The Earl's Honorable Intentions Read online

  Her remark ambushed Gavin. Was that truly how Hannah Fletcher saw him? Even the way he was now, unable to rise from his bed and as dependent on her care as any little child? His chest seemed to expand even as he fumbled to get a proper hold on his small son.

  Yesterday, with Alice, he’d been too much taken by surprise to notice the brush of Miss Fletcher’s arms against his or the whisper of her breath in his hair. Now he was acutely conscious of the whole procedure. Part of him wished the governess would draw back as soon as possible, but another part wanted her to linger near him.

  Meanwhile the baby wriggled his small body and batted his arms about, making all sorts of gurgling noises that his father found strangely endearing.

  “He doesn’t seem to like keeping still any more than you do.” Miss Fletcher gave a breathless chuckle as she abruptly surrendered the child to him and pulled away. “You appear to have a good hold on him now.”

  With her hands free, she tugged the strings of her bonnet loose and pulled it off. Several strands of her honey-brown hair came free and fell about her face in winsome disarray.

  Gavin had little opportunity to notice for the baby began to fuss. Perhaps young Arthur did not like being parted from his godmother. Or perhaps, like a spirited horse, he sensed uncertainty in the person now handling him. The movement of his arms grew more agitated. His small face reddened, and his features screwed up. A lusty wail erupted from his tiny mouth.

  Hard as Gavin tried to remain calm, he could not help but grimace. “Perhaps you ought to take him back. I don’t think he likes me.”

  It dismayed him how much that thought stung.

  “Nonsense.” Miss Fletcher set her bonnet down on the foot of his bed then smoothed back the wayward wisps of hair that framed her face. “Babies cry about anything and nothing. You must not take it personally. I’m certain he will soon settle down just like Alice did.”

  In the past Gavin had not appreciated the governess’s brisk, capable manner, but today he was grateful for it. She radiated greater confidence in him than he felt in himself.

  “I’m afraid this young lad may not be as cooperative as his sister.” In spite of his resolve not to raise his voice, Gavin was forced to in order to make himself heard over the child’s piercing howls.

  “He is certainly rambunctious,” Miss Fletcher agreed. “Just as you may have been at his age. He might be more content if he had something to occupy his attention. Try bouncing him a little and talking to him.”

  The tension building inside Gavin began to ease. Surely if they put their heads together he and Miss Fletcher could get his noisy young son to settle. The bouncing seemed to help. As for talking, he wasn’t certain. With Alice, he’d just been thinking aloud. But with an audience, he wasn’t certain that would be a wise idea. “What should I say to him?”

  “Anything that comes into your head.” Miss Fletcher flashed him an encouraging smile. Or was she amused to watch him struggle with the crying baby? “As you discovered yesterday, it is the sound of your voice that matters, not the words. Tell him about some battle you fought or interesting facts about horses. Try exaggerating your expression, as if it is the most exciting thing you can imagine. That might divert him.”

  Gavin racked his brains for an engaging topic, one he could talk about at length with some animation. And then it came to him.

  “What do you suppose General Bonaparte is up to, Arthur?” He followed Miss Fletcher’s suggestion, posing the question as if it were of vital importance, which he believed it was.

  His son responded with a little gasp, his eyes widened in a startled look that made Gavin want to laugh. Best of all, the crying ceased entirely.

  “I thought a future soldier might be curious about that,” he continued. “The newspapers reported that the three Bonaparte brothers set sail to England from Le Havre, but I do not believe a word of it. Do you?”

  Young Arthur stared at him with the most intent look, almost as if he did understand. Then he made a rude wet sound, appropriately derisive.

  Gavin broke into a broad grin. “I agree. It is all nonsense. Bonaparte is likely planning to make a stand in Paris or retreat further south. If he does try to escape, it will be to the Americas or some French possession in the East Indies.”

  The baby wriggled and seemed to shake his fist at the idea of Bonaparte making a successful escape.

  As he continued to talk, Gavin found himself thinking about Napoleon Bonaparte’s young son, who must be halfway in age between Arthur and Peter. After last year’s defeat, the child had been taken to Austria by his mother. As far as Gavin knew, the family had not been reunited after Bonaparte returned from Elba. Tempting as it was to condemn the French emperor for neglecting his son, Gavin realized he was in no position to cast stones.

  One thing he knew for certain. He would never make little Arthur feel like a barely necessary spare.

  What intelligence would the newspapers and the post bring today? Hannah wondered on Thursday morning when the butler delivered them with great ceremony. The past few days had left Lord Hawkehurst in a fever of suspense. No reports from Paris had reached the English newspapers since the previous week, and no one knew why. Uncertainty had spawned conflicting rumors and speculation that changed from day to day.

  “What do you suppose we shall hear today, Miss Fletcher?” the earl inquired as Hannah opened the Morning Chronicle and scanned the columns of print for news from France. “Another report of Bonaparte applying for asylum in Britain? If it is true, what gall the fellow has! Surely the government would have more sense than to permit such an outrage. It would be a mortal insult to every soldier and sailor who died fighting against him!”

