Shev (5 page)

Dear God. How could she be so unfortunate as to have accepted a position with a curious-about-his-staff employer?
With as much sincerity as she could produce, she said, “There’s no mysterious past to uncover, no dark secret to upheave. I am merely a young woman, a governess, trying to survive on what few talents God has seen fit to provide me. End of story.”

Rather than pull back in affront, the marquess’s focus sharpened as if he detected a fresh scent. Anne’s last steady nerve began to fray, though she did not back down from his intense scrutiny. Somehow she had elicited the Marquess of Shevington’s undivided attention. The very last thing she desired.

“Excuse me, my lord.” She set her utensils down and placed her serviette on the table. “I should prepare for Jacqueline’s return.”

A footman moved forward to pull out her chair. Lord Shevington waved the young man off. “Leave us, please.” Without a backward glance, the hovering servants filed out of the dining room, one by one.

Suddenly fearful she had gone too far, Anne stammered out, “My apologies. I should have been more circumspect with my words.”

“No need to apologize. Our conversation is only now getting interesting.”

“I assure you, there is nothing interesting about me. I have—and always will—lead a simple, uncomplicated life.”

His attention dipped to her mouth and lingered. “I disagree.”

Warmth tingled in her stomach, spreading lower and lower with each second that ticked by. Desperate to distract them both, she said, “In recent days, and despite Jacqueline’s refusal to speak English, I’ve noticed a longing in her eyes when you walk into a room.”

He sent her a knowing smile, one that promised he would return to their uncomfortable conversation. “Longing for what, do you suppose?”

“Your attention.”

He barked out a laugh. “Hardly. To Jacqueline, I am an interloper, a barrier to returning to her real father.”

“You are her real father.”

“Not for five years. Her bond with Bélanger isn’t something that can be severed with an eleventh-hour revelation. Nor should it be.”

“All the same, you should consider spending additional time with her. Get to know her as something more than a banshee.”

“I will take your advice under consideration.” He rested an elbow on the arm of his chair. One finger slid over his chin in a rhythmic, thoughtful motion. “Tell me, Miss Crawford. Is there a young gentleman who occupies your thoughts?”

“W-what?” He could
not
be asking such a personal question.

“A young man. A beau. A love interest. I’m curious about what caliber of gentleman would melt that ironclad reserve of yours.”

Ironclad reserve?
As a governess, she’d had to learn how to keep things to herself. Neither servant nor member of the household, she had no confidants, no true friends. Only the children and unrelenting silence. “This is not an appropriate conversation, my lord.”

“The kind of man you’d be willing to shed the chains of propriety for is most definitely worth learning more about.”

Anne’s anger returned, burning the tips of her ears. “You think I should bare such an important and intimate detail for your—and no doubt your friends’—amusement?”

“No,” he said harshly. “I have but one friend, and we never discuss our women. The reason for my interest is as perplexing to me as it is to you. You intrigue me, Miss Crawford. A rarity, I can assure you.”

Our women
. Excitement shot straight to her heart, shaking her with its intensity. Did he even realize what he’d just said? Did he mean it the way she’d thought? Or did he merely speak as an arrogant, entitled gentleman?

She studied him. His expression bespoke bafflement, frustration, and even wariness. If she were in his shoes, she would have done everything in her power to stay away from the governess. But true to his word, Lord Shevington did not turn his back on a mystery. Instead, he dug in and sniffed out every available detail. No matter the consequences.

Perhaps if she gave him a little of what he sought, it would be enough to quench his insatiable curiosity. “No one special occupies my thoughts.”

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Harder than he could possibly fathom.
“No, my lord.”

Angling his head to the side, he asked, “Did you have a happy childhood?”

Dear God.
Anne smoothed her sweaty palms over her skirts. She should have known he would not let the subject go. Better they continue talking about her abysmal love life. She produced an affable expression, one she had polished until it gleamed with perfection. “Of course. I wanted for nothing.”

