Lady Maybe (24 page)

She pursed her lip in surprise. “Because you would need the Parrishes to testify, and they think the woman they saw floating away was me?”

“Not only that. Though that will pose a problem.”

She frowned. “Then why—because her body has not been found?”

“Oh, I doubt she will ever be found.” A strange light shone in his eyes. “But we cannot be certain.” He held her gaze. “Will you wait? Remain here with me until we can sort this out one way or another?”

Why did he want to wait, Hannah wondered, and what exactly was he asking of her? He had not come out and asked her to marry him nor, she reminded herself, had he ever told her he loved her. Did he want her as a lover but not a wife? Or dread marrying a woman enmeshed in scandal?

Once, she had wanted nothing more than to live as husband and wife with the father of her child. To know she and Danny would be taken care of. But that was before. In those old unspoken dreams, she had not tainted her chances by assuming Marianna’s identity, nor had she met James Lowden. . . .

She faltered. “I . . . don’t know that I should stay that long.”

Disappointment flitted across his face, but he didn’t press her. Instead he opened a desk drawer and extracted his leather purse, and from it drew out several bank notes.

She watched his actions warily. “What are you doing?”

“Here is enough money to set yourself up—you, Danny, and Becky—in a place of your own while you figure out what you wish to do next.”

She stared at him, not reaching for the notes. She whispered, “You want us to leave?”

He shrugged. “You will leave anyway, eventually. Why extend the charade any longer than necessary?” He laid the money on the table between them.

She whispered, “The charade of being Lady Mayfield, you mean?”

His eyes glinted. “The charade of caring for me.”

“I . . . do care. And I don’t want your money.” She pushed the notes away. “Not like this. It feels like . . . a bribe to ease your conscience.”

“And what if it is?”

“Then I think you truly cruel . . . and not merely callous and cynical as you pretend.”

“Ah, Hannah. You are the cruel one. Raising my hopes when I knew better.”

“How did I?”

“I thought I had finally found a woman who actually
wanted
to be my wife.”

She stared at him, stunned by the open vulnerability in his eyes. Again she felt the stir of feelings she’d long ago laid to rest as futile and wrong. “Sir John, I—”

Then his eyes shuttered and his mouth hardened. “Never mind. We all know what a poor judge of character I am where women are concerned.”

Hannah felt as though she’d been slapped.

He glanced at her, and sighed. “Forgive me. It’s only that I am well aware money is all I have to offer. I am a broken-down man who can barely walk. Why else would you want to stay?”

Again, he held up a hand. “No. Don’t answer that. I am not fishing for compliments.” He turned to the sheaf of papers and briskly pulled forth several bound pages. “I have asked Mr. Lowden, against his better judgment and adamant counsel, to draw up a legal document—a trust for Daniel to provide for his needs and future education. I guessed you would not accept money for yourself. But I hope you will not refuse for Danny’s sake.”

She stared at the legal document and the generous figure, speechless.

Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over
his chest. “Now that your son is provided for, Miss Rogers, what do you want for yourself?”

Hannah’s mind whirled. She didn’t know. She honestly didn’t know.

She licked dry lips. “May I think about it?”

His eyes dimmed but he set his jaw. “Of course. Let me know what you decide.”

H
annah wandered downstairs in a haze, thoughts and stomach churning. She found herself at the open door of the morning room without consciously deciding to go there.

James rose and came around the desk, looking somber. “He showed you the papers then? The trust?”

She nodded and drew in a long breath. “I never dared believe a future with Sir John possible. But now . . . if he is willing to support my son . . . Danny will have security. Education. Life without the worry of where his next meal will come from.”

James gripped her arms. “None of us have a secure future, Hannah. Not in this life. Sir John could change his mind. Lose his fortune. Decide you are not worth the scandal. For there will be a scandal, make no mistake. Even here, far from the hub of society. When people learn who you really are . . .”

His fingers on her shoulders dug hard, the grooves bracketing his mouth deepened. “But, Hannah, it’s more than that. I don’t want you to pretend to be his wife. I want you to be mine. In reality. Legally, morally, forever. No ruse, no lies. Don’t you want that, too?”

His words were jabs to her heart. The pain in his face a guilt-tipped arrow.

