A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) (8 page)

‘Do they know it is for three months?’ The surprise had not left his voice.

‘Oh...’ Telling him about this made her feel foolish. ‘I do not know. We talked in terms of yearly wages, so I suppose that is what I will pay them.’

‘Mrs Asher—’ Now he sounded scolding.

She was certain the abbess would have approved, but she could hardly tell him that. ‘It is my money to do with as I wish.’

‘Do you have a man of business? Someone to help you manage such matters as bills and servants?’

She sighed. Dear Mr Everard. She’d written to him that she’d returned to England and would stay a time in Thurnfield. ‘Yes. I have a very capable man. He was my husband’s man of business and he has continued to help me.’

If anyone knew the whole of her folly with Xavier and Phillipa, it was Mr Everard. He’d remained loyal, even so.

Westleigh stood and, using the cane, paced back and forth. ‘Mrs Asher, I do not favour anyone paying for my needs. I do not like that you withheld this information from me. It was one thing for me to accept hospitality at your house, but it is another matter for me to allow you to pay a lease and hire servants.’

‘My hiring the servants had nothing to do with you,’ she protested.

‘You would not have been here to hire them if it had not been for me.’ He made his way back to his chair, tapping with his cane to find precisely where it was. He sat again and groped for his brandy glass. He drank it empty.

She reached over and poured him some more. ‘Here are some biscuits and candied fruit.’ She placed a small plate of the treats next to his glass on the table beside him.

He picked up the glass, but did not sample the other. ‘I will pay all these expenses. The cottage and the servants.’

Ridiculous! He could not possibly have as much money as she, considering what he’d shared about his family’s recent financial woes. She’d wounded his vanity, though, obviously. Perhaps she possessed too much independence, in his opinion. Men did not like women who displayed too much independence, her mother had taught her.

Although the abbess always told her she must think for herself...

She shook her head. ‘Very well, Westleigh. You may pay. We’ll make an accounting and you may pay.’

He took another drink of the brandy. ‘Good.’

She poured herself a little more and sipped it slowly.

After a time he spoke. ‘You need not stay, then.’

She looked at him. ‘You wish me to bid you goodnight?’

‘No, not at all,’ he quickly said. ‘I meant, you and your servants need not stay with me any longer. You may go on your way. If I am paying—’

‘You wish me to leave?’ The brandy made her thinking fuzzy and her emotions raw. The idea he wished to send her away unexpectedly wounded her and she fought back tears.

He frowned and paused before going on. ‘I have no right to keep you here. It is not as if I could pay you for your assistance.’

Pay her? ‘You certainly cannot!’

She’d wanted to do something for somebody, something unselfish. She wanted to do something for
him
. For restitution—and—and because he needed someone so very much. But here it was, the one time she extended herself for another person,
needed
to extend herself, and he was sending her away.

* * *

Hugh had made a muddle of this.

She’d been the one acting under false pretences, so why did he feel so rotten? She sounded as if she’d start weeping. How had the situation turned itself around?

He spoke in low tones. ‘Why did you do it, then? Why did you assume care of me in the first place? Me, a stranger. You were not the only one I helped to escape the fire. Someone else would have come to my aid.’

‘I cannot explain it.’ Her voice turned small, sad and defensive. ‘I just could not leave you.’ She sighed. ‘You are correct, though. You can pay Toller, Mary, Ann and the others to take care of you. You do not need me. I will go if you wish it.’

His chest tightened. Wish it? Her leaving was the last thing he wanted. How was he to bear the darkness without her company? His world had shrunk in his sightlessness, but she filled all the space he had left. For her to leave would plunge him into an abyss.

He’d endure what he must, but the two weeks would be deadly without her.

And something was unfinished between them. He did not know what, and if she left him he would never know.

‘I do not wish you to go,’ he murmured. ‘I simply cannot ask you to stay.’

He heard her pouring more brandy into a glass, not his glass. How much was she drinking?

‘Why must this be so complicated?’ Her voice was strained with unhappiness. ‘If we were friends, you would accept my help without question and without all these noble protestations. If we were acquaintances, you would not question my helping you.’

‘If we were friends,’ he repeated.

‘That is what I said.’

He preferred her irritation to her sadness. ‘Then let us be friends. Why should we not be? We have a great basis. I helped you escape a fire and you helped me get care for my wounds.’

‘We could be friends?’ She said this as if she’d never had a friend in the world.