He studied the upward tilt of her mouth, the slight crinkle at the corner of her eyes, the entire convivial message her face and posture conveyed. Rather than accept her answer at face value, as so many others had before him, his brows knit together.

“There’s a sadness about you, Miss Crawford. It hovers over you like endless gray clouds on a winter’s day.” He paused a moment, considering. “It’s not the kind of sadness one feels when unhappy with one’s position or financial circumstance. What I sense in you is deep, piercing, emotionally destructive.”

“You have quite the imagination, my lord.”

“Where are your parents?”

Panicked shouts, screams of terror rippled through her mind. Helplessness. Guilt. Fear. Anne squeezed the next breath from her lungs. “They both passed away when I was a little girl. It’s how I came to live with my aunt and uncle.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

Something shifted in his expression. No longer did he appear confused, determined, or even curious. Empathy now pulled at his handsome features.

“May I ask what happened to your parents?”

No! No, no, no.
She would not relive that terrible night again. Not for him. The marquess cared nothing about the lives he disrupted nor the events he unearthed. He cared only about the possession of secrets.

She had to find a way to distract him, to prevent him from probing deeper into her past. An offensive attack might work best. She doubted few ever challenged the marquess. Capturing his gaze with hers, she said, “I did not take you for someone who could even sense deep emotion in another, let alone identify its origin.”

Though his expression did not change, he broke visual contact and reached for his glass. His abrupt withdrawal caused an unexpected knot to form in her stomach. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him; however, allowing him to torment her with his intrusive queries was out of the question. It was best he understood she would not play into his games.

With precise movements, she pushed away from the table and rose. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I have work to do.”

The short distance from the table to the dining room door took an eternity, and for the entire journey his gaze seared through her blue woolen dress, straight to fragile flesh and brittle bone.

Chapter Six

Shev took his brooding to Brooks. Brooding. Something he’d never done until Miss Crawford entered his life.

The exclusive club located on St. James Street catered to gentlemen of similar wealth, breeding, and oftentimes contrary disposition. He came here to blend in while considering his conversation with Miss Crawford.

More than ever before, he wanted to learn every facet of another individual. He knew to the depths of his rotten soul that the governess hid a dark secret, one that weighed heavily on her conscience. One he intended to unearth.

What could she have done or been involved in that would burden her so? How could he get her to confide in him? For God’s sake, why did he even want her to? But he did. Obsessively so.

He avoided such volatile situations for a reason. Most of the time, he didn’t care. He found it hard to feel empathy for those who had created their own crises. An earl who gambled away his inheritance, a young miss who mistakenly believed she could reform the
ton’s
most notorious rake, a younger brother who felt slighted by life and responded by drinking it away.

Somehow he didn’t think Miss Crawford’s burden was caused by self-destructive choices. Hers appeared more tragic. Innocent. Guilt-ridden.

“Good evening, Shevington. I thought I might find you here.”

Shev glanced up to find the Earl of Somerton’s steel-gray eyes peering down upon him.

“Somerton.” Shev pushed himself upright. Even though he outranked the earl, he always felt like he needed to be on his best behavior in the spymaster’s presence. Not that he always managed the feat. Somerton projected confidence, power, and an intensity that put everyone on alert around him. Shev grasped Somerton’s outstretched hand. “You have news?”

“I do.”

Shev indicated a nearby chair, then resumed his seat.

“Giselle?”

“She succumbed to her illness, I’m afraid.”

He felt a pang of regret for the five-year-old she left behind. “Have I a daughter?” He achieved the correct devil-may-care tone, despite the tempest Somerton’s words stirred inside him.

Until this moment, he had not cared whether or not Giselle was alive. If she was, Shev would chalk up the last few weeks as a nonentertaining farce and send the girl back to her mother and French father. If Giselle was indeed dead and her husband did not want the child, Shev would see to his responsibility by hiring a battalion of servants to care for the girl. Then he would continue on with his glorious and fascinating life, with no further disruption.

Now, he found himself bracing for the intelligence Somerton’s spies had gathered.

