The Governess's Convenient Marriage

Malcolm smiled at her and bowed over the fine pale lavender kid glove he knew had come from Gordston’s own glove counter. Lady S.-T. was one of his best customers, and the first besides their hostess to greet him at the painfully genteel garden party. Not that there had been any lack of attention. Everyone stared, thinking themselves hidden behind teacups and parasols.

He glanced around at the groups gathered on the terrace, taking tea at small wrought-iron tables under the trees, strolling the flower-lined pathways. They all looked elegant, stylish in pastel gowns and feathered hats he could value to the shilling, smelling of attar of roses, smiling discreetly. A completely different world from the cold, harsh one he had known growing up.

It all made him think of the winter fairy, of her soft smile, her gentle touch. He had thought of her so often since their too-brief, too-embarrassing meeting, and he felt even more foolish than ever that he could have considered her less than a perfect lady. Everything about her had breathed gentleness and innocence, a castle tower high above the coal-streaked world. Just like this garden.

Lady S.-T. tapped his arm, bringing him back into that real world. She smiled up at him from beneath her wide-brimmed, lilac-trimmed hat. She was a widow of great fortune and whispered reputation, one of the great beauties of society with her masses of auburn hair and cat-like green eyes, her photograph displayed in shop windows along with Daisy Warwick and Princess Alexandra. Only a few people, like Malcolm, knew that slightly scandalous society lady was only a front for her work at the Foreign Office, for he sometimes passed on a titbit or two she might find useful. She was a great friend, someone whose company he much enjoyed—yet even her great beauty couldn’t quite distract him from the pale fairy.

‘Lady Cannon was quite naughty to invite you without telling me about it,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said. ‘I would have so enjoyed being here early, to watch the stir your arrival no doubt created.’

Malcolm laughed. There had indeed been something of a ‘stir’ when he first stepped out of the French doors on to the terrace, a ripple of silence across the lush flowerbeds. ‘I’m not sure why she sent the card. Miss Mersey insisted I accept.’

‘Ah, the excellent Miss Mersey. She was quite right. You want as much publicity as possible for your new Paris venture. That was surely why Lady Cannon invited you. Everyone is astir with all things Paris now.’

‘Including your own office?’ Malcolm asked quietly.

Lady S.-T. tapped her gloved fingertip on her dimpled chin. ‘I may be crossing the Channel very soon, yes. Strange things seem to be afoot along the Seine. Perhaps I will call on you at your new store?’

‘You are always welcome.’

‘You know what must happen if I do. I must seem utterly empty in the pocketbook.’ She took his arm and led him down the terrace steps on to one of the gravel pathways. She nodded and waved to various acquaintances. ‘In the meantime, I must show you who is who, though no doubt you already know! They all shop at Gordston’s. Lady Amberson and Mrs Downley. Now, those hats could have come from nowhere else than your own milliner. Miss Chumleigh—now she could use a trip to your underpinnings department, such unfortunate posture. The Viscount Hexham over there, and Mrs Browne, his mistress, though they think they are terribly discreet. And Mr Evansley over there, though I do wonder why Lady Cannon would invite him. We should watch out for him. I have been tasked with keeping an eye on him most carefully.’

Malcolm studied the man she indicated. He looked quite inoffensive, small and pale with thinning blond hair, obviously thrilled to be there among the cream of society. ‘Why is that?’

‘I can’t quite say yet, of course, but he has been known to associate with Mr Nixson. We don’t know yet how deeply involved he might be in the business. Did you not refuse to get involved with that scheme not long ago?’ she answered.

Nixson. Malcolm frowned to remember when the man had come to him to propose a business deal—one that was entirely illegal, not to mention immoral. Of course he had turned him down. But who knew who among society wouldn’t be so wise to know what the man was about?

‘But oh, look!’ Lady S.-T. said happily. ‘There is Christopher Blakely, how utterly charming. I was rather good friends with his brother, Sir William. We should say hello.’

She took Malcolm’s arm and led him across the garden to greet Mr Blakely. As he and Lady S.-T. happily chatted, Malcolm studied the crowd around them, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at people who frowned at him, obviously wondering how he had been allowed into the party.

Then his attention was caught by some newcomers who appeared on the terrace with their hostess. A stately lady in a striped gown, with a younger lady behind her, small and delicate in pale blue, smiling politely. The winter fairy.

‘Ah, the Duchess of Waverton,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas murmured. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of the family? Too high in the instep for the scandalous Marlborough House set, though Her Grace has deigned to talk to me once or twice. It’s a good thing, as they possess the Eastern Star sapphire, which would be a helpful decoy in Paris.’

Malcolm watched Lady Alexandra, his winter fairy who now had a name—and was a duke’s daughter. Not just any duke’s daughter, but Waverton’s, the man who had once ruined his family. The sweet girl who had once sat beside him near the river. The one whose innocence he would have done anything to protect. Now she was here, right in front of him.

She was smiling and nodding as Lady Cannon greeted them, but she seemed strangely far away. ‘A sapphire is involved in your plans?’

‘Bait for a villain, of course. Luckily, the Duchess’s nose is so far in the air she can’t see her husband’s business affairs dissolving right in front of her.’ Lady S.-T. tilted her head, watching as the Duchess nodded to Lady Cannon. She drew her daughter forward and Alexandra looked startled for a moment before her smile was in place again. ‘And that must be the daughter. They say the Wavertons have high hopes for her. She’s very unusual-looking, isn’t she? A bit rabbity and pale, maybe, but nothing the right clothes couldn’t fix in a trice.’

‘Pale and rabbity?’ Malcolm scoffed. ‘Fair, perhaps, but those eyes could never belong to a rabbit.’

