My Lady Governess (Zebra Regency Romance) (13 page)

It just does not make sense
, he told himself for the thousandth time. Here was a loving, caring woman whose pronounced political views and intellectual interests so precisely paralleled his own it was uncanny. There had to be some factor he was not fitting into this equation.

That shared moment outside his daughter’s room had been a revelation for the Marquis of Trenville. Whatever it was, Elinor—his Elinor—was essentially innocent. And he would use every means in his power to protect her.

 

 

Adrian was still mulling the situation over the next morning when Miss Palmer asked for a private interview with her employer.

“Yes, Miss Palmer?” He gestured for her to take a seat then leaned against his desk, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his legs crossed casually at the ankles. She remained standing.

“I regret to say that I have come to tender my resignation,” she said in a formal, businesslike tone.

“Your
what?
” She had caught him completely off guard.

“My resignation. I—I find family obligations making certain demands on me.”

“What sort of ‘family obligations,’ may I ask?” His tone was suspicious.

“An aged aunt of my father’s is in serious need of a companion to aid her and I am the only one available.” She twisted her hands together in front of her and refused to meet his gaze.

“I see.” He stalled, knowing full well she was lying. Had he not monitored every bit of correspondence entering or leaving this house? Wait. Perhaps her visit the other day had been to a relative. “And just when did you learn of this obligation?”

“Only recently, my lord.” She looked up him, her expression unreadable. “I shall, of course, stay on until you can find a replacement.”

“How very generous of you. Tell me, Miss Palmer,” he said biting out the name sarcastically, “have you no sense of obligation to
my
family? To children who have grown fond of you?”
To an employer who loves you
, he added silently and angrily to himself.

“Indeed I have.” She seemed taken aback by his vehemence. “This decision has not been easy for me. I am extremely fond of the children and I shall miss them fiercely.”

“But not enough to reconsider your apparently hasty decision to leave.” He straightened, took a step toward her, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Now—look me in the eye and tell me you truly want to leave.”

She twisted away from him, refusing again to meet his intense gaze. She drew a ragged breath. “It is not a matter of ‘want.’ Please believe me when I tell you this is in your best interest, my lord.”

“In
my
best interest? Allow me to doubt that most sincerely.” Fueled by her turning away from him, his anger was barely in check now. “I would have an explanation for that very singular idea.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot give you one.”

“
Can
not? or
will
not?”

“Please. Just take my word for it. And, please, Adrian . . .” There was a distinct catch in her voice. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

He was profoundly moved by her obvious distress. His anger melted into concern.

“Elinor,” he said gently, “I am sure there is more to this than an aged aunt. She must have existed before you took this position. If you are in some kind of trouble, perhaps I can help.”

“No!” Then her voice softened. “I mean—no, there is no trouble. I simply must leave, though.”

He lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Have it your way, then. I shall advertise the position immediately. I have your word you will stay until we find a replacement?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

Yes,
good, he thought as she left the room.
That at least gives me some time to try to solve this dilemma
. He turned the conversation over and over in his mind. He dismissed that business about an aunt.

She was resigning because it was in his best interest, was she? Did that mean she regretted her spying activities? She must think they would reflect on him. And
that
could only mean she cared for him. This thought came as a delightful discovery.

Are you so sure of that? What about this “Peter?
” Well, whoever he was, Peter could damn well look out for himself. Adrian Whitson, Marquis of Trenville, had no intention of allowing this woman to walk out of his life without a fight. At the very least, he would know the full story.

The next day brought answers to some of Adrian’s questions. When he returned in mid-morning from a ride in the park, he found a highly agitated Graham anxious to speak with him.

“The widow Garrison has a sister living with her.” Graham paused for dramatic effect. “The sister is one Harriet E. Palmer.”

Adrian’s heart sank. Despite clear evidence of altered documents and testimony from the Spensers, he had hoped against hope for some reasonable explanation of
his
Miss Palmer’s identity.

“Did you speak with either woman?”

“No, sir. Didn’t know as yuh’d want me tippin’ your hand in that regard.”

“Quite right. The element of surprise may help when I visit this Miss Palmer who is, I assume, the genuine article.”

That very afternoon he presented himself at lodgings let to Mrs. Garrison.

“Lord Trenville to see Miss Harriet Palmer,” he announced to the manservant who responded to his knock. He heard clearly the man’s repeating his announcement and a muffled yelp before a cultured female voice said, “Please show him in.”

“Miss Palmer?” he asked, for there were two women in the room.

“Yes.” It was apparently the older of two elderly women who responded. “This is my sister, Mrs. Garrison.” She invited him to have a seat.

“Miss Harriet E. Palmer?”

“Yes. I am she.”

He noted that she offered no further information, nor did she ask his business.
Not going to make this easy for me
,
are you?
he thought. Aloud, he said, “You were once employed by Sir Cecil Spenser, were you not?”

