by Wendy Vella
“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Fuller replied with a nod. “Lady Trenton would just ...” She shrugged as she allowed the sentence to trail off.
Just ..? Sarah leaned toward the lady’s maid, wondering why she had stopped speaking. “What?” she prodded.
Mrs. Fuller sighed. “I’ve no idea what her intentions are,” she finally said, her attention suddenly on her hands, once clasped together in her lap and now wringing together.
Sarah straightened. “Whatever do you mean?”
The lady’s maid gave Sarah a sad look before closing her eyes. “I’m not really sure, miss.”
What did the countess mean to do? Buy her baby? Steal her baby? Alarms were suddenly going off in Sarah’s head.
“I was just told to ... to keep you occupied,” Mrs. Fuller whispered, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. “And ask that my son be allowed to take me back to Trenton Manor when it’s convenient for him to take some time away from here.”
Sarah gasped. Where was the countess now? Was she, this very minute, attempting to take Gabe? Had she already done so? Given the amount of time that had passed since the countess left the parlor after her luncheon, it was certainly possible.
Certainly someone would stop her, though. Margery was watching over Gabe. She would stop the countess.
Wouldn’t she?
Sarah stood up suddenly and rushed toward the door. “Gabe,” she murmured, one hand pressed against her chest.
“Miss Cumberbatch?” the maid questioned, obviously ashamed as she watched Sarah’s sudden departure.
“She cannot have him!” Sarah replied as she reached for the door knob. “He’s my son!”
Mrs. Fuller, who was in the process of standing up, gave the inn manager a quizzical look. “I do not believe Lady Trenton means to ... take your babe,” she replied uncertainly.
Or did she? The woman had been rather taken by the boy. He was her grandchild, bastard or not, she considered. But would the Countess of Trenton take the babe from his mother? Or offer money in exchange for taking him from Miss Cumberbatch? Mrs. Fuller thought not. But when she returned her attention to the parlor room door to give Sarah her opinion, the inn manager was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Pity the Poor Groom
Julia awoke with a sense of excitement, at once looking forward to that day’s dance lesson and to asking Mr. Comber about this family. Of course, he couldn’t be married. Why would he dare kiss me if he had a wife and family only a few miles away? And allow me to kiss him?
Although it was merely a few hours until Monsieur Girard was expected at Harrington House, it seemed far longer. Julia changed gowns three times and had her lady’s maid pin up her hair twice before she decided she was ready for the lesson. So it was no surprise when she entered the ballroom before anyone else. Well, I can use the time to walk, she thought as she took a turn about the room, admiring her mother’ choices in the decor in preparation for the ball while trying with all her might not to think about the woman who had kissed Mr. Comber only the day before.
As Alistair made his way through the back garden and into Harrington House for his dance lesson, his mind was back in the Seven Dials. He kept remembering the look of surprise and delight on the face of Faith Regan, the look of awe her children displayed when they realized he had known their father. Despite their worn clothing and disheveled appearance, they had somehow left a positive impression on him, an impression that had him wondering how it was a man of Michael Regan’s age—he had been a year younger than Alistair—and average looks—a layer of mud and grime only made them worse—could manage to land a comely wife and sire three children before he joined the British Army. Michael had claimed to be happily married to a girl from his youth, the two making their way to London in the hopes of finding better employment than the dwindling farm fields of Sussex could offer. Although Faith had been able to land a position with a well-regarded modiste, her husband hadn’t been so lucky and was forced to enlist. He had been in Belgium and France for two years before his untimely death. Certainly he would have been better off staying in Sussex.
Alistair was still daydreaming when he came upon Lady Mayfield making her way toward the ballroom.
“Pardon, my lady,” he said as he paused and gave Lady Mayfield a leg.
“Mr. Comber, how fortuitous that we meet before we go in there,” Temperance Harrington whispered as she slowed her pace.
“Oh?” Alistair replied, slowing his own pace to match hers.
