A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke (The Governess Chronicles #4.5)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Every one of us may, and does commit mistakes in judgment, memory, and perception.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

“ U ncle Marmaduke?”

“Yes, Charlotte?”

“Why are you wandering in the duke’s rose garden?” With one hand, she wrenched her cloak tight against the teeth of bitter cold that sought to nip her. With the other, she lifted her lantern. “It’s almost midnight.”

Wearing a green woollen banyan, Marmaduke frowned, twisting his beard to a spiral. “I must find Martha. Before it snows.”

In sadness, Charlotte smiled and brought a hand to his arm. “I do not believe she is here, Uncle.”

A dejected sigh flowed from him. “I am beginning to fear the same. Perhaps…perhaps she is no more.”

“Perhaps so.” She squeezed his arm. “Shall we go home now?”

Marmaduke shivered. “’Tis rather nippy, isn’t it? Colder than the Himalayas, I’d say. And darker.” He twisted and held her freezing cheek. “You are the best sister I have, Mary.”

“Mary is your only sister.”

“Isn’t she just.” He chuckled to himself. “Oh, look. Who’s that? And what’s she doing out in this frosty weather, eh? She’ll catch her death.”

Wrapped up in a housecoat, two cloaks and a scarf, Hannah Munro came dashing into the rose garden, lantern swinging. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Webster. He must have left through the kitchen door. The latch has come away where the frame’s rotted.”

Marmaduke tutted.

Charlotte closed her eyes. “It’s my fault, Hannah. I’ll…I’ll try to fix it in the New Year.”

“Don’t yer fret, miss. I’ll have one of my lads nail it back on further up. They’re home for Christmas.”

“Thank you, Hannah, you’re a blessing. I’ll walk you back and–”

“No need,” came a low rumble from the darkness. “I’ve instructed the stablemen to ready a carriage to take Mr Wainwright and Mrs Munro home.”

Charlotte swallowed. Oh no. He’s seen Uncle.

“Your Grace!” gushed Hannah. “Thank you, but you mustn’t put your stablemen out this late. ’Tis not far if we nip through the hedge and we’ve done it a few times now.”

Charlotte winced while the duke frowned.

Uncle Marmaduke merely raised a bushy white brow. “I remember you,” he said to the duke. “Such a thoughtful lad. Nice to see you haven’t changed.”

The thoughtful lad nodded. “Charlotte, go to my study as the fire there is still lit. The terrace doors are unlocked. Mr Wainwright, Mrs Munro, it’s no bother at all and a carriage will be warmer. If I may escort you to the stables? This way.”

Hannah beamed while Marmaduke followed along, enquiring if the duke had seen his beloved Martha anywhere about the place.

Charlotte loitered, watching their lanterns disappear into the dark before, with a weary trudge, she made for the duke’s terrace. A gust of wind blew, chill and bitter, and she paused to stare into the foreboding night sky that brooded with the scent of snow.

What was she to do about Uncle?

Some quarter of an hour ago, she’d been lying in bed upstairs in her governess chamber unable to sleep, when she’d heard footfall on the gravel of the duke’s garden outside.

A thief? A badger?

She’d crept to the window, drawn back the shutter, and in the weak moonlight that seeped through the soft clouds, she’d spied her uncle, looking somewhat like St Nicholas on his Christmas rounds.

Throwing on her woollen cloak, she’d prayed the duke was safely tucked up in bed as she still worried he may use Uncle’s trespass in his gardens to tell her she should sell the house to him and use the money for Uncle’s care at some asylum.

Or tell her the obvious: that her precious home was crumbling away.

Once it had been a beautiful house, when Mother had been alive, but she’d died when Charlotte had reached twelve years and her father had increasingly stayed in London – drinking and gambling. Years’ worth of repairs had not been made and now Charlotte couldn’t afford any either.

The stairs had woodworm, the chimney breasts percolated smoke and the roof joists were rotten. Her governess pay was not enough for its upkeep. Yet it was her home – her constant haven and future security. And now Marmaduke’s place of refuge too.

She stared to the cold night sky, watching her breath mist and vanish before wiping away a foolish tear. She never cried – what was the point?

“Charlotte? What the hell are you doing?”

