“Lucia?” A feminine voice called out as the door banged open. “Are you in here? Since we’ve sent the carriage back to fetch Geoffrey’s clo—”
He felt a sudden rush of air on his lips, harsh and cold. He did not want to admit that the dream had ended. But it had. He opened his eyes to see the young lady with whom Miss Wright had been speaking at the opera.
“Gracious heavens!” The young lady looked from Miss Wright to himself, then back to her again. “What were you doing, Lucia?”
Miss Wright jumped to her feet with an athletic, thoroughly unladylike display of physical prowess. She made no answer, but threw him one fleeting look—regret, dismay…it was hard to read. Then she disappeared through the open door.
The other young lady looked quizzically at him before turning to follow her friend into the hall.
Edmund felt as if his insides had been shredded and reshaped into a new form. Painful thoughts and memories mingled with the unexpected, pleasant sensation of the last few minutes. That sensation faded rapidly, however, when he remembered that he had allowed himself the inappropriate displays of affection to further his claim of insanity. That could never happen again. Because now he had to prove that he was most definitely, positively sane.
Chapter Seventeen
As her carriage neared Hanover Square, Jeanne attempted to smooth her hair back into place. It was really quite annoying of Edmund to have mussed her hair so when he knew she had such a difficult time getting it arranged. She sighed. He could not help it, of course.
She leaned forward to swat her maid across the forehead with her fan. “Margaret, wake up, you lazy sow. You must do something with my hair.”
“Huh?” Margaret blinked and snorted with the effort to return to consciousness.
“My hair. It has come undone on the side here and I have no wish to make a spectacle of myself in the street.”
Margaret pushed herself upright and then to her feet to stand in front of her mistress. The carriage lurched, hurling her backward. On her second attempt, she was able to reposition one hairpin before another lurch sent her sprawling on top of her mistress.
Jeanne pushed her off. “You clumsy fool!”
“I’m sorry, miss.”
“You
are
sorry. A sorry excuse for a maid. And when I am married, you will be sent to work with the filth in the laundry, where you belong.”
“Yes, miss.” Margaret reached over to reposition the pins in Jeanne’s hair.
“Tomorrow, you will pin my hair properly the first time, so it will not come all to pieces. This was worse than that horrid episode with the kitten.” Margaret’s sister Anna had the audacity to allow a stray to play with the stings on Jeanne’s best bonnet while they were taking tea with an invalid friend of her aunt’s. The little beast had torn the ties and trim to bits so that Jeanne looked a perfect fright on the journey back. “That cost your sister her job.”
Margaret nodded, her face grown nearly white. Like her sister, she harbored a weakness for vermin like that vile stray, not seeing the obvious need for such pests to be disposed of.
“Are you finished?” Jeanne demanded.
“Nearly so.” Margaret tucked one final strand in place with shaking fingers. “All finished now, miss.”
It would be “milady” soon. Come what may, Jeanne would marry Edmund and obtain the title promised all her life. Edmund’s illness might delay the wedding, but not for long. As soon as he had spent a respectable amount of time away from the public eye, he could return. After their marriage, people might occasionally look at her with curiosity, even pity. But they would not look down on her with the condescension that was her present lot—the attitude reserved for the
nouveau riche
. Her marriage to Edmund would finally erase that. For twenty years she had waited, but not much longer.
Something pulled on her sleeve and she reached out to swat at the offending article.
“I’m sorry, miss. It’s just that, well, the footman has been holding the door open a while but you was looking th’other way and—”
“Yes, I see.” Jeanne made her way out of the carriage, accepting the footman’s assistance with as much grace as she could muster. She ascended the stairs to the Rutherford home, then waited while Franklin answered the knock.
“Good evening, Miss Newman.”
“I am sorry to call so late without sending word.”
Franklin bowed. “It is no trouble, miss.”
Jeanne had to work to contain a smile. Such polite servants at the Rutherford home! She believed Franklin would have admitted her with complaisance if she had arrived at midnight.
“How does Lady Rutherford this evening?” she inquired after she’d stepped inside.
“Lady Rutherford is no better, I am sorry to say. The physician is with her now.”
“I should very much like to speak with him before he leaves. And pay my respects to Lady Rutherford. May I wait in the parlor?”
Franklin bowed once more. “Of course, Miss Newman.” He opened the door for her. “Would miss care for a tray of supper to be sent in?”
“Yes, thank you.” As soon as the door closed behind the servant, Jeanne sank down into one of the opulent chairs near the window. Soon this would be her parlor. Already the servants treated her as a member of the family—the marriage promise was of long-standing awareness to all and she and her aunt had been frequent visitors since Jeanne came out four years ago. She and Edmund could have wed with propriety at that time, but her mother had wished her to wait until she was closer to her majority. And dying wishes were not to be trifled with, according to Edmund. So they had waited.
Then, last season, Lady Rutherford took ill and all thoughts of a wedding were pushed aside—by Edmund, at least, who would not let anyone speak of it. His devotion to his mother and to her mother’s wishes was admirable, but most inconvenient. She far would have preferred to have married that first season. After all, she could not court any other man, nor had she a particular desire to, since Edmund was always one of the most handsome men at any gathering. Of course, his good looks were increasingly offset by his dull, aloof manner.
If the familiarity of marriage did not melt his icy reserve, she had no doubt but that she would find other ways to keep warm.
She rubbed her hands together to bring heat back into her chilled fingers.
* * * * *
Jeanne had just taken a bite of chicken that was too large when a knock sounded on the door to the parlor. She chewed in haste for a moment, then spit the offending mass into her napkin so that she would not appear uncouth to the entrant.
