Lady Maybe (17 page)

Hannah’s mind whirled. Sir John had worried about her? Who in his household did he think had done something to offend or frighten her—Mr. Ward, Marianna and Mr. Fontaine, or he himself?

Mr. Lowden continued, “My father asked Sir John if this Miss Rogers had stolen something or if anything had gone missing. But he assured my father it was nothing like that. He seemed to trust her thoroughly.”

“Did he?” she murmured, surprised and pleased to hear it.

“Yes. I reviewed what little correspondence I could find pertaining to Miss Rogers. Apparently, my father did not pursue the matter very far. So I decided to do so myself. I went to her father’s house, but Mr. Rogers had not seen his daughter since she’d moved with the Mayfields to Bath. I also met a friend of hers, a Fred Bonner. He seemed quite reticent to speak with me. It was obvious the young man had been fond of Miss Rogers, perhaps even loved her, and mourned her loss. It was also clear he was hiding something about her past. It made me wonder if Hannah had got herself into trouble with this young man. If she had left the Mayfields’ employ to conceal a certain . . . condition.”

Hannah’s throat tightened. “Why would you think that?”

“Just a guess. A suspicion. Did no one notice anything unusual about her? Had Miss Rogers confided anything about a young man, or her future plans? Had she been ill in the mornings? Gained weight?”

Hannah felt her neck heat. “These are not things spoken of in polite company.”

A spoon clanked and she glanced over, only then realizing Mrs. Turrill was still in the room. Hannah pressed her lips together. “That will be all, Mrs. Turrill. Thank you so much.”

“Yes, an excellent dinner,” Mr. Lowden added. “Thank you.”

With a concerned look at one and then the other, Mrs. Turrill backed from the room and closed the door behind her.

Mr. Lowden continued, “I asked for a description of Hannah Rogers.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped
past several pages. “Would you like to hear how she was described?”

“No.”

He read from his notes as if she had not spoken. “‘Slender. Reddish brown hair. Fair eyes. Modest in dress and comportment.’” That was from Mr. Rogers. And this one from Fred Bonner. ‘A pretty girl with dark ginger hair and freckles. A lovely smile.’”

Tears bit her eyes, but panic burned them away. She had no idea what to say.

He looked up at her. “Is it an accurate description?”

Instead of answering, she asked, “Have you shared this information with Sir John?”

“Not yet. Do you think he will find it interesting?”

“I have no idea.” Very little of it would surprise him, Hannah thought. Then why was she so frightened?

James Lowden leaned back in his chair and surprised her by changing tack. “Sir John is in good spirits. He tells me you’ve been ‘ministering to him body and soul.’ What did he mean by that?”

She licked her dry lips. “I . . . suppose he means that I have undertaken a regimen Dr. Parrish ordered to help him strengthen his limbs after lying in bed so long. Simple stretches and the kneading of muscles. That’s all.”

“Is that all?”

She blinked away images of Sir John holding her hand. Brushing the hair from her brow. Touching her bodice.

Mr. Lowden watched her face. “Very . . . wifely,” he allowed. “Very intimate. I must say I am surprised.”

“It isn’t
intimate
,” she defended. “Not in that way.”

The housemaid knocked once and poked her head into the
room. “Excuse me, my lady. But Sir John wishes to know if you will be visiting his bedchamber again tonight?”

Heat suffused her neck and face. She could not meet Mr. Lowden’s startled gaze.

—

Hannah did go to Sir John’s bedchamber that night, but she went earlier, before she had changed into her nightclothes—determined not to stay long. Mr. Lowden’s return had been a cold splash of reality, making her tenuous situation seem less hopeful and more tawdry. She knew he had gone up to see Sir John again after dinner. She wondered if he had confided any of his findings—his visit to her father, or his theories about Fred Bonner and Hannah. Should she?

