The Governess Club: Louisa (21 page)

“Are you expecting a witty quip? Because I’m not in the mood for it right now. I’m bloody cold and the woman I love just told me she killed a man.”

“Right. It was six years ago.”

When she stopped speaking, he bowed his head. “That part was simple to deduce. Just tell me.”

Louisa took a deep breath. “His name was Lord Blaine Darleigh. A friend of my brother’s from Oxford. Last night Matthew was apologizing for the way he had been. Darleigh was part of that set. The drinking, the gambling, I assume the whoring as well. I was seventeen, so he was still my guardian, but Matthew was more drunk than sober in those years. Once, when he was still suffering from his previous night’s revelries, I talked him into letting me live at Willowcrest, a small estate that was part of my mother’s dowry. I just wanted to get away from him and his drunkenness.

“What I didn’t count on was Matthew using the estate as a gambling stake the week after I moved. And he lost it. To Darleigh. He showed up the next day, without warning, with the deed, stating that the bet was for the estate and all of its contents. Contents he . . . took to . . . include . . . me.”

John drew himself up, but didn’t speak.

She felt the familiar cloak of detachment fall over her shoulders. She had been wearing it for so many years to avoid emotional entanglements and it would serve her well as she told this story. She heard the impassiveness in her voice. “I fought him. Truly fought him. I hadn’t ever physically fought anyone in my life before then; I didn’t even know I had it in me. But I did fight. We were in the drawing room, later the library, when I tried to run away. I thought there might be something in there I could use as a weapon.

“It turned out the only weapon I needed was myself. We were by the hearth when I pushed him away again. He stumbled, tripped over my embroidery basket, I think, and hit his head against the mantle. The blood just . . . gushed out of his head. I stared at it, at the puddle that was growing on the floor, and couldn’t think. I just looked at it. It was so red—not as bright as one would think, but darker, almost like—I can’t even think of what to compare it to. A dress? I’ve never seen a sunset that color before. It just was . . . red.

“It was thinking about how difficult it would be to clean up that spurred me into action. I knew if I was found with a dead body in my library, the body of a peer, I would be charged. My brother wouldn’t be able to help me. My servants wouldn’t be in a position to help me. There was no one. No one. The only thing I could think of to do was to leave. Run. Become someone new. Before yesterday, I hadn’t even heard my full name in six years. Anna-Louise Brockhurst.

“Cumberland was the first place I went. I was a companion, but that only lasted a couple of months. Then I was a governess. I kept bouncing from family to family, always choosing families that were merchants looking to break into the nobility somehow, but people who wouldn’t know me. But two years ago, I was in a town where I met three other governesses. We became friends and I convinced them to pool our resources to create our own private school.”

She smiled sadly. “Complete independence. I wouldn’t be subjected to the whims of employers, wouldn’t have to defend myself against any man, complete financial and personal independence. That is where Jacob Knightly and Stephen Montgomery come in. Claire and Bonnie married them, and Sara was marrying the vicar, Charles Pomeroy; I don’t know the connection to the man with the cane. But with each marriage, the Governess Club fell more and more apart. As much as it isn’t for me, their marriages are important to them and I couldn’t ask them to sacrifice that for me. And there would come a point when they wouldn’t have time for the club at all.

“So I left. Again. And that’s how I ended up at the Beefy Buzzard. And now here we are.”

Silence settled around them, her story told. The forgotten cold made itself known again and Louisa sipped more of the brandy, her eyes not leaving John. He was hunched over, rubbing his head, an action that showed his distress.

It was odd, speaking her story out loud. She still couldn’t define how she felt. But something else was creeping up on her and it felt suspiciously like—worry. Worry about what John was thinking, what he was feeling about her revelation, how he was not speaking. So unlike him.

She swallowed. Had hearing the truth about her killed his love for her? She didn’t want to admit how much that thought scared her, how much she wanted him to continue to love her.

Louisa reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing his sleeve before pulling back. “John?”

“You were never married?”

She shook her head. “No. It was easier for me to travel alone if I posed as a widow.”

