Curious Governess, Dangerous Lord Preview

Chapter One

Winter, 1824 – the forgotten ridges of the Norfolk Coast

Villagers never strayed near Lord Winterton’s manor on the dunes. They treated him like a folk legend, a warning to stay indoors at night.

The lighthouse keeper watched, guardian not only to ships weaving in the ribbon-like waves but to any stray lambs. It was a heavy duty.

Old Ben slurped his blackberry syrup, hand cupped to stop the cold taking a sip as well. His lighthouse flame flickered, twisting thin and thrusting tall.

Winterton emerged, draped in a cape harshly buffeted by winds. Ben’s cracked lips puckered with distaste.

The young lord was as handsome as he was wicked. Tall and slim as a moonlight beam, with a sorrowful sort of face.

He strode against the elements, the rattle of his lantern resembling a chuckling skull. He vanished inside the dark maw of the tunnels beneath the sands.

Then came howls and shrieks, inhuman and desperate. Ben shuddered.

All knew none could halt this phantom in his pleasures. They only hoped he would grow bored and depart to hunt for more enticing victims.

****

“There’s nothing shameful about being a governess, Father!”

“It is when you’re spreading harmful ideology to impressionable girls.”

“Mary Anning’s fossil hunting is hardly –” Virtue Browne looked heavenward and changed tack, “There’s more harm in being kept ignorant. A woman needs to know more than dancing, diction and delicacy.”

Her father scoffed and resumed staring out of the coach window. Virtue resisted sighing. She was exhausted; they’d not stopped since leaving Yarmouth.

The coast was beautiful even with its dull skies. Cottages were sparse smatterings of flint and thatch.

The sight of her childhood home offered some comfort. During their missionary work, there had been misery, distrust and people who wanted to be left alone. Virtue and her father were no longer welcome in China.

She saw upon the dunes the manor house. Her new home. It looked desolate set apart from the rest of the village, clinging on like kelp suckered to stone. Another fearsome storm and it might tip into the sea and take everyone with it.

Virtue chafed the cold scrabbling up her arms. This would be her first posting, yet this was not why her heart pounded. August Winterton was no stranger.

With so few children in the village, they often played together with Jeb Strawhouse, the son of a local fisherman. They were out sunrise and back sunset, the two older boys’ shadows merging with hers upon the sands.

August had been a quiet boy. Virtue was the one who pulled him into their games, whereas he would rather ponder what roamed the rockpools.

It wasn’t as if he ignored her. Quite the opposite. He had treated her as gently as the seashells they collected, his pale pallor reddening whenever she kissed his cheek in thanks.

Jeb on the other hand knew nothing of softness. He would shout and laugh over August like a gull drowning out crashing waves.

Virtue did not know if August remembered her. She shifted, uncertain how to act when they were face to face.

Children were blind to the rigid structures of society. Now she was a woman, she could not ignore what made them different. She was a mere governess.

There’s nothing wrong with a woman utilising her intelligence, rather than being idle, she thought sternly.

“We have made good time,” Virtue commented as another nudge to her father. “I’ll be able to get acquainted with Miss Winterton before we start our work.”

“A day early? Hm!” Her father was taken in by something emerging on the horizon. “Do you really want to be considered too keen? They won’t be expecting you yet. You’ll be an inconvenience.”

The old doubts resurfaced. Virtue’s mouth settled into a thin line.

“I think the master would be pleased. From what the steward wrote, there has been no female influence for several years.”

“Staff shouldn’t be gossiping. A man and his servant should be the same as a confessor and his priest.” He made a faint wheezing sound. “I need to stretch my legs. Get some fresh air. You’ll not force an old man further than he’s able?”

And yet he hefted his walking stick with ease to strike the roof. The coach jolted to a stop. He threw open the door and hobbled out.

Virtue gritted her teeth as she disembarked. She had seen the inn on the seafront, its seagull painted sign flapping about.

“One drink,” she called to her father’s retreating back.

When had her feelings towards him become so disillusioned? Perhaps every woman relinquished her heartstrings to make room for a future husband. The distance between them would then be her fault, rather than Father’s callousness being the cause.

Colour fled her cheeks, kissed away by the chill of the winds. Virtue gazed past the inn, focusing on a strip of sea fringed by marram grass.

She would walk along the beach. Far better to breathe in salt winds rather than the beer-tinged smoke of the inn.

There might even be a path to the manor. She doubted she would make a good impression if she did arrive heaving her luggage, ruddy faced and panting, sand encrusting her hair and seaweed caught on her shoe.

