“Mr. Brandon, I must confess to a certain…surprise at having received your letter.

“It is most unusual for a schoolmistress to spend time alone with the parent of one of her girls,” she observed.

“I seldom trouble myself with what is or is not unusual, Miss de Coverdale,” Oliver replied. “I wished to speak to you alone and perceived this to be the best way of doing that.”

“But what did you wish to speak to me about?”

Oliver sent her a mocking glance. “Do you really need to ask that, given the nature of our first aquaintance?”

The Guardian’s Dilemma

Gail Whitiker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

GAIL WHITIKER

Originally hailing from Pembrokershire, Gail Whitiker now lives on beautiful Vancouver Island on the west coast of Canada. When she isn’t indulging her love of writing, you’ll find her enjoying brisk walks along the island’s many fine beaches, or trying to catch up her second love, reading. She wrote her first novel when she was in her teens, and still blesses her English teacher for not telling her how bad it really was.

THE STEEPWOOD SCANDAL:

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries

An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander

A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick

A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker

A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley

An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall

Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries

The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Guardian’s Dilemma, by Gail Whitiker

Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley

Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander

An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola cornick

An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

August 1812

‘Elope!’ The shocked exclamation burst from Oliver Brandon’s lips as he turned to stare at the young woman standing by the window. ‘What in the world are you talking about, Sophie? Gillian would never do such a thing.’

‘Wouldn’t she?’ Mrs Sophie Llewellyn glanced at her brother with an expression of amused indulgence. ‘You know what a headstrong young girl our stepsister is. She has the determination of three and she has shown in the past that if she is pushed too hard, she will rebel. Do you not remember that little incident several years ago?’

Oliver snorted. ‘Gillian was ten years old when she set off for Dover on her pony. At seventeen, I expect her to have more sense.’

‘And at seventeen she should have, dearest, but that is not to say that she has. For all her protestations to the contrary, Gillian is very young. She has been pampered and cosseted most of her life and has not half the maturity you or I had at that age.’

Oliver’s dark brows arched upwards in surprise. ‘Are you saying I’ve spoiled her?’

‘No, but she has certainly been indulged. And not only by you, so you needn’t look at me like that.’ Sophie’s mouth twitched. ‘I too am guilty of having given in to her whims. But Gillian has such a sweet, amiable nature that one cannot help oneself. However, you cannot deny that she likes to have her own way, Oliver, and when she doesn’t get it, she can become…’

‘Troublesome?’

‘I prefer to use the word challenging.’ Sophie smiled as if hoping to soften the criticism. ‘Troublesome has such a disagreeable connotation to it, don’t you think?’

‘Hmm.’ Oliver clasped his hands behind his back and joined his sister at the window. It was easy to discern the resemblance between the two. They both had the same dark, wavy hair and finely sculpted features of the Brandon side of the family, and the same height and physical stature of their late mother’s Howden connections. But that was where the similarities ended. In matters of personality and temperament, they were as different as night and day. Oliver might be only four years older than his sister, but his brooding countenance and serious nature often made him appear considerably more.

At thirty-five, he was as fit as a man ten years his junior, but unlike such greenheads, there was nothing of the dandy about him. He did not wear his hair in a Brutus crop or pad his calves to show a shapelier leg. He had no need to, given his propensity for strenuous exercise, both in the boxing ring and with the foil. But he was not so easily moved to laughter as was his sister, nor so trusting of the outside world.

In contrast to both of them was their seventeen-year-old stepsister, Gillian Gresham; a blonde, blue-eyed child who no more resembled either of them than did a rose a cornstalk. She had the round face and bubbly personality of her late mother, and standing at just over five feet tall, she barely reached Oliver’s shoulder. She was a happy, good-natured child, inclined, as Sophie had said, to cajole people into giving her what she wanted, but in such a way that no one could truly resent her for it. And she was forever falling in and out of love. Oliver had had more than his share of emotional battles with her over the past two years.

Gillian had come to live at Shefferton Hall when her mother, Catherine, had married Oliver’s father just over nine years ago. She had become his legal ward when Catherine had succumbed to pneumonia two years later. Surprisingly, Oliver had grieved deeply over his stepmother’s death. More so, perhaps, than he had over his own mother’s. The bond between them had been surprisingly strong, and Oliver knew that Catherine had come to feel the same respect and admiration for him as he had for her. It was the reason she had left Gillian in his care, and that she had died at peace, secure in the knowledge that her only daughter would be well taken care of.

The guardianship hadn’t been bad to begin with, Oliver admitted. Gillian had been an amusing little minx and, for the first few years, had behaved in a manner suitable to her age and in way that gave him little cause for concern. But over the last four years she had developed into a very determined young woman indeed. So much so that when she thought she was right, there was little hope of convincing her otherwise. At times, even his mild-mannered sister had been tempted to throw up her hands in despair.

At the moment, however, Gillian was happily engaged in the garden below, gathering a colourful selection of roses and placing them in a large straw basket. The fact that the basket was being held by a handsome officer who seemed only too happy to perform such a menial task accounted for a large part of her happiness, Oliver reflected moodily, and for considerably less of his.

‘Challenging may be the more agreeable word, Sophie, but I think troublesome is the more appropriate one,’ he muttered. ‘At least when she was ten I had no need to worry about who she might be running off to Dover with.’ Oliver’s brow furrowed as he studied the disturbing scene below. ‘I do not like Sidney Charles Wymington. I have no doubt he has a flattering tongue and that his looks are as elegant as anyone might wish, but his glib manner disturbs me very much. He is forever offering opinions on matters that do not concern him, and he is seldom caught without an answer. And I, for one, do not trust a man who is never at a loss for words.’

A twinkle appeared in the depths of Sophie’s bright green eyes. ‘You are seldom at a loss for words yourself, Oliver, and I have never held that against you.’

‘Thank you, my dear, but I do not use my eloquence to curry favour as does Mr Wymington.’ Oliver’s mouth curved in a rueful smile. ‘Nor, I think, do I do it half as well. He seems to live very comfortably for a half-pay officer, don’t you think?’

Sophie lifted her elegantly clad shoulders in a shrug. ‘I have heard that he does, though I have never stopped to consider the reasons why. However, if it makes you feel any better, Gillian has informed me that he is hopeful of a posting in the near future.’

‘Really.’ Oliver’s dark eyes narrowed as he turned to look out the window again. ‘If that is the case, it cannot come soon enough.’

It was not the first time Oliver had expressed negativity towards one of Gillian’s suitors, nor the first time he had scoffed at her claims of the gentleman’s being the most romantic in all England. Because Oliver himself was not a romantic. He and Sophie had been raised in a home where love and affection had had no place. His parents had tolerated one another, but there had been little more to their marriage than that. Perhaps that was why his father had not grieved overly much when his first wife had died only four years after Sophie had been born.

His father’s second marriage, to Catherine Gresham, had started out better than his first, but it had not ended well. Catherine had died most unexpectedly of complications arising from an illness, and after that, Oliver’s father had withdrawn even further into himself. So much so, that when he lost his life in a boating accident, many people wondered whether or not it had been a deliberate act of suicide.

Thank goodness his sister’s marriage had turned out as well as it had, Oliver reflected now. Rhys Llewellyn had fallen in love with Sophie the first time he’d met her, and hadn’t been in the least intimidated by her unusual height. Indeed, he had professed himself delighted to meet a lady who could look at him without risk of serious injury to her neck. More importantly, he had called her beautiful at a time when Sophie had been least willing to believe it, and in the end, his repeated assurances had won her heart and her hand.

Oliver had never experienced that kind of gentle, all-encompassing love. Nor had he known the kind of soul-searing passion that could turn one’s heart and one’s life inside out. He knew what it was to experience physical desire, but he had sated those urges with Nicolette, a pretty little ballet dancer who’d become his mistress the year he turned four-and-twenty. He still frequented her bed whenever he felt the need to lose himself in the softness of a woman’s arms, but other than that, there had been precious little female intrusion into his life. Which was probably why his view of marriage as a whole was somewhat tainted.

Oliver harboured no delusions that people wed solely for love. He knew that women looked to marriage for social advancement and security, while men—especially those in restricted financial circumstances—hoped to avail themselves of money and a convenient lifestyle.

Sidney Charles Wymington was just such a man. Oliver was sure of it. Which explained why he had been less than pleased when Gillian had started coming to him with praises spilling from her lips about the man. Why should he celebrate the fact that his ward was keeping company with a fellow who had little to recommend him other than his handsome face and his practised charm?

After all, Gillian was an heiress. Her mother had left her an inheritance of some twenty-five thousand pounds, with the instructions that the money be released to her on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday or upon the day she married; the latter proviso having been made in order to prevent Oliver from having to use his own funds to provide the necessary dowry. Catherine had been convinced of Oliver’s suitability as a guardian for Gillian, and equally confident that he would never allow her to enter into an unacceptable alliance. As a result, she had put no further restrictions on the inheritance than that.

