Seducing the Governess (24 page)

And be more circumspect with Mercy.

He pulled open the lower desk drawer and removed Arthur’s ledger. Paging through to the last few entries of June the previous year, he found the notation that had sent him down to the southern fields and read it once again.

“
South acres a boggy mess, but they are mine. Once again, NO to Carew
.”

Nash thought again of the maps he’d seen in Magistrate Wardlow’s office. Thrumming his fingers on his desk, he wondered if the new surveys were connected with Carew’s offer to purchase those southern acres. Wardlow had said they were commissioned by the crown, but Nash could not help but wonder.

Carew had not made the same offer to Nash for purchase of the land. But he
had
offered a substantial bribe to persuade Nash to marry his daughter. Did he think he would be better able to deal with a son-in-law?

Perhaps it would be best to play Carew’s game for a while and see where it led.

Mercy unfolded her letter to Mr. Vale and read it over. She blinked back tears over what could never be. Reverend Vale had seemed a perfectly acceptable—even a desirable—suitor only a few short months ago. Mercy had been fond of him and certain that love would grow. She knew she would make him a good wife, for she was well versed in the workings of the church, and knew what was expected of a vicar’s wife.

Even if her heart was not in it.

She tossed the letter into the fire. She could not become Reverend Vale’s wife now, not when she knew how love ought to feel. Not when Nash Farris possessed her heart, her body, and her soul.

Mercy had never realized how much it would hurt. She wished he were still just a captain in the army, for then they would have a chance. But as Earl of Ashby . . . Mercy shivered and drew her shawl tight around her shoulders. She understood that he had a solemn duty to his heritage, and it could not include her.

She had to leave, for she was not made to be a paramour. And that was all she could be to him.

Perhaps she would go to Lancaster and try to find Mr. Newcomb and get some answers. If not, there would surely be some kind of employment there, for it was a large city. Perhaps she would find a family who had need of a governess.

She took out her money and counted it, quickly calculating whether she had enough to pay for her passage to Lancaster on the mail coach, and how long she could last without any income. If she was very frugal, she could do it.

Even though her heart would break when she left Ashby Hall. When she left Nash.

Underdale, Cumbria

The irony of coming all the way back to the north country was not lost on Gavin Briggs as he hastened from St. Martin’s Church in Underdale. He’d been given his commission in the Lake District, and found himself almost back to it.

It was alarming to learn that someone had arrived before him, asking the same questions he’d asked.

Gavin didn’t know how that was possible, but the urgency of his mission just doubled. Or tripled. Lily Hayes—or Mercy Franklin, as she was known in Underdale—had taken a post as governess somewhere near Keswick, and Gavin’s adversary knew it. No doubt he—Bertie, most likely—was galloping to the Lake District even now.

It seemed everyone in the parish was willing to talk about the poor Franklins, the vicar dying so suddenly without providing any financial security for his wife and daughter. And then to have Mrs. Franklin succumb so soon after her husband—it was unthinkable.

So was the possibility that Bertie, or some other agent of Baron Chetwood, would find Miss Franklin first.

Gavin was not as interested in the reward money at this point, not after all he’d learned about the life the duke had arranged for his granddaughter. He just wanted to be sure she received her due from the callous old man.

He was so certain he’d stayed ahead of Bertie. On his arrival in Lancaster, he’d visited St. Edward’s Church and discovered that the current housekeeper had been a laundry maid at the same rectory years ago. At that time, the vicar and Mrs. Franklin had taken in a young girl child, but they’d left abruptly for a new assignment in Underdale soon afterward.

The woman mentioned that she had also done laundry for a number of other families in those days, including a Mrs. Mayer, who’d hired her soon thereafter as a maid of all work in her household. The very same Mrs. Mayer had a brother by the name of Rolf Newcomb.

Gavin could hardly believe his luck.

The housekeeper remembered a great deal of detail about those early days when Mr. Newcomb brought Lily Hayes to the Franklins’ rectory. She also remembered Lily as a beautiful child, but very fussy, perhaps even ill.

Mrs. Franklin had not been pleased with taking in the child, and the housekeeper did not really understand why they’d done it. In any event, she was the one who’d directed Gavin to St. Martin’s Church in Underdale, where he learned about Mercy Franklin’s life there, and the necessity of taking the governess post near Keswick.

