The Governess Gambit Page 3

  Chloe settled back in her chair. “Jane Brown is an experienced governess who has tired of her lot. She’s considering teaching in a private school like the Spranklin Seminary for Girls, or failing that, providing administrative or secretarial assistance.”

  “Or failing that?” Graham asked. “No plan without a contingency.”

  “Failing that,” Chloe said, “Jane Brown intends to open her own school. And who better to emulate than the enterprising businesswoman she most admires in all the world?”

  “Ooh,” Tommy said. “An appeal to Miss Spranklin’s obviously considerable sense of superiority. She won’t be able to brag about turning children into unpaid laborers under false pretenses, but she’ll want to show off how clever she is.”

  “Since Miss Spranklin is looking to expand her school, she’ll dislike the thought of competition,” Bean said. “It would be better to have Jane Brown under her thumb than working against her.”

  Chloe nodded. “If she wishes to employ me, I’ll begin at once. Perhaps imply with double the instructors, she could even raise prices.”

  “I wonder what she charges now,” Elizabeth mused.

  Graham pulled one of his handwritten albums from the low bookcase spanning the wall behind him and flipped through the pages.

  “On 13 January of this year,” he read aloud, “twenty private boarding schools published advertisements in the Oxford Journal. The Prospect House Boarding School run by the Misses Temple is listed at thirty-five guineas. The Spranklin Seminary for Girls is a comparatively affordable twenty-five.”

  “Nothing happens without Graham knowing about it,” Elizabeth said with awe.

  “And writing it down,” Tommy added. “Or pasting it in.”

  Graham closed his album. “The most expensive and exclusive schools don’t list their prices in the newspaper, because they’ve no need to advertise.”

  “Perhaps that is what she aspires to.” Bean stirred sugar into his tea. “She must be an excellent saleswoman to charge as much as she does. She may see ‘Jane Brown’ as a wish come true.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Chloe said. “The role will put me in the perfect position for interior reconnaissance. If I see anything that can be used as evidence, I’ll either make a note of it, or nick it outright.”

  “Good as done,” Tommy said with a grin. “With Chloe’s nimble fingers, she could smuggle children out using sleight-of-hand alone.”

  “We’re not stealing them yet,” Elizabeth said. “A house full of abducted children would be a complication. Their parents paid for them to be with Miss Spranklin.”

  “It’s Plan Two,” Bean agreed. “Shutting down her school is Plan Number One. All of the children will be much safer if the Spranklin Seminary for Girls no longer exists.”

  Tommy nodded and rose to her feet. “I’ll see you all at dinner.”

  “It is not like Jacob to miss tea.” Marjorie shook her head. “I wonder what animal he’s training now.”

  “Shall we go and see?” Elizabeth suggested.

  Graham looked horrified. “Absolutely not!”

  “It might not be weasels,” she protested. “It could be toads or cockerels.”

  “He has a Highland tiger,” Graham reminded her as they exited the parlor. “Whatever the beast is, it’s bound to be dangerous.”

  The footmen returned to clear the table, and then only Chloe and Bean remained.

  She retrieved their respective novels from the bookcase and they settled into neighboring armchairs before the fireplace, as was their custom. Being summertime, there was no fire dancing in the grate, but that did not dampen the bliss she felt during the many calm hours she spent reading side-by-side with Bean.

  Often, they traded novels after they finished, and then argued passionately over whether this character should have done that, or if this plot element would have been better served like that.

  There was nothing Chloe cherished more.

  “I wish I were your real daughter,” she murmured without looking at him.

  It was not the first time she’d voiced such a sentiment. Ever since she first met Bean eighteen years ago, she’d wished they’d always been together from the beginning.

  “You are my real daughter,” Bean said gruffly. “Whenever you worry, just look at our portrait. See that?” He pointed at the painting above the mantel. “It’s all of us. We are a real family. Never let anyone suggest otherwise.”