He took the brandy from her and took a long swallow. “We need to get moving,” he finally said. “The horse must be cold.” He flicked the reins and the cart jolted into motion, turning back in the direction they had come.

“We’re going back ho—to the Beefy Buzzard?” she asked.

He nodded. “You said you didn’t like who you were, how you keep running. I figure the only way to change that is to stop running.”

Panic bubbled up in her and she struggled to tamp it down. “But, Darleigh—Matthew—I will be arrested if I’m found.”

“That is a possibility,” he conceded. “But it was self-defense. The courts should recognize that.”

“What?”

“As for being a fugitive, well, we’ll find you a good lawyer. Your brother must know someone.”

“But—”

John finally looked at her and took her hand. “I know you can look after yourself. I know you are strong enough to do many things without me. But you don’t have to anymore. You don’t have to be alone; you can make the choice to allow me to do this with you. For whatever you need, I will be here. That is what I am going to do with my love for you. Love you with it.”

He gave her a small smile and squeezed her hand. “So yes, we’re going home.”

J
ohn sipped his tea from the large pewter mug, his dirty breakfast plate beside him on the bar. It was early yet, the closed sign still hanging in the window. He had debated opening as usual, but decided against it. The staff would tend to their current customers, but all others would be turned away. He would not give Louisa any means of distraction, not today.

His gaze roved over the other occupants in the room. Rose was doing a fine job of seeing to Louisa’s brother and family and the three gentlemen who had come in search of her. The two blond-haired children sat with their parents, the elder daughter chattering away and the younger one continually staring at him. Her brother kept casting glances in his direction, ones that he could not quite interpret but still recognized the challenge in them; John didn’t bother returning any of them. One of the three gentlemen—the Scottish one—was studiously reading a week-old newspaper, his face hidden. The other two were having a murmured conversation as they ate.

He had not slept again once they had returned to the inn. John had spent the remaining hours of the night with Louisa tucked into his side, her shivering finally abating as her body warmed. She had fallen into an exhausted sleep, one she had yet to wake from, and he was loath to disturb her. It had been a trying few days for her—a trying
six years
for her.

So he had lain there, feeling the warmth of the blankets and her body. He couldn’t stop wondering how this would all develop. He didn’t want to contemplate her locked in a place like Newgate or whatever passed as the local constable’s cell, but the reality kept threatening to move beyond the periphery, leaving him chilled.

Movement captured his attention from his tea. Matthew Brockhurst was standing by his table, his wife holding on to his arm. The man leaned down and said something that put a resigned look on her face and caused her hand to drop. She pasted a smile on and turned her attention to her daughters, encouraging them in their meal.

Baron Brockhurst—
yea gods,
John thought,
how stupid am I to ignore the signs she is nobility?
—straightened his coat, his eyes fastened on John as he tried to affect a casual demeanor. The conversation at the other table paused and the newspaper lowered enough to be seen over. The air in the room condensed as the baron moved closer to John, the tension hanging palpably. All eyes were on them.

The man came to a stop a few feet away, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Good morning, Taylor,” he greeted in his cultured voice.

John straightened, keeping his hands on the bar, bobbing his head in what passed as a bow. “Milord.”

Brockhurst gave him a small smile. “Shall we dispense with the formalities? We are brothers by marriage, after all. It would be awkward for you to ‘milord’ me over Christmas dinner.”

“If you insist.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the room. “You know, I saw you fight a few years ago. In St. Albans.”

John searched his brain for a moment. “Against Black-Eyed Stan? If I recall, I felled him in one round.”

“Yes. Sadly, I bet against you.”

John pressed his lips together. “I understand your betting history is not the most successful.”

His brows knit together in confusion. “I’ve had my losses, as has every gentleman.”

John chose not to respond to that, taking another sip of tea.

Brockhurst cleared his throat and glanced around John. “Is Anna-Louise still sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“Does she—uh—does she normally sleep this late?”

“No.”