Therein lay the problem. Oliver had no idea whether Gillian had told Mr Wymington about the conditions of her inheritance, but he did know she hadn’t troubled herself to conceal the depth of her feelings for him. And if it came right down to it, Oliver knew that Wymington wouldn’t hesitate to use those feelings to his own advantage.

‘Then what would you suggest I do, Sophie?’ Oliver said at length, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. ‘Gillian is headstrong, as you say, but I cannot believe she would knowingly disgrace herself—or us—by doing something imprudent.’

‘You are her legal guardian, Oliver. You could forbid her to see him.’

‘What, and run the risk of alienating her even further?’ Oliver shook his head. ‘I would far rather cast Mr Wymington in the role of the villain than myself. Unfortunately, I have checked into his military records and found nothing to condemn him, other than a slight propensity towards gambling.’

‘Unless it is a propensity which causes him to lose vast sums of money in a single night, I doubt it will be enough to sway Gillian’s opinion of him. Especially if she believes herself in love with him—’

‘In love!’

‘Well, you cannot ignore the possibility, my dear.’ Sophie’s expression softened. ‘You see how she behaves with him. Most young ladies would have the good sense to conceal their affections, but Gillian seems to want everyone to know how she feels about the man. Which is why I think it would be a good idea if you were to separate them for a while.’

‘And how do you suggest I do that? Even if I were to tell Wymington to keep away from Gillian, I do not trust him to listen to me.’

Sophie sighed her agreement. ‘I doubt he would. If Mr Wymington knows that Gillian is an heiress and his intentions are what you say, he will be more than willing to bide his time. He will have to if you do not intend to give your approval to the match.’

‘Unless he decides to elope with her, as you suggested earlier. Which given the terms of Catherine’s will any man might be tempted to do. ‘

Sophie had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, perhaps I was being a touch melodramatic in saying that she would elope. For all Gillie’s headstrong ways, I do not believe she would knowingly disgrace us. But I still think it would be wise to send her away for a while. With any luck, her absence will force Mr Wymington to look elsewhere for a wealthy bride, and give Gillian time to come to her senses.’

‘That’s all very well, my dear, but where do you suggest I send her? She has no family who would welcome her. At least, none whom I would trust not to try to take advantage of her fortune themselves.’

‘You could send her away to school,’ Sophie said slowly. ‘Do you remember me telling you about the Guarding Academy for Girls?’

Oliver began to pace. ‘No. Should I?’

‘I suppose not. A friend of mine, Lady Brookwell, mentioned it to me in passing a few weeks back. She said that her eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was there and that she was very pleased with her progress. The headmistress is a woman by the name of Eleanor Guarding and from what Lady Brookwell tells me, she is quite a unique person. Not at all the sort one usually finds running schools of this nature.’

Oliver stopped pacing. ‘And where is this Guarding’s Academy for Girls?’

‘In Northamptonshire. I believe Steep Abbot is the name of the village.’

‘Steep Abbot?’ He frowned. ‘Why would that name be familiar to me?’

‘Possibly because it is where the Marquis of Sywell was murdered three months ago.’

‘Good God! And you would have me send Gillian there?’

Sophie chuckled as she let the curtain fall back across the window. ‘I hardly think Gillie is in danger of suffering a similar fate, my dear. From all I’ve heard, Sywell was not undeserving of his reward. But the reason I mention it is because the teachers at the Academy are purported to be more liberal-minded than most. They strive to impress upon their girls the importance of thinking for themselves.’

Oliver sent her a sharp glance. ‘Gillian does quite enough thinking for herself as it is, Sophie. That is one of the problems I am trying to overcome.’

‘You miss my point, dearest.’ Sophie walked back towards the green velvet settee and sat down. ‘The staff at Guarding’s attempt to expand the intellectual minds of their pupils by providing tutelage in subjects not normally offered to young ladies. How many schools do you know of, for example, where girls are given extensive instruction in advanced mathematics and archaeology, as well as in Latin, Greek and philosophy? And from what I understand, Mrs Guarding is herself something of an emancipationist and historian.’

‘A female emancipationist?’ Oliver frowned. ‘The last thing I need is someone else filling Gillian’s head with nonsense. I suspect Mr Wymington does quite enough of that as it is.’

‘All right. Then what would you say if I told you that the teachers at the Guarding Academy would be far more likely to impress upon Gillian the importance of knowing what she stands to gain and to lose in a marriage to a man who is not her social or financial equal, than would a teacher in a fancy London seminary?’

Oliver thought about that for a moment. Sophie was an intelligent woman and he respected her opinion, but sending Gillian away to a girls’ school was not going to be easy. He knew that in his ward’s mind she had long ago finished with that kind of schooling. ‘What could I say that would persuade her to go?’

‘That, I’m afraid, is something you are going to have to work out for yourself, Oliver. I merely put forward the suggestion as a solution to the problem of how to separate Gillian from Mr Wymington for a while.’ Sophie smiled as she rose to kiss her brother affectionately on the cheek. ‘After all, a year spent at a boarding school might be time enough for her to see the gentleman in a different light. And if Mr Wymington is the adventurer you think, it may be all the time we need.’

Oliver gave his sister’s words considerable thought over the next few days, and the more he thought about it, the more he came to see that the plan had merit. Gillian had always resented the fact that young ladies were not offered the same quality of education as young gentlemen, and by the sound of things, spending the better part of a year at Mrs Guarding’s Academy would give her precisely that opportunity.

In the end, however, it did not come down to a matter of choice as to whether or not he sent her away to school, but rather, how quickly could he get her there. Gillian’s conversations were becoming far too full of Mr Wymington for Oliver’s liking. It seemed that every utterance was prefaced by ‘Mr Wymington said this,’ or ‘Mr Wymington thinks that,’ until by the end of the week Oliver was sick to death of hearing about Mr Wymington. But even in his frustration, he saw the way Gillian’s face closed down whenever he expressed negativity towards the man, and knew that he was fighting a losing battle.

It was that stubbornness which convinced him that Sophie was right. Gillian was impulsive, and she was used to getting her own way. She was also at the age where, like most young women, her thoughts were turning more frequently towards marriage. Oliver could not be sure that if he pushed her too hard, she wouldn’t do precisely what Sophie had suggested and elope.

For that reason, little more than a week after his conversation with her, he contacted the headmistress at the Guarding Academy for Girls in Steep Abbot, and then, a few days later, told Gillian of his plans.

Needless to say, she was not pleased.

‘You intend to send me where?’ she echoed in disbelief.

‘It is called Mrs Guarding’s Academy for Girls,’ Oliver informed her calmly. ‘I thought that since you did not have occasion to finish your lessons with Monsieur Deauvall and Miss Berkmore, you might welcome the opportunity to do so now.’

‘But I have no wish to go to school!’ Gillian cried petulantly. ‘I am nearly eighteen years of age, Oliver! I have far more important things on my mind than silly lessons. Mr Wymington says—’

‘I don’t give a…that is to say,’ Oliver said, catching himself just in time, ‘I don’t think anything Mr Wymington has to say on the matter is relevant, Gillian. I am your legal guardian and I will be the one to decide how and where you complete your education. And after due consideration, I have determined that the Guarding Academy is the place for you to do that.’

Gillian stamped her dainty little foot and set her blonde curls dancing. ‘But I don’t want to go to any stuffy girls’ school!’

‘From all I’ve heard, the school is anything but stuffy. The headmistress is a female emancipationist and the teachers are all somewhat radical in their thinking. A young lady with your intelligence and personality should get on very well there.’

‘But I do not wish—’

‘Gillian, the discussion is at an end. We leave for Steep Abbot in a week’s time. I have already sent a letter to Mrs Guarding advising her of your enrolment, and have received a letter back confirming your place. I would advise you to make whatever arrangements you feel are necessary and then tell me when you are ready to depart.’

Gillian’s face darkened. ‘What about Mr Wymington?’

‘What about him?’

‘Oh, how can you be so heartless, Oliver! You must know that I care for him. And it cannot have escaped your notice that he holds me in considerable esteem.’

‘It hasn’t escaped my notice at all, but neither has the fact that you are only seventeen.’

‘I shall be eighteen in January, but what has that to do with it? Jane Twickingham was betrothed to Lord Hough when she was only sixteen, and you have told me yourself she was a silly little chit. What has my age to do with Mr Wymington’s courting me?’

Oliver’s eyes turned the colour of stone. ‘Since when did Mr Wymington’s visits take on the aspect of a courtship? He has not sought my permission to address you.’

