Compromising Miss Milton

‘The doctor informs me that I will need a nurse for a few months while I recuperate. I can think of no one better,’ Lord Ravensworth said, and his voice became like heavy silk sliding over her skin.

‘You know of my faults, and your conversation is more amusing than most. Should you wish the position, it is yours. I will pay half as much again as your present employer.’

‘Lord Ravensworth!’ Daisy stared at him in astonishment. If she went to work for him, she might as well forget about ever being a governess in England again. She could well imagine how the interviews would go if he gave her a reference. The slight tutting, and then the news that the post had been filled. ‘You are unmarried!’

‘Double what Mrs Blandish is paying you. You drive a hard bargain.’

His eyes were molten gold with flecks of amber—eyes that Daisy knew she’d dream about for months to come—eyes which silently urged her to say yes.

‘It should be more than sufficient to make you swallow your principles about being employed by an unmarried man.’

‘Without my principles I am nothing. I am a governess, not a nurse. Therefore I must refuse, Lord Ravensworth, and urge you to seek a suitable person for your needs.’

Author Note

This book came about because of the gleam in my senior editor’s eye when I mentioned governesses, and the image of a half-naked man lying in Irthing River which haunted my brain for several nights running. And, as I had recently finished reading Alex Von Tunzelmann’s Indian Summer, as well as Kipling Sahib by Charles Allen, I knew the story had to have an Indian connection. India remains high on places I want to visit. And some day I will.

I found The Victorian Governess by Kathryn Hughes and Other People’s Daughters—The Lives and Times of the Governess by Ruth Brandon really useful for background information about governesses—plus their front covers are endlessly inspiring.

Because Daisy’s friend Louisa Sibson came up and tapped on my shoulder, demanding her story be told, and thankfully my editor agreed, her story will be appearing soon.

As ever, I love getting reader feedback—either via post to Mills & Boon, on my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog, http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com

All the best.

Compromising Miss Milton

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’ S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’ S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER

(part of Christmas By Candlelight)

VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE

AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE

A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY

IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE

To Pauline Tomlinson;

because everyone needs a Pauline in their life!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

July 1837—Gilsland, Cumberland

The carriage’s abrupt stop jolted Adam Ravensworth, the third Viscount Ravensworth, from a fitful sleep, and sent his cane clattering to the floor of the carriage. Adam gripped the horsehair seat with his long fingers, narrowly preventing his body from tumbling after it.

‘In the name of all that is holy, what sort of driving is that? You are paid to avoid potholes, not drive through them!’ Adam banged on the roof.

Silence filled the unmoving carriage, only to be broken by the tramp of heavy feet and muffled voices. Adam froze, listening. Not poor driving but something far more sinister.

With a practised hand, he reached towards where his pistol was stored and encountered—air. A loud oath dropped from his lips.

Adam forced the remains of sleep from his mind. The pistol was there. It had to be. He had carefully placed it alongside the necklace before they had left the coaching inn this morning, an integral part of his ritual. His hand groped for the ruby necklace. His shoulders relaxed slightly. That at least was there.

Adam reached out again, fumbling in the dark with the latch of a hidden compartment, but despite his frantic groping the space and indeed the carriage remained empty of all weapons. Gone. Vanished.

What else had they done? And when? The fog of sleep clawed at his mind, making it difficult to think. Adam shook his head, noting the vile taste in his mouth. Drugged. He swore at his own stupidity. Meticulous planning had gone into this unscheduled stop, but this was where it would end. It would not reach the desired conclusion. He would see to it. Personally.

‘Down from the carriage!’

‘Here, what is this all about?’ His new driver Hawkins’s protest was a heartbeat too slow, too certain.

‘We mean business. Stand aside.’

A single shot rang out.

Adam grabbed the ruby necklace and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers. Everything else was replaceable, but not the necklace—his talisman, a reminder of who he was and what he had done. If he lost the necklace, he might as well be dead.

‘Step out, my lord,’ Hawkins said.

Adam’s neck muscles relaxed slightly. Hawkins lived. But how loyal was he? His words held the barest veneer of civility.

Rapidly Adam searched on the floor for the pistol, hoping that in some mad moment of sleep, he had dislodged the weapon. Nothing. His hand closed about his cane, a weapon of sorts, something to even the odds.

‘Get out, I say!’ The door rattled again and Hawkins’s voice became harsher. ‘Get out or I will drag your lordship’s carcass from the coach.’

‘When I am ready.’

Adam tugged at the sleeves of his frock coat and straightened his stock. He tucked his cane under his arm and knew he looked the perfect gentleman, perhaps a bit foppish and overly concerned with clothes, but not someone who waited for an opportunity to strike.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the night and surveyed the scene, weighing his options. Seven men, far too many to fight and have a hope of success. Whoever had planned this had left nothing to chance, but someone always made a mistake.

