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‘No woman alone is entirely safe, Lady Marguerite. As a magistrate, I have reason to know this. Walking out alone at night is in itself a recipe for disaster. And, you know, I have a vested interest in your safety. My daughters would not like to lose their teacher.’
With a start she recalled hearing that his wife had been murdered while out one evening alone. And he was not wrong. Only moments ago, in that dark alley she had been terrified for her life. ‘Then I shall be more careful in future.’
He bowed. ‘Goodnight, Lady Marguerite.’
‘Lord Compton.’
She stepped inside, then closed and bolted the door. She leaned her back against it, listening for his retreating footsteps. She had the strangest feeling that he had lingered, waiting to hear the bolt slide home.
Imagination. He had no real reason to care if she was safe or not, even if he was a man who liked to control the lives of those around him. Besides, she would never be safe until she dealt with her persecutor.
Once that occurred, she would also be free of His Lordship’s unsettling presence. He was far too domineering, too strict in his notions with regard to his daughters, for her liking. She could not help but be sorry for the poor little motherless mites.
Perhaps that was what they needed. A mother.
A handsome and wealthy man like Lord Compton ought to have no trouble finding a wife. A little stab of something pierced her heart. What, was she jealous of this unknown female and future wife? Surely not?
As she knew to her cost, good looks and wealth did not guarantee happiness.
Chapter Four (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)
When the following Friday rolled around, Jack found himself glancing at the clock repeatedly. The hands seemed to move so slowly, he had actually checked to see if it needed winding. It did not.
He glanced out of the window. The storm from the previous evening had passed through and, while the sky remained overcast, the rain had ceased and the clouds were slowly moving off to the west. The weather should not be an impediment to his daughters’ drawing teacher.
When the clock rang out the hour of two o’clock and then fifteen minutes past the hour and then the half-hour and Lady Marguerite had still not arrived, he began to worry. A cold dark place opened up in his chest. A sense of impending doom.
He fought it off. The woman was late, that was all. Ladies were often late. They made a point of it. And it wasn’t as if she was travelling alone.
The butler poked his head around the door. ‘My lord?’
‘What is it, Laughton?’
‘Nanny James, my lord. She asked if you would visit the nursery. It seems there is a bit of a contretemps.’
Nanny had promised to once more have Lizzie and Janey in their best bibs and tuckers to await the arrival of Lady Marguerite. They would be getting restless. And when they were restless, they got up to mischief. With a sigh, he headed upstairs.
His oldest child knelt on the window seat, looking out. Janey was crying with her face in Nanny’s lap. Nanny gave him a look of appeal.
‘Ladies,’ he said.
Lizzie jumped down. Her hair was a mess, flopping around her face, her expression held defiance and there were tear stains on her face. He frowned. ‘What happened to you, Lizzie?’
‘Janey said it was my fault Lady Marguerite isn’t coming today. I said it was her fault. She pulled my hair, so I slapped her.’
Janey looked up. ‘I punched her back.’ She buried her face.
‘This will not do,’ he said. ‘Ladies do not brawl, they, they—’
Lizzie folded her arms across her chest. ‘They turn the other cheek. That’s what Nanny said. Well, that is not fair. And it’s not my fault Lady Marguerite didn’t come today, just because I said I didn’t want to draw silly circles and squares...’
He frowned. ‘Is that what you said?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘I wanted to draw a horse.’
‘Circles and squares make a horsey,’ Janey said, though her voice was muffled by Nanny’s ample skirts. ‘Lady Marguerite showed us.’
‘Lizzie, if you were rude to Lady Marguerite, you will apologise,’ Jack said in his fiercest Father voice.
Lizzie’s shoulders drooped. ‘I want to draw a real horse.’
Perhaps this drawing-teacher notion of his was not such a good idea after all. Indeed, it had thoroughly disrupted his household.
‘She said she would come today,’ Lizzie said. ‘So, it cannot be my fault she is not here.’
Jack recalled the rather stiff words he had had with Lady Marguerite last evening. Was it possible that was what had made her decide not to come? If so, it was rather unfair on the children.
‘Did you say something rude to her, Papa?’ Lizzie asked.
Jack winced. The child was far too observant. ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘You did,’ Lizzie said. She poked her tongue out at Janey. ‘See. It wasn’t me. Now you need to apologise.’
Dash it all. Hoist by his own petard. ‘If I said something Lady Marguerite did not find appropriate, I will certainly apologise. However, I don’t believe—’
‘My lord,’ Laughton said, ‘a note from Lady Marguerite. Peter brought it, just now.’
Jack opened the note. ‘She is not feeling well. She has a headache. She will come next week.’
Neither of them needed to apologise.
‘People say they have a headache when they do not wish to speak to someone.’
Heaven help him. ‘Where did you learn such a thing?’
Lizzie frowned. ‘Mama used to say it all the time. When people came to call who she did not like.’
He recoiled. His wife had said that to him on a couple of occasions, also. He had always taken her at her word. Did this mean that also had been a lie?
With difficulty, he controlled his rising temper. ‘Nonsense. If Lady Marguerite did not have a headache, she would be here,’ he said with more confidence than he felt.
‘What if she never comes again?’ Janey said, looking up from her refuge, her lower lip trembling.
Dash it all, he had paid the woman in advance. She ought to be here. And if she was ill, she was now alone.
The note did not indicate the extent of her illness. Well, he would damned well see for himself. He marched off to the stables. Having instructed Peter to return to Westram when he had eaten and rested from his long walk, Jack set off to discover the truth for himself.
