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Two days later, and after another foray into a bog closer to home, Marguerite could not get the sight of those dejected little girls out of her mind. Nor the way their father loomed over them. He’d been terrifying. Dark haired, broad shouldered, tall and ruggedly handsome. Handsome? Well and so he might be, but looks meant nothing. It was actions. He was clearly a brute.
She had wanted to say more on the matter of punishment, but she also knew that sometimes arguing with angry males only made them worse. She could only hope that he had calmed down before he decided on a punishment. He had seemed to listen to her words, even if he had seemed shocked by her temerity at speaking up.
She had quickly learned not to argue with Neville or he would find some way to hurt her: a pinch on her arm, a slap to the back of her head, places where no one would see the marks. But Neville was gone and she was dashed if she would remain silent while another man did things she did not like.
Marguerite stared at the dissected flower on the table. She needed to stop thinking about the broodingly handsome Lord Compton and his children and concentrate on drawing this plant. She only had this one to complete and she would have completed her contract and she could send them away. If all was approved, she should get her payment within two weeks.
Lord knew she needed it.
Instead of worrying about those two little girls she should be worrying about what was in the pantry for dinner. But that would have to come later, when she had finished this sketch. She picked up her ruler and measured each yellow petal.
* * *
When next she raised her gaze, she realised what had been troubling her for the past half-hour. She rubbed her eyes. It was almost too dark to see. With the light rapidly fading, she would have to finish the work tomorrow. She got up, stretched and lit two candles. Not enough to work by, but enough that she would not fall over the furniture.
She went down to the kitchen. Bread and cheese would have to do for this evening.
A scrap of paper sticking out from beneath her door caught her eye. Her stomach fell away. It could not be... He had given her a month to get the money together. She snatched up the paper and took it over to the table, where the light was better.
Five pounds. A week hence. To be deducted from the final payment.
She dropped her head in her hands. How on earth could she get five pounds in a week? She would have to meet him and explain.
Oh, what an idiot she had been to draw that picture. A thirteen-year-old idiot who had had the mad idea she would become famous and admired for her talent. Famous artist? What a joke. Yes, she was good at copying things exactly, but it had come as a rude awakening when she had discovered she did not have the skill required to bring her paintings to life. Technically good, the drawing master had said, but no flair. Peeved by the comments, she had launched herself into a furious caricature of her teacher. Her brothers and sister roared with laughter at her depiction. Encouraged, she had drawn their neighbours and friends, highlighting their foibles with what she thought was wit. Her siblings’ laughter and admiration had been heady, but, as they say, pride went before a fall. Drawing a very unflattering and lewd picture of the Prince of Wales with his mistress was the worst mistake she had ever made. What an idiot she had been to sign that dreadful sketch.
But hers wasn’t the only blame. Even she’d had the sense not to show anyone that particular sketch. She should have burned it. Of course, Neville, when he found it, had to show his horrid friends. Embarrassment rose in her in a hot, horrible tide. They had all seen it and laughed about it like nasty little boys. But once the novelty wore off, she’d been sure he’d destroyed it. He’d said so. She swallowed bile. Trusting anything he said had been the height of stupidity.
If it did get published with her name on it, her family would be so ashamed. And if they tried to support her, they would likely also be ostracised from society. She could not let that happen. She had to get it back and destroy it. And since she didn’t know the identity of the man who had approached her at Petra’s wedding and had no way to contact him, she would just have to find a way to get the money. She had begged him to wait until she could gather enough money to pay him what he was asking. Twenty-five pounds was a fortune, but with her next payment from the publisher, and using the money she had saved for next quarter’s rent, she could do it.
She bit her lip. Perhaps she should ask her brother Red, the Earl of Westram, for money, but knowing Red he would insist on knowing why she needed it and likely insist she live with him. Unfortunately, he was about to marry a woman who she really did not like. She had no trouble imagining how miserable she would be under that woman’s thumb. It would be nearly as bad as being married to Neville. Red’s future wife did not approve of independent women. Or artists. Or life in general. How on earth could Red—?