She once again found Sir John sitting up in bed with a portable writing desk in his lap, and quill in hand. He looked up at her with a ready smile. Then his gaze flicked to the mantel clock before returning to her, sweeping over her emerald green evening dress—one of Marianna’s older ones she’d altered to fit her slighter figure.

“Good evening, my lady. You’re . . . early.”

“Hello, Sir John.”

She approached the bed without being asked and stopped beside it.

He looked at her, taking in the lower, evening-gown neckline. Her pinned hair. Her wary face. “The color suits you. You look beautiful,” he said quietly. “Beautiful and sad.”

She ducked her head.

Nib in hand, he lifted the quill, tickling under her chin. “Look at me,” he said gently. “What is it? Is Danny all right?”

“A little colicky, but otherwise fine.” She looked up and braved a small smile. “Thank you for asking.”

Holding her gaze, he slowly lowered the quill from beneath her chin, down the column of her throat, down her breastbone, toward the hollow beneath.

She jerked away, stepping back from the bed. His familiarity, which had previously warmed her, now put her on edge.

He frowned. “Forgive me, I thought . . . What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“Mr. Lowden is with us again, and it’s . . . awkward. He’s asking questions.”

“About us?”

“About . . . Hannah Rogers.”

“Ah . . .” He considered this, then said quietly, “Remember, my dear. Mr. Lowden works for me. You have nothing to fear from him.”

He tilted his head to the side and regarded her cautiously. “Or is fear not what you feel for him? Is there . . . more to it?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He took against me at first, but then we seemed to come to a truce. But now . . . he’s changed toward me. He knows, or at least suspects the truth.”

“Leave him to me. Unless . . .” He studied her face. “Have you developed feelings for my solicitor?”

She stared at him, stunned by the suggestion, and yet . . . could she honestly say she felt nothing for the man? “I . . . We . . . Nothing of that sort is going on. But he seems . . . angry with me, or at least suspicious.”

He nodded and said in his low, rich voice, “Perhaps he cannot reconcile the Lady Mayfield I wrote about, with the modest, gentle woman he met here. A woman twice as ladylike as Marianna Spencer ever was.”

She relished his praise, even as dread cramped her stomach. She had been living in a dream these last few days. An unrealistic, unattainable dream.

He held out his hand to her. She hesitated, then placed hers in his. But then someone knocked on the door and Hannah jumped back, embarrassed. She didn’t want James Lowden to find them in anything resembling an
intimate
position.

But it was not James Lowden. Mrs. Turrill entered carrying Danny, dressed in a little nightshirt and cap, his face red and pinched in pain.

“Sorry to disturb you both,” Mrs. Turrill said. “But it’s the colic again. Becky couldn’t settle him and nor can I.”

Hannah took the baby from the housekeeper and began gently bouncing him, her wrapped arm bearing more weight now without pain. “Thank you, Mrs. Turrill. I’ll take care of him. Why don’t you retire for the evening—you look exhausted. I’ll be up soon, but Becky can help me change.”

“I am worn off my feet, I admit,” the woman said. “Very well. If you’re sure.”

“I am. Good night, Mrs. Turrill.”

“Good night, my lady. Sir.”

When the housekeeper had departed, Hannah turned back to Sir John. Danny continued to whine. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you don’t want to listen to him fuss.”

“Nonsense. Here.” He set aside his writing things and opened his arms. “Give him to me.”

What was Sir John doing? What was
she
doing? Opening her heart to foolish hopes and dreams again, that’s what. Still she could not refuse his offer, his warm expression, and outstretched arms.

She handed Danny to him and he laid the boy on his lap, feet toward him. He slowly, gently lifted the child’s knees toward his abdomen and then repeated the movement several times. It reminded her somewhat of the stretching movements she had performed for Sir John.

At first Danny’s face continued to pucker, but after several more repetitions, her little angel broke wind. Hannah was embarrassed and relieved both. The boy’s small abdomen became less distended as the pressure eased.

Sir John smiled. “There we go. That’s better, ay, little man?”