The housekeeper at Reverend Franklin’s last post had not mentioned speaking to anyone else about the family, and Nash did not know how Bertie would have learned about Underdale, unless he’d discovered something about Mrs. Mayer and followed that lead.

Regardless of how he’d gotten his information, it was imperative that Gavin get on the road immediately. He had the information he needed without talking to Mrs. Mayer, which was fortunate. There was no time to waste.

Chapter 25

S
eeking surcease from his headache, Nash went up to the nursery. He found Emmaline sitting on the divan with a book while her young nurse sat in a chair opposite her, sewing. The nursemaid stood immediately upon Nash’s entry into the room. He bade her to resume what she was doing.

“Where is Miss Franklin?” he asked.

Emmaline shrugged, and Ruthie gave him a blank look. “I’m not sure, my lord,” she said.

The room was snug and warm against the light drizzle outside, and Nash wondered where Mercy could be. Surely not outside. He felt a rush of contentment when he thought of the pleasurable hour they’d spent together in the pavilion, and knew that the bad taste of Horace Carew’s visit and Lowell’s mischief would recede when he saw her.

He picked up a book from the top of Emmaline’s bookcase and opened it to the place where it was marked. “You and Miss Franklin are reading this?”

“Yes,” Emmaline said.

“And how do you like the adventures of Mr. Crusoe?”

She gave him a meek smile, but her eyes glittered. “It is a very exciting tale, Uncle.”

Nash sat down beside his niece. “Is this where you left off?”

She nodded.

“Shall we read a page or two while we wait for Miss Franklin?”

Robinson Crusoe
was an old favorite of Nash and his brothers. As young lads, they’d played at being marooned on a faraway isle.

“If you don’t mind, my lord, I’ll just go down to the laundry, then,” Ruthie said. “I’ve some ironing to do.”

Nash nodded and the nursemaid took her leave. Nash began to read, remembering how much he’d enjoyed the reading time he and his brothers had shared with their father. He would not mind providing interludes of the same kind for his niece.

Nash started reading, but he could not put Helene Carew’s twenty thousand pounds from his mind. It was surely enough to convince any sane man to wed. Especially one who had a great deal to lose by refusing it.

Carew’s offer was more than he had ever expected. As Helene’s husband, Nash would have everything he needed. Her incredible fortune would provide the means to turn Ashby into a creditable estate, and a way to give Emmaline the London seasons she would need when she came of age. Nash would gain a beautiful wife who did not seem to yearn for Town life, nor would she make unreasonable demands upon his time, for she did not appear likely to become overly attached to him. The situation was perfect.

Nash had never wanted a wife for whom he cared too much—that was a sure way to make himself vulnerable to the kind of paralyzing losses he’d endured over the past few years—his brothers, Jacob Metcalf, and John Trent. He would not do it again . . . he would not become close to anyone again.

And yet as he sat beside Emmaline, he knew he did not wish to return to the cold distance that had existed between them when he’d first come back to Ashby Hall. He had begun to care for her and would not give up their tenuous bond for any reason.

He thought again of Helene Carew and her twenty thousand. She possessed everything he needed.

But he didn’t want her.

Mercy’s pulse skittered madly when she came to the nursery door and saw Nash reading to his niece. His voice was deep and rich, a pleasing sound that infused her body with futile hopes and desires. A thick pooling of emotion filled her chest and she feared she would never again breathe normally. Not when Nash was so far out of her reach.

Emmaline leaned close to him, his big body dwarfing hers, but they looked comfortable together. His reading cadence seemed to enthrall his niece, and she listened avidly to every word.

A hint of a smile touched Nash’s lips and Mercy averted her gaze from it, hardening her heart. She could see that Emmaline and her uncle would do well together after she was gone.

Nash looked up and saw her. “Miss Franklin. Would you join us?”

Mercy hesitated for an instant, but found that she could not refuse.

She pulled up a chair near the divan and sat down as Nash resumed reading. But she barely heard the words.

Emmy and her uncle enjoyed the reading until they reached the end of the chapter, and Nash closed the book. It had grown dark outside, and Ruthie appeared with warm water for washing.

