To Love a Lord (3 page)

The budding panic cloyed at her chest and she closed her eyes a moment. The options for an unwed woman of ignoble origins were not many. Rather, they were nonexistent. She dropped her gaze to the floor and her panicked musings cut short. Absently, she stooped to retrieve the forgotten page dropped by Mrs. Belden moments ago. She’d no intention of reading the contents of another person’s note. She’d never been one of those nosy, eavesdropping bodies unable to mind her own affairs. No, she’d no intention of reading about the nasty headmistress’ affairs. But then, her eyes snagged upon one particular word on that brief note, written in a powerful hand.

…Employment…in need of a companion…

Jane chewed her lower lip and looked to the doorway, and then guiltily returned her attention to the sheet. She quickly scanned the contents.

Mrs. Belden,

I require the services of one of your esteemed instructors for my sister, Lady Chloe Edgerton.

She continued skimming.

…A term of two months…

Her heart started and she picked her head up, staring at the floor-length crystal windowpane.
A sign
. As a mere girl, her mother had spoken to Jane of signs and encouraged her to find hope in those signs. For all her cynicism of her lot and station in life as a bastard daughter of a powerful duke, she’d looked for and celebrated those symbols. It was the sliver of optimism she clung to; a hope in a better world—for herself, for others. Two months. Surely this was one of those carefully laid signs she was to follow.

Giving her head a shake, she cast one more glance at the door and then returned her attention to the remainder of the note.

…Signed,

The Marquess of Waverly.

Waverly. She ran through the name in her mind, trying to recall a student who was sister to the marquess. Jane had only been at Mrs. Belden’s for a year. A giddy sensation lightened the pressure in her chest. The young woman, a Lady Chloe Edgerton, was a stranger to her. Surely another sign. Fate’s way of intervening. Footsteps sounded in the hall and she quickly folded the note and, shoving aside the tendrils of guilt, stuffed the missive in the front apron of her uniform.

Mrs. Belden stepped through the entrance and did not break stride. She continued on to the seat she’d vacated a short while ago and then thumped her fist once upon the desk.

The stolen note within Jane’s pocket burned and, for a numbing moment, she thought she’d been discovered. That this disobedience and theft would result in her being turned out immediately. She thrust aside the guilt. Her life had been subject to the whims and fancies of an indolent peerage early on. This moment, she would put her security and her future before all those lords and ladies.

“As I was saying, Mrs. Munroe, I can no longer continue to hold you on my staff. You’ve a fortnight, at which point, I expect you to leave.”

A fortnight. Time enough for a missive to be sent to Jane’s father and time enough for the duke to secure another post for his daughter. She tightened her jaw. The woman made the erroneous assumption that she would seek out his aid. She’d not done so before and she’d not do so now. Nor did she suspect the stern headmistress would be herself eager to write that respective note informing the duke his illegitimate daughter had been turned out on her ear. “Thank you,” she said with a stoic calm, belied by the frantic pounding of her heart.

The woman inclined her head and with a flick of her hand, indicated the meeting was at an end.

With the pilfered contents in her apron, Jane marched, head held high, from the room. She made her way down the narrow, whitewashed corridors. When she’d placed distance between herself and Mrs. Belden, she came to a stop beside the silver-plated knight oddly out of place in the finishing school. Positioning herself behind the massive armor from long ago, she withdrew the missive and perused the page once more.

The Marquess of Waverly’s sister required a companion. At one and twenty, the young lady, a powerful marquess’ sister, was likely no different than all the unkind, self-absorbed women Jane had confronted since she’d been the sneered at, giggled about bastard child, living in a country cottage kept by the duke. Jane could brave the discomforts of such an assignment. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, troubling the flesh. Could she, however, in good conscience slip into a post assigned to another?

Then, no one had truly been assigned the post. And any one of Mrs. Belden’s other instructors already were in possession of a post. They were not dependent upon another position the way Jane was.

Yet, it was still not her missive. Jane tightened her grip upon the page, wrinkling the sheet. It was a level of underhandedness she disdained and she hated herself in this moment for being so very desperate that she’d abandon all honor. She lightened her grip. It wouldn’t do to ruin the page. With the tip of her ragged fingernail, she ran it over the inked word
“two”
.

