What kind of man took such liberties with an employee he was honor-bound to protect? What kind of father mauled his daughter’s teacher? What kind of husband dreamt not of the beloved wife buried out behind his window, but of a woman who mere weeks before had been an innocent stranger seeking only a moment’s shelter?
Yet hehadto make her stay.
She had given Lillian something that all his money had failed to buy. Hope. All he had ever managed to bring his daughter were roses. Such a trite, worthless gesture: flowers. When what he truly wanted to give her was a cure. An answer, a potion, a magic trick from Satan’s own hand—he would gladly sell his soul in exchange for the freedom of his daughter’s.
He would not consider himself a success until the day he could finally take Lillian for a walk in the sun. But at least he’d managed to bring something good into her life.
Miss Smythe.
An angel in her own right, the heaven-sent governess was an unceasing marvel, from the moment she blew through the front door to the daily miracles she wrought upon Lillian. The clawing, biting, desperately unhappy child that the superstitious servants of four years ago had feared a witch or a vampire, was now almost eerily well-behaved. She spoke with politesse, did simple sums in her head, and could recite the capital cities and royal families of every country in Western Europe. Even the maids were willing to attend her once again. All because Lillian worshiped the very deserving Miss Smythe.
Alistair quite worshiped her himself.
He consulted his fob. Afternoon lessons should be coming to a close, which would make this the perfect time to let her know about the small hope that still shone on the horizon: the upcoming meeting of minds, here at Waldegrave Abbey. Dozens of invitations had been sent. Less than half had responded. A fraction of those had agreed. But the handful of scientists and great thinkers thathadcondescended to spend a weekend debating potential remedies for acute sunsickness were among the greatest minds in all of England. Perhaps, this time, a cure could be found.
Perhaps it would finally be his turn to bring about a miracle.
He tossed his pince-nez upon the meager stack of accepted invitations. If he was to maximize the potential of this meeting of the minds, he ought to ensure Miss Smythe’s presence. Although she was no royal physician or renowned scientist, she had more than proven her ability to understand Lillian’s needs.
However, he must take care to remind her that as far as the rest of the world was concerned,Alistairwas the afflicted party. The visitors could never learn of Lillian’s existence or the severity of her condition. He would not risk the loss of his daughter to science.
He’d read enough journal articles to know there was no limit to the experimentation performed in such laboratories. Subjects often perished from blood loss or adverse reactions. Those who lived were never the same. Alistair would rather die than see Lillian harmed in any way.
He rose from his chair and strode from his office to the corridor—only to collide with Roper around the first corner.
“My apologies.” He gave a distracted nod and eased past his manservant.
“The apology is mine, master,” Roper returned. “I was in too great a hurry to see you.”
“Me?” Alistair frowned in confusion, then shook his head. Of course, him. Were they not but a dozen paces from the office door? And, upon closer inspection, was that not another missive upon the silver tray? “Thank you, Roper.”
Alistair slid the folded parchment into his jacket pocket and continued on his way. No sense going back to his office just to add another layer to the pile of mail upon his desk. Not if he was still hoping to catch Miss Smythe. Besides, it was likely yet another refusal to his scientific conclave. Bad news could certainly wait. Right now, he needed to focus on how to handle Miss Smythe.
Or, rather, how to handle himself so that he didn’t frightenoffMiss Smythe.
Lillian needed her governess, and Alistair required Miss Smythe’s... brain. He would simply take care to be polite, gentlemanly, and—and employerly.
There she was; just stepping from the catacombs. Wispy curls brushed against her slightly flushed cheeks, her blue-violet eyes shining as if she’d just come in from the afternoon sun rather than having only just emerged from the dank tunnels. She seemed almost... happy. He could not ask for a more opportune moment.
“Miss Smythe,” he called. “If I might have a moment of your time?”
When she spun to face him her eyes were so alive, so merry, that his breath caught. The only coherent thought his brain managed to form was that she was an incredibly lovely young woman. The sort who managed to bring sunshine to each day even when there was none to be found.
And then the pleasure in her eyes vanished. One look at him, at the blackguard who employed her as governess with one breath and then attempted to employ her in far more wicked pursuits in the next, and any hint of happiness was gone. Her gaze and face were once again unreadable. The only light in her eyes now was from the reflection of his candle, flickering just as lifelessly as a cold flame upon the glass eyes of a doll.
“My apologies,” he found himself saying for the second time in a row. “I did not mean to startle you.”
She neither accepted nor rejected his apology, choosing instead to tuck her fingers beneath crossed arms as if struck with a sudden chill. “Mr. Waldegrave. May I be of service?”
“If it is no burden, I do have a favor I would like to ask of you.” He tried, and failed, to read her expression. What could he do to bring back that joy? “It is also time to deliver your wages.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “For next month?”
He gave a quick nod and reached for his coin purse rather than continue searching her face for clues. Either she accepted her wages—implicitly accepting another month’s employ—or she would make clear her intent to terminate their arrangement, having already fulfilled her half of the bargain.
He withdrew his coin purse. “Here you are, then.”
She hesitated a touch longer than he might have hoped, then unfolded her arms and held out a hand. The palm was stained a deep red, as if she’d been picking raspberries, and the cuff of her sleeve held hints of cobalt and aquamarine. Perhaps she feared chastisement for having gotten ink on one of the new gowns he had purchased. Far from angry, Alistair was more than happy to provide whatever she might need. He’d order a dozen more gowns or a thousand more paints, if they would be of use.
