Dangerous Lover, page 1
Dangerous Lover
Crime and Passion, Book 3
Mary Lancaster
© Copyright 2021 by Mary Lancaster
Text by Mary Lancaster
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition June 2021
Kindle Edition
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All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster
Crime & Passion Series
Mysterious Lover
Letters to a Lover
Dangerous Lover
The Husband Dilemma Series
How to Fool a Duke
Season of Scandal Series
Pursued by the Rake
Abandoned to the Prodigal
Married to the Rogue
Unmasked by her Lover
Imperial Season Series
Vienna Waltz
Vienna Woods
Vienna Dawn
Blackhaven Brides Series
The Wicked Baron
The Wicked Lady
The Wicked Rebel
The Wicked Husband
The Wicked Marquis
The Wicked Governess
The Wicked Spy
The Wicked Gypsy
The Wicked Wife
Wicked Christmas (A Novella)
The Wicked Waif
The Wicked Heir
The Wicked Captain
The Wicked Sister
Unmarriageable Series
The Deserted Heart
The Sinister Heart
The Vulgar Heart
The Broken Heart
The Weary Heart
The Secret Heart
Christmas Heart
The Lyon’s Den Connected World
Fed to the Lyon
Also from Mary Lancaster
Madeleine
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster
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 Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About Mary Lancaster
Chapter One
The house loomed out of the fog, indistinct yet alarming. Since it was surrounded by a high wall, Alexandra could make out only the upper stories until she came to a tall, wrought iron gate. Through the bars, it looked dauntingly old and uninviting. Neither did the air around it smell very pleasant. It was too close to the river.
Well, I have lived in worse places, and the salary is excellent. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the gate latch and walked into the garden. She closed the gate behind her and walked briskly up the path, which was clear of weeds and moss, though overhung by large trees and thick bushes. Ignoring the prickle up her spine, she stepped onto the porch and lifted the brass knocker.
Decent employers did not have to live in Mayfair or Belgravia, she reminded herself. Though it was surely odd to find a baronet living in this part of London, that was not her concern. Even so, when the door opened to reveal a smartly dressed maidservant, she was distinctly relieved.
“Alexandra Battle,” she introduced herself. “I believe I am expected.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Battle, come in out the nasty, damp fog,” the girl invited. “Mrs. Dart is waiting for you. James, t’will you tell Mrs. Dart that the governess has arrived.”
The large manservant so addressed was not in livery and was hurrying toward the back of the house, but he raised one hand in acknowledgement.
“Perhaps you’d like to wait in here, Miss.” The maid led her across a surprisingly cramped but tall entrance hall. There was a lot of dark wood with ornamental carving, and light tricking down the staircase. And a small, human figure skulking in the shadows beneath.
Alexandra pretended not to see the small figure—after all, it was natural for a child to be curious about her new governess—and merely followed the maid into a rather bare chamber. Here, an ancient wooden settle with cushions and a small round table seemed to be the only furnishings. At least the room appeared to be clean, as far as she could tell, for there was little light coming in the window.
The maid bustled off and Alexandra, still in her hat and cape, sat on the unforgiving settle. The door had been left ajar, and a moment later, a small girl materialized in the space. Beneath a wealth of dark, well-brushed hair, a pair of wide, serious brown eyes regarded her with more than a hint of foreboding.
“Good morning,” Alexandra said. “Are you, by chance, Evelina?”
The girl nodded and took a step further inside.
“How do you do?”
Whatever the child might have answered to this, remained unclear, for Mrs. Dart, the motherly, middle-aged housekeeper rustled into the room and took Evelina by the hand.
“So glad you found us, Miss Battle. I was worried about you seeing the correct house in this fog.”
“I imagine it must stand out in any other weather,” Alexandra said, rising to greet the housekeeper. They had met before, in a teashop in the Strand, where Mrs. Dart had interviewed her for the position. In fact, it was Mrs. Dart’s agreeable character and obvious respectability that had induced Alexandra to accept the position, for she found it odd not to meet the employers themselves. But then, since Mrs. Dart had only ever referred to Sir Nicholas Swan and never to Lady Swan, she assumed the mother was sadly deceased and the housekeeper more adept than a mere male at engaging governesses.
