The Governess Affair (Brothers Sinister #0.5)

“No.” He spoke calmly. “But what I want with you is neither here nor there. I need you to go away, and so go away you shall.”


“Not for fifty pounds and a reference,” Serena answered just as calmly. “How could you think a reference would paper over what happened to me? I want justice, Mr. Marshall. Not a reference.”

He leaned toward her. “Did he force you?” There was something of a snarl in his voice.

Her breath caught. That night—that horrible night—recreated itself in her mind, filling her with shame and guilt and regret. She was temporarily robbed of speech, consumed by the unending silence.

She forced herself to swallow that bitter swirl of emotion. She raised her chin and looked him in the eyes.

“No.” Her voice broke on the word, but she did not look down. “He did not force me.”

I let him do it.

There may have been a touch of pity in his eyes, a hint of gentleness as he took the teacup from her hands. But there was not the slightest trace of charity in his voice when he spoke. “Then it’s fifty pounds and a reference,” he said. “And not one iota of revenge.”

Chapter Four

THE MESSENGER RETURNED FROM Wolverton Hall the day after the rain. Hugo stood at the window of his office, looking over the square below.

It was dry today, and the pensioners were back on the solitary bench. If he read a rebellious cast into her stance… What did it matter? It would change nothing.

He didn’t take his eyes from her, but he was still aware of the messenger standing behind him.

“So,” he finally said. “What happened?”

He’d sent Charles Gordon to find things out. The man was thin and weedy, and more than a little scared of Hugo. From the corner of his eye, Hugo saw the other man swallow, and stare straight in front of him.

“She didn’t leave,” Gordon said, licking his lips. “She was turned off for immoral behavior.”

“Lying? Thievery?” Hugo’s voice was even—all too even. He knew what was coming; she’d told him herself.

“The general gist of the gossip is that she took a man to her bed. In the house, if you’ll believe it.”

“She was caught in the act?”

“Someone saw him leaving her rooms.”

“Ah.” Hugo touched his fingertips together. “When you say, someone saw him…was the man in question identified?”

“No. The second housemaid saw a darkened figure leaving the female servants’ quarters.”

“Why did suspicion fall upon her, then? Had she a beau? A flirtation of some kind with a man?”

He asked the questions, but his mind was already racing far ahead. She’d admitted the duke hadn’t forced her. Had he made her promises? Seduced her?

“No,” Gordon said. “But when the matter was raised, they checked. There was blood on her sheets, and it wasn’t her time.”

A little shock went through him at all that implied. In the square below, Miss Barton raised her chin. He couldn’t make out her features, but he could remember her gray eyes snapping at him as she spoke.

How could you imagine that fifty pounds and a reference would paper over what happened to me? she’d asked.

She’d been a virgin. That meant that Clermont had acted badly—even worse than Hugo had supposed. She’d claimed she hadn’t been forced. But there were degrees of force, and all the ones that suggested themselves here made Hugo the villain in this particular drama.

He resented that Clermont had foisted that role upon him.

“If you need to rid yourself of her,” Gordon said, “a few words about this in the right ears, and she’ll be driven off in no time at all.”

She would be. There had been a similar case last year—a lady’s maid dismissed for indecent conduct. He’d seen the whole thing from his window. The other servants had crowded around her in the square when she left with her single valise. They’d jostled her. They’d called her names, ones he’d heard from even this distance, with a pane of glass and fifty feet between them. They’d called her whore and slut, and those had hardly been the worst of the epithets hurled. He’d been halfway down the stairs to put an end to the riot when someone had thrown a rock.

Somehow, the sight of her blood had been as effective at dispersing the crowd as a legion of constables wielding billyclubs.

Hugo had few pretensions about his own morals. He’d done a number of things that didn’t skirt the boundaries of ethical conduct so much as trample through them. But he didn’t like thinking of Miss Barton at the center of such a crowd. It wasn’t a faceless throng that he saw around her when he envisioned that, but his own father looming, broom in hand.

You’ll never bloody amount to anything, boy, so get back out there—

“Well?” Gordon asked. “Am I to spread the story?”

“No.”

“That seems…awfully kind,” Gordon said dubiously.

“Nothing of the sort.”