The leader snapped his fingers and Hawkins plucked the cane from Adam’s hand. ‘Sorry, my lord. The cane is required. We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.’

‘Is there some problem, Hawkins?’ Adam kept his voice calm and unhurried, the epitome of an aristocrat who frequented the environs of St James’s. ‘Why have you stopped the coach? I need to get to Newcastle to catch the packet to London. The Atheneaum’s annual election waits for no man.’

‘Outlaws. Road was blocked ahead and I slowed. These men grabbed the horses’ heads.’ Hawkins shifted from foot to foot as the lantern cast strange elongated shadows. The cane with its hidden sword was now clasped lightly in Hawkins’s unsuspecting hand. ‘It weren’t my fault. Not expecting it, like. There was nothing I could do. Honest my lord.’

‘Join me, Hawkins.’ Adam held out his hand, and willed the driver to place the cane into his palm. ‘It is not too late. I will save you, Hawkins.’

Hawkins took a step backwards, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry my lord. They…they threatened…my wife and child.’

‘Indeed? And here I thought you a single man without a relation in the world.’ Adam lowered his voice. ‘How much did they pay you, Hawkins? How did they get you—drink, gaming or was it opium? Did you think about your wife or child, then?’

Hawkins raised the cane, but Adam caught it before the first blow fell and pulled Hawkins towards him.

‘Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been enough.’ Adam saw the man’s face contort with uncertainty and fear.

‘Leave Lord Ravensworth to me. I have waited a lifetime for this moment.’ The leader’s muffled voice rang out again. ‘Back to your place. And this time take his cane out of his reach.’

The driver yanked the cane away and turned on his heel.

Another wave of drug-induced tiredness attacked Adam. He fought against it, struggling to stay upright. Survival first. Retribution later.

‘You have something we want. Something you stole.’ The leader’s voice was rough, but held a tone that Adam’s brain faintly recognised. ‘A treasure beyond reckoning. Give it here.’

He lifted his hand and Adam saw the tattoo of a blackbird between the man’s thumb and forefinger. The ground shifted beneath Adam’s feet. He knew the tattoo. Once it had had a meaning, but that was more than a continent and half-a-dozen years away. The gang of particularly murderous thieves who sported the tattoo and who preyed on innocent travellers were dead. The last ones had danced from the end of a noose after he had testified in Bombay.

‘You are making a serious error,’ Adam said. ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘Wrong answer.’ A blow struck the side of his head, sending him staggering towards the dark edges of his mind. ‘A rich nabob like you. You brought the treasure from India. You thought yourself beyond the curse. It has taken us a long time, but the goddess will be satisfied once we have tasted your blood.’

Adam put his hands on his knees and attempted to breathe. Ghosts did not possess cudgels and curses were for the weak-minded. These men were flesh and blood, but who? And why now? When had the tattoo been revived?

Another blow rained down on his back and shoulders—heavier, harder. He stumbled and fell, lay still, then waited. A tiny portion of his mind told him to offer up a prayer for help, but any higher being that existed had forsaken him after India. He knew that.

‘Here, you’ll kill him. They never said nothing about killing. That’s murder, like!’ Hawkins squawked.

‘It’s a dirty business. You knew that.’

‘It is not here,’ a voice called out

‘Search the carriage again!’

‘What about him?’

‘Him?’ A contemptuous kick landed on Adam’s back. ‘He will be dead before sunlight. Did you see him stagger as he came out? They did their work at the inn.’

‘You will get what you deserve,’ Adam muttered under his breath, but he kept his body still and his face in the mud, waiting.

‘I’ll check his person.’

‘It won’t be there. It will be in the coach. He didn’t have time, like,’ Hawkins protested. ‘He always takes the necklace when he travels. He has a special compartment for it, see. He didn’t have the time or the wit to get it.’

‘Just the same.’ Hands tore at his coat, ripping it from his back.

‘That was a mistake. My tailor hasn’t even sent the bill yet,’ Adam said as he flipped over and brought his boots up into his attacker’s chest and kicked hard.

The man flew backwards, colliding with another.

Adam crouched for a heartbeat and then began to run. Behind him, he heard the screech of the men calling their dogs. But Adam did not stop until he reached a small cliff, lit silver in the moonlight. He checked his step as a stone bounced down and hit the river.

The dogs howled again, closer. Two shots rang out.

Adam kicked off his boots, grabbed them with one hand and jumped, allowing the current to take him.

* * *

‘Miss Milton! Miss Milton. You must come. A man is lying by the river. Without any clothes on! Undressed—that is to say, naked!’

