Second Chances Excerpt

Excerpt:

“YOU WHAT?”

The young man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You said I might inquire as to a suitable person.” A note of defiance had crept into his tone.

The Earl of Wrexham regarded his son over steepled fingers. It was not the challenge to his authority that disturbed him, rather the pinched, confused look that pulled at the lad’s sensitive mouth. Not for the first time in the past few months did he wonder whether he had been fair in keeping Max isolated up in the wilds of Yorkshire for so much of his life. It hadn’t really been a concern until recently, for the two of them had gotten on splendidly together. But now it seemed that everything he said rubbed the lad in the wrong way. Lord knew, it was difficult enough to pass from adolescence into manhood, but perhaps the transition was made even more awkward with only a father for company and without other young men the same age to cut a caper with. Not that Max showed any inclinations towards wildness—that, in fact, was another cause for concern. The lad was perhaps a trifle too studious . . . .

“The applicant is most qualified, I assure you,” continued his son.

“You might have consulted me in the matter before making such a decision,” replied the Earl drily. “I do have a modicum of experience in this sort of thing.”

“You are always . . . busy,” muttered Max, struggling manfully to keep his lower lip from jutting out as if he were six instead of nearly sixteen.

Wrexham’s brows came together. Was he really such a neglectful parent? It was true that he spent a goodly amount of time in the library but the lad had never voiced a complaint before. Why, his own nose was usually buried in a book as well. A sigh escaped the earl’s lips. At least in another year or two, Max would finally be able to enter Oxford and study to his heart’s content.

But until that time, there was this matter to attend to.

“But was it truly necessary to appeal all the way to London? Surely . . .”

“You know as well as I that I’ve exhausted the store of knowledge of any of the vicars within a few day’s journey of the Hall,” interrupted Max. ”So why not advertise in London, if one advertises at all? You have always told me to eschew bargains and purchase the very best quality one can.”

The earl’s mouth crooked ruefully at having his own pompous advice thrown back at him, but he had to admit his son was right —on both accounts.

“Very well. I shall meet with the man, and if he is as qualified as you say, there is no reason why he shouldn’t be hired as your tutor.” He smiled pleasantly. “After all, it is an abominably long journey he has endured to reach us.”

The young man swallowed hard. “I . . . I should warn you of one little thing, sir.”

Wrexham folded his long hands on the tooled blotter of his desk. An eyebrow arched up in query.

“Ah . . .”

“Go on, Max.” The earl’s lips twitched in amusement. “Do you wish to warn me that he has a hare lip or a squint?

“Actually, it’s not a he.”

Allegra Proctor stiffened in her chair. The roar of the oath was audible even through the heavy oak of the library door. The young viscount, obviously unaware of the usual social graces, had bade her take a seat in one of the formal wooden sidechairs flanking a long console in the hallway rather than in the drawing room, so she was more privy to the discussion between father and son than the earl realized.

Things did not seem to be going well.

Drat it, she thought as she shoved an unruly lock of hair back into the prim bun wound tightly at the nape of her neck. It would be most annoying to have to turn around and make the arduous trek back to London now that she was so close to her goal—not to speak of the expense that she could ill afford. Her hands tightened round the worn fabric of her reticle and her chin rose a fraction.

A deal was a deal, she reminded herself. The ad had asked for a person of certain qualifications, and upon examination of her credentials, she had been hired. So the earl could bloo—blooming well live up to the bargain. Surely the little matter that neither of the parties was legally entitled to enter into such an agreement was a mere technicality.

A fleeting smile came to her lips at the thought of the meeting earlier that morning. She wasn’t sure who had been more shocked—the young viscount on learning the scholar he had hired was a female, or herself on learning that her employer didn’t as yet shave. Given the initial misgivings, the long carriage ride back to Stormaway Hall had proceeded amazingly well. The young man had quizzed her rigorously—and quite knowledgeably, she had to admit—until finally his expression had relaxed and a boyish grin had split his face.

