Lady Maybe (32 page)

T
he next day, her father surprised her by sending over a few of her finer gowns from those she’d left behind when setting off as lady’s companion. What a pleasure to wear something of her own.

Becky helped her into a lovely walking dress of jaconet muslin trimmed in white lace. Over this, she wore a wine-colored velvet spencer and a matching bonnet—its upturned brim lined in pleated white satin. She tied the ribbons beneath her chin, thanked Becky, kissed Danny, and left the room. Reticule dangling from her wrist, she started down the stairs, intent on a few errands.

Below, the lodging house door opened and James Lowden stepped inside. Hannah halted on the half landing, a storm of conflicting emotions flooding her. She glanced nervously about, relieved not to see Mrs. Hurst, who had strict rules about gentlemen callers. Had her landlady mentioned this was her afternoon to play whist at a friend’s house? Hannah hoped so.

“Mr. Lowden.”

His head snapped up and he spotted her there on the landing. His gaze swept her person, head to toe, and back again. “You look . . . well,” he breathed. But his eyes said “beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She was relieved to be dressed in a becoming gown, her freckles lightly powdered for good measure. James
looked handsome as well, and cut a dashing figure in frock coat, snowy cravat, and patterned waistcoat. He removed his hat, and continued to watch her.

She self-consciously descended the remaining stairs.

“Perhaps you would step into the sitting room, Mr. Lowden?” she suggested, errands forgotten. “We may talk there.”

He gestured for her to precede him, set his hat on the sideboard inside, and with a meaningful look at her, slowly closed the door behind them.

Hannah removed her bonnet, pulse racing. His compliment and warm look were a relief after their cool parting. After she had turned him down. Followed by that mortifying hearing. She was pleased James still could—would—speak kindly to her. For a moment she felt a flicker of disloyalty. Then she reminded herself that despite her long-held affection for Sir John, her chance with him was lost now that Marianna had returned. Like it or not, he was a married man, and she herself had urged him not to pursue divorce.

James slowly crossed the room to her, his eager gaze locking on hers. Her breath hitched. Might there be a future for them yet? Could James help heal her heart?

The blacks of his eyes dilated, nearly eclipsing the green irises. His nostrils flared. “Hannah . . .” He drew out the syllables in breathy longing.

“I’m . . . here,” she faltered, and waited for him to kiss her.

He raised his hand, gently stroking her cheek. “Darling Hannah,” he murmured, yet remained where he was.

Why did he hesitate? she wondered.

James dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “Before we say or . . . do . . . anything else, I need to tell you something.”

But inhaling the smell of his cologne, and focused on the grooves carved alongside his mouth, Hannah barely heard his
demur, his words, whatever they were. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to forget. All her fear and humiliation of the last weeks. All her conflicted feelings for a man who would never be hers.

“Hush,” she whispered, running a finger over his lips and then along one of those appealing grooves.

Instantly, James bridged the gap between them and pressed his mouth to hers. He gathered her in his arms and held her close. Angling his head, he deepened the kiss. Warm, passionate, intense. His hands bracketed her waist, pulling her more tightly against him.

He broke their kiss and trailed his lips over her cheek, her neck, her ear. “Marry me,” he whispered.

A shiver passed over her, and she drew in a shaky breath. But then she thought again of Sir John and her chest tightened.

“James, wait—”

Hannah pushed away. “I’m sorry. I thought, perhaps, but . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t. Not now. Too much has happened.”

He grimaced as though in pain, and pressed his forehead to hers. “I know.” He panted, catching his breath. “Forgive me. I got carried away.”

James released her, took a step back, and blew out a ragged exhale. “I came here determined to keep my distance. At least until I had told what I need to tell you.”

She looked up at him in concern. “What is it?”

He looked at her warily. Pursed his lips, then began. “I have learned that Sir John was never legally married to Marianna Spencer.”

“What?” Hannah frowned in confusion. She must have heard wrong.

