When Anne finally came to, her mind slowly shifting from unrelenting black to swirling clouds of gray, the first thing she felt were hands, poking and prodding, trying to remove her clothing.
She wanted to scream. She tried to, but her voice would not obey. She was shivering uncontrollably, her muscles were aching and exhausted, and she wasn’t sure she could open her mouth, much less make a sound.
She’d been cornered before, by overconfident young men who viewed the governess as fair game, by a master of a house who figured he was paying her salary, anyway. Even by George Chervil, who had set her life down this road in the first place.
But she had always been able to defend herself. She’d had her strength, and her wits, and with George even a weapon. Now she had none of those things. She could not even open her eyes.
“No,” she moaned, squirming and shifting on what seemed to be a cold, wooden floor.
“Shhh,” came an unfamiliar voice. It was a woman, though, which Anne found reassuring. “Let us help you, Miss Wynter.”
They knew her name. Anne could not decide if that was a good thing or not.
“Poor dear,” the woman said. “Your skin is like ice. We’re going to put you in a hot bath.”
A bath. A bath sounded like heaven. She was so cold—she couldn’t remember ever being so cold before. Everything felt heavy . . . her arms, legs, even her heart.
“Here we are, love,” came the woman’s voice again. “Just let me get at these buttons.”
Anne struggled once more to open her eyes. It felt as if someone had placed weights on her lids, or submerged her in some sort of sticky goo she couldn’t quite escape.
“You’re safe now,” the woman said. Her voice was kind, and she seemed to want to help.
“Where am I?” Anne whispered, still trying to force her eyes open.
“You’re back at Whipple Hill. Lord Winstead carried you back through the rain.”
“Lord Winstead . . . He—” She gasped, and her eyes finally opened to reveal a bathroom, far more elegant and ornate than the one to which she was currently assigned up in the nursery. There were two maids with her, one adding water to a steaming bath, the other attempting to remove her sodden clothing.
“Is he all right?” Anne asked frantically. “Lord Winstead?” Flashes of memory rushed at her. The rain. The horses breaking free. The horrifying sound of splintering wood. And then the curricle, hurtling forward on just one wheel. And then . . . nothing. Anne could not recall a thing. They must have crashed—why couldn’t she remember it?
Dear God, what had happened to them?
“His lordship is well,” the maid assured her. “Exhausted as a body can be, but it’s nothing a bit of rest won’t cure.” Her eyes shone with pride as she adjusted Anne’s position so that she could peel her sleeves from her arms. “He’s a hero, he is. A true hero.”
Anne rubbed her face with her hand. “I can’t remember what happened. A few bits and pieces, but that’s all.”
“His lordship told us you were thrown from the carriage,” the maid said, getting to work on the other sleeve. “Lady Winstead said you likely hit your head.”
“Lady Winstead?” When had she seen Lady Winstead?
“His lordship’s mother,” the maid explained, misinterpreting Anne’s query. “She knows a bit about injuries and healing, she does. She examined you right there on the floor of the front hall.”
“Oh, dear God.” Anne didn’t know why this was so mortifying, but it was.
“Her ladyship said you’ve a lump, right about here.” The maid touched her own head, a couple of inches above her left ear.
Anne’s hand, still rubbing her temple, moved upward through her hair. She found the bump instantly, bulging and tender. “Ow,” she said, pulling her fingers away. She looked at her hand. There was no blood. Or maybe there had been, and the rain had washed it away.
“Lady Winstead said she thought you’d want some privacy,” the maid continued, sliding Anne’s dress from her body. “We’re to get you warmed and washed and then put into bed. She sent for a doctor.”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t need a doctor,” Anne said quickly. She still felt awful—sore, and cold, and with a lumpy explanation for her raging headache. But they were temporary sorts of ailments, the kind one instinctively knew needed nothing but a soft bed and hot soup.
But the maid just shrugged. “She already sent for one, so I don’t think you’ve got much choice.”
Anne nodded.