As if realising she had said more than she should, Gillian’s pretty cheeks flushed. ‘Well, no, of course not, because we are only acquaintances. But that is not to say that I…that is, that he—’

‘Gillian, what do you really know of Mr Wymington?’ Oliver asked, deciding to try a different approach. ‘That he is charming, I have no doubt. That he knows how to turn a young girl’s head, I have seen with my own eyes. But what do you know of the man’s character or background? Has he spoken to you of his family? Do you know where he comes from or who his people are?’

‘Of course I do.’ Gillian lifted her chin in defiance. ‘We have spoken of all those things. Mr Wymington has nothing to hide from me.’

‘Then what has he told you of himself?’

‘That his parents are dead, and that he has a sister living in Cornwall to whom he is not close. He also told me he has hopes of achieving a higher rank in the militia.’

‘I see. And what is he now—a lieutenant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has he the funds to purchase his next commission?’

‘I do not believe he has,’ Gillian admitted reluctantly, ‘but he did tell me he was like to come into a considerable amount of money.’

Oliver was immediately on his guard. ‘Did he say how?’

‘Well, no, not precisely.’

‘Did he say when he might expect this good fortune?’

Gillian coloured. ‘No, nor did I ask. Why should I when one day I shall have money enough for us both?’

That was precisely what Oliver had been afraid of hearing. ‘And I suppose you told him that?’

‘Yes.’ Gillian’s golden brows drew together in a frown. ‘Why would I not?’

Oliver suppressed a sigh. There was no point in answering the question. His naïve young ward might not realise how tempting was the carrot she dangled in front of Mr Wymington’s nose, but he certainly did. ‘I’m sorry, Gillian, my mind is made up. We leave for Steep Abbot in a week’s time. Say goodbye to whichever friends you wish to and then begin your preparations to leave.’

‘But—’

‘And you are not to see Mr Wymington again.’

‘But that is not fair, Oliver! Why can I not say goodbye to him? He is a friend, and you told me I may say goodbye to whomever I wished.’

‘You know very well I was not referring to gentlemen when I said that. You may write Mr Wymington a farewell note, but that is all. And I wish to read it before you send it away.’

Oliver could see that Gillian was angry. There was a defiant sparkle in her bright blue eyes and her chin was thrust out in the gesture he had come to know so well.

‘I think you are being beastly about this, Oliver,’ she flung at him. ‘You are sending me away to some dreadful school because you do not like Mr Wymington and because you do not wish me to see him.’

‘I am sending you to Steep Abbot so that you may complete your education,’ Oliver replied with equanimity. ‘I do not share in the opinion that all a young lady need know how to do is arrange flowers and engage in polite conversation. You are far too bright for that, as you yourself have told me on more than one occasion.’

‘I do not have to listen to you!’

‘Ah, but you do. At least until the occasion of your twenty-first birthday. I promised your mother that I would look after you until that time, and I intend to keep my word. Now, I would ask you to respect my wishes and abide by my instructions. We leave in six days.’

‘Six!’ Gillian’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘You said we were leaving in seven!’

‘I was, but your decision to argue has persuaded me to move it up a day.’

‘But you cannot—’

‘And for every objection you make, we shall leave one day sooner. The choice is yours, Gillian.’

With that Oliver turned and walked towards the door. He could feel his ward’s eyes boring into his back, but he did not give way. He had learned that the only way to deal with Gillian was to be firm, regardless of what Sophie or anyone else thought. He was doing what was best for the girl and with any luck, she would eventually come to realise that.

In the interim, it did not lessen his awareness that had looks been sufficient to kill, he would have been lying on the floor suffering his final moments even now!

Chapter Two

September 1812

Helen de Coverdale sat in the small, walled garden behind the main body of the school building and breathed a sigh of pure pleasure.

What a glorious morning it had turned out to be! With the sun so warm and the air so mild, it was hard to believe that the first of September had already come and gone. In fact, if she closed her eyes and tried very hard, she could almost convince herself that it was the fragrance of spring flowers perfuming the air rather than the dusky scent of autumn signalling the end of yet another summer.

How quickly time passed, Helen thought wistfully as she gazed out towards the gardens. Indeed, with the arrival of each new year, the days seemed to tumble over one another with ever-increasing speed. When she was a child, the summers had stretched on endlessly. She remembered long, golden afternoons spent in the Italian countryside, when there had been nothing more pressing to do than paint pictures of olive groves and fields of brightly coloured flowers. She remembered sitting with her grandmother in the little stone house, listening to her tell the same wonderful stories she had told Helen’s own mother when she had been a child growing up there. How blissful those days seemed now, and how very long ago. Before the long years of war had begun to change everything.

Thank goodness her memories of the past hadn’t changed, Helen reflected silently. They would always be there for her, reminding her of a time when her future had loomed bright and hopeful. Before the heartbreak of love and the harsh realities of life had intruded to shatter her expectations and chase away her dreams.

Helen picked up the letter she had placed on the seat beside her and smiled as she read it over one more time. It was from her dear friend Desirée Nash. Desirée lived in London now, but before that she too had been a teacher at the Guarding Academy. She had taught Latin, Greek and philosophy for over six years, until a most unfortunate incident had forced her to leave.

Helen’s smile faded as she thought back to that dreadful time. In the spring of last year, Desirée had been caught in a compromising position with the father of one of the students. The fact that she had been completely innocent of any wrongdoing meant nothing. The episode had been witnessed by Mrs Guarding and two of the girls, and it had effectively put an end to Desirée’s future at the school. It had also been a particularly difficult time for Helen. She and Desirée had become close in the brief time they’d known each other, and Helen had shed many a tear as a result of her friend being so cruelly sent away. But she knew there was nothing she could have done. There was nothing anyone could have done. It was simply the way young single women were misused by society.

But now, Desirée was having the last laugh on them all. She had gone up to London and become the companion of an aristocratic lady, and had then fallen in love with the lady’s dashing young nephew. Now, she was betrothed to marry him. Her letter was to inform Helen of the date of the wedding, and to say how very much she hoped her dear friend would be able to come up to London for it.

Helen sighed as she carefully refolded the letter. How wonderful it would be to go to London and see Desirée married. How satisfying to see her take her place in society as Lady Buckworth. Indeed, after everything she had endured, it seemed only right and fitting that she should. Unfortunately, as much as Helen would have loved to go, she knew it was impossible. The school was operating short of the full complement of teachers as it was, and there were new girls arriving all the time. Mrs Guarding had informed them that three new girls would be coming in at the end of this week alone.

Which simply meant there was no way Helen could take the time necessary to attend Desirée’s wedding. She could not afford to risk losing her position here. While she knew that being a teacher was not a profession many people would envy, it was all she had, and in her own way she was happy with it. She valued the company and friendship of the other women who worked here; women who, like herself, had been forced to make their own way in the world. And it was certainly a vast improvement from the positions she had held in the past. Better to be a schoolmistress in a country school than a governess in a fine house where one lived in constant fear of being caught alone by the master.

‘Helen, Helen, come quickly. Mrs Guarding is looking for you!’

Helen looked up to see Jane Emerson hurrying across the grass towards her. Jane was a pretty little thing with big brown eyes and dark hair. She taught dance and deportment at Mrs Guarding’s and was well liked by both the staff and the girls. But her appearance in the garden now with the news that Mrs Guarding wanted to see her came as something of a surprise.

‘But why would she wish to see me?’ Helen asked, hastily slipping the letter into her pocket. ‘I have no classes until this afternoon.’

‘Yes, but Miss Gresham and her father are here.’

Helen blinked. ‘Miss Gresham?’

‘One of the new girls.’ Jane stopped for a moment to catch her breath. ‘Mrs Guarding is gathering…everyone in the hall to meet them.’

‘But I thought none of the new girls were due to arrive until the end of the week?’

‘That was what Mrs Guarding told us, but Miss Gresham is here now and we must all take our places. Come, Helen, we had best make haste,’ Jane urged. ‘You know how Mrs Guarding hates to be kept waiting!’

‘I apologise for our early arrival, Mrs Guarding,’ Oliver told the headmistress in the privacy of her sitting-room, ‘but I thought it best that Gillian begin her studies here as soon as possible.’

Mrs Guarding inclined her head. ‘No apology is necessary, Mr Brandon. I have asked my staff to assemble downstairs and it will be only a few moments before they are there. But in the interim, is there anything you would like to tell me about your ward?’

Oliver glanced at the older woman in surprise. ‘Why would you ask?’

‘Because given Gillian’s age, I thought there might have been another reason for your haste in bringing her here.’

‘I’m not sure I take your meaning.’

The headmistress looked at him in the same manner she might have regarded a tardy pupil. ‘Mr Brandon, I am very proud of the reputation I have built here at Guarding’s, but I am well aware that education is not the only reason parents send their daughters away. Especially to a school like this.’