“I suppose it is time for bed,” he said, suddenly seeming completely out of his element.

“Thank you for reading to me, Uncle,” Emmaline said quietly.

“It was entirely my pleasure, Emmy,” Nash said, then walked to the door, where he stood for a moment, still looking a bit lost. Mercy swallowed, wanting him quite desperately.

She averted her eyes, going to the little girl’s bed to turn down the blankets.

“I’ll just leave you ladies to it, then,” Nash said. He quit the room, leaving Mercy feeling hollow and cold inside. She’d insisted they could not share a bed again . . . And she knew it was right, even though she feared she would always feel a horrid emptiness in his absence.

Mercy bade Emmy a good night and retreated to her own bedchamber, somehow managing to keep her tears at bay as she undressed and prepared for bed. She added peat to the fire, and though it flared with heat, it did not warm the void inside her.

She blew out the lamp just as her door opened and Nash slipped in.

“Nash!” Good sense warred with the acute need she felt for him.

“I could not stay away.” He pulled her against him, crushing his mouth over hers in a primal kiss over which he clearly had no control. Mercy’s heart swelled almost painfully at the harsh, labored sound of his breaths.

She hadn’t wanted him to stay away, either. Not really.

He molded her to the hard planes of his body, and she wrapped one leg around his, opening her body to him. She scarcely had time to think when he lifted her into his arms and took her to the bed, easing her to the mattress and lying down beside her. He ravaged her mouth, seeking the most sensual connection with her tongue as he pulled her chemise from her shoulders.

Mercy worked on the buttons of his shirt and he retreated long enough to yank it over his head and toss it to the floor. He came back to her half naked, and she ran her hands down the hard muscles of his shoulders and back.

“Mercy, love.”

He trembled as he nuzzled her throat, and Mercy set aside her worries to give herself fully to the one man who would ever own her heart.

Nash tugged Mercy’s chemise down to her waist and she arched, giving him full access to the breasts he so loved to suckle and taste. She held his head in place while he spread his fingers down her belly, eliciting a pleasurable gasp from her lips.

She opened for him and he ventured lower, sliding his fingers into her feminine cleft. He touched her where she was most sensitive, and her breath came out in a thick gasp when he pleasured her with his thumb while slipping one finger inside her.

He’d never known how deeply gratifying it could be to build such pleasure in his lover, to make her writhe and cry out for more.

He wanted her desperately; needed her more than he’d ever thought possible. Rising up, he took her mouth again in a deeply passionate kiss, an intimate melding of mouths that bore witness to the intensity of what he felt for her.

She was ready for him, which was a relief, for he could not wait. “I want to be inside you, Mercy. Now.”

He did not have the patience to remove his trews. He tore them open and, without hesitation, she opened for him again. He drove inside her, sheathed himself deeply as he watched her eyes darken in the flickering firelight. “Mercy, love.”

She tightened around him, and Nash was overcome with the exquisite sensation of being enveloped by her, of becoming an integral part of her. He filled her, moving gently inside her as he deepened his thrusts. Sparkles of pure, hot sensation skittered across his every nerve.

“More,” she whispered against his mouth.

“Aye, love. All I’ve got.”

She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him in deeper, as if inhaling all of him into her body. He buried himself inside her as he wrapped his arms around her and gave her his full length, claiming her with his body and his soul, demanding she give him hers.

Her climax came suddenly and he captured her cry with his mouth. She bucked against him wildly, and her inner contractions brought him to his own release, a turbulent furor of sensation that raged like fire inside him. He shuddered, holding himself deep inside her, in awe of the relentless bond between them.

When he could move again, he lowered himself to his side, staying sheathed within her.

He smoothed a rich, inky black curl back from her forehead. And as they lay tangled together in the bedclothes, Nash was content to stay intimately connected, holding her while she drifted off to sleep.

Mercy knew she was asleep. The comforting smell of lilies surrounded her and she saw a little girl playing in a field of the tiny white flowers—she felt she was seeing herself at a very young age—dark-haired, smiling, and plump-cheeked. Happy. She was holding someone’s hand . . . a gentleman in a dark coat and tawny breeches. “Papa.”

The word came to her and she knew it was her father. She was dreaming of her true father. She felt it deeply.

