Lady Maybe (10 page)

“I have no idea.”

The man scoffed. “Right. And what was the outcome of his visit?”

“He left. Disappointed.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

“Or is he merely . . . waiting?” he asked, his green eyes glinting like fish scales in sunlight.

“Waiting?”

“Now that Sir John’s fate is uncertain. Why rush off without a penny, when one believes an inheritance awaits if only one is patient?” His lip curled in disdain.

She stared at him, slowly shaking her head in disbelief.

He asked, “Do you know what Sir John has asked me to do?”

“You have yet to tell me.”

“He asked me to change his will.”

Hannah shrugged. “What is that to me?”

“Everything.”

Perhaps to Marianna but not to her. Oh, why had she stayed?

She asked, “Change it how?”

“I imagine to exclude you from it. To eliminate any benefit to you were he to suddenly perish through
accidental
means.”

“You are not suggesting I would do anything to harm Sir John?”

“Can you deny you have hurt him gravely already?”

“Not physically. Never that. You cannot believe . . . anyone . . . would do such a thing.”

“I think he believed it possible. Perhaps even feared that very thing. That you or Mr. Fontaine would be tempted to rid the world of the only man who stood between you.”

She stared at him, thinking of Mr. Fontaine’s threatening letter. Was it possible? Had Mr. Fontaine and Marianna contemplated such a thing? Surely no one could have manipulated that carriage crash.

“I don’t believe it,” she murmured.

“Here. Read Sir John’s letter yourself.”

Curious, she accepted the letter, carrying it to the window to read in better light.

Dear Mr. Lowden,

Allow me to express my deepest condolences on your father’s passing. He was the best of men and it was my privilege to call him advisor and friend these many years. You and I are not well acquainted, but your father had every confidence in your abilities, and therefore, so have I. I hope you will carry on as my solicitor in his stead.

There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you. Unfortunately, circumstances are such that I have decided we must quit Bath immediately and cannot come to your offices before we depart. I hope you will do me the honor of traveling to see me at your convenience once your own affairs—and your father’s—are settled and your deepest mourning past. I have told no one else where we are going and of course Lady Mayfield does not know for reasons that should be evident if your father apprised you of my situation. If he has not, suffice it to say, my wife has carried on a relationship with a Mr. Anthony Fontaine, a bad connection which was, to my grief, not severed at our marriage nor when we moved from Bristol to Bath. The man has followed and I know full well, will try to follow again. To complicate matters, Lady Mayfield is expecting a child.

For the time being, we shall relocate to Clifton, a house I inherited but have never before occupied. I’m sure all the details are in your father’s records, but in simple terms, the property is located in Devonshire, 12 miles west of Porlock, between Countisbury and the twin villages of Lynton & Lynmouth. The house is just south of the Cliff Road before the descent into Lynmouth. If you have any trouble, note that we are neighbors to a well-known physician, Dr. George Parrish. Inquiring of his residence will lead you to ours.

To keep our destination quiet, I have decided not to bring along any of our present servants, who might understandably wish to allow relatives and friends to know where they were going. We shall hire new staff in Devonshire. The property manager, our neighbor’s grown son, will engage minimal staff to sufficiently ready the house for our arrival.

When you come, I wish to revise my will, among other things, so please bring along whatever documents are necessary to accomplish this. Of course, I will compensate you for your time and reimburse your traveling expenses. Do not consider lodging. The house has several spare rooms and you are more than welcome to stay with us during your visit.

Until then, I depend upon your discretion and remain,

Sir John Mayfield, KCB

“He says nothing about fearing for his life,” Hannah observed. “What a vile imagination you have.”

Though what Sir John had written was condemning enough, Hannah secretly allowed. No wonder James Lowden looked at her the way he did. She had to remind herself he did not see
her
, he saw or thought he saw Marianna—unfaithful, manipulative,
selfish Marianna. The woman who broke his client’s heart and perhaps, intended to do him some fatal harm, though Hannah doubted the woman capable of such evil. Mr. Fontaine? She did not know him well enough to judge. Yet, had not desire and jealousy driven men to violent acts throughout history? Oh yes.

She detested the thought of Mr. Lowden holding such a low opinion of her. But what could she do? Was the truth of who she was and what she had done any better?

