The Governess Affair (Brothers Sinister #0.5)

“Oh, dear.” Freddy leaned over and tapped Serena’s cheek. “When you fail, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces. As usual.”


HUGO HAD MORE THAN enough to do the following day. Nonetheless, thoughts of the governess followed him throughout his work. He sent out a man to discover what had really happened between his employer and Miss Serena Barton at Wolverton Hall. If she wouldn’t tell him and Clermont wouldn’t say, he’d have to find out on his own.

He spent the morning attempting to banish thoughts of her—of that chestnut hair, bound into a loose knot, waiting to become unpinned. Her eyes were gray and still, like water too long undisturbed. Her hands had been quiet—unmoving.

By the afternoon, he gave up the cause of work as hopeless and wandered to the window. He’d caught glimpses of her sitting on her bench all morning. Now, she sat still as a statue, scarcely moving, scarcely breathing, and yet somehow completely alive.

She wasn’t what he would have called pretty. Handsome, yes. And there was something about her eyes… He shook his head; her appearance was hardly relevant.

He’d been testing her yesterday, mentioning rape. It was…horrifyingly possible. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d confirmed his fears. He’d done a great many things on Clermont’s behalf, but he’d never hurt a woman. Even his wounded conscience had its limits.

But she’d not even flinched when he’d said the word. She hadn’t reacted to anything at all.

And therein lay his second problem. When he’d introduced himself, he’d assumed that she would recognize his name. But she had apparently gleaned his reputation entirely through gossip columns, and they only ever referred to him as the Wolf of Clermont. There was no reason anyone who had just arrived in London would know his name.

He should have corrected her misapprehension.

He hadn’t, and he wasn’t sure why. Just an instinct. For all the duke’s blasé reassurances, he suspected that whatever was at the heart of this quarrel was a scandal—and one that could undo all of Hugo’s fine work. He couldn’t fix the problem if he didn’t know what he was facing, and if she worked herself up into a fear of him, he might never learn the truth—not until he saw it on the front page of a newspaper.

Still, he didn’t like lying. Not even by implication.

“Whatever you are up to, Miss Barton,” he whispered, “you will not cost me my five hundred pounds. I have worked too hard for it.”

Fifty yards on the other side of the pane of glass, she swung her head, startling him with the sudden movement. He stepped back—but she was only watching a bird that had landed on the ground in front of her.

With a sigh, Hugo pushed the rest of his papers aside. No sense wasting any more time wondering, when he could be finding out.

He exited the house via the servants’ door, tromped back through the mews, and then back ’round to the street. Miss Barton was still sitting there when he crossed into the square. She gave him a smile, this one a little warmer than the one he’d received yesterday.

There was something about her that drew his eye.

“Mr. Marshall,” she said. “I did say you wouldn’t be successful in your quest for gossip, did I not?”

“You wound me.” He didn’t smile, and her own expression fluttered uncertainly. “You assume that I only have interest in gossip, when in fact, I might just be searching out your company for the sheer pleasure of it.”

She thought this over, tilting her head to one side. Then: “I have now considered that possibility. I reject it. Come, Mr. Marshall. Tell me you didn’t come out here hoping for some sordid story.”

“So you admit the story is sordid.”

She wagged her finger at him. “I am guessing as to your own thoughts. There’s no need to prevaricate. I know what people are saying about me. Secretly, you’re judging me, and you’ve already found me wanting. You’re all saying that I’m no better than I should be.”

Hugo shrugged. “I’ve never understood that saying—no better than you should be. Why would anyone want to be better than required? I only behave when it counts; I wouldn’t begrudge you similar conduct.”

She stared at him a moment.

He was misleading her enough as it is. He had no intention of outright lying to her. “You don’t believe me,” he said. “I can’t help it—it’s my face. It makes everyone think that I’m quite friendly, when anyone who knows better will warn you off. I’m entirely ruthless. Quite without morals.”

The smile she gave him was patronizing. “Is that so? Well. I’m sure you’re a very, very bad man. I’m so scared.”

Hugo looked upward. “Drat.”

“Drat?” She hid a smile. “Surely a man as awful as you could conjure up a ‘damn’ in mixed company.”

“I don’t swear,” he explained. “Not in any company.”