A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club)

by Diane Gaston - A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club)

  Her name was Barb’ra Allen...’

  His voice was a pleasing baritone, but anything but smooth. After three stanzas his voice cracked and he stopped. ‘Now, I would say that was dreadful.’

  She had been enjoying it, she realised. ‘Is your throat still sore?’

  He coughed. ‘We shall allow that to be my excuse.’

  She’d forgotten her main task. ‘Forgive me. I came here to ask if there was anything you needed. Would you perhaps like something to drink?’

  ‘Some water would do nicely.’ He coughed again.

  ‘I will see to it.’ She rose from the bench and hurried out of the room.

  * * *

  Damn his throat.

  Or his attempt to sing. He’d chased her away, he feared. It seemed as if something always chased her away just as soon as some ease developed between them.

  It had felt companionable to sit with her as she played, to converse with her a little. It passed the time. It dissipated his isolation.

  The tick, tick, tick of the clock seemed to boom in the room. He found a note on the pianoforte and mimicked the sound. How many notes would lead him to the end of this day? The end of this week? The end of two weeks?

  No. Shake that thought away. The way to get through this situation was one minute at a time. Sixty notes. Over and over.

  He played randomly, keeping time with the clock until, bored, he switched to picking out the melody of ‘Barbara Allen’. Or trying to hunt for the right notes.

  Eventually she returned. ‘Here we are,’ she said with what seemed like forced cheerfulness. ‘I thought lemonade might be pleasant for you.’

  He lifted a finger. ‘Listen to this.’

  He picked out the notes.

  ‘Barbara Allen?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘Correct!’ He was pleased she could recognise it. ‘And thank you. Lemonade will do very nicely.’

  He lifted his hand, again aware that he did not know precisely where she or the glass of lemonade was. She placed it in his hand and he drank it thirstily.

  She said, ‘I ought to have made certain you had something to drink before leaving you at breakfast. I believe your experiences also gave you a great thirst.’

  Indeed. His throat seemed perpetually dry and raw. ‘Do not chastise yourself. I am capable of asking for what I need.’ However, he hated asking.

  He’d even hated asking Carter to find him a cane. At least the cane would make him more self-sufficient, though.

  ‘Of course.’ Her placating governess voice was back. ‘You must tell me, then, what else you might need, before I take my leave.’

  Take her leave? He’d been counting on her helping him pass the time. He might despise being needy, but that did not mean he couldn’t be selfish. ‘I would like your company for a longer period.’

  ‘My company? What for?’ There was the faintest tremble of trepidation in her voice.

  ‘I want to go outside.’ He waited, but she said nothing. ‘I want to stretch my legs and feel the sun on my face.’ She still said nothing. ‘If you cannot escort me, perhaps you can send a servant to do it.’

  ‘I will accompany you.’ She made it sound like an onerous task. ‘Please wait here. I will get my hat and shawl.’

  He ought to tell her to return to her tasks. That he would amuse himself in some other way, but time passed more quickly in her company. Besides, he needed a challenge, and solving her mystery was the only challenge available to him. Unless he considered blindness a challenge, and that he refused to do. His blindness was nothing more than a temporary annoyance. Temporary.

  In less than a fortnight he would see. He must see.

  * * *

  Daphne hurried up to the maids’ quarters, where Monette was measuring Mary and Ann for their new dresses. Daphne had promised to help. Her sewing skills were more decorative than useful, confined to embroidery and needlepoint and other showy arts, but she could stitch a seam if necessary.

  ‘There you are, ma’am,’ Monette said cheerfully. ‘I am almost ready to cut the fabric.’

  Monette had made her own dresses without patterns, copying them from the clothes Daphne had brought with her to the convent. While staying at the convent, Daphne had worn a simple tunic similar to the nuns’ habits. Pretty clothes had been part of her vanity.

  The maids were brimming with excitement. She’d not thought about maids enjoying pretty clothes just as she had done, not until she’d seen Monette’s delight in wearing modern fashions.

  The abbess had said to her more than once, God made us all the same.

  In some ways people were the same, Daphne could agree, but she was always treated differently, even at the convent.

  Because of her beauty.

  ‘I cannot help you as I thought,’ Daphne said, examining the blue floral print Monette had purchased for the gowns. ‘I must entertain Mr Westleigh. He has a desire to take a walk outside.’

  ‘Do not fear, ma’am,’ Mary said. ‘We can sew and still tend to our chores.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Can we not, Ann?’

  ‘We can. Oh, yes,’ the other girl said agreeably.

  ‘I will help later,’ Daphne said.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Mary spoke. ‘You ought not to be sewing our dresses in any event, if I may be so bold to say. We will finish them.’ She turned to Monette. ‘Ann and I can finish them, can we not? You will show us what you want?’

  Sewing a new dress and tending to maid’s chores all in the same day seemed a daunting task to Daphne. She wondered how much work she’d created for the maids at Faville House without giving them a single consideration.

  ‘Well, make the dresses your priority today,’ she told them. ‘You can tend to the cleaning and other chores tomorrow.’

  The three women curtsied. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ they said in unison.

