Page 20 of What Lies Beneath

It looked as if Georgette was going to run away from home, and as much as he knew it was ridiculous—he knew it was a story and not real life—he felt unaccountably concerned for her.

“But I put it on your desk, my lord. I swear I did. The Times, The London Evening Bugle, The London Gazette, and the pamphlet.”

“Well, where the devil is it?” Pip demanded.

There ensued a thorough search of all the papers on Pip’s desk and Kerridge suffering the indignity of getting on his hands and knees and searching underneath in the vain hope it had fallen off.

“Tilly,” Pip said with a sigh. “I thought I had hidden this one from her, but she’s the very devil for finding things to read she ought not. Call her in, would you, Kerridge?”

“Very good, my lord,” Kerridge said, looking relieved as he hurried out. So long as the earl wasn’t blaming him, he was satisfied.

Pip sat back with his coffee and awaited the arrival of his daughter, hoping Mrs Harris would accompany her. He had seen little of her since their day out and felt certain she was avoiding him.

He was rewarded a few moments later when his daughter hurried in with Mrs Harris close behind her. He stood, smiling at Tilly warmly, for he had not seen her at breakfast that morning, having made an early start.

“Good morning, Papa,” Tilly said brightly, running up to him to give him a hug.

Pip bent and kissed her silken cheek, still finding it astonishing that the lovely, vibrant little girl was really his. It seemed like a wonderful blessing and quite underserved when poor Jenny had died to bring her into the world, with him blissfully ignorant of her travails.

“Good morning, little bird, Mrs Harris.” He looked at the governess, whose face was impassive, and gave nothing away as she dipped a polite curtsey.

“My lord,” she said quietly.

Pip frowned inwardly, finding he did not like the excessive formality, which was everything it ought to be. Still, he turned his attention to his daughter and studied her face.

“What have you been up to, my little minx?”

Tilly regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m not sure,” she said, the words slow and cautious. “What do you think I’ve been up to?”

“Tilly,” Mrs Harris scolded. “Answer your father’s question. I hope you have not been up to mischief?”

“Well, I don’t think I have,” Tilly said, frowning now. “But it depends on whether he’s discovered something I did ages ago and got away with and have now forgotten.”

Despite himself, Pip gave a bark of laughter at his daughter’s candour. “Tilly, you dreadful girl,” he said, shaking his head. “All I want to know is where my copy of His Grace and Disfavour has got to? Your other crimes are safe—for now,” he added, a warning note to the words.

“His Grace and Disfavour?” Tilly repeated, and then her face brightened. “Oh, is it a story? May I read it too, Papa?”

“Certainly not,” Pip replied, making sure he sounded stern enough that she knew he meant it. “But I wish to. Now where is it?”

“I don’t have it, Papa. I promise you. I didn’t even know there was such a story. I might have taken it if I had known, so I do not blame you for asking,” she added generously.

Pip stared at his daughter but felt certain she was telling him the truth. “How very strange,” he said with a sigh. “Kerridge swears blind he put it on my desk this morning, but it’s not there.”

“Is that all, my lord?” Mrs Harris asked politely. “Tilly ought to be in lessons by now.”

Pip nodded, a little dismayed that the easy conversations he had shared with the woman in recent weeks had not eased her stiff manners around him. He had enjoyed talking to her, bickering with her too, and wished she would not become so buttoned up and stuffy the moment he turned his back. Still, he let them both go about their business and got back to his work. He’d have to order another copy of the pamphlet if it didn’t turn up. Where it had gone was rather a mystery, but it was not as if it was a valuable item, so whoever had so desired to read it was welcome to it. This time.

Regina listened attentively whilst Tilly read aloud. The French poem, by Jean de La Fontaine, was a favourite, for his verses were funny as well as moralistic, and Tilly enjoyed them.

“Et Rodilard passait, chez la gent misérable, non pour un Chat, mais pour un Diable—”

Tilly read out loud, her pronunciation being excellent for a child of eight. She really was a clever little thing, Regina thought with a smile of pride as she carried on through the verse.

Tilly hesitated as the door opened and her father appeared, and then carried on with more confidence, as she always shone brighter when her Papa was there to watch her.

Regina gave a cool nod and turned her attention back to her charge, praying her guilt did not show on her face. She ought to have known Tilly would have been questioned. If she was to keep each week’s pamphlet from the earl, she must get to it before anyone else had seen it, or else Ashburton might launch a deeper investigation, and she could have none of the staff suspected of wrongdoing on her behalf.

She looked up, turning her attention back to Tilly as she stumbled over a word. “Keep going, dear. You’re doing splendidly,” she encouraged with a smile.