Page 5 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord

Thiswas none of that. Its dark stone was rough-hewn and assembled indiscriminately, so that it appeared less comfortingand more like a house comprised of gnawing rock teeth, and the boughs of the tall trees that surrounded it gave less the impression of country comfort and more that of a lair for the lumbering beast sheltered beneath them. The tattered curtains in the windows were a dull brown, and if there ever hadbeen a garden, it had long since melded with the rugged landscape; flowers choked by weeds and wild grasses. What passed for a lawn was half grass and half mud.

“This can’t be correct,” she heard herself saying, and her hands fisted in the folds of her traveling dress in disbelief, even as the coachman climbed down from his seat. And then again, as the man opened the door: “Thiscan’tbe correct.”

“Asked the direction at the last stop,” he said, referring to the coaching inn that they had made a brief stop at for a quick meal perhaps an hour or so before. “This is the place.”

The ground squished beneath the toes of her boots; evidence of a hard rain at some point in the not too distant past. Diana took a single step toward the cottage and paused, swallowing hard. There had been some mistake somewhere, she was certain. Whatever sources to which Rafe laid claim, surelythey had been mistaken.

She was about to blunder in upon some common laborer and his family, perhaps at their noon meal. And then she would have to return to London disappointed—and worse, still engaged. “I won’t be long,” she said to the coachman, who doffed his cap to her as she proceeded toward the cottage.

As she stood before the door, setting her shoulders in preparation, she felt an unaccountable gratefulness for her gloves—the door was so poorly maintained that she was sure that knocking upon it without them would resultin coming away with half a dozen splinters. But she knocked nonetheless. Hard.

The quiet rustle of leaves upon the tree branches was disturbed by a shrill scream so loud and piercing that the horses nickered in distress, and Diana leapt back from the door, her heart hammering in her throat. A moment later, the door flew open, banged against the wall, and a woman staggered out—a ghost-like apparition, unnaturally pale.

A gasp tore free of Diana’s throat, wretched and terrified, before at last the realization settled upon her that she was not about to be dragged to hell by the spirit reaching for her. The hands that clenched upon her shoulders were solid; the woman was alive and hale—only covered from head to toe in a fine dusting of flour. Beneath her powdery cheeks was a flush of fury, and her shoulders dropped in a sigh of relief as she squeezed Diana’s shoulders in her hand.

“Thank God,” the woman said. “Thank God. A governess. Atlast.”

“A—what?” Diana croaked.

The woman snatched off the cap that adorned her head and shook it free of flour, and the plume of it that erupted between them was so thick that Diana coughed and waved it away. “You may tell Mr. Gillingham that his daughter is the devil’s own get,” the woman said with a fierce jerk of her chin as she swiped one hand across her face, which only succeeded in streaking the flour. Turning a pitying gaze upon Diana, she said, “May God be with you. And if you’ll take a word of advice…run. The very minute that Mr. Gillingham returns, yourun.”

Diana felt her mouth drop open, knew she was gawping like a landed fish, and yet she could summon no words to her tongue in the wake of that small speech.Mr. Gillingham?Daughter?

Another firm squeeze of her shoulder, and the woman reiterated, “God be with you,” with such a wealth of feeling that Diana felt a shiver climb up her spine. What had she gotten herself into?

The woman cast not so much as a backward glance behind her as she skirted Diana through the doorway and began to march down the muddy road back toward the village, and Diana stood stock-still, perplexity creasing her brow.

“I don’t look like a governess,” she said to herself, smoothing out the dark blue skirts of her traveling dress, which had grown rather wrinkled. “I don’t—do I?” With her fingertip, she pushed her spectacles once more up the bridge of her nose.

The coachman muttered something noncommittal, no doubt in utter lack of anything more reassuring to say. So shedidlook like a governess, then.

A tiny sound from within the house drew her attention, and Diana glanced into the dim interior, hunting for the origin of it. The house was largely silent, absent the ambient noises of staff moving through their paces. Probably it was too small a house to merit a staff at all. But achild…

The coachman cleared his throat. “My lady, shall we return to London?”

By the tone of his voice, Diana supposed he thought this whole journey had been an exercise in futility. And perhaps it had been. ButGillingham. It could not be a coincidence—could it?

And there was a child. Somewhere, there was a child.

Another tiny flutter from within, like that of small footsteps. “No,” Diana said. “No—not just yet.” How, in good conscience, could she leave before she had made certain that she would not be abandoning a child of indeterminate age to her own devices? When she did not know how long it would be before the child’s parents returned for her?

Hesitating at the threshold, Diana edged the very tip of one boot through the doorway. “Hello?” she called, uncertainly.

A small hand slipped around a corner, fingers curling there. A face followed—plump, cherubic cheeks framed by a wealth of curly blond hair wound into twin plaits. Wide blue eyes peeked out from beneath disheveled bangs, blinking innocently. The girl couldn’t have been more than seven or perhaps eight at the very most. Too young to be left alone.

“Hello, darling,” Diana said, striving for the same sweet tone she’d often employed with her young nephew. “My name is Diana. What’s yours?”

“Hannah.” Along with the word, a single foot slid out from behind the corner, tentatively placed into a thick stream of afternoon sunlight which poured in from a window behind her. “Hannah Grace Gillingham.”

“Hannah,” Diana repeated. “What a lovely name.” She dropped into a crouch, suspecting that she likely cut a rather imposing figure to such a young child—a strange woman, who had appeared with no notice. “Hannah, is your father at home? Your mother?”

A severe shake of her head which set those plaits to bobbing, and she slipped out from behind the corner at last, shoving her small hands into the pockets of her dress. “I haven’t got a mama,” she said. “Papa doesn’t come home until it gets dark.” Her lower lip trembled, an alarming little quiver that suggested the potential of tears. “I don’t like it when it gets dark.”

Diana’s heart wrenched in her chest. Poor little moppet! And thatdreadfulwoman, to have cast such an unjust aspersion upon the child. The devil’s own get, indeed! “The woman who left just now,” Diana said, “was she meant to be watching over you?”

“Miss Wright,” Hannah whispered. “She was to mind me until Papa gets home.” She glanced down as her chin quivered. “She doesn’t like me.”

“And there is no one else here to watch over you?”