* * *
Since the pain in her head was gradually abating, Marguerite made her way to the kitchen. Why she had headaches when it stormed she did not know, but they hurt so badly sometimes she could barely see. It was at times like this that she really missed Petra. Her sister always knew when she had a headache coming and provided the tea and the cool cloths for her forehead.
Well, now she just had to manage alone.
She poured water into the basin from the jug Peter had filled before he went to present her apologies to Lord Compton. She dipped a handkerchief in the water and wrung it out. With the storm long gone and the curtains in the parlour closed against daylight, she should feel better in an hour or two.
Would Lord Compton accept her excuse? Or would he dismiss her out of hand and ask for his money back? Her head throbbed a warning. She forced herself not to think. Thinking only made things worse. She took her cold compress back to the living room, placed the compress over her eyes and gratefully dozed.
* * *
A loud rapping sound jerked her awake. She removed the compress. What was the time? She sat up slowly. Her head no longer hurt, thank heavens.
The rapping noise came again. It was not in her head or her dreams. Someone was at the door. Slowly she got to her feet. Yes, she did indeed feel better. She parted the curtains to see who was at her front door.
Lord Compton?
She put a hand to her hair. Her cap was askew with her hair a wild mess. Bother. Should she simply ignore him? She glanced out to the lane and saw no sign of a carriage or horse. He must have left his mode of transport at the inn. But any moment now someone was sure to see him knocking on her front door. If they had not done so already.
He knocked yet again. Clearly, he was not going to go away until she had spoken to him. What did he want? Perhaps he was the sort of employer who needed to assess for himself the extent of an employee’s illness.
Clearly, having paid her in advance, the man didn’t trust her to keep her side of the bargain. She wished she had never met the man. Never agreed to teach his children.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. People were not exactly knocking her door down, seeking drawing lessons. No, she needed this employment. She had no choice but to speak to him.
The cap she tossed aside. She threw a shawl over the worn frock she had put on this morning in order to give Peter a note for Lord Compton and shuffled to the front door. Hopefully, she could convince him that she would be there next Wednesday and make him go away.
She eased the door open a fraction. ‘How may I be of assistance, Lord Compton?’
He stared at her open-mouthed.
She remembered her hair. The colour of it, dark auburn, and its tendency to curl, often caused that sort of shock to anyone who saw it unpinned. She forced herself not to make a futile attempt to tame it into some sort of order. It never worked. Instead, she lifted her eyebrows in enquiry.
‘I...er... When I received your note, I thought I should see if I could be of assistance.’
Did he really expect her to believe that? ‘No, thank you. I have everything I need.’ She made to close the door.
He put out a hand, holding it open. ‘May I send for a doctor?’
‘I do not need a doctor.’ She needed peace and quiet. And besides, even if she did need one, she could not afford to pay him. ‘I shall be perfectly well by tomorrow.’
He frowned and stared at her hand.
She had forgotten about the sodden handkerchief she had used for a cold compress.
‘Your note said you had a headache.’
He sounded accusatory.
She stiffened. ‘I do.’
‘Then it is willow bark you need. Let me make you some tea.’
She blinked, stunned by his offer. ‘I can make my own tea.’
His expression became thunderous. ‘If you could make it yourself, you would have done so by now. Please, allow me to perform this small service.’
Why could he not leave her alone? Dash it all, she did not want her neighbours seeing them having an argument on her front step.
She drew back. ‘Do as you please.’
Oh, dear, was that rude?
Warmth emanated from his large body as he passed her in the hallway. For some reason she felt the strangest urge to lean against him. To absorb his warmth and bathe in the lovely scent of his cologne made from pine and something lighter and sweeter. She must be even more unwell than she thought.
‘Lay down on the sofa. I will bring the tea to you.’
‘Lord Compton, really—’
‘Do not “really” me. I was married. I do know what a lady needs when she has the headache. I also know you are alone here. Allow me to assist you, if you please.’
Unable to find the strength to argue, she returned to the parlour and leaned back against the cushions. The sooner she drank his tea, the sooner he would be gone. She closed her eyes. A gentle hand on her shoulder startled her to full wakefulness.
‘Lady Marguerite, your tea.’
She straightened and took the cup and saucer. The first sip was heaven. He had laced it with honey to take away the bitter taste of the willow. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are welcome.’ He reached behind her and rearranged the cushions so they supported her head and to her surprise she found it much more comfortable.
‘I occasionally suffer from a headache when the weather is stormy.’ She owed him that much of an explanation. She had also noticed that they came more often when she was worried.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Some sort of megrim.’
‘Indeed. It is not so severe that I need help, I assure you, though I do thank you for the tea.’
He grimaced. ‘My daughter Elizabeth was concerned that her behaviour might not have been exemplary and that you might have decided not to return. I assume that is not the case.’
‘It is not. I will come on Wednesday as promised. I will of course apply the payment for today to Wednesday’s lesson.’
‘Never mind that. You can tack an extra lesson on at the end of the six weeks we agreed upon.
Relief almost overwhelmed her. She had been worried that she might not be able to pay her blackmailer being short of the money for one lesson this week. She realised he was watching her closely. Did he realise how desperately she needed that money? She hoped not.
‘Peter will return later today,’ he said and moved to the window to look out.
‘There is no need, I assure you. I am able to manage perfectly well.’
‘If Peter had not been here to bring your note, I would not have known you were ill and might have thought you had taken my money and absconded.’
While the words were harsh, there was a teasing note to his voice.
