Page 5 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“How long have you been in Lady Brightwell’s employ?” he asked. “It can’t have been more than a year, for last season she had a different companion. Wearing the same gown and spectacles, I’ll wager.”

“For two months.”

“Why?”

She blinked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Couldn’t you have found a position with someone respectable?”

“But I understood that Lady Brightwell was respectable. I was recommended to her by Mrs. Pilcher, the squire’s wife in our village. She and Lady Brightwell are friends, and Mrs. Pilcher had promised my father that…that when he was gone…that she would see I was taken care of.”

“Your father is dead as well.”

It hadn’t been a question, but she answered it. There was a decided tremor in her voice. “Yes. Last year. He took a chill while out visiting his parishioners and, though I tried, I could not make him well again.”

Tristan’s brows snapped together. Hell’s teeth, she was a vicar’s daughter. No wonder she looked like a beatific little nun. “And this is your first position. Your first time hiring yourself out as a companion.”

She nodded.

“Why hire yourself out at all? Why not marry? Surely there must have been any number of men in your village anxious to win your hand.”

Her gaze lowered to the crumpled handkerchief in her hand. “There was no one,” she said very quietly.

Tristan had the feeling that she was not being entirely truthful, but he didn’t press her. “And no family?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second before saying again, “No one.”

“And so you hired yourself out as a companion to Lady Hortensia Brightwell. A pity you and I weren’t acquainted then. I might have warned you. Lady Brightwell attends only the raciest house parties, you know. The kind with drunken orgies and lecherous gentleman creeping into random bedchambers in the middle of the night.”

Miss March’s face drained of color.

“And if you think your atrocious costume will protect your virtue, you’re much mistaken. Many of the gentlemen in attendance would consider your spectacles and outsized gown a challenge.” Tristan paused, wondering briefly if he was one such gentleman. “I hope you’ve been keeping your bedroom door locked, Miss March.”

“We only arrived this morning. But I shall lock my door tonight, sir. I-I thank you for your warning.”

He felt like an utter ass. “See that you do. And stay clear of Lady Brightwell’s daughter. If she attempts to meddle with you again—”

“Meddle with me?” Her winged brows flew up in alarm.

“Touch you.”

“Oh, she didn’t touch me, Mr. Sinclair. I would have preferred it if she had. A bruise might heal, but what she’s done to my drawings…” Her gray eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “It can never be mended. She’s ruined them.”

“Your drawings,” he repeated. And then he understood. Curse him for his depraved mind! Felicity Brightwell hadn’t been forcing indecent attentions on her mother’s companion. She’d been bullying and tormenting her. Making her life a misery. Naturally she would, for even in a drab gown and outsized spectacles, Valentine March outshone her.

“May I?” He reached out for the paper that she clutched so resolutely to her bosom. She relaxed her hold on it, making no objection as he plucked it from her fingers. He looked at it for a moment, his eyes skimming again the barely legible script.

Arise, my love, my fair one,

And come away;

For now the winter is past,

The rain is over and gone.

For some reason he couldn’t explain, Tristan felt the beginnings of a lump in his throat. “It’s not entirely ruined,” he said gruffly. “You can still—”

“Oh, you don’t understand!” Miss March cried. “This is the only one I could salvage! The rest are covered in ink. She poured it all over them. And then she laughed.” She pressed her hands to her face.