Page 9 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

If she had thought to shame Sebastian with her candor, she was sorely disappointed. He betrayed not a flicker of remorse for having mentioned the scandalous death of her father. “Not the noblest course of action,” he remarked.

“He had just lost everything we had on a hand of cards, my lord. I am sure he felt he had no choice.”

Sebastian continued to stare at her, broodingly. “And now you are a governess.”

“I am, sir.”

“A rather clever governess,” he continued in that same raspy, vaguely sarcastic drawl, “who has somehow managed to secure an invitation to my home.”

Sylvia blinked. Good gracious! Is that what he thought? Her color heightened. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but cleverness had nothing to do with it. Lady Harker sought me out in London. She insisted I accompany her here.”

“You might have refused her.”

“I did refuse her.”

“Yet, here you are.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. She did not like what he was insinuating, but she refused to rise to the bait. Lady Harker had said that Sebastian was not himself. That he was temperamental and moody. Suicidal, in fact. Is that not why Sylvia had come to Hertfordshire? To lift his spirits and help to make him well?

She was no ministering angel, not by any stretch of the imagination. And she had precious little experience handling a gentleman with the temperament of a wounded wild beast. Nevertheless, she resolved to treat him with as much kindness and courtesy as she could muster. She would even humble herself, if need be. Lord knew she had had plenty of practice at it these last two years.

“Would you prefer I go?” she asked. “I will, if that is what you wish.”

Sebastian was silent for another long moment. At last, he shrugged one broad shoulder. “You are my sister’s guest. Stay, by all means.”

Sylvia exhaled a quiet breath. She could not help but feel like a servant who had just been granted a trial period of employment.

“No doubt it will be a welcome change from whatever it is that you do in London.”

“I am a governess,” she reminded him. “I teach reading, writing, drawing and music to two very young ladies.”

He made a dismissive sound, indicating that this was not at all what he had meant. She waited for him to elaborate. “Whatever it is that you do when you are not teaching,” he said gruffly. “Surely you do not spend every hour in the schoolroom.”

“It sometimes feels like it.”

“You have no time of your own?”

“Very little outside of the house.”

“Even scullery maids are given a half-day on Sunday.”

“So they are,” Sylvia said, endeavoring not to be offended by the comparison. “But a governess is not a scullery maid, my lord. Besides which, on Sundays, I attend church with the family.” She hesitated before adding, “My half-day is on Wednesday.”

Sebastian absorbed this information in enigmatic silence.

“I generally do my shopping,” she told him. “Or go for a walk.”

His good eye was a rich, sable brown—almost black in appearance. For an instant, something flickered there. “Alone, I presume.”

Sylvia had the unsettling feeling that he was asking whether or not she was presently walking out with a sweetheart. The answer was an emphatic no, but she was reluctant to own it. Least of all to the man who had rejected her. She chose her next words with care. “It is the lot of every governess to lead a solitary existence.”

“Is it indeed.”

“Yes. There is even a grim little pamphlet on the subject. A Young Governess’s Guide to Genteel Employment. My father’s solicitor gave it to me when I went to him for help after Papa died. It was written by a woman named Mrs. Bland, a former governess herself, I believe, and one whom I suspect was subjected to every sort of mistreatment during the course of her employment.” She gave a wholly unconscious smile. “I have often since considered writing an advice pamphlet of my own. Something a bit more hopeful. Though I daresay it would not sell half as well. Mrs. Bland had a distinct turn for the Gothic.”

Sebastian did not appear to be amused by her attempt at a lighthearted story. Indeed, he was looking at her just as haughtily as he had since she first entered the room. “You will forgive me, Miss Stafford, but I find it hard to believe that you are perfectly content as some manner of superior servant.”

Sylvia’s smile faded slowly. His words stung. Perhaps he had meant them to. Or perhaps, he genuinely could not fathom a person finding happiness after so much adversity?