  Chloe gazed up at Puck & Family and a familiar sense of happiness and warmth settled over her.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Family isn’t blood, but rather our hearts. And no one’s hearts are bigger than the Wynchesters.’”

  Bean’s smile was strained as he rubbed his temples.

  She frowned and touched his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just a megrim,” he said. “It started a day or two ago.”

  “A day or two?” she repeated in alarm. Chloe placed the back of her hand against his forehead. “You’re warm. You should lie down.”

  “I’m fine. Shall we read?” Bean plucked his novel from her grip and opened to the bookmark.

  Chloe gazed at him for a long moment. “Are you certain you—”

  “Here!” The Duke of Faircliffe burst into the parlor bearing a large vase in his hands.

  “For the love of...” Bean put down his book and stood up. “Where is Mr. Randall?”

  “I informed your butler that you were expecting a delivery.”

  Chloe had told Mr. Randall the same thing. She covered her face with her hand. “Calling cards. I should have specified calling cards.”

  The duke acted as though he didn’t even see her.

  Perhaps he didn’t.

  She rose to block him from entering the room further.

  The duke stepped around her without slowing.

  “You were right,” he said to Bean. “I cannot afford to purchase my painting back at any price. I haven’t the blunt.”

  “My painting,” Bean corrected. “It belongs to my family.”

  “Loan it to me,” the duke begged. “Just for tonight. I’ll bring it back in the morning.”

  Chloe narrowed her eyes.

  Whatever the duke was planning, it certainly wasn’t that. More likely, the inveterate gamester had wagered the painting away at a whist table before he’d remembered it was no longer in his possession.

  That was too bad for him. Puck & Family would never leave the Planning Parlor. The duke would have to seek another method to make good on his debts. Only a fool would wager with him at this point. The duke was a wastrel and a gamester, and every morning the scandal columns mentioned his name.

  It was a marvel his son had turned out so magnificently.

  According to Graham, the duke’s heir had never once been tempted by a gaming table. Against all odds, the handsome statesman was honorable, respectable, and not kneeling on top of Tommy’s map with a cherub-shaped vase clutched in his hands.

  “This is the most precious thing I own,” the duke was saying to Bean. “I’ll leave it in your custody as collateral security. I’ll return to trade back in the morning.”

  Bean didn’t even look at the vase. “No.”

  “I am sincere,” said the duke. “Trust me, the last thing I want—”

  A clatter sounded outside the open window, followed by flapping wings and the howl of an animal and breaking glass.

  Chloe and Bean exchanged a startled glance. “Jacob.”

  “We’ll discuss this when I return,” Bean told the duke.

  Chloe was already racing down the rear stairs to the servants’ entrance closest to the barn.

  “Take the duke into the blue parlor,” she heard Bean tell one of the footmen. “Keep him there.”

  Thunder sounded overhead. The first drops of cold rain spit down from the rapidly darkening sky.

  Chloe raced across the lawn.

  The door to the barn flung open and Jacob staggered outside. He shut the wide wooden
door behind him and sagged against it. Rain streaked down his face and created new rivulets of red on his clothing. His shirt and trousers were ripped by claws. Stray bits of feather stuck to patches of blood all over his arms and chest.

  “I’m fine,” Jacob said. “It’s nothing.”

  “You’re covered in blood,” Bean pointed out wryly.

  “And claw marks,” Chloe added. “Was it the tiger?”

  “It was squirrels,” Jacob said. “And a wild hawk. I made a slight miscalculation. Don’t worry, everything will be ready when we need it.”

  “I can see that,” Chloe said dryly. “Come inside. Let me help clean your wounds.”

  The crunch of carriage wheels on gravel came from the opposite side of the house, barely audible above the sound of driving rain.

  “Thank God the duke left,” she muttered. “I thought he would never—”

  Her terrified gaze snapped to Bean’s.

  At once, he raced across the garden to the servants’ entrance, nearly slipping and falling on the wet grass. Chloe frowned. Bean was usually agile. He must be as worried as Chloe was.