Mrs. Turrill came down the stairs, Danny in her arms and a doting smile on her face.

“Here’s your mamma, little man.”

Handing the letter back to Mr. Lowden, Hannah crossed the room to take Danny. The housekeeper settled the child in the crook of her good arm.

Mrs. Turrill whispered, “Hope you don’t mind. Becky is not herself this morning. Has awful cramps. I’ve got her bundled up in bed with a hot-water bottle.”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Turrill. I never mind having Danny with me.”

“That’s what I thought. You’re a good mother you are, my lady.” She said this with a pointed glance at the solicitor, before retreating belowstairs.

Mr. Lowden rose and took a few steps nearer. “This is your son?”

“Yes. This is Daniel.”

He studied the little face with a critical eye. “He looks like you.” Mr. Lowden sent her a sidelong glance. “Does he also look like his father?”

She weighed the implications of the question, but thought it wisest to say nothing.

Mr. Lowden resumed his seat. “I still don’t understand why Sir John did not mention in his letter that his wife was to deliver a child so soon.”

“Perhaps he was mistaken or unaware of the child’s due date.”

“Had you some reason to mislead him in that?”

She frowned at him. “You are very rude, Mr. Lowden. How did your mother raise you?”

For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his eyes narrowed. “My mother was a good and godly person. She cared little for appearances. She did not raise me to pretend to approve of someone when I did not.”

“You judge someone you have never met, never spoken to, never even seen?”

“Did I need to? When my client has made it clear he does not trust his wife. That he has reason to believe the child his wife carried was not his own?”

Hannah stilled. Was it true? Was Marianna carrying Anthony Fontaine’s child? If so, did Mr. Fontaine know? She wondered briefly if and how Sir John knew for certain, but guessed she knew the answer.

J
ames Lowden was not certain what to think or what to do. It was a condition he rarely found himself in and did not like it. He was usually a man of sharp judgment, of accurate first impressions, and of swift action. Now he felt off-balance, strangely unsettled and unsure how to proceed. He had traveled to Devonshire with a clear idea of what was expected of him: come to the aid of the betrayed husband, take legal steps to assure she and her lover gained nothing by his future death, beyond the jointure agreed to in the original marriage settlement. Of course he had never expected to find Sir John lying insensible and close to death already. Even if he drafted a new will for him, Sir John could not sign it, nor could he honestly say his client was presently of sound mind. Yes, he had Sir John’s letter in which his intention to otherwise disinherit his unfaithful wife seemed clear. But the man had written with a modicum of discretion, to protect himself from more scandal should the letter be misdirected, James supposed. Such a letter could be presented to a judge in court, but it was unlikely to take precedence over Sir John’s last signed will and testament. Especially when so much money was at stake. Sir John Mayfield was a wealthy man. He had formerly been in trade in Bristol, where he had made his fortune and been granted the honor of knighthood by the king.

Yet it was not only Sir John’s condition that surprised James, but
Lady Mayfield herself. He had come expecting a certain kind of woman. Vain and spoiled and manipulative. Beautiful, but easy to despise. Why did he have this vague memory of a friend describing the new Lady Mayfield as a dark-haired beauty? Had the man been mistaken or had he forgotten? For the woman’s hair was reddish brown. She had fine, blue-green eyes and pale, lightly freckled skin. Not unattractive, but certainly not what he would describe as a “dark beauty.” With her coloring and high cheekbones, she appeared of Scottish descent or perhaps Irish, though her speech was as fine as any Mayfair lady’s. She was a bit younger than he’d expected as well. Perhaps three or four and twenty—though he realized she might be older than she looked. He had expected her to be flirtatious, but she kept her distance when she could, and behaved with cool reserve when she couldn’t. She dressed modestly, tucked lace or high necklines, with her hair pulled back simply and little or no cosmetics. She clearly wasn’t out to seduce him. Perhaps she knew why he’d come before he mentioned the will. She didn’t seem resentful, but defensive? Yes. She was definitely hiding something.