‘Like this?’

‘Yes. One where the main focus is not to prepare young women for marriage.’

As a man accustomed to plain speaking, Oliver appreciated the headmistress’s forthright style. He was also glad he had left Gillian in the corridor beyond. ‘You are quite right, Mrs Guarding. I did have another reason for bringing my stepsister here, and under the circumstances, I see no reason why you should not be made aware of it.’ He paused, took a deep breath, and then laced his hands together behind his back. ‘Gillian has developed an unfortunate tendre for a gentleman of whom I do not approve. I had hoped that by separating them for a while, she might eventually find her affections cooling, and that the gentleman might find another target for his.’

A gleam of understanding appeared in the headmistress’s eyes. ‘Am I to assume that your ward’s inheritance has something to do with the gentleman’s interest?’

‘I believe it has. Because of her wealth, Gillian will be pursued by a great many gentlemen. Some will love her for who she is while others will court her for what she has. I am hoping that when the time comes for her to make a choice, she will have the maturity and good sense to recognise the difference. At the moment, she hasn’t,’ Oliver said flatly. ‘She has been swept away by the romantic ramblings of a handsome officer and believes herself in love with him. That is why I have brought her here.’

‘I see.’

‘It is also why I would like to make a request of you.’

‘And that is?’

‘The gentleman’s name is Sidney Charles Wymington. He’s a dashing fellow to be sure, but I want it made clear that Gillian is to have absolutely nothing to do with him.’

Mrs Guarding’s eyebrows rose in inquiry. ‘Have you reason to believe he would attempt to contact her here?’

‘Regrettably, I have no reason not to believe it,’ Oliver replied without hesitation. ‘Mr Wymington has become rather persistent of late in his attentions. That is why Gillian is not to be allowed contact with any gentlemen who might call for her. She is also not to receive correspondence from anyone other than family members and female friends.’

Mrs Guarding nodded. ‘I will ensure that my staff are made aware of your wishes, Mr Brandon.’

Oliver hesitated, not sure whether he detected a note of censure in the woman’s voice, and even less sure why he should be disturbed by it. ‘It is not my intention to sound like an overbearing parent, Mrs Guarding. Gillian is an amiable child but at times she can be…impulsive.’ He gave the headmistress a rueful smile. ‘She has done an excellent job of winding her tutors and her family around her little finger, and I regret to say she has become accustomed to getting her own way. I simply wish to prevent her from making a terrible mistake.’

The reluctant explanation brought a smile to Mrs Guarding’s face. ‘I understand your dilemma, Mr Brandon. It is an unfortunate truth that all too often young women are guided by their feelings rather than by their good sense, and I would not wish to see your ward come to grief. However, having said that, I must remind you that Miss Gresham is not a prisoner here. I cannot restrict all of her activities nor force her to remain on school property. If she is not to leave the grounds or to venture into the village unescorted, you must be the one to tell her that. I shall then endeavour to enforce your instructions as best I can.’

‘That is only fair,’ Oliver conceded. ‘Gillian is well aware of my feelings regarding Mr Wymington, but as I’ve said, she’s a strong-willed girl used to getting her own way. I am hoping that you and your staff will be able to strengthen and refine certain aspects of her character. I have been assured that moral development and intellectual growth are encouraged here.’ Oliver took a deep breath. ‘I wish her to understand that a young lady in possession of a considerable fortune cannot always be ruled by her heart, since the gentlemen who are courting her seldom are.’

Helen accompanied Jane to the dining-hall and smiled at the other teachers who were gathered there. They were a quiet group of women, made that way by their upbringing as much as by their choice of livelihood. They had all been forced to seek employment as a result of neither having had the good fortune to secure a husband, nor being in the enviable position of not needing one.

Helen had come to the Guarding Academy with a slight advantage over the others in that she had once been a pupil here. But she had never had cause to regret her decision. Even now, as she approached the beginning of her third year, she still enjoyed the opportunity of working with the young women in her care. That was not to say that all the young ladies liked being shown the best way to apply watercolours to a page, or how to conjugate Italian verbs. Indeed, with travel on the Continent so restricted, many of them felt there was little need for any language other than French in their daily lives, and some even balked at the learning of that.

For all of the attendant aggravations, however, Helen was not unhappy. There was a sense of belonging here; a feeling that they were all part of a small community, and that was important to Helen. She had spent too many lonely years forced to live without it.

The sound of approaching footsteps caused the low murmur of voices to cease, and in silent expectation the ladies turned towards the door where three people had just entered. Mrs Guarding led the way, followed by a very pretty young woman of about sixteen, and behind her, a gentleman who looked to be somewhere in his late thirties.

The young lady was dressed in the first style of fashion, from the brim of her attractive straw bonnet to the tips of her dark brown kid boots. She wore a short pelisse of deep lilac trimmed with white, and her light blonde hair was attractively arranged in loose curls around her face. She had high, round cheeks, a pert little nose, and a soft, rosebud mouth. But Helen could tell from the petulant expression on that mouth that the young lady was anything but pleased at the prospect of becoming a pupil at Mrs Guarding’s Academy.

The gentleman behind her was equally well dressed. He was garbed in a dark blue jacket over fawn-coloured breeches, and was wearing a pair of highly polished Hessians. The perfectly tailored garments accentuated the width of his shoulders and the musculature of his legs, but there was nothing foppish about him. The fabric of his single-breasted waistcoat was tastefully subdued, while his snowy white cravat was well but not fussily tied.

Unfortunately, it was not the manner of his dress that gave Helen cause for alarm. As she slowly raised her eyes to his face, icy fingers tightened around her heart, and for a moment, she could scarcely breathe.

No! It could not be! Not now, after all this time, surely it was not him…

‘Ladies, thank you for gathering so promptly,’ Mrs Guarding began in her usual brisk manner. ‘I am very pleased to introduce our newest student, Miss Gillian Gresham. Miss Gresham comes to us from Hertfordshire and will remain with us until the spring. I know you will all make her feel welcome at the Guarding Academy.’

The young lady introduced as Miss Gresham glanced briefly at the cluster of women in the room, but she did not smile, nor did she respond to a whispered comment made by the gentleman beside her. She kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to look up or even to acknowledge him.

Helen bit her lip. She wished with all her heart that she could smile, but her face was frozen from top to bottom. Dear heavens, was the gentleman truly the young woman’s father? She would not have thought him old enough…

‘I would also like to introduce Mr Oliver Brandon, Miss Gresham’s guardian,’ Mrs Guarding went on to say. ‘Mr Brandon has been good enough to donate an excellent selection of books from his own library for our use, and we are exceedingly grateful to him for his kindness. And now, Miss Gresham, Mr Brandon, if you would be so good as to follow me, I shall introduce you to the members of my staff.’

Helen nervously clasped her hands in front of her as the three began their perambulation. She kept her eyes down, wishing with all her heart that she could turn and run from the room, but she knew she dare not. Mrs Guarding would never forgive such a breach of etiquette from a member of her staff. Worse, it would only serve to draw attention to herself, and that was the last thing Helen wished to do. Which meant that she would just have to stay and see it through.

Perhaps he would not recognise her, she thought with sudden hope. After all, it had been nearly twelve years since he had last seen her and her appearance had certainly changed from the time she was a young woman of nineteen. There was also the possibility that he might not remember her, given that the room in which he’d found her had been very dark. And considering the awkwardness of the situation, he could have had only the briefest glimpse of her before—

‘And this is Miss Helen de Coverdale,’ she heard Mrs Guarding say. ‘Miss de Coverdale has been with us for two years and instructs the girls in the areas of watercolours and Italian.’

Helen was aware of Miss Gresham and her guardian stopping in front of her and knew there was nothing she could do but acknowledge the introduction. She slowly raised her head and smiled tentatively at the young woman. ‘Good morning, Miss Gresham.’

‘Good morning,’ came the lack-lustre reply.

Finally, with a reluctance borne of fear, Helen turned her head and looked at Oliver Brandon, trying all the while to ignore the butterflies swirling madly inside her stomach.

He, too, had changed over the past twelve years. His face, a striking mixture of lines and angles, was no longer that of a youth but of a man; one who had experienced life, both the good and the bad of it. He had a slender nose poised above a firm chin, a beautifully sculpted mouth and eyes that glowed a rich shade of brown. His hair was so dark as to appear almost black, as were his brows and lashes.

And he was tall. Helen had to tilt her head back to look into his face. Unfortunately, as she did, she saw the change in his expression, and felt her breath catch painfully in her throat. She recognised a brief flicker of surprise, followed by confusion, and then disbelief as forgotten memories stirred to life like the cold ashes of a long dead fire.

