Lady Maybe Page 12

  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 stretchi
ng 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. . . .

  She and Lady Mayfield had been out walking through Bristol and stopped at a millinery. On their way home, Marianna suggested an alternate route and led the way. They strolled past brick buildings and shops that catered to gentlemen—tobacconists, newsagents, barbers, and a fencing club.

  When Marianna stopped walking, Hannah turned to see what had arrested her attention. The muffled clang of metal striking metal drew her gaze to the windows of a nearby building. Inside, two men fenced back and forth.

  Marianna grinned. “This is Sir John’s fencing club. Let’s go in and take a peek.”

  “No, my lady,” Hannah hissed. “The sign says, Gentlemen Only.”

  Marianna huffed. “You are a spoilsport, Hannah. Just like Sir John.” She sniffed and stepped nearer the windows.

  Hannah crept to her side, feeling self-conscious and hoping no one of their acquaintance would pass by and see them there—especially not her father.

  The men inside wore fencing costumes—padded linen jackets, leather gloves on thrusting hands, and wire mesh masks concealing their faces. The competitors advanced and retreated, lunging and striking again and again at a grueling pace. They were so focused on their bout that they remained unaware of their audience.

  Hannah admired their skill and agility, and the way their leg muscles strained against snug white pantaloons with each low lunge. Hannah had once heard Sir John say that fencing helped him stay fit and vent his frustrations. Standing there, she could understand how it might do so.

  The taller man scored a hit, acknowledged by the other, and the bout ended. The men saluted one another, shook hands, and removed their masks. Hannah felt her lips part in surprise. The taller man was Sir John Mayfield. He was breathing hard and perspiring, but he looked young and masculine and strong. His opponent stepped away, but Sir John remained, unfastening and removing his jacket. The second man tossed Sir John a towel, and with it he wiped his face and torso. Hannah could not help but stare at Sir John’s muscular chest, abdomen, and shoulders. She hoped Lady Mayfield could not read her thoughts.

  Beside her, Marianna breathed, “Isn’t he something?”

  Hannah was surprised to hear the admiration in her voice, though she silently agreed. But when she glanced over, she found Marianna’s gaze glued not on Sir John, but rather on his opponent. . . .

  Memory fading, Hannah replaced the bedclothes over Sir John’s leg. No wonder he had fenced so often, she thought. He’d had a great deal of frustration to vent.

  —

  On his way to the morning room the next day, James hesitated outside the threshold of the drawing room. He heard Marianna Mayfield within, cooing softly to the little boy—Anthony Fontaine’s little boy?

  “Ah, my dear one. Mamma loves you. Yes, she does.”

  He glanced around the doorjamb. She sat in a chair with the child on her lap, his head on her knees, his legs straight up, gently clapping his feet together. “Pat a cake, pat a cake, baker’s man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can. Pat it and prick it and mark it with a D. And put it in the oven for Danny and me.”

  He stepped inside. “I wonder, my lady. Would you dote on him so were he Sir John’s son?”

  Her head snapped toward him, clearly startled by his presence and his words.

  “And a good morning to you, too, Mr. Lowden.” With a defensive little lift of her chin, she added, “And, yes, I would.” Her face flushed.

  He was surprised to see his words had embarrassed her. Was she admitting the child was not Sir John’s? That surprised him as well.

  She looked back at the little boy. “Uh-oh. Someone’s nappy needs a change.” And instead of calling for a servant, she rose, and carried the child upstairs to tend him herself. Or perhaps, simply to get away from her husband’s mean-spirited solicitor.

  He knew she employed a wet nurse, but evidently Lady Mayfield often changed and coddled the child herself. Which was the real Lady Mayfield? The unfaithful wife or the devoted mother?

  Apparently, it was quite possible to be both.

  CHAPTER 12

  At dinner that evening, James Lowden again sat at table with his client’s wife. It was a bit awkward, just the two of them, but he looked forward to another opportunity to speak with her alone. Though of course, a servant or two would be on hand to lay the courses. Even so, he would have her undivided attention. He relished the notion. For he had a few more questions he wished to put to her.

  Lady Mayfield had dressed for dinner in a gown of emerald green, ribbon trim at high waist and sleeves. She looked reserved and dignified. Her hair was pinned at the back of her head as usual, but tonight there were curls at each temple. The effect softened Lady Mayfield’s features, he decided. And the color must flatter her complexion, for she looked quite pretty tonight. Or perhaps it was the glass of Madeira he’d helped himself to before dinner.

  After they had finished their soup and begun the fish course, he as
ked, “What can you tell me about your companion who died?”

  Her fork stilled midway to her mouth. “Why?”

  “I am only curious.”

  “What would you like to know?” She set down her bite of fish, untasted.

  He sipped his wine. “Why was she with you in the first place? Sir John wrote specifically that he planned to take no servants from Bath. And, do you not find it odd that no one has responded to the death notice Dr. Parrish sent to the Bath Journal? Unless you have received something in the post you did not mention?”

  With a nervous glance at Mrs. Turrill at the sideboard, Lady Mayfield said, “I already told you it was a last-minute decision. Miss Rogers was my companion in Bristol. She moved with us to Bath, but left us soon after. We had not seen her for some time when she appeared at our door. I all but begged Sir John to allow her to come along. I had always been fond of her and I hated the thought of going who-knew-where with no companion.”

  James waited until Mrs. Turrill left the room with a tray of dishes, then leaned forward. “Your husband was not companion enough?”

  “Mr. Lowden, you cannot pretend ignorance about the nature of the relationship. You showed me the letter, remember. The marriage was not a love match.”

  “On the contrary, I have reason to believe it was a love match, at least on Sir John’s side.”

  The woman bit her lip. “I would prefer not to discuss marriage with you, Mr. Lowden.”

  “Very well; back to Hannah Rogers. Sir John acquiesced and allowed her to come along?”

  “Yes, as should be obvious.”

  “Had she no family? No one who might be wondering what has become of her? No one to come here in hopes of visiting her grave—or to mourn her loss?”