The pronouncement that, as far as he was concerned, she was bang up to the mark and could start that afternoon had gone along way to relieving her first fears. And she, too, was well pleased with the situation. The young man was undeniably bright, which infinitely more appealing than dealing with a sluggard But on top of that, he was refreshingly direct, with none of the haughty airs and graces she had come to expect from those possessing a title. His emotions were as readable as an open book, ranging from childish enthusiasm to awkward adult in the span of a few minutes. She found herself wondering if it was his father that he was unconsciously imitating when he drew his dark brows together in an attempt to look forbidding.

She shrugged. She had no doubt she would learn that soon enough. Again, she thought back to part of the conversation that had taken place as the carriage drew closer to the Hall.

“Not exactly,” had been the young man’s reply when asked if his family was aware of the new addition to their household.

“Since we are going to be studying the nuances of language, sir, that answer will not fadge. In this instance there can be no equivocation. It is either yes or no,” she had said.

His eyes had slid to the floor of the carriage. “My father is actually very broad-minded. He studies a vast range of cultures and history and with his scientific bent, he does not jump to conclusions. . . “

“I take it that is a no.”

He had nodded.

Hah! In her experience, there were precious few men broad-minded enough to . . . .

The door flung open and young viscount stalked out with as much dignity as his wounded pride would allow. “The earl will meet with you now,” he said, casting a last, withering look over his shoulder. A few other unintelligible words followed, but Allegra imagined they weren’t for her ears in any case.

She rose and smoothed the travelworn gown over her slim hips. “Thank you, sir. I hope we may start this afternoon, as you suggested.”

His mouth twitched as if he were going to speak again, but then he merely made a quick nod and walked quickly down the hall, his long, coltish legs beating an angry tattoo on the polished parquet.

The eyes facing her from across the massive desk were equally disturbed, though by his languid posture and impassive countenance it would be impossible to guess anything was amiss with the man seated in front of her.

“Take a seat, “ said the earl curtly, dispensing with all pretenses of civility.

She did, noting that she needn’t wonder any more as to where the young viscount had learned to look intimidating.

A long silence stretched out before them. Logs hissed and crackled. The large Scottish deerhound stretched on the oriental rug in front of the fire whined softly in his sleep. Allegra repressed a smile as she calmly ignored the earl’s scrutiny. No doubt it was a highly effective technique in most cases—people found the lack of words more unnerving than being shouted at. But he was wasting his time trying to scare her. She didn’t scare easily.

Perhaps sensing just such a thing, Wrexham finally spoke again. “Maybe you would care to explain to me this absurd situation.”

Her eyes came up to meet his. “Absurd? The only thing that seems absurd, sir, is the fact that I have traveled for days to take up a position for which I have been deemed qualified, only to be threatened with dismissal before I even have a chance to begin. It seems hardly fair.” When she was angry, the hazel color of her eyes would fleck with gold. At this instant, the sparks were flying. “In fact, it seems more than absurd,” she went on. “It seems cork-brained.”

Wrexham stared at her in disbelief.

“You won’t find many people of my ability willing to come to the wilds of this place. How long has your son waited before he found me? How long will he wait if you send me away?”

The earl’s black brows came together once again.

“He is a very intelligent young man. He needs some intellectual challenge else he is apt to become bored—and bored young men get into trouble.”

“He needs a tutor! A young man does not have a . . . a governess.”

“What is the difference?” she shot back. “If I can do a good job, why should anything else matter?”

He looked nonplussed for a moment. “I . . . “ Then his look became even darker. “I warn you, Miss, if you are one of that sort of female who thinks to cozen up to an impressionable youth and encourage a certain attachment —well, he does not come into his majority, or his money, for quite some time. And I shall have something to say about it in the meantime.”

“I have no idea what you mean, sir, ” she answered coldly. Of course she knew exactly what he meant.

The earl had the grace to color slightly. “How old are you?”he demanded in an effort to conceal his discomfiture.

“Old enough to be of no interest to a fifteen-year-old,” she countered. Observing the few threads of silver at his temples she added. “And you needn’t worry that I shall attempt to sink my hooks into you either, my lord. I have no interest in gentlemen nearly in their dotage.

