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  “Enter.”

  James Bevin sauntered into the room, closing the door behind him. “So is there anything you’d like to know about these ladies before you make your decision? Say … the fact that Miss Oliver is afraid to venture out of doors for fear of Indian attack or that Mrs. Carmichael likely drove Mr. Carmichael to his grave with her sharp tongue.”

  He wandered nonchalantly up to Gideon’s desk and lifted one of the documents by the corner, pretending to examine it. “Or perhaps you’d care to learn that Miss Proctor sits a horse better than most men, has a keen wit, and can travel days at a time without uttering a single complaint.”

  “Do I sense a touch of partiality in your comments, James?” Gideon smirked at his friend.

  “Come now, Gid. You’d be a fool not to hire Miss Proctor, and you know it. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Gideon braced his elbow on the edge of his desk and rubbed his jaw. The slight stubble there abraded his thumb and forefinger. “It’s just so illogical. Based on her credentials, I never would have considered her for the position. To be honest, I’m surprised you did.”

  “She was a last minute addition.”

  “Ah.” Gideon leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking as he shifted his weight. “I wondered why you brought three candidates out here when the plan was for me to interview the top two.”

  James grabbed an armchair by the seat and dragged it over to the desk. He sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I tell you, Gid, it was as if a divine hand brought her to my door. We ran that ad for two weeks and I sorted through a dozen or more applicants, narrowing it down to the most experienced two, just like we discussed. I purchased their rail passes, and we were all set to go. Then, the day before we were to leave, Miss Proctor shows up at my office, tames Mr. Lyons, and ropes me in, as well. I can’t explain it, but somehow I knew in my gut that she was meant for this job.”

  Gideon said nothing. After watching Miss Proctor interact with Bella, he couldn’t deny that there was something special about the way she related to the child. His instincts resonated with what James said. But could he trust his instincts? He’d never been a father before, had no idea what would be best for a girl like Bella. Wouldn’t it be wiser to set aside gut feelings and concentrate on facts?

  Sitting forward, he shuffled the papers on his desk until he located the one he sought. “It says here that she taught school in Cisco up until about a month ago. How did she even hear about this position?”

  “Providence, I guess,” James said. “She’d only been in town a day, apparently on business of a … um … personal nature, when she got hold of a week-old copy of the Gazette. I don’t think she even noticed the date.”

  James’s hedging about her business in town didn’t escape Gideon’s notice. He was obviously keeping a confidence of some kind. Gideon peered closely at his friend. The man had integrity, and Gideon trusted him. He wouldn’t have recommended Miss Proctor for the position if there was something scandalous in her past. Yet the seed of curiosity had been planted and was already taking root. What was the woman running from?

  “You should hire her, Gid.” James’s features lost all traces of amusement. “Trust your instincts. Shoot, trust my instincts. If she doesn’t work out, I’ll take the blame.” A spark of humor reappeared. “Of course, I also get to claim the credit when she surpasses all your expectations.”

  Gideon shook his head in surrender. “Well, I did tell Isabella that she could help me decide. And with you voting for Miss Proctor, as well, I’m already outnumbered.”

  “You weren’t really going to choose one of the others, were you?”

  “Truth is, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.” Gideon pressed his palms into his thighs, bracing his arms. “All right. I’ll give her a try. But keep tabs on Mrs. Carmichael and Miss Oliver. I may need a replacement if Miss Proctor proves unsatisfactory.”

  Gideon gathered the strewn documents and tapped the edges against the desk until they formed a straight pile. Setting them aside, he turned back to James. “Now, about that other matter you were taking care of for me. Has that been resolved?”

  James pulled a packet of papers out of his coat pocket and tossed them onto the desk. “Yes, finally. The court ruled in our favor. Isabella will remain with you.”

  “Thank God.” Gideon hadn’t really doubted the outcome. He knew they were in the right and stood on solid legal ground. Nevertheless, the result flooded him with relief. “And what of our investigations?”

