“Get out,” he said again.
Mr. Pritchard’s mouth worked, but no sound came forth.
“No, I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Pritchard about personal business concerning my husband,” Louisa announced.
John looked at her, then at the cowering lawyer. His body relaxed infinitesimally. “As you can see, she isn’t ready to entertain your company at present.”
Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat, squeaked, then cleared it again before managing to ask, “A-and who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Winslow’s bodyguard.”
Pritchard blinked as if John had proclaimed he was the king of England. Then the lawyer looked at Louisa. “You hired a bodyguard?”
“No. Charles hired a bodyguard.”
Pritchard stiffened. “I don’t believe it. I would have known if Mr. Winslow had taken such measures.”
John’s pistol whipped up again, the distinct rasp of the hammer being locked in place echoing through the room.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“N-no, no! Of course not. I just…you must understand that…” He cleared his throat and began again. “If you could provide me with some documentation, I could…”
In three strides, John closed the distance between them. Yanking the man by the lapel of his suit, John held him fast while he pressed the snout of his revolver into the lawyer’s forehead.
“Is that proof enough for you? I’ve been hired to protect Mrs. Winslow. My services have been bought and paid for by Mr. Winslow himself.”
“B-but Charles has been in South Carolina for the past three months. How could he have—”
The revolver dug into the man’s skin and he hurriedly added, “O-of course, I haven’t been privy to all of Mr. Winslow’s business arrangements.”
Bit by bit, John released his hold of the man. Clearly shaking, Mr. Pritchard ineffectually brushed his lapels, hoping to erase the creases.
“Surely Mrs. Winslow has explained to you that her husband has…passed away.”
“I thought I was clear in stating that my services have already been paid for,” John said harshly.
Mr. Pritchard held up a placating hand. “Y-yes, of course, but I don’t see how…why… Mrs. Winslow would even need the services of…someone like yourself.”
Again, John snagged the man’s collar. “Then obviously, you don’t know everything about Mr. Winslow’s business.”
Louisa rushed toward the two men as they grappled near the door. “Stop it. Stop! I won’t have the two of you squabbling when anyone in the world could walk by that door and peer in!”
Finally, something that Louisa said seemed to have an effect on John Smith. Waving the tip of his pistol at Mr. Pritchard, he ordered, “Out.”
“But—”
“As you can see, Mrs. Winslow still needs time to finish her bath and toilette. If she hadn’t been so grief stricken that she’d fainted and I was forced to rouse her, she would have been done by now.”
Louisa opened her mouth to refute the statement, but catching John’s eye, she realized that he had provided her with a logical explanation for being found unclad in the presence of her bodyguard.
Playing along, she stumbled, lifting her hand to her brow. “Yes, I’m still feeling a bit dizzy.”
Immediately, Chloe rushed to her side, murmuring soothing words to her in French. Even Mr. Pritchard seemed to pale when he realized he was trespassing upon the privacy of a grieving widow.
“Oh. Oh, I see!” He blushed, beads of sweat beginning to form on his upper lip. “Then I’ll leave you for…until…”
“An hour will be more than enough time, Mr. Pritchard,” Louisa offered, daring John to contradict her.
To his credit, her bodyguard remained silent.
“Y-yes, yes,” Pritchard gasped. “An hour.”
The man scurried from the room as if his coattails were on fire, securely fastening the door behind him.
Suddenly exhausted, Louisa turned away from John and gently disengaged herself from Chloe’s protective embrace.
“If you don’t mind, I believe I’d like to spend some time alone.” She gazed pointedly at John, then patted her maid’s hand. “I’ll call for you when I’m ready to dress.”
“Shall I bring in your tea?” Chloe asked. “I’ve asked the hotel staff to bring up a pot of hot water.”
Louisa shook her head. “I really am longing for a bath. See if you can delay them a bit. You may return to your own room. I’ll call out when I need you.”