  Hannah gave a sympathetic nod. They had been through this on Monday in response to a report in the papers. The earl had become so outraged she had feared he might do himself an injury. She suspected part of his anger stemmed from a sense of helplessness that there was nothing he could do to influence events. “I’m certain your letter to the Foreign Secretary would make them think twice about any such action, sir. If the report was true in the first place.”

  “It was a good idea, getting me to dictate that letter.” The earl gave a nod that seemed to signify approval and thanks. “It made me feel as if I was doing something, however little. You would make an excellent aide-de-camp, Miss Fletcher… if you were a man, of course.”

  His lordship’s words of praise had kindled a blaze of happiness inside Hannah that frightened her with its intensity. For some reason his afterthought quenched that happiness entirely. But why? Surely it was a great compliment that the earl considered her capable of doing a man’s job. And it was only proper that he should value her as he would a male comrade.

  Then why did she feel slighted by a remark the earl had obviously meant as sincere praise? Hannah refused to consider that question too deeply. She would do better to focus on her duty to the Romney children. “I trust Lord Castlereagh will take your advice into consideration, sir. He should, considering you are a peer of the realm and an officer who has seen action in His Majesty’s cavalry.”

  Hannah’s reply came out stiff and prim, in contrast to the easy camaraderie that had grown between the earl and her in recent days. Surely such informality was a natural consequence of spending so much time together. But she must remember his lordship’s convalescence was already half over. In a week’s time he would be allowed to leave his bed and resume many of his normal activities. He would no longer be dependent on her to occupy his time. She would return to the nursery, and they might hardly ever see one another. The prospect sank her spirits to a degree she would not have thought possible a few days ago.

  “There cannot be any news of significance,” his lordship prompted her in a jesting tone. “Or it would not take you so long to locate.”

  “I fear you are correct.” Hannah put aside any thoughts of the future to concentrate on the time at hand. “I can find nothing but complaints about the continued interruption of mail fr
om Paris. There is not even a confirmation or denial of yesterday’s report from the Brighton Herald.”

  That item claimed the Allies had surrounded Paris and charged the provisional government not to let Bonaparte escape or their lives might be forfeit. If they’d been certain the report could be trusted, it would have cheered both Hannah and his lordship. Instead they were both wary of getting their hopes up.

  Last night she had prayed for it to be true. If the French would surrender and hand over their former emperor to the Duke of Wellington, Lord Hawkehurst could rest easy, his battlefield vow fulfilled at no further risk to him. He could retire from active military service and devote himself to his family.

  Every day that week, except Tuesday when it rained, Hannah had brought one or the other of the babies to visit their father. It delighted her to see how much more skilled and confident the earl had become at handling infants in such a short time. Even more encouraging were the signs of his growing attachment to them. When the weather prevented Alice’s visit on Tuesday, her father had been positively downcast. Though Hannah tried to cheer him up by losing a chess match, she could barely contain her pleasure that her strategy appeared to be working.

  “What else do the papers say besides bemoaning a lack of mail from Paris?” The earl’s warm, rustling voice broke in on Hannah’s thoughts. “Has the Exchange recovered? What is the latest society tattle? If I do not soon get on my feet, I fear I shall become preoccupied with such trivialities.”

  Hannah read to him from the newspaper, though she knew he was capable of doing it for himself. The earl interrupted now and then with some observation or question. Sometimes their discussion grew so lively that the news was forgotten for as much as half an hour at a time.

  “There,” she announced at last, folding up the newspaper and setting it aside. “You are now quite current with all that is going on in the world.”

  “What about the post?” asked his lordship. “Is there any reply from the Foreign Secretary yet?”

  Hannah glanced at the first letter and shook her head. “This one does not look official. It is addressed in a woman’s hand.”

  She passed it to him and heard him break the seal as she turned her attention to the second letter.

  “From Molesworth’s mother, poor lady.” Lord Hawkehurst sighed. “He was her only son. I wonder how many homes around the country are grieving after Waterloo. What is that other letter?”

  “It is for me.” Hannah held it to her bosom. “From an old friend who recently married. I should like to have attended the wedding, but with her ladyship’s confinement approaching, it was not a convenient time for me to be absent from Edgecombe.”

  That was probably more than the earl cared to know about the personal life of an employee. Hannah slipped Rebecca’s letter into her apron pocket. It was kind of her friend to take the time to write her. Hannah had feared the bride of a viscount might not care to maintain her friendship with a mere governess. But clearly Rebecca was as kind in that regard as Lady Hawkehurst had been. Hannah felt blessed to have had such good friends.

  With a pang she recalled that the earl had lost his closest friend under tragic circumstances. Was it any wonder he was so fiercely determined to bring the man he considered responsible to justice? Would she not want to do the same if anyone harmed one of her friends?

  “It was admirable of you to place your duty above personal inclinations.” The earl stared at Mrs. Molesworth’s letter as he turned it over and over. “I am glad Clarissa had you with her when I could not be. I know you must have been a great support and comfort to her. Far more than I would have been, no doubt.”

  His words brought those wretched days back for Hannah all too vividly. Yet the memory of them troubled her less than the realization of how recent they’d been. She told herself she had been too busy tending his lordship and overseeing the children’s care to grieve properly for Lady Hawkehurst. But those excuses did nothing to ease the guilt that gnawed at her heart.