  “Your man in London turned up enough dirt on Lord Petchey to make me want to take a bath after I read his report. The scoundrel is in debt up to his ears, gambles in the seediest clubs, frequents brothels, and even ran his horse to death once trying to win a bet during one of his fox hunts.

  “I had wondered why Lady Petchey named you Isabella’s ward when the girl had family back in England, but now I understand. Her husband, the late viscount, even wrote his brother out of the family will for the most part. Reginald inherited the title and a tidy sum that would have kept him in style had he curbed his wastrel habits and invested it wisely, but of course he didn’t. Lady Petchey retained control of the rest. No doubt he expected to regain access to the family funds once Lady Petchey fell ill. It must have come as quite a shock to learn she put all the money into a trust for Isabella and named you executor as well as guardian. Contesting the will was his only option.”

  Gideon recalled the last hours he had spent with Bella’s mother onboard ship. Lucinda Petchey had demanded that he send for the captain to witness her will. The ship’s surgeon had assured him she was dying, and all he could think to do was make her as comfortable as possible. Her emaciated body had looked so forlorn lying in that narrow berth, her skin paper thin, her flesh wasted away by whatever sickness had ravaged her.

  He sent for the captain right away, unable to deny her anything that might bring her ease. In the end, she had hung on to life long enough to have her will properly signed and witnessed, as well as to give strict instructions on how to deliver it to her solicitor in London while leaving a copy with him. Once everything had been put in order and she had hugged her daughter one last time, she slipped away, accepting the peace death offered.

  Clearing his throat, Gideon ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I knew Lucinda feared for Isabella’s future. I can only imagine what kind of life the child would have been subjected to once her uncle ran through her fortune. The bounder would have probably tried to marry her off to some rich blueblood before she was out of the schoolroom. He would have sold her off to the highest bidder, no doubt, not caring a whit about how the fellow treated her. Makes me want to tear him apart just thinking about it.” Gideon took several measured breaths in an effort to cool his temper.

  “Yes, well, Lady Petchey was wise to have Captain Harris witness everything.” James’s own expression had turned rather dour. “His testimony to her soundness of mind—along with that of the ship’s doctor—is what swung the court in our favor. Petchey had painted her as a mentally unstable, paranoid woman who had run away from her only family for no reason whatsoever. He nearly succeeded in convincing the court that a sane woman would never have given her only child into the care of a stranger. If not for their testimony, you might have been forced to hand Isabella over to Petchey.”

  “God forbid.”

  Gideon slouched in his chair, glad for the first time since settling in Texas that several thousand miles and one very large ocean stood between him and England. The distance might separate him from everything that was familiar and the family he loved, but it also kept Isabella out of her uncle’s greedy grasp, and that was worth any sacrifice.

  Chapter 5

  LONDON

  Reginald Petchey stormed into his solicitor’s office and slammed the door.

  “This better be good, Farnsworth.” He took a seat in front of the thin man’s desk and glared his displeasure. “You’ve turned up nothing of importance in the fortnight sinc
e the court ruled against us, and now you have the nerve to summon me away from my club? I ought to dismiss you out of hand for such impertinence. You—”

  “I found Westcott.”

  Reginald halted his tirade and pierced his solicitor with a contemptuous glance designed to put him in his place. Farnsworth looked decidedly pasty-faced, and no doubt his knees were knocking together behind his desk, miserable milksop that he was, but he held steady. For the moment. Perhaps he wasn’t a complete invertebrate after all.

  “Go on.”

  Farnsworth managed to hold his gaze for a second or two before his mouth started quivering. Then his attention dropped to somewhere in the middle of Reginald’s chest. Satisfied at the man’s reaction, Reginald turned over his hand and began examining his manicured fingernails, sliding a dark look out of the corner of his eye every few seconds for good measure. He admired Farnsworth’s unusual display of mettle, but it wouldn’t do for the man to suddenly grow a backbone. There was too much at stake.

  “Yes, my lord.” The little toad coughed and shuffled his papers. “I dispatched a man to Leicestershire last week to bribe Baron Westcott’s servants into divulging his son’s location. Unfortunately, the staff turned out to be quite loyal. We made little headway until I changed tactics.”