  Daphne hurried off to her bedchamber for her bonnet and shawl, which should do for the cool day. She stopped in Westleigh’s room to get his hat.

  Carter was there with the footman, who was to trail him all day to learn his duties.

  ‘Carter, I am taking Mr Westleigh for a turn in the garden,’ she told him. ‘Does he have a hat and gloves?’

  Carter’s eyes widened. ‘No, m’l—ma’am. I did not think of a hat and gloves. He must have lost them.’ He turned to the footman. ‘Find Mr Pitts and see if he has a cap the gentleman might wear.’

  ‘No.’ Daphne stopped him. ‘Let me see first if he minds going out without them. Carter, perhaps you or—or—’ She could not think of the new footman’s name.

  ‘Toller, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Toller.’ She was ashamed of herself for forgetting. ‘Perhaps one of you could go into the village and buy the items for him.’

  ‘We’ll see to it.’ Carter crossed the room. ‘I do have something the gentleman asked for.’ He lifted a wooden cane.

  ‘A cane?’ She was surprised.

  ‘He said it would help him walk.’

  She took it from his hand. ‘Thank you. I will take it to him.’

  She left the room and started down the steps, but slowed her pace.

  What happened to her resolve to spend as little time as possible with him? She could have insisted Carter take him for a walk, but then she would have disrupted his instructions to the new footman. And the maids were right. She should not be sewing their clothes for them.

  She could not delegate the care of Westleigh to the servants. It was her job as hostess. She could do so without revealing who she was. He still did not need to ever find out who Mrs Asher really was.

  Be truthful, especially to yourself, she could hear the abbess say.

  Very well. To be truthful, she liked the man’s company. No, more than liked his company. All her senses sparked int
o life when she was near him, in a way she’d never experienced before.

  Such a reaction was simply more she must conceal from him. If it was better he never know the truth about who she really was, it was better still that he never know the thrill she felt in his presence.

  Chapter Six

  ‘I fear you have no hat or gloves.’ Mrs Asher startled Hugh with her entrance. ‘Shall I see if you can borrow some?’

  ‘I do not need them.’ He’d walk out in nothing but his drawers, if that was the only way.

  ‘We did not even think of them.’ She made it sound as if this was important. ‘They must have been lost in the fire.’

  With his overcoat, some of his money and a change of clothing.

  And possibly his sight.

  He certainly did not want to dwell on that topic. ‘Let us not think of hats and gloves now. I am too eager to stretch my legs and breathe in fresh air.’

  ‘I do have something for you,’ she said. ‘A cane from Mr Carter.’

  She placed it in his hand.

  ‘Good man!’ He gripped the handle and tested it. ‘I must thank him. This should help me walk around on my own.’ He’d seen blind people using canes to feel their way, waving them in front of their feet to warn of obstacles. He tested it in the room.

  ‘Not seeing must be so difficult....’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘None of that.’ He extended his hand. ‘Come. Show me the way.’

  She led him out the front door, holding his arm as if they were walking through Hyde Park. ‘There is a step down.’

  It felt like flagstone beneath his feet, and he was surprised how insecure it felt to walk into a space without knowing what was ahead. He swept the cane in front of him and it swung free. She held on to him as well, but that gratified him in other ways. The air was crisp and cool and it nourished him. This was not a day to be hesitant or gloomy. This was a day to enjoy the scent of flowers, of a stable nearby, of stone and grass. All cheered him.

  They descended the step. ‘Tell me what I would see in front of me.’

  ‘There is a walkway,’ she responded reassuringly. ‘Nothing to trip on.’

  ‘Not what is in front of my feet.’ He swept his hand across the vista hidden to him. ‘What I would see. I smell the stable. It must be in sight.’

  ‘Oh.’ She paused. Had he made her feel foolish? ‘There is a stable. Off to the left maybe a hundred yards away. The walkway leads to a road and the stable is several feet away on the road. The road leads past some trees and a field and you can see it reaching a bigger road that leads to the village. You can see the village. It is a mile or two away. There is a church tower rising above the other buildings.’

  It could have been a description of anywhere, but it helped him feel grounded.

  ‘What does the stable look like?’ he asked.

  ‘It is white stucco, like the cottage.’ She turned as if double-checking the cottage’s appearance. ‘Would you like to walk down the path to the road?’

  ‘That will do.’ He did not really care as long as he was stretching his legs.

  But they could not move at any great pace. He depended on her support more than he thought he would. His feet faltered a couple of times. She and the cane helped him keep his balance. The only words spoken were her warnings. ‘Take heed, there is a puddle. There is a rock.’ It made him feel like a cursed invalid.

  He forced himself to walk with more confidence, even though he did not know what was in his path.

  Perhaps she sensed his frustration. She suddenly made an attempt at conversation. ‘Tell me about your family, the ones you refused to allow me to contact.’

  His family? He’d already told her about his profligate father. She probably wondered what other horrors his family possessed. ‘The others are not like my father.’

  ‘Then why not allow them to be contacted?’

  He frowned. Why was she asking? ‘Because they would all come running to care for me.’

  ‘And you find that objectionable?’ she asked.

