Lady Maybe (16 page)

For a fleeting second she considered it, allowed her mind to travel down the path of possibilities. What she would gain, what she would lose. She was fond of Fred, but Sir John was a widower now. Was there any hope . . . ?

She felt his scrutiny. Did the shame show in her heated cheeks, her difficulty in meeting his gaze?

His entreaty turned into a scowl. “You don’t want to marry me. Why should you give up all this”—he gestured toward the house— “to be a simple carter’s wife? I never would have thought it of you.” He shook his head. “Better to be a rich man’s trollop than a poor man’s wife?”

She gasped and her vision blurred. She felt dizzy and ill. Never had dear Fred spoken to her with such venom. She momentarily considered slapping his face as a maligned lady might. But truly, what else was he to think? Had she any virtue, any honor left to defend?

He bit his lip and his eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Han. I didn’t mean it. I’m just shocked. Disappointed.”

“I understand,” she murmured. She took a long steadying breath, then asked, “Why did you come here, Fred?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t believe it was true; that you were gone. I had to come and see where it happened. Learn if anyone had witnessed the accident, and if your body had yet been recovered. Ask the Mayfields if any of your belongings had been salvaged that I might take to your father. Or keep for myself, to remember you by.” He shook his head. “How foolish I am.”

She squeezed his arm, tears filling her eyes. “Not foolish—dear.”

“Not dear enough, it turns out.” He sighed deeply. “If you won’t
change your mind, I’ll leave. But I warn you, Han. When people find out they’ve been deceived, there’ll be the devil to pay.”

She nodded, fearing and believing that very thing. “I know.” If only she had not allowed people to think she was Marianna. What a trap she had made for herself.

He reached a hand toward her, hesitated midair, then dropped it. “Good-bye, Han. Again.”

With a sad smile, he turned away. He passed through the archway, out of the garden, and out of her life. Leaving her standing there on the threshold. Alone.

H
annah spent the rest of the afternoon second-guessing herself and praying she had not made yet another mistake by not leaving with Fred. Sir John’s wife had just died. It was far too soon to expect anything from him. Was she foolish to remain a little longer, and increase her risk of discovery? Especially knowing that Mr. Lowden was in Bristol asking questions about her. Who knew what information he might uncover and bring back with him? In the meantime, she curtailed her visits to Sir John’s bedchamber. Because if the servants or the Parrishes thought their relationship had become intimate, how much worse it would be when the truth came out. . . . She shuddered at the thought and pushed it away once more.

A few days later, Sir John issued a formal invitation for “his lady and son” to join him for dinner in his room. Mrs. Turrill grinned like a schoolgirl and eagerly planned a meal as festive as a picnic.

Kitty enthused, “So romantic of Sir John. You are a lucky woman, my lady.”

Hannah wasn’t sure about that, but managed a nervous smile, wondering what Sir John was up to now. She hoped he wasn’t trifling with her for some reason. She thought again of his compliments, the way he had touched her, and the fact that he’d asked Dr. Parrish if she could share his bed. . . . Might Sir John want marital “rights” from this pretend marriage of theirs?

The housemaid insisted on curling Hannah’s hair again and touching a little rouge to her cheeks. As if her face wasn’t red enough between her self-consciousness and her freckles.

Becky bathed Danny and dressed him in a fresh gown and cap, while Hannah wore an ordinary white muslin dinner dress—gently but firmly refusing to wear one of Marianna’s more elegant gowns. She remembered too well Sir John’s reaction to his wife’s nightclothes.

At the appointed hour, Hannah carried Danny into Sir John’s bedchamber. The days were longer now, and the room was bathed in golden, late afternoon sunlight. Someone had helped Sir John into the wheeled invalid chair and he sat at a small tea table laid with linen, china, and fresh flowers. He was dressed in an open banyan jacket and loose cravat. Instead of a waistcoat, his ribs were bound in thick bandages. His hair had been cut, by Mrs. Turrill, she guessed, and brushed back from his face. His beard had been neatly trimmed, which accentuated his cheekbones and masculinity. He looked handsome, and for a moment, reminded her of a pirate.

“Good evening, my—” He stopped, bit his lip, then abruptly held out his hands to take Danny.

A blanketed basket sat on the floor near her chair, so she might lay the child down to better eat her meal, but Sir John insisted on holding him.