Twisting, she was caught up in a black cloak, warm and scented with leather and Marcus. “I…”

“You’re freezing.”

She watched him reach for her hands but could hardly feel them. “I-I…” Her teeth chattered.

“Damn it, why are you still out here?” And she was hastened to the terrace door, the handle was twisted and she was propelled none too gently inside.

A fire crackled in the study hearth while a half glass of amber liquor sat on the desk aside reams of papers and documents.

Cosy warmth, shelter and protection.

The terrace door was bolted, a hefty curtain drawn across, a leather-upholstered chair lifted with little effort and placed aside another by the fire. Then she was thrust into it before he shook off his greatcoat and a glass of similar amber liquor appeared in her hand.

“Drink.”

Charlotte obeyed. Well, sipped at least. The glass clattered on her teeth and the brandy seared her throat.

“I-I’m fine. I was just wool-gathering.”

“You were crying.”

One tear. That’s all it had been, hadn’t it?

“The c-cold made my eyes water,” she muttered, opening a palm to the flames.

Marcus grunted and kneeled before her, flipping her hem upwards.

“What are you doing?” she nigh shrieked.

“Your feet are wet.”

In truth, she could not feel them to know they were wet.

“A governess should never reveal her ankles.”

“Charlotte, I have seen them before. I used to lose our wager of running to the tinker’s cart deliberately so I could lag behind and watch you hoick your petticoats.”

“How contemptible,” she said, waggling her toes as he eased off her frost-sodden boots.

“I know. I felt all sorts of a lecherous fiend but the sight of your ankles caused me odd sensations at that stage of boyhood.”

“Harrumph. And I suppose you moved on from ankles when you went to London.”

He glanced up, scowled. Then stood.

Oh, why had she said that?

Her glass was refilled before he turned to loiter in profile to her, staring into the flames.

His throat was bare of cravat, shirt loose and waistcoat unfastened, and yet he seemed more aristocratic than ever.

Not the eager boy she’d known but a formidable man of command and strength.

“Thank you for offering the carriage, Marcus.”

“You need a footman at your house.”

She stayed silent.

“And the door frames fixed. It’s not safe. If you sold me the place–”

“It’s my home,” she railed. “And that of Marmaduke. W-where would he go? I suppose you’d send him to some madhouse.”

He spun. “But if you sold that colossal old place, you could buy something smaller. In the town, perhaps? With neighbours to help you. My intention is simply to assist you when I offer to buy your house.”

Oh.

Charlotte closed her eyes. “I suppose…perhaps, you’re right.” She opened them and sipped the brandy. “It’s just… It’s my home too. So many memories are there.”

“Memories are not in the fabric of a house, Charlotte. They are held within yourself, never to be forgotten. Even ones we’d rather forget thrust their way to the damn surface to catch us unawares.”

Her lips curved to a smile. “Such whimsey sounds like the old Marcus.”

“No.” He grimaced. “He is no more.”

“What… What happened to him?”

The fire spat, his shirt rustled, yet he made no reply.

But the brandy had compelled a certain boldness within her. “When you came back from London, Marcus, you…you’d changed. I… It was as though we were all too lowly for you. Country bumpkins that–”

“Leave it be, Charlotte,” he growled. “Leave it in the past.”

“But…” She stood, her thin cloak and his woollen one tumbling to the leather chair. “You left Ambleside as a…a carefree, l-lovable young man and returned a haughty duke who seemed to think only of money.”

He twisted, nostrils flaring as he took in her déshabillé of solely a night-rail. “I do not wish to discuss it.”

“But–”

“Not now, Charlotte. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I thought you hated me and–”

“Bloody Hades, Charlotte, it wasn’t you I hated but myself!” He pinched his forehead. “Leave it be, I beg of you.”

“I don’t understand.” She reached for his sleeve. “Why would you–”

“Because I lost it all!” he thundered, grabbing hold of her upper arms, bringing her so close to him – warm skin and leather. “Satisfied now?”

“Lost…” She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Shaking his head, he abruptly released her to pace the rug, muttering, fingers raking through his hair. Then he paused, thrust hands to hips. “Oh, why not? Why the bloody hell not?” And he swivelled, eyes fierce.

Charlotte lowered herself back into the chair and remained silent.

