Mr. Fontaine’s hand rose from the arm of the sofa to stroke Lady Mayfield’s gown-covered knee. Marianna’s eyes flashed to Hannah and caught her looking, but she did not scowl or demand her to leave. Rather she grinned, mischief dancing in her big brown eyes.
Hannah looked away first.
Lady Mayfield was not only beautiful, but shapely. A fact emphasized by her excellent stays and the low-cut bodice of her evening gown. When Hannah next looked up, she noticed Anthony Fontaine’s gaze linger there.
When his hand lifted in that direction, Hannah stood abruptly. “I am sorry, my lady, but I would like to retire.”
“Oh come, Hannah. What a prude you are. Very well, if you must. But slip through the side door so the servants don’t see you leaving.”
Anthony Fontaine winked at her.
Blindly, Hannah slipped from the room. She retreated to her bedchamber upstairs, trying hard not to imagine what was happening in the room below....
And now Anthony Fontaine was here in the Clifton drawing room. Hoping to see Marianna. How could he fail to expose her? Heaven help her, this would not be easy.
Taking a deep breath, Hannah opened the double doors, closed them behind her, and faced Lady Mayfield’s lover. She was glad she wore a nondescript muslin, and not one of Marianna’s more memorable gowns.
Mr. Fontaine turned, surprise crossing his handsome face. “Miss Rogers?” He frowned, then bowed dutifully. “I did not expect to see you here. I asked for the lady of the house.”
Hannah put a finger to her lips. “Please, keep your voice down.”
“Where is she?” he demanded, hands on hips.
“Won’t you sit down?”
“I will not.” He ran an agitated hand through his forelock. “Does he forbid her to come down?”
“If by ‘he’ you mean Sir John, he forbids nothing.” For some reason, Hannah was reticent to reveal Sir John’s weak state to this particular man. His foe. “She cannot come, because she is not here.”
He scowled. “Don’t try to fob me off. I know this is where he brought her. I have already been to his other properties. Go and tell her I am here.”
“Please, sit down.”
“I won’t. Not until you tell me where she is.”
Hannah took a deep breath. “I’m afraid there has been a terrible accident.”
His gaze flew to hers, alert. Tense.
“On the journey here, we drove through a storm. The carriage slipped from the road, fell over the cliff, and landed partway into the sea.”
“Good heavens.” He visibly stiffened, preparing for a blow.
Hannah dreaded telling him. “The doctor says she likely died on impact and did not suffer.”
He gaped at her, then slowly sank to the sofa, crumpling the hat brim in his hands. Then his eyes hardened. “Are you fabricating this tale to trick me into leaving?”
She lifted her splinted arm, then pulled back the hair from her brow to reveal the jagged line on her forehead. “No. The accident was all too real.”
He looked down at his hands. When he next spoke, it was in a whisper. “Where is she?” The same words, but now seeking a different sort of answer.
She hesitated. “I am afraid her body has not yet been recovered.”
His head snapped up. “Then how do you know she is dead?”
“The doctor and his son saw a figure floating away as the tide receded. A figure in a red cloak. Marianna wore hers that day, I remember. They believe she was thrown from the carriage as it fell, or that the tide drew her from a broad hole in the wreck.”
His mouth parted, incredulous. “And where washe?” His lip curled. “Probably threw her over the cliff himself.”