“It’s possible,” Somerton said. “Bonaparte’s new French Civil Code is not unlike British law on this subject. A child born to a married woman is the child of her husband.”

“Are you saying Bélanger cannot disavow the child?”

“He can—under certain circumstances.” Somerton rubbed his forefinger over his chin, thoughtful. “Could Bélanger be impotent?”

“I’ve no idea.” No sooner than the words were out, a vague memory pushed its way to the top. “After our first night together, Giselle murmured something about how it had been a long time since she’d felt fulfilled. I thought little of it at the time, assuming she was engaging in meaningless pillow chatter.”

“My source could find no other children, natural or baseborn. If he’s impotent and Giselle kept the truth from him, he could repudiate the child.”

“Wouldn’t the truth be obvious the moment she became
enceinte
?”

“Hope can blind us to the obvious.”

“And if she didn’t keep the truth from Bélanger?”

“Then the child is his in the eyes of the law.”

Shev gave himself a moment to absorb this new detail. He’d understood from the moment Jacqueline showed up on his doorstep that their time together could be limited. Until this moment, he had not considered how much he looked forward to Jacqueline sneaking curious looks at him at the dinner table. Nor had he realized the pride he took when gazing at a miniature, pixie version of his own countenance.

Would the questions fade into oblivion? Would the corridors of his home go silent, no longer filled with the rare giggle or the less rare shriek of a banshee? Would he never glimpse his daughter’s face again?

A strange, hollow jitteriness filled his chest.

Perhaps it was best that she return to France. Girls were delicate little things. The battalion of servants he had thought to hire seemed insignificant now. They could not prevent her from stumbling down a staircase or taking ill. Children attracted congestive problems like black evening wear collected lint.

Yet something primal, protective reared up inside him. “Giselle’s letter indicated Bélanger had banished her and the child to the country after finding out he wasn’t the girl’s father. Based on what you found in Bonaparte’s Code, I don’t see Bélanger claiming Jacqueline well after the fact.”

“Love can sometimes make us do things against our nature. If Bélanger developed a bond with Jacqueline, he may come around now that his wife is dead. After all, his wife was the one who betrayed him, not the child.”

Shev’s jaw clenched.

“There’s more,” Somerton said. “Despite the Revolution’s best efforts, Jacqueline’s maternal grandparents are quite wealthy and have solid ties to the emperor.”

Shev’s heartbeat grew louder in his ears. “And?”

“The Trudeaus want their only grandchild back.”

* * *

After Somerton departed, Shev had sat in numb silence, contemplating his next move. He could remain in the same anticipatory state—would Jacqueline stay or would she go? Or he could make the most of their time together.

No one would ever accuse him of being the sentimental sort. God had not seen fit to bestow such emotion upon him.

Whether he had an hour or a lifetime with Jacqueline, there would come a time when she’d wonder about him—her father. And he was arrogant enough to want those memories to be warm and inviting rather than cold and elusive.

So he had sent word home that everyone—including Miss Crawford—would be retiring to the country on the morrow. Had the news lifted the somberness from Jacqueline’s features? Or had his decision reminded her of the time her French father exiled her and her mother?

Rather than return home, he’d made his way to the one place that would vanquish the ache in his chest. Until a few weeks ago, his good friend Ethan deBeau would have joined him at Madame Rousseau’s. That was before Ethan met Shev’s other dear friend, Sydney Hunt.

Shev knew love existed. He’d witnessed its power many times between his parents. All his father had to do was enter a room and his mother’s face would soften, her gaze tracking his progress. His father would show his affection by kissing his mother’s cheek anytime he happened by her.

As a young lad, Shev had found their affectionate display odd and uncomfortable. None of his friends’ parents acted in such a way.

Now, he saw their actions went far beyond love. Every touch was a promise, a measure of reassurance. With a single lingering glance, his mother reassured herself of her husband’s well-being. She saw the physical evidence that, for one more day, her world remained intact. A balm for an invisible scar created by a childhood where comfort and security were scarce.