“Dr. Hamilton, miss.”
“Thank you, Franklin.”
The physician stepped into the room at a brisk pace. He reached for her hand in greeting, then noticed she had removed her gloves. Instead he bowed. “Good evening, Miss Newman. I must say it is a pleasure to see you again, though I had hoped our next meeting might be under more agreeable circumstances.”
“Yes,” she answered simply, wondering whether circumstances might become more agreeable for them rather sooner than later. The man appraised her with a frank, approving gaze both rare and titillating. It was as if he could envision her without the protection of clothing and liked what the vision portended.
That was the gaze Edmund should have given her, yet never had. His glances in her direction, for they never were much more than glances, were cool and brusque.
“Lady Rutherford recovers even more slowly than last year, I am afraid.” He turned his gaze toward the small table near the fire. “I see I have interrupted your supper.” He bowed again. “I will not detain you any longer.”
“No, please. I have finished.” She glanced at an uneaten slice of cake with only a small amount of regret. “I would like to discuss the condition of Lady Rutherford—and her son. Will you not sit down?” She gestured toward the chairs by the window, then immediately wondered at her choice. The two chairs sat so close together that the legs of their occupants would be within an almost intimate proximity. Propriety dictated that she should have instead waved him to the sofa and adjacent chair by the fireplace. Surely her suggested seating arrangement could be attributed to an inclination to avoid the supper dishes and not a desire to sit close to the distinguished physician?
“As you wish.” He moved to take the proffered chair.
Jeanne followed, sitting carefully on the edge of her seat, very much aware that her knees practically touched those of the man next to her. “Has Lady Rutherford improved from your first visit?”
“She has, but only to a modest degree. She can take a little nourishment, some broth or juice, and often her eyes follow movement, but of course, she cannot talk and so cannot communicate at all. She sleeps most of the time.”
“She was sleeping when I saw her this morning.”
The physician nodded. “Her maid says she must go to great lengths to wake her for her small meals. She seems to have no will to do so on her own.”
“And what of her son—Lord Rutherford?”
Dr. Hamilton looked surprised. “I have not seen him since the night of the…incident. The surgeon tended his wounds adequately, I suppose. I prescribed some laudanum. And he was taken away soon after.”
“You did not order him taken away?”
“No. I believe his removal was a poor decision, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. From what I have heard, he would be better off in familiar surroundings. A new setting may only serve to foster the delusion. And his mother might improve more rapidly if she could see him. She may believe him dead, though I have told her otherwise.”
“I see.” Jeanne nodded, wondering who it was who had Edmund placed in the private asylum. “I will exert whatever influence I have to see that he is brought home.” A brief pang of regret followed this last statement. In many ways, Edmund’s absence seemed rather more a comfort than not.
“That is good of you.” The physician stared at her in silence for a moment, the expression on his face changing from a look of professional authority to the approving gaze he had lavished on her earlier. This time his gaze imparted the uncanny sensation that her clothing was being peeled off one layer at a time.
He stood. “I am afraid I must take my leave. I have two more patients to attend this evening.” He bowed. “Until next time.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes. Until next time.”
At the doorway, he smiled.
The smile sent a searing heat throughout her body, so hot it almost made her cold. She shivered. Then she began to wonder whether Dr. Hamilton would need to visit frequently to monitor Edmund’s condition once they were married.
A wicked thought, surely. She should chastise herself for even thinking such a thing.
Instead, she smiled. Her impending marriage might lack passion, but that need not preclude such pleasures from her life entirely.
Another knock on the door made her start, as if the person outside had read her inappropriate thoughts.
Franklin peered around the door.
“Might I have a word with you, Miss Newman?”
“Certainly.”
The butler entered the room with precise steps and shut the door carefully. “I hope you will forgive me for troubling you with this matter. I am somewhat at a loss what to do. I cannot ask her ladyship and was ordered not to discuss this with Mr. Stansbury.”
“Yes?”
“Since you have always been a close acquaintance of the family and,” he coughed, “almost a member of the family, I thought perhaps you might…”
“Of course.” She offered her most reassuring smile. “I will be happy to help in whatever way I can.”
Franklin bowed. “Thank you. I have a letter—actually, it is little more than a note—written by Lord Rutherford on the night of the…the…”
“I believe I understand. Do go on.”
“During the intermission at the opera, he instructed the coachman to deliver the note to me with instructions to take it to a solicitor. Any solicitor. But he specifically stated it should not go to Mr. Stansbury.”
“Oh?” Why? Was he trying to keep a secret from his family?
“Well, I could not attend to it at that hour of the evening, of course, so I set it aside. And then, given what followed later that night, I-I was uncertain what to do.”
“Should you not follow his instructions and deliver it to a solicitor?”
“Perhaps. But…” Franklin looked around as if he feared the walls might be listening. “What if the note instructs the solicitor to sell off all the family belongings and book passage for India? I am afraid, you see, that the note might contain…something Lord Rutherford might later regret.”
“I understand your dilemma. It might be better for you to open the note to see what it contains.”
“I cannot open my lord’s correspondence.” The servant licked his lips nervously. “But I thought, perhaps, you might be able to.”
Jeanne felt a bit taken aback. But only for a moment. Then the thought made her want to laugh. She was being treated as head of the family already. They came to her for decisions! “Yes, yes, of course. Have you the note on you?”
“I do, miss.” He reached into a jacket pocket and produced a piece of folded, extremely heavy paper. After looking at it for a moment, he handed it to Jeanne.