  “What is it?” Jacob asked. “What’s happening?”

  “It had better be nothing,” Chloe said darkly.

  A poor choice of words, as it turned out. When they reached the Planning Parlor, a vase stood on the center of the marble mantel. And there on the wall, where the Wynchesters’ cherished portrait had hung for eighteen happy years...

  Was nothing at all.

  Chapter 4

  Chloe stalked into the breakfast room and slumped into her seat between her siblings.

  It wasn’t the footman’s fault the Duke of Faircliffe had run out of the door with the family painting the day before. Servants could hardly be expected to tackle a peer of the realm. Especially not one as petty and single-minded as the duke. His first stop would have been to the magistrate to claim mistreatment.

  “I’m sorry,” Chloe said again. “I should have stayed behind to guard our portrait.”

  “No,” Bean corrected. “I left him, too. You did the right thing. Family comes first.”

  “That painting is practically family.” Her voice came out miserable.

  “And we shall retrieve it,” he said firmly.

  “I cannot believe a duke stole from us,” Elizabeth said.

  “Faircliffe is more wastrel than duke,” Graham reminded her. “He hasn’t taken his seat in the House of Lords in years.”

  “Not even to vote on his son’s bills,” Chloe added. The duke had mastered the art of caring only for himself.

  “Albus Roth is a famous artist now,” Marjorie added. “The duke can earn twenty times what we paid for it.”

  “No, he can’t.” Chloe gestured at the head of the table. “Bean and I will bring it home.”

  Graham pointed at her plate. “You might as well stay for breakfast. Bean was right not to let us drive after the duke last night. It wasn’t safe in all that rain.”

  Chloe sat back down. “What happened?”

  “Faircliffe was in an accident on his way to Mayfair. His curricle was completely destroyed.”

  She gasped. “Is he... Did he...”

  “He’s alive,” Graham answered. “A fractured bone. His lower leg is in splints. He’s still hobbling about his town house, but until he’s healed, he won’t venture further afield than that.”

  “Good.” Chloe’s shoulders slumped back against her chair.

  She had no soft feelings for the knavish lord, but she didn’t wish him physical harm. The thought that one of her family members could have been driving recklessly after him... She swallowed hard and did not allow her imagination to finish painting the picture.

  Bean was here.

  The entire family was here.

  Soon, their heirloom would be home, too.

  Technically, an item wasn’t an heirloom until one generation inherited it from another. The Wynchesters didn’t care about technicalities. They created their own traditions. The Puck & Family portrait was already part of their legacy. It would absolutely be handed down for generations... just as soon as they repossessed it from the duke.

  Elizabeth sent a glance toward the pile of broadsheets next to Graham’s plate. “The morning papers had news of the accident already?”

  “Of course not,” Tommy said. “Graham’s spies are everywhere and far more efficient.”

  Chloe turned to Jacob. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Foolish,” he admitted. “If I’d kept better hold of my hawk, the duke—”

  “It’s not your fault or your hawk’s,” Bean said. “The person responsible for the theft is the Duke of Faircliffe.”

  “I know,” Jacob said with a sigh. “But I won’t feel whole until we have it back.”

  “Me neither,” murmured the others.

  “It’s unsettling to see the empty space on the wall,” Graham agreed, running a hand over his flyaway black curls.

  “Just a faint rectangle where the painting should be.” Elizabeth gave a shiver. “Even when I’m not looking at it, I can feel it gone.”

  Chloe put down her fork. “Bean?”

  He rose from his seat. “Bring the vase and meet me in the carriage.”

  Chloe ran upstairs to collect the crystal cherub—how could an ugly vase possibly be equal in value to their painting?—and carefully carried it down the marble stairs and out through the front door, where the family coach awaited.

