Dangerous to Kiss (4 page)

“It would be different if Quentin could corroborate my story. But I told you what happened. It was all too much for him. The horror of seeing his father murdered before his eyes is not to be borne. ‘Trauma,’ the physician called it. One day the memory of it may come back to him, then again, it may not. Meanwhile we go in fear of our lives, helpless to bring Lord Kendal to justice.”

She swallowed hard. “Don’t you think I have been tempted to go to the authorities with what I know? What good would it do? They would start probing into my past, and when they discovered the truth about me, they would discount every word I said.” She gave a short laugh that held no humor. “They might even charge
me
with Lord Barrington’s murder. After all, a woman who is accused of murdering her own betrothed would not cavil at murdering her employer.”

“Don’t speak like that!” said Miss Hare sternly. “You did not murder Albert. You were defending yourself from his attack.”

Frowning, she reached for the teapot and replenished their cups. Inwardly, she was calling the Deity to account for the whole sorry mess. It was more than time He began to take a hand in Deborah’s affairs.

She glanced at Deborah and her expression softened. Deborah had always had this effect on her. From the moment she had assumed her position as her governess, she had adored the child. Deborah had been starved for affection, and all Miss Hare’s mothering instincts had come to the fore. Deborah could not be more like her daughter if she had been born of her own body.

Often, in that bleak, unhappy house, she had wondered
how someone as innocent and as lovely as Deborah could have survived. Where had she come by that warmhearted nature, that quick intelligence, that sensitive spirit? Certainly not from her father. He was a coldhearted monster, a dangerous man with a will of iron.

She pressed a hand to her eyes. “You haven’t had much of a life in the last number of years.” Her eyes wandered over Deborah’s drab outfit. “Dressing to look older, trying to disguise your appearance, always wondering if someone will recognize you. That is no life for a young woman, Deborah.”

“You mustn’t think I have been unhappy. These last four years as Quentin’s governess have been the happiest of my life. Everything was going so well until … until.” She gulped and fished in her pocket for her handkerchief. When she had blown her nose, she sat up straighter, then took up a different thread. “I am so thankful that you have always believed in my innocence, first with my betrothed, and now with Lord Barrington.”

“I know you, my dear. It is not in your nature to deliberately hurt anyone or anything.”

A tremor ran over Deborah, but she managed a smile. “Thank you, Bunny. I shall never forget those words, nor all you have done for me.”

Miss Hare made a small sound of impatience. “Stuff and nonsense!” she exclaimed, but she was smiling one of her rare smiles.

“And now,” said Deborah, “tell me about the position you mentioned.”

For a moment, Miss Hare debated inwardly whether she should return to the subject of Quentin and what was to become of him. One quick glance at the angle of Deborah’s stubborn little chin convinced her that further argument would be pointless. Sighing, she took a moment or two to set her thoughts in order. “I had an interview with a certain Mr. Gray,” she began. “Initially, he had it in his mind to place his sister in the school in order to give the girl a little polish. Well, that’s what we do for all our girls, isn’t it? The more we conversed,
however, the more it came to me that the girl and her brother would be better served by employing their own private tutor. Naturally, as soon as that thought occurred to me, I thought of you.”

“Tutor? Not governess?”

“Perhaps I should have said ‘mentor.’ You see, Mr. Gray has come up in the world. I think he said his people made their fortune in breweries. But the point is, he got himself elected to Parliament. You see what this means?”

“No,” said Deborah.

Miss Hare eyed Deborah askance. “It means that he and his sister will be taking up residence in London and moving in more exalted circles. Miss Gray must act as her brother’s hostess, but the poor girl is hardly out of the schoolroom. She doesn’t know the first thing about court protocol, or how to go on in society, leastways the kind of society she will meet with in London.”

“You can’t be suggesting that I go to London, Bunny? Why, I could run into my father or my stepmother. Then what would become of me?”

Miss Hare allowed herself a small smile. “But that’s the beauty of it. Mr. Gray has no wish to remove his sister to London until she is well versed in the social graces.” She sat back in her chair and paused deliberately for effect. “He has a place where the girl resides, quite off the beaten track.”

“Where is this place?” asked Deborah.

Miss Hare watched Deborah’s face intently. “Wells, Deborah. Mr. Gray’s country villa is on the outskirts of Wells.”

Deborah’s startled expression gradually gave way to one of acute interest. “Wells,” she said, and breathed deeply.

“Yes, Wells. And there is more. He is willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of employing someone of your unquestionable talents. And it’s only for a few months.”

It seemed too good to be true, and that worried Deborah. “What exactly did you tell him about me?” “No more, no less than we agreed I should tell any
one who asked about you, and, of course, my personal recommendation of your character and abilities.”

It had been a glowing testimonial, but Miss Hare would not allow that one word of it was exaggeration. Deborah really was an accomplished young woman. She should be when she, Miss Hare, had had the training of her for most of her young life. As was natural, Mr. Gray had asked a good many questions about those early years which she had answered diplomatically but without betraying anything of the least significance. The one question that had taken her aback was the one to do with Deborah’s failings.

“Come now,” Mr. Gray had said. “No one is perfect, not even Mrs. Mornay. Everyone has some flaw or failing that could stand to be improved.”

He must have seen something in her expression for his nice eyes had narrowed on her in a most disconcerting way, and she had found herself saying something to the effect that Deborah’s failing was that she allowed people to take advantage of her, which was no failing at all from a prospective employer’s point of view.

Deborah watched the play of emotions that were reflected on Miss Hare’s face, and she quickly set down her cup and saucer. “Bunny, you do understand that Lord Kendal is clever, more clever than you or I? He could send constables after me, or even the militia. He has that power. Or,” she added significantly, “he could send his agents.”