She cut the thought off. He had offered for Miss Featherstone and she had accepted and that was all there was to it. But one thing was certain: Marguerite was not going to move into their home.
If only Petra and Ethan were not away at the moment. She might have gone to them for a loan. Petra would give her whatever she needed. But then again, if Marguerite started to borrow money, where would it end? No. She had insisted on her independence and she was determined to make her own way. It just seemed so unfair that Neville had come back from the grave to ruin everything.
Her head started to ache.
She winced. That was all she needed. A headache. She put the kettle on to boil. A tisane would help and a little willow bark. And then she would figure out a way to earn some extra money.
Chapter Two (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)
Jack had indeed been rude to Lady Marguerite Saxby. Marguerite. What a pretty name. Every time he spotted daisies in his lawn or on the roadside, which was all the time, he was reminded that he owed her an apology. Which was why, two days after she had brought his girls home, he was here in Westram village, wondering how to visit her in a way that would not get tongues wagging. It would be ideal if he came across her shopping in the village, or even picking flowers in her garden. A chance meeting would allow him to offer his gratitude and move on.
The post office seemed the best place to start his search. Once he’d had a chance to think about things clearly, he’d recalled who she was. He’d come across her name when he’d been called upon to help sort out the local vicar’s wife. For some reason, she had taken to stealing from the villagers and blaming it on a band of gypsies camped nearby. While he had not met Lord Westram’s widowed sisters during the course of his investigation, he’d certainly heard about them.
All three of them had been widowed on the same day. Their husbands had died on the Iberian Peninsula, having gone off together to join the army because of some sort of wager. It had been quite the on dit among the ton. So much so, the story had made its way to his little corner of Kent.
No doubt Lady Marguerite would have learned about his wife’s murder two years before. There had even been some who thought he might have done it, despite he had witnesses to account for his whereabouts. Perhaps that accounted for her hostility towards him.
‘Good day, Lord Compton,’ Mr Barker said. ‘We don’t often see you here in Westram.’ His beady eyes were alight with curiosity. Devil take the man.
‘I was passing through and recalled I was in need of...’ his gaze fell on a stone jar behind the counter ‘...snuff.’
Barker looked shocked. ‘My lord, I do not think that what I have is in any way up to your refined taste.’
In other words, why on earth would a man of his stature want to buy cheap snuff? ‘Oh, ’tis not for me, but for my children’s nanny.’
Barker instantly cheered. He took down the jar and began weighing. ‘An ounce is enough, my lord?’
‘Perfect,’ Jack said. The noticeboard caught his eyes, or rather a very artfully drawn poster. Drawing teacher willing to provide lessons, it proclaimed.
‘Notice went up yesterday,’ Barker said. ‘Lady Marguerite, looking for students.’ He shook his head in a ‘what is the world coming to’ sort of way.
How very...fortuitous. ‘I see.’ He tipped his head as if considering the matter. ‘My daughters could benefit from some drawing lessons. The older one has some talent, I think.’
‘Lady Marguerite would be the right sort of person for your daughters, my lord. Very nice in her taste, she is. You’ll find her at Westram Cottage, should you wish to enquire.’
He could not have found a better excuse to visit the widowed Lady Marguerite. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Barker. How much do I owe you for the snuff?’ He paid with the coin he had in his pocket and left the shop with a more purposeful step than when he had entered.
* * *
Westram Cottage lay at the far end of the village. A pretty little place, with yellow roses growing in the garden and over a trellis around the front door.
Did he really want to give in to this unusual impulse to hire a drawing teacher?
What he really needed was a governess for his daughters. She would teach them drawing. So, was this about his daughters, or about his interest in the lady? Because he could not seem to get her out of his head.
Nonsense. Nanny was right. He owed her an apology. The fact that she was looking for paid employment was also a puzzle. A widow living alone was usually of independent means. Now, puzzles interested him. He liked solving mysteries. Therefore, it was not the lady herself that had him intrigued, but her circumstances. For example, what had she been doing tramping around the countryside by herself? And looking delightfully dishevelled to boot?
