The Mysterious Governess (Daughters of Sin Book 3) (5 page)

But a garden party, where eligible young men might be similarly taken with her, was too irresistible to refuse. She was not being vain but at twenty, she needed to direct her future where she could. She had no intention of being a governess or living as a spinster with her mother for the rest of her life.

“I want you to enjoy what is not generally within your reach, Miss Hazlett.” His smile was false and cloying as he stopped to wave at his sisters before turning back to her. “And I want you to sketch Lord Debenham, though that will have to be achieved from a distance.”

Oh, but how she wanted to go. If Lord Debenham were going to be there, it was possible Mr. Tunley might also.

“What can I wear?”

He shrugged. “You’re enterprising enough to solve that problem yourself, surely? Mind, though, you can’t wear that.” He cast a disparaging look at her serviceable blue serge skirts.

“Miss Maria?” She knew it was hopeless, even as desperation prompted her to ask the question.

He shook his head. “I dare not try that again. No, Miss Hazlett, you must find a way to clothe yourself. If you’re as anxious to go as you appear, you’ll be enterprising enough to find a way.”

“I see you know nothing of how the world works. Of its impediments such as decent clothing, the want of which precludes those respectably born, but without funds, from mixing with their class. Perhaps you don’t really want me to accompany you after all.” Lissa glared. “You know I shan’t be able to sketch Lord Debenham unless I have a gown that is suitable.”

Cosmo cast her a look of frustrated despair. “Miss Hazlett, I am completely unable to provide you with a new dress. You know that. I have very little in the way of ready income, not that I’d spend it equipping you with new clothes when I think my offer of attending a garden party with a better class of people than you’re used to is generous enough. Now please, use that pretty head of yours to secure yourself something suitable for just two hours.”

A
raminta stared at the two bonnets lying on the bed. Deciding which one to wear might be the most difficult decision she’d have to make in a day. The bonnet of vermillion-colored satin, embossed with straw and surmounted by a bouquet of full-blown damask roses? Or the simple, leghorn bonnet, which would highlight her innocence when teamed with her demure sprigged muslin?

Her sister, sitting morosely on the bed behind her, had been no use in helping her decide. Hetty had appeared plainly bored by the question and apparently more concerned with how to conceal a pimple on her jawline. Araminta had offered her advice but Hetty’s mood seemed only to have grown darker at Araminta’s bolstering suggestion that patience and acceptance were far more becoming than petulance in one who did not have the striking looks to turn the heads of the gentlemen, and that such virtues may even be rewarded.

Despite Hetty’s lack of response, Araminta considered herself a caring sister and made a final attempt to ease her plain sister’s concerns. Deciding upon the more striking vermillion bonnet, she turned, tying the scarlet ribbons beneath her chin, and said with a reassuring smile. “Just wait another year, Hetty dearest, and your skin may well improve, not to mention your figure. You’re only in your first season out, and remember that Mama said she was more comely after a year of marriage than when she was making her debut. Now, what do you think of this now that it’s on? It favors my complexion, don’t you think? Certainly not a color you can wear, though.”

“All I know is that it’s a color favored by Jezebels wanting to get their claws into certain gentlemen.
Dangerous
ones,” Hetty hissed.

Araminta was truly shocked. This was not like Hetty at all. Hetty was generally sweet and pliable, as she needed to be when she lacked the benefit of Araminta’s good looks. “What do you know of such things, Hetty? Two evenings on the ballroom floor and it appears your innocent mind has been corrupted when that’s the only attribute you really have.” She shook her finger at her sister and tried to soften her rebuke with a fond smile. “Just don’t you let Mr. Woking hear you speak like that or he’ll run a mile.”

Hetty, who was now tying her garter, looked up with a glare. “I wish he would,” she muttered. “Better still, I wish
you’d
marry him. There! That would be poetic justice when you’ve set your cap at his wicked, dashing uncle.”

“What? Lord Debenham?” Araminta laughed, despite the discomfort that rippled through her. She’d caught Lord Debenham’s eye the first night she’d danced at Lady Knox’s ball, and the knowledge that he found her attractive had put steel into her spine and fired her with the conviction that here was a likely catch. Then she’d been favored by his attention at Lady Stanley’s ball a few nights previously. Lord Debenham was dashing, in a lean, spare and dangerous way, titled with expectations, and he was handsome. What more could an aspiring debutante want?