“It seems Lady Aimsley has heard from her missing son and is in good spirits,” she commented, giving Alistair a wink. “I called on your mother this morning.”
Alistair nodded. “I am very glad to hear it. Thank you for insisting I write to her,” he whispered back.
“You’re most welcome. Now, something dire must have happened yesterday, because Julia seemed awfully out of sorts when she returned from Fitzsimmons Manor.”
“Fitzsimmons Manor?” Alistair repeated, wondering what might have happened there to trouble the Mayfield daughter.
“Yes. Lady Samantha lives there with her aunt and uncle, poor dear. She and Julia have been best friends for years,” she added before she suddenly stopped. “Do go in before me, won’t you?” she suggested, giving him an arched eyebrow.
Alistair couldn’t help but be surprised by Lady Mayfield’s request. Whenever was a man to enter a room before a woman? “If you insist, my lady,” he answered, a bit confused as to why the lady of the house would insist he precede her into the ballroom.
“It will give you an opportunity to impress Julia when I do make my entrance,” she said with a smirk. “I’m playing the piano-forté for the Cotillion, you see,” she whispered conspiratorially.
Alistair eyebrows raised up. “I see, my lady. I shall not disappoint you,” he murmured as he realized what the lady of the house had in mind. An entrance.
“See to it you do not,” Lady Mayfield replied as she waved him on.
Grinning, Alistair made his way into the ballroom, bowing to Lady Julia when he realized she was leaning against the piano-forté. “You’re looking especially lovely this afternoon, Lady Julia,” Alistair said as he took Julia’s hand and kissed the back of it.
And she does, he realized suddenly, noting how her upswept hair gave her the appearance of an older woman. The gown she wore was in a pale peach that suited her complexion and hair color. She’d make a perfect countess for someone.
Julia’s eyes widened as they followed his lips from her hand to where they ended up as he straightened. “Why, thank you, Mr. Comber,” she managed to get out before his attention was suddenly directed toward the ballroom door. She felt a stab of jealousy as Alistair excused himself and moved toward her mother, who had just swept into the ballroom as if she were attending one of her own grand balls.
Julia watched as Alistair executed a perfect bow before reaching for Lady Mayfield’s hand and kissing the back of it. And then her mother tittered as if she was still a chit in the schoolroom!
“Why, Mr. Comber, my daughter has already made a gentleman of you, has she not?” Lady Mayfield cooed in her sweetest voice.
Alistair grinned in response. “Your affirmation is music to my ears,” he replied with a nod. “She has performed a miracle, has she not?” he added, directing his compliment in Julia’s direction.
Stunned by the groom’s comment, Julia felt her face flush before she could look away.
“Forgive me,” Alistair said as he moved back to stand before Julia. “I have embarrassed you. Do not be, for your attentions have made me a better man,” he assured her, bowing his head as if he was worshipping her.
Julia nodded in return. “Thank you,” she managed to get out before Monsieur Girard entered the ballroom, a metronome in hand.
“Positions, everyone,” he called out in a manner that suggested he was impatient.
Alistair immediately took his place in the middle of the ballroom. Julia hurried to take her place i
n front of him as her mother rushed to the piano-forté.
“The Cotillion is our dance this afternoon,” Girard announced with one hand behind his back as the other held the metronome, “And we haven’t much time,” he added with a hint of warning in his voice. “Mr. Comber, have you studied the steps?” he asked, as if he was addressing a recalcitrant student in class.
“I have, Monsieur Girard,” Alistair stated from where he stood in front of Julia.
“Commence,” Girard announced. Lady Mayfield placed her fingers on the keys of the piano-forté and began playing music that suited the Cotillion as well as several other dances.
Alistair bowed to Julia, and she returned a curtsy. Alistair reached out and captured one hand in his and executed the first series of moves by rote, his mind on how snuggly Lady Julia’s gown fit her bosom, on how elegant she looked in a nearly empty ballroom, on how beautiful she would look on his bed.