“When I left for London, I was so cocksure of my future. Mother wanted me to go, to take my place in society, but I was keen also to gain worldly experience, have a lark, attend the theatre, balls and have a bushel of friends. I would drink and carouse while young.” He scowled. “Then, I told myself, after a year or so when you were old enough, I would return and whisk you off your slippers. We’d…”

He inhaled sharply.

As did she.

For so many years, she’d thought that emotion in his eyes at the Christmas Ball had been youthful folly. “Why didn’t you?” she whispered.

His lips were gnarled with bitterness.

“Because it was me who’d been the country bumpkin in London, Charlotte. Green as a sapling. I had no elder to guide me and I was…” He snorted. “I was fleeced at every turn. Plucked and hustled. My new exciting crowd of friends took me to gaming dens and we’d wager on the most preposterous contests. At first, it was just a bit of fun. I was rich and the dukedom had enough money. I told myself it was only a few quid.” He quaffed his brandy in one gulp. “But those cardsharps can smell a gullible young fool of a newcomer at thirty paces. They beguiled me. Befriended me. Duped me. I’d no idea. And it spiralled. I lost guineas and guineas. I got…scared. So, I gambled more to recoup the losses. Except one never does, you know. I started to offer my unentailed lands and deeds to businesses. I was likely hoodwinked lock, stock and barrel. And I…I bankrupted the estate.”

Charlotte closed her eyes. “Oh, Marcus, why did you not tell us?”

“Why!” he almost yelled. “I’d returned to hell. Mother was ill, your father had died, and I so wanted to help you all. Damn, how I wanted to help. But there was no money, nothing, and I was still drowning in debt and creditors. I was…”

“If you’d told us…”

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “I was shamed. A disgrace to you. I could not bear to look at all the people here who relied upon me, whom I’d betrayed. Tenants and townsfolk. I’d nigh thrown away their future. And then there was you, my dear Charlotte, who in my absence had been left destitute through no fault of your own, while I…” He fisted his chest. “I had thrown away any future we might have had on the turn of cards and roll of dice.” His breath heaved. “I could not look you in the eye because…” His throat bobbed. “Because…there was worse…”

Charlotte hugged arms around herself, eyes moist. Could not speak.

“Because when I was desperate,” he continued in a whisper, “and full of cheap liquor, when I was so afraid and drowning, I…” He turned to the fire and she strained to hear him. “At a card game of deep play, I… I cheated.”

“Cheated?” She’d never known anyone as honourable as Marcus.

But he slowly nodded. “You recall our venerable butler who taught us some tricks?”

“Y-yes. Old Lanton?”

“I-I thought if I could just…gain some back, I could make a new start. So, I… I cheated.”

Charlotte swiped away a tear. She knew the gentleman’s code. Raise a fist to your wife and the Ton shrugged but if one was labelled a cheat… You and your family would be ostracised from society forever.

Another tear fell. Because for Marcus to do such a thing was so contrary to his nature, it meant he had been in an exceedingly desolate place.

With no other hope.

“And?”

“Old Lanton’s tricks were for children. I was caught.”

“Oh, Marcus.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the mantle. “The…the man I cheated… I shall forever see that moment in my mind’s eye. He looked at me with such…distaste. And then he leaned forward and slapped my cheek with his glove, demanding recompense, and no apology I could stutter out was enough, so…”

“No, Marcus, not…” She rammed a fist to her mouth.

“So, two days later,” he rasped, “at a dawn full of drizzle and mist, I found myself in Saint James’ Park, readying to face a duel of honour with Lord Woodford, a man twice my age. All my so-called friends had deserted me, of course, and only Cousin Thomas stood at my side.” Marcus twisted, his face stark with pain. “My hand was shaking so badly I could hardly lift the pistol from the black velvet of the box. I was sick to the stomach. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to kill.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Soldiers say that when you think your life is to end, you see past moments flash before your eyes, but that wasn’t so with me.” He shook his head and stared to her. “I saw the future I’d thrown away. I saw a prosperous estate. Our Christmas Ball. My mother smiling. I saw you.”