“Yes, I was.”

Did she sound somewhat reluctant in admitting this? He decided to be blunt. “Just who is the woman who used your credentials to gain a position as governess to my children?”

“I beg your pardon?” Miss Palmer’s voice was startled, but he thought he could fairly hear the wheels turning in her mind. Mrs. Garrison gave a strangled little cry.

“Miss Palmer,” he said firmly, “let us not play cat-and-mouse games here. Who is the woman in charge of my children? She was followed to this address only a few days ago.”

“I am truly sorry, my lord, but I am not at liberty to say.” She did sound sorry, he thought, but he also noted there was no denial.

“Apparently, madam, you do not fully appreciate the gravity of the situation. You have allowed yourself to be party to deception. You may be held liable for your role in this fraud.”

At this, Mrs. Garrison said weakly, “Oh, dear. Perhaps you had better tell him, sister.”

“No, Lucinda. I cannot reveal a secret that is not mine to reveal.”

Adrian found himself admiring the woman’s loyalty even as she frustrated his efforts to learn the identity of the woman she protected.

“I understand your reluctance to break a trust,” he said, “but I have reason to believe Elinor—if that is, indeed, her name—may be in some kind of trouble. I want to help her.”

Miss Palmer seemed genuinely torn. She started to say something, then changed her mind. Finally, she said, “Yes, her name is Elinor.”

“That much is true, then,” he said.

“Yes. Please believe me, my lord, there was never any fraud aimed at you. Elinor is an honorable lady.”

“You will forgive me if I question that, will you not? People of honor do not gain employment under false pretenses.” Nor do they spy for enemy powers, he might have added. He did not say this, though, for who knew how deeply involved this Miss Palmer and her sister were? His instincts told him these two were what they seemed, but he must be cautious.

“I have known her for many years, sir. She is a truly good person.”

“I am inclined to agree with you despite—” Something clicked. “Many years? Was she perhaps one of your own charges then?”

Miss Palmer looked at him in alarm and put her hand to her mouth as though to keep the words in.

“That is it, is it not?” he demanded. “You were her governess and she turned to you for help?”

“Please, my lord. I cannot betray a confidence. You must take this up with La—with Elinor.”

“All right,” he said grimly, “but know this, Miss Harriet E. Palmer. If there are any legal consequences of her actions, you, too, will be prosecuted. Good day, ladies.”

He arose and left the room, not waiting for the servant to show him out. He was furious at having achieved so little. Perhaps the men from Bow Street could ferret out information on the real Miss Palmer’s former employers, other than the Spensers.

The morning after she informed Trenville she would be leaving, Elinor descended the stairs to breakfast still caught in an emotional storm.

Never in her life had she been so torn in her feelings. She knew full well Trenville would not welcome her resignation, but the vehemence of his objection surprised her. If he only knew the truth, she thought, he would be eager for her departure.

She had stoically dealt with his initial distrust and sarcasm. By not looking at him directly, she had thought herself safe from his penetrating gaze. But then he had become solicitous, genuinely concerned for her welfare. Only the knowledge of how much he would be hurt by the truth had kept her from throwing herself in his arms and blurting out her story.

And he would be hurt.

A scandal might well prove a nine days’ wonder in social circles, but how might it play in the delicate balance of political and diplomatic circles? Beyond these considerations was a deeper level of possible hurt. His personal sense of honor was such that he would undoubtedly find her deception not only painful, but disgusting. That, she could not bear to see.

“Miss Palmer.” He greeted her cordially if somewhat coolly as she entered the breakfast room.

“Good morning, sir.”

“I have had the children’s ponies brought to the city. They arrived yesterday.”

“How wonderful. The girls and Geoffrey will be so excited.”

“I thought as much.” He paused. “I also had the Lady Titania brought up.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice.

“I gave the order before we knew of your plan to leave.” Was his tone slightly accusatory? “You may as well enjoy riding her while you are yet here.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“There you go—‘my lording’ me again.” This time, his tone was lighter and some of the customary warmth had returned to his smile.

“I’m sorry, m—Adrian. Force of habit.” She smiled back at him and their gazes locked for a moment. She looked away first, but in that instant felt some of their old rapport had been reestablished.

“Uh ... Elinor ...”

She looked at him expectantly.

“I think there is no reason to tell the children just yet of your plan to leave. I do not want them upset.”

“As you wish, Adrian.”

“Time enough to tell them when the event is closer.”

Elinor readily agreed, for she wanted to postpone her good-byes to the younger members of the household as long as possible.

For a few days, her life assumed its usual routine with the welcome addition of rides in the park. Often Elinor would go alone in the early mornings—alone, except for the ever-present groom who accompanied her. She noted that her companion on these rides, as well as on the rides she took with the children, was invariably the same man, one who had, she knew, joined Trenville’s staff only recently. At Whitsun Abbey, their companion had always been whichever groom was free at the moment. She wondered about this, but other matters pushed it out of her mind.