‘Certainly.’ At least he’d cheered her. ‘You can stay and keep me company. As my friend. And you can be my eyes until mine are working again. I confess, I would feel more secure knowing a friend was looking out for me.’

‘Yes...’ Her voice turned dreamlike. ‘I could help you as a friend. Look out for you.’ Her tone changed to one more decided. ‘Very well, Mr Westleigh. Let us act as friends.’

He relaxed and finished his second glass of brandy. ‘How far should we go in being friends?’ he asked. ‘Should we pretend we’ve known each other since childhood and use our given names?’

She giggled, a delightful sound. ‘If you wish it.’

‘Then you shall call me Hugh from now on.’ He smiled. ‘No more Mr Westleigh. Agreed?’

‘Hugh,’ she repeated, making his name sound like a gift. ‘I am Daphne, then.’

‘Daphne,’ he whispered.

Chapter Eight

H
ugh heard her rise.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. The chinaware rattled. ‘Goodness! I am unsteady.’

He grabbed his cane and stood and immediately she seized his arm. She swayed into him.

‘Too much brandy, perhaps?’ he said.

She threaded her arm through his. ‘You knew I drank some brandy?’

He gestured to his bandages. ‘Without my sight, I find my other senses vastly improved. I heard you pour the brandy, which sounded nothing like pouring tea, and I smelled its scent.’

She’d poured herself at least three glasses, which seemed out of character for her.

‘I—I did not feel like tea,’ she explained, sounding defensive. She released him, but fell against him and again took his arm to steady herself. ‘Perhaps I should retire. To bed.’

He held on to her. ‘Should I call Carter to assist you?’

‘I would rather not have Carter know. I’ll be fine if I can get to my room.’ She tried to pull away again, but he kept hold of her.

‘I’ll take you then.’ He laughed. ‘It will be the blind leading the...jug bitten.’

‘I am inebriated?’ Her voice rose. ‘How is that possible? I drink as much wine to no ill effect.’

‘Brandy is stronger.’ He walked towards where the door should be. ‘Did you not know that?’

He felt her shake her head, her curls brushing his shoulder. ‘I never drank it before.’

Why tonight, then?

‘Move to the left,’ she said. ‘You are aiming us to the wall.’

‘Blast.’ He needed more practice in this room, obviously. He moved to the left. ‘Are we heading to the door?’

‘Yes.’

He did better crossing the hall with her and finding the stairs. He hooked the cane around his arm and gripped the banister. She gripped him. They made slow and somewhat precarious progress. She leaned on him as if in complete trust of his ability to deliver her safely to her bedchamber door, and he’d be damned if he would fail her.

But he had not practised the way to her door.

When they reached the top of the stairs, he stopped. ‘Which way?’

‘Mmm.’ Was she asleep?

He shook her gently. ‘Daphne? You must show me the way to your room.’

‘Oh.’ She started and paused as if getting her bearings. ‘This way.’

She took a step and he followed her direction, although definitely not with the complete trust she’d shown him. With his free hand he used the cane to make certain she was not leading him into pieces of furniture.

Finally she stopped. ‘Here it is.’

He felt for the door and found the latch. ‘I will leave you here, then.’

She still clung to his arm and rested her head against him. ‘Feels nice.’

He eased her arm off and now faced her. ‘It does indeed feel nice, Daphne.’

‘To be friends,’ she mumbled. ‘It feels nice to be friends.’

The warmth of her body against his, the scent of roses that always clung to her, her low, brandy-soaked voice all intoxicated him as much as the brandy had intoxicated her. At this moment he did not wish friendship from her, but something more. Something between lovers.

He resisted the impulse, but he did not release her. ‘I will bid you a friendly goodnight, then.’

He placed his cane against the wall and searched for her face. Touching her cheek and cupping it in the palm of his hand, he leaned down until he felt her breath on his face. He lowered his face to hers and touched his lips to hers, slightly off-kilter. He quickly made the correction and kissed her as a man kisses a woman when desire surges within him.

‘Mmm.’ She twined her hands around his neck and gave herself totally to the kiss.

He was acutely aware of her every curve touching his body. His hand could not resist sliding up her side and cupping her breast, her full, high breast. He rubbed his fingers against this treasure and she pressed herself against him, her fingers caressing the back of his neck.

He wanted to take her there in the hallway, plunge himself into her against the door to her bedchamber. She would be willing. Never had a woman seemed more willing.

‘Daphne,’ he whispered.