The image brought back her smile. Lord Winterton would turn her out before she had even begun her work!

****

Sea foam pooled amongst stones, bubbles bursting to leave only a shimmer of wetness. The winds were as warm as another’s breath. They stirred the sands, spraying back and forth as if the ground moved with her.

As a girl, Virtue would kick off her boots and race across, loose hair streaming, skirts tangling. Her toes twitched, the urge still there.

Sunlight glistened on the water, tempting her –

Footsteps crunched. She turned, shielding her eyes with her glove. A broad silhouette strode over with something ragged as seaweed swinging from his shoulder.

“It couldn’t be little Virtue?” the stranger called in the rough Norfolk accent she herself had lost.

The man’s face was tanned by the sun, pale hair wild. Strong, weathered hands clutched his nets, which bulged with dredged mussels.

Familiarity tugged at her, yet the memory was unable to resurface. She gave the stranger an awkward smile. He roughly rubbed his knuckles against a scar on his chin.

“I can’t blame a girl for forgetting, when she’s had the whole world to explore. Though maybe it’s more to do with you wanting to forget what you did to me.”

Her eyes focused upon the red jagged strip of flesh. A tremor in her chest, then heat squirmed its way to her throat and cheeks.

“It couldn’t be… I did not leave such a mark.”

With time the scar would have stretched, growing with its owner.

Pointedly, she stared at the freckled face. As she did so, the man looked back with crinkled blue eyes.

There was only one other boy whose eyes she bothered to gaze into.

“Jeb!” It was a child’s cry of delight.

She made to embrace him, but the warning twinge of her stays stopped her. Her arms were half-raised, uselessly inviting him to approach.

She was a woman now. Respectable women did not throw themselves at men, no matter their pasts.

The last time they saw one another, they had snuck into the cool shadows of a cave when the sun beat down too fiercely. Water gently sloshed as they made their way to the small stone island.

While she was distracted by glimmers of light reflected upon the craggy walls, Jeb leant over and pressed his mouth to hers.

Virtue had shoved him. She’d cried out in horror as he toppled, fell against the rocks… and then stayed there. She went running for help, not waiting to see him get up bloodied and laughing – another one of his mischiefs.

Now Jeb was here, a man, yet he still had an irksome smile that made her want to laugh.

“It’s a wonder you can smile at me.”

“It was my fault, I suppose, surprising you like that. What brought you back?”

“My father has tired of teaching overseas. I am to be a governess.”

A pucker of frustration formed between his eyebrows.

“So, Winter’s lured you home. There’ll just be him, a few servants and the little girl to keep you company.”

Jeb hefted his nets and started walking. She followed.

He seemed unwilling to speak any more about the matter, and instead she asked, “How have you fared? Are you now a fisherman like your father?”

“I’ve risen up as you have. I went on the trawlers with him and learnt all his tricks. The old cutthroat drowned when I was eighteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

She struggled to keep pace, her much smaller feet stepping in the large imprints of his footsteps in the sand.

“He was so drunk he fell overboard before we set sail. I left once I had enough saved and bought the inn from Zachariah.”

They were heading for the Seagull’s Retreat, where her father had scurried off to.

“You own it now?”

He grunted in affirmation as they made their way up the path between the dunes.

“I’ve taken in some of our injured boys from Waterloo. Seeing as they don’t have everything they need to work on the boats, at least it gives them something to do rather than stewing.”

Many had been severely wounded in the Battle of Waterloo nine years ago. When those brave men returned home, they often found the rest of the world had moved on.

Seagulls shrieked overhead. Waves crashed, distant yet somehow overbearingly loud.

“Where’s your father, then?” Jeb said.

“He’s in your inn,” Virtue admitted reluctantly.

“And you did not fancy it? I’m sure I have something collecting dust that’ll suit a gentler pair of lips.”

Her cheeks were turning red again, though she pretended they were not.

“I’m afraid we must continue our journey. The manor is still a good distance away.”

“It’ll be dark by the time you arrive. You shouldn’t be there. Not on your first –” Jeb looked to the skies; the clouds were as thick as cloth. “A storm’s coming. I feel it in my bones. Lord Winterton can wait another night for you.”

His smile was gone, eyes shadowy. Virtue realised the emotion in them was… He was imploring her to stay.

Dread lurched at what Jeb hinted at. In the distance, the manor seemed like a hulking beast lying in wait for prey.

She scrabbled for an excuse. “It would not be proper, even with my father.”

