A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) (7 page)

Her head pounded with the memory. Enough of this foolishness. He was nothing but a dream, a fancy. And at the moment she walked beside a very real man, about whom she still knew so little.

‘And—and is your half-brother still running this gaming house for you?’ she asked to keep him talking.

‘Yes, he is.’

She’d heard of Rhysdale, of course. Xavier had been his friend and had managed the gaming house in Rhysdale’s absence. Had he known he was a half-brother to the Westleighs?

She glanced at the man beside her, who seemed lost in thought.

Finally he spoke. ‘Of all the family, Rhys is the best. Well, he and Phillipa, I suppose.’

Phillipa. Yes. Phillipa. A better woman than Daphne, certainly.

Westleigh went on. ‘Rhys was my father’s natural son, you see. I grew up despising him, but he saved us when we needed him. He had every reason not to.’

‘Do you despise him now?’ One could despise a person yet concede his worth at the same time. Was he such a man?

‘Not at all,’ he responded. ‘I hold Rhys in the highest regard. He makes me ashamed of myself.’

They had that in common, then.

‘Well, it is what you do today that matters the most,’ she said. ‘You cannot undo the past, but you can learn from it.’ Had not the abbess told her this many times?

‘Oh, I have learned from it,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t expect Rhys will change his mind about me, though. We have established a sort of truce, at least, which is more than I deserve.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I was horrible to him when we were boys. Taunted him until he’d fight with me. I liked nothing better than a good bout of fisticuffs. I was a wild boy, I’m afraid. Still am.’

‘Do you still like fisticuffs?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t back down from a fight....’ He groaned. ‘Listen to me ramble on about myself. Soon I will be confessing to you all the mistakes of my youth.’

‘I am not certain our walk will be that long.’

He laughed, a deep and resonant laugh that made her insides flutter. ‘I might need all of our two weeks, at least.’ His smile turned genuine. ‘Never fear. I will not burden you, not with all my sins, in any event.’

Her cheeks burned. She was unaccustomed to making people truly laugh.

His cane caught on a thick root and again she held him tightly until he regained his footing. She’d almost forgotten he could not see.

‘Now it is your turn,’ he said.

‘My turn?’

‘To confess the sins of your childhood.’ He added, ‘Unless you were an obedient, compliant little girl.’

She had certainly not been that. ‘I was a trial, I confess.’ More painful memories. ‘I was not quick to learn things.’

‘I do not believe it,’ he said. ‘You do not strike me as an unintelligent woman.’

They walked on past the out buildings, nearing the stable.

‘I suppose I was adequate at my lessons, but I often forgot how to sit properly, how to smile—things like that.’

He shook his head. ‘Are you making another jest?’

‘No.’ She’d said nothing foolish.

Her mother had often chastised her, admonishing her to stand up straight, to walk as if gliding, to smile, to pour tea gracefully, to lean towards a gentleman so her figure showed to best advantage. Her face would only carry her so far, her mother insisted. She must be beautiful
and
affect a pleasing manner. So Daphne had practised being pleasing, over and over, until it had become second nature. The training had borne fruit, too. She’d become betrothed to Viscount Faville in her first Season and married him quickly afterwards.

But she did not want to admit to Westleigh that attributes a gentleman might think natural were really only the result of proper training.

She averted her gaze. ‘I was not jesting.’

He blew out a breath. ‘I dare say a boy’s upbringing differs greatly from a girl’s.’

‘You should know because of your sister.’ Surely Phillipa Westleigh had endured the same training. How much more important it would have been for her.

‘I was enough older than my sister to pay little attention,’ he said. ‘But likely her upbringing was unique. Her face was scarred when she was small. She grew up disfigured.’

Daphne recalled the cruel words she’d spoken to Phillipa at the Masquerade Club and cringed in shame. Now she could only think what it would have been like to have so visible a disfigurement.

‘How difficult for her,’ she managed.

‘I suppose it was.’ He pounded the ground ahead of him with the cane. ‘In a way it freed her.’

‘Freed her?’ She did not comprehend.

‘She could not be expected to follow the usual course of an earl’s daughter. The Marriage Mart and all. Instead, she became an accomplished
pianiste
. Do you know her musical compositions have been performed at Vauxhall and other places?’

What an accomplishment. Phillipa had played beautifully. She’d composed music, as well?

