Never Blow a Kiss

Book 1: The Secret Society of Governess Spies

by Lindsay Lovise

Genres: Historical Romance; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

The utterly charming Emily Leverton has a dark past and is determined to leave it behind in her respectable new role as a governess. But when she is recruited by a secret network of governesses who spy on the ton, it may just be a way to redeem the dark secrets of her past.

Straddling the worlds of the ton and the working class, as an ex-solider turned railroad magnate, Zach hunts killers for the Metropolitan Police by day and dutifully attends balls at night. In neither world has he met a woman with the brazenness to mock him. So when a saucy governess blows him a kiss he is determined to catch her, never expecting that when he does he will find an intelligent, quirky woman hiding more than her true name. As Zach peels back the layers of Emily’s lies, he falls for the street-wise woman who handles a dagger like a pro and kisses like a mistress. But when his affair with Emily intertwines with his hunt for a killer, he discovers Emily is hiding an explosive secret—one that could destroy them both.

Release date: January 23, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

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.

I have been watching you for some time, Esther Lewis. Is the life of a country governess fulfilling? Or do you dream of something more?

You can be more. I can help.

If you are interested, meet me at the church at midnight.

—The Dove

Emily stared at the words for a full minute, reading and re-reading them again before crushing the paper in her fist and lifting her eyes to the window. No one peeked at her from the garden; no glass glinted from a faraway telescope.

Someone out there knew her true identity. Even more worrisome, this person knew how to reach her. Knew, somehow even before she did, that she would choose this book to read.

Impossible.

She ran across the room and pulled down the next book on the shelf. An identical note fluttered to the ground. Every book on the new-acquisitions shelf, once opened, contained the same message for her.

Surrounded by the abandoned books, Emily clutched the stack of letters, her heart thumping. She suspected this was a precursor to blackmail; not for a moment did she consider the note’s promise of a brighter future. She was lucky to have come this far, to have tricked her way into a living that provided food and lodging and safety from her former life. Who cared if she languished with cruel pupils? What did it matter if she had to dodge immoral men? She was alive. She was safe.

Or she had been.

The papers had become tacky with sweat. Emily wasn’t giving up this life. She would meet this person and hear out his demands.

Then she would devise a plan.

St. Peter’s chapel in Aston-by-Sutton was constructed of Runcorn sandstone and flanked by an assortment of poorly tended graves. Dandelions sprouted between headstones, and the scents of warm grass and pollen still lingered in the air. A cupola atop the tower boasted an embedded clock in the stonework, and in the cloudless light of the moon, the black hands hovered a few minutes to midnight.

Emily surveyed the quiet churchyard, its silence disrupted only by the creeping rustle of grass on stone. Aston-by-Sutton was a hamlet with a tiny population of two hundred. Despite the scant number of residents, the church’s doors welcomed nearly every one of them—apart from the Mottersheads—each Sunday.

Satisfied that the churchyard was vacant aside from the souls sleeping beneath the soil, Emily rounded the side of the building to the entry arch. The heavy wooden door was closed. She expected it would be locked, but when she pulled on the brass ring it swung outward.

Despite the warmth of the day, the white stone and black marble floor held an earthen chill. Rows of oak pews faced a pulpit positioned beneath a sweeping white ceiling arch. Two single candles burned in slender iron candleholders on the altar.

Emily scanned the church, her eyes falling on a figure seated in a pew three rows from the front. She slid her hand into her pocket and curled her fingers around the hilt of her dagger. With a jeweled handle and scrolled metalwork, it was the nicest possession she owned. Her former husband, Lionel, had pickpocketed it from a rich duke, and then Emily had stolen it from Lionel. It had been the least she’d deserved.

She crept closer to the figure, unable to make out if the blue-cloaked head belonged to a man or woman. Her palm was solid around the hilt, although her heart beat a tattoo in her ears.

When she reached the pew, she stood at the end, ready to run if necessary. She’d packed her meager belongings earlier that evening and stashed the carpetbag behind a headstone in the graveyard. She could disappear within two minutes if she had to, and it would be as if she’d never been in Aston-by-Sutton apart from the note she’d left Morris. She couldn’t abandon the little boy without a goodbye.

The figure crossed itself and drew its hood back, revealing a fashionable black hat with an attached mourning veil. The woman’s hair was uncharacteristically loose beneath the hat, the strands a warm honey in the weak flicker of candlelight. Emily squinted at the short black veil that ended at a half-smiling mouth. She couldn’t make out the woman’s full features through the sheer black fabric, but she thought her nose was straight and patrician, her mouth slightly too wide, her lips a tad too thin. Despite the shroud of anonymity, the gloss of the woman’s hair and the fine quality of her cloak told Emily that her mysterious summoner was not only beautiful, but also wealthy.