“Dotage! I’ll have you know I’m not yet forty,” he managed to sputter, before he realized the utter indignity of gracing her words with a reply. His jaw snapped shut.

“In fact, I have no interest in men for that sort of reason at all,” she went on. “Believe me, the parson’s mousetrap has no more appeal to me than it evidently has for you. But as my employer, you have a right to ask the question. I am twenty nine.”

He made a show of studying the sheaf of papers in front of him. “Mis, ah, Proctor,” he began.

“Mrs.” she corrected.

His head shot up.

“Widow.”

“My condolences,” he muttered.

“The same to you. I understand from Max that you have also lost a spouse.”

“It was a long time ago,” he replied in a low voice as he fell back to perusing the sheet on top of the pile. Suddenly he looked up again and spoke to her in Greek.

She answered without hesitation. For the next twenty minutes they were like two prizefighters in the ring, he hurling arcane questions at her in Latin, Greek, French and Italian, she punching back the correct answers with equal aplomb. Finally, he left off and his fingers began to drum once again on the desk.

At the sound, the deerhound stretched, then padded over towards the desk.

“Hello boy, aren’t you a lovely animal,” murmured Allegra.

The dog changed directions.

“Have a care, Mrs. Proctor. Sasha does not suffer strangers to touch . . . “

The huge shaggy head plopped in her lap. “Animals seem to like me,” she said softly as she scratched behind its ears.

Wrexham muttered something under his breath.

She cocked her head to one side. “Excuse me, sir.”

“I said I shall inform you of my decision later today.”

“Then if you don’t object, I shall work in the meantime with your son on the first canto of Dante. He seemed particularly anxious to consult with someone on the translation of a certain passage.” She paused. “That is, if I may first be allowed to freshen up and perhaps request a cup of tea and some toast.”

The earl started. “Do you mean to say Max brought you to see me before making sure that you were settled and served refreshments after such a long journey?” He shook his head as he rang for the butler. “Good Lord.”

“He can hardly be blamed, sir. I doubt he has much practice in that sort of thing,” she pointed out. “Perhaps it is another reason why a different sort of tutor would do him well. Since he has his heart set on Oxford, he shall no doubt spend time in London and should learn proper manners and the proper courtesies towards the opposite sex.” She paused. “It seems he has precious little example to follow at present,” she added in a low voice.

Wrexham made a strangled sound at the back of his throat.

There was a discreet knock on the door and the butler entered. “Yes, your lordship?”

“Rusher, see that Mrs. Proctor is shown to a chamber where she may freshen up, and have Cook prepare a tray of . . . whatever she would like.”

The man bowed. “Madam, if you will follow me.”

The earl turned back to Allegra. “Do not think that this means your position is by any means secured. I have not finished with you on this matter,” he growled.

“I ‘m sure you have not,” she muttered to herself as she rose and followed the butler out the door.

The earl stared into the fire, arms crossed disgruntledly over his broad chest. Just how in the devil had his orderly and comfortable world been turned on its ear in the space of a morning? He had a good mind to seek out Max and give him a good boxing about the ears. But a prick of conscience made him admit that it was perhaps his own head that needed the set-down. How was it that a stranger had immediately sensed that his son was bored and restless when he had been blithely oblivious to the young man’s turmoil.

Damnation. Was he failing with Max, too?

He rubbed at his temples, trying to assuage the beginnings of a splitting headache. The notion that a female could be a proper teacher for a young man was outside of enough, though he had to grant that she certainly knew her subjects. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to catch her out on a single point, and that was not something he could say about any of the so-called learned men of his acquaintance.

She had spirit as well. The trip must have been exhausting, and yet, without even a splash of water or a cup of tea, she had faced his patent disapproval with both courage and grit. His mouth twitched in grudging respect. And she’d given as good as she had taken. His fingers paused as they brushed on his hair. There wasn’t so very much grey there—how dare the chit imply he was in his dotage!

He rose stiffly and began to pace before the fire. Sasha rolled to one side and regarded his master with one eye.

“Mutt,” growled Wrexham. “I expected more loyalty from you.”

