London, England
Spring, 1860
“And then what did you do, Miss Stafford?” Cora Dinwiddy asked in an awe-filled whisper.
Sylvia looked across the schoolroom at her two flaxen-haired charges. The girls had been relieved to have her back so soon. Their mother was a kind lady, but easily overwhelmed by the high spirits of her two exuberant offspring. By the end of the first day, she had retired to bed, leaving the girls in the care of the already harried housekeeper.
“Not a moment too soon, Miss Stafford!” Mrs. Poole had exclaimed upon Sylvia’s arrival at the door three days earlier. “‘A month!’ I says to the mistress. ‘You let the governess go a month without a by your leave? And what’s to become of the house while I’m chasing after those two little devils?’ But you know the mistress. She spends a half hour trying to herd those children together for a bit of sewing and then off she goes to her rooms with a megrim! And who do you think is left to tend things? It’s myself, isn’t it. But they don’t want sewing. Oh no. They must have stories. And I’m to read them just as Miss Stafford does. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
Sylvia had found the girls in the schoolroom playing with their dolls amidst a great deal of disorder. The old piano was open, the music books scattered about. Crumpled drawing paper littered the floor. And someone—Cora, she suspected—had spilled their watercolors on the threadbare Kidderminster carpet, leaving an immense, bright purple stain that would have put the latest in aniline dyes to shame.
After a few stern words about their reported behavior and a polite request that they tidy the schoolroom in preparation for their morning lessons, Sylvia had left them and gone upstairs to her own small room to wash and change her clothes.
Had the house not been in utter chaos, someone might have asked why she had returned to London so soon or why she had arrived at the door in a hired hansom cab of all things. But no one had broached the subject until later that week. And the questions, when they came, were not from Mrs. Dinwiddy—though she had expressed regret that Sylvia’s short holiday had not been a success—but from Clara and Cora themselves.
“Yes, Miss Stafford,” Clara encouraged. “What did you do then?”
Sylvia used a piece of chalk to write a single word on the slate she held in her lap.
Earl.
She lifted it up for their perusal. “What do you suppose I did?” she countered. “Clara? Cora? How does one greet a gentleman of this rank?”
Cora frowned, staring at the word in consternation.
Clara, the elder, immediately brightened. “You curtsied!”
Sylvia affected to give this some consideration. “I certainly may have done if we had been in a ballroom and were about to dance,” she replied, “but we were in a parlor just like the one you have downstairs. Would you curtsy to an earl there, do you think?”
“I would shake his hand,” Cora said boldly. “I would say, ‘How do you do!’”
Sylvia smiled. “That would be quite acceptable, dear, if he were an acquaintance of equal or lesser rank. An earl, however, is a person of superior position. It is his privilege to extend his hand to us.”
Clara made a face. “I do not want to shake his hand.”
“Indeed,” Sylvia said. “He is not likely to offer it. Instead, he will bow to you and in return, you may incline your head, thusly, in a polite bow of your own. This will suffice for any person of superior rank, unless,” she added with a solemn tone, “you should one day meet the queen.”
Clara and Cora immediately went into rhapsodies. Sylvia, as always, endeavored to channel their high spirits into practical education. She lay down her slate and rose from her chair.
“Up you come, girls,” she said. “Show me your best curtsies. You will need them if ever you are presented to Her Majesty.”
The girls obeyed and, after a short, but spirited dialogue on whose curtsy was prettier and whether or not one of them might indeed one day meet the queen, they resumed their seats. And their questions.
Thanks to the gossiping servants and the unguarded tongue of their mother, Clara and Cora had always been extraordinarily knowledgeable about Sylvia’s former life as a ‘fine lady.’ This, however, had been the first occasion that the household had had indisputable proof that once upon a time their very own governess had rubbed shoulders with viscountesses and earls.
Sylvia did not know what else they had been told about her trip to Hertfordshire. It was no secret, certainly, but she would rather not have discussed it at all. She had left Pershing Hall in an emotional fog, panicked and confused by what she had shared with Sebastian. As far as she was concerned, the least said about the experience the better. In time, she hoped her heart would hurt a little less. Until then, she was determined to keep herself so busy that there would not be a single moment free in which to fall into a blue melancholy.
