The Rogue's Reform

Adele pulled up short, then took a deep breath. He had no reason to wait for her. He was the heir, after all. Very likely he just wanted to look over his holdings. Perhaps he had been admiring the corniced molding along the pale ceiling, the thick carpet that ran down the center of the corridor, the way the high windows let in light along the space, lifting the eyes, lifting the spirits.

At the moment, however, he was eyeing her grandfather’s portrait as if he could not quite place the resemblance.

“Lawrence?” he asked as she came up to him.

Adele nodded. “You have a good eye, Mr. Everard. This is one of Thomas Lawrence’s earlier portraits, about 1789. It is a cherished family possession.”

“And the sitter must be the previous owner,” he mused, gaze still on the portrait.

Here she must go carefully. She had no desire to explain her family situation to him. “So I’ve been told.”

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I didn’t mean to intrude on my cousin, but I couldn’t help overhearing that she was crying. She took the news hard.”

Adele sighed. “That is no surprise. She loved her father dearly.”

His gaze traveled to hers at last, warm, kind. She wanted to lean into it, allow it to soothe her frazzled emotions. “My cousin seems to rely on you, as well,” he said, “and for that I am thankful. She will need a friend now. Have you been her governess long?”

So much for a moment of comfort. Was he still so determined to learn her qualifications? Did he think her unsuitable for the role after all? She raised her head, pride warring with the humility she knew she should affect in front of her employer. “I’ve been Samantha’s governess for ten years, ever since Lady Everard passed on.”

His gaze sharpened, though he smiled. “I take it you don’t remember the lady, then.”

Now she hesitated. She remembered Rosamunde Defaneuil all too well, but this was neither the time nor place to go into such details. In fact, she found the details disappearing from her thoughts as his smile warmed in encouragement. He had the most charming dimple at the side of his mouth, and she was suddenly aware of how close he stood to her in the wide corridor, how easy it would be to touch his hand, his face. As if he too realized it, desired it, he took a step closer.

Adele edged around him. “Forgive me, Mr. Everard, but I should check with Mrs. Linton about dinner.”

His gaze was so focused on her that she thought he might pursue her. Instead, he stepped back as if to distance himself. “Given the state of my cousin’s grief,” he said with obvious care, “perhaps she would prefer to take dinner alone. We could eat in our rooms.”

Adele frowned. “But you said you’d come to comfort her.”

He inclined his head. “I would not want to impose.”

“It is no imposition,” Adele assured him. “I think hearing your plans for her future would comfort her immensely.”

“It may be premature to discuss plans. After all, Mr. Caruthers has yet to formally read the will.”

“But surely you know its contents,” Adele protested.

His head came up, and his look speared her. “I’m not entirely certain what my uncle planned for Samantha. I would have thought he might confide in you.”

Never. He seemed to be one of those men, like her father, who danced through life with no thought that it might someday end. “His lordship knew she was to be presented this year. We were planning to go up after Easter.”

His words were slow and far too cautious. “We may have to reconsider.”

She felt as if she’d been struck. “Did he leave her nothing then?” She searched his face, hoping for some sign. As if he didn’t care for the scrutiny, he turned to gaze at her grandfather’s portrait again.

“I’m certain the girl will be cared for, but I wouldn’t want to make any decisions about going to London just yet.”

Adele held back a sigh with difficulty. Was Jerome Everard cut from the same cloth as his uncle? While she joined Samantha and the rest of the valley in applauding Lord Everard’s generous spirit and loving nature, the girl’s father had been entirely too indecisive when it came to matters of the estate or his daughter’s future. Adele had pleaded when he was in residence, written letters to the solicitor when he was not, to no avail. He uttered vague promises of a Season, of presentation to the queen, and he did nothing to make those promises reality, apparently not even in death.

