Page 100 of A Governess Should Never… Deny a Duke (The Governess Chronicles 2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“The most deserving women find themselves, at times, treated with a sort of unaccountable neglect or indifference.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

“Get inside, girl, and fetch me brandy,” snarled Mr Pritchard as he made for the coaching inn’s privy to the rear of the slate building.

Rhys frowned and dismounted his horse. For most of the journey, he’d been able to hear Pritchard berate his daughter from within the confines of their carriage, and now, with skin pale as moonlight, she scuttled to the inn door.

Miss Pritchard had cited sickness to her father as the reason for their abrupt departure but now that any prospect of marriage to himself was off the cards, Mr Pritchard’s disagreeable character was back to the fore.

A stable lad took the reins of his steed, and Rhys followed the young lady through the inn door into a cosy taproom with low beams, a roaring fire and a landlady bearing a tray of steaming pies. He guided Miss Pritchard to a seat by the fireside and at the approach of a maid, requested brandy, tea and a light repast, all the while, a slight touch of discontent whirling in his guts.

It had commenced as soon as they’d departed the estate gates, a niggle of worry that refused to be soothed. He put it down to not having declared his feelings for Isabelle, or the uncomfortable sensation that for the first time in his life, he missed a woman – her touch and scent.

Taking a seat, he noted Miss Pritchard’s hand quiver as she pulled off her gloves and heaved a breath. “Again, I… I am truly sorry, Your Grace. I…” She glanced up, all her previous coy flirtation over the last weeks replaced by dulled submission.

In his mind’s eye, he still saw Isabelle’s bloodied foot and stoic expression at the loss of her father’s precious scent but there could be no doubt as to this young lady’s contrition and shame. She bit her lip, gaze now downcast, and pity settled within him. “I’ll have my cousin call upon you forthwith.”

“T-thank you. I know I do not deserve it.” She blinked. “I understand you are to leave us now?”

“Yes. I must reach Caernarfon before shops close, but I will see you settled first.” He studied her as she held hands to the fire, her forlorn eyes and genuine regret not correlating with a girl who would even consider such malice.

“Miss Pritchard, did anyone…”, Rhys tapped his crop against his boot, that uneasy feeling still churning within. “Did anyone suggest that you wreck Miss Beaujeu’s room? Your father, perhaps?”

“No! No, of course not.” Her blue gaze slid to the flagstone floor.

“Miss Pritchard?”

“I… I can’t…” She swallowed. “Please… He…”

“If you tell me, perhaps I can help you? Did your father suggest you shut Miss Beaujeu in that tower storeroom or that you wreck her room?”

Her eyes shot to his. “I never shut Miss Beaujeu in the storeroom.”

Rhys swallowed. “But I assumed…”

“No. I damaged her chamber, as I told you, but I was with my father and the others when that happened.” Her brow creased. “We all thought it was the wind.”

A tightness seized his throat. He’d never been convinced that a gust could have slammed that door and Isabelle had also heard a voice that day.

There was no reason for this young lady to lie now. And if Miss Pritchard was not responsible for that… And neither was the wind.

Someone else was.

And they were most likely still at his house.

He cursed himself for being such a fool as with a head full of romantic notions of repairing her silver stopper in Caernarfon, he’d left Isabelle alone. Hell, he’d even released the footman from his patrolling duties.

Hugh was there but even so…

“I must leave, Miss Pritchard. I wish you well.”

“Of course.” She tentatively smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

With a bow, he withdrew and stalked to the stables, a dread tightening his skin and gripping his heart.

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