With a wounded expression, the animal levered himself up and shambled over to bury his nose in the earl’s hand.

“Oh, very well.” He gave a reluctant sigh and began to scratch Sasha’s muzzle. “Us old dogs have to stick together I suppose. You’re forgiven.” The animal gave a whuff of contentment before flopping back down on the rug.

The earl turned his attention back to the matter at hand. It simply wouldn’t do. He’d not make a fool of himself by engaging someone so unsuitable . . . . Then he recalled the wounded look in his son’s eyes, the need there to be allowed to make some decisions, to begin being treated as an adult instead of a child. Max rarely asked for anything, but this morning, he had asked for the right to choose his own tutor.

Wrexham sighed again. It wasn’t as if Mrs.Proctor wasn’t eminently qualified. And she was from a respectable family. The glowing letters of recommendation had mentioned she was the daughter of a scholarly vicar, now deceased, though they had made no mention of Mr. Proctor. Perhaps just until a more suitable candidate could be found . . . .

He moved from the fire and in his haste, his knee caught the edge of the desk. An involuntary grunt of pain came to his lips. Damn the leg. It was acting up again, and just the slightest misstep or jarring made any sort of movement an agony. He waited a few minutes for the worst of it to pass. Clenching his teeth together, he left the library and climbed the curved center stairs, forcing himself to walk normally. He absolutely refused to limp. Old men limped.

Max had turned the schoolroom into a study more befitting his age. An oaken bookcase had been built along one wall, its carved acanthus leaf moldings and heavy shelves stained to a rich honey color which fairly glowed in the afternoon sun. Books were stacked, a trifle haphazardly, from floor to ceiling. A large ornate desk hauled down from the attics had replaced the scarred and ink stained ones that had served previous generations of budding Sloane scholars.

His son’s tastes were beginning to veer towards the melodramatic, noted the earl with a rueful grimace as he took in the pair of matched brass lion’s head lamps flanking a statue of a voluptuous Greek goddess. It was another thing he had failed to notice. His eyes strayed to a large, rather ghastly painting of a stag being pulled down by a pack of hounds that hung on the opposite wall. Why, it was as if the lad were becoming an utter stranger right before his eyes. Another stab of guilt knifed through him.

The two of them had pulled their chairs up to the desk. A tray holding the remains of a squab pie, crumbling Stilton and a pot of tea had been pushed aside to make room for a large, leatherbound book, and both heads were bent over it in rapt attention. Max was voicing his opinion. In his unguarded enthusiasm, his voice was warbling over a full octave, from boy to man in one sentence. Wrexham suddenly felt a wrenching poignancy as he listened to the familiar tones. In another few years the boy would be grown and gone.

Allegra smiled. “An interesting point of view to be sure,” she said, careful not to appear to ridicule the young man’s opinion. “But perhaps you might consider that Dante was speaking of something else.” She launched into a patient and well thought out explanation of the passage in question. Despite his resolve to the contrary, he found his assessment of her rose more than a notch.

Max suddenly turned, as if sensing the earl’s presence. Wrexham was jolted to see his expression harden.

“Hello, father,” he said, the lack of enthusiasm evident in his tone.

The earl stiffened to his full, considerable height. “I trust you have been properly looked after, Mrs. Proctor. If there is anything else you require, you have only to inform Rusher or the housekeeper, Mrs. Gooding.”

Allegra looked up. “Everything is quite fine. I thank you for your gracious hospitality, my lord.”

The earl could swear he denoted a twinkle in her eye. Was the chit mocking him? He frowned slightly but continued. “I have decided that for the time being, you may remain —while I take charge of finding a suitable replacement. Under the circumstances, having compelled you to travel such a distance from your home, we owe you that much.”

She inclined her head a fraction. “Again, how gracious of you, sir. I am in your debt.”

His eyes narrowed. This time the sarcasm was not as veiled but he let it pass for the moment. More important was the flush of relief on his son’s face.

“You see, I told you, Mrs. Proctor, he is a reasonable man when presented with the facts. I had no doubt that he would make the right decision.” Max’s tone, though striving to sound self-assured, made it evident that he had thought no such thing.