  Rain drizzled from the gloomy clouds. A bit of damp wasn’t unusual for England, but the climate had been unseasonably cold and wet ever since Mount Tambora erupted in Indonesia, spewing ash into the air and filling the sky with a haze that stretched over all of Europe. Chloe and everyone else prayed it would pass soon. Crops were beginning to suffer.

  Bean wrapped the vase in a blanket and set it at their feet, where it couldn’t fall from the seat and be damaged.

  “How is your megrim?” she asked.

  “It is now a full body ache,” he admitted. “I’ve not been sleeping well, and I likely won’t until we’ve settled this Spranklin Seminary business. I promise to rest once the children are safe and settled.”

  Chloe didn’t like this answer, but neither could she argue with it.

  None of the siblings were at peace. This case was too personal. They’d all been orphans once, and they’d all entrusted their lives to a stranger.

  Bean was the best father in the world. That sort of luck was unlikely to strike twice. But the thought of being chosen, only to be thrown away all over again...

  “Faircliffe residence,” Bean informed the driver.

  As the coach sprang into motion, Chloe’s pulse jittered for a new reason. A better reason. A wonderful reason.

  She was en route to the home of her favorite MP.

  Yes, yes, the town house was technically his father’s home, but it was not the duke who interested Chloe.

  It was his son, the Marquess of Lanbrooke.

  Bean’s blue eyes sharpened. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly.

  His concerned expression did not ease.

  “It’s just...” How could she explain herself without making him feel poorly, too? “I love that my ability to blend with the background has helped so many people. I love being an important part of our missions, and I shall never stop doing everything that I can.”

  “But?” Bean prompted gently.

  “Invisibility is a double-edged sword,” she admitted. “Being completely unremarkable gives me powers that no one else has, but… it also hurts a little every time.”

  “Chloe, you’re the opposite of unremarkable,” Bean said. “You’re one of the strongest, cleverest, kindest people I’ve ever had the honor to meet. I wouldn’t trade you for the world. You are a treasure.”

  She tried to smile. “You say that, but—”

  “Are other people short-sighted? Yes, of course. The world is full of people who don’t see the beauty
around them. But to the right person, you won’t be invisible. Your family sees you, do we not? We adore you, just as you are.”

  Chloe directed her gaze out of the window. She didn’t want him to guess that she had a secret tendre for the son of the blackguard who had stolen their family heirloom.

  “I’m just worried about our painting,” she said.

  “We’re on our way,” Bean said. “Puck & Family will be home soon.”

  He might be surprised to learn that its purchase was the reason Chloe had first become aware of—and interested in—the duke’s son. She’d been seventeen the first time she spied on the House of Commons. That year, at the age of twenty-one, it had been Lanbrooke’s first session as a Member of Parliament.

  She had been fascinated by him. The youngest MP, quite possibly one of the cleverest. He had seemed nothing like the shifty-eyed gambler who’d sold the Wynchesters their adopted family portrait to cover his losses at dice.

  Lanbrooke seemed like the sort of person she might like to be friends with.

  Or something more.

  She’d “accidentally” crossed paths with the handsome orator any number of times over the years. Until now, she’d taken care never to speak to him. What if she’d worked up the courage, and he’d forgotten her just like everyone else always did? Keeping the fantasy was much better than knowing the truth.

  “Here we are,” said Bean as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of Faircliffe’s smart Grosvenor Square town house.

  Chloe’s pulse beat faster.

  “Stay in the coach,” said Bean as he leapt to the ground.

  Oh. Right. Respectable ladies did not pay uninvited calls upon men, even when they were remorseless ducal thieves.

  “Mind the vase,” Bean said. “I’ll give you the signal when it’s time.”

  He shut the door.

  Chloe brightened, her heart skipping anew. She pulled the vase into her lap and gazed out of the carriage window toward the duke’s front door.

  In order to maintain her anonymity in case she needed it in the future, she’d never risked speaking to Lanbrooke. As for his father... well. Chloe could apparently dance a jig on the duke’s toes and he still wouldn’t remember her. He didn’t notice her when she was right in front of him.