“You remember Sir John sent me to find evidence against Mr. Fontaine—about the affair?”

She nodded.

“Instead, when I returned to Bristol, I discovered that she had eloped with Anthony Fontaine before she wed Sir John.”

Hannah gaped. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am—unfortunately. Her father wanted her to marry Sir John. He was outraged and refused to acknowledge the elopement as legal. So he covered it up. Paid the parson, the coachman, etc. to keep it quiet. To pretend it never happened.”

“And Mr. Fontaine?”

“Quite willing to go along with the scheme, for a price of course. Apparently he and Marianna never had any intention of ending their relationship.”

“I can’t believe it. What a risk!”

“Yes. A gamble that could cost her dearly in the end. Bigamy can be a hanging offense, you know.”

“Surely it won’t come to that.”

“I doubt it, but it is possible.”

Hannah felt as though someone had let the air from her lungs like a punctured balloon. She weakly lowered herself onto a chair. The warmth of desire evaporated into a chill.

She closed her eyes and murmured a mournful, “Oh, Sir John . . .”

James rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. Even I feel sorry for him.”

“What does he plan to do?”

“He is seeking a decree of nullity on the grounds of fraud.”

“Will he succeed?”

Mouth tight, James turned away. “With both Fontaine and the coachman willing to testify, I think it a foregone conclusion.”

She looked at his tense profile, his averted eyes, and said quietly, “No wonder you didn’t wish to tell me. . . .”

“I did try—”

She held up a placating palm. “I know you did. I don’t blame you for . . . anything.” She forced a feeble chuckle. “I am rather surprised you told me at all.”

“I admit I was tempted to wait. Perhaps even to suggest an elopement of our own, before you heard the news from someone else. But I—”

“You are too honorable for that,” she finished for him.

“Am I?” He took her hand. “In any case, I am still tempted to press my suit. But I will give you time to absorb the news first. May I call again?”

“Yes, of course.”

But long after James left the house, Hannah remained in that chair. Revisiting scenes from the past through the lens of this new revelation.

She recalled little things Lady Mayfield had said, things Hannah had attributed to Marianna’s general disappointment with Sir John, like, “I wish Anthony would do something—end this farce of a marriage once and for all.”

It had never crossed Hannah’s mind that Marianna’s marriage to Sir John really was a farce—and worse—a fraud. No wonder Fontaine had been devastated by news of Marianna’s “death.” She was his wife.

Other little snippets of their conversations came back to her. The teasing. The double entendres. Marianna coyly asking, “And how is Mrs. Fontaine tonight?” And his suggestive replies that always made Hannah feel left out of some private joke: “You tell me.” Or, “My dear wife is at home and plans to go to bed early. . . .”

The two of them had slyly referred to Marianna as “Mrs. Fontaine” right in front of Hannah, and she had never guessed. Who
would
guess such a sordid thing possible?

Finally, Hannah rose wearily and went back upstairs to her room, her heart aching for Sir John Mayfield all over again.

—

The next day, Hannah paced her small bedchamber, walking a fussy Danny back and forth across its length, rocking and shushing him. Becky had already tried and given up. Mrs. Hurst did not approve of crying babies. Perhaps Hannah ought to have accepted her father’s offer to move home, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet. Nor did she wish to flaunt her illegitimate child before his congregation.

A knock sounded on her bedchamber door and Hannah stiffened. She crossed the room to answer it, anticipating a reprimand.

“Hello, Mrs. Hurst. I am sorry. But Danny—”

The woman interrupted her. “There’s a gentleman to see you.”

Hannah’s heart skipped a beat. Was it Sir John? But she told herself to stop being foolish. Danny, she noticed, popped a fist in his mouth and silently stared at Mrs. Hurst, tears still clinging to his long lashes. He didn’t like the woman, either.

“Here’s his card,” Mrs. Hurst said, extending it toward her. “A solicitor. You’re not in any trouble, I trust?”

