The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(3)

Especially when she’d walked back the way she’d come, and still the crackling of twigs and swishing of branches had followed her. At last, the sound of breath panting louder than hers had compelled her to face the danger head on. After all, she’d doubted she could outrun it.

“Show yourself!” she’d commanded, halting and glaring into the trees. A huge, grey wolfhound had loped out of the undergrowth, wagging its tail. She’d never seen anything quite so large look so unthreatening. But her relief had been short-lived, for hard on the heels of the dog had come a large, scarred man, so casually dressed that she couldn’t tell his class or occupation. Swarthy and unshaven, wearing a battered wide-brimmed hat, he could have been a gentleman, or a farm laborer, or even a poacher. Or, with that scar, Lady Serena’s villainous attacker.

“What do you want?” she’d demanded, as the dark eyes regarded her with annoyance.

His black eyebrows flew up. “A rabbit for dinner. What do you want?”

Although his voice had been rough, at least his accent had been that of an educated man.

“Peace to walk undisturbed,” she’d retorted, although her ill-nature had been immediately diluted by the wolfhound pushing its great head under her hand. Without meaning to, she’d stroked the dog and even smiled at it.

And when she’d raised her gaze to its owner, he was staring at her with grim, secretive, unblinking eyes. A thrill of fear had twisted through her. At least, she’d supposed it to be fear.

However, apart from the dominating scar running right across one side of his face, he was not an ill-looking man. Perhaps in his mid or late thirties, he was tall and straight, his features harsh but even, his hard, grey eyes compelling, and his lips fine. She’d wondered if he ever smiled. Certainly, he hadn’t at her. Instead, his gaze had flickered over her like a lash and returned to her face. He hadn’t looked impressed. She’d wanted to step back from him, to run, but something, whether fright or mere refusal to give in, had kept her rooted to the same spot, her hand still on the dog’s great head.

“Peace,” the stranger had repeated with a twist of his lips. “Here? I suggest you look elsewhere. Good afternoon.” And he’d whistled for the dog and strode back into the trees. His gait seemed more uneven than the rough ground warranted, as though he were lame—or drunk.

The wolfhound, with a farewell lick at her mended gloves, had trotted off after him.

For some reason she couldn’t fathom, the brief encounter had troubled Caroline, even after Lord Tamar had guessed the identity of her scarred man as the tenant of Haven Hall. Mr. Benedict, according to Lord Braithwaite. Mr. Javan Benedict, whose daughter was called Rosa. There was no Mrs. Benedict, the earl had said.

That was all she knew of him for sure. But as she walked, she couldn’t help remembering all the rumors about him, for after her brush with him, she’d made a point of listening to the servants’ gossip and even asking the odd question in Blackhaven.

According to some, he had murdered his wife. Others said he kept her locked up in one of the rooms at the hall. Others said she had given him the scar on his face, or that her lover had caused it during a duel. Someone else had told her he stole children, a rumor which could, Caroline supposed, have come from the sudden discovery of the daughter who lived with him.

Then, on top of all those personal rumors, some said Haven Hall was haunted by the tragedy of its owners, the Gardyn family, and that its tenants were all either scared away or driven insane by the ghosts. Terrifying noises and unearthly visions in the vicinity of the hall had been reported for years.

Caroline discounted rumors. And yet, whether or not the man she’d encountered close to the hall had indeed been Javan Benedict, she could not help being alarmed by the prospect of the coming meeting. Lord Braithwaite had told her Mr. Benedict expected her and that, subject to an interview, she would be engaged for a trial period. This did not comfort Caroline. She didn’t want to be farmed out to strangers and strange children while she waited for Lady Braithwaite to forgive her for something she hadn’t done. She wanted to be teaching Maria and Alice and Helen…and enjoying the occasional company of the newly married Lady Serena who had become something approaching a friend over recent weeks.

But that was not an option. She could go home with no reference. Or she could go to Haven Hall and try to earn one. She would not even think of the countess’s forgiveness. She began to wonder, in fact, if she might not forgive Lady Braithwaite.

By the time she reached the overgrown drive, her meagre carpet bag of possessions felt as if it weighed a ton. Worse, the rain had come on half an hour before, and the wind had blown her bonnet off her head, playing havoc with her hair. If she had to come here, she would have preferred not to turn up on the doorstep looking like a drowned rat or some waif from the poor house.

The hall was even less comforting than the grounds. In the rain, covered with dark ivy and framed by filthy grey clouds, it looked even grimmer than its tenant. If Caroline had been fanciful—which she hoped she was not—she would have shivered with foreboding. Her current trembling was due merely to the cold and damp. Truly.

She trudged up the broken, weed-strewn path to the front door and lifted the knocker. Covering her uncertainty, she knocked rather too loudly for civility, but having done it, she couldn’t take it back. She stepped away and waited.

It seemed to take a long time before the door opened with a painful creak of hinges. An ill-dressed, dark-visaged manservant regarded her.