Tears filled her eyes. “James. If things were different— If I
could go back and make different choices . . . But I cannot. I have to live with where I am and who I am now.”

“You are
not
Marianna Mayfield.”

“I know that. That’s not what I meant.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “He says in time he will report her death, so we can be together.” She refrained from mentioning that Sir John had not directly asked her to marry him.

James frowned. “If he’s serious, why put it off?”

“I think he wants to wait until her body is recovered. To avoid having to ask Dr. and Edgar Parrish to testify.”

“There is no guarantee it will ever be found.”

“I know that. But in the meantime, if Sir John is willing to stand by Daniel and me, then I cannot turn my back on that. On him.”

His green eyes bore into hers. “I would stand by you, and raise Daniel as my own.”

“You wouldn’t love him as your own.”

“I would. In time, I will come to love him as my own flesh and blood.”

“He
is
Sir John’s flesh and blood, and Sir John loves him already.”

James glowered, looking away for a moment, but he did not deny it. “You would forgo your own happiness for his?”

For Sir John’s happiness, or for Danny’s? she wondered. But she didn’t ask. The answer was the same.

“Yes,” she whispered. Though she hoped she would find some measure of happiness, in time.

“And what about me?”

“You are young. You will find someone else. Someone not dragging a sordid past behind her.”

His mouth twisted. “Is it because he is rich? Titled?”

Pain lanced her. “You know it is not.”

“Oh yes, the poor, selfless girl who has to stay with the rich knight. Selfless indeed.”

His words, his sneer, cut deep and she turned away.

He grasped her shoulders from behind. “Forgive me, Hannah. I didn’t mean it. I am only . . . angry. Hurt.”

“I know.”

“I should never have allowed myself to hope. In my heart of hearts, I knew you’d choose him.”

She stared out the window, seeing other windows, shutters slamming in a storm. . . . “I chose him a long time ago, whether I knew it or not.”

She drew herself up, turned, and resolutely met his gaze. “I am fond of him.” Should she tell James she had long admired Sir John Mayfield? Admit she had struggled to suppress her unrequited feelings for her employer while Marianna was alive? Or would it only hurt him more?

She said simply, “And hopefully in time he will come to care for me as he does Danny.”

Oh, how she prayed that was true.

A
fter breakfast the next day, Mr. Lowden asked Hannah to join him in the morning room.

His eager eyes and secretive air indicated something important was afoot.

“I’ve had a letter from a friend of mine in this morning’s post,” he began as he ushered her inside. “Remember that Captain Blanchard I mentioned?”

“Yes?”

Checking the hall to be sure no one else was near, James closed the door. He gestured her to take a seat, and then lifted the open letter from the desk. “It’s rather surprising. He wrote to tell me he saw Lady Mayfield again, this time in London.”

“Lady Mayfield? How . . . interesting.”

“I thought so.”

“When was this—a long time ago, I assume?”

“No. Last week.”

Hannah’s heart banged against her ribs. “Obviously your friend was mistaken.”

“Then he is not alone in his mistake, for he sent along a clipping from a London society column.” He handed her a rectangle of newsprint and Hannah read,

Sir Francis Delaval hosted a masquerade ball at his home last night. Attendance was sadly low, as so many have returned to their estates, leaving town parties in favor of country house parties. However, the evening was saved by the appearance of a very beautiful Diana, which caused great speculation among the company. Several in attendance noted a striking resemblance to Lady M. M—, lately of Bath, who graced us with her charming presence in the past. But this time Lady M. was unaccompanied by either husband or preferred companion, the charming though insolvent Mr. F—.

No . . .
Hannah thought.
It can’t be.
She gripped the clipping and insisted, “It’s just a rumor.”

“I’m not so sure. My friend had met Marianna Mayfield before, you remember, back when my father was still Sir John’s solicitor. So he recognized her and even spoke with her. Blanchard wrote with much enthusiasm of her great beauty, snapping brown eyes, and flawless complexion.”

It certainly sounded like Marianna. Even so, Hannah didn’t believe it. There were many beautiful brunettes in London. “He must have seen someone else.”

“Possibly, though he seems quite certain.”

“But . . . she drowned,” Hannah reminded him. “Edgar and Dr. Parrish saw her. Your friend must be mistaken.” Hannah said it with bravado. But inwardly knew it was she herself who had made the mistake. Too many mistakes to count.

