Seducing the Governess (9 page)

Chapter 11

“I
-I mean . . . I could help you with your guest list.” Miss Carew made her suggestion hesitantly, pulling Nash’s attention back to his guests in the drawing room. He slid his suddenly damp hands down the tops of his thighs and gathered his thoughts while Miss Carew glanced from her father, then back to him. “I could provide you with a list of those whom you might wish to invite.”

“That’s most gracious of you, Miss Carew, and would be very helpful. But there are a good many details I need to take care of first.” Such as finding some satisfactory servants and a shepherd to manage the sheep. Getting them to shovel out the dust and mildew that had accumulated in the year since Arthur’s death. Putting Miss Franklin out of his thoughts and concentrating on wooing a suitable female.

“If we can be of any help, my lord . . .” said her father.

“Thank you. I’ll be certain to ask you. In the meantime, may I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?”

The visit lasted an hour, during which time Carew spoke of various neighbors and several improvements that were being undertaken all over the district. He mentioned the flooding in the Ashby acres that bordered Strathmore land, and asked if Nash had any plans to improve the area.

“Aye. But there’s a great deal more that needs to be done before I turn my attention there.”

“True enough,” he said. “What do you think of all the tales of boggarts down there on the ridge?”

“Boggarts?”

“Yes. People say they’ve taken up residence on the ridge there. Bob Danner says they made his mule go lame.”

“You believe that nonsense?”

Carew laughed. “Of course not. I . . . just didn’t want you to be surprised by the gossip.”

Nash didn’t recall any talk of boggarts on Ashby land in years past. The malicious fairies were real enough to the country folk, with run-ins and mishaps usually occurring after dark. And the injuries were always vague enough to be attributable to anything other than the victim’s clumsiness or foolishness. But Nash was no bumpkin who subscribed to the old superstitions. He didn’t believe in boggarts
or
curses, no matter what the townsfolk might say.

“I wonder if the boggart rumor keeps people from using the Ridge path.”

Carew nodded. “I believe it does, my lord.”

“That’s all right, then. I don’t fancy the notion of Gypsies or any other vagrants loitering on my land.” He had enough problems as it was.

Before Mr. Carew and his daughter took their leave, they extended him an invitation to sup with them in a few days’ time. Nash did not look forward to an evening observing the ways in which Miss Carew could evade his glance, but knew he could do naught but agree to visit their estate. He saw them out soon afterward.

Walking outside with them, Nash could not help but take note of their lavish carriage and the handsome servants who’d accompanied them to Ashby Hall. Several of Nash’s men had come out to pass the time with Carew’s driver and footmen. It seemed only Lowell and Grainger were absent.

Nash walked outside and bid his guests good day as Lowell emerged from the house to escort them to their conveyance. Nash returned to the Hall.

If he was not convinced of Carew’s affluence before, his carriage and the servants in livery were proof that the man had a great deal of wealth at his disposal. Nash wondered if he knew anything of the deer stalking party during which Hoyt had been killed. Perhaps he’d been one of the hunters that day and knew more than what was contained in Peter Wardlow’s report.

The notion that Hoyt’s death had not been accidental would not leave Nash alone. He could not imagine what the motive for murder would have been, because there was no one to profit from Hoyt’s demise besides Arthur.

Whatever Arthur’s failings were, he wouldn’t have harmed Hoyt for any reason, much less for the Ashby title and estate. He’d had a very good living up near Thursby, and with all his connections, had begun to advance in the church. After Hoyt’s death, Arthur’s letters had conveyed his shock and dismay at the loss of their brother. He couldn’t have been responsible.

But who was, and why? Ashby was an entailed estate for the most part, although Nash’s grandfather had added hundreds of additional acres of land that were not part of Ashby proper. Hoyt had bequeathed it all to the next earl, so Arthur had inherited it all.

It made no sense, but Nash could not shake the feeling that someone had shot Hoyt intentionally.

He wondered if his brother had possibly offended someone. Maybe he’d broken a promise.

