Never Blow a Kiss

Chapter 1

May 1838

Emily Leverton was a hopeless governess. She played the pianoforte with the grace of an elephant, her arithmetic was appalling, and the last time she’d read A Lady’s Guide to Etiquette and Manners her eyes had nearly crossed with boredom. The only thing at which she excelled was something no gently bred woman should know.

Alas, Emily was no gently bred woman.

Emily handed her youngest pupil a sheet of stationery. Although it was true that Emily’s ability to teach accomplishments such as needlework and dancing was nearly nonexistent, she was an expert in deceit.

“The first rule of spying,” she instructed, “is to act as if you are entirely uninterested in the conversation around you. Jot that down, Morris. You will never best your twin sisters if you do not take this seriously.”

The seven-year-old neatly wrote the first rule at the top of the stationery. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the schoolroom window and caught in his hair as if it were a halo and he an angel. Morris truly was the dearest child, which made him an easy target for his conniving older sisters. Fortunately, Emily’s true talents were… unconventional.

When he finished, he lifted earnest brown eyes. “What is rule number two, Miss Leverton?”

Emily crouched beside him and touched his shoulder. “Rule number two is that you must never base your worth on what others think of you. None of us are perfect. Some of us are not even what we seem.”

The dinner gong rang, and Morris smiled shyly before tucking the paper in his trouser pocket. “Thank you, Miss Leverton.”

“We will finish tomorrow!” she called at his departing back.

Emily spent a few minutes tidying the schoolroom before she set off for the Mottersheads’ library. As the governess of the house she was neither servant nor nobility, which made dinner arrangements awkward. She had solved the problem early in her assignment by retreating to the library until the Mottersheads had finished their repast, and then taking her supper alone in the breakfast room.

Emily stilled in the hallway and cocked her head, her baser instincts buzzing. Had she heard a sound? Everyone should be dressing for dinner, including the latest addition to the household—the children’s uncle, the Viscount Charlsburn. The tyrant had arrived the week before, and his sour demeanor had the entire estate on edge. Unhappy with everything from the state of the silverware to the architecture of the stables, he lorded over the house as if he owned it himself, his hooked nose sniffing out Cook’s imperfections and his crafty eyes appraising the value of each object. No anomaly escaped his scrutiny, and that included Emily.

Satisfied she was alone, Emily continued toward the library. She rounded the corner and shrieked with dismay when she nearly collided with the viscount, who had to have been walking silently on purpose.

“What is the hurry, Miss Leverton?” he asked, his fingers clawing into her upper arms even though she was in no danger of falling. His oily voice reminded her of her former husband’s.

“No hurry.” Emily’s tone was light as she stepped back, forcing him to release her. “Is there something I can help you with, my lord?”

Shrewd gray eyes fell on her mouth. “Indeed. Remind me from where you hail, Miss Leverton?”

“Monmouth.”

“Yes, that is what I thought. I have a dear friend in Monmouth. I wrote to him within a few days of my arrival. To his knowledge, no Leverton family resides in the township. Odd, would you not say?”

Emily had suspected Charlsburn knew she was not what she seemed, and this confirmed it. She was experienced enough to know when a con had gone south.

It was time to move on.

He closed the distance between them and reached for a dark curl that had fallen from her pins. Emily dodged his hand, but he advanced again. “Stay still, my pet. Do you know how I have dreamt of this moment?”

Emily’s stomach clenched. With a smattering of unfashionable freckles and hair so curly it disobeyed pins on the regular, she’d considered herself neither pretty enough to draw attention nor ugly enough to do the same. She was ordinary. Plain. And aside from her rough hands and sunburnt nose, she’d thought she’d successfully pulled off the role of respectable governess. Even her imitation of the upper class’s posh accent was spot-on.

The viscount had clearly seen past her act. Had she aroused his suspicion with the watercolor incident? He’d recently come across her teaching the girls to paint a watercolor of the horses in the field, except the art session had taken a cheek-reddening turn into a lesson on reproduction. How was she to have known the mares were in heat? Surely any governess could have made that mistake.

“You must excuse me, my lord,” Emily said, pressing her hand to her stomach. “I am not feeling well. You had best move before I—” She retched. Violently.

Lord Charlsburn paled.

“I believe I ate some poor fish,” Emily continued, and covered her mouth just in time to muffle a loud belch.

Charlsburn took a hurried step back. “You must return to your chamber at once! A more unladylike display I have never witnessed.”

Emily nodded in agreement, but rather than turning away she stumbled toward him and gagged. With horror etched on his face the viscount scurried off, muttering about filthy servants and the plague.

Once he was out of sight, Emily resumed her walk to the library, her footsteps lighter than before. Yes, she was going to have to skip town and find a new situation, but repelling the viscount had been immensely satisfying. Besides, she still had her forged letter of recommendation from the baroness, Lady Rosigan, who’d once spit on her in the street.

Emily entered the library, confident it would be empty. Her employer, Mr. Mottershead, was a genteelly impoverished man who squandered most of his income on items that made him appear wealthier than he was. This extended to the library, a sweeping room of rich woods accompanied by the scents of lemon polish and dust, the shelves stacked to the ceiling with classics and fashionable volumes that had never been cracked.

It was Emily’s favorite place. Although she lacked knowledge in nearly every subject a governess ought to be versed in—mathematics, world geography, history, and classical music—her literacy and imagination were unparalleled. As a child she’d read a filched copy of Prometheus Unbound to shreds, and with it had discovered an escape from her dreary world.

The orange glow of sunset seeped through the open drapes, catching floating dust motes with its light and warming the library to a cozy temperature. To save on overhead, the Mottersheads had been cutting back on staff, letting their gardener go months before and several maids since. That meant the only time the library was entered, other than by Emily, was when it was stocked with new books or dusted once a month.

She leisurely browsed the shelf of Mr. Mottershead’s newest acquisitions, running her fingertips over the leather spines and settling on the one she’d most anticipated seeing: The Pickwick Papers.

With the evening stretching before her, Emily sank into her favorite chair, the one that faced the wild tangle of orange, white, and violet blooms that lined the flagstone pathway in the garden, and bent to sniff the book. It smelled of leather and fresh ink.

She sighed contentedly. Her time with the Mottersheads was rapidly approaching an end, but Emily had learned to slow down and bask in the good moments while they lasted.

When she flipped open the front cover, the spine cracked and a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Emily untucked her legs and plucked it from the carpet. She could tell it was a note by the slanted, neat script. She shouldn’t read it; it was obviously intended for Mr. Mottershead.

Feeling virtuous, she was about to slip the note back into the book when she spotted the name Esther through the back of the paper.

Her real name.

With numb fingers, Emily unfolded the paper. Her eyes raced across the text.