The Governess Affair

baby’s blanket.
    “Freddy, whatever is the matter?”
    “Read it,” Freddy said. Her voice shook. She jerked her chin at the table before her. “Read it.”
    There was a letter on the table. Serena didn’t know what to think. She snatched it up and skimmed it quickly. It was from Freddy’s landlord. “It has come to my attention…” she muttered, reading aloud at first. But her breath caught on the next sentence. She couldn’t even speak those words. By the time she got to the end, she was breathless with rage.
    She’d thought that the Wolf of Clermont had left her alone today. Ha. She looked at her sister, her arms wrapped about herself. It was one thing to annoy Serena herself. It was quite another to do harm to Freddy.
    Freddy wasn’t involved in this dispute. She’d never done anything—not since the dreadful night when she’d been in the carriage with their mother when it was robbed. She’d been sitting right next to her when the highwayman had taken his shot.
    Freddy had never spoken of the event—but she’d scarcely been able to leave the house after. Serena had thought her distress would fade, but as the years went by, her sister had only come to fear the world outside her door more and more. Striking at her, and in this despicable way…
    Mr. Marshall had a great deal to answer for.
    Serena set the letter on the table.
    “I have had quite enough,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “I will not— will not —let this happen to you, Freddy. I promise.”

    T HE DOOR AT C LERMONT H OUSE was hard, but Serena pounded on it with all the force she could muster.
    It was the third time that she’d knocked, and she wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, she wasn’t leaving until she obtained one. After what she’d come home to last night…
    She raised her hand once more, and the door swung open. A gray-haired man peered down at her. Serena drew herself up to the full extent of her height—which unfortunately, didn’t even bring her to the other man’s shoulder.
    “I demand to speak to Mr. Marshall,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “I demand to speak to him now.”
    The footman looked down his nose at her. “He is unavailable at the moment.”
    “Make him available. If he doesn’t speak to me—”
    “I have been instructed to give you this.” The footman held out one hand; a crisp piece of white paper was folded in his fingers.
    Slowly, she reached out and took it. It had been folded in a square; a firm hand had written “Miss Barton” across the front.
    “And this,” the footman said.
    She looked up. The man held a pencil. It looked out of place in his white-gloved hands—too mundane to exist in such close proximity to a duke’s livery. She took that, too, and was unfolding the missive when the door shut, firmly and irrevocably, behind her. Serena took the letter across the street and broke the seal.
    Miss Serena Barton, she read. It will behoove you to calm yourself. Convincing Frederica’s landlord to toss the two of you out was the work of a moment. Consider it a warning only.
    As you have little to do with your days, the inconvenience of moving houses is, I am sure, nothing. A woman of your fortitude will find the task poses little problem. If, however, I am forced to inconvenience myself to the extent of ruining Daughtry’s Bank—where your sister draws her annuity—you can rest assured I will not remain so pleasant.
    My offer still stands: fifty pounds and a reference. I can, perhaps, increase the monetary compensation somewhat.
    I’d rather not cause you any further disruption, but I will not hesitate, should it prove necessary.
    As always, I am
    Yours.
    There was no signature.
    Serena stared at the offending missive, anger growing in her heart. She’d been prepared to have any threat leveled at her. But to threaten Freddy once again? It was like abusing baby squirrels.
    She flipped the paper over, and on the blank reverse, scrawled her response.
    Cut line, sir. My sister and I have scarcely a hundred pounds to lose between the two of us. Such infinitesimal reserves will hardly be missed.
    Not true, but in her experience, wealthy men never understood the value of money. She nodded fiercely at that, and then played the card that she’d been holding in abeyance for this moment.
    But you know—and I know—and all of Mayfair knows—that the duchess will not be pleased if she hears my story. I am not frightened of you; how could I be?