“No more questions, girls,” she said briskly. “We have wasted quite enough of this morning on the nobility.” She used a cloth to erase the word Earl from her slate. In its place, she wrote a series of numbers. “Take out your slates, if you please, and we will address ourselves to a much more interesting subject. Arithmetic.”
It was less than thirty miles from Pershing Hall to the Earl of Radcliffe’s town residence in Mayfair. Only half a day’s journey with stops to change horses. Had they taken the train, they could have made the trip four times as quickly. However, Julia was adamant that she could not disobey her husband’s wishes in respect to avoiding train travel. Sebastian was skeptical as always of Harker’s notions about his wife’s safety, but he did not argue with his sister. Instead, he used the extra time to his benefit, explaining to his overexcited sibling exactly what he would require of her once they arrived in London.
“Harker won’t like it above half,” Julia said as she wiggled her toes on the hot brick that Sebastian had procured for her at the last stop.
He had forced himself to get out while the horses were being changed. Forced himself to go into the taproom and order a tankard of ale. The innkeeper had stared at his face, his eyes riveted to the scars even as Sebastian spoke to him. It had been a sobering experience. And yet, at the same time, it had been a relief. The innkeeper had stared in horrified fascination, true, but he had not appeared afraid and he had certainly not succumbed to a fit of the vapors.
Not that that meant anything. A rough innkeeper on the road to London was no doubt accustomed to unpleasant sights. The real test would come when they arrived in town and Sebastian was forced to interact with his peers.
“He will expect me to come home,” Julia said. “I shall explain to him, of course, and I daresay he will understand. But you know how Harker can be, Sebastian. He was already quite irritable that I should wish to come back to Pershing so soon. And now, to tell him that I must stay with you at your townhouse…” She grimaced. “He will read me a lecture, I am sure of it.”
Sebastian was gazing numbly out the window of the carriage, but at this he turned his head to look at his little sister. For all her silliness, Julia had been more than happy to accompany him on his impulsive journey, immediately dashing off a note to Lord Harker informing him that he was not to come to Hertfordshire, but to remain in London and she would meet him there.
He had been used to thinking of her as a confounded little nuisance. He had already been at Eton when she was born. Then came university and the duties of his regiment. He was rarely home and, as a result, had never really got to know her. Nor had he particularly wanted to. The brief moments spent in her company during school holidays or while on leave had been unpleasant in the extreme, filled with high-pitched chatter and youthful nonsense. His father and elder brother had spoiled Julia—praising and petting her for the very qualities which Sebastian deemed the silliest.
It had not occurred to him until now how she must have felt to lose them both in one fell swoop. And then to have her only remaining sibling return from India damaged almost beyond recognition. Yet she had continued to visit him at Pershing, forcing her company on him despite his grumbled threats and the occasional book or trinket thrown in her general direction.
And now, in what was perhaps the most affecting display of sisterly regard he had yet been subjected to, she had found Sylvia Stafford for him and unwittingly revealed a three-year-old misunderstanding that could, quite literally, change the course of his whole life.
“I will speak to Harker,” he told her.
Julia brightened. “Will you? I must say, I think that is wise. There are precious few members of the family left, you know. And we must draw them all into the cause.”
Sebastian resumed staring out the window at the passing countryside. He would have far preferred to handle everything on his own. Whatever happened next was between Sylvia and himself. No one else need have anything to do with it.
But that was the crux of the matter. If what he had in mind was to work, he would need the support of his friends and family, both of which were going to be a bit thin on the ground at present.
“Aunt Araminta and Aunt Sophie will still be in town,” Julia said as if reading his mind. “And Harker’s elder sister, Maria. And Lord and Lady Wilding. I can think of ever so many more.” She smoothed a carriage rug over her flounced skirts. “I shall make a list and then we may send our cards round. They will all wish to call upon you, Sebastian. You are Radcliffe now.”
“So I am,” he said.
They arrived in the early evening, greeted by a skeleton staff who did their best to hide their dismay at the unexpected appearance of the new Earl of Radcliffe. Sebastian had not been to London in three years. The last time he had visited the townhouse, his father had been earl and his brother had been the heir. He felt a twinge of grief to see it now in all its stately grandeur. But there was no time for melancholy. He removed himself to the earl’s chamber to wash and change, leaving Julia to take up the mantle of mistress of the house.