Danny relaxed and Sir John lowered the boy’s legs, keeping his large hands on her son’s pudgy white feet. Danny looked up at his deliverer and cooed.

It nearly broke her heart.

J
ames lingered over breakfast the next morning, waiting for the lady of the house to join him. When she finally entered the dining parlor, she hesitated at seeing him, no doubt unsure what sort of reception to expect. He couldn’t blame her for not being happy to see him after their recent conversation.

“Good morning, Mr. Lowden.”

“Morning.” He sipped tepid coffee and waited while she poured her own cup at the sideboard and helped herself to bread and butter.

She sat across from him, and he noticed her fingers tremble as she picked up the delicate china cup.

He studied her, sitting with such perfect posture, little finger raised, the picture of a poised lady. It annoyed him.

She took the tiniest bite of her bread and chewed daintily. The silence between them stretched.

He drummed his fingers on the table, scowling. Glancing around to assure they were alone, he said in low voice, “I understand why you did it, but what I don’t understand is . . . why does Sir John go along with it?”

He looked at her, waiting for her to enlighten him. Wondering if she would deny knowing what he was talking about.

She sighed, and whispered, “I am not certain.”

“You haven’t asked him?”

She shook her head.

He rose and stood at the window, squinting into the morning sun. “Why would a man allow another woman to take his wife’s place?”

When she made no reply, he said, “Unfortunately, I can think of several reasons.” He frowned, turning back to her. “But what about the child— Dr. Parrish mentioned you returned to Bath for him after the accident. Has Sir John said anything about him?”

“Only that he sees no resemblance between Danny and himself.”

James felt his brows rise. “Did he? When was this?”

“Soon after he awoke. Mrs. Turrill and Dr. Parrish both went on about how Danny looked like him, but on both occasions Sir John said he saw no resemblance.”

“That must have been awkward.”

“Yes, it was.” She lifted her chin, eyes sparking defiantly. “Any other questions,
counselor
?”

His gaze lingered on her bright eyes, her high color, her tight lips. . . . “Only one. For now. How far do you plan to take this?”

She exhaled deeply. “I don’t know. I never planned to take it this far. All I wanted was to get Danny back. I never expected Sir John to do more for us. I thought I would remain until my arm mended. But Sir John awoke before I could leave. And he did not expose me. In fact, he seemed to encourage the pretense.”

“Why?”

“At first I thought it was his head wound, that he was confused. But now . . .” Her words trailed away on a shrug.

James wondered if there was more to the story than she was willing to tell him.

“Does he love you?” he asked.

“He has never said so, no.”

“You don’t think he would marry you.” James heard the derision in his voice. The incredulity.

She lifted her chin. “Am I so far beneath him? Would that be out of the question?”

“If I have anything to say about it, yes. Especially after this whole charade of yours.”

She paled. “Meaning you will counsel him against it?”

Meaning I want you for myself,
James thought, stifling the illogical words. After what he’d found out he ought to despise her. He could not seriously contemplate marriage to a woman like her. It could only lead to scandal, which would in no way help his struggling law practice.

But all he said was, “Yes. I will counsel him against it.”

She screwed up her face. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he lied. “But my duty is to protect my client’s interests.”

“By protecting him from me?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well. Thank you for being honest with me.”

He held her gaze. “You ought to try it sometime.”

She looked away first, but he felt little victory. For he hadn’t been fully truthful with her, either.

—

Mrs. Parrish and the vicar’s wife were due to call again that afternoon. Hannah forced a smile when Mrs. Turrill reminded her of the engagement, and fastened an overdress of embroidered lawn over her sprigged muslin, in which to receive callers. But inwardly, Hannah dreaded it. How could she face them,
pretend
for them, especially with Mr. Lowden there under the same roof?

Mrs. Parrish arrived first. Hannah waited until Mrs. Turrill had shown the woman into the drawing room and stepped out again.

