Lady Sarah's Redemption

When
spoiled heiress Lady Sarah Miles assumes the identity of a drowned governess to
escape marriage to her best friend, James, she thinks her troubles will be over
within the fortnight.

Arriving
at the grand estate of reformist MP Roland Hawthorne to take charge of the
tortured widower's rebellious sixteen-year-old daughter, Caro, Sarah
unexpectedly forms a strong attachment to the occupants of her new household.

‘Dramatic,
heartfelt and unusual! Eikli sweeps you away into a dangerous Regency world
where only the most daring player wins love.’

- Best-selling romance writer

Anna Campbell

Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly

A Little Deception

Lady Sarah’s
Redemption

A Regency Romantic Intrigue

by

BEVERLEY EIKLI

For

 
Sophie and Lillie

Copyright 2012 Beverley Eikli

All rights Reserved

1819
                                                                                           

“Do you suppose she’s a dangerous Siren
come to bewitch us all, Cosmo?” Brushing aside a beech tree branch, Roland
reined in his mount beside his nephew’s. “Or have I acted properly in taking
her in?”

“I wasn’t
spying, sir!” Blushing, Cosmo turned in the saddle. “When I saw the new
governess had arrived, naturally I was curious-” He broke off. “If indeed it is
the new governess.”

Roland followed
Cosmo’s gaze through the screen of trees, across the manicured lawns to the
gravel drive where a carriage had just drawn up in front of the house. The
slender young woman standing on the bottom step overseeing the removal of her
trunk could have passed for any governess, anywhere in the country, she was so
unremarkable.

Which was, of
course, why Cosmo had sounded doubting and, understandably, disappointed. Miss
Morecroft’s appointment had been so vehemently opposed by Roland’s
sister-in-law, Cecily, that Cosmo had probably conjured up an image similar to
the provocative siren suggested by his uncle.

Perversely, and
despite his drollery, Roland was disappointed by this vision of ordinariness.

The young woman
glanced briefly in their direction, before mounting the steps to the house. Her
old-fashioned poke bonnet concealed her features at this distance but her
outmoded, ill-fitting gown of faded puce lent her a homely air.

Cosmo stroked
his chin, a new habit developed since he’d started shaving only recently, and
asked, “Will she be here long? Aunt Cecily says it’s only until we find her
another position. Caro says she’s too old for a governess and Miss Morecroft
won’t last.” He shifted in the saddle then slid his eyes across to his uncle’s
face. “You know what Caro’s like, sir.”

Roland nodded
absently, still trying to reconcile the image of the dowdy governess with his
memories of the young woman’s father. Any daughter of Godby’s should be
brimming with exuberance, flashing her ill-afforded finery with the same
devil-may-care defiance as her ill-fated Pater. Now Godby, his foster brother
was dead, snuffed out in a far distant land, forever denying Roland the
catharsis of reconciliation.

“I know, Cosmo.”
He sighed. He had as much desire to dwell on his obstinate daughter as he had
on the new governess. “I hope Caro and your Aunt Cecily will be kind to Miss
Morecroft. First the death of the young woman’s family, now this terrible
accident—” With a sigh he took up the reins. “Go and pay your respects to
your foster cousin, Cosmo. She is to be treated with respect and not judged on
account of her father’s actions.”

How, he
wondered, as his mount picked its way over the stony ground to the rise at the
far end of the Western paddock, should he deal with Miss Morecroft? Any hint of
kindness would be sure to invoke Cecily’s wrath.

From the top of
the hill he looked down upon Larchfield, the lovely home he’d never expected to
inherit. Its honey-coloured stone glowed, mullioned windows twinkled in the
sunlight. It looked a fairytale castle. Once Roland had believed it was, until
thieving passions had destroyed all that was good within its walls.

Until Godby,
newly returned from war, had burst in upon their tranquillity. A boy no longer,
he had changed the delicate balance, setting Roland against his brother, Hector.
Three young men and only two women yet - despite her fortune -poor, ugly
Cecily, Hector’s wife, had still been discarded. Now she seemed to forget that
Roland had lost a wife: his exquisite Venetia. So beautiful. So beguiling.

So faithless.

Strange,
reflected Roland, as he turned his mount for home, how the pain still lingered,
long after her image had blurred.

Now Godby’s
daughter was here and, in truth, Roland felt as much enthusiasm as his
sister-in-law for having her at Larchfield.

The image of
Miss Morecroft’s quiet dowdiness was suddenly immensely reassuring. He felt
confident Godby’s daughter posed no threat to the peace at Larchfield, after
all.

Cecily
Hawthorne’s critical gaze travelled from the top of Sarah’s dowdy straw bonnet
to the tips of her worn leather boots which peeked beneath her gown.

She sighed,
tapping her fingers on the arm of the sofa. “The truth is, Miss Morecroft,
you’re not what I expected and, to be blunt, nor am I convinced you will suit.
Mr Hawthorne, however, was most insistent.”