“We’re an inn. Plenty women bed here for the night.” And he was all cheer again. “I tell you, a duchess once roomed here in disguise to track down her runaway husband. I also employ an old widow. Will she be chaperone enough for you?”

As children, there had been no chaperones. Not once did she second guess herself when she ran off with Jeb and August.

Virtue watched the skies as well. There was her duty to consider. Her future.

“Thank you, Jeb,” she said as they passed the inn’s threshold. “It would be better if I arrived after a good night’s rest. I know nothing of what has happened in the village since I left, perhaps you can tell me?”

****

The Seagull’s Retreat was made of flint and ships’ timbers with hardly any windows. Smoke tickled Virtue’s throat and the heady, almost sticky scent of beer dampened her cheek.

A fire crackled and popped. Someone’s shaggy haired dog lay before it, paws crossed and head resting upon them. An eye cracked open to appraise her.

“Get back to sleep, Shuck,” Jeb said, nudging the dog’s side with his boot. The dog snorted and curled in on himself.

Carvings of fishes and sea monsters were affixed to the walls and draped in old nets. Shadows danced over their gaping faces and snarling maws, giving the illusion a fish flapped desperately for air or the kraken licked its lips.

Virtue’s father sat at the bar. Several empty tankards surrounded him. She scowled, but he had yet to notice.

He was attended to by a young man missing his left arm. The boy met Jeb’s eye and grinned.

“Hey, now,” he joked, “it’s the Lord of the Sea come back with his spoils.”

Finally, her father noticed them. His eyes narrowed in confusion. Jeb crossed his arms and cheerily cocked his head.

“How are you, old man? Have another drink on me.”

The suspicion ebbed while Virtue’s father drained his cup. Jeb bent down to her.

“All this time, and now I’ve figured out his weakness.”

He went into the back room to put away his nets, nodding a greeting to the barman. When he returned, rolling out the ache in his shoulders, he now carried a glass decanter filled with a wheat yellow liquid.

“Sherry. The duchess I told you about left me this as a thank you. Give it a try.”

They sat at one of the tables. A snake’s carving with a knotted tail sneered above Jeb.

Virtue tried a sip of the sherry. It was sweet, slightly sharp.

Her mouth pursed. Unnoticed, Jeb watched the flutter of her lips.

“You’ve turned out mighty fine, Virtue, even if you are kitted out so severely. You’d do better to wear blue.”

“You’ve become…” She wanted to return the compliment, yet was uncertain how to without it sounding forward. “You’re not a boy anymore.”

“Indeed, I am not,” he chuckled.

They talked about what Virtue had seen during her travels and the more interesting guests Jeb had roomed. Each time she attempted to glean whether August and Jeb remained friends, he nudged the conversation elsewhere, even saying, “I’d prefer you think about me rather than another man.”

It was beginning to frustrate her.

Outside, the sky turned the colour of wet stone, throbbing and pulsing. A rumble dragged over the waves. The inn sign rattled, chain twisting.

When the first boom sounded, Shuck raised his head, groaning low in mimicry. Fishermen came in to wait out the storm.

Quite a bit of sherry had been drunk. Virtue had no idea how it had happened, yet her laughter came more easily.

“You’ve been dodging and ducking all night.” Her voice sounded strange. “Tell me something about August. This secretive nonsense is making me think he’s a wolf in man’s flesh!”

“Perhaps he is.” This was no joke. Jeb’s tone had darkened. “I shudder at the thought of you alone with him.”

“There will be servants.”

“In his employ. Even if they were honest folk, I doubt he’d pay them much mind. Life’s replaceable to him. Did you know he’s the local magistrate for the assizes?”

“Surely he cannot go against the law?”

“Oh no, he sticks to the letter, but he relishes his work. If he can give a harsh sentence, he will. Lashings. Pillory. A friend of mine was hanged.”

Her hand shot out, curling around Jeb’s wrist. His warmth scalded her palm, hairs tickling between her fingers.

“There were tigers where I lived and they did not frighten me. Besides, if I called for you, you’d come rescue me.”

“That I would, princess. Be sure to call loud enough so I hear you on the winds.” He knocked back the rest of his drink. “Winter always gives me a bitter taste.”

Their conversation had soured as well. A cold dread lapped at Virtue’s innards, anticipating tomorrow’s meeting with her old friend.

“I think I’d best head to bed.”

Virtue made to rise but stumbled. Jeb’s hands circled her waist, breath fluttering on the nape of her neck.