‘You sound very proud of your sister.’ Daphne envied her. Who had ever been proud of her, except for her marrying well? What had she ever accomplished?

‘I am. She does what she wishes to do, no matter what. That is what I will do, as well.’ His voice dropped. ‘As soon as the bandages are off.’

‘You will travel, then. Is that not correct, Mr Westleigh?’ They’d spoken of it at dinner.

‘Yes.’ His voice tightened.

It all depended upon whether or not his eyes healed.

Chapter Seven

A
fter they re-entered the house, Hugh put no further claim on Mrs Asher’s time. He asked for the services of the new footman to walk with him around the house. Perhaps if he walked the space enough times, he’d be able to navigate on his own and not disrupt the routine of the servants or Mrs Asher—although if he had his way, he’d commandeer all of her time.

Instead, Toller, the new footman, was placed at his disposal. Toller was a cheerful, chatty young man who seemed perfectly content to walk with Hugh from Hugh’s bedchamber, down the stairs, to the drawing room and to the dining room—over and over—all the while telling Hugh about his family, the village, the maids and Mr and Mrs Pitts.

‘That Monette is a pretty thing,’ Toller went on. ‘But I do not suppose I will see much of her, her being a lady’s maid and all. She’s probably above my touch, in any event.’

Monette, Toller had told him, was Mrs Asher’s lady’s maid who had come with her from Switzerland. The footman knew nothing else about her, though, and Hugh had not encountered her here—although he’d done once. In the fire.

‘What of Mr Asher?’ Hugh might as well turn the man’s garrulity to matters of which he was truly curious. ‘What was he like?’

‘Mr Asher?’ Toller sounded puzzled. ‘I don’t rightly know.’

Bad luck. ‘Did you come to Thurnfield after he died?’

‘I have lived in Thurnfield my whole life,’ Toller responded with pride. ‘There is nothing I do not know about it.’

‘Then how do you not know of Mr Asher?’

‘Can’t know of him as he was never in Thurnfield,’ Toller said. ‘At least he never lived here. He might have passed through. Many folks pass through on their way to London.’

‘Mr Asher never lived here?’

‘Not in Thurnfield,’ the footman insisted.

Had she lived separately from her husband? ‘How long has Mrs Asher lived here, then?’

‘About three days,’ Toller answered.

Three days?

Toller kept talking. ‘She drove into town looking for somebody to take care of you or someplace she could stay to care for you. Well, the inn was full of people from Ramsgate. There was a fire there, I was told. Maybe the one where you injured your eyes?’ He didn’t wait for Hugh to answer. ‘Anyway, no one wished to take on the charge of caring for a sick man without knowing if he could pay, and you couldn’t travel any farther, so Mrs Asher leased the cottage here. The previous tenants were a navy man and his wife. They left about a month ago. The place has been empty since.’

They reached the stairway again.

Hugh rested a hand on the banister. ‘Do you mean Mrs Asher was just passing through? She never meant to live here, then?’

‘That I could not say for certain,’ Toller replied. ‘But Mr Brill, the leasing agent, said she asked for two weeks, but he would not lease for so short a time, so she paid for three months.’

She paid for three months? Why?

And why tell him she lived here?

But did she ever say she lived here? Hugh strained to recall.

He turned his head towards where he thought Toller stood. ‘Let us go back upstairs to my room, then I will free you from playing nursemaid.’

‘Very well, sir,’ Toller said agreeably.

Hugh ascended the stairs with more confidence than when they’d started the practice. He was becoming more accustomed to using the cane. With being unable to see.

At his bedchamber door he thanked the footman. ‘This was excellent, Toller. I could not have done it without you. I’m in your debt.’

He’d pay the man a generous vail at the end of his stay. He’d be generous to all the servants, since he was the sole reason they’d been hired, apparently.

Why had Mrs Asher not simply told him she’d taken the house to take care of him? That she’d been required to pay ahead for time she’d not use? Where had she been bound, then? Where was her home?

He was reasonably certain there was no malevolence in her subterfuge, although at first he’d been suspicious of her. She clearly had nothing to gain from assuming his care. All she could gain was his money, but she obviously had money of her own.

Was she simply possessed of a kind heart? Or had she believed she owed it to him because he’d carried her out of the fire? Why, then, not simply order her servants to care for him?