Then she took a deep breath and began, “Mrs. Parrish, I am
glad for a moment to speak with you alone. I know you saw an old friend of mine who stopped by last week—just to say hello as he passed through the area, and I wouldn’t want you to think—”

“Old friend?” the woman interrupted with a sly smile. “Very friendly indeed from the looks of it.”

“It isn’t what you think, Mrs. Parrish. It was only a brief, friendly call. Perfectly innocent.”

“If you say so. But then . . . why hide in the garden like secret lovers?”

Hannah forced herself to hold the woman’s challenging gaze. But what could she say to that?

Nothing.

Mrs. Parrish’s eyes gleamed in triumph.

A moment later, Mrs. Turrill showed the vicar’s wife into the room. Greetings were exchanged and the conversation turned light and bright while Mrs. Turrill served refreshments.

Personally Hannah thought Mrs. Parrish paid calls at Clifton not because she enjoyed her company, but because the proud physician’s wife enjoyed having her husband’s cousin wait on her hand and foot.

Mrs. Parrish had brought with her a copy of the
Bath Journal
, mailed to her by one of her friends who lived there. Mrs. Parrish enjoyed reading about the comings and goings of the ton in Bath, the little sister city to London. She also brought the local newspaper, with its accounts of runaway apprentices, ships into port, obituaries, and notices.

“Listen to this,” Mrs. Parrish said, sipping noisily at her teacup before returning it with a clink to its saucer.

“On Monday died Mr. Robert Meyers Jr., a wealthy butcher. He dined last Friday with some friends at a tavern, on mock turtle, when two of the company wantonly put a quantity of Jalap in his plate, which operated so violently as to occasion his death.”

“No!” responded the timid little vicar’s wife, looking suitably shocked.

Mrs. Parrish nodded somberly. “I could have predicted such an outcome. Jalap is a known cathartic, which of course I know, being Dr. Parrish’s helpmeet all these years.”

“Ahh . . .” the vicar’s wife murmured, clearly impressed. “If only you had been there to warn them.”

“Very true, Mrs. Barton. Very true.” She turned the broadsheet over. “Bankruptcies. Always a sobering reminder to be thrifty.” She ran her finger over the names as she pronounced them with barely concealed relish.

“
BANKRUPTS. Robert Dean, of Stamford, Innholder. William Castle, of Chichester, Brazier. John Keates, of Stanwell, Paper-maker. Anthony Fontaine, of Bristol, Gentleman.”

Here Mrs. Parrish snorted. “Gentleman indeed. No longer, now that he’s passed through the gazette.”

Mrs. Barton covered her mouth, tee-heeing discreetly behind her tiny hand, like a little girl who knew it was naughty to laugh at the misfortune of others.

But Hannah paid them little heed, her mind still echoing with the name
Anthony Fontaine
. Could Marianna’s Mr. Fontaine be bankrupt?

Mrs. Barton nibbled a biscuit. “Pray, do read on, Mrs. Parrish.”

“Very well.” The doctor’s wife perused another column.

“Oh, dear. What a pity.
LOST betwixt Bristol and Bath, a GOLD RING, inlaid with amethyst and purple sapphires, engraved with the Maker’s Name, John Ebsworth, London. Whoever has found the said Ring, and will bring it to the Printer, shall receive One Guinea Reward
.”

“One guinea reward for such a ring?” The vicar’s wife tut-tutted. “I doubt such a valuable piece shall be returned when it might be sold for far more.”

“I am afraid you are right, Mrs. Barton. Human greed being what it is.”

The vicar’s wife nodded. “Unless God chooses to intervene in the heart of whoever finds it.”

Mrs. Parrish turned to Hannah. “Amethyst and purple sapphires . . . Isn’t that very like your ring, Lady Mayfield?”

Hannah swallowed and nodded. “A family ring, yes.”

“Who made it, do you know?”

“I don’t.”

Mrs. Barton said, “Wouldn’t that be something if it were made by this same John Ebsworth of London?”