Before anyone could offer an argument, she closed the door and propped a chair beneath the doorknob to keep it in place. Only then did she allow herself to sink weakly upon the bed, close her eyes and tip back her head as if in silent supplication.
As soon as Louisa was safely ensconced in her room, Neil escorted Pritchard downstairs. He didn’t really care how Pritchard intended to spend his time. Neil had his own concerns to address.
Crossing to the front desk, he asked, “Is there a way for me to send a telegram?”
“Yes, sir. If you’ll fill out this form, I’ll have one of the staff deliver it to the telegraph office.”
Taking the sheet of paper and a stubby pencil, he thought for a moment. This was Neil’s first opportunity to apprise Phoebe of what had been happening to her sister since Neil had abruptly left in search of his true bride and not the look-alike who had very nearly married him. He was sure Phoebe would be frantic for news, especially since her own life had been threatened on her journey West. He had to allay her fears and reassure her enough, so she wouldn’t rush to Louisa’s side. After thinking for several minutes, he finally wrote.
Louisa in my care
Posing as bodyguard John Smith
Two men to help after we leave New York
Do not contact her yet
Neil Ballard
Handing the sheet of paper back to the clerk, he took two more forms, writing brief notes to a pair of ex-army buddies.
By the time Louisa left New York, she would be watched around the clock.
Louisa’s bath was far from restful. She was too aware of the man waiting on the other side of the door and the insistent ticking of the clock.
An hour. She had only an hour to gather her emotional resources.
The water grew cool around her as she stewed and worried. Finally, after little more than a half hour, she gave up all hope of coaxing her muscles to unwind. Instead, she donned a delicately embroidered wrapper and padded to the window, looking down upon the bustling street below.
Quite honestly, she had no claims on Charles or the promises he had offered his new bride. If Mr. Pritchard were completely unaware of her deceit, and if Charles had provided for her in some way as his “widow,” would it be honest to accept such help?
A raw laugh bubbled in her throat, but she squelched it, lest Mr. Smith came storming into her room again under the pretext of saving her.
Honesty. Why was she worrying about honesty at this late date? She had set out to deceive everyone—Charles, his business acquaintances and his friends.
But that was different.
Wasn’t it?
In exchanging identities with her friend, she had fully intended to assume all of the responsibilities and duties inherent to the situation. She had vowed to make her marriage one that would endure the test of time. She would honor her husband and make his life a happy one.
But wasn’t that the crux of her angst? Maybe, after years of serving that role, she wouldn’t have felt so…deceitful in taking any help Charles might have offered. She would have considered it right and proper.
But to accept money when she hadn’t even met the man…
Sighing, she wondered if she should be frank with Mr. Pritchard from the beginning, explain the situation, then hope that he wouldn’t have her hauled before the nearest constable.
Her stomach flip-flopped at the idea and she pressed a hand to it, willing the sensation to go awa
y. Damn this childish reaction from her own body. She didn’t have time to baby a nervous stomach!
Groaning at the mere thought of being sick at this moment in time, Louisa called for Chloe. Although her hour of respite was only half gone, she would rather get this confrontation over with, once and for all.
When Louisa emerged again, she was dressed in sober black. Sober, depressing, smothering black. Her hair had been drawn back in a strict knot at her nape, the tresses parted in a razor sharp line.
As she caught her reflection in a mirror, she grimaced. If not for the rich fabric of her gown, she would have believed she was Phoebe Gray, governess or paid companion. Most of her former employers had believed that the “help” should dress and act with the severe piety of a nun. Two of the ladies she’d accompanied had even insisted that her hair be covered at all times.
As she entered the room, Mr. Pritchard stood. John, on the other hand, remained seated in a chair near the doorway. He tipped back his head with a lazy insolence, but there was nothing idle about the leashed energy of his pose, the intentness of his stare or the finger resting a hairsbreadth away from the trigger of his pistol.
“How are you, Mrs. Winslow?” Mr. Pritchard asked as he ushered her toward a settee.