“Then I am
greatly obliged at being given an opportunity to prove myself.” Sarah had not
considered a hostile reception when she’d embarked upon her rash charade. She’d
thought it bad enough wearing the second-hand boots which pinched horribly and
which the nuns had retrieved from the waterlogged trunk they’d believed was
hers when she’d been saved from the wreck of the
Mary Jane
. She’d nearly wept with shame at having to appear in
public wearing such an abominable gown. Now anxiety gripped her as she tried
for a suitably grateful smile. She’d have to summon up all the humility she’d
rarely had to use in her cosseted life to temper the threat to her plans that
Mrs Hawthorne’s hostility posed. Rarely, in her twenty-four years, had she felt
at such a disadvantage.

The springs of
the faux bamboo sofa creaked as Mrs Hawthorne shifted position, and the ormolu
clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly. They were the only sounds in this
silent, oppressive house that was supposed to contain a brood of children.

Mrs Hawthorne
sniffed. “I’m told your French is flawless and you can play the pianoforte, but
can you waltz? Have they even heard of the waltz in India?” Looking quite
fierce, she added, “A most inelegant dance, but Mr Hawthorne considers it an
essential accomplishment. Caro is coming out next year.”

“I am an
accomplished dancer, ma’am,” Sarah assented, trying to restrain her curiosity
with regard to the novel hairpiece her employer had used to supplement her
sparse ginger curls. She was sure the furry appendage peeping beneath the
lappets of Mrs Hawthorne’s white lace cap had once adorned a squirrel’s behind.

“It’s not a
question of how accomplished
you
are,
Miss Morecroft, but how accomplished you are at imparting these graces to Caro
and the girls.” Mrs Hawthorne reached over the arm of the settee and tugged on
the embroidered bell pull. “No doubt you’re anxious to meet your new charges.”

“Lovely.” Sarah
smiled weakly, wondering how she’d survive the two or three weeks she needed to
remain at Larchfield. She didn’t like Mrs Hawthorne and, clearly, Mrs Hawthorne
didn’t like her.

“Girls, meet
Miss Morecroft, your new governess.”

Sarah watched
them weave their way amongst the clutter of occasional tables and spindly
chairs to curtsy before her. The youngest gave her a shy, gap-toothed smile,
the redheaded ten-year-old, a cheeky grin. In their wake came a tall, ungainly
black-haired girl with hunched shoulders and dark eyes burnt into a sallow
face.

“Caro!” Mrs
Hawthorne squawked and her hands flew to her cheeks.

“Sorry!” wailed
the future debutante, struggling to right the brass Argand lamp in danger of
toppling and singeing the fringed damask tablecloth.

The little girls
sniggered and Sarah felt a rush of sympathy for the girl quailing beneath Mrs
Hawthorne’s withering scorn.
 
Poor
Caro was the most unprepossessing debutante Sarah had ever laid eyes upon.

“Never mind,
Caro,” she said, “it’s in such an awkward position, I nearly did the same.”

This, of course,
did nothing to endear her to Mrs Hawthorne. Nor did it appear to gain her any
advantage for Caro lanced her with look of suspicion as she took her place
beside the other girls.

Sarah had rarely
encountered hostility in her life. It was an uncomfortable sensation.
Swallowing, she managed to retain her smile. “I’m sure we’ll all deal together,
famously,” she said bracingly. For weren’t little girls easy to win over? As
for Caro, Sarah could well remember being a rebellious adolescent herself, the
despair of her beloved Papa.

Her beloved Papa.

She cut the
thought off at the root. A little pain now while she saw through this vital
element of her plan ensured she could soon resume her valuable role at his
side.

All heads turned
at the sound of footsteps in the passage before a tall youth with a mop of sandy
curls above immensely high collar points put his head around the door.

“Aunt Cecily,
forgive the intrusion,” said this eager young slave to fashion. “I’d forgotten
you were receiving the girls’ new governess.”

His assessing
eye as it roamed over Sarah gave the lie to his erring memory, though she would
have expected more of an appreciative gleam. Smiling up at him, she consoled
herself that one hardly looked one’s best in someone else’s cast-offs, and
puce, which always reminded her of coagulating blood, was definitely not her
colour.

“Master Cosmo is
unaccustomed to the company of young ladies,” said Mrs Hawthorne after
dismissing her nephew. “He’ll be returning home soon.” She rose. “Let me show
you your quarters.”

Sarah followed her
new employer, listening to her strictures regarding the girls’ education.

“—And
you’ll have to curb Caro’s preoccupation with knowledge. The girl is likely to
turn into a blue-stocking.” Halting at the end of a long passage she threw open
the door to a tiny chamber.
 
“You’ve
just enough time to put away your things and change, Miss Morecroft. The girls
have their supper at five.” Mrs Hawthorne turned on her heel. “I shall see you
in the nursery when you’re ready.”

Sarah was too
dispirited to take consolation from the sight of the squirrel’s tail now
dangling at a rakish angle over her employer’s left eye.

“Yes, ma’am,”
she managed, disappointed nevertheless that the hairpiece retained its tenuous
grip.

With dismay she
took in her sparse surroundings. Apart from the bed, wash stand and chair, the
garish rag rug provided the only splash of colour. On top of it rested her
trunk — or rather, the other Sarah’s trunk. After all the trauma she’d
endured lately, she was visited by such a wave of loneliness and longing for
home that she sank against the door frame and covered her face with her hands.
Could she really endure a ticking mattress and coarse woollen blanket when
duckdown and fine linen and all the other comforts she’d taken for granted were
just a five-hour carriage ride away?