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Seth cleared his throat. “Betty always smells of flour, the maid of lye and Chloe of lavender. It could only be you – meadows in sunshine.” The intimacy of recognising a woman by her scent was not something a gentleman should confess to, a breach of delicacy too far, but that scent surrounded him by day…and haunted him by night.
“I’m rather indulgently still using my last bar of Andrew Pears’ soap. It must be that.”
Images of an entirely debauched nature assailed him, ones he’d successfully bridled over the past days but ale had clearly slackened the reins… Miss Griffin soaping herself in a slipper bath, all creamy skin and loose, damp coal-black hair, teasing his eyes with glimpses of heaven.
Without question he remained alone in this tormented passion as she twisted away to boil tea, leaving Seth to stew.
“And what do you do, Mr Finlay? I did not have the time to enquire on Saturday,” she said apologetically, bustling from the larder with a jug of milk.
“Dinnae worry, yer were well occupied with Ribber Rufus.” He grinned at Seth. “I work in…protection and security for the Prince.”
“Gosh.” She dipped the teaspoon and stirred. “At Carlton House or–”
“Not that Prince,” Seth interrupted, winking at his governess. “The Prince.”
Ebony eyelashes batted behind spectacles in confusion, fingers tapping her fragile china teacup.
Kian yanked out a chair for the lady to sit. “He owns a few gambling hells. Got an exclusive one on–”
“Pall Mall?” she squealed, looking hesitant but then plonking herself down anyway. “Cousin Astwood lost two hundred guineas, his gold watch and a mistress at that place. I was amused for days.”
“That’d be the one.” And with the lady seated, both ruffians allowed their arses to hit the chairs anew.
“Goodness. And you work for the owner?”
“Aye.”
Seth kept quiet. The Prince had a shady reputation, not one a lady should acquaint herself with, and he watched as she merrily interrogated Kian about gaming hells, their female attendees and the mathematical odds of winning.
Many a gentlewoman would’ve had a fit of the vapours and be in need of the smelling salts by now, alone with two scruffy low-class rascals in the kitchens, yet Miss Griffin was formed of hardier stuff.
With fortitude, she’d survived her parents’ horrific death, outwitted her malicious cousin and braved governess-ship at a boxing academy.
“I wish to travel, Mr Finlay,” she was now saying into her teacup, “but I think it an unrealistic dream. This may sound selfish, having grown up surrounded by wealth, but all my experience of foreign lands was through books and study. I led a sheltered existence and these two weeks as governess have been a revelation. I realise a working life can be arduous but there is also immense satisfaction.” She bit her reddened lip. “For that, I have Mr Hawkins to thank, for giving me this chance, placing his daughter within my care and showing me…life.”
Miss Griffin abruptly glanced up, eyes gleaming her gratitude, that dimple revealed, and Seth’s innards twisted with yearning to show her yet more life, to show her that a kiss from a lover was not to be dreaded but welcomed, begged for and pleaded never to end.
Yet respect and circumstance tamped his passion, as it had done so in the library. He was her employer, she a lady and a governess, and who knew what the future may hold. With that keen intellect and exquisite beauty, a duke might sweep her off her scanty feet or some dotty old aunt may bequeath her a fortune.
He owned a boxing club and still dropped his H’s when he’d quaffed a few ales.
Kian tutted. “I canna understand keeping daughters beneath lock and key. My wife grew up amongst sailors as her Irish father was a sea captain and she never came to no harm. Adored the grog as well.”
“Do you know,” Miss Griffin stated, peering at their drained tankards with pursed lips. “I’ve never even drunk beer.”
“Well, might yer come with us then. To the ale-house?”
What!Seth’s head shot up. No. There was experience of life and then there was…grubby benches, suspect meat pies, roving doxies and bosky poltroons.
“Oh, how exciting!” she declared. “I’ve never visited such an establishment before. But no, I couldn’t. Could I?” She sucked a lip into her mouth, eyes wide. “Just one beverage might be acceptable, purely for anthropological reasons as I believe species of people inhabit those places whom I’ve never even met.”
Yes, and Seth would keep it that way. “Miss Griffin. You are governess to my daughter and as such should not visit an ale-house. It is no place for a lady.”
Hell, he sounded like a stiff-rumped surly boots, and with shoulders drooping, she sipped her weak tea, eyelashes as wilted as the tails on those damn museum birds.
Never had he felt such a shabby blackguard.
Miss Griffin wished to experience life; he could understand that. Yet this was no smart dinner or respectable museum outing but a mucky ale-house where a fight could ensue or a lady could be…importuned.
“Come now, Seth,” his friend grumbled with a glare, “I no took yer for being such a stickler. Yer ma supped aplenty in the Old Goat ale-house, and Chloe used to come with us when she were a wee thing. What’s wrong with yer? Let the lass have some fun. We could try The Red Lion.” He grabbed Seth’s coat sleeve, blue eyes so grave. “Life is short. Yer know that.”
Yes, he did know.
For Kian had married that beautiful Irish daughter of a sea captain and they’d loved each other as turtle doves, but nigh five years ago on a bitter Tuesday morning, she’d taken a chill; by Wednesday she had a fever; and on Friday she’d passed to the angels, Kian clutching her in despair.
His friend had never recovered, in truth.
Still, it was downright blackmail. And he’d not fall for it.
