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.
Yet another question at Dallsten Manor. Perhaps he could get answers over dinner.
Adele had Samantha at the dining room door promptly at six, gowned in the darkest evening dress the girl owned, an emerald silk with blond lace along the gentle neckline and cap sleeves. Adele had barely found time to change, as well. She’d managed to send a short note via Daisy to her mother and received an elaborately worded response, which still managed to convey her mother’s extreme displeasure at being left out.
Mrs. Linton had been similarly displeased, grumbling through the discussion with Adele while banging spoons against the pots she stirred before agreeing that dinner would be served as usual.
To top things off, none of Adele’s old mourning clothes still fit, so she’d donned the brown velvet gown she generally reserved for more formal occasions. It was embroidered with royal blue medallions along the hem and modest neck, and the skirts brushed the carpet when she moved. With her paisley shawl draped about her shoulders, she felt poised and elegant and nothing like the stern governess others insisted on seeing when they looked at her.
After her encounters with Jerome Everard, she wasn’t sure what to expect from this meeting. She was tempted to put him down as nothing but a flirt, yet there seemed to be more to him, something deeper, that called to her. Perhaps it was the intelligence in his voice. Perhaps it was the smile of private humor she caught from time to time. All she knew was when she’d found him looking into Samantha’s room, eyes shadowed, face tight, she’d seen someone far more complex, even vulnerable, than his façade indicated.
He and a platinum-haired fellow, whom Mrs. Linton had confirmed was his cousin, were standing near the ivory silk-papered walls, just inside the door of the dining room, when Adele and Samantha entered, and both offered them bows.
Samantha curtsied. “I thought there were three of you,” she said as she rose.
Adele grimaced at the blunt comment, but Jerome merely motioned them into the room. Rather presumptuous. Immediately Adele chided herself. He wasn’t a guest; he now owned their home. And he certainly looked the part of lord of the manor, dressed all in black, with a coat of fine wool, satin-striped waistcoat and breeches tied at the knees.
“Alas, my brother Richard was detained,” he explained. “You’ll meet him shortly. May I introduce our cousin, Mr. Vaughn Everard? Vaughn, our new cousin Samantha Everard and her governess, Miss Adele Walcott.”
In a black, double-breasted coat with velvet lapels and large, gold buttons, Vaughn Everard looked only slightly less flamboyant than he had with a sword in his hand. He swept them both a deep bow, as if meeting royalty. “A pleasure, dear cousin, Miss Walcott.”
Samantha frowned as he straightened, but she went to sit on one of the cherry-wood chairs at Jerome’s right as he claimed the chair at the head of the damask-draped