  She must want to rid herself of his care. ‘None would be a good caretaker.’ He tried to explain. ‘My mother would merely consign me to the role of infant and try to do everything for me. She’d drive me insane in the space of an hour.’ He need not mention his mother’s lover, now constantly at her side. ‘My brother Ned, the new earl, carries the bulk of family responsibility. If he came, he would be neglecting something more important. But worse, he married this empty-headed chit who would be utterly infuriating.’ He also did not mention Rhys, his bastard brother. He had no right to ask anything of Rhys. ‘Then there is my sister—’

  ‘Your sister?’ Her voice tensed.

  It was puzzling. ‘Phillipa would take good care of me, I am certain. I would not ask her, though. She is busy with the baby.’

  ‘A baby?’ Her voice grew soft, but none of the tension in it eased.

  He’d forgotten. A baby was the likely reason for her long retreat on the Continent.

  ‘She recently gave birth to a girl.’ He was sorry he’d brought this up.

  ‘How nice for your sister.’ Mrs Asher’s voice turned sad.

  He put his arm across her back. ‘Is this an unhappy topic for you, Mrs Asher?’

  He felt her stiffen. ‘No. Why should it be?’

  He wanted to ask if she had other children. If not, what a heart-wrenching situation. A childless widow having to give up her illegitimate baby.

  He asked a different question. ‘Where is your family? Your parents? Sisters or brothers? Do you see them?’

  ‘I have no family.’ Her tone hardened.

  No other children, then.

  He held her tighter. ‘Forgive me. I did not know you were so alone.’

  She shrugged. ‘I am used to it. My parents died a long time ago. As did my husband. There is no one else, really.’

  ‘A long time ago? You make yourself sound as old as Methuselah.’ In his mind she was young, but was she?

  ‘I am old,’ she said with conviction, avoiding his question.

  He halted, dropping his arm from his half embrace. ‘I do not believe you.’

  ‘I am,’ she insisted.

  He hooked the cane around his arm and reached up to her face. He explored her face with his fingers. Her skin was smooth, free of wrinkles, free of blemish. She had high cheekbones, large eyes, a pointed chin. He rubbed her lips with his thumb and felt her sharp intake of breath. Her lips were full. Lush. Moist.

  A long sigh escaped her lips and her breath warmed his hand.

  His body seized with sudden desire. He leaned closer and felt her tremble.

  He caught himself and stepped back. ‘You are not as old as Methuselah, that much I can tell.’

  She took his arm again. ‘I am, though,’ she insisted, her voice a bit shrill. ‘I am two and thirty.’

  He frowned. He was a year older. They were neither of them in the bloom of youth, but neither were they what he would call old. On the other hand, he well knew the feeling of being aged. It came from enduring the horrors of life. The losses. She’d certainly endured losses.

  ‘How old were you when your parents died?’ he asked.

  This was not the sort of conversation a gentleman should have with a lady, but he preferred talking of something substantial over exchanging inanities about the weather or gossip.

  Besides, he wanted to learn about her.

  She could always refuse to answer, if she liked.

  To his surprise, she did answer. ‘I was eighteen. Hardly married a year.’

  She’d married so young?

  ‘Poor Papa and Mama,’ she went on. ‘They never had much of a chance to bask in their triumph.’

  ‘Their triumph?’

  She did not speak righ
t away. ‘My husband was a wealthy man. It was quite a coup for me to marry him.’

  ‘I wonder that I cannot recall ever hearing his name.’ Perhaps her husband was not of society. Or perhaps Hugh had been too busy at war to keep track of the members of the ton.

  ‘We did not go to town much,’ she said. ‘He preferred the country.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’ He might as well try to satisfy all of his curiosity.

  They walked several steps before she answered. ‘My husband was very good to me. My happiness was his greatest concern. Anything I wanted, if it was in his power to provide it, he gave to me.’

  Except a child.

  Rhys’s son and Phillipa’s daughter seemed to have sent them both over the moon with happiness. Last he heard from Ned, his wife was obsessed with wanting a child. Hugh had never thought about it for himself. It seemed a part of life to anticipate after one settled down. And he had no intention of settling down.

  But she did not know that, did she? What could she know of his situation, if he had a wife or children?

  ‘You never asked me if I was married.’ He tried to say this without an accusatory tone.

  It took several more steps for her to respond. ‘I knew you were not married.’

  ‘How did you know?’ He asked, too sharply.

  Again she hesitated. ‘My husband always received the London papers and I continued receiving them. I—I liked reading about society, the parties, the people. The marriage of a son of Lord Westleigh would have been announced.’

  A logical explanation. Still, she was holding something back, something she did not want him to know. Good God. Could it be—?

  ‘Did you know my father, Mrs Asher?’ He frowned.

  If she’d encountered his father—

  * * *

  Daphne’s heart raced. He asked too many questions. Was suspicious of her, as well he should be. She was deceiving him after all.

  ‘No, I did not know your father,’ she answered him.

  That was the truth. She might have met the man once or twice, in those early days when Faville had taken her to town for the Season, but she didn’t remember precisely.