“Everyone is right worried about you. Little Lady Frances was crying, and—”
“Frances?” Anne interrupted. “But she never cries.”
“She was this time.”
“Oh, please,” Anne begged, heartbroken with worry. “Please have someone let her know that I’m all right.”
“A footman will be up with more hot water soon. We’ll have him tell Lady—”
“A footman?” Anne gasped, her hands instinctively covering her nudity. She was still in her chemise, but wet, it was practically transparent.
“Don’t worry,” the maid said with a chuckle. “He leaves it at the door. It’s just so Peggy doesn’t have to carry it up the stairs.”
Peggy, who was pouring yet another bucket of water into the tub, turned and smiled.
“Thank you,” Anne said quietly. “Thank you both.”
“I’m Bess,” the first maid told her. “Do you think you can stand up? Just for a minute? This slip has got to come off over your head.”
Anne nodded, and with help from Bess she rose to her feet, holding onto the side of the large porcelain tub for support. Once the chemise had been removed, Bess helped Anne into the tub, and she sank down gratefully into the water. It was too hot, but she didn’t mind. It felt so good to be something other than numb.
She soaked in the bath until the water faded to lukewarm, then Bess helped her into her wool nightgown, which Bess had brought down from Anne’s room in the nursery.
“Here you are,” Bess said, leading Anne across the plush carpet to a beautiful canopied bed.
“What room is this?” Anne asked, taking in the elegant surroundings. Scrollwork swirled along the ceilings, and the walls were covered in damask of the most delicate silvery blue. It was by far the grandest room she’d ever slept in.
“The blue guest bedroom,” Bess said, fluffing her pillows. “It’s one of the finest at Whipple Hill. Right on the same hallway as the family.”
As the family? Anne looked up in surprise.
Bess shrugged. “His lordship insisted upon it.”
“Oh,” Anne said with a gulp, wondering what the rest of his family thought about that.
Bess watched as Anne settled in under the heavy quilts, then asked, “Shall I tell everyone that you’re able to receive visitors? I know they’ll want to see you.”
“Not Lord Winstead?” Anne asked in horror. Surely they would not allow him to enter her bedroom. Well, not her bedroom, but still, a bedroom. With her in it.
“Oh, no,” Bess reassured her. “He’s off in his own bed, asleep, I hope. I don’t think we’ll see him for at least a day. The poor man is exhausted. I reckon you weigh quite a bit more wet than you do dry.” Bess chuckled at her own joke, then left the room.
Less than a minute later, Lady Pleinsworth entered. “Oh, my poor, poor girl,” she exclaimed. “You gave us such a fright. But my heavens, you look vastly better than you did an hour ago.”
“Thank you,” Anne said, not quite comfortable with such effusiveness on the part of her employer. Lady Pleinsworth had always been kind, but she had never attempted to make Anne feel like a member of the family. Nor had Anne expected her to. It was the odd lot of the governess—not quite a servant but most definitely not of the family. Her first employer—the old woman on the Isle of Man—had warned her about it. Forever stuck between upstairs and down, a governess was, and she’d best get used to it quickly.
“You should have seen yourself when his lordship brought you in,” Lady Pleinsworth said as she settled into a chair by the bed. “Poor Frances thought you were dead.”
“Oh, no, is she still upset? Has someone—”
“She’s fine,” Lady Pleinsworth said with a brisk wave of her hand. “She insists, however, upon seeing you for herself.”
“That would be most agreeable,” Anne said, trying to stifle a yawn. “I would enjoy her company.”
“You’ll need to rest first,” Lady Pleinsworth said firmly.
Anne nodded, sinking a little further into her pillows.
“I’m sure you’ll want to know how Lord Winstead is,” Lady Pleinsworth continued.
Anne nodded again. She did want to know, desperately, but she’d been forcing herself not to ask.
Lady Pleinsworth leaned forward, and there was something in her expression Anne could not quite read. “You should know that he very nearly collapsed after carrying you home.”