Well, she was not going to let his heir off so easily. The Season would start in just a few weeks. Was Samantha to be a part of it or not? Either way, decisions must be made about the estate and about Samantha. At times, Adele had made some decisions herself, letting the solicitor know after the fact and presenting him with the bill. With Jerome Everard in residence, she could hardly take that tack now. He would simply have to be brought to understand.

“Perhaps we can discuss this further over dinner,” she said with what she hoped was good grace. “You must meet Samantha. Besides, Mrs. Linton prides herself on her table. I’m sure she’d be dismayed if you didn’t join us.”

He turned to her, grin popping into view. “Probably evict me from the premises for treason, eh?”

Adele couldn’t help smiling, as well. “She is a bit fastidious about mealtimes.”

“Then I will be prompt and appreciative,” he said, inclining his dark head. “And dare I hope you eat at the family table as well?”

She nodded, trying not to show how much the fact pleased her. “Your uncle did not stand on ceremony. But of course I can eat in the schoolroom if you prefer.”

“And risk Mrs. Linton’s wrath? No, indeed. Might I impose on you for help in another area?”

She could not imagine what he meant, but her heart starting beating faster. “Certainly, Mr. Everard. How might I be of assistance?”

“I would like a tour of the house.”

A tour? Oh, she couldn’t. Surely the memories of Rosa would prove too potent, and she’d give everything away. Samantha’s future, her future, depended on her silence. She kept her smile polite. “I’m certain the Lintons would be better suited to the task.”

“But I’d prefer your company.”

Pleasure shot through her, but she refused to let it show. He was only being polite. As if he knew she meant to argue, he bent his head to meet her gaze, his look sweetly imploring. Good thing she’d long ago made herself immune to similar looks from Samantha.

“I believe you could give me a perspective the Lintons could not,” he continued in a perfectly reasonable tone. “You are a governess, after all, a teacher. Surely you’re used to explaining things. A house as old as this must have a rich history.”

Perhaps too rich. He couldn’t know the position in which he’d placed her. She had to refuse. “Your cousin Samantha knows the history of the house as well as I do.”

He leaned closer still, until she could see the thick lashes shielding his crystal gaze, the faint stubble beginning to show on his firm chin. A hint of spicy cologne drifted over her. “She may know the history, but you know all the secrets, don’t you?”

Adele’s breath caught. He’d heard the gossip about her family already. She could feel her color draining, watched his dark brows gather.

“Please know that I’m quite content as Samantha’s governess,” she said. “I do not spend my days longing for that life.”

He cocked his head and spoke slowly as if feeling his way. “I’m delighted to hear it. Perhaps it would reassure us both if you were to accompany me.”

She swallowed. “I wish you would not insist.”

“I wish you’d cease protesting.”

A reluctant smile teased her lips, but she could not give in. “Perhaps we can discuss this, too, another time,” she said, carefully backing away. “I shall see you at dinner, Mr. Everard.”

For the second time that afternoon, Jerome watched Adele Walcott run away. What had he done to concern her this time? What life did she no longer long for? Had she held some other position before she’d become a governess?

But she’d said she’d served his uncle for ten years. Unless he’d misjudged her age, she would have started into service at Dallsten Manor between age sixteen and twenty. He knew many women began working long before then, but he found it hard to imagine her cleaning the nursery or scrubbing pots in the kitchen. Those hands were long-fingered and refined, her carriage unbowed by hard labor. And she certainly spoke in cultured tones seldom found below stairs.

Whatever way he looked at it, Adele Walcott was a puzzle, and one he looked forward to solving. As if disagreeing, the older gentleman in the portrait along the wall glared at him. Jerome could not shake the feeling of familiarity, but he was certain that hawkish nose had never belonged to an Everard.

He started down the corridor for what he thought was the front of the house. With any luck, he might find his way back to the entryway and a servant more helpful than the footman. They seemed to run short staffed. Perhaps their income was limited. The house had to have belonged to Samantha’s mother and come to his uncle as dowry. Jerome had certainly never seen a bill for this place in Caruthers’s books, or he’d have wondered at the source.