Or perhaps there’d been nothing at all, and the magistrate in Keswick was correct. Maybe Hoyt’s death had been a horrible accident after all, and Nash’s misgivings were entirely mistaken.

London, England

In a Fleet Street tavern, Gavin Briggs met with an old judge who remembered Daniel Hayes, the father of Windermere’s two granddaughters. “Hayes was a brilliant pleader. Very solid future ahead of him. Damned shame what happened.”

“Do you remember anything about his children?” Gavin knew it was a long shot, but he asked Judge Morton anyway.

“Children?” The old man shook his head. “I didn’t know he had children. But I met Mrs. Hayes. A stunner, she was. But he wasn’t exactly ill-favored himself.”

“Have you any recollection who Mr. Hayes’s associates were? Friends, perhaps? Business partners?”

The judge frowned. “Why do you want to know all this? The man is long dead. Twenty years at least.”

“There is some interest in finding out what happened to his daughters.”

“They’d have had relatives somewhere, would they not?” the judge asked, with typical legal curiosity. “The court would have appointed a guardian.”

Gavin evaded the assumption and hoped the judge would let it slide. “I don’t really have much information about them.”

The judge shrugged, and Gavin breathed easier for the moment. “Barker might know something. Davis Barker. Still in Milford Lane, practicing law. Brilliant man. He and Hayes were very good friends as I recall.”

As Gavin walked to the address given him by Judge Morton, the small hairs at the back of his neck prickled, giving him the oddest sense of being watched. He took a surreptitious glance around and saw no one suspicious. But after all his years of stealthy work for the crown, he knew better than to ignore his instincts.

He wondered if someone from his past life as one of Lord Castlereagh’s spies had caught up with him, but quickly dismissed the thought, realizing that someone else had a far more compelling motive for following him . . . for finding Windermere’s granddaughters.

His search for the lost Hayes girls suddenly became far more interesting than simply the means to a fat financial reward. He wondered if anyone besides Baron Chetwood might have an interest in finding Windermere’s granddaughters. He doubted it.

He’d checked into Chetwood’s background and found it was naught to be proud of. The man was a member of the infamous Hellfire Club, and spent his money on loose women, gaming, and racing. There did not seem to be any activity too depraved for the man’s tastes. His damned club had resources of the darkest, most corrupt kind.

Windermere’s heir was a poor candidate to become a duke of the realm, but it would not be the first time the highest title in the land was held by a scoundrel of the first order.

The Windermere estates were vast, but the duke also held a great deal of unentailed wealth and property. And he’d indicated he intended to give all that was not part of the entailment to his granddaughters. Gavin did not need to wonder how far Chetwood would go to ensure none of Windermere’s wealth—entailed or not—went to anyone but him. The man’s grasping character was obvious.

Gavin felt he was being watched, and could not shake the idea that Chetwood had sent someone after him to prevent him from finding the duke’s granddaughters.

Or worse, to find them first, and prevent them from being able to inherit. And there was only one way Gavin could think of to accomplish that.

Gavin continued on his way, behaving as though naught was amiss as he went into a paved courtyard that abutted Milford Lane. A number of law offices bordered the courtyard, as well as a few narrow alleyways between buildings. Gavin slipped through one of them and came out into Milford Lane, doubling back a good distance from where he’d ducked out. If anyone had been following him, he was behind them now.

He hastened into Barker’s office and found it a beehive of activity, with clerks working at desks and orders being called out from the offices in the rear. Looking back through the heavy pane of glass in the door, he saw no one come out of any nook or cranny in pursuit of him.

He removed his hat, turning to face one of the clerks. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Barker, please.”

“Have you an appointment, sir?” the man asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. His expression was harried and he looked as though he’d raked his fingers through his overly long hair one time too many.

“No, but I will take only a moment of his time.”

“We are getting ready to plead a very important case, sir. There is no spare time.”

“Honestly. Two minutes. Please just tell him I’m investigating the whereabouts of Daniel Hayes’s daughters. I’m sure he’ll speak with me.”