Geoffrey Randall, Viscount Harker arrived two hours later to dine with his wife. Sebastian did not join them for dinner, but after they had finished their meal, he convened with Harker in the library over a glass of port.
He had not been privy to the marriage negotiations between his father and Lord Harker; however, he strongly suspected that the late earl had thought to wed his only daughter to a gentleman of a serious and sober nature, capable of exerting some measure of control over her high spirits. To the untrained eye, Harker would seem to fit the bill. He was in his middle thirties, fifteen years Julia’s senior, and a highly respected Member of Parliament. But Sebastian had been evaluating the character of men under his command for over a decade and, though he was not insensible to his brother-in-law’s merits, he could see plainly that Harker was the last person on earth to exercise restraint over Julia.
He loved her, poor fool, and as a consequence, indulged her quite shamefully. It was no wonder she was free to roam about the town calling on governesses in Cheapside and making up stories about suicidal elder brothers.
Sebastian did not know if his sister returned her husband’s feelings. As a girl, she had fancied the golden splendor of Thomas Rotherham. While Harker was a man of, at best, middling looks, with a perpetually sad, drooping expression that put one in mind of a rather mournful bloodhound.
“Suppose I’ll have to stay here,” he said, frowning into his glass of port. “If Julia won’t come home…That is…Can’t very well command her, can I?”
“I need her, Harker,” Sebastian said. “Without her presence…”
“Quite right. Quite right. Perfectly understand.” Harker raised his head. “But you’re not to shout at her, Radcliffe.”
Sebastian was familiar with this particular lecture. Harker had delivered it several times before. “I have a temper,” he admitted. “It has become somewhat worse since I came back from India. But I would not hurt my sister or any woman.”
This assurance seemed to satisfy Harker. “Best thing for it is to marry, Radcliffe. Settles the spirits. Home. Hearth. All that sort of thing. I’m pleased to hear—” He paused, frowning again. “But I won’t be precipitate. The situation you propose is…difficult.”
“I take it you remember the scandal.”
“Naturally. It was a shameful state of affairs. Stafford was accused of all manner of things after the fact. Don’t know much about his daughter personally, but can’t say I’m surprised she was blackballed. People were angry at Stafford.” Harker shrugged and took a swallow of port. “With him gone, his daughter made a convenient scapegoat.”
Sebastian clenched and unclenched one hand, focusing his slowly building fury into the small, harmless action, when what he really felt like doing was putting his fist through the wood-paneled wall. She had been all alone. And if he had only known, he might have helped her. “She had friends,” he said. “Good friends. Lord and Lady Mainwaring—”
“Mainwaring, did you say?” Harker looked up from his port. “Sir Roderick was in debt to Mainwaring to the tune of twenty thousand pounds. Some investment scheme, I believe. Don’t know the particulars, but you may rest assured that Mainwaring wanted nothing more to do with the situation. Can’t imagine him assisting Stafford’s daughter.”
Sebastian looked down at his clenched fist. He had never liked Mainwaring. He was a baron who put on the airs of a duke and conducted his business affairs like a merchant. And that daughter of his! Sebastian had never yet met a female with such an exalted opinion of herself.
“Besides that,” Harker continued, “he had a daughter of his own to worry about at the time.”
“That should not have mattered. Miss Stafford and Penelope Mainwaring were friends.”
“Lady Goddard now.”
“What?”
“Mainwaring’s daughter, Penelope. She’s Lady Goddard now. Married Viscount Goddard two years ago. Not too long after Stafford’s suicide, if I recall.”
“Did she, by God,” Sebastian murmured. So that was it, was it? A word from Penelope Mainwaring might have kept Sylvia in London; allowed her to remain with Lord and Lady Mainwaring. But instead Miss Mainwaring had taken advantage of the opportunity to rid herself of a rival.
“What’s that?” Harker asked.
“Three years ago, Goddard was devoted to Miss Stafford.”