Was Marianna still alive? Carrying on life in London, with Mr. Fontaine? Hannah shuddered at the thought. How long until others learned of the rumor, whether it was true or not? Until everyone in Lynton knew
she
was not who they thought she was?

She asked, “Was . . . the lady in question wearing a mask? It
was, after all, a masquerade ball.”
Don’t panic,
she told herself. The sighting could have been no more than residual rumor—Lady Mayfield once again seen flirting with another man.

“He saw her face,” James replied. “For just a moment, she removed her mask.”

The last candle of hope snuffed out. “And so you will remove mine,” she whispered, guessing the solicitor meant to tell everyone of the discovery. She wondered what Sir John would do.

James said gently, “Do you see now why you mustn’t let the deception continue, or think of marrying him?”

Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. “Even if it’s true, she’ll never come back to him.” The threatening letter Anthony Fontaine had written flitted through her mind.

“That’s not the point, Hannah. If his wife is still alive, he is still a married man.” James pressed her hand. “You must get out now—while you can.”

—

James took the letter upstairs with him and braced himself to face Sir John with the news. He hoped his client would not accuse him of manufacturing the tale for his own purposes.

The man sat in the armchair near the window as he often did, reading a trade publication or shipping manifest, his cane nearby. He looked up when James entered, his expression instantly wary. James regretted that such tension existed between them, but it could not be helped.

“Sir, I have something to tell you.”

“Will I enjoy it?” Sir John asked dryly.

“I don’t think so, I’m afraid.” James unfolded the single page. “I’ve had a letter from a friend of mine.”

“Oh?”

“He wrote to tell me he saw Lady Mayfield in London last week. At a masquerade ball.”

“A masquerade?” Sir John asked. “Then how did he know it was her?”

The man did not seem as shocked as James would have guessed. Or liked.

“He said she removed her mask briefly. Long enough for him to see her face.”

“This friend of yours was acquainted with Marianna?”

“Yes. Apparently he met Lady Mayfield when you lived in Bath.”

“And I suppose your friend saw her with her lover,” Sir John said. It was not a question.

“Actually, she was alone. My friend spoke to her. Told her he was surprised to see her, since he knew from me that I had spent time in Devonshire with Sir John and his . . . lady.”

“And how did she respond to that?”

“He did not say.”

James noticed that Sir John did not insist this friend must be mistaken, as Hannah had done. Had Sir John believed all along his wife might be alive?

The man asked, “Have you shown Miss Rogers this letter?”

“I did mention it to her, yes.”

“Of course you did.”

Several moments passed, but Sir John said nothing more. James wondered what he should say. He had clearly displeased his employer, yet even had he no vested interest in the matter, he would have been obligated to inform his client of such important news.

Tentatively, James asked, “Shall I . . . leave you, sir?”

Sir John did not answer right away. Then he inhaled deeply
and said, “Yes. You shall leave. I want you to go to London. Then return to Bristol, even Bath if you have to. I want you to find proof that Marianna is alive. And while you’re at it, I want you to gather evidence against her and Mr. Fontaine. Evidence we would need to bring a civil case against him.”

A civil case. The first step in long and tedious divorce proceedings, James knew.

He stood there, feeling queasy. He was relieved Lady Mayfield had reappeared and would gladly work to verify that she was alive. For if Sir John still had a living, breathing wife, he could not very well marry another—the woman James wanted for himself. But to help the man gather evidence against her lover to begin divorce proceedings? The whole process could take years and be ruinously expensive. Worst yet, it might offer Sir John, and perhaps even Hannah, hope that the two might one day be joined together lawfully. That possibility made him feel sicker yet. Even so, Sir John was his most important client and he could not very well refuse.

James swallowed back bile and asked, “When would you like me to start?”

Sir John met his gaze with a look of steely determination. “Immediately.”

—

Wearing an apron over her day dress, Hannah bathed Danny in a small tub. She had excused Becky, who cheerfully left the nursery in favor of Mrs. Turrill’s warm kitchen. Hannah wanted to do the sweet chore herself. Wanted to be alone with her dearest treasure and her troubled thoughts. In her pocket, she carried the threatening letter from Anthony Fontaine. Now that she knew Marianna might be alive and the two perhaps more determined than ever to be together, the letter seemed important—
and the threat more real. She wondered if she should show the letter to Sir John, or to his solicitor.