“I’m sorry,” Anne whispered.
But if Lady Pleinsworth heard her, she gave no indication. “Actually, I suppose one would have to say he did collapse. Two footmen had to help him up and practically carry him to his room. I vow I have never seen the like.”
Anne felt tears stinging her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Lady Pleinsworth looked at her with a queer expression, almost as if she’d forgotten who she’d been talking to. “There’s no need for that. It’s not your fault.”
“I know, but . . .” Anne shook her head. She didn’t know what she knew. She didn’t know anything any longer.
“Still,” Lady Pleinsworth said with a wave of her hand, “you should be grateful. He carried you for over half a mile, you know. And he was injured himself.”
“I am grateful,” Anne said quietly. “Very much so.”
“The reins snapped,” Lady Pleinsworth told her. “I must say I am appalled. It is unconscionable that equipage in such poor repair would be allowed out of the stables. Someone will lose their position over this, I am sure.”
The reins, Anne thought. That made sense. It had all happened so suddenly.
“At any rate, given the severity of the accident, we must be thankful that neither of you was more seriously injured,” Lady Pleinsworth continued. “Although I’m told that we do want to watch you closely with that lump on your head.”
Anne touched it again, wincing.
“Does it hurt?”
“A bit,” Anne admitted.
Lady Pleinsworth seemed not to know what to do with that information. She shifted slightly in her seat, then squared her shoulders, then finally said, “Well.”
Anne tried to smile. It was ridiculous, but she almost felt as if she was supposed to try to make Lady Pleinsworth feel better. It was probably from all those years in service, always wanting to please her employers.
“The doctor will be here soon,” Lady Pleinsworth finally continued, “but in the meantime, I will make sure that someone tells Lord Winstead that you have awakened. He was most worried about you.”
“Thank—” Anne started to say, but apparently Lady Pleinsworth was not done.
“It is curious, though,” she said, pressing her lips together. “How did you come to be in his carriage in the first place? The last I saw him, he was here at Whipple Hill.”
Anne swallowed. This was not the sort of conversation that one wanted to treat with anything but the utmost of care. “I saw him in the village,” she said. “It started to rain, and he offered to drive me back to Whipple Hill.” She waited for a moment, but Lady Pleinsworth did not speak, so she added, “I was most appreciative.”
Lady Pleinsworth took a moment to consider her answer, then said, “Yes, well, he is very generous that way. Although as it turns out, you’d have done better to walk.” She stood briskly and patted the bed. “You must rest now. But do not sleep. I’ve been told you’re not to sleep until the doctor arrives to examine you.” She frowned. “I believe I will send Frances in. At the very least, she’ll keep you awake.”
Anne smiled. “Perhaps she might read to me. She hasn’t practiced reading aloud in quite some time, and I should like to see her work on her diction.”
“Ever the teacher, I see,” Lady Pleinsworth said. “But that’s what we want in a governess, isn’t it?”
Anne nodded, not quite certain if she had been complimented or told to remember her place.
Lady Pleinsworth walked to the door, then turned. “Oh, and as to that, don’t worry about the girls. Lady Sarah and Lady Honoria will be sharing your duties while you are recuperating. I’m sure between the two of them they can work out a lesson plan.”
“Maths,” Anne said with a yawn. “They need to do maths.”
“Maths it is, then.” Lady Pleinsworth opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “Do try to get some rest. But don’t sleep.”
Anne nodded and closed her eyes, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She did not think she would sleep, though. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was racing. Everyone told her that Daniel was all right, but she was still worried, and she would be until she saw him for herself. There was nothing she could do about it now, though, not when she could barely walk.
And then Frances bounded in, hopped onto the bed beside Anne, and proceeded to chatter her ear off. It was, Anne realized later, exactly what she needed.
The rest of the day passed peacefully enough. Frances stayed until the doctor arrived, who said that he wanted Anne to keep awake until nightfall. Then Elizabeth came, bearing a tray of cakes and sweets, and finally Harriet, who carried with her a small sheaf of paper—her current opus, Henry VIII and the Unicorn of Doom.