“Ah.” Harker gave a knowing nod. “More to Miss Stafford’s exile than the actions of her father, then. Jealousy, perhaps? You never can tell with the ladies. Vicious as vipers, some of them. Would as soon sink their teeth into a friend as a foe. And Lady Goddard is a particularly formidable female. Daresay she’ll be part of the contingent that calls upon you tomorrow morning.”
Sebastian had wondered why Lord Goddard had not come to Sylvia’s aid. Was this the answer? Had Penelope Mainwaring been hissing poison into Goddard’s ear? Convincing him to give up Sylvia and take her instead? They had been her friends. And now, here they were in town—a viscount and his particularly formidable lady—while Sylvia Stafford was working as a governess in Cheapside! For two pins, Sebastian would have happily throttled the pair of them.
“Lady Goddard may await my pleasure,” he said coldly. “Tomorrow morning, my sister and I will be otherwise engaged.”
At half past one the following day, Sebastian was sitting in the front parlor of a small, but respectable house in Cheapside. Julia sat beside him on the overstuffed sofa and, across from them both, fidgeting nervously in an armless, button-back chair, sat Mrs. Dinwiddy. She was a short, plump woman clad in a dark silk dress with skirts that nearly rivalled Julia’s in size. Her eyes drifted repeatedly to the scarred side of Sebastian’s face. He was tempted to turn his head at an angle so his injuries were not so visible, but pride prevented him from making even the smallest concession. Instead, he looked his hostess directly in the eye.
He had arrived with his sister ten minutes earlier in a carriage bearing the Radcliffe coat of arms. The front door had been opened by another portly woman—the housekeeper, he had assumed. She had stared at Sebastian’s face, slack jawed, before nearly falling into a swoon after looking at his card. After a series of curtsies that were painful to behold, and a few babbled mutterings of “your grace,” she had guided them into the parlor and summoned her mistress.
“I do not know what is keeping them,” Mrs. Dinwiddy tittered for what must be the third time. “They were only walking to the park. Shall I—” Her eyes strayed again to Sebastian’s scars. “Shall I send someone to fetch them back?”
“Do not distress yourself, ma’am,” Julia said. “We are quite content to wait.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Mrs. Dinwiddy clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Though I never would have imagined when we hired Miss Stafford—” She gave another nervous laugh. “To think that I should be receiving both a viscountess and an earl in my own parlor!” She gestured about her as if to indicate the inadequacy of the stuffed sofa and chairs, the needlepoint pillows, and the profusion of blue and white china. “I am all at sixes and sevens.”
Sebastian had been called upon to talk with people of all classes while in the army. He had not been especially good at it. He was far too gruff. But this woman, as silly and gauche as she was, had been kind to Sylvia. She had taken her in and given her a position. What might have happened to her otherwise, he shuddered to think. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, “did you not know that Miss Stafford is herself the daughter of a baronet?”
Mrs. Dinwiddy pursed her lips. “As to that, my lord…She did say when we hired her how she had once moved in society, but that her father had” —her voice dropped to a whisper— “taken his own life.” She looked from Sebastian to Julia. “Such a shocking business. I did not like to press her for the details.”
“Naturally not,” said Julia.
“Even if I had done, Miss Stafford was in no state to answer questions about her people. If you had only heard her voice when she recited her qualifications. So small and soft! Telling me about her experience with globes and painting and how she could speak tolerable French. Poor dear. She fairly shook. It was grief, you must understand. And no chance to mourn! Not but that I didn’t allow her to wear black the first year. Though Mr. Dinwiddy did not approve of it.”
Julia leaned forward in her seat, giving the older woman a look of sympathy. “Was she very grieved, ma’am?”
“Oh my, yes. And so thin and pale! ‘We must fatten her up,’ I told cook.” Mrs. Dinwiddy smiled fondly at the memory. “She is the dearest girl, my lady. And such a way with the children. I have often been sorry that she has no family to go to at Christmas and no one to call upon her here, but she assures me that she is content.”
Sebastian listened to Mrs. Dinwiddy describing the state Sylvia was in when she had come to them and felt the same sense of helpless fury he had felt when Milsom told him that Miss Button had burned nearly one hundred letters. Sylvia had not told him everything, he realized. Nor why should she have? As far as she knew, he was an unreliable gentleman who had callously ignored her. Why would she burden him with the knowledge that she had been pale and thin and crippled with grief?
