Heaven help me, Hannah thought. Her secret was in this poor girl’s hands.
The night passed uneventfully, and Hannah began to breathe a little easier. She enjoyed her breakfast in the sunny dining parlor, strolled through the garden, and then returned to look in on Danny. A short while later, Mrs. Turrill came up and found her in the nursery, where Hannah sat rocking Danny and talking quietly to Becky.
“A gentleman is here, my lady,” she began, her usual smile absent, “asking, or rather demanding, to see the lady of the house.”
Hannah started. “Who is it?”
“He refuses to give his name. Shall I send him away?”
Who would refuse to identify himself, and why?Hannah wondered. She felt Becky’s panicked look but ignored it, forcing her own voice to remain calm. “Did you tell him about the accident? That Sir John is ... incapacitated?”
“I told him nothing, my lady. He never asked about Sir John. Only you.”
“How odd.” Hannah’s thoughts whirled. “What does he look like?”
She shrugged. “Dark, curly hair. Handsome, in his way. He’s dressed like a gentleman.” Mrs. Turrill sniffed. “Though his manner contradicts that impression.”
Hannah’s stomach churned. Could it be? The description, though not specific, could easily be of Lady Mayfield’s lover, Mr. Anthony Fontaine. If so, how had he discovered where they’d gone, and relatively quickly, too? Hannah knew she could not refuse to see him, for Marianna would never have done so. And he was unlikely to leave after one refusal. He would probably assume Sir John was preventing his wife from seeing him, and dig in his heels.
Did Mr. Fontaine deserve to know his lover had died? Hannah owed him nothing, yet she didn’t want the man hanging about, causing trouble for them all.
She rose and handed Danny to Becky. “I will see him, Mrs. Turrill.”
Mrs. Turrill studied her face. “Shall I go in with you?”
“No, thank you. If it is who I think it is, it is best that I speak to him privately. Find a way to gently tell him about the accident. The ... drowning.”
Her expression softened. “A friend of that poor girl’s, is he?”
“If it is who I believe it is, yes.”
Mrs. Turrill followed as far as the drawing room. Hannah peeked through the narrow crack between the double doors. Inside, facing the windows, stood Anthony Fontaine, unmistakable in profile. Roman nose, dark curls falling over his brow, brooding yet undeniably attractive.
Hannah faced Mrs. Turrill. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know him.” She hoped the woman would not eavesdrop at the door.
She waited until Mrs. Turrill nodded in reply and turned away.
Standing there, Hannah thought back to the times she had been in Mr. Fontaine’s company. Usually Lady Mayfield went out on some pretense to meet him. But on the rare evening when Sir John was at his club or away at one of his other properties, Marianna often invited friends over. Usually female friends or a couple. But on a few occasions, she had been brazen enough to invitehimto Sir John’s Bristol house.
Hannah recalled one evening only too well....
When Hopkins announced his arrival, Mr. Fontaine bowed to Lady Mayfield as though a mere acquaintance. “Good evening, Lady Mayfield. Thank you for your gracious invitation.”
“And where is Mrs. Fontaine?” Marianna asked.
“My dear wife is at home and plans to go to bed early.” With a glance at the footman arranging decanters on the sideboard, he added, “But she insisted I come. How rude it would be, she said, were we both to disappoint Lady Mayfield when she so kindly, and unexpectedly, invited us.”
Hannah assumed Mr. Fontaine claimed to have a wife to lessen the servants’ suspicions.
“I do hope Mrs. Fontaine is not unwell,” Marianna said.
“A trifling malady, I assure you. A cool drink and a warm bed are all she longs for on this chilly night.”
Lady Mayfield coyly dipped her head. “All she longs for?”
Hannah rose to excuse herself, but Lady Mayfield insisted she stay. Hannah knew why—so the servants wouldn’t spread gossip of their tête-à-tête from servants’ hall to servants’ hall. If they did, all of Bristol would soon know she had entertained a man alone in her husband’s absence. There were enough rumors about Lady Mayfield and Anthony Fontaine as it was.
Hannah had begrudgingly complied, sinking back into her corner chair and picking up her needlework once more. But it was difficult to concentrate. Her gaze flitted over to the couple more often than it should have. The two sat close together onthe sofa, sipping from glasses of port, heads bent near in private conversation. Had he just kissed her cheek ... her ear? Hannah looked down and realized she had wrongly placed her last several stitches and would need to pick them out.