Shaking himself back to the present, he realized Julia was staring at him with a hint of confusion.
“What is it, Lady Julia?” he wondered, continuing the dance as if he didn’t have to concentrate on the steps.
“How is it you already know this dance, Mr. Comber?” she wondered. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Or have you been secretly meeting with Monsieur Girard to learn the steps?” she half-accused, her manner suggesting she wasn’t the least bit amused by the possibility.
Alistair allowed a smile as the dance required them to separate for a moment. When Julia executed her turn, he said, “I have not been in Monsieur Girard’s company since the day ’fore yesterday. Nor would I be now if these lessons didn’t demand it,” he added, sotto voce.
Julia’s eyes widened again as she dared a glance in the direction of the dance master, hoping the Frenchman hadn’t overheard Alistair’s remark. When her gaze took in her mother at the piano-forté, she had to quickly turn attention back to her dance partner. Her mother was watching them, a rather large smile on her face.
“What is it, my lady?” Alistair asked as he turned to his left at the same time Julia turned to her left. “You seem ... unsettled.”
Julia dared a glance at her mother again, whose attention was back on the keyboard and the sheets of music spread out on the music rack.
“It’s nothing, really,” she answered, careful in how she executed the next turn. With Alistair performing the steps as perfectly as he was, Julia found she was having a hard time doing the same. Girard appeared as if he was about to interrupt several times, but then she would mind her position and the dance master would return to holding one hand against the side of his face while another rested on one hip.
“Is something amiss?” Alistair pressed, thinking Julia seemed distracted. If she made another misstep, Alistair was sure Girard would stop them and insist they start from the beginning.
“It’s nothing, really,” Julia answered. After a moment, she relented. “Won’t you tell me how it is you already know the steps for the Cotillion, Mr. Comber?”
Giving her a teasing grin, Alistair began the next set of the dance. The chit was persistent, he’d give her that. “My mother taught me,” he finally admitted, remembering the time she’d spent with him in the parlor at Aimsley House when he was a boy of only five or six. Perhaps she had taught him all the dances, he realized then, not remembering a dance master of Monsieur Girard’s ilk being present in the Comber household. “She was a very patient teacher,” he added when he saw Julia’s expression of surprise. But I was a very willing student, he recalled, remembering how he had looked forward to that time with his mother. She would be dressed in her finest ball gowns and jewelry, and he in his Sunday-best short pants and coat, his hair combed into place and dampened until it clung to his head. There was no controlling the wavy curls as it dried, however, leaving him with a head of unruly hair if it wasn’t cut short.
Julia seemed surprised by the information. “Do you still dance with her?” she wondered, hoping the question would help draw out more information about the groom.
“Of course,” Alistair answered and suddenly realized he couldn’t very well tell Julia he had danced with his mother at a ton ball. It had been several years ago, though. “But not in a long time,” he added, hoping she wouldn’t ask how long.
She asked.
“Three years, I suppose,” he allowed, his smile replaced with a look of disappointment.
“So, she doesn’t live here in town?” Julia half-asked, thinking the woman was probably in a cottage somewhere in Sussex.
“Oh, she does. Just a few ... miles from here,” Alistair responded, suddenly realizing he couldn’t admit that his mother lived within walking distance of Harrington House.
Julia nodded in the middle of doing another turn. “Do you see her then? On your days off, I mean?” she asked, briefly wondering if the woman she had seen kiss him on the cheek might be his mother. Only if she gave birth to him when she was five, Julia realized just as quickly. The woman from yesterday was far too young to be his mother.
“I haven’t seen her in some time, actually,” Alistair admitted, making a complete turn and deciding he could tell her a bit more. “But I sent her a note a few days ago.”
Grinning, because she was glad to learn he kept in contact with his mother, Julia completed her turn and faced him once again. “Your mother, but not your father?” she murmured as they started the next set.
