The Duke's Governess in Disguise Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Duke's Governess in Disguise

  Fairfax Twins Book Two

  Claudia Stone

  Copyright © 2019 Claudia Stone

  www.claudiastone.com

  All rights reserved.

  Copy Editing by E.C. Hamilton

  Author's Note

  I have included the prologue from The Duke's Bride in Disguise, as an explainer about the twin's separation at birth for those who have not read the first book in the series.

  If you have already read the first book in the series, skip forward to Chapter Two!

  CHAPTER ONE

  1

  London, 1798

  Alastair Fairfax, Sixth Marquess of Havisham, was not afraid to admit that he loved his wife--even if it was most unfashionable to do so. What he was afraid to admit to—out loud at least—was that he loved her more than his three sons.

  Oh, don't think that he did not adore the three strapping lads whom his wife, Adeline, had gifted him during the first decade of their marriage, for he did. It was just that when it came to their happiness, or the happiness of anyone else for that matter, Alastair could wholly admit that they were a secondary concern as compared to his wife.

  Which was why, despite the recommendation of several physicians not to, Alastair agreed that he and Adeline would try for a fourth child—a girl. All that Adeline wanted in the world was a daughter, and who was Alastair to deny her such a thing?

  After months of trying, which the Marquess thoroughly enjoyed, the Marchioness of Havisham conceived, and thus began the unenjoyable portion of their mission. For nine months Lord Havisham walked on eggshells; anytime his wife sneezed, coughed, or passed wind—not that he would admit that this was an act she was capable of—the Marquess would suffer a fit of the vapours. For months, Adeline made sure to carry a bottle of smelling salts on her person, lest her husband fainted dead away.

  At last, the day of the labour dawned and the Marchioness was whisked away to her bedchamber, to be attended to by three of London's most eminent physicians, two laying-in women, and an accoucheur for good luck. As the day wore into night, and back to day again, the Marquess was struck by a realisation; he had been so consumed by his wife's happiness, that he had not even thought of his own. What would he do if Adeline, as many doctors had warned might happen, died during childbirth? The thought was too much to even contemplate, though as Adeline's labour pains continued into a third day, it was all that Alastair could think of.

  Finally, after three bottles of brandy, several dozen cigars, and some work on Adeline's part, a babe was born. Alastair, who was never usually a man to do anything in a hurry, took the runners two at a time as he made his way upstairs to see his wife. His knock on her bedchamber door was answered by Dr Philips, who gave the Marquess a rather strained look.

  "Your wife is asleep," he whispered, as he slipped outside the door, "Her body is exhausted and she is very, very weak. I fear for her, my Lord, but if we pray and remain calm, God willing she might survive."

  "And the babe?"

  Again Dr Philips looked most uncomfortable as he replied, "Is with the laying-in woman, in the room yonder. She gave a few cries when she was born, which seemed to bolster your wife's spirits, but she too is very weak."

  A girl. Thank goodness, after all that, it was a girl.

  Alastair made his way into the room opposite his wife's chambers, where a small nursery had been prepared for the new baby. The room was dim, lit only by one candle, and silent as the grave.

  "Hullo," Alastair whispered to the laying-in woman, who sat in the rocker in the corner clutching a bundle of blankets. "I've come to see my daughter."

  "Oh, my Lord," the laying-in woman, who had been on her feet for the best part of three days, leapt back onto them at the sight of the Marquess. "Forgive me, I wanted to hold the poor mite as she—as she—"

  As she slipped from the world.

  Alastair did not need the woman to finish the sentence, for he knew in his heart—and from the room's silence-- that his poor, dainty daughter had not lived.

  All that work and Adeline's health had been sacrificed for nothing.

  "Dr Philips bade me come in here," the woman continued, gibbering a little with nerves for she had never spoken to a Marquess. "He was afraid it would kill her Ladyship, if she were to know that the poor, wee bairn was gone."

  "Kill her?"

  Alastair broke out into a clammy sweat at the thought that there was still a risk Adeline might expire, despite having survived the worst.

  "Aye," the laying-in woman nodded fervently, her soft Scottish brogue not doing anything to take the sharpness from her words. "Her Ladyship is very weak, t'would snuff her out like a candle if she heard."

  Gracious; Alastair had not thought of that. The melancholia he felt at his daughter's demise, was replaced by an urgent need to do something—anything—to ensure his wife's continued health.

  An idea came to him, so preposterous that initially he dismissed it. But then, the Marquess caught sight of the unmoving, bundle of swaddled blankets in the laying-in woman's arms, and took such a fit of despair at the sight of them, that he knew he could not present this poor, sad sight to his wife.

  "I will need you to fetch me another baby," he said, in as even a manner as he could muster.

  "Beg pardon, my Lord?" the woman questioned, thinking that perhaps she had not understood him.

  "I said," Alastair repeated, "That I will need you to fetch me another baby. I cannot tell my wife that her daughter did not live—as you said, the news will surely kill her."

  "But, where am I supposed to fetch a baby from?" the laying-in woman asked in confusion; the good people of Grosvenor Square were not likely to have any spare offspring lying about.