Some rational part of him heard footsteps on the stairs.

‘Someone is coming.’ He eased her away from him. ‘We had better say goodnight before we do something two friends might regret.’

‘I wouldn’t regret it, Hugh!’ She tried to renew the embrace.

‘Not now.’ He pushed her away gently.

The footsteps were coming closer, nearly at the top of the stairs, he guessed. He opened her door and picked up his cane.

‘Oh,
madame
!’ an accented voice said. ‘I—I have come to assist you. If—if I do not disturb you.’

‘You must be Monette,’ Hugh said. ‘I have walked Mrs Asher to her room. She is a bit unsteady.’

He heard Monette rush over to her. ‘
My lady!
Are you ill?’

‘Not ill,’ Daphne said. ‘Feel wonderful. Am dizzy, though.’

‘She drank some brandy,’ Hugh explained. ‘Without realising the effects.’

‘
Je
comprends
, sir,’ Monette said, sounding very French. ‘I will take care of her.’

He felt the two women move past him and walk through the doorway. The door closed behind them and Hugh was left to find his own way back to his bedchamber to await Carter’s assistance to ready him for bed.

Sleeping would be difficult this night, he feared.

* * *

Daphne rose the next morning humming the tune to ‘Barbara Allen’. She laughed at herself. Why was she singing a song of death when she felt so happy?

The previous evening was fuzzy to her, but she remembered their quarrel about money and she remembered that she and Westleigh had made a pact to be friends. It felt wonderful to have a friend, even a temporary one. She so rarely had a friend.

She remembered calling Phillipa Westleigh her friend, but, truly, Daphne had simply been trying to use Phillipa to help in her attempted conquest of Xavier. Daphne had been no friend. She wanted to be different with Hugh—she could call him Hugh now. She wanted to be a good friend.

She had a vision of sharing kisses with him, but that was nonsense. A dream, certainly. She’d dreamed of kissing Hugh, like she used to dream of kissing Xavier. One could not help one’s dreams.

One thing was certain. Fantasy must never overpower reason in her relationship with Hugh as it had with Xavier. She would be content—overjoyed—that she and Hugh would spend the next ten days as friends.

Monette entered the room to help Daphne dress. Daphne was tempted to ask for the prettiest of the three dresses she had packed with her. It did not matter what she wore, though, because he could not see her. She did not have to look pretty for him. Imagine! He wanted to be her friend without even knowing what she looked like.

Once ready, she hurried from her room. Hugh was leaving his bedchamber at the same time.

‘Good morning,’ she said, suddenly reticent to even use his given name. What if he’d changed his mind since the night before?

He smiled and turned in her direction, not quite facing her directly. ‘Good morning, Daphne.’ His voice was low and deep and warmed her all over. ‘Are you bound for breakfast?’

She brightened. ‘I am, indeed.’

He offered his arm. ‘Would you like to see if I remember how to find the dining room?’

Her fingers wrapped around his muscle. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

They descended the stairs together.

‘Any ill effects from the brandy?’ he asked.

Her head hurt a little, but she was too happy to care. ‘None to speak of.’

When they reached the last step, he hesitated. ‘Go ahead and lead me. I don’t mind floundering on my own, but I would hate to run you into a table or the wall.’

‘I will this time,’ she responded. ‘But you mustn’t always act the invalid.’

He smiled again. ‘You have surmised it is a role I detest.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She exaggerated her expression. She did not sound much different than any other time she engaged men in conversation, but inside she felt transformed.

Breakfast was pleasant. It reminded Daphne of those days in her marriage when it seemed as if she made her husband happy.

* * *

After breakfast she suggested they take a walk.

They stepped out of the house into a morning as glorious as her mood.

‘Tell me what the day is like,’ he said as she led him on the same path as the day before. ‘Is it as fine as it seems?’

She did not want to answer right away, too acutely aware of all he missed by being unable to see. ‘First tell me why you think it fine.’

‘Well...’ He paused before they stepped onto the road. ‘First the air smells of all the wonderful smells of a spring day, of new leaves forming, fresh grass growing, flowers blooming. The sun feels warm on my face. And the birds are making a great deal of noise.’ He covered her hand with his. ‘Now tell me what you see.’

It had rained the night before and it was as if the rain had scrubbed the landscape into its most presentable appearance. ‘First, there is dew on the grass and it sparkles.’ Like tiny jewels, she thought. ‘There are spring flowers in bloom, in flower beds around the cottage. The sky is very clear. It is that deep, clear blue one does not see very often.’