Helen’s heart plummeted. It seemed that her hopes of escaping recognition were to be dashed. The man knew exactly who she was. And it was clear from the look on his face that time notwithstanding, he thought no better of her now than he had all those years ago.

Oliver stared at the young woman standing before him and felt as though he’d gone tumbling backwards in time.

Good God, was it really her? After all these years, could it possibly be the same woman?

He blinked hard, wondering if it was just his memory playing tricks on him. It had, after all, been years since he’d last seen her, and what he had seen of her at the time hadn’t been all that much. But if it wasn’t the same woman, it could surely have been her twin. The resemblance was uncanny. She had the same dark, lustrous hair and the same exotic beauty of the woman he had encountered so briefly all those years ago. But if it was the same woman, what the hell was she doing here?

How had a nobleman’s whore become a teacher at a private girls’ school?

‘Mrs Guarding, might I have a word with you in your study?’ Oliver said finally.

The headmistress glanced briefly at Miss de Coverdale, and then nodded. ‘By all means, Mr Brandon. Miss Emerson, would you be so kind as to show Miss Gresham to her room?’

‘Yes, Mrs Guarding.’

‘Thank you, ladies. You may all return to your classes.’

As silent as little grey mice, the teachers filed out. Oliver saw a few cast surreptitious glances his way, but he noticed that none of them met his eye. And Helen de Coverdale did not look at him at all. She turned and walked away, not scurrying as the others had, but seeming to float across the floor, her movements slow and graceful, indicative of a poise and refinement he would not have expected in one of her class. At the door, she hesitated.

Oliver held his breath. Would she turn and look at him? If she did, it would be tantamount to an admission of familiarity. He waited as the seconds seemed to drag into hours.

In the end, she did not turn. Helen de Coverdale left the room and quietly closed the door behind her. She did not look back at him once.

Oliver slowly let go the breath he’d been holding. It had to be her. He’d seen the tell-tale flash of recognition in her eyes. She’d known who he was as surely as he’d known who she was. Which meant that his suspicions had to be right.

Helen de Coverdale was the young woman he’d stumbled upon in a darkened library, clutched in the passionate embrace of the married lord who had employed her.

Helen sat on the stone bench in the rose garden and thought back to the one and only time she had seen Oliver Brandon. It seemed a lifetime ago now, and in many ways, it was. She had been employed as a governess to Lord and Lady Talbot at the time. A dreadful position, and one which, had she had a choice, she would have turned and run away from as far and as fast as her legs would have carried her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had a choice. She had taken the job because she’d needed money to live on after her father had died. But she had seen the look in Lord Talbot’s eyes the first time he had spoken to her, and had known what it would portend. Men had been looking at her like that since she was a child of thirteen, their hungry eyes lingering on her face and on her already ripening body.

Helen hadn’t always had to worry about her appearance, of course. Before her father had died, her life had been very different. Robert de Coverdale had been a barrister, and as his only daughter, Helen had been a most eligible young lady. Indeed, her father had held out great hopes of her achieving a respectable marriage, perhaps even to a titled gentleman of some fortune.

What he had not expected was to see his only daughter fall in love with an impoverished clergyman who had come to the village during the summer of her seventeenth year.

Helen shuddered as she cast her mind back to her youth. Her father had refused to countenance an alliance between his daughter and Thomas Grant, the young vicar who’d claimed to love her. He’d said it was so far beneath her as to be laughable, and he had forbidden Helen to see him. And dutiful daughter that she was, Helen had obeyed. But it had taken years to recover from the heartache of losing Thomas. He had been her first true love, and the loss of that love had nearly destroyed her.

Over the next two years, more unhappiness had plagued Helen’s life. Her mother had died in a freak riding accident, and her father, devastated by the loss of the woman he had loved more than life itself, had fallen into a series of personal and financial disasters. Unable to cope with a life in ruin, he had eventually taken his own life, and suddenly, Helen had discovered what it was to be dependent upon others. She’d had no relations in England. Her mother’s family was still in Italy, and her father’s only brother had been killed in the Americas. She’d had no one to turn to and no reputable avenues left open to her. It was then she started trying to disguise her natural beauty. She’d had no wish to appear attractive to the men who passed her in the street, or desirable to the husbands of other women.

Unfortunately, not even the wearing of plain clothes or the scraping back of her hair into a matronly style had been enough to disguise the true loveliness of her features. Helen had not been able to make her heavily lashed eyes appear any the less noticeable, or her full-lipped mouth any the less appealing. She hadn’t been able to hide the fact that she wasn’t as slim and dainty as were so many of the English ladies she met. She had inherited her mother’s lush, exotic beauty, and it was that lushness which men found so attractive, Lord Talbot included. He had been hosting a shooting party at his country estate in Somerset that fateful weekend. The huge house had been filled with guests, many of whom had come all the way from Scotland to partake of the sport and to enjoy the lavish entertainments Lady Talbot had planned for the evenings.

Helen had not been invited to enjoy any of the amusements, of course. She had been included in the outing to Grovesend Hall simply to look after the children, but as a lowly governess she was not expected to participate in any of the festivities. So after tucking her two little girls into bed, she had gone down to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk and had then headed for the library. Lady Talbot had told Helen she could avail herself of his lordship’s libraries. She had discovered Helen’s passion for reading, and had assured her that as long as the master was not about, she was welcome to browse through his extensive selection of books.

Helen often wondered if Lady Talbot had known of her husband’s philandering ways and had simply turned a blind eye to it. Whatever the case, Helen had made a terrible mistake that night. Believing that Lord Talbot would be busy entertaining his guests, she had made her way to the library—which was located well away from the source of the revelry—and had begun to look for something to read.

That was where Lord Talbot had found her.

Helen shivered as she went over it again in her mind. She remembered turning around at the sound of the door opening and seeing the look on his face; a look that had caused her to immediately forget all about books. Like most of the gentlemen, Lord Talbot had been drinking since noon and was well on his way to being in his cups. Knowing that, she had pulled her shawl more closely around her, had quickly retrieved her candle and her drink, and had gone to move past him.

For a drunkard, Lord Talbot had moved with terrifying speed. The milk and the candle had gone flying as Talbot pulled her roughly into his arms and started kissing her.

Repulsed, Helen had struggled against him, fighting to avoid the wet, slobbering kisses he had pressed upon her neck and mouth. She’d sensed that her struggles were only adding to his excitement, however, and given that he had the advantage of both size and weight, Helen had been left in no doubt as to the outcome. He pushed her back towards the settee, his mouth smothering the scream that left her throat as his other hand closed painfully over her breast.

At that precise moment, the door to the library had opened and Oliver Brandon had walked in.

Helen hadn’t known who he was at the time. He had simply been a guest in her employer’s home. But during the long, agonising moments in which he’d stood frozen in the doorway, Helen had seen the look of shock on his face. And she had watched it change to one of disgust as he’d placed his own interpretation upon the scene before him. He’d muttered an apology and abruptly withdrawn, not even guessing at the true nature of the horror taking place.

Helen closed her eyes as the humiliating memories came flooding back. The only good thing about it was that Mr Brandon’s appearance—however brief—had given her the chance she’d needed to escape. Distracted by the sound of the intrusion, Lord Talbot had momentarily looked up, and in doing so, had loosened his grip. In that blessed moment, Helen had broken free and bolted for the door. She had raced towards the stairs as tears of anger and humiliation had streamed down her face and had run all the way to her room. Once inside, she’d turned the key in the lock, wedged a small writing-table against the door and pushed the bed against that. She hadn’t slept a wink all night.

The next morning, she’d left Grovesend Hall for ever. She had returned to London, where she had lived off her wits until she had been able to secure another position in the south of England. She had never seen Lord or Lady Talbot again. She hadn’t seen Oliver Brandon either. Until this morning, when he had brought his sixteen-year-old ward to be a student at Mrs Guarding’s Academy.

But it had been clear from the look on his face that he had not forgotten who she was. And he would surely be wondering how and why a woman of such loose morals had ended up becoming a teacher in a private girls’ school. Especially one where he was intending to leave his own stepsister as a pupil.

Chapter Three

Oliver was silent as he accompanied the headmistress back to her study. His mind was spinning, turning over in ever-increasing detail the memories of that fateful night so very long ago.

He had never forgotten what he had seen in the library at Grovesend Hall. He remembered with distaste the sight of Lord Talbot’s hand clutching the young woman’s breast, and the lustful expression on his face when he’d turned around and seen Oliver standing there. Even now, the memory of it repulsed him.

The problem was, Oliver hadn’t known William Talbot well at the time. Yes, they had frequented the same clubs, and they’d often run into one another at social occasions, but the difference in their ages had prevented them from forming any kind of a close friendship. But for whatever reason, Talbot had taken a liking to him and Oliver had been young enough to be flattered by his regard. So when the wealthy peer had invited him to come to his country house for a weekend shooting party, Oliver had accepted with alacrity.

