

William noted the dress. Not quite the dash of colour his sisters insisted on. It reminded him of something he might see on a miss at a country fair, yet not a walking dress. Not a soirée dress either. He could see underskirts peeking from a tear in the skirt. All his muscles stilled. A woman would not be going about with such a rip in her skirts. Particularly not one sitting so straight and gloves locked on her satchel.

He stood, mug still in hand, planning to offer her his assistance. At his movement, her eyes darted to him. She took in a breath and the back of her head bumped against the wall.

He gave her a grim-lipped smile. The woman didn’t want him to approach her, obviously. Perhaps she was at Wren’s hoping to find her husband. In that case, William certainly didn’t want to draw notice her way. He sat the mug at the table and moved to stand at Sylvester’s side.

Putting a hand on the woollen shoulder of Sylvester’s coat, William leaned forward. ‘I must talk with you.’

‘Anything you have to say,’ Sylvester’s voice boomed, ‘you can say in front of my friends.’

‘I’m sure I can,’ William answered. ‘But I thought we might step out to speak of family matters.’ Sylvester had to have noticed if the Viscount was sotted when he gave the horses away.