Alistair did his very best to keep an impassive expression on his face. “My last meeting with the man may be our last in life,” he said, the planes of his face suddenly hard. My own stubbornness is at least as strong as my father’s, he admitted to himself, wondering how he would ever arrange a meeting with his mother so that his father wouldn’t be present.
The harsh words caught Julia off-guard, and she nearly stumbled in the middle of a turn. Alistair broke formation to catch her by the waist and ensure she had her feet beneath her. Julia inhaled sharply at his sudden touch, her eyes widening. She dared a glance at her mother, sure Lady Mayfield would be on her feet and halfway to where they stood with the intent of scolding the groom for his impropriety. Instead, her mother continued to play the piano-forté as if nothing untoward had happened! It was apparent she had seen Alistair’s inappropriate move, though, when Julia caught the woman giving Alistair a raised eyebrow, as if she was amused by what had happened!
Monsieur Girard waved a hand. “Continue, please,” he said as if he was merely annoyed by Julia’s brief misstep.
“Are you well?” Alistair wondered, finding his position and continuing the dance as if nothing had happened.
“Yes, of course,” Julia replied curtly, embarrassed by having stumbled and even more embarrassed at having the groom lift her back into place.
Julia was reminded of how he had lifted her onto her horse in the park. He didn’t ask permission or even consider how inappropriate it was for him to be ... touching her like that. Making her feel as if she had a fever. Making her insides tumble about in a most unexpected manner. Making her face blush with too much color.
Or could she blame her reddened face on the dance?
She couldn’t think of that right now. What about the woman she had seen kissing the groom in the Seven Dials yesterday? How could she determine the woman’s relationship to him without asking outright?
“I just caught my heel on the hem of my gown,” she murmured with a shake of her head.
“Ah,” Alistair said with a nod. They took a few more steps before turning again. “I believe you were about to ask me something before your hem interfered,” he said with a glint in his eye.
Is he teasing me? she wondered, thinking she should be offended at this remark. But his manner didn’t suggest he was humored by her stumble. “I was wondering, Mr. Comber, if there is more to your family than your mother and father,” Julia asked carefully, surprised he would give her such as easy entry back into the conversation.
“There is, Lady Julia,” he responded lightly, not aware that she referred
to a wife and children rather than an older brother. When Julia stumbled again, he was quick to cover for her, surprising her as well as Monsieur Girard. “Besides my parents, who are both living here in London,” he said lightly, “My older brother is practicing his abilities at persuasion on the daughters of the ...” He stopped suddenly, realizing what he was about to say—ton. It wouldn’t do to give away his station in life through idle conversation. “The servants that work in my father’s house,” he managed to get out, hoping he wasn’t elevating his status by admitting his father had a house with servants.
Julia nodded, a bit amused that the groom would allow such information about his brother to come to light.
“And what of your ... wife?” Julia asked, her voice indicating a bit of impatience.
Alistair was about to deny having a wife when Girard called a halt to the dance. “Lady Julia, you’ve fallen a bit behind,” he called out.
Alistair glanced at Monsieur Girard, stunned that he wasn’t the object of the dance master’s attention.
“My apologies,” Julia said as she stepped a bit closer to Alistair for the next part of the dance.
“No need for apologies,” Alistair stated as he began the next set with a turn. “Now, where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?” he asked, sotto voce.
Julia dared a glance up at him then. “Your wife, Mr. Comber,” she stated, one brow arching up.
Alistair stumbled, his nearness to Julia forcing her to take an extra step back to avoid having him collide with her.
“Mr. Comber, really,” Monsieur Girard said with more than a hint of derision. “Concentrate!”
Alistair managed a nod in the dance master’s direction before turning his attention back to Julia. He was about to begin the next set of the dance—Lady Mayfield was still playing as she sported a brilliant smile—when he realized Julia was fuming. “My lady?” he whispered, wondering what he could have done to earn such a stern stare.