When she’d made mention of his lordship’s interest during a few minutes in the mending room in the hopes of soothing the mood of a certain woebegone Miss Hoskings—who, with the face of a roly-poly pudding and a body to match, would be lucky to catch a bald eagle—the response had been far from expected.

Apparently Lord Debenham “did things”, according to the wide-eyed Miss Hoskings. The young lady’s patent horror at the mention of Lord Debenham’s name had been followed by the whispered admonition that her very own aunt had been ruined by the gentleman, who did not deserve the moniker, and now it was a crime in the household to even speak her aunt’s name.

At first, Araminta had been skeptical, since surely any relative of Miss Hoskings could not rival a sprouting potato in looks. Then Miss Hoskings had risen from the chaise longue and declared in rather dramatic tones, “Five years ago, my aunt was tipped to marry the Marquis of Donley, she was so beautiful. But Mr. Carruthers, as he was then, before he became Lord Debenham, ruined her.”

“Obviously, your aunt was very silly and careless with her reputation,” Araminta had replied, earning a predictable glare and then the rather uncomfortable response. “I’m not supposed to know this, but they were going to elope and she’d gone to the inn where they’d agreed to meet and set off,” Miss Hoskings had paused, looking first uncertain, then shifty, before whispering in a rush, “the next day! While she was waiting, Lord Debenham remembered something important and went off to fetch it, only he suffered a delay of some hours and in the meantime, her father caught up with her...
tied
to the bedposts!”

Araminta could not hide her horror. She’d heard that Miss Hoskings was prone to the vapors and that she spent a great deal of time in the ladies’ mending room during these entertainments. Araminta wondered if spouting tall tales about gentlemen who’d spurned her or family members was an antidote to the inevitability of sitting out most dances as a wilting wallflower. Araminta sniffed and adopted her most haughty tone. “It might have been wise for your aunt to have thought more carefully about the potential damage to her good name if she was so easily compromised.”

Still, it was a salutary tale, though Araminta wondered—if it were true—why Miss Hoskings was the one banished to the country, never to be heard of again, and Lord Debenham had gone on to make his fortune and to cut quite a dash in the fashionable world.

Nevertheless, Lord Debenham’s lack of regard was enough to make Araminta think twice about courting His Lordship’s interest. A girl had to be strategic. Perhaps the very handsome and rather enigmatic Sir Aubrey was a better bet, despite the rumors flying around of some kind of scandal attached to him. But as he was still received, that was really all that mattered.

Hetty, having tied her garter then straightened her dress and bonnet, hesitated in the doorway. “You think you can charm the birds from the trees, Araminta, and maybe you can, but mark my words, you’re going to land in a bramble bush,” she said softly. “I predict that by the end of the season you’ll be marrying either Mr. Woking, and spending your days pleasing a fool for your pin money, or you’ll get your just desserts and have no choice but to wed evil Lord Debenham and be miserable.”

But Araminta had just decided at that very moment what she was going to be doing by the end of the season.

She flashed Hetty a smile. “No, I’m not, Hetty, because I’ve decided to marry Sir Aubrey. Thank you so much for laying out my options with such exquisite acuity. Indeed, I
shall
marry Sir Aubrey! You just see if I don’t.”

Her sister’s outrage was marvelous to behold—and it also made Araminta think that if Hetty had indeed lost her foolish, susceptible heart to Sir Aubrey, she needed to be taught a lesson so she was less careless of it in future.

***

T
he afternoon was to become even more entertaining, however, with the arrival of a strange and rather shocking note delivered by Araminta’s maid, Jane.

At first Araminta was so scandalized she could only imagine it a hoax. But on the heels of her indignation came curiosity. Of course, the writer—a young woman, claiming to bear an uncanny resemblance to Araminta that had been remarked upon by a certain member of high society—could only be a thief or a confidence trickster. How could she possibly imagine Araminta would just hand over a dress on the spurious claim the two had been mistaken for sisters, and that this young lady had an important mission to undertake which might benefit Araminta?