As much as she hated to be treated like a vapid woman with nerves of glass, she allowed the man to hover over her, then sit on the edge of a chair to her left.
As Bitsy jumped onto the cushion and snuggled against her, Louisa was grateful for that small token of affection. The next few minutes could very well signal her doom.
Without thinking, she looked up. Immediately, her eyes tangled with those of John Smith. Unbidden came the memory of his arms lifting her against him and his mouth pressed to her own.
A rush of nervousness hit her stomach, and she quickly closed her eyes. Pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, she bowed her head for a moment, willing herself to relax.
“My dear Mrs. Winslow,” said Pritchard as he awkwardly patted her arm. “Perhaps we should do this another time. This whole day has been such a shock to you.”
Louisa shook her head, opening her eyes. Carefully averting her gaze from the man positioned by the door, she reached for a napkin and smoothed it over her lap. “I’m just…weary.”
Thankfully, Pritchard seemed at ease with her cryptic explanation.
Reaching for one of the delicate cups and saucers, she inquired, “Tea, Mr. Pritchard?”
“Please.”
She filled the cup with the fragrant brew. “How do you like it?”
“A bit of milk is all.”
The ritual of pouring tea calmed her stomach and pushed the thought of her nerves to the background again. Handing Mr. Pritchard his tea, she paused over the second cup and saucer. Without thinking, she opened her mouth to offer a portion to Mr. Smith, then stopped herself in time. A future marquess would not take refreshments with a hired man. It simply wouldn’t be done.
After preparing a cup for herself, Louisa took a sip of the brew, silently offering a prayer of thanks when the warm, familiar liquid stilled the last remnants of her nausea.
“Now, Mr. Pritchard,” she began, knowing that she couldn’t bear the uncertainty another minute. “What matters do you feel we must discuss so quickly?”
Mr. Pritchard set his cup and saucer on the table and reached for his satchel. With much pomp and self-importance, he used a tiny key to unlock the latch, then extracted a sheaf of papers.
“Before we begin, let me express my great sorrow at the passing of your husband.”
Louisa felt a pang of pity for the man she had never met. Although Louisa and Phoebe had been indignant at the callousness of the wealthy entrepreneur who had married his bride by proxy rather than journeying to England, Louisa would not have wished him dead for the slight.
Nevertheless, her pity for the man was soon swamped by other more pressing emotions—fear, anxiety, nervousness. Louisa bowed her head in a manner that she hoped conveyed sorrow. Inwardly, however, she still vacillated between blurting the truth to this man and continuing her masquerade—a masquerade that she would live for the rest of her life.
Unsure how to respond, she waved her hand in a vague manner. Luckily, Mr. Pritchard seemed to accept such a response, because he continued.
“Normally, I would allow a grieving widow a chance to come to terms with the news of a passing.” Mr. Pritchard stumbled along, obviously searching for suitable euphemisms. “But when you’ve heard what I have to say, I think that you will agree that time, in this case, is of the essence and the circumstances are extraordinary.”
He cleared his throat and peered down at the sheaf of papers. “I have here a copy of your husband’s will.”
Pritchard paused, glancing up at Louisa, obviously debating whether or not she felt strong enough to take the news.
Louisa’s heart pounded in her chest. If she planned to confess, now was the time—before the will was read.
But even as she opened her mouth to respond, she hesitated. If she refused the role she had promised to live to the grave, there would be unavoidable repercussions. Up to this point, she had spent Charles’s money freely. Would she be accused of stealing, as well as of deceit? Even if Pritchard were generous and allowed her to leave with the clothes on her back, what would she do? She had no money, no prospects and no employment. Louisa didn’t know where she could go for help. Worse yet, to reveal her identity could cause problems for the very friend that she had promised to help, the real Louisa Haversham.