Two months.

She’d sacrifice her honor and pride for just two months. Jane thrust aside all guilt and hardened her mouth into a determined line. After the abuses and injustices she’d known at the hands of the peerage, she had no compunction in entering into another one of their households so she might steal her freedom. After all, noblemen and their snobbish kin were the same. She’d not feel any remorse in lying to them.

Jane drew in a shuddery sigh. “Liar,” she said under her breath.

Except, when faced with the option of survival or her own sense of guilt for her deception, Jane chose survival.

I
n the muddied London streets, with rain stinging her cheeks, Jane at last had reservations in absconding with a note intended for Mrs. Belden and leaving in the dead of night without a word to anyone.

She jumped as the driver of the hired hack tossed down her lone valise. It landed with a hard thump in a rather impressive puddle. Water splashed the hem of her skirts and soaked her boots. She glowered up at the gap-toothed man who stuck his hand out. “Yer coin.”

“Your coin,” she muttered and fished around her reticule. She handed over the coins, eager for the foul-stenched, leering driver to be on his way. It wouldn’t do to be discovered, arriving in a rented hack. He stuffed the half pence into his pocket and then climbed aboard his carriage—leaving her alone.

In the biting London rain. At the front steps of the Marquess of Waverly’s residence. The seeds of misgivings, which had rooted around her brain the moment she’d arrived in London and blue skies had been replaced with black storm clouds and ominous rumblings of thunder, grew in her chest. She stole a skyward glance and blinked as raindrops trailed down the lenses of her spectacles, blurring the world before her. With a silent curse, she removed the pair and dried them with the fabric of her dampened cloak. To no avail. Jane placed the glasses on once again seeing the world through a rainy blur.

She sighed. It was a sign.

“Don’t be silly,” she muttered to herself. “The sign was a favorable one.” She’d paid attention to the blasted sign. Two months. What was the likelihood of that precipitous amount of time coinciding with the timing of her attaining control of her trust?

Lightning cracked across the sky and she jumped, propelled into forward motion. She swiped her waterlogged valise from the ground and, with an unladylike speed that would have gotten her sacked by Mrs. Belden if there hadn’t been the whole treasonous Mrs. Wollstonecraft talk on Jane’s part, she made her way up the handful of steps.

The new signs all seemed to point to the folly in her plan. Even so, she still didn’t care to be smote by lightning on a stranger’s doorstep. She dropped her valise and knocked. Thunder rumbled overhead, burying the staccato rhythm of her rapping.

Another blasted sign.

“I’ve quite tired of signs,” she said, glaring at the door. A glint of gold snagged her notice and she raised her attention up from the black panel. She wiped the rain from her eyes and stared transfixed at the erect dragon, with his vicious grip upon the knocker, daring her to knock.

The day she’d been assigned a post at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School, she’d met the other instructors—dour-faced, always frowning, as though they’d feared a grin would result in their immediate expulsion from their esteemed post. Dragons, every last one of them…. and she’d become one by default.

A dragon. Jane raised her fingertips and traced the ice cold fabled creature. A slow smile turned her lips up. She raised the knocker and pounded hard. She’d little other choice. She knocked once more. Nay, she had no alternative. Another knock. Either lie her way into a post for two months’ time or face an uncertain life on the streets. She flattened her lips into a firm line. Or, she could swallow her injurious pride and appeal to the man who’d sired her until—“Bloody unlikely,” she said between gritted teeth and pounded all the harder.

The door opened and the alacrity of that movement wrenched her forward. She released her grip upon the dragon so quickly she sprawled forward and came down hard, half-inside and half-outside the home of the illustrious Marquess of Waverly. Despite the chill of the rain, humiliated shame set her body ablaze with fiery heat. Mustering a smile, she raised her gaze upward to the gray-haired butler towering over her. The wrinkles lining his weathered cheeks marked him at some ancient age. She frowned. Was the marquess one of those monstrous sorts who abused his servants and didn’t provide a deserved pension at the end of their years of service? Jane scoffed. Then, didn’t all noblemen place their interests and desires before—?