Araminta was always ready to take advantage of something that might benefit her, but this was going too far.

However, a few minutes later, Araminta couldn’t help herself. She hadn’t responded to the note, but yet she was at the bottom of the garden at the stipulated time, and when the young woman, a governess out for a walk with her two young charges, stopped by, Araminta was struck by both fascination and revulsion as she realized the truth of the young woman’s claim. She did indeed bear a striking resemblance to her. More than that, she was disturbingly familiar, and while Araminta had pledged to remain ignorant of the strange undercurrents of her father’s household in the country, the temptation to learn more was too tempting.

Especially when she learned it was Lord Debenham who had remarked upon the resemblance between them.

Upon further consideration, Araminta decided that if this young person was required to sketch His Lordship and needed a decent dress to do so, Araminta was ready to facilitate something that would gain her a greater insight into His Lordship’s conduct when Araminta was not around.

Sir Aubrey would also be at Mrs. Gargery’s garden party. Araminta was to be accompanying her mother to see the wild animals at the tower of London, but having Miss Hazlett keep an eye on the competition might serve Araminta rather well.

Miss Hazlett. Araminta asked if she were related to the Hazletts in her village, as her father had bought a pony from a Mrs. Hazlett who had lived in the cottage by the bridge.

Miss Hazlett had been vague, only saying that a great many tears had been shed over that horse.

***

L
issa, for her part, had regarded the proceedings with more dispassion. After all, she’d long known of Araminta’s existence. And no, she refused to refer to her in less than familiar terms, at least to herself. Araminta was no better than Lissa, just more fortunate.

It was their father whose sins had condemned three of his five surviving children to live lives shadowed by shame. Lissa’s brother, Ned, was more accepting than either Lissa or the fiercely spirited and dramatic Kitty, who said she would rather die or become an actress than be condemned to living out her life and branded a bastard in the village where she’d been born.

For the moment, however, it was in Lissa’s interests to keep up the charade that she had no idea of the real identity of Miss Araminta Partington; that she simply was trading on a chance likeness.

Araminta had cast her supercilious gaze over Lissa and clearly found her wanting before she summed up, “So, you’re asking for the loan of a gown, in return for information on a certain gentleman in whom I believe you have an interest. That’s a bold statement. Who do you suppose I’m interested in?”

“Lord Debenham. I was at Lady Knox’s ball and I observed you dancing with him immediately after he’d claimed a dance from me.  You were interested but you were unsure, too. Now you’d like me to help you ascertain what kind of gentleman he really is, otherwise, you’d have chosen to ignore my note.”

“Oh, you are good.” A gurgle of genuine mirth bubbled up from within the other girl. “I shan’t pay you a penny, if you’re hoping for money, but I shall lend you a gown—and if you don’t give it back you will regret it, I promise you that. But here.”

She handed a parcel over the fence and Lissa took it with a plethora of feelings warring within her. Anger at the world for putting her in the position of supplicant, anger at Araminta Partington for having the life Lissa should have had, and simple curiosity as to what might transpire tomorrow.

“Well, aren’t you going to thank me from the bottom of your heart?”

Lissa only just managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. “I haven’t seen the dress yet. It’s possible you’ve set out to humiliate me and the gown is too short or else in screamingly bad style.”

Araminta shrugged. “Take it and see for yourself. Though not before you pledge to give me a full report within two days’ time.”

***

L
issa met Cosmo on the corner of the street, where he was waiting in a hackney. She’d left the house wearing a drab brown pelisse, but the afternoon gown Araminta had lent her had been a perfect fit and was in the first stare though, to her surprise, it was not a gown a debutante would wear. A bold cerise color, adorned with ruffles of a lighter hue, it clung to her curves in a way that, while perfectly decorous for a garden party, nevertheless highlighted Lissa’s finer attributes.

And even though she had no full-length looking glass, she could tell by the way it molded her body and, later, the flare of interest in the glances of gentlemen of all ages, that she cut a fine figure. So while she smiled and nodded in response to the greetings she received, often coupled with the hopes that “Cosmo’s fair cousin enjoy her sadly too brief stay in London”, she was painfully aware that the pleasure of the moment was a cruel contrast to her reality.