The warm water felt good on her skin, and on her son’s, given the evidence of his sparkling eyes and drooling, gummy smile. She tenderly rubbed the damp cloth over his glistening cheeks, his rounded tummy, his pudgy, kicking legs. The gentle motions, the sight of her son, the peaceful maternal task soothed her nerves.

But unbidden, the water lapping in the tub and her wet, wrinkled fingers transported her back to the scene of the accident, until she saw not Danny’s face nor heard his happy gurgles, but other sights and sounds less lovely. . . .

The frigid water sloshing inside the overturned carriage and lapping against its cracked walls, a cry of a distant seagull. The heavy weight pressing against her. Her hands, wet and cold. Another hand, the ring . . .

For a moment Hannah squeezed her eyes shut and tried for the hundredth time to remember. Had she seen Marianna? Grasped her hand? She could almost feel Marianna’s hand in hers, feel the bite of metal in her palm—the large sharp ring. Had Marianna been alive, awake, alert, even then? Or had she been pulled from Hannah’s grip and floated away, only to be revived later, perhaps by the water or a passerby, if the report of her sighting was true. If she was, indeed, alive. But how . . . how had it happened?

Danny’s happy coos became mild fussing, and Hannah realized the water had cooled.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” she murmured and carefully lifted him from the tub, wrapped him in a cozy towel, and dried his face and hair as best she could with her hindered hand. Then she dressed him in a clean nappy and nightdress, and swaddled him in a small blanket.

Holding his warm body close, Hannah sat in the rocking
chair and looked down into his face. Her heart surged with love for him. Such a small person. Such a large part of her heart.

One of his little fists escaped his swaddling and she took it in hers. Tears pricked her eyes and she whispered, “What are we going to do, my love?”

J
ames went in search of Hannah and found her alone in the nursery, rocking Daniel. As he crossed the threshold, she looked up at him with damp eyes. Then her gaze lowered to the valise in his hand and the coat over his arm, and her face clouded.

“You’re leaving?” she asked.

“Yes. Sir John wishes me to verify the sighting of Lady Mayfield.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “What did he say when you told him? Was he shocked?”

“Not that I could tell. One wonders if he had an inkling all along.”

Hannah drew in a breath. “Perhaps he did. And that is why he hesitated to . . . report her death.”

James nodded. “And that’s not all. In case she is alive, he wants me to gather evidence against her and her lover. Evidence for a civil trial.”

She stared at him.

“Do you know what that means?”

Hannah shook her head.

“If Mr. Fontaine is judged guilty of alienation of affection, then Sir John can pursue the matter in the ecclesiastical court, charge Marianna with adultery, and request a divorce.”

Hannah stared at him, but said nothing.

“It will take a long time and cost a great deal of money. Even
if he is successful, he would not be able to remarry unless Parliament passes a bill that allows him to do so. Meanwhile, Marianna would become a social outcast and Sir John’s reputation would suffer as well, which would hurt him—and me—professionally and personally.”

“Then why would he go through all that?”

James shot her an irritated look. “Why do you think, Hannah?”

Hurt crossed her face, and he immediately regretted his sharp tone. He sat on the bed near the rocking chair and lowered his voice. “Look, I know you felt compelled to stay here with Sir John, since he was willing to acknowledge Daniel, and allowed you to carry on as Lady Mayfield. But if Marianna is alive—! Tell me you understand that everything has changed? Please don’t do anything rash until I return. Don’t forget—he has forgiven her before and he’ll do so again. Don’t think he won’t.”

She ducked her head and whispered, “I know. . . .” She looked down at the child in her lap, and caressed one of his small fists.

James laid his hand over hers, holding them both in his determined grip. “Better we found out now than months from now, before this had gone on too long. We might yet hush it up. But if you had returned to Bristol with him, or some other city, and more people discovered the deception . . . ?” He shook his head, nostrils flaring at the thought. Then he looked into her eyes again. “We should be grateful. I am grateful. Promise me you’ll wait, Hannah. Don’t give in to him while I’m gone—and don’t give up on me.”

For a moment, Hannah said nothing. Then, instead of answering, she pulled a letter from her pocket. “Before you go, I think you should have this.”