He pushed that thought away. Nanny James was right, he really did owe her a thank-you.
He knocked on the door. Silence. No footsteps coming to the door. No sounds of occupation coming from inside. He stepped back and looked up. No smoke coming from any of the chimneys either. Clearly the lady was not home. Nor were any of her servants.
He pulled his card from his pocket, intending to write a promise to call on her the next day, when he heard a scraping sound from the rear of the house. Likely a groom working in the stables. Someone he could ask about the lady’s whereabouts and expected hour of return. He followed the path around the side of the house to a small stable at the end of a well-cared-for garden.
He entered the stable and gaped at the sight of Lady Marguerite, mucking out in a pair of men’s breeches and boots. He should leave.
Too late! As if sensing his presence, the woman looked up, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and gaped back at him. ‘Lord Compton,’ she said. She glanced down at herself and winced.
She straightened, holding her shovel before her like a shield. It did nothing to hide her lovely figure. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Devil take it. The woman must be one of those freethinking sorts. No wonder she had seemed so odd the day before. Was she really the sort of person he wanted teaching his girls?
‘I...er...’ He still held his calling card in his hand. He held it out.
She made no move to take it.
He cast around wildly for something to say and decided, as usual, that the truth was best. ‘I apologise for my interruption. Having received no answer at the front door and hearing sounds of activity, I came to enquire when you might be expected home.’
She frowned. ‘I see.’
‘I came to apologise for my rudeness. I should have thanked you for bringing my daughters safely home. My concern overrode my good manners, I am sorry to say. So...thank you.’
She leaned her shovel against the stable wall and folded her arms. ‘Apology accepted.’
He did not feel as if it was accepted. It seemed to be more a question of it being tolerated as being due, but not particularly welcome.
‘I saw your notice in the post office,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Again, she swept back that unruly curl. The rest of her hair was severely restrained beneath her plain widow’s cap. ‘Were you interested in drawing lessons for your daughters?’
Hah. Finally, he had caught her interest. Why he might have wanted to see the sharpening of her gaze, and the curiosity in her expression, he could not imagine. And now what was he to say? No? ‘I was interested in discussing the matter, certainly.’
‘I see.’
Good lord, the woman was positively enigmatic with her answers. In his experience, most women were garrulous in the extreme and said little of import. This one seemed to put a world of meaning into every syllable.
‘When might you be available to discuss the matter?’ he said firmly, determined to take charge of this one-sided conversation. ‘Shall I call on you tomorrow?’ When he returned he would tell her he had changed his mind. She was not the sort of influence he wanted for his children.
She waved an arm. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’
Blast.
She upturned a bucket and perched on it. He leaned against one of the posts supporting the rails of the nearest stall. There was only one equine occupant. A small grey mare with a dark circle around one eye. The animal looked well fed and well cared for.
‘Where is your groom?’ he asked, unable to contain his question any longer.
She started. ‘Um... He is not here at the moment. He has gone to visit his sick mother.’
Jack narrowed his eyes on her face. Her gaze did not meet his. He knew a lie when he heard one. He’d become an expert, both at home and with his work for the Parish. ‘It would have saved us both embarrassment if someone had answered the front door,’ he said, sounding more irritated that he intended.
She raised her chin. ‘The servants have the day off.’
Another lie. He hated lies and deceit, and this lady was not very good at either. He was sincerely doubting the wisdom of this visit. He was going to have to extricate himself from the situation as best he could.
‘Are your daughters interested in learning to draw?’ Lady Marguerite asked, clearly anxious to change the topic from the issue of her servants. For some reason, despite he didn’t trust her to speak the truth, her worry troubled him.
With the exercise of a good deal of self-control, he avoided staring at the shapely legs encased in buckskin and neatly crossed at the ankle. ‘I honestly do not know,’ he said. ‘I saw your advertisement quite by chance. I have not given it proper consideration.’
She sighed. There was something resigned about that sigh. It only added to his disquiet. Nevertheless, she straightened her spine and now looked him in the eye. ‘My fee is one guinea per hour for both girls. I would suggest two hours of lessons two afternoons a week. At least, until they have mastered the rudiments. I require payment by the week in advance.’