Somehow, she managed to get upstairs. There were no other guests; she was given the room with the best view, not that she was in her right senses to enjoy this.

She sank upon the bed, thinking it the comfiest thing in the world. As her head nestled into the pillow, she realised she had forgotten to say goodnight to Jeb.

****

White whips lashed the sky. Waves black as raven feathers crashed as though some great beast wanted to take flight.

Virtue woke with a jolt, heaving. Sweat gleamed on her cheek.

Quickly, her nightmare slithered from her. The fragments she recalled made her throat lurch: a wolf bursting out of a man while a figure swung from a gibbet and, as his corpse slowly turned, revealed Jeb’s grinning face.

“I will never drink sherry again,” Virtue whispered shakily.

She watched the storm, hugging herself. Sand whipped, the dunes rustling as if an army marched through them. The full moon hung clear and bright while the darkness around it writhed.

Her body felt cloudy, tongue dry. More than anything she needed the privy. Below her, she heard the rough murmur of voices.

Stealthily, Virtue went downstairs. Jeb was still up. His dog sat by him, head resting on his knee but otherwise ignored.

The innkeeper held a shot of whisky and a fan of cards clamped in his other hand. Concentration furrowed his face.

Three other men sat with him. Fishermen, most likely. They must be the same age, yet the whittling of the sea winds had made them haggard. Meaner. One man violently knocked ash out of his pipe.

In hushed tones, they argued. Virtue thought she heard mention of crops being sowed. Curious, she leaned against the banister to better hear, when the wood traitorously groaned.

Jeb’s head whipped up.

“Miss Browne, you should be asleep!”

The door slammed open as another customer came in. Rainwater pattered, sliding from the stranger’s cape, boots squelching as he made his way to the bar.

Virtue wasn’t about to ask Jeb where the privy was. Her face reddened with embarrassment.

“The storm woke me.”

She hated how like a frightened child she sounded. A fisherman chuckled and she knew she was being mocked.

“It’ll have slunk off by daybreak, best sleep it through, but before you do that…” Jeb crooked his finger. “I’m on a losing streak. Won’t you blow a kiss upon my cards? I’ll be the luckiest man in the room.”

She could have snapped at him not to put her on the spot and flounced back to bed, yet the curious, slightly hostile but appreciative stares of the men egged her on. Virtue came down, approaching unsteadily.

The cards were held out. Virtue bent her head, a loose lock of hair tumbling. Her lips puckered and blew.

She made to right herself. Jeb’s arm snaked around her waist.

“Don’t you want to see how good your luck is?”

The game they were playing was Whist. Jeb showed his hand. He and his partner had the most tricks. Piles of coins and bags of tobacco were pushed to his side.

Another round was dealt and Jeb’s arm had yet to move. This time he lost and as easily as drawing breath the coins were taken. Virtue’s nose wrinkled as smoke crawled over her face.

“You’ve near cleared me out, lads,” Jeb said cheerfully. “But I’ve got one more thing of value left to put upon the table – dear Virtue.”

In her mind’s eye, she pictured herself being thrust upon the sticky table, scattering the cards and coins and gin.

“Whoever wins gets a kiss,” Jeb offered.

She glanced around for her father. There! She made to call to him, then noticed how he slumped. His face was slack, foam coating his beard. Slowly, as the man he leaned against moved, he slid to the floor.

It was the same in China. His promises to her were as insubstantial as sea froth.

This had to be a jest. Any moment Jeb would give her a teasing smile, let her go… but it was not him who interrupted proceedings.

The stranger joined the table. A gloved hand picked up the cards, fingers crooked and unsteady as if in pain. Jeb’s arm went taut around her.

A different game had begun. Jeb hunched in on himself. The stranger did not look at what he had been dealt, his cool green eyes lazily narrowed with disdain.

Immediately, he set the cards upon the table facedown.

“Well?” the man enquired, voice smooth, empty of any accent. “You have offered quite a prize, though I think it one that was not yours to gamble. Are you all bark? Will you fold?”

At this, Jeb snarled and flung his cards, revealing his hand.

“I win!”

“I’m afraid not.”

To be continued...

A late Georgian gothic romance set along the Norfolk coast, with drama, mystery and smugglers.

This story was previously published by The People’s Friend as a limited run paperback pocket novel titled Lord Winterton’s Secret. There is also a large print edition published by Ulverscroft under the same name, which is only available via UK libraries. Curious Governess, Dangerous Lord is the author's original version, featuring evocative descriptions, a sizzling clean romance and high paced action.

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