The Tutor (House of Lords) (3 page)

Her whole life had been a lie. But Cynthia had refused to break, just as she had always done. Even when she had been a girl and he had stood over her, his face red with screaming, she had always stubbornly refused to break. She would come through this, she had told herself, and when she reached her majority at twenty-five—now she saw why he had made it twenty-five—she would go as soon as she could afford to do so. But if she were truly to be free, and she could not marry to escape him, she would have to find another way.

At first she had thought of taking work as a governess, but then she would have been answering to another master. So she had come up with a different plan. Carefully, cautiously, she had made friends with some of the silliest women she could find, women whose parents had wanted them taught to sew and sing and sketch and nothing more, women who hungered for something beyond the drawing room skills they had been learned at finishing school. And then she had showed them what they’d been missing. They had been grateful. The day after her first successful soiree, Mariah Maxwell had sent Cynthia a sapphire bracelet that had fetched a tidy sum in a pawnbroker’s shop in Piccadilly. Just a week ago, Lydia Baxter had sent her a small Delacroix study that she had sold to a dealer for twice what the bracelet had fetched. Women
wanted
what Cynthia could provide, they longed for it, and she would continue to do it until she had saved enough money to get away from Roger Endersby forever.

She thought of the rewards she might receive from the Duke of Danforth. If she did as he wished, he would certainly feel obliged to provide her with generous recompense. Perhaps even enough to rent a small home of her own somewhere in London—for Cynthia loved the city and had no wish to leave it—and live the life she had dreamed of for so long.

But working for someone as visible as the duke would also come with risks. So far, Cynthia had been able to keep her father from discovering her plan. He thought that she was making friends in society, mixing with young men and women of quality, and seeking out a spouse poised to do great things. She made up little vignettes about her afternoons in the drawing rooms of the well-to-do, her evenings at balls and the theatre, that made it seem as though she was doing exactly what he wanted. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t find out until she was already gone. If not, well, she had reached her majority at her last birthday, and she was technically free to do as she pleased.

The Duke of Danforth could help her do exactly that. It was a risk she could not afford
not
to take. He wanted to see her on Monday. She would go.

Her mind whirling, Cynthia went upstairs to select a gown for their interview.

THREE

January 6, 1834

“I don’t understand why you have to take up the seat at all,” Lord Anthony Beresford said as he and Charles rode down Rotten Row the morning after his return to town. “Couldn’t you just rusticate up in Suffolk until the Season gets interesting and then come down and hear a few debates?”

“I
could
,” Charles said, “but I think my mother would have my head, and then the shame of having a murderer in the family would kill her. No, I think I shall have to do my duty.” He almost shuddered at the word.

“It’s deadly dull stuff,” said Lord Beresford, who had been filling his hereditary seat as infrequently as possible for the last four years. “I nearly fell asleep during the king’s speech last year, and that was with Leo poking me in the ribs the whole time.”

“Well, this year you’ll have to stay awake so you can poke
me
,” Charles laughed.

“Honestly, Bain, are you sure about this? You weren’t exactly the most attentive student at Oxford. I’ve been to at least twenty debates since I took up my seat and I still don’t have any idea what in blazes they’re talking about most of the time. It’s an uphill slog, my friend.”

Charles nodded thoughtfully. Indeed, it felt as though he had been doing nothing but thinking for the last few days. He had had plenty of time to deliberate in the carriage on the way down, having been forced to ride inside by the inclement weather and the fact that Imogen and Gillian likely would have torn each other to shreds by the time they reached London if he hadn’t been there to keep them apart. His sisters could be sweet and engaging on their own; when forced into a small space together for two days, they became positive Gorgons. And neither of them had wanted to stay at Starling Court after his departure, since Ian would be leaving within a few days for Oxford as well. Charles didn’t blame them. The thought of being trapped in that great rambling house with only their mother for company would have been enough for him to ride a donkey all the way to London if it was the only means of escape.

But once his sisters had exhausted every polite remark they could make to each other and a few that were less than polite, they still had about twenty hours of traveling left, and most of that had been done in silence. Grateful that he hadn’t had to listen to twenty hours of ball gowns and presentation gowns and every other kind of gown under the sun, Charles had spent much of that time thinking of what lay before him.

Had he bitten off more than he could chew? Many men he knew sat in the House of Lords, most out of duty, and none of them seemed to have gone ‘round the bend. He could certainly do the same, especially if this woman Imogen had found could really do the things she claimed.

