She glanced in the mirror and pinned a stray lock under her cap. There. That would have to do. She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen.
His Lordship was nowhere to be seen.
‘Lord Compton?’
He emerged from the pantry. ‘I found some biscuits,’ he said and grinned. He looked so startlingly handsome, she stared at him open-mouthed. She’d been saving those biscuits for the next time the vicar came to call. The new vicar was a very pleasant young man. And single. Not that Marguerite had any interest in single gentlemen. But he always looked as if he needed a good meal and always wolfed down her biscuits.
His smile faded. ‘I am sorry, I should not have gone poking around in your pantry.’
She let go a breath. ‘No. It is perfectly all right. I am glad you found them. I like biscuits. They are shortbread, I believe. My favourite.’ Stop. He’d think her a fool for gabbling on like this. Indeed, there was a very odd look on his face. Disapproval, she thought.
She gestured to the table, where cups and saucers and the steaming teapot awaited. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ She set her portfolio away from the teacups and took her seat. He took a chair opposite. She poured the tea and they sipped at it and nibbled on shortbread. This batch had turned out even better than the last, but if she didn’t make some money soon, she would not be able to afford the butter to make more.
‘Let me see your drawings,’ he said after a few moments. She appreciated his getting down to business right away. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable about inviting a gentleman to take tea in her kitchen. It felt far too intimate to be alone with such a very handsome gentleman. One whom she found more attractive that she would have believed possible. As a rule, she preferred to give handsome, charming gentlemen a wide berth. She certainly didn’t want to start tongues wagging in the village. Fortunately, the kitchen was at the back of the house, so passing neighbours were unlikely to know of his presence. Except...
‘Oh, my goodness. What did you do with your carriage?’ Was it parked outside in the lane?
‘I left my horse at the inn,’ he said.
She let go a sigh of relief.
His mouth tightened. ‘The pictures?’
She pulled the portfolio closer, undid the worn blue ribbon and spread out samples of her still-life drawings before him.
After a moment of perusal, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. ‘These are excellent,’ he said.
Not a connoisseur, then. ‘They are accurate depictions of the countryside hereabouts.’
He looked puzzled.
‘I am a technician, my lord. I replicate what I see. I do not bring any great flair to the work.’
He shook his head. ‘If either of my daughters could be taught to draw nearly as well, I would be satisfied indeed.’
Relief flooded through her. ‘I believe I have the skill to pass my knowledge along. I have not forgotten my own lessons.’
‘I have to warn you that my daughters are not the easiest children to teach. They have driven off two governesses in the past year alone.’
She hesitated and saw disappointment enter his gaze. She steeled her spine. ‘I will do the best I can, my lord.’
‘That is all I can ask. I agree to your terms. I will expect you on Wednesday afternoon, if that is convenient, and again on Friday.’
‘That is convenient, my lord.’ Heat travelled through her body. ‘My fee is payable in advance, you will recall.’
‘When you arrive on Wednesday, your fee will await you.’
She would have liked some of it today, but beggars could not be choosers. She nodded her acceptance.
He picked up his hat and left.
Two governesses driven off. What had she let herself in for?
* * *
The following Wednesday, Jack paced his study. At any moment Lady Marguerite was supposed to arrive.
Why the hell had he hired the woman? She had lied to him. A few discreet enquiries and he had the truth of the matter. Initially, there had been three widows living at the cottage. Two of them had wed, leaving Lady Marguerite alone. There were no servants. The maid and manservant who had been employed at the cottage had married and gone elsewhere. The lady had not hired anyone to take their places.
So why lie?
Because he would have disapproved of her lack of servants? Why would she care what he thought?
Because she needed the money from the drawing lessons. What lady would advertise for employment if she wasn’t desperate? Clearly, Lord Westram should take better care of his sister.
Hah. The wry amusement that thought engendered gave him pause. Of course she wouldn’t go to her brother, since the woman obviously valued her independence. Not the sort of influence he wanted for his daughters. But there was no going back since he had already offered her the position, or at least he had offered to give her the opportunity to prove she could do the job. He had also sent over one of his stable lads to take care of her horse and keep an eye on her. It wasn’t right that a lady should live completely alone, mucking out her own stables and carrying her own coal.
If indeed she had any coal.
There had been a good pile of logs at the back door, though. Hopefully, his lad would have the sense to split them when he ran out of work in the stables. Jack went to his desk, looked at the pile of paperwork and then went to the window. It was nearly two in the afternoon. She should be here at any moment. Unless she intended to be fashionably late.
But no. He smiled at the sight of the trap advancing up his drive at a steady clip. He went outside to greet her.
A groom ran out from the stables to take her horse and held it steady while he helped her down. She was dressed in the same dun-brown coat she had worn the day she brought his daughters home. And as on that occasion, her hair was neatly pinned beneath a plain cap and covered by a serviceable bonnet with the sprig of daisies on the brim a startling little nod to femininity.
‘Good afternoon, Lord Compton,’ she said coolly.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Marguerite.’
She gave him a tight little smile. ‘Where might I find my charges?’
‘In the nursery. Come. I will show you the way.’
He had spent his own childhood in this nursery with his own nanny. She’d been a little livelier than Nanny James was now. Certainly spryer. But there was no one else he would trust as much as he trusted her to care for his children.
Sounds of excited talking and giggling grew louder as they walked along the corridor. He made his step extra heavy, the sound echoing off the walls. The sounds ceased. He threw open the door and the three children were lined up in a row opposite, just as he had requested the previous evening. As was her wont, Nanny James was sitting beside the hearth, rocking back and forth and smiling at the little row of children. He smiled at them. His children were a credit to him.
‘Good afternoon, daughters,’ he said.
‘Good afternoon, Papa,’ the older two chorused, showing off their best curtsies. Netty removed her thumb from her mouth with a little pop and wobbled when she bent her knees. He really should try to have Nanny break her of the habit of thumb-sucking. He just didn’t have the heart. She was still barely more than a baby. And besides, as Nanny always said when he discussed the matter with her, how many adults did he know who walked around sucking their thumbs?
‘Ladies, this is Lady Marguerite, whom