  "The Foundling Hospital will be happy to give you one, for a bag of coin," Lord Fairfax replied evenly, "And there will be a bag of coin in it for you, of course."

  The promise of money did not seem to sway the Scottish woman's doubts, for her face was still creased into a frown of worry. "And what about this poor lass?" she asked, looking down at the blankets in her arms.

  "The hospital will, no doubt, have arrangements made for burying her," the Marquess replied gently, sensing that this matter would take some great tact and diplomacy on his part. "And they will be happy to know that a poor, orphaned babe, with no future to speak of will go to a home where it will know only love and prosperity."

  For a moment, Lord Fairfax feared that he may have overdone it, but then the midwife wiped a tear from her rheumy eyes and nodded.

  "Aye," she said with a plaintive sigh, "It's God's work, if something good is borne from this tragedy—how much coin did you say, my Lord?"

  "A bagful," the Marquess replied with relief, "Come, follow me down the backstairs to the library and I will see you provided for."

  And so, the Marquess and the midwife, disappeared downstairs to the library, where Lord Fairfax furnished Mrs McCafferty with two bags, heavy with coin, and strict instructions to fetch him a girl, no more than a day old, without any mention of his name.

  Mrs McCafferty was not a hard-hearted woman, but throughout her caree
r she had attended to thousands of women in labour. She knew that, unfortunately, a lot of babies did not live long after taking their first breath in this hard world. She also knew that London was brimming over with orphans, and that to be given the chance to save a child from a future as an illiterate street-urchin was no less than a miracle.

  And so, she set forth into the cold, drizzly London night, determined to save a poor, unwanted girl from the cruel life of a Blackguard child.

  The Foundling Hospital, the bastion of charitable goodness that the Marquess of Havisham had directed Mrs McCafferty toward, would not do for tonight's purposes. Run by good Protestants, who were meticulous in their record-keeping, Mrs McCafferty knew that she would not be able to secret a baby from their clutches without first signing at least a dozen papers and revealing who her patron was. Instead, relying on gossip and rumours, she made her way toward Lambeth, to the Asylum for Orphaned Girls.

  "Who's there?"

  The door to the forbidding building was opened, after much banging on Mrs McCafferty's part, by a woman whose face was as hard and cracked as her voice. She held a candle in her hand as she peered out the half-open door into the night at the midwife.

  "My master," Mrs McCafferty adopted the dignified tones of a high-ranking servant as she spoke, "Requires a newborn girl."

  "Is that so?" the woman replied with disinterest, "If a newborn is what your master wants, then he may come along in the morning and fetch her himself."

  The woman made to close the door upon Mrs McCafferty, but the wily Scotswoman stopped her with her booted foot.

  "My master is willing to pay," she continued, allowing the bag of coin in her hand to clunk tantalisingly against the door. The merry jingle of money had a Benedictine effect upon the Asylum's matron, for she opened the door wide at once and bade Mrs McCafferty follow her inside.

  "I need a newborn, or as near to newborn as you can give me," the midwife whispered, as she followed the Matron—Mrs Hannigan—down a long, echoing corridor.

  "Give me a minute to think," Mrs Hannigan, who had consumed the best part of a bottle of gin before Mrs McCafferty's arrival, replied. Though her mind was quite addled with the drink, it had already fixed on what baby would do for her unexpected customer. The only problem was, that she did not quite trust the Scottish woman to go along with her plan.

  "Stay here," she commanded, as she took the bundle of blankets from Mrs McCafferty's arms.

  Mrs Hannigan disappeared into one of the asylum's smaller dormitories, which was lined with cribs holding sleeping babies.

  Her newest arrivals were located at the end of the dormitory, just under the window. The light of the moon illuminated the two cribs she sought, and she noted with a grunt that some softhearted dolt had moved them closer together.

  Twins; borne by an upper-class lady just that afternoon. Though the silly girl had seen fit to bleed to death afterwards, which was rather a shame, for Mrs Hannigan had hoped to extract a lot of coin from her.

  It was easy to see, even in the soft moonlight, that the two babes in the cribs were as identical as identical could be. For a minute, Mrs Hannigan wondered as to the wisdom of her decision, but the memory of the money coupled with the howling winter wind outside the window, pushed all her doubts aside.

  It was not like their paths would ever cross, she thought, as she swapped one baby out of the crib and replaced it with the poor, bundled babe in her arms.

  It was rather like playing God, Mrs Hannigan thought with a hiccough, as she returned to the waiting midwife with the slumbering baby girl. One twin would live a life of prosperity, whilst the other twin would grow up to be nothing more than a maid. And never the twain would meet, she thought with a smile, as she handed the baby to Mrs McCafferty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  2

  Emily Fairfax had always longed for a life of adventure and excitement. As a child, she had devoured her older brothers' books about bold pirates and heroic soldiers, wishing fervently that she too could sail to far away lands to perform brave feats. Alas, Emily was a lady, and not just any lady—she was the only, much longed for, daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Havisham, and any kind of adventure, was strictly out of the question.