“I have instructed Mrs. Gooding to make up a chamber for you. You will take your meals with the other hired help or in your room, as you choose. You may set the hours of study. Other than that, your time is your own, but I expect you will not distract others from their tasks. Is that clear?” The earl’s voice sounded cold and stilted, even to his own ears.

“Father!” Max’s face twisted in embarrassment at the earl’s overbearing manner.

“Quite, my lord,” answered Allegra calmly. “I shall endeavor to be as . . . unobtrusive as possible.”

Wrexham had no choice but to be satisfied with that. He turned on his heel and returned to the sanctuary of his library.

It was his own conduct he was less than satisfied with.

The earl eyed his son over the rim of his wine glass, then took a long swallow of the rich claret. The lad hadn’t uttered a word since sitting down at the table. The footmen removed the soup and served the next course.

“How did the first lesson go?”

Max looked up. “Very well, sir,” he answered, an edge to his voice, as if daring the earl to challenge him.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

A look of surprise crossed Max’s face, then he returned to pushing the slice of rare sirloin around on his plate.After a few minutes he spoke up again.

“Why did you have to be so rude?”

Wrexham laid down his fork. “I beg your pardon?”

“You were! You needn’t have spoken to her like that.”

“It had nothing to do with rudeness. She is an employee, hired help. I was merely spelling out the rules,” explained the earl. “You must remember she is not a guest here.”

The lad glowered.

Wrexham cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I haven’t been as attentive as I should have been. I hadn’t realized—that is, I shall endeavor to spend more time with you.” He gave a slight chuckle. “Perhaps we could embark on a study of art. It might help to improve your taste in . . .”

“What’s wrong with my taste?” cried Max hotly.

The earl stopped, perplexed. He hadn’t meant it that way.

Max crumpled his napkin and threw it on the table. “May I be excused, please.” Without waiting for an answer, he shoved back his chair and left the room, letting the door fall closed with a resounding bang.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Wrexham. He stared down at his own plate but found that he, too, had lost his appetite. With an exasperated sigh, his hand went for the bottle of claret instead. Taking up his glass, he rose and limped off to the library.

Allegra pulled the bedcovers up to her chin. It was a most pleasant room, flooded with sunlight in the afternoon from the two tall mullioned windows opposite her bed and warmed by a generous fire in the neat little hearth. Though not large, the space was tastefully appointed, with a large dresser and armoire of pleasing proportion arranged on one wall and a small desk and chair of excellent quality near the comfortable bed whose coverings of muted blue and pale rose were echoed in the chintz curtains and patterned rug. The painting that hung over the desk proved, on closer inspection, to be a rather nice Dutch seascape from the hand of a well-known artist. Someone had a discerning eye for both art and design. All in all, it was an accommodation more befitting a guest than a servant. Despite appearances to the contrary, it appeared that the Earl of Wrexham could be a civil host when he chose to be.

Civil, perhaps, but odious in the extreme, as well as arrogant, high-handed and opinionated.But what else should she have expected? He was a lord, a member of the ton—and a male. Her mouth curled slightly in disgust. At least he was not an ignoramus, like most of them.

Nor was he a preening peacock with garish waistcoats and ridiculously high points to his collars. In fact, he had been dressed quite sensibly. His simple linen shirt and modest cravat were appropriate to the country, as were his buckskin breeches and plain polished Hessians, devoid of pretentious tassels or other annoying geegaws. And it was evident he didn’t resort to padding in order to fill out the broad shoulders of his impeccably tailored black serge coat. It was nearly as black his thick, raven locks, worn rather longer than was fashionable .

She couldn’t repress a grin. She had scored a hit there. Yes, the Earl of Wrexham had proved to be as vain and pompous about his personal appearance as the rest of the bloody swells. The look of outrage on his face when she had referred obliquely to the flecks of grey at his temples had been worth the risk of being sacked on the spot. Not that it was true—the inference that he was well into his dotage, that is. She recalled his lean, strong hands, the breadth of his chest and the long, muscled legs that she hadn’t been aware of until later that afternoon. No, he was not quite over the hill . . . .