“She keeps very busy,” Mrs. Dinwiddy went on. “Only yesterday, she attended to the marketing with Millie, our housemaid. And the day before that, why you would not credit it, my lady, but she carried up the mending to her room and in the morning she had completed it all!”
Melancholy was no match for industry, she had told him. Is that what she did now? Kept herself busy at all hours as if she were a bloody maid of all work in order to shield herself from the misery of her reduced circumstances? The very idea made Sebastian want to howl with outrage.
“We must convince her to have a rest,” Julia said firmly. “Beginning with a drive this afternoon. You must insist upon it, Mrs. Dinwiddy.”
Mrs. Dinwiddy nodded obediently. “I will tell her, my lady. I did hope she would stay in the country with you a bit longer, though I cannot deny that her return home was a godsend. My megrims, you know. And Mrs. Poole is not as skillful with the girls. Why, I’ve often—” She broke off at the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. “Ah!” she exclaimed with relief. “That will be them at last.”
Sebastian’s pulse quickened. He stood from his chair, giving one uncharacteristically agitated tug to smooth his black waistcoat. He was not naturally a gentleman prone to unsteadiness of the nerves. Indeed, he had frequently been accused of having ice in his veins. But hearing Sylvia’s voice echo out in the hall, knowing now what she had written to him in that letter, he felt more nervous that he had ever felt before in his entire life.
“Do you each have your leaf intact?” she was asking.
The high-pitched squeaks of two little girls answered, followed by what was, unmistakably, a childish sob of anguish.
“Oh, my dear,” he heard Sylvia respond. “Don’t fret. Give that to me. Now take this in its place. You see why I gathered two extra? We must always plan for these sorts of catastrophes.”
Mrs. Dinwiddy rose from her chair and went to the door of the parlor. She cracked it open. “Mrs. Poole? Take Clara and Cora up to the schoolroom. Miss Stafford? Join us, if you please.”
Sylvia entered a moment later looking flushed. Her thick hair was pinned up in an untidy braided coil, the hem of her modest gray gown a bit smudged with dirt. Her eyes flew straight to his. She stilled, color rising in her face. “Lord Radcliffe!”
Sebastian was frozen where he stood. “Miss Stafford,” he said. It was all he could do to offer her a bow.
Thank goodness for Julia. Before the silence could become awkward, she was on her feet and rushing at Sylvia with outstretched hands.
“My dear Miss Stafford.” She clasped her hands and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Were those the two little girls that you teach? How very energetic they sounded! But whatever was the matter? I hope no one was hurt?”
Sylvia gave Julia a bewildered look. “Hurt? Oh no, Lady Harker. No indeed. We…We have been collecting leaves to trace for our art project this afternoon. Cora’s crumbled in her hand. She was a bit distraught…” Her gaze flickered back to his, her blue eyes uncertain. “Forgive me, but I had not expected—”
“Lady Harker and Lord Radcliffe have come to call on you,” Mrs. Dinwiddy interrupted with a brittle laugh, “and have been made to settle for my company this last quarter of an hour!”
“We are come to take you for a drive with us, Miss Stafford,” Julia said. “Will you need to change your gown or repair your hair before we leave? Shall I come up with you to your room and help you?”
“A drive? With the two of you?” Sylvia asked weakly. She looked at him again, her blush deepening to scarlet, and in that brief moment Sebastian knew—he simply knew—that she was recollecting the passionate kisses they had shared in his library.
He held her gaze until she looked away.
“It is perfectly acceptable,” Julia assured. “And Mrs. Dinwiddy has insisted that you come.”
“That I do, Miss Stafford,” agreed Mrs. Dinwiddy. “And you needn’t fret over the children. Mrs. Poole shall manage them quite well while you are gone.”
Sebastian watched Sylvia’s face. He could see the battle she fought between a lifetime of good breeding and the instinct for self-preservation. When her expression composed itself into a mask of polite civility, he knew that good breeding had won out.
“Yes, of course,” she said to Julia. “You are most kind. If you will but allow me a moment to change? I muddied my skirts during my walk with the children.”
Julia cheerfully assured her that they had all the time in the world. A moment later she departed the room with Sylvia, chattering gaily the whole way.
Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief.