An Honest Heart (12 page)

He and Doncroft slipped out the back and set their feet on the road to Wakesdown before they could be waylaid by anyone.

“What news of the seamstress?” Doncroft shrugged out of his cloak.

Oliver did the same—not just because the early April sun made the black wool unbearable, but also to have a moment to form his answer. “My campaign to make her fall madly in love with me begins tomorrow. Now that the house party is in its last week, I believe I will have more freedom to leave Wakesdown without so many questions as to my movements.”

“And North Parade is between here and the club. I am certain that Radclyffe would be more than happy to provide cover by going there with me and waiting for you to join us. After you visit your paramour, of course.” Doncroft’s expression turned salacious.

Oliver almost ran his fingers through his hair—but stopped short of ruining the artfully arranged riot of curls his man had affected this morning. A shadow nibbled the edge of Oliver’s good mood—a shadow as foreign to him as if it came from the deep recesses of Africa. No—he’d felt this before. As a child. When he’d done something he’d been expressly forbidden to do and had been discovered.

Was it . . . could it possibly be guilt?

No. He had no reason to feel guilty. He did not intend any harm—it was all in good fun.

Shaking off the morose thoughts, he cuffed Doncroft’s shoulder. “No, my good man. Not paramour. Dupe is a more apt description. For I would never lower myself to taking someone of her low birth and status as my mistress. Even I have some standards.”

Doncroft chuckled, though the sound contained little mirth. “Yes, you must be cautious when it comes to such things. If you follow through on your plan to marry Miss Buchanan, you will be one of the most henpecked of husbands in all England. And I do not think she would stop short of physical displays of her displeasure with a husband found keeping a mistress.”

After tossing his cloak to hang over his shoulder, Oliver jammed his hands into his pants pockets and raised his shoulders as if to protect himself from the imaginary strangling hands of his potential wife. “I am the soul of discretion.” He shot a sharp glance Doncroft’s direction. “And I expect my friends to be also.”

Doncroft guffawed. “Like
Les Trois Mousquetaires
—
‘un pour tous, tous pour un.’
I have not forgotten my vow.”

Seven years ago, Doncroft had bought French periodicals with the serialized installments of Alexandre Dumas’s story of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis and brought them into the rooms they shared their first year at Oxford. Enthralled by the adventure—and the personalities of the characters—they had adopted the musketeers’ “one for all, all for one” motto, swearing to remain friends no matter what happened. In fact, for some time, each had identified himself by his favorite musketeer’s name. It had been quite some time since Oliver had signed correspondence to his friends as Aramis. Perhaps it was time to reread the story and see if he could learn how his hero would conduct himself in a situation such as this.

“Your French pronunciation is as deplorable now as it was back then.” Oliver shoved Doncroft, catching him off guard and making him flail and dance to keep from tripping off the edge of the road into the shallow, water-filled ditch.

Oliver enjoyed the levity and ease of the company of one of his closest and oldest friends . . . while it lasted. Back at Wakesdown, he did his best to avoid the other guests—especially Miss Buchanan.

After an early tea, the ladies returned to their rooms to rest until dinner. Oliver, tired of being cooped up like a chicken inside the house, escaped to the grounds, exploring parts of the garden currently undergoing renovation and restoration. Beyond a pond with a fountain in the center, he stepped up onto the porch of the folly—at least he assumed the small building was a folly, with its Greco-Roman temple design and set so far out in the park.

But he could not enter the building to discover its true purpose. The door was locked, and most of the windows were covered with bramble vines.

With a bit of work, it would make an excellent clandestine meeting place for a young couple—if the woman could escape her chaperone.

A northerly breeze brought a chill to the air. Oliver took the main path back toward the house. He nodded greetings to Lord Thynne and the Buchanans’ American cousin who strolled in the Italianate terraced portion of the garden nearest the house. The pretty blonde maid trailed behind them. He tried to catch her eye, but she kept her gaze downcast and scurried after Lord Thynne and Miss Dearing.

Ah, well. He needed to focus his efforts on discovering how to work himself into Miss Bainbridge’s good graces anyway. One conquest at a time. Besides, Doncroft was right—Oliver did not dare risk allowing Miss Buchanan to catch wind of his amorous pursuits, even if they were only for entertainment and nothing serious.

After a few years of marriage, he was certain she, too, would discover the necessity of such extramarital activities and become adept at her own flirtations and assignations. Once that happened, they would be truly happy together.

Much to his pleasure, Miss Buchanan pleaded a headache and took a dinner tray in her room, sending her apologies to the guests.

No one seemed to mind her absence. In fact, conversation around the dinner table flowed more easily, and laughter came more freely, than when the eldest daughter of the house presided at table, because everything did not have to revolve solely around her and her interests. As soon as they were married, he would put a stop to that.

Monday morning, while most of the gentlemen went out hunting, as usual, many of the ladies decided a jaunt to Oxford’s High Street for shopping was in order. Though Edith used Miss Bainbridge’s services, she would never visit North Parade when trying to maintain a sense of superiority over her guests. Which meant he could visit with impunity.

As soon as he could escape from the breakfast room, Oliver had his horse saddled. Doncroft and Radclyffe met him at the stables to wish him luck and to plan their meeting at the club afterward.

The drizzling rain turned to a downpour by the time Oliver reached North Parade. The ride gave him time to consider what he would say to explain his presence at a dressmaker shop, since this time he had no missive from his mother.

Only a few hardy souls dashed in and out of the shops along the narrow street, shoulders hunched and heads covered for some protection from the deluge. A modest black carriage sat outside Miss Bainbridge’s shop.