  Lady Fairfax had already near-raised three boys by the time Emily had arrived into the world,and had been determined to lavish her daughter with all the gentle, feminine, lace and frill filled love that her sons had not wanted. So, from her very first day on earth, Lady Emily had been dressed in silks and bows, swaddled in blankets, and forcibly removed from the corrupting, male influence of her brothers.

  Whilst the Fairfax boys had played outside, in the rambling gardens of Havisham House, Lady Emily—invariably dressed in something white and frothy--had been forced to watch them from the window of her playroom. No matter how much her governess tried to tempt her away from her maudlin post with one of her many dolls, Emily would not budge. Finally, fearing the maids might tattle about the hand prints on the window panes, the governess had given in to Emily's demands for adventure and fetched her a copy of Robinson Crusoe.

  "Don't tell your mother I allowed you to read this," she had said sternly, as she handed over the tattered book to Emily.

  The old adage that forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest rang true for young Emily, who devoured the book in one sitting, yet still found herself wanting more. Later that same evening she had sneaked into her father's library, removed all of Mr Defoe's works from the shelves, and hidden them under her bed.

  For the next few months, Emily secretly read Captain Singleton, Memoirs of a Cavalier, Colonel Jack, and the rather confusing, to her sensibilities at least, Moll Flanders. In his writings, Mr Defoe had opened up a new world to her; a world of adventure that one did not even need to leave the house to experience, and a world where girls could be more than just an ornament.

  Daydreaming became something of an escape for young Emily, who found she could tolerate her mother's fussing by pretending she simply was not there. On social visits and house calls, people oft complemented Lady Fairfax on her daughter's placid, obedient behaviour, little knowing that the girl before them was dreaming that she was as daring as Anne Bonney, or as bold as Mary Read.

  As time progressed, so too did Emily's reading habits, and she had soon exhausted the collection of Gothic novels in her father's library. Knowing that her mother thought reading a frivolous past-time for young ladies, Emily went behind the marchioness's back, and pleaded with her father to purchase a subscription for her, for one of the libraries in town.

  "I don't know, dear," Lord Fairfax had looked dubious upon hearing her request.

  "Of course, father," Emily had replied with faux innocence, "Whatever you think is best. It's just that a small, country library like that found in Blackheath, does not have the resources a young lady needs. There are no manuals on decorum, or deportment to be found—and I fear that I might make myself seem silly, when I go to town..."

  Lord Fairfax had started at this revelation; like his wife, he doted upon Emily and wanted only the best for his daughter.

  "Goodness," he had murmured, rushing to find some paper on which to write, "We cannot have that. I will purchase you a subscription for Mr Hobb's Circulating Library—I hear he has quite the collection."

  And so, for a guinea a year, and a few shillings in lending fees each quarter, Emily had access to all the books her heart desired. Her reading habits veered wildly from what would usually be proscribed for a young lady of the peerage; Voltaire, Blake, Fielding and Radcliffe were amongst her favourite authors—and once she had devoured their works, she greedily consumed the newest novels from Minerva Press.

  Emily's head was so filled by Gothic novels, that there was no room for the gentle, feminine arts her mother insisted she try learn. Her governess decried her embroidery skills as an abomination, the Italian dancing instructor had resigned in a huff after Emily had trod on his toe one time too many, and the art-tutor brought down from London had declared Em
ily's attempts at watercolours as an offence to mankind.

  "Oh, dear," Lady Fairfax had sighed,upon the art-tutors' departure, casting her daughter an affectionately despairing glance, "I had so hoped that you would be accomplished at something."

  "I could try fencing with Timothy?" Emily offered hopefully; for she had been green with envy since her brother had taken up the sport.

  "Absolutely not," Lady Fairfax had shuddered, "Perhaps we shall try the pianoforte next?"

  "Perhaps," Emily had replied mulishly.

  Her disinterest in music evaporated the day that her music-instructor, Miss Bingham, arrived at Fairfax Manor. The week before, Emily had heard her mother whispering with her father about offering the Blackheath's local spinster employment, out of a sense of charity, so she had envisaged Miss Bingham to be a pitiful sight.

  Instead, the young woman was quite the opposite; she was tall and striking looking, with inquisitive black eyes like a bird, and her mouth gave the impression that it smiled easily and often.

  "Life is not fair," Miss Bingham had observed, as she caught Emily looking out the music room window, down at the lawn where Timothy and his fencing instructor were sparring.

  "No it's not," Emily replied morosely.

  Miss Bingham gave a secretive smile at Emily's tone, before placing herself on the stool before the piano.

  "I often find," she said over her shoulder, "That the world can be quite an oppressive place for women..."

  "Oh?" Emily's ears pricked at this assertion.

  "Indeed," Miss Bingham idly fingered the ivory keys before her, "We are told from a young age that we are not allowed to have needs, wants or desires, unless they have been deemed appropriate by society—never mind unfeminine feelings. Tell me, Lady Emily, have you ever felt rage?"

  Miss Bingham's fingers pressed down on the keys of the pianoforte, and a dark, angry sound, burst forth, echoing perfectly the simmering resentment that Emily felt within her breast. Curious, she took a step toward the piano, her eyes following Miss Bingham's fingers as they flew across the keys.