Lady S.-T. gave him a long, considering glance. ‘How can anyone see her eyes from here? But now I am most curious. Little debs aren’t usually your style. Come, let’s go greet them.’

Malcolm remembered all too well how his first encounter in the park with Lady Alexandra had ended. She certainly wouldn’t want to see him now. ‘Laura, don’t be daft. No duchess wants to meet a shopkeeper.’

‘You are no mere shopkeeper. You are Malcolm Gordston, one of the richest men in London, keeper of the treasures of Gordston’s Department Store, where even the queen has bought a few things. Even a little rabbit is sure to be intrigued by that. And this party is too dull by half. Come along.’

She took his arm and pulled him along the path, back towards the terrace. He wasn’t entirely reluctant to go with her. Or, if he was honest with himself, as he always was, not reluctant at all. Surely he couldn’t embarrass Lady Alexandra so much when she was surrounded by her family and friends. And he was curious to know how it would feel to touch her hand again. Just for a moment.

* * *

Alexandra smiled at Lady Cannon, half-listening as her mother exchanged pleasantries with their hostess. She studied the garden, the crowd gathered there, arranged like a bright painting of an idyllic day. The Cannons’ annual garden party was famous, for they had what was easily the largest private garden in town, and they always seemed to find the loveliest spring day to show it off.

Surrounded by a towering box hedge, thick enough to keep the noisy streets at bay, the flowerbeds overflowed with white, purple, golden-yellow, pink, crimson, as bright as the gowns of the fashionable ladies who exclaimed over them. Classical statues, white and impassive, gazed down at it all as if unimpressed.

A buffet tea was laid out in the small, pillared temple, a tempting array of dainty sandwiches and sugar-art cakes, which people nibbled on at small tables in the shade. Parasols twirled, laughter echoed against the soft music of a string quartet tucked into an arbour and Lady Cannon’s little spaniels barked.

It was all most elegant and Alex wished she could explore it all. Could dash down the paths in search of her friends and whisper with them all day on one of the shady benches. But she knew she could not. She was on duty.

‘How excited you must be about Paris, Lady Alexandra,’ Lady Cannon said, drawing Alex’s attention back to that duty.

‘Oh, yes. It all sounds very agreeable,’ Alex murmured.

‘And so intriguing, with the Exposition going on!’ Lady Cannon sighed. ‘So many things to see from all over the world. I have told Lord Cannon we must go, but not until I have replenished my wardrobe. The styles are always so different in Paris.’

‘Different, perhaps, but certainly not better,’ the Duchess sniffed. ‘I have seen the latest fashion papers and the new sleeves are quite immodest. All those frills and bows.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lady Cannon said wistfully. ‘They rather remind me of when I was a girl and sleeves really meant something in fashion. Oh, look, here is someone who is certain to know all the latest style news from France! Mr Gordston.’

Alex froze, certain she’d turned into a pillar of ice. Mr Gordston was here. Her Malcolm, who once she cared about so much and who had hurt her.

The icy shock quickly turned to burning embarrassment and she was sure her face was the colour of an apple. Oh, why couldn’t the terrace be a magical one, the stone opening beneath her feet to swallow her up? She wondered wildly if she had time to flee, but she did not. Lady Smythe-Tomas, who held Mr Gordston’s arm, waved at them with a merry smile and steered him inexorably towards the terrace steps.

It was the sight of Lady S.-T. as his companion that brought the icy feeling back again. She seemed exactly the sort of lady who belonged with a man like that, a lady who was everything Alex wasn’t. A sophisticated widow, beautiful, witty, stylish, famous even. Free. Alex had looked at her images in the fashion papers, elegant portraits, group photographs of royal house parties, Lady S.-T. dancing, riding to hounds, playing lawn tennis, and Alex had secretly envied her.

Not quite as much as she envied her right now, though, as Lady S.-T. whispered something into Mr Gordston’s ear, which she could do because she was also wretchedly tall, and he laughed.

‘You invited Mr Gordston to your garden party?’ the Duchess murmured to Lady Cannon.

Lady Cannon’s cheeks turned bright pink. ‘Well—my husband asked me to, Your Grace. They do say even the Prince of Wales has received him, privately, of course. And he does add a certain—decorative flair, don’t you think?’

Oh, yes, Alex did think so. Here in the calm of the quiet garden, away from the pressing crowds of Hyde Park, she had a moment to really study him. She’d wondered, in her daydreams of him, if his attraction would fade if she saw him again. If it was only the unusual circumstances of their meeting that made him so fascinating.

But that had not been it. He was fascinating. So golden and powerful, so different from everyone else around them. And she could see that she wasn’t the only one who thought so. Heads swivelled as he passed by, everyone watching him.

Alex forgot her urge to flee until he climbed the terrace steps, almost to her side. Then she remembered every detail of their first meeting—and her face burned again. But it was much too late to run away.

‘Your Grace,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said, her voice full of laughter. ‘I hear we are to be in Paris together!’

‘Indeed, Lady Smythe-Tomas?’ Alex’s mother answered coolly. Alex knew her mother did not approve of the lady and her ‘fast’ friends. Not even the Prince of Wales was up to her mother’s standards.

‘Yes. Bertie and Princess Alexandra are always so kind to include their friends in their adventures. Mr Gordston here will also be in Paris, opening his latest investment on the Champs-Élysées.’ She smiled up at Malcolm from under her feathered hat. ‘Have you met Mr Gordston yet?’

‘No, I have not,’ the Duchess said shortly. Lady Cannon, who should have made the introductions, seemed to have frozen.

‘Well, Your Grace, may I present Mr Malcolm Gordston?’ Lady S.-T. said happily, seemingly impervious to any froideur, as if her elegant hat was a shield. ‘And this is the Duchess’s daughter, Lady Alexandra Mannerly.’