She sat down, wiping damp palms on her table napkin. She surveyed the meal spread before them: veal-and-ham pie, roast chicken, salad, stewed fruit, and biscuits. “Mrs. Turrill has outdone herself,” she said.

He nodded. “Indeed she has.” He held Danny in the crook of one arm while he ate with the other, now and again feeding the boy bits of biscuit or stewed fruit. It was apparent Sir John was already regaining strength with the help of Mrs. Turrill’s excellent cooking.

After several bites, he began, “May I ask how have you been occupying yourself? You have been somewhat scarce these last few days.”

“Have I?” Hannah thought back quickly. “Oh, well, I . . . have undertaken to teach my young nurse to read. I found her staring at your copy of
Sir Charles Grandison.
And when I said she could read it when we were through, she confessed she could not read. So I have begun teaching her.”

“That is good of you.”

She ducked her head. “I am not doing so to boast, nor to impress you.”

“Though perhaps as an excuse to avoid me?”

A dry crust caught in her throat, and she hurriedly took a sip of lemonade. Setting down her glass, she picked up a basket near at hand and offered it to him. “Bread roll, Sir John?”

He took the hint and didn’t press her, instead turning his attention to Danny, talking quietly to the child and gently bouncing his knee to keep him content.

With relief, Hannah focused on her meal. The pie was delicious and she savored every bite. Next she attempted to cut a piece of roast chicken, but found it difficult to employ both knife and fork with her arm in its sling.

Danny nodded off to sleep in Sir John’s arms, and he gently bent low and laid the boy in the basket. Then he reached for her knife. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Hannah flushed. “No, really, I am not a child.”

He placed his warm hand over hers, stilling her efforts, and looked into her eyes. “You are a woman, as I am very much aware. But I am at least partly to blame for your injury, so please allow me this small thing.”

She gave in then and watched as he cut her meat, feeling like a helpless little girl and not liking the sensation.

Finishing, he set down the cutlery and asked, “Does your arm pain you a great deal?”

“No. Hardly at all.”

“And your forehead?” He reached his hand toward her.

She recoiled in surprise and, seeing the flash of hurt cross his eyes, instantly regretted her reaction.

He said, “I only wanted to see it. To assure myself you are healing well.”

“I am. I promise.”

He extended his hand again. This time she sat still as he gently brushed back the hair that Kitty had so carefully arranged to hide the red mark.

“See? It’s nearly healed,” she said.

He frowned. “That will leave a scar.” He regretfully shook his head. “Another injury at my hands.”

“Sir John, it’s nothing.”

“And the other?”

Hannah’s throat felt suddenly dry, and she found the words stuck there as the crust had been moments before.

In his basket, Danny let out a cry. Glad for the diversion, Hannah reached down for him. “Probably wet his nappy.”

She rose. “Thank you for the dinner, Sir John, but I had better to take him back up to the nursery.”

Sir John gave her a knowing look. “Making your escape already, Miss Rogers? I knew it would only be a matter of time until you did.”

—

The next afternoon, Hannah was on her way downstairs after settling Danny for his nap and giving Becky a reading lesson, when she heard the door open below and Mrs. Turrill greet a visitor. Hannah tensed. Had Fred returned?

She descended the final pair of stairs on tiptoe and paused on the half landing to survey the vestibule. There, James Lowden handed his hat to Mrs. Turrill. He looked up, and his green eyes locked on hers, his expression difficult to decipher.

Mrs. Turrill turned her head to see what had arrested his attention. “Ah. My lady, look who’s here.”

“You’re back,” Hannah breathed in some surprise.

“Yes. I said I would return in about a week. Do you not recall?”

“Oh. It’s just . . . well, the time passed quickly.” And she had not departed as planned.

“You are not . . . happy to see me?”

“On the contrary, you are very perfectly welcome.”

He studied her face, his brows low in curiosity—or suspicion?

She looked away first, and found Mrs. Turrill watching her, worry evident in her soulful dark eyes.

The housekeeper excused herself, leaving the two alone in expectant silence.

Hannah said awkwardly, “Your former room is ready for you. And the morning room is at your disposal. Everything is the same as before.”

He tilted his head to the side, eyes glinting. “Not everything.”

