The Reluctant Governess Read Online Free PDF Page A

was wealthy, but wasting money was not a Scottish trait, she was certain.
    She paused in the hall before the double drawing room. Somewhere below there was a definitive noise—the snick of a door closing, the clatter of a walking stick tossed into the stand, a snatch of song. Drat. Nicholas Raeburn was home and one floor below.
    No wonder the house had been so quiet—he’d gone out with his mates to roar someplace else. But now he was back, probably more foxed than ever, and she was barefoot in her dressing gown.
    Eliza turned to flee upstairs, but was halted in her tracks by a whispered “Oh hell” and an ominous thud to the floor.
    It was really none of her business if he couldn’t get to bed on his own steam. Let him sleep on the front hall carpet, to be discovered by Mrs. Quinn, or poor Sue if she had sufficiently recovered from her illness. His servants were paid to care. Eliza had no notion if Mr. Raeburn even intended to pay her, although she was sure Lady Raeburn would see that she had some compensation for her sacrifice. Yes, tomorrow first thing she would ring the office and arrange for a suitable—or unsuitable—replacement.
    â€œArgh.”
    The groan wafted up the stairs, and Eliza bit a lip.
    â€œAieee.”
    Oh drat. He sounded like an animal caught in a trap, which would only serve him right. Eliza hesitated.
    â€œHelp me, for God’s sake, someone. Anyone.” He sounded as if he knew he hadn’t a prayer.
    Eliza knew her Christian duty. The man was drunk, possibly injured. And if he wasn’t injured now, his head would be killing him tomorrow morning.
This
morning. It was nearly two o’clock of the new day already. Eliza peeked over the banister.
    â€œI swear I’ll be good. Better, anyway. I promise on Sunny’s life.” Nicholas Raeburn continued to talk to the floor. He had pitched face-forward, and the only thing Eliza could see in the gloom was the back of his dark coat.
    â€œI know I’ve told You that before. This time I mean it.”
    Eliza snorted. Any bargain the wicked man had made with God had not been fulfilled.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    Her mother had warned her about her snorting. For one thing, it wasn’t ladylike, and now her contempt had revealed her presence.
    â€œIt is I, Miss Lawrence.”
    Nicholas Raeburn attempted to look up but failed. “What are you doing up there?”
    â€œI was on my way down to the kitchen for some hot milk. What are
you
doing down there?” she couldn’t resist asking.
    â€œGetting rug burn, I imagine. Could I trouble you to assist me? My legs seem to have gone out from under me. If you could just return my walking stick to me—I see I was premature to give it up.”
    Eliza looked down at the mirrored hall tree in the entryway. There was a collection of walking sticks and umbrellas corralled behind an elaborate bamboo design. Mr. Raeburn had not struck her as the walking stick sort. These things were probably left by his bankrupt friend and fellow artist Mr. Preble, about whom Mrs. Quinn had few good words to say as she hustled around the kitchen this evening. Mr. Preble must be truly a villain if Nicholas Raeburn compared favorably.
    â€œVery well.” Eliza made sure her robe was fastened securely and walked downstairs with as much dignity as she could muster. Looking over the canes, she selected one with a silver dog’s head and placed it near Mr. Raeburn’s hand. She had an image of herself holding out a branch to a man sinking in quicksand.
    He grasped it, but his gloved hand slipped. The sconces didn’t throw much light, but his glove appeared wet and dirty. It was a fine night—what mischief had he gotten into in some gutter or other?
    He tried again, hand over hand, slowly dragging himself up on his knees. With a little shriek, Eliza let the stick go and jumped back.
    â€œDon’t be afraid, Miss Lawrence. You should see the