She was a mystery.

She possessed an adept conversational skill that she used to conceal more than she revealed. She swung from the superficial to a hint of deep sadness.

She intrigued him in other ways, as well. Her musical voice, the scent of roses when she was near, her soft hand. Touching her face had been arousing, more arousing than he liked to admit.

He wanted to
see
her, know her, discover what she needed to so carefully hide. Was that the source of her unhappiness? He could not simply ask her. He wanted to know about her life, about her husband. Had she loved him? Had her husband been good to her? Had there been other men besides him? And what had she been doing, travelling alone on the Continent? Was he correct in his guess that she’d hid herself away to have a baby?

He probably had no right to know such personal matters, but he did deserve to know why she had taken such charge of him and gone to all this trouble and expense as a result. He’d discover that much this night. Or at least confront her with what he knew.

* * *

That evening Daphne found Westleigh waiting in the drawing room before dinner. Like the night before, she poured him wine. He seemed preoccupied, disturbed. About his blindness, she guessed.

He responded to her efforts at chitchat with an economy of response, although he did accept a second glass of wine. Her mood darkened. Gone was the ease they’d achieved during their walk. Why? She missed it most dreadfully.

Finally Carter announced that dinner was served.

Westleigh took his cane in one hand and stood. He offered her his arm. ‘May I escort you in to dinner?’

What was this? The previous night she’d had to carefully lead him to the room.

It sounded like an order, not an invitation, so she took his arm.

He walked almost directly to the door. She guided him to correct his course, else they might have hit the wall.

‘Thank you,’ he said, his words clipped. ‘Tomorrow I will do better.’

‘You are doing very well.’ She used a placating voice.

He continued to confidently cross the hall to the dining room, although his manner was a bit determined. He led her to the doorway almost as if he could see and found her chair with equal ease.

He pulled it out for her. ‘I commandeered Toller to help me learn how to traverse the house. We walked it a number of times until I could envisage the floor plan and not run into furniture.’

‘How very clever of you.’

He glowered. ‘You need not do that.’

She did not know what he meant. ‘Do what?’

‘Speak in your governess voice,’ he snapped.

Her heart pounded. ‘My what?’

‘That governess voice, as if you were talking to a schoolboy. You use it often.’

Speak with your heart,
the abbess had repeatedly told her.
It is your true voice.
Daphne still did not know what that meant.

‘I—I— That is the way I speak.’ She did not know any other way.

Except her tone had changed with her last words. Even she could tell it.

‘Not always.’ Carter and Toller entered and Westleigh stopped talking.

Toller served the soup under Carter’s watchful eye.

When they left again, Westleigh dipped his spoon into the soup and carefully lifted it to his mouth.

Not all of it spilled.

She remained silent, but continued to stare at him. His effort to eat normally was heartbreaking to watch, but he managed to finish most of the soup.

No sooner did he put down his spoon than Carter and Toller re-entered carrying the next course. Toller reached for her soup bowl.

Carter stopped him. ‘Are you finished, ma’am?’

She’d forgotten to taste it.

She waved a hand. ‘Yes. I had no appetite for soup.’

He placed roasted quail on the table, already carved and cut into pieces for Westleigh.

‘Some quail, sir?’ Carter asked.

Westleigh nodded.

Carter also served small roasted potatoes and apricot fritters, explaining each to Westleigh.

The two servants left the room again.

Would it be the height of poor manners to ask Westleigh what was troubling him, or a neglect of manners to pretend one did not notice?

She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Westleigh, what is distressing you?’

He lifted his head as if to look at her. ‘Distressing me?’

She nodded, but realised he could not see. ‘Your mood is much altered from earlier today when we took that pleasant walk.’

He pushed his fork around his plate until he speared a piece of meat and lifted it to his mouth. The muscles of his neck flexed as he chewed. Had her husband’s muscles moved with such suppressed strength? She’d never noticed.

‘I did not mean to make you more uncomfortable,’ he finally said.

More
uncomfortable?

‘I am perfectly comfortable, I assure you.’ She kept her voice modulated so the tension shaking her insides did not show.

His mouth twisted with scepticism.

She tightened her grip on the stem of her wine glass.

The door opened again. Carter and Toller stood ready to assist them.

‘Later,’ Westleigh said, so softly she barely heard.