“This is Evelina,” Mrs. Dart said, tugging the little girl forward. “Evelina, this kind lady is your governess, Miss Battle. You must mind her as if she were your papa.”
For the first time, a smile lit up Evelina’s face. She actually laughed. “But she is nothing like Papa!”
“Of course, I am not,” Alexandra agreed, smiling back and holding out her hand. “But I’m sure we shall get on famously just the same.”
The girl curtseyed in a wobbly kind of way, then approached close enough for Alexandra to take her hand in a gentle shake. Evelina seemed slightly surprised but not displeased. She still had a shy smile in her eyes.
“Perhaps,” Alexandra suggested. “You could show me your schoolroom?”
“Oh yes,” Evelina said enthusiastically. Her little fingers gripped Alexandra’s and began tugging her toward the door. “Everyone has been cleaning it out, so that is huge now and it sparkles!”
“A sparkling schoolroom,” Alexandra marveled. “I have never seen one of those before. Lead on!”
Mrs. Dart cast an indulgent smile at the child and said, “I’ll come and find you later, Miss Battle, to explain living arrangements and so on.”
“Thank you,” Alexandra said, allowing herself to be tugged from the room and across the dark hall to the stairs. The steps crunched underfoot, as though they had not been swept for some time. The bannister was dusty, and Alexandra spotted more than one cobweb. “How
“Not long,” said the child.
From the first-floor landing, Alexandra glimpsed a large, empty hall straight ahead and several closed doors on either side. Evelina drew her on up to the next floor and turned right along a long, narrow passage. More wood and dust, closed doors and cobwebs, until finally an open door revealed what seemed like a flood of light. Evelina smiled proudly and led her inside.
In fact, it was not a huge room, but it had space to teach several children, and it was brighter than the downstairs rooms, as though it was too high up for the fog to penetrate.
Two new looking wooden desks had been placed close to the fireplace. One small one for Evelina, and, facing it, a larger one clearly meant for a teacher. On each lay a row of pens and pencils beside the ink wells. A bookcase to one side contained a few well-used books, new notebooks, and loose paper.
“This is a very pleasant room,” Alexandra agreed, taking off her hat and wrap, and hanging them on the hooks on the back of the door. “I think we shall have a lot of fun here.”
She pulled a notebook from the shelf and set it on the smaller desk. “Can you write your name on the book?”
Apparently she could. In a round, childish hand, she wrote Evelina Swan.
“And how old are you, Evelina?”
“Six.”
“Can you write your birthday?”
She wrote 21st March 1845.
“Well done. Can you write your address, too?”
She wrote, New Hungerford House, Craven Lane, London.
“Excellent,” Alexandra approved and won a smile. “You have not always lived in London, though, have you? Where did you live before?”
“Palazzo Fabrizio, Venezia,” she replied promptly.
“That sounds very grand,” Alexandra said in Italian. “I believe I was chosen to be your governess because I, too, speak Italian.”
“Did you live in Venice?” Evelina asked eagerly.
“No, in Rome and Florence, for a little, though I visited Venice once or twice. It is a beautiful city.”
Evelina beamed. “There is a river here, too, and boats, but not like in Venice.”
“No, not like Venice,” Alexandra agreed. “Do you have watercolor paints, Evelina?”
“Oh yes. Not here, though—should I fetch them?”
“Yes, please.”
Evelina trotted off through an inner door, to what seemed to be a playroom, for here were the toys and storybooks that Alexandra had hoped to see. Two more doors led off this playroom, but she held back her curiosity, for Evelina had found her box of paints, and Alexandra set her to paint a picture of her old house in Venice and then her new house in London.
“Then we can put them both on the wall, and I think that will make the schoolroom even more agreeable.”
Evelina set to with perfect good nature. At their interview in the tearoom, Mrs. Dart had warned Alexandra that her charge was subject to wild temper tantrums, but there were no signs of those so far.
“Do you feel capable of dealing with such incidents firmly but without violence?” Mrs. Dart had asked.
“Violence?” Alexandra had said, startled. “The child is six years old!”
“And in a temper, she seems to have a strength three times that,” Mrs. Dart had said dryly. “She can be a difficult child. Nevertheless, if you lift a hand to her, it would mean instant dismissal. Her father will not tolerate it.”
“Neither shall I. There are other ways to discipline a child.”