Clearly put out by the request, the clerk went to an office door and knocked. A muffled voice beckoned the man inside, and he closed the door behind him. A moment later he stepped out and summoned Gavin. “Only a few minutes, mind you. We are on a very tight schedule. What’s your name?”

“Captain Gavin Briggs.”

The clerk returned to the office, announced him, and beckoned Gavin inside.

Barker was not quite as old as Gavin’s father, but seemed as prosperous as he was harassed. The weight of the law seemed to rest upon his thin shoulders. His hair was the color of dull steel, and a pair of magnifying spectacles rested upon the end of his nose. Thick law tomes lay open on Barker’s desk alongside stacks of notes with scribbles and ink stains. He rose from his chair and shook hands across the desk, removing his eyeglasses as he sat back down. He speared Gavin with a razor-sharp gaze. “I understand you’re asking about Daniel Hayes? Or more rightly, Hayes’s children.”

Gavin nodded and took out a letter with Windermere’s seal on it, and showed it to the barrister. “I’ve been asked to look into the disposition of his grandchildren.”

Barker narrowed his eyes. “Disposition? What do you mean?”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

A deep crease formed between Barker’s brows. “It was a long time ago.”

But Gavin doubted the man ever forgot anything. “About twenty years.”

“Right. I remember Mrs. Hayes’s father was a duke. But they were estranged. He sent someone . . . Give me a moment . . . Newton, I think it was. A Mr. Newton— No, it was Newcomb. Mr. Newcomb came for them. Took them from their nurse and escorted them up to their grandfather in the lake country.”

“Correct. Newcomb was the duke’s estate manager.” What Barker told him was information Gavin already had. He needed something more. “But the manager did not take the children to the duke.”

“The duke was named guardian. Are you saying the man does not know where his grandchildren are?”

Gavin gave a nod. “The estrangement extended to his daughter’s children. Now he wants to find them. Reconcile with them.”

Barker sighed. “I assume there is some reason the old man can’t ask Newcomb. Dead, probably.”

“Right again. And the duke has found no record of where Newcomb took the children.” Neither had Briggs. There’d been no pertinent information in Newcomb’s papers.

“Not that the old man deserves it,” said Barker, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “but you might be able to track down the Hayes nurse. Nelly Thornton was her name. She could very well have had more knowledge of the events after Hayes’s accident.”

“Nelly Thornton?”

“I happen to know she went to work for another colleague right afterward—Mr. and Mrs. John Payton.”

“Are the Paytons still in London?”

Barker dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write on a sheet of foolscap. “Yes. I know them well, and they—or their children—have likely kept in touch with Miss Thornton. Here is their address. Tell them I sent you.”

“Thank you for your time, sir,” Gavin said before he stood to take his leave. “By the way . . . I am the only agent with authority to search for Windermere’s grandchildren. If anyone else comes around asking, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention any knowledge of the children.”

Barker gave a nod.

“By the way, would you mind if I took a rear exit?”

With the latest lead in his waistcoat pocket, Gavin went out to the courtyard and made his way through a maze of alleyways, certain that he could lose anyone who might be following him. Several streets away, he hailed a hackney cab and rode to his hotel, then ordered tea and set himself up near the window in his room to wait. And watch.

Ashby Hall

Somehow, Mercy managed to keep her expression impassive as Lord Ashby left the kitchen.
He’d come disturbingly close to removing his shirt right there in front of her in the kitchen!
Mercy felt her face heat and hoped no one else would notice it. No decent woman would react the way Mercy did—with heated anticipation of seeing the man’s bare torso.

She tried to distract herself from such an improper notion by searching the kitchen for a tray. But the fear that she might be what her father believed—a loose woman just like her mother—gave her pause.

So much for trying to avoid the man who plagued her dreams as well as her waking moments. His appeal was far more potent than mere handsomeness, and Mercy was ridiculously susceptible.

That was going to change now. She had to get Emmaline and the schoolroom in order so it would rarely be necessary to venture into the kitchen or any other part of the Hall again. And she would make certain never to come out of her bedchamber at night. Perhaps she ought to move her bed into the nursery and sleep even closer to Emmaline.