He shook his head now, as he so often did when he thought back to the naïveté of his youth. He hadn’t known that Talbot was such a reprobate. But even if he had, Oliver would never have expected the man to flaunt his mistress in front of his guests during a crowded soirée. What would his wife have said if she’d been the one to discover them in the library?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, it hadn’t been Lord Talbot’s wife who had stumbled upon that sorry sight, but Oliver himself. He had opened the door to the library, wanting only to escape from the noise and revelry going on in the other rooms, and had come face to face with his host and a young woman locked in a passionate embrace. Obviously, the sound of his arrival had immediately served to catch the young woman’s attention, if not Talbot’s, and she had glanced up and stared at him across the darkened room.

For the space of moments, Oliver had been treated to the sight of one of the loveliest faces he had ever seen. A cascade of thick, black hair fell nearly to her waist, framing a face of such arresting beauty that he felt as though he was staring into the face of an angel. Her dark eyes had reached into his soul, tugging at the very core of who he was.

The memory of those eyes had stayed with him for years.

Then, belatedly aware that he had stumbled upon a lover’s tryst, Oliver had withdrawn. He’d closed the door and gone back to the ballroom, trying to lose himself in the crowd of revellers and merrymakers. But for some reason, the memory of what he’d seen had stayed with him, disturbing him to such a degree that even he himself hadn’t been able to explain it.

The next morning, he’d left Grovesend Hall and headed back to London. He hadn’t said a word to anyone about what he’d seen. Not even to Lord Talbot who, obviously too drunk to remember, had been surprised and disappointed by his young guest’s hasty departure. Nor had he seen the raven-haired beauty again.

Until this morning when he had arrived at Mrs Guarding’s Academy for Girls. Her name was Helen de Coverdale. And unless he did something about it, she was about to become one of the women who would have a direct influence on his impressionable young ward.

‘You wished to speak with me, Mr Brandon?’

‘Hmm?’ Oliver glanced across at the headmistress, and realised she had been waiting for him to begin. ‘Oh. Yes. I wanted to ask you about…one of your teachers.’

‘Miss de Coverdale.’

It wasn’t a question and Oliver frowned. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because she was the only one who elicited any kind of response from you. Forgive me for speaking plainly, Mr Brandon, but are you acquainted with Miss de Coverdale?’

‘No. At least, not formally,’ Oliver amended quickly. ‘I was not aware of her name until today. But I remember seeing her…many years ago under considerably different circumstances. I was wondering how she came to be in your employ.’

Mrs Guarding walked towards a fine black lacquer desk and sat down behind it. ‘Would it surprise you to learn that Miss de Coverdale was once a pupil here?’

‘Yes.’ Oliver picked up a particularly fine cloisonné vase from the table and turned it over in his hands. ‘Am I to assume she comes from a privileged background?’

‘Not privileged, but certainly genteel. Her father was a barrister. Her mother, I believe, was of foreign birth. Helen was with us for a few years and showed great promise with her drawing. And of course, she spoke Italian beautifully. After she left, I heard nothing more about her. Until three years ago when to my great surprise, I received a letter from her, asking if I would consider giving her employment as a teacher.’

‘Which you agreed to do.’

‘Most happily. I was delighted to have a teacher with her skills.’

Oliver nodded, pausing for a moment to deliberate upon how best to phrase his next question. ‘Does she have any…gentlemen friends?’

‘If she has, I am not aware of it. Miss de Coverdale seldom leaves the building.’

‘Not even to visit family?’

‘She has no family in England. Her parents are both dead and I have never heard her refer to anyone else in conversation.’

‘I see.’ Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Mrs Guarding, did Miss de Coverdale provide you with suitable references when she came to you?’

He saw a brief flash of annoyance darken the headmistress’s eyes. ‘Of course. Have you any reason to believe she would not?’

His shrug was purposely evasive. ‘I am merely curious as to the nature of Miss de Coverdale’s past employment.’

Mrs Guarding abruptly rose and crossed to the bell pull. ‘Miss de Coverdale’s work as governess to the children of Lord and Lady Peregrine was spoken of in glowing terms. The letter was written by Lady Peregrine herself, if that is of any consequence.’

Oliver smiled faintly. He had put the headmistress on the defensive, and her message to him was quite clear. She did not care to entertain intrusive questions about her staff, nor did she feel compelled to answer them. ‘I shall take up no more of your time, madam. I ask only that you provide me with periodic reports as to Gillian’s progress. I have reason to believe she will experience some difficulties in settling in, but I am sure everything will be fine once she comes to know the other girls.’

‘I am confident she will fit in very well, Mr Brandon. But I shall keep you apprised of her progress.’ The door opened and a black-garbed maid entered. ‘Molly will show you out.’

Oliver bowed. ‘Thank you.’

As Oliver followed the maid down the hall, he admitted to feeling a certain degree of frustration. He was no further ahead after his conversation with Mrs Guarding than he had been before it. It was clear the headmistress thought well of Miss de Coverdale, and it was equally clear there was nothing in her past that would have precluded her from being taken on as a teacher here.

But how could a woman who had been employed in a household where she might well have been the lord’s mistress, receive a glowing report from the lord’s wife? Had she been that good at concealing the nature of her relationships? Oliver wondered. Or had she simply been fortunate enough to end up in a household where the wife knew of her husband’s behaviour, and had been equally willing to turn a blind eye to it?

Helen set her easel close to the base of the linden tree and checked to make sure that the footing was secure. ‘Now, girls,’ she said, turning to smile at the eight young women who were gathered around her, ‘I thought today we might begin work on a new landscape. Miss Tillendon, did you not express the opinion that it would be challenging to paint the varying shades of blue in the sky?’

‘Yes, Miss de Coverdale.’

‘Then I think that is what we shall undertake. Now, to begin with, we should spend a little time studying the sky. We should look up and see how the colours in it change. Notice the way the blue is lighter there, and how the clouds come across it and make it appear—’

‘Miss de Coverdale, who is that gentleman?’ Rebecca Walters enquired suddenly.

Helen abruptly turned away from her study of the sky to glance in the direction Rebecca was pointing. To her astonishment, she saw Oliver Brandon striding down the path towards them, his face set in grim lines. He covered the distance between the school and the pasture in short measure, but then, as if uncertain of his welcome, stopped at the edge of the field and leaned against the fence.

Helen felt a quick surge of colour to her cheeks. What was Oliver Brandon doing out here? Surely he wasn’t expecting to have a conversation with her right in the middle of her lesson? But why else would he have come? He would hardly be interested in watching a group of young girls learn how to paint.

‘The gentleman’s name is Mr Brandon,’ Helen said, seeing no reason not to tell them. ‘He is the guardian of one of our new students, Miss Gresham.’

‘But why is he watching you?’ Lydia McPherson piped up.

‘He isn’t watching me, Miss McPherson. He is watching all of us attempt to paint the sky.’

‘I think he is looking at you, Miss,’ little Eliza Howard said shyly. ‘He is too old to care about the rest of us, or about our paintings.’

The girls started to giggle and Helen felt the blush in her cheeks spread to the rest of her face. ‘If he is looking at me, it is only because he wishes to see how I conduct my classes. His ward is to be a pupil here. No doubt he wishes to see what kind of teacher I am.’

‘I shouldn’t mind his watching me,’ Rebecca Walters said on a sigh. ‘He’s ever so handsome.’

Elizabeth Brookwell gave a disparaging snort. ‘You think all gentlemen are handsome.’

‘I do not!’

‘Yes you do!’

‘Ladies, please!’ Helen interrupted firmly. ‘It is not for us to wonder why Mr Brandon has chosen to stand by the fence and watch us. He is perfectly within his rights to do so, and I am sure it is nothing more than curiosity. Now, kindly return your attention to the sky. If you will recall, I was remarking on the number of shades of blue to be seen. Who can tell me how many different shades there are?’

The question served to focus the attention of most of the girls back on their work, and gave Helen a legitimate reason to ignore Oliver Brandon. But she could not so easily dismiss the awareness of his presence standing some thirty feet away. It was all very well to say he was only there to observe the activities of girls at their lessons. It was another thing entirely to believe it.

Oliver stood by the gate and watched Helen de Coverdale conduct an art class for the small cluster of girls gathered around her. They had each brought easels, paints and papers with them, and from what he could see, they were all diligently trying to replicate the ever-changing shades of blue in the afternoon sky. Even from this distance, however, it was obvious that most of them would never be called upon to make a living from their art. But what about the woman standing in the middle of the circle? What had happened to bring about such a change in her life?