Charlotte let the tears flow. Could picture it all. Marcus scared and alone in a fog-cloaked field, a pistol in his young quaking hand. Back-to-back with his opponent. Ready to walk, turn and…

“Did…did you…”

“I stumbled those twenty paces whilst with each step I vowed… I vowed that if I lived, then I would never cease until I had recouped all the monies. I vowed to work till I dropped.” Marcus lowered himself into the chair beside her. “But I knew I could not do that with a man’s death scarring my soul. So, I turned, straightened my trembling arm. And I…I shot in the air.” His lungs heaved. “Then I waited. I waited for death. Or another chance at life. I waited for pain. I watched Lord Woodford’s pistol lift. Watched the barrel level and steady at me.”

Charlotte held her breath.

“And he too shot in the air.”

She let it flow.

“I fell to my knees as Thomas rushed to me. And I promised there and then on my father’s grave to fulfil my vow.” He flung his head back in the chair. “Hell, Lord Woodford could see well enough the state of us both, dragged us to his carriage, and I found myself blurting all that had happened to me. He listened, told me he admired my honour during the duel and so…so he…lent me money, with conditions, a lot of conditions. But he aided me in brokering plans of payment with the creditors, guided me on business and gave me a chance, took me under his wing and I swore to him… I swore I would pay him back. Every single penny.”

Charlotte struggled with emotions so fierce and overwhelming. “Did-did your mother know of…”

He slammed his eyes shut. “I never told her of the duel. I…couldn’t, but I had to tell her of the monies lost as we needed to economise. Hell, the look in her eyes, Charlotte. She was so disappointed in me. You could see it.” He pinched his brow. “I begged her forgiveness.”

“And she would have.”

“I think so,” he whispered. “You remember Mother, a kind word for everyone, and she told me she’d no doubt I’d regain it. That it was only money.”

“And you did regain it. So she must have seen–”

“No, Charlotte.” He grimaced. “The losses I made could not be recouped in those years alone. She died while I was still struggling, interest still mounting.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I know I project an aura of wealth and attend all the right clubs in order to broker deals as money begets money, but the truth of the matter is that although the estate is just about running in credit, I still have one more year of debts to pay. It’s not over. Even now.”

Lines of fatigue furrowed his brow, eyes glazed in pain as though the past was here and now.

Charlotte swiped at her wet cheeks. How wrong she had been. And she kneeled on the rug aside his chair, to clutch his hand.

She brought his knuckles to her lips.

What could she say?

“It sounds to me,” she said at last, “that throughout your despair, those who truly knew you never lost faith in you to rebuild what was lost. Your mother, Thomas, Lord Woodford. They saw the good in you that I see. The kind man who only wants to ensure the estate’s future. Your honour at the duel that saved your life. They all forgave you. But…it seems to me that you have not forgiven yourself, Marcus. The young man who made a mistake, like we all do. I understan–”

“Can you?” His eyes sought hers. “I threw away our future. I should have been able to help you when your father died. Instead you had to leave your home, become a governess and…”

“I have managed, Marcus. I… It has not always been easy but I have made a life for myself. And I now understand what drives you and your need for more but… Do not forget who and what you work so hard for – Dinah and the tenants. The memory of your mother and your cousin Thomas. Do not lose sight of that honourable and kind man who we are all…all so fond of.”

He rubbed his stubbled cheek. “I’m not sure he’s inside me anymore.”

“Oh, he is. I have seen him.” She smiled. “I’ve seen him being kind to my uncle. I’ve seen him care for Dinah.”

I’ve felt it when he kissed me.

“And,” she continued, “I renounce our deal.”

His head shot up. “What?”

“It was unfair of me to suggest it. If you need to go to Carlisle for the prosperity of the estate, then…you must go. I shall be governess here unpaid until a school is found for Dinah.”

“Charlotte… No…” He clutched her arm. “You need the money. And you still have one last Christmastide event for me?”

“It doesn’t matter–”

“I wish to attend it,” he said firmly. “And you will be paid no matter what. After all, we…we are friends, are we not? Always have been.”

Charlotte forced a smile. “Of course. And…very well. Tomorrow night then. After which, you must go to Carlisle.”

“Tomorrow night.”

So with a nod, she stood and slipped from the study before she did something foolish.

Like tell him she loved him. That she’d always loved him.

That she always would.