“Ahem,” the older man cleared his throat.

She started and belatedly recalled she lay prone at his feet, her backside presented to any members of polite Society who happened by. She stared up at his outstretched fingers and the burn on her cheeks threatened to set her face afire. “Er, yes. Thank you.”

With the older man’s assistance, Jane climbed to her feet. Her hem dripped a sizeable puddle onto the otherwise immaculate, marble foyer. Oh, dear. This was hardly an entrance that would earn her the marquess’ favor. She braced for the sneering condescension in his servant’s cool, blue stare and froze. A twinkle lit the servant’s rheumy eyes.

He was one of the kind ones. Having been born a bastard, she’d had a good deal of experience in sorting out the kindly ones from the sneering, disapproving others. Unfortunately, there had been a shortage of the kindly ones.

She cleared her throat. “I am Mrs. Munroe.”

The man stared at her in confusion.

“I am here to see the Marquess of Waverly.” Jane fished around for her reticule and opened the sopping piece. She withdrew the well-read note. She held it up for the other man’s inspection. “I’ve come from Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School at the marquess’ request to serve as companion.” He accepted the note from her trembling fingers. Her breath caught in dreaded anticipation of the gods sending a bolt of lightning through the sweeping foyer to smite her for her lies.

The butler eyed the page in his hands and she braced for him to jab his finger at her and thunder “Liar” into the towering space. He folded the note and handed it over. There was nothing in his kindly eyes to indicate he’d seen her for the charlatan she was. Instead, he inclined his head with a smile. “Allow me to show you to the marquess.” He motioned to her cloak.

Jane followed his discreet gesture and then glanced back at him. She gave her head a small shake. What was he on about?

A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Er, your cloak, Mrs. Munroe.”

“Oh, yes!” She widened her eyes. “Of course, my cloak.” With jerky movements, she fiddled with the clasp of her modest, brown muslin cloak and then turned the wet garment over to his care.

A footman rushed over to claim the cloak and then disappeared. A protest sprung to her lips as he carried off the only one she had in her possession.

“If you will please follow me, Mrs. Munroe?”

Jane jumped at the servant’s quietly spoken request. She wet her lips. Fear always chose the worst time to present itself. She stood rooted to the floor. Unease turned in her belly. Her future hung upon the following exchange; upon the benevolence of a nobleman who’d hired a companion for his sister and had instead received a sacked, former instructor and, well, a liar. Guilt needled at her insides.
I am a liar.

Desperate, but a liar all the same and desperation did not pardon the sins of a liar. Alas, survival superseded honor in the cold, uncertain world in which she dwelled.

The butler coughed, breaking her from her panicked reverie. He stood at the edge of the corridor looking at her expectantly. “I—” She flitted her gaze about the foyer and then her stare collided with her bag. “I cannot—”

The old servant clapped once and a different footman instantly materialized. A startled shriek escaped her at the liveried servant’s sudden appearance. Jane slipped on the dampened marble and slid forward. Her heart thudded hard, but she tossed her arms wide and managed to prevent a fall. Another fall, that is. How many blasted footmen did a person require? She managed a sheepish grin for the butler.

“If you’ll follow me,” he repeated. This time, he did not wait to see if she followed but continued along the halls.

Jane forced her legs to move and, with wooden steps, walked at a slower, more reluctant pace behind him. As they walked through the lavish townhouse, the trepidation that had gripped Jane all morning threatened to overwhelm her with numbing panic.

What if she was discovered as an interloper? An imposter? She glanced down at her dark, modest uniform of Mrs. Belden’s. Surely the gentleman’s letter returned to him with Jane and her Dragon skirts would rouse no suspicions. Because the alternative, to be turned out and ultimately forced to starve or humble herself before the father she’d met but twice as a child, and only when he’d paid visits to her mother, was unfathomable. His lover. Familiar rage rolled through her, reminding her of why she hated the nobility who saw those deemed inferior, such as a bastard Jane and her actress mother, as beneath their notice. Those gentlemen who could, with a single look or one word utterance, decide a person’s fate.