There was no question in Oliver’s mind that Helen de Coverdale was wasting her time here. With those full pouting lips and that blatantly sensual figure, she could have been one of the most sought after courtesans in London. Wealthy, aristocratic gentlemen would have vied with one another to offer her their protection, while handsome young bucks would have been lined up outside her door.

And who could blame them? Oliver had never seen such a combination of innocence and sensuality in a woman before. Her skin was itself a palette upon which an artist might sketch. But unlike canvas, it invited touch. Even from this distance, he had an overwhelming urge to run his fingers over her face and see if it felt as warm and as soft as it looked. And her movements fascinated him. Helen de Coverdale walked amongst the girls with the same languid grace she had demonstrated in the dining-hall; her hips following her legs in a movement that was decidedly provocative, yet totally instinctual. Her attire, a simple, round gown of unadorned muslin, was not designed to flatter her figure, yet the voluptuous curves of her hips and the fullness of her breasts caused it to appear enticing in spite of it being so plain. Furthermore, in direct contrast to what was expected of a woman in her position, she did not hide her hair under a cap or restrain it in a matronly style. The glorious tresses rippled freely down her back, falling almost to her waist in a dark, shimmering stream.

Yes, she was certainly a woman to be desired, Oliver acknowledged. And given what he had seen of her conduct in the library at Grovesend Hall, she was not inexperienced in the arts of love. But if that was the case, what was she doing here? Sophie had assured him that the teachers at the Guarding Academy were all of the highest moral character. Yet what he had witnessed of Helen de Coverdale’s conduct in the past had been impropriety, plain and simple. How could a woman like that be hired to teach moral rectitude to the young women in her care?

Suddenly, Oliver straightened. The lady in question had broken away from her girls and was walking towards him.

Without thinking, he pushed himself away from the gate and removed his beaver. She might be a lightskirt, but she was a woman, and his manners were too deeply ingrained to allow him to treat her any differently. Besides, to demonstrate such shocking lack of manners in front of a group of young girls who were even now casting secretive glances in their direction would have been the height of rudeness.

Nevertheless, Oliver kept his voice polite but cool as he sketched her a brief bow. ‘Good afternoon, Miss de Coverdale. I hope my study has not disturbed you.’

‘It has not disturbed me, Mr Brandon, but I fear you are affecting the concentration of some of my girls,’ Helen said quietly. ‘They are easily distracted by the presence of strangers, especially those about whom they are curious.’

Oliver had expected her voice to be as seductive as everything else about her, but he was surprised to discover that her eyes were not brown as he had first thought, but a most unusual shade of dark green flecked with bits of amber and gold. ‘I apologise for any disruption I might be causing, Miss de Coverdale. I was simply curious to see if you were as good an artist as Mrs Guarding led me to believe.’

The beautiful eyes grew wary. ‘You discussed me with Mrs Guarding?’

‘Of course. As I discussed all of the teachers I met this morning. I thought it only wise since my ward is to be a pupil here.’

Oliver knew he didn’t owe her an explanation, but neither did he wish to make her feel as though he had singled her out. Why he should be concerned with her feelings, he had no idea. After all, it was not his conduct that had engendered his current opinion of her.

‘Does your ward like to paint?’ Helen surprised him by asking.

‘Paint? Yes, I suppose she does. Gillian is skilled in a number of areas, including those of a more creative nature.’

‘Good. Then I look forward to the opportunity of working with her.’

‘That is what I would like to speak to you about, Miss de Coverdale,’ Oliver said stiffly. ‘I think there are things which need to be clarified—’

Suddenly, a clattering behind them, followed by smothered gasps and then a burst of feminine giggles, brought an abrupt end to their conversation.

‘Miss de Coverdale, come quickly!’ one of the girls cried. ‘Rebecca’s easel has fallen over and she is all spattered with yellow and blue paint.’

Helen’s eyes widened as she turned to survey the spectacle. ‘Dear me! Miss Walters, did I not tell you to make sure your easel was securely placed?’ She turned back around and Oliver was surprised to see not anger, but laughter bubbling in the depths of her beautiful eyes. ‘Forgive me, Mr Brandon, I fear I must return to my class.’

‘But it is important that we speak—’

‘I am sure whatever you need say to me can wait, sir.’

With that, she turned and hurried back towards her class. The girls were all clustered around the unfortunate Rebecca, ineffectually dabbing their small white handkerchiefs at the spots of yellow and blue paint on her smock. Oliver listened as Helen put one of the older girls in charge, and then watched her escort the stricken Rebecca back to the school. Once again, she did not spare him a second glance.

Oliver bit back a sigh of vexation. He was not used to being summarily dismissed, and certainly not by a woman like Helen de Coverdale. But she had made her position clear. Obviously if he wished to have any kind of private conversation with her, it was either going to have to be before her classes, or after them.

Helen was somewhat surprised that she did not see Oliver Brandon again that day, but she was not in the least surprised to receive a summons to the headmistress’s sitting-room later that afternoon.

‘I hope you do not mind my asking you here, Helen,’ Mrs Guarding began, ‘but I think you know the reason why.’

Helen sighed. She had long since come to realise that Eleanor Guarding was not only an intelligent woman but an intuitive one. She had obviously seen the look on Oliver Brandon’s face this morning—as well as on her own—and the interview now was about achieving an understanding of what those looks had been about. For the good of the school, of course.

‘Not at all,’ Helen said, taking the indicated seat in front of the headmistress’s desk. ‘I am sure you noticed my reaction to Mr Brandon.’

The headmistress smiled. ‘I am used to young women blushing in the presence of a handsome gentleman, but I thought your response indicated something more than just a touch of simple embarrassment.’

Helen was dismayed to feel fresh colour rise to her cheeks. ‘It isn’t what you think.’

‘Oh? What is it you perceive I think it might be?’

‘I am not acquainted with Mr Brandon,’ Helen said carefully. ‘I merely saw him at the home of one of my employers, many years ago.’

‘Really. And yet it struck me there was some discomfort on your part. Why would that be, if you had done nothing more than see him?’

‘Because I saw him while I was being…’ Helen broke off, finding it difficult even now to say the words. ‘While I was being most…rudely treated by the man whose daughters I had been engaged to look after.’

‘I see.’ There was a moment’s silence during which all that could be heard was the ticking of the mantel clock. Then Mrs Guarding nodded. ‘It would be foolish of me to pretend an ignorance of what goes on in the world, Helen. You would not be the first woman to be unjustly put upon, and I sympathise with you for what you had to endure. I take it Mr Brandon did not realise what was happening at the time?’

‘No. I am quite sure he believed he was witnessing a mutually agreeable embrace. He said nothing, but he left the room very quickly.’

‘And you have not seen him since?’

‘No. I left Lord Talbot’s employ the very next day.’

Mrs Guarding laced her fingers together on the desk in front of her. ‘Well, I think we need say no more about it. I apologise if my question seemed intrusive, but for the good of the school, I had to ask.’

‘I understand.’

‘My other reason for inviting you here was to inform you of Mr Brandon’s concerns with regard to his ward.’

Helen frowned. ‘Concerns?’

‘Yes. It seems Miss Gresham has been keeping company with a gentleman by the name of Sidney Wymington. Mr Brandon is not happy with her choice of companion and has sent her here to place her beyond Mr Wymington’s reach.’

Helen glanced at the headmistress in confusion. ‘But if he has sent her here for that reason, why is he still concerned?’

‘Because he is of the opinion that Mr Wymington may try to get in touch with Miss Gresham here. As such, he has asked me to advise my staff that she is not to receive letters from the gentleman, nor to entertain him here. She is also not to leave the school grounds unescorted.’

At the headmistress’s words, Helen felt a mixture of anger and resentment kindle in her breast. Why did men always feel they had the right to meddle in other people’s lives? Especially those of their wives or daughters? Oliver Brandon was interfering in his ward’s life in exactly the same way her own father had meddled in hers; an interference which had cost Helen the love of the man she had dearly hoped to marry. Why was everyone so willing to accept such high-handed treatment?

‘Do you agree with what he is asking you to do?’ she asked stiffly.

Mrs Guarding picked up her teacup and raised it to her lips. ‘It is not for me to agree or disagree, Helen. Mr Brandon’s ward is my pupil; therefore, I have no choice but to act in accordance with his instructions. He has made me aware of certain facts and I must now do whatever I can to ensure that Miss Gresham and Mr Wymington do not meet.’

‘But what if he is wrong about the gentleman?’ Helen felt compelled to ask. ‘What if Mr Wymington is a perfectly amiable man who loves Miss Gresham and who has the best of intentions at heart?’

‘That possibility certainly exists, but it is not up to you or me to make it known to Mr Brandon. He has paid his ward’s tuition in full and has also made a most generous donation of books. I am in no position to challenge him about what he does and does not feel is right for his ward.’

‘But he is interfering in a young girl’s life!’