It would please his mother, too, at least for a while, to know that he was doing what his father would have wanted. It might even help assuage her grief a little. Charles had never pretended to understand his parents’ relationship. Near as he could tell, they hadn’t spoken to each other except in passing in about ten years, and yet his mother seemed genuinely grieved at the loss of his father. She was still wearing full costumes of black bombazine ten months after his death, with no sign of a shift in her wardrobe to second mourning. Charles thought she might choose to wear full mourning for the rest of her life, if it weren’t for the fact that she still had a daughter to bring out and four children who were unmarried. His mother deserved to grieve as long as she wanted, he supposed. She had taken great pride in being the Duchess of Danforth. She had always been proud of the fact that her husband had been a dutiful, upstanding man. At least, as far as she knew. Charles was aware that there were a few skeletons that had mercifully stayed hidden in the closet after his father’s death, and he hadn’t decided yet whether the rest of his family should know about them. If he could have chosen, he would rather not have discovered them, but he hadn’t been given a choice.

Now here was an opportunity for him to uphold the family name, to do what everyone expected of him. And he intended to excel, no matter how many friends and acquaintances cautioned him against it.

As he bid Beresford goodbye and turned his horse back towards St. James’s Square, Charles decided that he would do whatever it took to achieve the things that were anticipated of him and much, much more. And the woman who he expected that afternoon would help him.

“His Grace will see you now, Miss,” said the tall, thin, imperious butler, managing to sound not at all curious about her presence in the grand foyer of Danforth House. If he had, Cynthia would probably have told him that she was not exactly sure what she was doing here, either. The closer the hackney she had hired had drawn to the large mansion on the edge of St. James’s Square, the more she had begun to question the sensibility of her choice. But then she had been standing before the door, and the butler had opened it, and she had been left to wait in the foyer, unable to run and hide.

Now as the butler led her up the stairs and down the landing to a set of double doors, she reminded herself of what was at stake.
Freedom, Cynthia,
she thought.

Then she was being ushered into a massive library that appeared to double as a study. Behind a beautiful Sheraton desk, his back turned to her, stood a tall, lean man with sandy blond hair, his hands folded behind his back, his attention fixed on something out the tall, narrow window.

“Miss Endersby, Your Grace,” the butler said, and then he was gone and Cynthia was standing alone in the middle of the fine carpet.

“Thank you, Partridge.” The man turned slowly. When he saw her he appeared to pause, looking her up and down, his hazel eyes coolly penetrating. He looked like a duke, dignified and aloof. But then the corner of his mouth twitched into a wry smile, and he no longer looked like a duke.

He looked like a rake.

Cynthia dropped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“Miss Endersby,” he said, bowing his head. “Will you sit?” He gestured to a chair across the desk from him and waited for her to settle herself in it before taking his own seat.

“I understand from my sister that you are one of the cleverest women in London,” he began.

Cynthia did not attempt to deny it or pretend to be missish. She merely nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He gave her an assessing stare. Then he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, Miss Endersby, I am in need of your assistance.”

“So you gave me to understand in your letter,” Cynthia said smoothly. “I would be pleased to help, Your Grace. Perhaps you can tell me a little more about your areas of strength and deficiency.”

He cleared his throat, looking rather surprised by the directness of her request. Good. She had meant to throw him off guard, and she had. She wanted him to know that though he had the advantage of rank, she had the intellectual advantage. Otherwise he would never listen to what she had to say. “I am afraid I do not have a clear picture of the span of my knowledge,” he said. “I need to know everything you can tell me about Parliament, of course. And about the current political climate. And...well, I’m not sure about the rest.” He put one elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his head on his hand. It was such an informal pose that Cynthia was thrown off her guard momentarily.

“You really don’t know very much at all, do you?” she asked, laughing. Instantly she wished she hadn’t said it. She felt herself blushing right to the roots of her hair.

But he smiled. “No, I don’t. That’s why I need you. I’m not afraid to admit my ignorance, Miss Endersby. I just hope your knowledge is as extensive as my sister’s friend claims.”

She smiled. “I think you will be pleased with what I can teach you, Your Grace.”

His lip twitched again. It made him look even more daring and reckless, as if he might at any moment do something foolish and exciting. Cynthia wasn’t sure what the half-smile meant, but she got the impression that it wasn’t a good thing. She hoped he wasn’t laughing at her.

“Your father was a professor at Oxford, was he not?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He taught history and mathematics.”

“Why did he stop?”

If anyone else had asked her that question, she would probably not have answered, or at least responded with a flippant reply. But the Duke of Danforth, sitting behind the great desk in all his state, was allowed to ask her whatever he liked. “He came into his inheritance, Your Grace, and he wished to spend more time writing his scholarly articles.” There. That was close enough to the truth.

“I see. You know, I was in one of his tutorials.”