Miss Hare emitted a long, drawn-out sigh. “Frankly, Deborah,” she said, “I think you are letting your imagination run riot. No, no, I refuse to enter into a debate. When you meet Mr. Gray, you will laugh at your own words. Why, a more harmless, unassuming gentleman I have yet to meet. I liked him on sight.”

The stiffness in Deborah’s spine gradually relaxed. Miss Hare was a shrewd judge of character. If she liked Mr. Gray on sight, he must be a very presentable gentleman. “I take it,” she said, “he will wish to interview me?”

Miss Hare’s eyes twinkled. “He wants to take you
unawares, you know, see for himself how you manage the girls.”

“Oh no,” groaned Deborah.

“Tomorrow,” said Miss Hare. “You may expect him tomorrow.”

By the end of the day, Deborah’s head was pounding. Her conversation with Miss Hare had made it impossible for her to concentrate on what she was supposed to be doing, and the girls had made the most of it.

Sighing, her shoulders drooping, she stared at herself long and hard in the looking glass above the washstand in her chamber. Suddenly, with a little cry of anguish, she threw off her spectacles, tore off her muslin cap, then flung herself facedown on the bed. When and where would it all end? Her youth was passing, and she was doing her best to hurry it along! She must be out of her mind! It wasn’t fair, oh it wasn’t fair! When she had been offered the position with Lord Barrington, she could hardly believe her luck. After five years of working with Miss Hare, she had known that teaching large groups of adolescent girls was not for her. And the position with Lord Barrington had seemed ideal. His country estate was isolated and he never entertained there. And later, after his marriage, when she had been invited to accompany Quentin to Paris, she had thought herself the luckiest girl in the world. If only Quentin had not come down with a fever! If only they had left for Calais with Lady Barrington! But Quentin had come down with a fever, and she had stayed on to look after him. And they had both witnessed a murder.

Murder.
How was it possible for one girl to become involved in two murders in her short life? With her balled fists, she dashed her tears away. This was no time to be indulging in a bout of self-pity. She must think.

She rolled on her back and looked up at the ceiling. It was reported in the newspapers that her employer had been murdered by a thief who broke into his house in
Paris. But this was only a theory. She could well imagine the outcome if it were known that his son’s governess was accused by her own father of another murder which had taken place eight years before. She would be suspected of Lord Barrington’s murder also. Then she would surely hang. At least she would have the satisfaction of knowing her father’s machinations had come to nothing!

She checked the hysterical laugh that bubbled to her lips. In her present circumstances, her father was the least of her worries. She should be thinking of Lord Kendal. She had never met the man nor ever wished to, but she had taken his measure from what Lord and Lady Barrington had told her. He was reputed to be the most respected man in England. But that was the public figure. His private life did not bear too close a scrutiny. It went without saying that he would be tall, dark, and handsome. His sort always were, the sort women swooned over. She could well imagine the supercilious slant to his brows, the cynical smile. Ugh!

Hauling herself into a sitting position, with her back against the headboard, she focused her thoughts, trying to recall what she knew of him. Though he was Quentin’s godfather, to her knowledge, he had seen very little of the boy in the last four years. Lord Barrington had excused his friend’s neglect by pointing out that London was Lord Kendal’s milieu, while Quentin remained in the country. True, he had sent Quentin gifts, and they had kept up a correspondence, but even in Paris, Lord Kendal had made no effort to become reacquainted with his godson. He had not even appeared at the picnic she had arranged. He had sent his secretary in his stead. It was all very well for Lord Barrington to say that the peace talks completely absorbed his friend’s time and energies, but a godfather …

She broke off at this point in her reflections and shuddered in horror. What was she thinking? It would have been better for them all if Lord Kendal had
never
come near Quentin. And to think that Lord Barrington’s voice had always been shaded with admiration whenever he spoke of Lord Kendal! Until that last night.

She couldn’t begin to understand what had gone wrong in that friendship. One thing she knew. They had been arguing about something before the gun went off. It was no accident. She was sure of that too. Lord Kendal had come after her and Quentin and might have had them if the servants had not scared him off. Oh God, it was so reminiscent of that other time. Who would believe her if she told the truth? How could she persuade anyone that the most respected man in England had murdered his best friend? People were too easily taken in by outward appearances. They did not know of the hatreds and passions that could smolder beneath a charming façade. But she knew. Her father had taught her that.

Her thoughts strayed, remembering Lord Barrington in happier days, easy-going, charming, with an attractive twinkle in his dark eyes. It was impossible not to like him. When he was in residence, the whole house seemed to come alive. It was as if the prodigal had returned from the far country.

Quentin had adored his father. When they were together, it was like watching two children at play. She had wished, though, that Lord Barrington would spend more time with him. Quentin was a very lonely little boy. She’d sympathized with her employer’s position. He had important work to do at the Foreign Office. For his part, he understood that Quentin missed a mother’s touch. That’s why he had employed a governess to care for his son and not a tutor. When he’d married, she’d thought things would change. Though it tore at her heart, she was prepared to give Quentin up to his new mother. As it turned out, the girl Lord Barrington married didn’t care for country life, though she had been born and bred in the country. She rarely came down to see Quentin. Sophie liked parties, and shopping, and taking in all the entertainments the city had to offer. Even in Paris, they had hardly ever seen her. Lord Barrington had tried to remonstrate, but it made no difference. That was one failing in her employer that occasionally irked her. He was too nice for his own good. Sometimes, just sometimes, she wished he would
put his foot down, not only with his wife, but with Quentin also. Oh God, how could this have happened? It wasn’t fair! Oh, it wasn’t fair! He was such a good man.