  “You’re rambling, Farnsworth.”

  The solicitor twitched and squirmed in his chair, then apparently dredged up what remained of his spine and looked Reginald in the eye again.

  “Blackmail, my lord. The Westcotts insist upon morality from those who work for them, so we started searching for blemishes among the lambs, if you will. One loose-lipped fellow at the local tavern let it slip that an upstairs maid was rumored to have had a child out of wedlock a couple years back. My man traveled to her home village to investigate and found the girl’s parents raising the brat and claiming him as their own in an effort to preserve her reputation. However, he dug up several fine citizens who eagerly verified the rumor once they saw coin was involved. When we threatened to reveal her secret, the maid intercepted a letter her mistress intended to post to America and turned it over to us.”

  Impatient with the long-winded explanation, Reginald gritted his teeth. “We already know he’s in America.”

  “Yes, but until now we didn’t know where.”

  Farnsworth paused for effect, but Reginald was fed up with the theatrics. He pushed up out of his chair, planted his palms on the solicitor’s desk, and leaned across the surface. His face lowered an inch closer to Farnsworth’s with each word he forced through his clenched jaw.

  “Where … is … he?”

  Farnsworth swallowed and pulled back, his round eyes emitting a delightful quantity of distress.

  “H-h-he’s in the state of Texas. On a sheep ranch in a region called Menard County.”

  Triumph surged through Reginald’s veins, but he masked his pleasure. He was having too much fun watching Farnsworth sweat.

  “I assume you’ve booked passage for me on a steamer, then?” His nose nearly touched the man’s cheek as he rumbled the question.

  “N-n-no, sir. But I’ll go as soon as we’ve concluded our business.”

  “You’ll go now.”

  Farnsworth sprung backward out of his chair, like a hare evading a hound. “I’ll go now.” Never taking his wary eyes off Reginald, he stumbled toward the door, plucked his hat off the rack, and fumbled with the latch. After several unsuccessful attempts, the cornered hare finally found his rabbit hole and escaped down the corridor.

  Reginald paced over to the window and watched Farnsworth scurry down the street. Then his gaze blurred as his focus turned inward, his lips twisting into a feral smile. Lucinda’s attempt at revenge had failed. Why had he ever doubted it? No mere woman could outmaneuver him. Stuart might have surrendered to her wiles, but his brother had gone soft, letting her virtuous manner and religious drivel turn his insides to mush. Reginald would never fall for such tripe, and Lucinda knew it. She had thought herself so clever by fleeing England. Yet she hadn’t been able to outrun death, had she? He brushed his thumb and forefinger over the thick mustache that sat atop his lip. No. He always won in the end. Always.

  Too bad that fact was harder to prove to his creditors than it had been to his sister-in-law. The impatient leeches. He had bought some time when Lucinda died, assuring them the Petchey fortune would revert to him. However, now that news of the will had spread, they would be back, and more demanding than ever. Reginald’s hands bent into fists. Ruin. Disgrace. Sour contemplations. It was his duty to protect the Petchey name. His ancestors fought and died to bring honor to this house. He wouldn’t allow it to be stripped away just because his brother had abdicated family loyalty in order to please his delusional wife.

  Sunlight streamed through the window and glinted off the ring on his right hand. Reginald lifted it up to take a closer look and frowned as dark memories assaulted him. The black onyx stone overlaid with a gold P had been handed down to first sons for generations. Now it belonged to him, ever since the day a hunting accident had taken Stuart’s life.

  Ah, Stuart. He wished things could have worked out differently. The two of them had been close once upon a time. Before Lucinda. Reginald tapped the ring against the glass, his agitation building. The taps grew more forceful until he finally willed himself to stop. With mechanical precision, he lowered his hand to his side. The past could not be changed. He must focus on the future.