  “I did my best.” She hung her head. “But it was you she wanted. All I could do was tell her you were on your way and beg her to hang on.”

  Silence stretched between them, cold and brittle.

  Lord Hawkehurst was the one to break it, of course. He could bear anything but inactivity. “What does your friend write, if you do not mind my asking? An account of the wedding perhaps? I could use a bit of happy news just now, if you would be willing to share it.”

  There was a pleading note in his voice that Hannah could not resist. Besides, she was curious to read Rebecca’s news. The earl was right. After a week of anxious uncertainty, a helping of glad tidings would be most welcome.

  “Very well, sir.” She fished the letter out of her apron pocket, broke the seal and unfolded it. “Rebecca begins by saying how sorry she was that none of her school friends could attend the wedding, but she understands that it is a great distance to travel and we all have responsibilities to our employers.”

  “Old school friends are the best kind,” the earl mused. “Properly tended over the years, such an acquaintance can ripen into a very special attachment. I take it there were others in your circle?”

  His question made Hannah look up from her letter. Was he truly interested in her friends or was he only desperate for any diversion?

  “Yes sir. There were five of us. Rebecca, Grace, Leah, Evangeline and me. We met at a school in the north of England, a charitable institution for educating the orphan daughters of clergymen.”

  She referred to the Pendergast School in an offhand manner, yet her stomach seethed at the memories of that dreadful place. “After we left school my friends and I found employment as governesses. We have kept in touch by post ever since.”

  “But you were not able to be reunited at your friend’s wedding?” The earl sounded sincerely sympathetic and interested. “A good school was it? You seem well educated.”

  “Thank you, sir.” There it was again—that dangerous flash of happiness in response to his praise. “We did receive a very… rigorous course of study. Yet I cannot truthfully call it a good place. If it had not been for the kindness of my friends, my time there would have been nothing but… misery.”

  A choking lump rose in her throat, which Hannah told herself was quite foolish after all these years. But suddenly her experiences at the Pendergast School felt all too fresh. Was that because she had locked those memories away for so many years, never speaking of them to anyone—not even the late countess, to whom she had been so close? Or had Lady Hawkehurst’s recent passing stirred up painful memories of a prior loss.

  Hannah blinked furiously, fighting back tears that threatened to fall.

  The warm touch of the earl’s hand on hers startled her almost out of her chair with a shrill squeak of alarm. Her head jerked up and her gaze collided with his, so near that she could have lost herself in its dark, inviting depths.

  “I am sorry to hear it.” Besides the obvious sympathy, his voice rang with righteous indignation.

  Was that why he had joined the cavalry, to battle oppressors and rescue the victims? He was too late for her and her friends. They had banded together to defend one another.

  Yet Hannah wondered if part of her was still held captive by her past and needed saving.

  “I know there is nothing I can do so long afterward,” he continued, “except perhaps to listen.”

  The prospect of unburdening herself made Hannah feel as if she were standing on the high bank of a river, about to jump into unknown waters. In spite of her trepidation, the promise of freedom and refreshment compelled her to take the plunge.

  Chapter Seven

  CAPABLE, MANAGING MISS Fletcher harbored a painful past and had friends to whom she was fiercely devoted? Gavin had never imagined the two of them might have so much in common.

  Ordinarily, he had a proper masculine aversion to tears. Clarissa had frequently exploited that weakness to get her way. Yet he sensed Hannah Fletcher would never use such tactics. S
he would go to any lengths to prevent her tears from falling. And if that failed, she would steal away to weep in secret so as not to burden anyone else with her private sorrow.

  How could he be so certain of that? He had not known the lady for very long, and he’d had little liking for her until very recently. That uncomfortable question was followed by a stab of shame for having entertained uncharitable thoughts about his late wife. After all, Clarissa was the mother of his children, who were becoming dearer to him with every passing day. He had not been able to make her happy in life. The least he could do was treat her memory with respect and charity.

  Was Hannah Fletcher thinking that, too, as she tensed at his touch and recoiled from his nearness?

  “Sir, you should not be sitting up like that!” She sprang from her chair and practically pushed him back onto his pillows. “You might open your wound again. Does it hurt? Should I summon the doctor?”

  Gavin shook his head. “Do not fret. I am quite well.” The sudden movement had sent a dull spasm of pain through his muscles, but he had no intention of telling her so. “I forgot myself in my concern for you. Forgive me for stirring up such unpleasant memories.”

  Had he truly offered to listen if she wanted to talk about them? Gavin could scarcely believe it. Clarissa had often complained he never listened to her, and he could not deny the charge. It had been one in a long list of his shortcomings as a husband.

  What made him so willing to listen to Hannah Fletcher and so curious about her past and her feelings? Had his tedious convalescence and the frustrating lack of news from France made him so desperate for diversion? Or could it be an effort to atone for his many mistakes with Clarissa? His wife was no longer there to confide in him, so he had turned to her confidante, Miss Fletcher.

  The explanation soothed Gavin’s stinging conscience.