A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(56)

“But we haven’t even—”
“Now, Harriet.”
Harriet gave Anne a what-can-this-be look, which Anne did not acknowledge, not with Lady Pleinsworth standing over her, looking like a thundercloud.
Harriet gathered her papers and left. Lady Pleinsworth walked to the door, listened to make sure that Harriet had not lingered to eavesdrop, then turned to Anne and said, “The reins were cut.”
Anne gasped. “What?”
“The reins. On Lord Winstead’s curricle. They had been cut.”
“No. That’s impossible. Why would—” But she knew why. And she knew who.
George Chervil.
Anne felt herself blanch. How had he found her here? And how could he have known—
The posting inn. She and Lord Winstead had been inside at least half an hour. Anyone who had been watching her would have realized that she would be riding home in his curricle.
Anne had long since accepted that time would not dampen George Chervil’s fire for revenge, but she’d never thought he would be so reckless as to threaten the life of another person, especially someone of Daniel’s position. He was the Earl of Winstead, for heaven’s sake. The death of a governess would most likely go uninvestigated, but an earl?
George was insane. Or at least more so than he’d been before. There could be no other explanation.
“The horses came back several hours ago,” Lady Pleinsworth continued. “The grooms were sent out to retrieve the curricle, and that’s when they saw it. It was a clear act of sabotage. Worn leather does not snap in an even, straight line.”
“No,” Anne said, trying to take it all in.
“I don’t suppose you have some nefarious enemy in your past you’ve neglected to tell us about,” Lady Pleinsworth said.
Anne’s throat went dry. She was going to have to lie. There was no other—
But Lady Pleinsworth must have been engaging in a bit of gallows humor, because she did not wait for a reply. “It’s Ramsgate,” she said. “God damn it, the man has lost all reason.”
Anne could only stare, not sure if she was relieved that she’d been spared the sin of lying or shocked that Lady Pleinsworth had so furiously taken the Lord’s name in vain.
And maybe Lady Pleinsworth was right. Maybe this had nothing to do with Anne, and the villain was indeed the Marquess of Ramsgate. He’d chased Daniel out of the country three years earlier; surely it was within his character to try to have him murdered now. And he certainly would not care if he took the life of a governess in the process.
“He promised Daniel he would leave him alone,” Lady Pleinsworth raged, pacing the room. “That’s the only reason he came back, you know. He thought he would be safe. Lord Hugh went all the way to Italy to tell him that his father had promised to put an end to all this nonsense.” She let out a frustrated noise, her hands fisted tightly at her sides. “It has been three years. Three years he was in exile. Isn’t that enough? Daniel didn’t even kill his son. It was just a wound.”
Anne kept quiet, not sure that she was supposed to be taking part in this conversation.
But then Lady Pleinsworth turned and looked at her directly. “I assume you know the story.”
“Most of it, I believe.”
“Yes, of course. The girls would have told you everything.” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, and it occurred to Anne that she had never seen her employer so distraught. Lady Pleinsworth gave her head a shake, then said, “I don’t know how Virginia is going to bear it. It nearly killed her before when he left the country.”
Virginia must be Lady Winstead, Daniel’s mother. Anne had not known her given name.
“Well,” Lady Pleinsworth said, then abruptly added, “I suppose you can sleep now. The sun’s gone down.”
“Thank you,” Anne said. “Please give—” But she stopped there.
“Did you say something?” Lady Pleinsworth inquired.
Anne shook her head. It would have been inappropriate to ask Lady Pleinsworth to give her regards to Lord Winstead. Or if not that, then unwise.
Lady Pleinsworth took a step toward the door, then paused. “Miss Wynter,” she said.
“Yes?”
Lady Pleinsworth turned slowly around. “There is one thing.”
Anne waited. It was not like her employer to leave such silences in the middle of conversation. It did not bode well.
“It has not escaped my notice that my nephew . . .” Again, she paused, possibly searching for the correct combination of words.
“Please,” Anne blurted out, certain that her continued employment was hanging by a thread. “Lady Pleinsworth, I assure you—”
“Don’t interrupt,” Lady Pleinsworth said, although not unkindly. She held up a hand, instructing Anne to wait as she gathered her thoughts. Finally, just when Anne was sure she could not bear it any longer, she said, “Lord Winstead seems quite taken with you.”
Anne hoped Lady Pleinsworth did not expect a reply.
“I am assured of your good judgment, am I not?” Lady Pleinsworth added.
“Of course, my lady.”
“There are times when a woman must exhibit a sensibility that men lack. I believe this is one of those times.”
She paused and looked at Anne directly, indicating that this time she did expect a reply. So Anne said, “Yes, my lady,” and prayed that was enough.
“The truth is, Miss Wynter, I know very little about you.”
Anne’s eyes widened.
“Your references are impeccable, and of course your behavior since joining our household has been above reproach. You are quite the finest governess I have ever employed.”