“I’m not certain Frances is going to be appeased by an evil unicorn,” Anne told her.
Harriet looked up with one arched brow. “She did not specify that it must be a good unicorn.”
Anne grimaced. “You’re going to have a battle on your hands, that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
Harriet shrugged, then said, “I’m going to begin in act two. Act one is a complete disaster. I’ve had to rip it completely apart.”
“Because of the unicorn?”
“No,” Harriet said with a grimace. “I got the order of the wives wrong. It’s divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, widowed.”
“How cheerful.”
Harriet gave her a bit of a look, then said, “I switched one of the divorces with a beheading.”
“May I give you a bit of advice?” Anne asked.
Harriet looked up.
“Don’t ever let anyone hear you say that out of context.”
Harriet laughed aloud at that, then gave her papers a little shake to indicate that she was ready to begin. “Act two,” she read with a flourish. “And don’t worry, you shouldn’t be too confused, especially now that we’ve reviewed all the wifely demises.”
But before Harriet reached act three, Lady Pleinsworth entered the room, her expression urgent and grave. “I must speak with Miss Wynter,” she said to Harriet. “Please leave us.”
“But we haven’t even—”
“Now, Harriet.”
Harriet gave Anne a what-can-this-be look, which Anne did not acknowledge, not with Lady Pleinsworth standing over her, looking like a thundercloud.
Harriet gathered her papers and left. Lady Pleinsworth walked to the door, listened to make sure that Harriet had not lingered to eavesdrop, then turned to Anne and said, “The reins were cut.”
Anne gasped. “What?”
“The reins. On Lord Winstead’s curricle. They had been cut.”
“No. That’s impossible. Why would—” But she knew why. And she knew who.
George Chervil.
Anne felt herself blanch. How had he found her here? And how could he have known—
The posting inn. She and Lord Winstead had been inside at least half an hour. Anyone who had been watching her would have realized that she would be riding home in his curricle.
Anne had long since accepted that time would not dampen George Chervil’s fire for revenge, but she’d never thought he would be so reckless as to threaten the life of another person, especially someone of Daniel’s position. He was the Earl of Winstead, for heaven’s sake. The death of a governess would most likely go uninvestigated, but an earl?
George was insane. Or at least more so than he’d been before. There could be no other explanation.
“The horses came back several hours ago,” Lady Pleinsworth continued. “The grooms were sent out to retrieve the curricle, and that’s when they saw it. It was a clear act of sabotage. Worn leather does not snap in an even, straight line.”
“No,” Anne said, trying to take it all in.
“I don’t suppose you have some nefarious enemy in your past you’ve neglected to tell us about,” Lady Pleinsworth said.
Anne’s throat went dry. She was going to have to lie. There was no other—
But Lady Pleinsworth must have been engaging in a bit of gallows humor, because she did not wait for a reply. “It’s Ramsgate,” she said. “God damn it, the man has lost all reason.”
Anne could only stare, not sure if she was relieved that she’d been spared the sin of lying or shocked that Lady Pleinsworth had so furiously taken the Lord’s name in vain.
And maybe Lady Pleinsworth was right. Maybe this had nothing to do with Anne, and the villain was indeed the Marquess of Ramsgate. He’d chased Daniel out of the country three years earlier; surely it was within his character to try to have him murdered now. And he certainly would not care if he took the life of a governess in the process.
“He promised Daniel he would leave him alone,” Lady Pleinsworth raged, pacing the room. “That’s the only reason he came back, you know. He thought he would be safe. Lord Hugh went all the way to Italy to tell him that his father had promised to put an end to all this nonsense.” She let out a frustrated noise, her hands fisted tightly at her sides. “It has been three years. Three years he was in exile. Isn’t that enough? Daniel didn’t even kill his son. It was just a wound.”