She gave a shake of her head. But there was no reason to dwell overlong on the earl. He was of no concern now that she had managed to overcome his objections to her presence. Thank goodness for Max. It was lucky that he seemed to have taken a liking to her right off. That had been the key, she was sure. No amount of knowledge or skill with languages would have overcome the earl’s natural prejudices. But something in his eyes that afternoon had told her his decision had been swayed by his son.

Her grin softened into a smile. He was a nice lad, not at all like other young men of title she had been acquainted with. He was remarkable bright as well, which she hadn’t expected. That part of her job was going to prove much more stimulating than she had imagined. Already they were engaged in a course of study that promised to keep her on her toes.

But enough of Wrexham pere and fils. That was not why she was here.

She noted with great satisfaction how far her plans had progressed in the last few months. It had been an extraordinary piece of luck that Lucy had spotted the ad for a person of consummate education, expert in both modern and ancient classical languages, to take up a position in northern Yorkshire . . . . She had been racking her brains on how to contrive an extended stay in such a distant place, given her lack of funds and, more importantly, lack of a plausible reason to be there. Now she had solved both those problems in one fell swoop.

It was time to plan the next move. She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. The earl had played right into her hands by admonishing her to make herself scarce once lessons were over for the day. He could have no complaint if she chose to take longs walks through the countryside. Even better, perhaps he wouldn’t begrudge her the use of a horse. But she would have to be careful. Regardless of what else she thought of him, he was no slowtop. Those piercing slate blue eyes didn’t miss much, she imagined. It wouldn’t do to arouse his suspicions.

Her eyes strayed to the battered trunk with her possessions. She had brought just about everything she needed—a goodly length of rope, a long black cloak, a pair of men’s breeches and a shirt, a small lantern and a set of picklocks.

And a pistol.

But first things first. Tomorrow, she would start by becoming familiar with the surrounding area and learning just how close the estate of Westwood was.

Though the earl was not unusually partial to spirits, this evening he felt like draining the bottle. In fact, he already had. He stared glumly into the fire, then went and poured himself a stiff brandy to wash down the claret. Settling back into his comfortable leather wingchair, he stretched his long legs out to ease the ache in his bad knee. As if sensing his master’s depressed spirits, Sasha padded over and settled his grizzled muzzle on Wrexham’s thigh. The earl gave a reluctant smile as his fingers scruffed through the grizzled whiskers.

“Well, old boy, you at least do not seem inclined to bite my head off tonight.”

The big dog licked his hand, then thumped down by the side of the chair, his shaggy tail giving a wag or two before his eyes closed in sleep.

Wrexham swirled the amber liquid in his glass. It was enough to drive a man to drink, he groused. First some unknown, sharp-tongued, bluestocking female had arrived on his doorstep with the intention of taking up residence. Then his heretofore amiable son had behaved in a manner that, had he been a daughter, would have been termed throwing a fit a of vapors. He shook his head as his eyes strayed longingly to the open book on botany experiments sitting on his desk. Somehow he had a feeling it would some time before he could turn his undivided attention back to its pages.

Something else was nagging at him. How could she say Max was bored? Why, the lad like to study as much as he did. Granted, there was little excitement or turmoil at Stormaway Hall, but that had suited both of them quite nicely.

It wasn’t boring here, merely . . . quiet.

His brows came together in a menacing line. A mere chit wasn’t going to upset their ordered existence. Max was simply going through some growing pains. He would make an effort to take him out for a bit of riding and grouse shooting. Or perhaps a regular game of chess after supper. The lad would come around in short order.

As for Mrs. Proctor—well, he couldn’t deny that she would bring a spark of new ideas to the schoolroom, and that was for the better. After all, he wasn’t so crusty as not to realize that the same old books could become a trifle . . . dull. But if she thought for a moment that his generosity of this morning could be interpreted as a sign of weakness, she would learn who was boss here in very short order.

He brought himself up with an audible chuckle. The wine and brandy were addling his head, causing him to exaggerate the entire situation out of all proportion.

Really, now. How much trouble could the daughter of a scholarly vicar cause?