After tying his horse to the plain iron post outside, Oliver let himself in. The shop girl looked up from the table in the center of the room, where she stood cutting fabric for a customer, and nodded toward him. “I will be right with you.”

He lifted his head slightly. “I had hoped to meet with the proprietress. If you will inform Miss Bainbridge that the Honorable Mr. Oliver Carmichael is here, I am certain she would wish to wait upon me herself.” How could she not? He knew how much money M’lady had parted with two days ago for the gowns that she would wear to the Great Exhibition.

Both the shop girl and her customer seemed to recognize the Carmichael name, as they exchanged only the briefest glance before the girl hurried off and disappeared through a door behind the counter at the end of the room.

Caddy tried to concentrate on the rows and columns of numbers in front of her. Her head did not throb nearly as much as it had Saturday and Sunday, but it ached enough to keep her from being able to give her full concentration to the task at hand. Of course, the task at hand served only to remind her of what had happened Friday night. She had enough work booked over the next several weeks to keep her and her three apprentices working well into the night every day. While that income would allow her to pay her bills, it would not replace the money she had saved for the trip to London and the fabrics she had hoped to purchase there.

The bell on the front door chimed; Caddy closed the ledger. The constable had come by on Saturday afternoon, as Dr. Stradbroke had promised. But Caddy had been so groggy she hadn’t understood half of his questions. He’d promised to return first thing Monday morning to take her statement.

Phyllis entered, a worried look on her face. “Mr. Oliver Carmichael’s here, miss.” She pulled her full bottom lip between her teeth.

Oh, dear. What could he want? “I shall come out and see to him. Thank you, Phyllis.”

Caddy pressed both hands against the top of the small table that served as her desk and pushed herself to her feet. She waited until the room stilled before she let her hands drop to her sides. Turning, she caught sight of herself in the small mirror that hung over the bureau she used to store some of the more expensive notions and accessories. She bore a strong resemblance to the wounded soldiers returning from the Napoleonic war in the paintings they’d seen at school. She couldn’t allow Mr. Carmichael to see her in such a state and have him carry the tale back to his mother, who already seemed to question her competency.

“Next time I see you, Dr. Stradbroke, I will apologize for what I’m about to do.” She untied the knot in the muslin and unwrapped it from around her head. Then she carefully removed the folded pad of fabric covering the stitched cut, working it away with small movements when it stuck in a couple of places.

From the third drawer, she pulled out a finely knitted snood. She collected her long, thick braid into it, pinning it at her crown. She finger-combed the front of her hair down over her forehead, creating soft wings that swept down to cover her ears, then tucked the strands into the snood.

For once, her straight hair worked to her advantage. Except for the faint shadow of a bruise surrounding her eye, Mr. Carmichael should not be able to see her injury. And the dark gray skies outside meant a dim shop interior, so hopefully he would not notice the bruise.

She removed her apron and hung it on the hook on the back of the office door, took a deep breath, then walked out into the shop.

Mr. Carmichael stood at the floor-to-ceiling shelves displaying bolts of silks. Did his mother want to commission another gown?

He turned when she was still several feet away. Caddy extended her right hand.

“Mr. Carmichael, what a pleasure.” Speaking and smiling at the same time moved all the muscles in Caddy’s face. The pain of the stitches pulling against her flesh sent a wave of icy discomfort down her spine, and perspiration rose on her upper lip and forehead. She did her best not to let her pain show.

“Miss Bainbridge, the pleasure is mine.” He took her hand in his, but instead of a businesslike shake, he raised it and brushed his lips against her knuckles. Her
bare
knuckles, since she did not wear gloves while working. “I trust you are well? And your mother?”

“We are both well, thank you.”

Caddy pulled her hand back and resisted the urge to use it to wipe the beads of sweat threatening to drip down her face—from his flattery or the nausea her headache gave her, she wasn’t certain. “How may I help you today?”

He looked as if he would prefer to engage in a longer conversation, but with a sigh, he turned to the shelves of fabric. “Last time I was in here, I saw a few silks I would like to have sent to my tailor for waistcoats.”

The few tailors who worked in Jericho occasionally sent men to Caddy’s store for fabric. Most of their customers had no need of the fancy goods Caddy stocked. But occasionally one wanted a brocade or inexpensive silk for a wedding waistcoat. So the occasional male customer was not unusual.

However, she had a hard time believing she carried anything in her little shop that was better than the goods at Oliver Carmichael’s tailor—probably one on High Street who catered to the aristocracy and to deans and professors at the colleges. “I would be happy to have the fabrics cut and sent over for you. Which ones would you like?”

He chose five fabrics in greens and yellows, all with an excess of embellishment. He would not let Caddy pull the bolts and carry them to the table, but did it himself.

Phyllis moved to the main counter with her customer to finish the sale. Caddy unrolled a few yards of the first fabric.

Before she could reach up and brush it away, a droplet rolled down her forehead and dripped onto the dark green silk. Fortunately, it plopped on the end of the fabric, so she quickly trimmed a few inches off under the guise of creating a straight edge. She swept the trimming into the basket by her feet before he could see the dark spot.

Another bead of sweat trickled down her spine, even as she shivered slightly from the chill in the room. Her legs trembled, and she longed to sit down.

Blinking to clear the fog from her eyes, Caddy measured carefully, then set weights on the corners to keep it still while she cut. She finished, straightened, and turned away just as another droplet ran from her forehead down the bridge of her nose and dripped to the floor. She swayed and grabbed the edge of the high cutting table.

“Miss Bainbridge are you—?” Mr. Carmichael grabbed her shoulders. “You’re bleeding!” He pushed her hair back from her forehead.