As she knew they would be, the children were ecstatic about having their beloved ponies with them again. Recalling happier days when she and Peter had ridden together, Elinor enjoyed watching the pure pleasure Geoffrey, Bess, and Anne took in their riding ventures.

Leaving these little people was going to be very hard. Leaving his lordship would be even harder. Enough. She would concentrate on being happy with the time she had left. To this end, she found herself spending more of her free time with the children, indulging them more, and hugging them more often and more tightly. Sometimes it seemed her arms just did not want to relinquish those small bodies.

She longed for the comfort of Adrian’s arms about her. If only she could unburden herself to him. She had occasionally seen him look at her with—what? Speculation? Regret? Longing? Then he would seem to catch himself and in the next instant his emotions would be carefully veiled.

His reaction to her resignation had gone beyond an employer’s disappointment at losing a valued employee, had it not? Surely those kisses meant something to him, too.

Perhaps she should confide in him as Harriet Palmer had suggested. Why? So his overdeveloped sense of duty would compel him to help her? So his rigid sense of honor would trap him into doing something he did not want to do?

No. She simply could not put him in such a position.

 

 

Adrian was preoccupied with the private dilemma of trying to find out who Elinor really was and devising a means of postponing her departure. Then, suddenly, a monumental public issue intruded and intensified his own problems.

Canning had invited Nathan Olmstead to join his closest advisors in a morning meeting.

“Bonaparte has escaped,” the Secretary said without preamble.

“What?!”

“It cannot be!”

“You heard me correctly. He fled. Managed to get off the island of Elba. Just sailed away with a small army of followers one night.”

“My God.”

“Now what?”

“Napoleon is on his way to Paris, apparently gathering strength as he goes. Wellington has left Vienna to take command of the armies in Belgium.”

“What about the Congress in Vienna?” Morton asked.

“And the treaty?” Dennington added.

“No treaty. The Congress has broken up, though the alliance is still more or less intact.”

“So England is ‘more or less’ on her own again,” Morton said flatly.

“More or less.” Canning flashed a grim little smile. “Which brings us to our most pressing matter. It is absolutely imperative now that we apprehend this spy.” He looked at Adrian who had sat quietly throughout this exchange.

“Captain Olmstead and I have a plan that might work,” Adrian said slowly.

“Well, out with it, man,” Morton demanded.

“Suppose we put it out that certain information is so sensitive that it can only be passed on to a special courier at an isolated location. Our man—”

“Or woman,” Olmstead interjected.

“Or woman,” Adrian continued just as though he had not been interrupted and just as though his heart had not skipped a beat, “will feel compelled to intercept the message.”

“And can do so only at the rendezvous point.” Dennington crowed in delight.

“Actually, he will probably observe the rendezvous, then follow the receiving courier,” Olmstead explained. “He will be intercepted when he attempts to take the message from our man.”

“Won’t he suspect a trap?” Morton asked.

“Possibly,” Adrian conceded. “But Napoleon needs information. Whoever it is will have to take the risk.”

The meeting continued with their working out details. The spy would undoubtedly enlist the aid of some of his—or her—cohorts in trying to obtain information ostensibly destined for Wellington in Belgium. The receiving courier would be followed by the foreign agents
and
, discreetly, by the Crown’s men who would move in at the point of interception.

“So, let me get this straight,” Morton said. “Trenville receives a message that important information is not being handled in the usual manner. Instead, it is to be delivered to a courier at the Golden Hart Inn.”

“Right,” Olmstead said.

“We assume the spy will be there to see the delivery?” Morton went on.

“Won’t he be afraid Trenville will recognize him?” Dennington asked.

“Yes. And that is precisely why the delivery must be made by one of you, not Trenville,” Olmstead said.

“What about
you?”
Morton asked Olmstead.

“Captain Olmstead was a frequent guest at my home in Devon. Assuming this agent is someone within my household, he might be put off at seeing Olmstead show up.” Adrian refused to think of the agent as a possible
she.

“You gentlemen are all known to be privy to sensitive information and are well enough known in polite society to be readily recognized by our man,” Olmstead said.

“Well, it would not make much sense for the foreign secretary to be delivering such information himself,” Dennington said with a gesture toward Canning. “I volunteer.”

“Here, now,” Morton objected. “Why you instead of me? I volunteer as well.”

“Now consider carefully, gentlemen,” Adrian said. “This could prove quite dangerous.”

“No more so than your little jaunts to the continent,” Dennington argued. “Morton’s wife is expecting to be confined shortly. You two”—he indicated Canning and Trenville—“ are out of the running. I am afraid, my friends, that leaves me as your logical choice. Jonathan William Prentiss, Viscount Dennington, at your service.” He gave a smart little bow of his head and shoulders.