“I suppose there are many similar rings about the country,” Hannah said lightly, faking a sip of tea.

Mrs. Parrish frowned in thought. “Was that the ring Dr. Parrish found in your hand after the accident?”

“Yes. He put it on my finger so it wouldn’t get lost.”

“Odd that it was in your hand and not on your finger already.” Mrs. Parrish eyed her speculatively.

Hannah shrugged, squirming under the women’s scrutiny. “I recall so little of the wreck.”

When the uncomfortable visit finally concluded, Hannah went upstairs to her room and retrieved the ring from a little box in her valise. Standing next to the window to capture the sunlight she read the fine, tiny engraving inside the band. Her heart lurched.
John Ebsworth, London
. No doubt just a coincidence. Surely no one had reported this particular ring lost. Many such rings were likely made. Hadn’t she said as much to her guests?

—

While the lady of the house entertained visitors, James took the day’s correspondence up to Sir John’s room. There he found the man sitting in a wheeled chair, reading.

James handed him a letter from Mr. Ward, his secretary, keeping him abreast of the household accounts at the Bristol property, and requesting a bank draft to cover a few unforeseen expenses. “Shall I take care of that, sir?” James offered.

“Yes, if you would. Thank you.”

James hesitated. “Are you ready to talk about your will?”
The reason you brought me out here in the first place,
he thought to himself.

“If we must. I have decided not to change it.”

“You no longer wish to disinherit your wife beyond the marriage settlement?”

“I do not.”

“But—” James turned away and ran a hand through his hair. He went to the door, made sure no one was loitering about, and shut it once again.

“Sir John. I think I should tell you that I know the young woman in this house is not Marianna Mayfield. She is Hannah Rogers, your wife’s former companion. I suspected something was amiss when last I was here, and have taken it upon myself to look into the matter. I spoke to her friends and to her father in Bristol. I’ve heard her described in great detail—from her slender figure to her freckles.”

James took a deep breath, then continued, “Her father knows nothing of the child, and nor did I tell him. The two had become estranged and apparently Miss Rogers kept the news of her pregnancy and birth from him, for obvious reasons.”

Sir John said nothing, but James saw a pulse tick in his jaw. James went on, “And while I can understand why she might pass herself off as Lady Mayfield to secure shelter for herself and her son, I cannot in good conscience allow it to go on.”

Sir John frowned. “Who asked you to ‘look into’ these matters, as though they are any of your concern?”

James felt his defenses rise. “You wrote and asked my father to look into her whereabouts after she left your employ,” James said. “And now, as your solicitor—”

“That was nearly a year ago,” Sir John said. “And only to learn what had become of her. Not to ferret out information better left buried.”

James reeled back, flummoxed. “Does she have some sort of hold on you, sir? For you to go along with this? Is she extorting money from you somehow, or . . . ?”

“Heavens, no. What an imagination you have, Mr. Lowden. And how you do see criminal intent where none exists. Perhaps you missed your calling. A career as a runner or perhaps judge and jury might have better suited you.”

“Sir. I don’t know what to say. You know she is not your wife.”

“Of course I know she is not Marianna Mayfield. I am not blind, nor insane.”

“Well, you were out of your senses for quite some time, so I thought—”

“You thought wrong. It was Dr. Parrish who assumed Miss Rogers was Lady Mayfield when he found us alone in the wrecked carriage. And she allowed the misapprehension to continue only because she was concerned about how she would support her young son.”

“And she could think of no way beyond impersonating her dead mistress?”

Sir John winced. “You exaggerate, Lowden. It wasn’t as bad as all that.”

James shook his head. “I don’t understand you, sir.”

“I’m not paying you to understand me. As I said, let’s leave the will for now.”

“But what about the child?”

“Good point—include the child as well.”

James fisted his hands. What was the man playing at? Was he really willing to risk this woman’s illegitimate child becoming heir to his estate? “But you said it yourself, Sir John. You see no resemblance between yourself and the boy.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Who told you that?”