‘A young girl who is legally in his care,’ the headmistress reminded her. ‘As such, one who must be expected to abide by his decisions. I do hope I have your co-operation in this, Helen. I cannot have individual members of my staff acting of their own volition in matters such as these.’

Helen bit back the words she longed to speak and vented her frustration in a sigh. She knew there was only one answer she could give. Whatever her own feelings in the matter, they could have no place here. For the good of the school, she had to comply with Mrs Guarding’s wishes. But not for the first time in her life, the rules by which she was forced to live sat ill upon her conscience. ‘Yes, of course you have my co-operation.’

Mrs Guarding looked considerably relieved. ‘Thank you. I know you have strong feelings in the matter, my dear, but we really have no choice. If we do not do as Mr Brandon asks, he will simply remove his ward and demand a refund of the tuition he has already paid. And then we shall be in forfeit of both his good opinion and his funding.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Helen murmured reluctantly. ‘But it does not make me any the happier for knowing.’

‘We must do the best we can.’ Mrs Guarding smiled. ‘Thank you too for telling me the truth about the manner of your first introduction to Mr Brandon.’

‘Why would I not?’

‘Because it is not always easy to tell people about things we are ashamed of, especially if they happened in our distant past. And it takes even more courage to admit them to me.’

Somewhat reluctantly, Helen began to smile. ‘I had no idea what Mr Brandon might have told you. In the event he told you what he remembered seeing all those years ago, I thought it would be in both of our interests to tell you what really happened.’

‘And that is why we need say no more about it.’ Mrs Guarding raised the teacup to her lips again. ‘As far as I am concerned, the matter is closed.’

Chapter Four

Perhaps because of what Mrs Guarding told her about Gillian Gresham, Helen found herself taking a keener interest in the girl than usual.

That she was resentful at having been forced to come to Guarding’s was obvious. The girl attended classes but remained stubbornly uncommunicative throughout. Even when she was compelled to answer a question, she did so grudgingly and more often than not, with the very minimum of conversation required. Most of the teachers soon began to express frustration at dealing with the child, and as the end of Gillian’s first week approached, Helen was more inclined to believe that Oliver Brandon had done his half sister a disservice by forcing her to come to Guarding’s, rather than a good turn.

Of course, Helen knew better than most what it was like to have other people make decisions for one, especially in matters of the heart. She knew the hurt that resulted from being told that the man you loved was totally unsuitable—whether he was, in fact, or not—and she knew that because of the resentment Gillian was feeling towards Oliver, everyone else would be made to suffer too. For that reason alone, Helen knew she had to try to get closer to her. It wasn’t Gillian’s fault she was here. Like most women, she had very little say about what she could and could not do with her life.

‘Miss Gresham, you have a very nice grasp of colour and balance in your paintings,’ Helen complimented her one afternoon. ‘Your use of different shadings in the greenery of the new and old leaves is very good.’

Gillian shrugged. ‘I like to paint. And I paint what I see.’

‘So do all the other young ladies, but they do not have as good an eye as you when it comes to colour.’

Gillian looked up at her, and for a moment her face brightened in a smile. It was a fleeting gesture, there and then gone, but it was enough to make Helen marvel at the change it wrought in the girl’s appearance. Goodness, it was like the sun coming out after a summer storm. It also made her more determined than ever to break through the barrier of silence and to find out what was really going on in Gillian’s mind.

Happily, the opportunity arose a few days later. Helen had taken a book out to a secluded area of the garden to read. It was one of her favourite places and she often retired there to sit and write letters, or to indulge her love of reading. It was there Gillian came upon her. ‘Good afternoon, Miss de Coverdale,’ she said politely.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Gresham.’

‘I hope I am not disturbing you, but Mrs Guarding told me I should come outside and take some fresh air.’ Gillian flounced down on the seat next to her. ‘She said I was looking peaky. Do you think I am?

Helen pretended to do a study of the girl’s face. ‘I think perhaps you are a trifle pale, but I would not say peaky.’

‘That was what I thought too. I do not think anyone has ever called me peaked before.’ Gillian sighed again, and then glanced at the book Helen was reading. ‘Are you sure I am not disturbing you?’

‘Not at all. I was just about to stop for a while anyway.’ Helen closed the book and set it aside. ‘Othello is a diverting tale, but I confess I do not like it as well as some of Mr Shakespeare’s other works.’

Gillian’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, but how can you not! It is so very romantic. Indeed, Mr Wymington quotes to me from it frequently.’

The mention of the notorious Mr Wymington’s name did not escape Helen’s notice, but she decided to ignore it for the moment. Better not to express too much curiosity this early in the game. ‘Well, you have been here over a week now, Miss Gresham. What do you think of Guarding’s?’

Gillian shrugged and some of the gaiety left her eyes. ‘It is not as dreadful as I thought it would be. The teachers are all very nice, and so are the girls, but some of them are frightfully intelligent. Annabelle James is brilliant at maths, and Mary Putford knows how to speak French, Italian and Greek fluently.’

Helen arched one dark brow in surprise. ‘Miss Putford is fluent in Greek? Dear me, perhaps I should ask her if she would be willing to take classes once a week.’

Gillian shrugged again. ‘I expect she would. She confided to me that she would very much like to be a teacher one day.’

Helen glanced at the girl in surprise. Mary Putford was a pleasant girl and one generally acknowledged by all as being exceedingly bright, but to the best of Helen’s knowledge she seldom mixed with the other girls. How interesting to discover that in the short time Gillian had been here, she had somehow managed to get close enough to Mary to know that she both spoke Greek and that she was interested in teaching it.

Clearly there was more to Gillian Gresham than met the eye.

‘So, does that mean you are not entirely sorry to be here with us rather than back home in Hertfordshire?’ Helen enquired with a smile.

‘Not entirely, though I would never tell Oliver that.’ Gillian watched a small green caterpillar inch its way through the grass at her feet. ‘I want him to suffer terrible feelings of guilt for having left me here. I intend to make sure he knows that if I waste away to nothing, it will all have been his fault.’

Helen was careful not to smile, though she was very much tempted to. ‘I hardly think he will believe that, Miss Gresham.’

‘Nor do I, but it pleases me to think he might. I would certainly not tell him that I do not miss stuffy old Shefferton Hall at all.’ Gillian sighed. ‘The only problem is that I do miss my dear Mr Wymington.’

Thinking it might sound strange if she did not enquire about a gentleman who had now been mentioned twice in conversation, Helen said, ‘And who is Mr Wymington?’

Once again, the change in Gillian’s appearance was remarkable. She clasped her hands together in front of her and her smile grew positively radiant. ‘He is the most kind and considerate gentleman I have ever known. He is a lieutenant in the militia, and surely the most handsome man in the entire regiment!’

‘Is he indeed? And is there an arrangement between the two of you?’

The girl’s animation vanished like a candle being extinguished. ‘I only wish there were. Oliver does not care for Mr Wymington. That is why he sent me here. He does not wish me to see him ever again.’

Helen had to exercise a certain amount of care as regards what she said next. She knew it would be wrong to encourage Gillian to go against the wishes of her guardian, but she did want to hear Gillian’s side of the story. After all, it was entirely possible that Oliver Brandon’s reasons for wishing to separate the two were entirely groundless. ‘Why doesn’t your guardian like Mr Wymington?’

‘Because he thinks he is only after my money. I’m an heiress, you see, Miss de Coverdale. When I turn one-and-twenty, I shall inherit a great deal of money.’

‘And is Mr Wymington in possession of a good income himself?’

‘No. At least, none that he has ever mentioned to me.’

Which probably meant he wasn’t, Helen reflected silently. Lower-ranking officers did not earn a great deal of money, and half-pay officers even less. ‘Then it is entirely possible your guardian is right,’ Helen replied, willing for the moment to give Mr Brandon the benefit of the doubt. ‘It is not unheard of for young gentlemen who are in, shall we say…restricted financial circumstances to be attracted to wealthy young women,’ she pointed out. ‘Especially when they are as pretty as you.’

The young woman’s face brightened again. ‘Do you really think I am pretty?’

‘Of course, but I am sure Mr Wymington has told you that.’

The blush in the girl’s cheeks deepened. ‘Miss de Coverdale, may I ask you a question?’

‘You may.’

‘It is rather personal.’

‘I shan’t answer it if it is too personal.’

‘Well, it is just that…why would someone as beautiful as you not be married?’

Helen blinked her surprise. ‘Good Lord. Whatever made you ask such a thing?’

‘Because you are not like the other teachers here. Oh, they are all very pleasant, to be sure, but none of them are anywhere near as lovely as you. And I know that gentlemen are attracted to pretty ladies. So I simply wondered why you were not married.’

‘Perhaps no one has ever asked me,’ Helen said in as light-hearted a tone as she could manage.

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