“Sir Nicholas would be glad to hear you say so.” She had hesitated, then added, “Sir Nicholas does not want her locked in her room either.”
“How does Sir Nicholas deal with these tantrums?” she had asked.
Again, Mrs. Dart had hesitated. “The only time I saw her do so with him, he held her until the screaming stopped. Which it quickly did.”
Alexandra had refrained from comment. After all, she needed the position.
While Evelina was occupied, Alexandra took out the books she carried to each new position and set them on her desk. Then she wandered into the playroom, which she had already seen. As she had expected, one of the doors off it led to what was clearly Evelina’s bedroom. The furniture was elegant and small, as if it had been specially made for a child—probably in Italy. And on the dressing table was an ornate double frame containing two miniature portraits.
Alexandra couldn’t resist moving forward and picking up the frame. On the left was an accomplished painting of an incredibly beautiful woman, raven haired and hazel eyed. There was something tempestuous in the brilliance of those eyes, in the way she held her head, as though in mid-toss. Her luscious lips drooped faintly with discontent. Was this Evelina’s dead mother?
If so, then the dark, scowling man in the other picture must be her father, the elusive Sir Nicholas. He was not handsome, precisely. He was altogether too swarthy for that, his long, thin nose and prominent cheek bones too sharp, his brows too thick. The tilt of his head spoke of impatience and arrogance. In all, it was a face of uncompromising strength, but it was the compelling eyes that snatched her breath. Dark and restless and demanding—and God help you if you didn’t obey.
From her initial conversation with Mrs. Dart, she had imagined a rather weak, negligent young parent, overindulgent and careless by turn. But he looked older than she had imagined, closer to forty than thirty. And there was neither weakness nor affection in that face.
She could well understand why Mrs. Dart and the rest of the household went out of their way to make sure he was obeyed to the letter.
I don’t like you, she thought grimly. But I will endeavor never to get on the wrong side of you.
Alexandra replaced the frame and left, closing the door on the bedroom. She tried the next door, which led to another, smaller chamber, clearly occupied, but very neat.
“The nurserymaid sleeps here,” Mrs. Dart said, startling Alexandra by suddenly appearing at the chamber’s other door which led into the passage. “This is Anna. She’s Italian but speaks English increasingly well.”
The nurserymaid, a dark-haired woman of perhaps thirty years, stared at Alexandra without welcome.
“Excuse me,” Alexandra said politely. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just exploring.”
Anna nodded once, though her expression grew no warmer. The three of them passed into the playroom once more, from where they could see Evelina happily painting.
“She will get paint everywhere,” Anna observed.
“Then we shall clean it up,” Alexandra said pleasantly. “Perhaps, you could find her a smock to protect her clothes?”
“And stay with her while I show Miss Battle her own chamber,” Mrs. Dart added.
Before she went to fetch her bag from the schoolroom, Alexandra glanced at the third door leading off the playroom.
“Oh, it’s empty,” Mrs. Dart said, throwing it wide.
It wasn’t quite empty. Some excess and probably old cushions had been abandoned there. Alexandra smiled.
“We could make it up for you,” Mrs. Dart said doubtfully. “But I thought you would prefer a room apart from the schoolroom, especially with Anna already sleeping so close to Evelina.”
“Of course.” Alexandra closed the door, fetched her bag from the schoolroom, where she paused to admire Evelina’s painting and tell the child she would return momentarily, and then followed Mrs. Dart out into the passage.
“I’ve put you just along here, closer to the staircase,” the housekeeper said, marching along the bare floor. “I think it is a pleasant room, now that it is cleaned and aired. You must forgive the state of much of the rest of the house. We are working on it, but it is a large undertaking. The house was not lived in for decades before Sir Nicholas took it into his head to move in. Everyone thought he would sell it, ancient, inconvenient, and badly located as it is.”
“Perhaps he lived here in childhood?” Alexandra guessed.
“He most assuredly did not,” Mrs. Dart retorted, clearly affronted by the very idea. “He lived at the Grange and in Brook Street.”
“Oh. Then this is not an old family property?” Alexandra asked in surprise.
Mrs. Dart sniffed. “Family property, yes, family home, no. I wasn’t aware of its existence until Sir Nicholas chose to live here rather than eject his brother from Brook Street where, frankly, Mr. Ralph has no right to be as the younger son. Here is your chamber.”