Emily’s confusion multiplied. What on earth could this woman know about her? And why had she wanted to meet her here?

“Esther?” The woman’s voice was smoky and slightly mocking as she lifted her face to Emily. She knew very well who Emily was.

“My name is Emily now. What do you want?” Emily’s response was harsh, although she didn’t let her posh accent slip. Not yet.

“You do not trust me.”

“Why should I?”

“You should not. I approve. I approve of a lot of things about you, Emily.”

“I am not looking for your approval.”

The woman laughed. It wasn’t the dainty, tinkling laugh girls were taught that ground on Emily’s nerves, but a robust, chesty sound that spoke of genuine enjoyment. “Regardless, there are many characteristics of yours I admire. There are few dirt-poor thieves who could fit in with the English aristocracy as seamlessly as you have.”

Emily’s hand squeezed the hilt of the knife. “How do you know about my past?”

The woman took a moment to respond. “There is not a governess in England that I do not know about.”

Emily sensed that wasn’t the whole truth. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to make you an offer.”

“I have nothing of value a person such as yourself could desire.”

The woman made a soft clucking noise. “Do not sell yourself short, Emily. I have a new position for you. I understand Lord Charlsburn has become tiresome in his pursuit.”

Emily’s lips parted. How could she possibly know that? “Who are you?”

“Come, have a seat. I am tired of craning my neck.”

Emily slid into the polished pew, the wood smooth and worn beneath her palm. She angled herself to face the woman, leaving several feet of distance between them. She caught a whiff of vanilla and peony: an expensive combination.

“They call me the Dove, and you may do so as well.”

“They?”

“The network of women I employ.” The Dove paused, and Emily tried to peer through the net over her eyes. She could just make out their shape—slightly tilted and feline—but everything else remained in shadow. “Do you know much about the police?” At Emily’s look the Dove laughed softly. “I strongly believe the Metropolitan Police of London, and the even newer police forces of the Royal Boroughs, are necessary to protect the people of England and deliver justice.”

The police were anathema to Emily. Had she been lured here so the woman could have her thrown into prison like the man Emily had called father?

“They are fledgling agencies without established rules and customs. The finances are yet shaky, as are the expectations for the policemen and the public. The police forces are, as expected, entirely male.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

“I have a vested interest in seeing the policing network succeed. Too many criminals have gone free in the past, especially in the upper echelons. It is time we all abided by the same laws despite social class.”

Emily couldn’t help her stunned snort. “That will never happen.”

“It will happen,” the Dove replied, her voice steely with promise. “Maybe not in our lifetimes, but the foundation will be set now. Aside from the problems I have already mentioned, the current police forces are mostly working class and have zero entrée into the world of the ton, defeating the entire purpose of holding all classes to the same standard of legality.”

“Right. So they are stuck holding the working class and poor to the law, while the rich get away with breaking it. Like always.”

“Like always,” the Dove agreed.

Emily was surprised by the woman’s response. “But you are one of them, one of the wealthy.”

The Dove tilted her chin in interest. “Why do you say that?”

Emily shrugged before she could stop herself from the common action. Not that it mattered, since the woman already knew who she was. “Sorry, lady, but you’re an easy read: quality fabric, expert stitching and cut, that discreet emerald pin in your hair, the softness of your hands, the way you hold yourself. You are upper class through and through.”

The Dove’s lips quirked. “I knew I was right about you. You are going to be an excellent asset.”

Emily fidgeted. “I still do not understand what you mean by all this.”

“Quite right. In an effort to even the odds, I have decided to give the police a helping hand. There is an entire network of women who live in the houses of the ton and hear the fights, witness the scandals, and watch the servants clean up the blood—metaphorically speaking. They know where to point the finger for certain transgressions, and this information can be invaluable to the police.”

Emily sucked in a breath. “Governesses. You mean to say you use governesses as a network of spies within the ton?”

The thought of spying on the ton stirred to life a guilt Emily had borne for six excruciating years. Perspiration beaded at her temples. She sincerely hoped the Dove did not ask her to take part. She would not. She could not. Spying was amusing when it was a game, but she had learned too late that in real life, eavesdropping could be fatal.

The Dove considered Emily’s words. “Yes, I suppose that is close enough to the truth. The governesses work for me first and foremost, their hired family situation second. If I need a governess in a new situation, I move her. I do run the most prestigious governess agency in all of England.”