And how she doted on her child. He had heard her singing sweetly to the boy the previous night. She certainly did not appear the spoiled hoyden, leaving the care of her troublesome brat to others. What was she up to? Was it a ploy to win him to her side? He reminded himself that she was known for her ability to lure and manipulate men. Perhaps her ability to appear sweet and gentle was part of her deceptive charm. He must be careful to steel himself against her. His role was to protect Sir John and his interests. Not to begin second-guessing him. Or himself.

—

Hannah knew she could not skip dinner again, and avoiding Mr. Lowden would only make him suspicious. But how she dreaded the hours alone in his company.

The meal itself, served earlier in the West Country than in the city, passed uneventfully. Now and again Mr. Lowden opened his mouth as if to ask her something, but then hesitated, his glance veering to Mrs. Turrill as she laid the courses or quietly directed Ben to carry away this serving dish or that. In the end, he remained silent, except to ask for something to be passed or to compliment the cook-housekeeper on the excellent meal.

Afterward, Hannah rose in relief and withdrew to the drawing room, where Mrs. Turrill had laid out a coffee service. She hoped Mr. Lowden would linger in the dining room over port and a cigar or whatever it was men partook of after meals. In fact, she hoped he smoked a whole box of cigars. But instead he followed her into the drawing room and poured them each a cup of coffee.

She would stay while he finished one cup, she told herself, and then she would claim fatigue and excuse herself to retire early. Hannah sat in an armchair, sipped her coffee, and then set the cup and saucer on the side table. She picked up a novel to discourage conversation, but could not concentrate on the words. She felt him watching her over its pages. When she looked up at last, he smiled at her as if she’d just delivered the cue he’d been waiting for.

“Although I did not meet you until coming to Clifton, you are acquainted, I believe, with an old friend of mine.”

Hannah was instantly on her guard. Would she expose herself by not remembering this supposed acquaintance?

She turned a page and affected a casual air. “Oh? And which friend is this?”

“Captain Robert Blanchard.” He watched her face intently. “Tall thin chap. Curly blond hair? A cousin to Lord Weston, or so he claims.”

“I . . . am sorry. I don’t recall.”

“No? Apparently he had the pleasure of making your acquaintance in Bath last year. At a rout Lord Weston hosted.”

Hannah thought back. Marianna
had
gone to Lord Weston’s rout alone, she recalled, while Sir John was away on business. And later she’d pouted that Mr. Fontaine had not made an appearance, so she’d had to make do with other entertainment. Flirting with an officer was certainly the type of diversion Marianna had enjoyed, though as far as Hannah knew, she’d never taken a lover besides Fontaine.

“Perhaps your friend mistook me for someone else,” Hannah hedged. “There were . . . many people there.”

Mr. Lowden glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, then said, “But you made quite an impression on this particular man. I saw Blanchard not long afterward and he told me he’d met the enchanting Lady Mayfield, with ‘eyes that drew him like siren song.’ And how she flirted with him, stroking his lapel and whispering in his ear. He seemed quite certain that if he’d had the nerve to ask her to leave the party with him, she would have.”

Hannah’s stomach soured and her mind worked quickly. If she decried the charge as out of the realm of possibility, he would never believe her. But if she agreed to this particular charge, it might be a trap. And even if true, how mortifying to own such illicit behavior to Sir John’s solicitor.

When she remained silent, he slyly prompted, “A cavalry officer . . . ?”

Hannah knew she had to step carefully, and answer as Marianna might. “Oh, a
cavalry
officer,” she drawled. “You might have said so sooner. I admit I admire a man in uniform, but I am afraid I don’t recall this particular man. Blanchard, was it?”

His golden brows rose. “You flirt so blatantly with every officer you meet?”

“I . . . like to show my appreciation for brave military service.”

He smirked. “How patriotic of you.”

Hannah forced a tight-lipped smile and returned her focus to her book, hoping he would change the subject.

He did not.

“Well, Blanchard remembered you. And how he extolled your unmatched beauty.”

“There, you see?” she said lightly. “He must have been speaking of someone else.”

His gaze roved her face, her neck, her décolletage. . . . Mortification seared through Hannah, and heated every inch of skin grazed by his critical eye.

“Yes. I see your point,” he said. “I suppose it’s possible he made a mistake. He admitted he was in his cups that night. Often is.”

Instead of feeling vindicated, personal insult had been heaped upon her borrowed shame. She bent her flushed face over her book.