Daisy Milton glanced up from her sister Felicity’s latest letter about their niece and the unwelcome return of her illness. She was alarmed at her young charge’s words. A naked man? Here in this peaceful spot? Nella Blandish was supposed to be gathering flowers for a botany project, not spying. She had been given the strictest orders. But Nella had returned with her hat ribbon askew, pinafore stained, no flowers and another outlandish tale.

There were times when a governess was forced to make a judgement. Her sister’s problems would have to wait.

‘Truly, Miss Milton, there is a naked man! I saw him with my very own eyes.’

Daisy folded the letter and placed it in the wicker basket, each movement precise and unhurried. ‘Is this another of your fables, Prunella Blandish? This one does bear some semblance to last week’s tale about the lion eating buttercups.’

‘It is the truth…this time, Miss Milton. Honest, there is a naked man. You could see everything—all the way to kingdom come.’ Nella’s bottom lip stuck out and she shook her golden curls. ‘I watched him and watched him and he has not moved. He lies there, feet dangling in the water, head resting on a log.’

‘And what was this naked man of yours doing before he started lying there? Swimming?’ Daisy strove to keep her voice calm. She refused to enquire about what this everything-to-kingdom-come that Nella had seen was. If Nella’s tale was true, and if they did encounter this man on the way back to the house, she would explain in a quiet but firm voice about common decency and the necessity of wearing something when bathing.

Nella’s reactions were only natural, the result of being a lively twelve year old. But what would Mrs Blandish say once Nella related the tale? And Nella’s sister? A tiny pain appeared behind Daisy’s eyes. She needed this position and its wage.

No one ever set out to be a governess, least of all her. But Felicity had to look after their niece, and the annuity from her father was barely enough for one to manage on, let alone three. There was little to be done about falling sickness, but she completely agreed with Felicity that Kammie must be kept at home. It was Felicity, not she, who bore the hardest burden. Daisy’s sole contribution was to provide what funds she could.

‘How should I know, Miss Milton, what the man was doing before I saw him?’ Nella adopted her butter-wouldn’t-melt face. ‘You always tell me to refrain from speculating.’

‘It is a lovely afternoon in July.’ Daisy kept her voice light and tried to regain some of her authority. ‘I do hope you came away without saying anything. It would have been the height of bad manners, Prunella, to interrupt a man’s bathing.’

‘He wasn’t bathing. He was lying there in his altogether…’ Nella’s brow wrinkled and she clasped her hands under her chin, the very picture of injured innocence. ‘That is the very honest truth, Miss Milton.’

Daisy frowned, tapping her fingers against the basket.

How many times had she heard those words—‘the very honest truth’—over the past few months, only to discover that Nella had managed to exaggerate or somehow twist the story until it bore little resemblance to the actual sequence of events? This tale would stop here.

‘You solemnly promised your dearest mama no more tales or untruths.’

‘I know what I saw, Miss Milton…’ Nella pushed her bonnet more firmly on to her head. ‘I’ll prove it. Don’t you want to see the man? Judge for yourself?’

To see the man? Daisy set her bonnet more firmly on her head and smoothed the pleats of her black stuff gown. Nella made it seem as if she was some sort of sex-starved spinster who had nothing better to do than spy on men bathing. She had a healthy appreciation of the masculine form, but the consequences had to be considered. Someone had to contain Nella’s enthusiasm.

‘It is not a question of want, Prunella, but of decorum.’

‘It would be the Christian thing to do.’ Nella’s being positively glowed as the idea took hold in her brain. ‘To see if he was in trouble and needed our aid. He could have gone over the waterfall, or have been attacked by brigands…or…’

‘I do know my Christian duty, thank you, Prunella. And I endeavour to do it. Always. As you should.’

Daisy checked the little watch pinned to her gown. Nearly half past three. Did they have time to investigate? She could then deliver the ‘Importance of Always Telling the Truth’ lecture for the seventh time in as many days when Nella’s falsehood was revealed.

‘It is time we returned to the house. Your dear mama and sister will wish to know where you are. There may be arrivals to greet. Gilsland Spa is quite the rage this year as London remains in solemn mourning for our late lamented king.’

‘Susan isn’t interested in new arrivals. Susan’s sights are fixed on Lord Edward because he is the younger grandson of an earl and she wants a title.’ Nella paused and wrinkled her nose. ‘But Mama says that if anyone more eligible comes along, Susan had best be prepared to change her mind. Papa is worried about Lord Edward being to let in the pocket. Susan agreed eventually. A carriage is worth more than a handsome face.’

‘Nella!’ Daisy stared hard at her charge. ‘Your sister cannot be that mercenary.’

‘Susan told Mama the very same thing this morning.’ Nella swayed on her toes. A broad smile crossed her face as she lowered her voice. ‘I listen at doors.’