She swallowed, unsure of his meaning and afraid to ask. What had he learned about her while he’d been away? She forced a smile. “Well, I shall leave you to get settled. We’re to have roast duck for dinner tonight, I understand. I hope you like duck?”

His mouth quirked. “Domesticated or decoy?”

She blinked. “I . . . have no idea.”

“Poor hen,” he said. “Trapped in a decoy snare of her own making.” His cold eyes belied his sympathetic tone.

Hannah was taken aback by the odd exchange, stung by the innuendo. She hoped she was imagining it.

He tugged off his gloves and said, “Well, I shall go up and greet Sir John if you don’t mind. Assuming he is still alive?”

“Of course he is,” she defended. “In fact, you will find him greatly recovered and speaking for himself.”

“Well. Good.” He slapped his gloves onto the sideboard and took himself upstairs.

J
ames Lowden walked up the stairs, irritation coursing through him. He was vexed with himself, with her, and with Sir John. How much should he tell his employer of what he’d learned in Bristol? He paused at the bedchamber door, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come,” Sir John called.

His strong reply surprised James. It was the first time he had heard the man’s voice since the accident.

James entered the room, surprised again to find his client sitting upright in bed in a fine burgundy dressing gown, though a counterpane covered his legs. He wore a beard, neatly trimmed. And someone had cut his hair. He looked younger than when James had last seen him.

“Hello, Sir John.”

“Mr. Lowden. Welcome back.”

James shook his head. “You wrote to say you were recovering, but—my goodness, how well you look.” He did indeed. James knew he should be glad.

“Thank you. Good journey?”

“Oh, the usual tedious, spine-jarring experience. No accidents or anything if that’s what you meant.”

“I did not.”

James felt his neck heat. What a callous thing to say. “I did not mean . . . I was not referring to—”

Sir John waved away his apology. “Never mind. As you see, no harm has befallen me during your absence. You worried for nothing.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, as it turns out.”

“And . . . why is that?”

“Why? Because the lady in question means me no harm, I assure you.”

“Does she not?”

Sir John shook his head. “In fact she has been quite kind in ministering to me body and soul.”

Body and soul?
Flummoxed, James faltered, “But you still wish to revise your will, I trust?”

“Let’s hold off on that at present.”

“But—” James bit his tongue. He cleared his throat, wishing he might clear his confusion as easily. “Well, that is your prerogative of course, but I must say I am surprised.”

But was he—was he really?

“Go and get settled Mr. Lowden. We shall have plenty of time to talk later.”

—

That evening, Hannah ate dinner with Mr. Lowden in awkward formality, the roast duck tasting like sawdust in her mouth. Their former, fledgling camaraderie seemed to have vanished. He had changed toward her, she realized. During his absence, had he learned something unsavory about Lady Mayfield . . . or about Hannah Rogers?

Near the end of the meal, Mr. Lowden picked up his wine, but instead of sipping, held his glass midair.

“You once told me you received a letter from a friend of Miss
Rogers, who took it upon himself to inform her father of her death.”

Sending a nervous glance to Mrs. Turrill, dishing out their rice pudding at the sideboard, Hannah nodded.

He asked, “Was this ‘friend’ a Fred Bonner?”

She snapped her head toward him, instantly on her guard.

Not waiting for her to answer, he added, “And was her father a Mr. Thomas Rogers, formerly of Oxford, now curate of St. Michael’s on the outskirts of Bristol?”

She only stared at him, heart racing.

“Hannah Rogers’s mother, a Mrs. Anne Rogers, died ten years ago of the influenza, I believe,” he continued. “Hannah had two elder brothers, both gone to sea. Did you know the eldest, Bryan Rogers, has passed his lieutenancy examination?”

Mutely, she shook her head.

“Apparently, I know more about this bosom companion of yours than you do, my lady.”

Hannah faltered, “How did you . . . ?”

“When I returned to Bristol, I unearthed a letter Sir John wrote to my father last year, while he was living in Bath, asking him to look into the matter of his wife’s missing companion. As you yourself told me, Hannah Rogers left abruptly, which apparently concerned Sir John, as she had always been a steady, reliable sort before. According to my father’s notes, Sir John feared some harm may have befallen her, or that someone in his household had done something to cause offense, or to cause her to fear for her safety—something significant to cause a dependable person to act in such an uncharacteristic manner.”