Well, that was frank speaking. He narrowed his eyes. ‘May I enquire as to your qualification for such instruction?’
She looked startled, then blushed, a beautiful wash of colour that rose from her neck to her forehead. He relaxed. The woman was nowhere near as controlled and detached as she made out.
* * *
Marguerite felt herself go hot all over and knew that her face would now be scarlet. She hated the way she blushed at the slightest thing. And it wasn’t just because he was handsome and looking at her with an intensity that for some reason made her stomach flutter. This time it was justified. Blast it, she had been so taken with her idea about giving lessons, she hadn’t given a thought to qualifications.
Or at least... ‘I can show you some of my work,’ she said. ‘But I must be honest. While I took lessons as a girl in the schoolroom, I have never taught anyone.’
He pursed his lips. Such a stern, serious man. A tall man with broad shoulders. In the old days, when her brothers ran riot on their estate, they might have described him as a bruiser of a man. But he was more than that. He was a nobleman and he was a gentleman in his prime. A very attractive gentleman, for all that he seemed to view the world with suspicion.
He clearly hadn’t liked apologising to her, or expressing his gratitude. And why on earth had he come around to the back of her house? Any rational gentleman would have simply written a note on his card, stuck it beneath the knocker and left. On the other hand, he was the local magistrate. Perhaps he made a habit of prowling around other people’s property.
In the dim light of the stable, the way he stood looming over her, he looked almost menacing. As if he would arrest her and lock her up in a heartbeat, given the opportunity.
Dash it all. She had had enough of being intimidated by a man. She glared back.
And besides, now she had admitted she had no qualifications to teach his children, he would politely refuse to employ her and go, leaving her to her embarrassment at being found mucking out the stables in a pair of old buskin breeches she had found while she was looking in the attic for rags with which to clean the windows.
The next job on her list.
Dash it, she should be drawing, not undertaking menial tasks. But until she could pay for the return of her sketch, she could not afford to hire anyone to help with the chores.
‘Very well,’ he said.
She looked at him blankly.
‘I will look at your work.’
Relief filled her. ‘If you would give me a moment, I will bring some out.’
He gave her a considering look. ‘Why don’t we go inside? I will make us a cup of tea while you fetch down your portfolio.’
‘Make tea?’ she said, scarcely believing her ears.
‘I used to do so all the time when I was at university. I am sure I have not forgotten the way of it.’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘By the time the kettle boils you will have had a chance to...er...freshen up.’
Her mouth dried. He meant her to change her clothes. Heat scorched her face. The man probably thought her completely harum-scarum. Not at all the right sort of teacher for his children. But if she could convince him to hire her, it would make her life so much easier.
‘I will meet you in the kitchen in ten minutes,’ she said. She left the barn, back straight and head held high, and tried not to imagine him watching her as she marched into the house.
* * *
She was almost finished dressing when she heard the kitchen door open and close. Was he leaving? Had she taken too long? The sound of china rattling set her mind to rest. He must have lingered in the stable to give her time to prepare herself. She had not expected such courtesy from such a dour man.
She glanced in the mirror and pinned a stray lock under her cap. There. That would have to do. She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen.
His Lordship was nowhere to be seen.
‘Lord Compton?’
He emerged from the pantry. ‘I found some biscuits,’ he said and grinned. He looked so startlingly handsome, she stared at him open-mouthed. She’d been saving those biscuits for the next time the vicar came to call. The new vicar was a very pleasant young man. And single. Not that Marguerite had any interest in single gentlemen. But he always looked as if he needed a good meal and always wolfed down her biscuits.
His smile faded. ‘I am sorry, I should not have gone poking around in your pantry.’
She let go a breath. ‘No. It is perfectly all right. I am glad you found them. I like biscuits. They are shortbread, I believe. My favourite.’ Stop. He’d think her a fool for gabbling on like this. Indeed, there was a very odd look on his face. Disapproval, she thought.