Mr. Pritchard obviously took her silence as acquiescence because he removed a pair of pince-nez from his jacket pocket. Looking over the rims, he glared pointedly at Smith, obviously hoping the man would offer them a moment of privacy. When it became apparent that Louisa’s bodyguard had no intention of leaving, he returned his attention to the papers.
“Mrs. Winslow, you will forgive me if I’m not completely well-versed in the situation surrounding your past association with Mr. Winslow, your courtship, or the circumstances of your…unusual marriage.”
What Mr. Pritchard left unsaid was the fact that Louisa and Charles had never met. But even as she opened her mouth to offer some excuse, Louisa stopped. She had no idea what Charles had told his solicitor about her or the marriage. For all she knew, he had spun a tale of a long and involved courtship or correspondence. Moreover, a true marquess would never explain any matter so personal. Instead, she asked softly, “Can you tell me what happened to… Charles?”
The name seemed unfamiliar on her tongue, despite the many times she had practiced it.
Mr. Pritchard’s expression grew grave. “I’m afraid I have little explanation for what happened. He had been suffering from a nervous weakness for nearly a year, but the doctors insisted that the condition was inconvenient more than hazardous. This spring, Mr. Winslow began a tour of his larger factories. While in North Carolina, he suddenly became ill.”
Pritchard’s eyes grew dark and pleading as if he feared Louisa blamed him for her husband’s malady. “Naturally, he was looking forward to your arrival. But even that happy event could not offer him the strength he needed to battle the mysterious sickness. I can assure you that he was under the care of the finest physicians that money could retain, but all too soon, his body was ravaged by the sudden illness and he passed on.”
Louisa pressed her napkin to her lips as if she were fighting her emotions. In reality, she hoped to shield her features from John. Although she avoided looking in his direction, she felt him watching her intently. And there was something about the man that had the ability to completely undo her. Somehow, she sensed he wasn’t completely fooled by her attempt to play the marquess, a woman worldly and sophisticated.
Mr. Pritchard tapped the papers on his satchel. “It is your husband’s unfortunate demise that brings me to the point of meeting with you this afternoon.”
He fiddled with his pince-nez, then offered, “With your permission, I would like to explain the contents of the wi
ll to you, Mrs. Winslow.”
“I don’t understand. Charles and I had yet to solemnly exchange vows in a church.”
“True, true. In light of your delicate upbringing, I was well aware of the arrangements made on your behalf. I know that you had insisted on a church wedding so that you would feel more comfortable in the eyes of your faith. However, the day he learned the proxy marriage had taken place, Charles immediately arranged for a change in his personal documents.”
“So quickly?”
“Yes. You see, Charles was a stickler for details. Everything was seen to as expeditiously as possible.”
Which could partially explain the man’s haste in insisting on a proxy marriage.
“Would you like me to read the testament verbatim, Mrs. Winslow?”
She shook her head. Her mind was already swimming with everything that had occurred throughout the day. At that moment, she feared the intricacies of legal language would be incomprehensible to her.
“If you could merely paraphrase, I would be grateful.”
It was obvious from the approval in Mr. Pritchard’s eyes that, in his opinion, a proper woman would rely upon the expertise of a man to interpret such a document rather than attempt the riddle on her own.
“Your husband was very conscientious about providing for your welfare, Mrs. Winslow. But due to the unusual nature of your union, he left you only a small portion of his estate, I’m afraid.”
Louisa’s heart had been pounding in her chest, but now it clenched in a knot. Would there be enough to see her through the next few weeks? At least until she could find a place to live, a means of employment?
“Please, Mrs. Winslow, don’t regard his actions as a slight.”
“No, of course not.” But even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak and a little lost.
Mr. Pritchard rifled through the papers. Then he set the pince-nez higher on the bridge of his nose and squinted at the page. “If you will allow me to read…”
“Yes, of course.”
“To my new wife, Louisa Marie Haversham Winslow, I bequeath the summer cottage and the five acres on which it stands…”
Lisa Bingham Page 5