“Teeny,” she whispered. “Where is Teeny?”

She saw the little girl again, but now she was weeping, and Mercy felt the child’s despondence to the depths of her soul. There was nothing Mercy could do to comfort her, not even tell her where Teeny was. She did not know who or what Teeny was . . . and the word, or name, made Mercy feel vaguely unsettled.

She saw her father again, and then a dark-haired woman who must be her mother. Her father lifted her into his arms, and just as she was about to look into his face . . .

He was gone. There was no field of lilies, no gentleman in tawny breeches. Her mother had disappeared and Mercy was alone and afraid.

A desperate sadness choked her. She could not breathe. Not when they’d abandoned her. She was lost. Panic threatened to swallow her. Suddenly, she was falling, and there was no one to catch her.

No one but Susanna and Robert Franklin.

Nash woke to the sound of quiet distress. A whimper and then a sob. A few disturbing words followed. The fire had burned low, but there was sufficient light for him to see tears on Mercy’s face, and he knew she was dreaming something distressing. He rubbed her back to soothe her, and pressed gentle kisses to her forehead and cheeks.

He felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest at the sound of her distress, and wished he could ease her anguish as she’d done for him. She treated him as she would any whole, undamaged man. She was honest and audacious, and sweetly nurturing with Emmaline. She could be diplomatic, but candid when necessary. God knew she’d been blunt with him when she’d first arrived at Ashby.

He wanted to wake her and crush her to him, never to let her go. But he contented himself with a few comforting caresses as her disturbing dream subsided and she relaxed once again.

Nash had had his own nightmare, but it was not like the ones that had plagued him ever since Waterloo. This one had more to do with the Ashby curse than any real, tangible battle.

Something Sir William had said during their visit to Metcalf Farm came back to him. Sir Will had mentioned that Horace Carew had wanted Hoyt to marry Helene. Nash had dismissed it as Carew’s obsessive desire to see his daughter with a title before her name.

But Hoyt had refused the man’s offer and now he was dead.

Carew had made an offer to Arthur to buy the southern Ashby land, and Arthur had refused. Now Arthur was dead.

Nash had discounted Roarke’s comment about trench digging on the high road to Braithwaite. He could not imagine someone going to the trouble of shoveling away the side of a cliff in order to commit murder. Carew had to have an incredible motive in order to stage the murders of two earls.

But what could it be?

He did not seem deranged, but only a madman would murder two men so that a third might wed his daughter. And as for the land he’d offered to buy, Nash had looked at it and had seen nothing special about it. Sheep would not even graze there.

Nash pressed a kiss to Mercy’s head and slid away reluctantly from the warmth of her body. He would prefer to stay, but the questions preying on his mind would deny him any more sleep.

Something woke Mercy. It had likely been her dream, since it had been comforting and disturbing at the same time. Which was an obvious contradiction in terms.

She’d seen fleeting images of her mother and father. She knew they must be her parents, for they were unfamiliar to her in any other way but this. She curled her hand closed, nearly able to recall how it felt to have her tiny hand enclosed within her papa’s large one.

Perhaps her mind had created those dream images because she’d been thinking so much about Susanna’s journal and her true mother. The name Teeny haunted her, as did the floral scent that had permeated the dream.

But maybe the people she’d seen in her dream were pure fiction, just like the Robinson Crusoe adventures she and Emmaline had been reading.

It was still dark in her bedchamber, but Nash had already left. She would have liked to slide up against him and taken her ease in his warmth. But it was not possible, not now or any other time. She should never have taken him into her bed last night.

It was Sunday, so there would be no mail coach today. Mercy swallowed away the burning in her throat, thinking about how difficult it would be to wait until the morrow to leave. Everyone would go to the ball, but Mercy knew she could not face it—she could not bear to watch Nash being courted by all the marriageable ladies of consequence.

She found her clothes and dressed quickly, then went to the nursery, where Ruthie was getting Emmaline ready for church in a gown she’d laundered and altered.

“Emmy, you look beautiful,” she said as a wave of emotion threatened to choke her. She had not intended to become so attached to the little girl. But it had happened nonetheless.

Mercy turned away as Grainger came along with Mrs. Jones in tow, which gave Mercy an excuse to leave the nursery before she succumbed to her tears.