“Oh.” She glanced at James’s card. “No.”

Suspicion lit the woman’s eyes.

“Mr. Lowden is the solicitor of Sir John Mayfield,” Hannah explained, trying to ignore the disappointment flooding her. “My . . . former employer.”

The woman’s head tilted to the side and her face puckered in thought. “Mayfield . . . Isn’t that the name of the woman in the newspapers this morning?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Hannah murmured, distracted. She had been too busy with fussy Daniel to read the news. She inhaled. “Well, I shall go down and speak to Mr. Lowden in the sitting room if you don’t mind, Mrs. Hurst.”

“Well, you’ll not see him here in your bedchamber, that’s for certain. I run a respectable house, I do.”

“Yes, I know.” Hannah gave her a brittle smile. “For which I am duly grateful.”

She handed Danny to Becky and passed by the woman. Gripping the handrail tightly, she made her way downstairs and into the sitting room.

James turned at her entrance. “Miss Rogers.”

She dipped her head. “Mr. Lowden.” She smiled at him, but he did not return the gesture.

“Was that Daniel I heard? He doesn’t sound very happy.”

“I am afraid it’s the colic again.”

“Ah,” James murmured vaguely, clearly distracted.

Hannah closed the sitting room door and turned toward him, but he held up a hand to forestall her. “I am afraid this is not a social call.”

She hesitated, feeling both confused and strangely relieved. “Oh?”

“I am here in my official capacity as Sir John’s solicitor. I’ve had a letter from him. In it, he enclosed a letter to you, and asked me to forward it on, as he does not have your direction.”

He withdrew a folded rectangle from his pocket and handed it to her.

She accepted it, glancing at the seal and finding it still in tact.

“No, I did not read it,” he said dryly, noticing the direction of her gaze.

She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “But you want me to tell you what it says?”

He held her gaze a moment. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. If you weren’t curious, you might have sent it by messenger.”

“That’s not why I came in person.”

She expected to see a grin on his face or flirtatious light in his eyes. Instead he remained somberly officious.

He looked down, clearing his throat. “Pardon me. I have one more duty to discharge.”

He extracted a small leather purse from another pocket and kept his gaze averted. “The stipend for Daniel. Sir John insists he be allowed to support him, at least as long as you remain unmarried, and beyond that if your . . .” He swallowed. “. . . husband . . . is agreeable. He bids me to state that accepting the money on Daniel’s behalf in no way obligates you to him.”

Looking at James, Hannah was reminded of palace guards with their raised chins and stiff lips, staring straight ahead while carrying out their solemn duties.

“Oh, James . . .”

Again he held up his hand to forestall her. “Miss Rogers. I am compelled to ask. Are there any questions or requests you would like to make of my employer? Any news of Daniel’s health or needs you would like me to pass on?”

Tears bit Hannah’s eyes. “Only one request, Mr. Lowden.”

His soldier eyes flickered to hers uncertainly. “Yes?”

Her voice trembled. “Tell me what to do.”

His Adam’s apple convulsed up and down the long column of his throat. “That I cannot do.”

He bid her farewell and left her to read the letter in private.

Dear Miss Rogers,

No doubt you have heard by now the sorry tale of the elopement of Marianna Spencer and Anthony Fontaine before our own marriage. I wanted to let you know, before you saw it in the newspaper, that I am seeking a decree of nullity on the grounds of fraud. I know you have strong
feelings against divorce, but I hope that in this, you will absolve me. My solicitor assures me my case will succeed. I dread the proceedings and scandal and vile gossip, but feel it must be done, as quickly and quietly as possible. I have no wish to expose Marianna publically nor to punish her, and if anything, a formal release from me will be welcomed by her.

I want to give you every assurance that I pursue this course for my own sake without expectation or hope that there will be, or ever can be, a future between us. I wish you to do nothing out of guilt or a false sense of obligation. You are free. And hopefully, I will soon be free as well.