Anne kept quiet, not sure that she was supposed to be taking part in this conversation.
But then Lady Pleinsworth turned and looked at her directly. “I assume you know the story.”
“Most of it, I believe.”
“Yes, of course. The girls would have told you everything.” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, and it occurred to Anne that she had never seen her employer so distraught. Lady Pleinsworth gave her head a shake, then said, “I don’t know how Virginia is going to bear it. It nearly killed her before when he left the country.”
Virginia must be Lady Winstead, Daniel’s mother. Anne had not known her given name.
“Well,” Lady Pleinsworth said, then abruptly added, “I suppose you can sleep now. The sun’s gone down.”
“Thank you,” Anne said. “Please give—” But she stopped there.
“Did you say something?” Lady Pleinsworth inquired.
Anne shook her head. It would have been inappropriate to ask Lady Pleinsworth to give her regards to Lord Winstead. Or if not that, then unwise.
Lady Pleinsworth took a step toward the door, then paused. “Miss Wynter,” she said.
“Yes?”
Lady Pleinsworth turned slowly around. “There is one thing.”
Anne waited. It was not like her employer to leave such silences in the middle of conversation. It did not bode well.
“It has not escaped my notice that my nephew . . .” Again, she paused, possibly searching for the correct combination of words.
“Please,” Anne blurted out, certain that her continued employment was hanging by a thread. “Lady Pleinsworth, I assure you—”
“Don’t interrupt,” Lady Pleinsworth said, although not unkindly. She held up a hand, instructing Anne to wait as she gathered her thoughts. Finally, just when Anne was sure she could not bear it any longer, she said, “Lord Winstead seems quite taken with you.”
Anne hoped Lady Pleinsworth did not expect a reply.
“I am assured of your good judgment, am I not?” Lady Pleinsworth added.
“Of course, my lady.”
“There are times when a woman must exhibit a sensibility that men lack. I believe this is one of those times.”
She paused and looked at Anne directly, indicating that this time she did expect a reply. So Anne said, “Yes, my lady,” and prayed that was enough.
“The truth is, Miss Wynter, I know very little about you.”
Anne’s eyes widened.
“Your references are impeccable, and of course your behavior since joining our household has been above reproach. You are quite the finest governess I have ever employed.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“But I don’t know anything about your family. I don’t know who your father was, or your mother, or what sort of connections you might possess. You have been well brought up, that much is clear, but beyond that . . .” She held up her hands. And then she looked directly into Anne’s eyes. “My nephew must marry someone with a clear and unstained status.”
“I realize that,” Anne said quietly.
“She will almost certainly come from a noble family.”
Anne swallowed, trying not to let any emotion show on her face.
“It is not strictly necessary, of course. It is possible he might marry a girl from the gentry. But she would have to be most exceptional.” Lady Pleinsworth took a step toward her, and her head tilted slightly to the side, as if she were trying to see right down inside of her. “I like you, Miss Wynter,” she said slowly, “but I do not know you. Do you understand?”
Anne nodded.
Lady Pleinsworth walked to the door and placed her hand on the knob. “I suspect,” she said quietly, “that you do not want me to know you.”
And then she departed, leaving Anne alone with her flickering candle and tortuous thoughts.
There was no misconstruing the meaning of Lady Pleinsworth’s comments. She had been warning her to stay away from Lord Winstead, or rather, to make sure that he stayed away from her. But it had been bittersweet. She’d left a sad little door open, hinting that Anne might be considered a suitable match if more were known of her background.
But of course that was impossible.
Could you imagine? Telling Lady Pleinsworth the truth about her background?
Well, the thing is, I’m not a virgin.
And my name is not really Anne Wynter.
Oh, and I stabbed a man and now he’s madly hunting me until I’m dead.
A desperate, horrified giggle popped out of Anne’s throat. What a resumé that was.
“I’m a prize,” she said into the darkness, and then she laughed some more. Or maybe she cried. After a while, it was hard to tell which was which.