How many times had her husband compared the colour of her eyes to such a sky? And her hair to the narcissus blooming in the garden? Men always commented on her beauty. This man could not see her, though, and he liked her anyway.

‘We’re starting on the road now,’ she warned him as they walked on.

They approached the stable where John Coachman stood in the door.

‘We’re near the stable now,’ she said. ‘My coachman is there.’

The coachman stepped forwards. ‘Good morning, ma’am. Good morning, Mr Westleigh. I’d say you look a sight better than when I saw you last.’

Hugh stopped and extended his hand, but the coachman was too far away to reach it. He strode over to accept Hugh’s grip.

‘You assisted me,’ Hugh said. ‘I thank you.’

He coloured. ‘’Twas nothing, sir.’

‘You know my name.’ Hugh released his hand. ‘What is yours?’

It had not occurred to Daphne to introduce them.

‘I go by John Coachman, mostly,’ the man replied.

Hugh nodded. ‘My father always called our coachmen John Coachman. My mother always knew their Christian names, their wives’ names and the names of all of their children. She also knew precisely how they should raise their children and how they should conduct every aspect of their lives.’

Daphne knew none of those things. When she’d sent for John Coachman to meet her in Ramsgate, had she taken him away from his family? She’d certainly never given it a thought.

Her coachman gave Hugh a toothy grin. ‘Not married, nor have any children.’ He winked. ‘That I know of.’

Hugh sobered. ‘We’d better not pursue that conversation, not with your employer standing here.’

The coachman darted her an anxious look.

‘What is your name?’ she asked, feeling ashamed of herself. ‘I am sorry I never learned it.’

‘Oh, John Coachman does well enough,’ he responded. Rather kindly, she thought. ‘But, if you would like the real thing, it is Henry Smith.’

‘I’ll call you Smith from now on, then.’ The sounds of voices came from inside the stable. She glanced towards them. ‘How are the stable boys working out?’

Smith glanced back, too, a pleased expression on his face. ‘They leave me nothing to do. They are good workers, ma’am.’

At least she’d eased his load a bit. ‘You must enjoy some leisure, then, Smith. Take some time for yourself.’

His eyes widened. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She took Hugh’s arm again and they continued on their walk.

‘I ought to have known his name,’ she murmured.

He touched her hand again. ‘My mother’s style was always to insinuate herself into everyone’s business, whether they were family or servants. Not everyone adopts such a style.’

She knew a little about Monette’s life. Monette had been the daughter of English parents who’d lived in Switzerland. She’d also been orphaned at an early age, with no relatives to take her in. The convent had given her a home, but she was never meant for that life. Daphne had given her a different choice.

Of Carter she only knew he had been stranded in Switzerland without employment. Now she wondered about his story, as well.

She thought about the servants at Faville House, about how little she knew of their lives, and of the servants at the estate in Vadley, the house and property her husband had left her and where she had spent so little time. How would the servants feel about her return? she wondered. Would they be dreading it?

His voice broke into her reverie. ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he said. ‘Or whatever the rate is for a wealthy widow.’

‘I was thinking of my servants at home,’ she answered honestly. ‘Of whether they would welcome my return.’

‘How long have you been away?’ he asked.

‘More than two years.’ She’d spent only a few months in the house in Vadley after the new Viscount Faville had taken possession of Faville House. He was the son of her husband’s cousin whose wife had been eager for her to leave.

‘You’ve been two years in Switzerland?’

She guided him around a rut in the road. ‘Almost.’

If he was more curious about her stay in Switzerland, he did not say so. The sound of horse’s hooves in the distance seemed to distract him.

‘Someone riding this way?’ Hugh asked.

Daphne turned to see. ‘No, one of the stablemen is leading one of the horses. They are going in the opposite direction from us.’

‘Which reminds me.’ His tone was light. ‘Was the hiring of the stable workers more of your charitable efforts?’

‘I suppose so.’ She furrowed her brow. ‘Was I so terribly foolish?’

He pulled her closer to him. ‘I think you were terribly generous.’

She felt like weeping at the compliment. At the same time, her senses soared at his closeness. ‘You could not see them, but the new maids were so very thin and very eager. How could I say no? And then Mr and Mrs Pitts came up with the idea for hiring the others.’ She considered this. ‘I wonder if there are many people needing work so urgently.’