  Stuart’s daughter was the future. Petchey blood ran through her veins, and it was his duty to restore her to her rightful family. Westcott couldn’t give her that heritage. Only he could. And with his niece under his protection, he’d have the blunt he needed to settle his debts and rebuild the Petchey fortune. All he had to do was remove Gideon Westcott from the equation.

  Chapter 6

  Adelaide leaned against the spindled porch railing and waved farewell to her traveling companions. Mrs. Carmichael sat stiff in her seat, but Miss Oliver returned the gesture, her genteel expression unruffled. Mr. Westcott said a few final words to his friend, shaking his hand and thumping him on the back before Mr. Bevin climbed aboard the wagon. With a snap of the reins, Mr. Bevin set the horses in motion, leaving her behind. The new governess. Her. Adelaide Proctor. The truth struggled to settle into her brain.

  Mr. Westcott stood in the yard watching the wagon depart, and Adelaide watched him. The man seemed to be two people. By day he was a rancher wearing cotton shirts and denim trousers, wrestling pregnant ewes, and watering strange women’s horses. But in the evening, he became an elegant nobleman in silk ties and fine coats with fancy manners and cultured charm. The hardworking rancher earned her respect, but the English gentleman made her heart flutter, embodying every storybook hero she’d ever fallen in love with.

  He was well formed and tall, but not overly tall. He kept his dark hair trimmed short, and his eyes were the color of melted chocolate. But it was his smile that did her in. He had dimples. Amazingly, the boyish creases did nothing to hinder his masculinity. Instead, they enhanced it and gave him a cheerful mien that was impossible to resist.

  When he’d entered the parlor last night and met her gaze for the first time since their encounter in the stable, his eyes had teased her, bringing a blush to her cheeks and even greater warmth to her heart. It was as if she were Jane Eyre arriving at Thornfield to begin her position as governess to the young Adèle, but instead of finding the house without its master, her Mr. Rochester was in residence. A sigh bubbled inside her as the daydream played out in her mind, but the sound of Mr. Westcott’s approaching footsteps banished the fantasy.

  Adelaide spun around and pressed her back to the railing to avoid looking at him. Her heart pounded in time with the rhythm of her guilty conscience. The last thing she needed was for her employer to find her mooning over him. Hadn’t her romantic inclinations gotten her into enough trouble already? Mr. Westcott smiled too much to play the role of a dark and brooding Rochester anyway. And her impulsive nature an
d chatterbox personality couldn’t possibly be more unlike the staid, proper Jane, who spoke more with her eyes than with her mouth.

  She was at Westcott Cottage to do a job, not to reenact her favorite novel. Isabella deserved the very best she could give. God brought her here to minister to a child, not swoon over a man. She’d best not forget that.

  “If you would be so good as to accompany me to the study, Miss Proctor, I’d like to go over your duties with you.”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze. He grinned, setting loose those dimples to wreak havoc on her already quivery nerves. Those things were deadly to a woman’s concentration. She clasped her hands together at her waist and squeezed her fingers until the pain dislodged the breathless feeling from her chest.

  “Of course,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded normal.

  He ushered her inside and past the front parlor to a doorway near the foot of the stairs. Dark walnut furniture dominated the room, including an entire wall of built-in bookshelves. Soft olive and ivory fabrics in the upholstery, carpet, and draperies offset the heaviness of the dark wood, however. Cream-colored paper on the walls sported gilt-embossed designs that reflected what little sunlight penetrated the room. Some of the tension drained out of her. It was certainly a masculine space but not unwelcoming, which was a blessing. Meeting with her new employer was intimidating enough without having the walls press in on her.

  “Please have a seat, Miss Proctor.”

  A settee and two chairs were arranged along the wall opposite the bookshelves. Mr. Westcott touched the back of one of the chairs and motioned for her to sit. Once she did, he took the place across from her, their knees separated by a varnished table topped with two small leather-bound books. The covers showed a great deal of wear, not the pristine display one would expect.

  Curiosity pushed all worries about the interview from Adelaide’s mind. The cracked leather spine of the first volume indicated a collection of Shakespeare’s works, while the other read Holy Bible.