‘Then your sister is to get her London Season after all.’

‘Susan is quite convinced, though, that Lord Edward can be brought up to snuff and has begged Mama to keep the house for another month. It will save the expense of a London Season next year and the water will soothe dearest Mama’s nerves.’

Nella’s voice replicated the exact intonation of Miss Blandish’s overly refined tone. With difficulty Daisy forced the laugh back down her throat.

‘You should not listen in on private conversations. It is neither clever nor useful.’ Daisy practised her best governess stare. ‘And you should certainly never repeat them to anyone.’

‘How can I learn anything interesting otherwise? Nobody tells me anything.’

‘It is far from ladylike. Your mama wants you to become a lady. You will want to make a good match, just as your sister does.’

‘Who wants to get married? Marriage is all practicality and good breeding. I want to be a lady explorer.’ Nella waved her hand with airy disdain. ‘I am going to discover lost continents and find buried treasure. And I have not been anywhere yet—even Susan has been to France.’

‘Even lady explorers are ladies first. And explorers pay attention to their geography lessons.’ Daisy winced slightly at her prim words, so reminiscent of her own governess’s—glittering dreams were well and good, but they often vanished in the cold light of reality. Once she had dreamed of exploring the world. Now she settled for independence.

Nella tilted her head to one side as her eyes shone with mischief. ‘Do you think Susan would be interested in seeing my naked gentleman?’

‘Prunella! Control your mouth and your thoughts! A lady acts with propriety and honesty at all times. The man in question does not belong to you. And you have no idea of his antecedents and so cannot make a judgement about his status.’

Nella screwed up her nose. ‘But do you think Susan would be interested in my discovery?’

‘I doubt it.’ Daisy struggled to keep her voice withering. She could well imagine Susan Blandish’s face squeezed up as though she had tasted a particularly sour plum if Nella mentioned the word naked. ‘Knowing things and informing other people of them are two different things. Discretion and tact should be your bywords, even when you are a lady explorer.’

‘I am glad I have you, Miss Milton.’ Nella reached out a grubby hand and squeezed Daisy’s pristine glove. ‘You never worry about such things as fashion and how to catch a viscount. You understand about exploring and never wanting to get married.’ Nella batted her lashes. ‘I wouldn’t have interrupted you for any other reason. I know how much you enjoy your letters from your sister. It is just that I feel one must try to help and do one’s Christian duty. Mama gave me a lecture on the very subject yesterday after I objected to meeting Mrs Gough, the vicar’s wife, who smells distinctly of lemon barley water.’

Daisy permitted a tiny smile to cross her face as she recognised Nella’s tone. Perhaps after all she would reach some sort of rapprochement with her pupil. The whole episode would provide fodder for several letters to her friend Louisa Sibson. ‘Where is this sight that you wish me to see?’

* * *

Daisy climbed the short ridge and looked down on the winding river. The sound of Crammel Linn waterfall crashed in her ears. In the sky a hawk circled. All was at peace. Nothing could possibly be wrong here.

She shaded her eyes and then she saw him, the body, lying in a pool of water just before the waterfall. His body was half in and half out of the water, caught on a log.

Once when she had been about ten, she had travelled to Italy with her mother and sister to improve her Italian. In Sorrento, she had spied a statue like this man. Not young or a hardened warrior, but an athlete, poised to throw a javelin. The perfection of masculinity personified, her governess had declared, with a clasp of her gloved hands before sweeping Daisy onwards towards more suitable views. She had not quite understood the meaning of the remark until now.

‘You see. I spoke the very honest truth,’ Nella called out in a sing-song voice. ‘A naked man by the river.’

‘Except he is far from naked. He wears a shirt and trousers.’

Nella put her hands on her hips. ‘Mama always says that a man might as well be naked if he is not wearing a stock or a coat, and this one isn’t. He does not have boots either. Or a waistcoat.’

‘He is still wearing clothing, Prunella.’ Daisy rolled her eyes heavenwards and struggled to keep her face stern.

‘I preferred it when he was naked.’ Nella rocked back on her heels. ‘It made it seem all the more exciting. It is very easy to imagine that he had no clothes on and I could see everything. See how his shirt moulds to his back. He has a very pleasant back.’

Daisy swallowed hard, remembering the statues in Italy with their unclad shoulders and tapering waists.

‘The man is clearly in need of assistance. Excitement does not come into it,’ Daisy said firmly. A governess was never ruffled. Or surprised even when confronted with such a sight. A governess was prepared for everything.

She put her hand to the side of her face and tried to think straight.

Help—she needed help and fast. Strong backs and arms to carry the man from the river.

She picked up her skirts and prepared to run, but halted before she had gone two steps. Was it her imagination or was the log rocking against the stones, preparing to carry its cargo down the waterfall?