“Perdita’s Governess Agency?”

“You have heard of us.”

Emily certainly had, but she hadn’t ever considered applying to the agency. It supplied the elite upper class with governesses, and she’d known she’d never pass closer scrutiny.

She studied the Dove with new regard. Why would a woman of wealth and standing run a governess agency, à la spy network? What was this vested interest she had in seeing the police force thrive? Why the focus on justice within her own class?

There had been a time when Emily had trusted the ruling class at their word—a folly she would forever regret. She would not make the same mistake again.

“The information my governesses report back to me is extremely valuable, and we have been able to ruin several men who would have otherwise been left free to continue with rape and murder.”

Emily’s brows lifted, and the darkness stirring in her soul settled. If the Dove’s motives were as pure as she claimed, could this be Emily’s chance to atone for her past?

“This is not a game,” the Dove continued. “At times I put my governesses in dangerous positions, and the women take greater risks than some policemen. Their reward is twofold: the knowledge that they helped stop a monster, and the pay.”

Emily knew it was unladylike to ask about wages, but then she’d never been a lady, had she? “What do you pay?”

When the Dove told her, she nearly fell out of the pew.

“That is for active, dangerous situations. If you are in a normal household collecting blanket information, the pay is far less, although added to your wages as a governess is quite adequate.”

Even an eighth of the price the Dove had listed would be more than what Emily made in a month with the Mottershead family.

Emily wasn’t a fool. When something seemed too good to be true, it always was. “What do you get out of it?”

“I would have been disappointed if you had not asked, Emily.” The Dove absently stroked her bare ring finger. “Someone dear to me died because a man held too much unchecked power. The man was untouchable, and he was not made to pay for what he did.”

“Revenge.” Emily sat back and nodded. “You’ve built this system not only for justice, but also for revenge.”

The Dove tilted her head. “Is that not the most powerful motivator of all?”

That and love, Emily supposed. Although she still did not entirely trust the Dove, the woman’s answer had satisfied some of her skepticism.

Emily considered what she’d learned. A network of female spies! In theory Emily believed in justice, although in reality she hadn’t seen it practiced very often. The money was an alluring part of the offer. If she made enough to stash away, she would never have to worry about living in poverty again.

Then there was the possibility that maybe she could ease some of the black guilt she bore like a stain on her soul.

“What if the family questions my qualifications? I am not actually a good governess. I can read and write and spell, but that is about it. And there is no way I would say and do all the proper things. It would be obvious I do not fit in.” Emily may have fooled the Mottersheads all the way out in Cheshire, but she’d never pull the wool over the eyes of a highly educated family of the ton.

The Dove stiffened in mock offense. “They would not dare question the qualifications of a Perdita girl. And by the time you have graduated my school, you will be one.”

“How can you trust me?” Emily asked bluntly. “Don’t you expect me to steal the silver candlesticks from the family you position me with? Seduce the husband? Smother the grandmother? I am a thief by trade.”

“You spent your youth stealing to survive. When was the last time you took something that was not yours?”

Emily thought about it. “I do not know. But I lied to get the position I have.”

“Lying is a different matter entirely,” the woman assured her.

“I took my former husband’s dagger.”

“The one in your pocket? I know of your former husband, Emily. He deserved far worse. I have no worries.”

“How do you know so much about me?” And more important, did she know about Emily’s deepest shame?

“I think I have shared enough secrets tonight. There remains only one question: Are you ready to join us?”

The choice was obvious. Emily could either bounce from situation to situation, praying no one would discover her lies, or she could become a spy and make more money than she’d ever dreamed possible.

“I’m in.”

2 Months Later

July 1838

Zachariah Denholm stood at the edge of the ballroom counting all the ways he knew to kill a man—and none of them was painful enough for his friend Deputy Commissioner Wright Davies. Wright had begged Zach to attend an intimate dinner party at Exeter House, where his sister was the newly minted marchioness. The four-hundred-person ball Zach had discovered upon his arrival was many things, but intimate it was not.

After that blasted article in the society pages that morning, the last place Zach wanted to be was at the Season’s most successful crush. When he saw Wright, he was going to…

“It has to be him!” a young woman squealed to his right, interrupting his fantasy of socking Wright. “His eyes are as cold as the Arctic, just as the article said.” She shivered theatrically.

“It also said he is not a man to be toyed with,” her companion hissed. “It called him ‘frozen and merciless.’ I do not think you should ask for an introduction, Ainsley.”

Zach’s surliness multiplied.

“Your countenance is frightening my sister’s guests.”

Zach didn’t bother turni. . .