Brockhurst gestured to the kitchen door. “Can you go wake her? I would like to speak with her.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

John drank more tea, setting his cutlery on his dirty plate. “I will rephrase. I can go wake her, I do have that ability, but I will not.”

Brockhurst started to scowl. “I don’t quite follow.”

John looked him clear in the eye. “She had a trying day yesterday, followed by a similar night. She needs her rest and I intend for her to get it.”

“She is my sister.”

“I am aware of that. She also announced to you yesterday that she is my wife.”

“I can go back and do it myself.”

“I see a few issues with that. First, you don’t know where she is sleeping and I don’t like the idea of you wandering about my inn disturbing my other guests. Second, you would disrupt my staff at work, another thing I would not appreciate. Third, you would have to get through me first and I don’t actually see you being successful at that. One round, remember?”

Brockhurst’s scowl deepened. “Did you just threaten a peer of the realm?”

John shook his head. “I stated my intention of protecting those who are close to me.”

The scrape of a chair ripped through the tension. Both men looked back at one of three gentlemen rising and making his way over. Yea gods, another one to come lay claim on Louisa?

The newcomer stuck out his hand to Brockhurst. “Don’t think we’ve met. Jacob Knightly.”

Brockhurst eyed the hand with disdain. “Mr. Knightly?” He turned his head away.

A knowing grin crossed Knightly’s face and he glanced at John as if to say
Watch this
. “Yes. Mr. Jacob Knightly. Formerly the Earl of Rimmel, before my sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Maberly, experienced the joyful event of providing my brother, the Marquess of Maberly—yes, the eldest son of the Duke of—with his heir, thus reducing me to the spare’s spare, sans title.”

Brockhurst’s face flushed during that little speech, something that brought John a small degree of satisfaction. To his credit, he recovered well and offered his hand. “Matthew Brockhurst, Baron of. Anna-Louise is my sister.”

“Yes, that came up last night.” Jacob continued to smile. “It seems to me that whatever you want with our Louisa, you have to go through this man. Even if I were on your side, I don’t think you would be on the winning side of that bet. Too bad I’m on his. They are too.” He gestured to his friends, the blond one fingering his wolf’s-head cane and the Scottish one with his newspaper folded in front of him.

“Jesus, I just want to talk to my sister,” the man muttered. “It’s been six years. I had all but given her up for dead and now I find her here.”

John looked at him, compassion softening his approach. “I’m not saying no, I’m just saying be patient. Let her sleep.”

“For how long?”

He shrugged. “As long as she needs. You have a wife, you know how it works.”

A commiserating smile tugged at his lips. “Indeed. When she wakes, keep her here.” He nodded and turned on his heel to return to his family. He spoke with them quietly and gathered them up to return to their room.

John shared a look with Knightly. “Can I get you anything?”

Knightly cocked an eyebrow. “Is it too early for Scotch?”

“Not if you don’t want it to be.”

A full-fledged grin broke out on his face. “Oh, we are going to get along well. Just make sure it’s the good stuff.”

“When you only deserve pig swill?” John returned his grin. “I’ll see what I can find.”

L
ouisa stepped into the kitchen to see Timothy and Alan putting away dishes Maisie was washing. “Why aren’t you working?” she asked, her brow knitted. “I thought you were making steak-and-kidney pies today?”

Maisie looked up. “Mr. Taylor closed the pub today. Not much to do.”

“What? He closed the pub? Why would he do that?”

Maisie shrugged. “He just said we only had to see to the ones already here.”

Louisa straightened, grateful to have something to focus on instead of her impending crisis. “Where is he?”

“Out in the pub.”

She spun on her heel and marched out, all business. He should not have made such a decision without consulting her. Did he understand how much revenue they would lose? The boxing mill was still on and people needed to eat. And drink. She pulled open the door to the pub and stepped into the room, freezing immediately.

John was sitting at a table with Jacob, Stephen and Nathan, glasses in front of them and a half-empty bottle of Scotch. They were laughing at something while her brother sat across the room, watching them with his own glass of Scotch, a short, portly man at his table.