When the dishes and their plates were removed, Daphne turned to Carter. ‘Would you serve Mr Westleigh’s brandy and the fruit and biscuits with my tea in the drawing room?’

‘Yes, m—ma’am.’ He waved Toller off to take care of it.

She stood and Westleigh rose as well, taking his cane in hand and walking over to her to offer his arm again.

‘Is the cane helping you?’ she asked in the most reasonable voice she could muster, because she needed to say something.

His answer was devoid of expression. ‘It is. It gives me confidence, even if it be false confidence.’

‘False confidence is at least confidence of some sort.’ Agreeing with a gentleman was almost a reflex with her. In this case, what she said was certainly true of her, as well. False confidence was all she seemed to possess lately.

One corner of his mouth rose. ‘How very wise of you, Mrs Asher.’ It was a good mimic of her voice.

He led her out of the dining room without banging into a wall.

She lowered her head. ‘Do I truly sound that way?’

His voice softened. ‘I exaggerated.’ He waved a hand. ‘Do not heed me. It is my mood.’

His foul mood, he must mean.

As they crossed the hall she marvelled again—silently—at how well he managed. The drawing-room door was trickier, but she gently guided him and perhaps this time he did not perceive her help.

Toller was just setting down the tea tray. A decanter of brandy and two glasses were already on the table.

‘Thank you, Toller,’ she said.

He bowed and left.

‘Sit, Westleigh,’ she said. ‘I’ll pour your brandy.’

He found the chair he’d sat in before and lowered himself into it. She handed him the glass and eyed the other one for herself.

Why not have some brandy? She’d seen women drink it at the Masquerade Club. She poured herself a generous amount and took a gulp. With much effort she avoided a paroxysm of coughing. His head rose, but he could not possibly know, could he? She made a clatter of pouring tea, just in case.

But it was the brandy she drank.

He inhaled deeply and released his breath slowly. ‘I have been trying to puzzle out why you should keep me from learning the truth.’

She felt herself go pale. Had he discovered who she was—?

He pressed on. ‘Why did you not tell me?’

‘I—I do not know what you mean.’ At least she did not know precisely what he meant; only what she feared he meant.

‘Someone—I will not say who—told me. In all innocence, I might add. This was not a betrayal of your secrets, but someone who did not know the truth was to be withheld from me.’

She took a relieved sip and, this time, savoured the warmth the brandy created in her chest. Only Monette, Carter, and John Coachman knew who she was and if they had told, it would have been a deliberate betrayal of what she’d asked of them.

‘Why, Westleigh—’ she put on her most charming voice ‘—I am at a loss. What truth did I withhold?’

He waved an exasperated hand. ‘That you leased this cottage for three months because of me. You gave me the impression you lived here.’

‘Did I?’ The brandy was making this easier. ‘If I did so, it was most unintentionally done.’

He took a gulp of his brandy. ‘Please, let us speak without pretence. Why have you gone to so much trouble and expense for me? Taking me from Ramsgate. Leasing this cottage for much longer than needed. Hiring servants for me.’

She stared at him, wishing she could see all his face, wishing she could look into his eyes and gauge how much of the truth to tell.

She finished the contents of her glass and gave a little laugh. ‘I assure you, I did not plan to take on so much trouble for you. I thought I would find someone in Ramsgate to take care of you and, failing that, I was certain I would find someone on the road. When that also did not happen, events just seemed to pile on each other.’ She poured more brandy in her glass. ‘Please believe me that the money is a trifle, as I have told you before. And, like you, no one expected me at any particular time.’ There was no one to whom her arrival would matter. ‘A delay of two weeks was of no consequence.’

‘But the hiring of the servants—’ he began.

‘That was not for your benefit,’ she explained. ‘I think we could have done well enough with Monette, Carter and me. And Mr and Mrs Pitts. The others—they seemed to need the work.’

‘You hired them without needing them?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Mary and Ann—the maids—they looked...hungry.’ She lifted a shoulder, even though he could not see the gesture. ‘It—it felt like the right thing to do and very little trouble to me in the doing of it.’ More trouble than she’d bargained for, having to organise everything and make certain they had decent dresses and aprons and caps to wear. ‘Then Mrs Pitts knew a cook and others to hire. It seemed easiest just to hire them. Our meal was quite good tonight, was it not?’