Mr. Lowden persisted, “But you
do
have a reputation for being a notorious flirt. Or are you going to deny that as well?”

She looked up at him coldly. “I would not bother to deny it. You have already made up your mind about me—and pronounced judgment without benefit of trial.”

He gave her a self-satisfied grin. “Who said you were not on trial?”

At that, Hannah rose and excused herself to go upstairs to the nursery. After she checked on Danny, she went down to her room to gather her wits. Mr. Lowden put her on edge like no man she had ever met. The way he had looked at her, the things he had said in that sly, baiting tone . . . She would hate to face him in a courtroom.

From the corridor, she heard footsteps and low voices—Dr.
and Mrs. Parrish arriving to look in on Sir John. Hannah took several more deep breaths, waited until her hands had stopped shaking, and then went to join them. Inside Sir John’s bedchamber, she found Dr. Parrish and his wife in earnest conversation over their patient’s prone figure.

Dr. Parrish glanced up. “Ah, my lady. My good wife and I were just discussing Sir John’s care with Mrs. Weaver soon to leave us. Mrs. Turrill has offered to take over some of her duties, now that you are less in need of help. And the new housemaid will assist her. But as far as treatments to moderate his loss of strength . . . that’s where you come in.”

“Oh?” Nerves prickled through Hannah. “I am afraid I am unfamiliar with such treatments.”

“As are most people.” Dr. Parrish stroked his chin and explained, “You see, at the teaching hospital where I studied, a physician with the East India Company taught us the benefits of massage, or “medical rubbing” as it is sometimes called. As well as a regimen of stretching exercises to keep muscles from becoming atrophied. Now that Mrs. Weaver is leaving, I thought Mrs. Parrish might perform the technique in her stead. But Mrs. Parrish wisely points out that it might be more appropriate for you to do so. I promise you it will help your husband if, as we all hope, he regains his senses and his health in time.”

Hannah lifted her sling, relieved to have an excuse. “But unfortunately, with my arm as it is . . .”

“I’ve thought of that. But there is still a great deal you can do with one hand, until I remove your bandages.”

“I . . . see.” She swallowed. “I have never done the like before, doctor. If Mrs. Parrish has experience, and wouldn’t mind—”

“It isn’t that I mind, my lady,” Mrs. Parrish said with a thin smile. “But I have my own house and family to take care of, not to mention helping Dr. Parrish with difficult birthings and the
like. Whereas you . . . well, you have more time to dedicate to the practice. Who better than his own wife? One flesh, and all that.”

Hannah looked away from the woman’s challenging look, to the doctor’s kind face. “Is it difficult?” she asked.

“Not at all. I shall show you now, if you are amenable, and then I will check on your progress from time to time to see how you get on. All right?”

How could she refuse to help “her husband”?

“Very well.”

He lifted the bedclothes from Sir John’s left arm. “Another of my professors trained in Sweden. Quite progressive, the Swedes, in their use of exercises and medical rubbing.”

How nice for them,
Hannah thought, less than charitably.

As Dr. Parrish began demonstrating how to stretch and massage the muscles, Mrs. Parrish excused herself to prepare a late supper at home.

Hannah relaxed once the woman had left. She didn’t know why the doctor’s wife did not like her. Did Mrs. Parrish suspect she wasn’t who she said she was?

Dr. Parrish, however, was very easy to be with, good company, and a good friend. If only she might have enjoyed his friendship as herself. As it was, she was soon to lose his friendship, and so much more.

She followed Dr. Parrish’s example, removing the bedclothes from Sir John’s other arm, stretching the hand, massaging fingers and muscles. Then she braced herself and moved on to his uninjured leg. Using her good hand, she gently pushed Sir John’s toes toward his ankle to stretch the calf, then kneaded the muscles. It wasn’t too difficult, though it would certainly be easier with two hands.

After a time, Dr. Parrish stepped back and collected his bag. “Well, you have the way of it now. I shall leave you to it.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

She continued kneading Sir John’s calf muscle, feeling warm and self-conscious. She reminded herself she was acting as a nurse, a medical “rubber,” and tried not to focus on the fact that her hand was on Sir John Mayfield’s bare leg.

As she stood there, the sight spurred a long-forgotten memory. . . .