“Were you?” Cynthia did not remember her father ever mentioning having a future duke in one of his sessions. But then, he had rarely told her anything about his work. It was another way he had kept from forming any sort of real attachment with her, by treating her as though she were merely another piece of furniture.

“I’m afraid I didn’t attend much. That’s why I need you now,” he joked.

“I understand, Your Grace. When would you like to begin?”

“As soon as possible.”

“I can give you Tuesday and Thursday afternoons until the session begins.” She had planned to offer only one day a week, but she saw now that the situation was rather more grave than she had imagined.

“You may rest assured I will reward you handsomely for your services,” he said. “I know it is impolite to mention such a thing, but I want you to understand that I value the help you can give me.”

“Of course, Your Grace. It is my pleasure to be of service,” Cynthia said, hoping that she didn’t sound too bemused.

“Very well. Will I see you here tomorrow at two, then?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Cynthia said.

He stood, and so did she. As he escorted her to the door, he put his hand on her elbow. She fought the urge to shy away—it would do no good to alienate him. But she made a mental note that she would have to make clear her function as a tutor, nothing more. When they reached the doors, they were opened by the footmen who had been dutifully waiting outside. “Until tomorrow, then, Miss Endersby,” the duke said. She curtsied again and then the butler was ushering her out the front door. She turned to look back and saw the duke standing on the landing, looking down at her. It was not a friendly look. She knew what he was thinking. He was wondering if he would get what he paid for.

“So, will she come?” Imogen asked as Charles strode into the drawing room.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, and every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon until the session begins.”

Imogen frowned as she poured him a cup of tea. “I hope you’re not planning on treating her like a servant. She is a genteel young lady.”

“Have you ever met her?”

“Miss Cynthia Endersby? No.”

“Then how do you know she’s genteel?”

Imogen scoffed. “She is a gentleman’s daughter.”

“I don’t know. I was in one of her father’s tutorials at Oxford, and I think ‘gentleman’ is a hard epithet to make stick to Roger Endersby. He was a real bear. Brilliant, of course, but a bear nonetheless.”

“Does that make Miss Endersby a bear cub?” Gillian asked, looking up from the ladies’ magazine she had been closely studying. Charles had hardly seen the younger of his two sisters since they arrived in town. She had been at fittings all morning, and the bills that had already arrived at Danforth House from her modiste were staggering. He hoped she found a husband this Season, or she might bankrupt the dukedom.

No, neither of those things was true, Charles reminded himself. He did not hope Gilly married this Season. She was eighteen. He couldn’t imagine Imogen, who was five years Gilly’s senior, being married. And even if he had to give her a dozen London seasons, she still would not put a dent in the family fortune. His father had seen to that, at least.

“What is she like?” Imogen asked.

“Like? Unbearably intelligent, I think.”

“No, what does she look like?”

Charles shrugged. “I didn’t notice, really. Red hair, I think.” This was a lie, of course. He had noticed Miss Cynthia Endersby’s looks immediately, mostly because he had been expecting a withered, cynical old spinster. To find a pretty, poised young lady with copper colored curls and milky pale skin standing on the Aubusson carpet before him had come as something of a shock, and he was rather worried that he had betrayed his surprise.

But that needn’t be a concern. His mother had spent the last five years parading every accomplished, pretty young lady of the
ton
—and a few of the less accomplished girls as well—before him at any ball, soiree or tea he chose to attend, and their mothers had done the same. If he could withstand the onslaught of women who had been bred to snare a duke, he could certainly remain impervious to Miss Cynthia Endersby, who for all her beauty seemed to be largely without the social graces many of those prospective brides had possessed.

“Charles?” Imogen said.

He blinked at her. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Gillian groaned. “She asked if we might have Miss Endersby to tea one afternoon when she is not pounding whatever knowledge she has to impart into that thick head of yours.”

Charles looked at Imogen. “Well, I didn’t use those words exactly. But may we, Charles? Mariah said she is quite a lovely young woman. How old would you say she is?”

“Your age at least,” Charles replied, though he really wasn’t sure. There was something...ancient about Miss Endersby, as if she had a great weight pressing down upon her. When she had gazed across the desk at him with those bright green eyes he had felt as though he had been weighed and measured and been found somehow wanting.

“Well, we’ll have her to tea and find out,” Gillian said.

Charles didn’t doubt it. Imogen and Gillian could be remarkably persistent. “Yes, I suppose you will.”

The girls appeared quite determined, still discussing the matter when they came down to supper later. Then they moved on to the subject of the presentation gown Gilly had been fitted for earlier that day, and Charles was glad to be able to lapse into silence.