Mr. Lowden resumed his seat. “I still don’t understand why Sir John did not mention in his letter that his wife was to deliver a child so soon.”
“Perhaps he was mistaken or unaware of the child’s due date.”
“Had you some reason to mislead him in that?”
She frowned at him. “You are very rude, Mr. Lowden. How did your mother raise you?”
For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his eyes narrowed. “My mother was a good and godly person. She cared little for appearances. She did not raise me to pretend to approve of someone when I did not.”
“You judge someone you have never met, never spoken to, never even seen?”
“Did I need to? When my client has made it clear he does not trust his wife? That he has reason to believe the child his wife carried was not his own?”
Hannah stilled. Was it true? Was Marianna carrying Anthony Fontaine’s child? If so, did Mr. Fontaine know? She wondered briefly if and how Sir John could know for certain, but guessed she knew the answer.
Chapter11
James Lowden was not certain what to think or what to do. It was a condition he rarely found himself in, and he did not like it. He was usually a man of sharp judgment, of accurate first impressions, and of swift action. Now he felt off-balance, strangely unsettled, and unsure how to proceed. He had traveled to Devonshire with a clear idea of what was expected of him: Come to the aid of the betrayed husband, and take legal steps to assure Lady Mayfield and her lover gained nothing by his future death, beyond the jointure agreed to in the original marriage settlement. Of course, he had never expected to find Sir John lying insensible and close to death already. Even if he drafted a new will for him, Sir John could not sign it, nor could he honestly say his client was presently of sound mind. Yes, he had Sir John’s letter in which his intention to otherwise disinherit his unfaithful wife seemed clear. But the man had written with a modicum of discretion, to protect himself from more scandal should the letter be misdirected, James supposed. Such a letter could be presented to a judge in court, but it was unlikely to take precedence over Sir John’s last signed will and testament. Especially when so much money was at stake. Sir John Mayfield was a wealthy man. He had formerly been in trade in Bristol,where he had made his fortune and been granted the honor of knighthood by the king.
Yet it was not only Sir John’s condition that surprised James, but Lady Mayfield herself. He had come expecting a certain kind of woman. Vain and spoiled and manipulative. Beautiful, but easy to despise. Why did he have this vague memory of a friend describing the new Lady Mayfield as having dark hair? Had the man been mistaken or had he forgotten? For the woman’s hair was red. She had fine, blue-green eyes and pale, lightly freckled skin. Not unattractive, but certainly not what he would describe as a “raven-haired beauty.” With her coloring and high cheekbones, she appeared of Scottish descent or perhaps Irish, though her speech was as fine as any Mayfair lady’s. She was a bit younger than he’d expected as well. Perhaps four or five and twenty—though he realized she might be older than she looked. He had expected her to be flirtatious, but she kept her distance when she could, and behaved with cool reserve when she could not. She dressed modestly, with her hair pulled back simply and little or no cosmetics. She clearly wasn’t out to attract his admiration. Perhaps she knew why he’d come before he mentioned the will. She didn’t seem resentful, but defensive? Oh yes. She was definitely hiding something.
And how she doted on her child. He had heard her singing sweetly to the boy the previous night. She certainly did not appear the spoiled hoyden, leaving the care of her troublesome brat to others. What was she up to? Was it a ploy to win him to her side? He reminded himself that she was known for her ability to lure and manipulate men. Perhaps her ability to appear sweet and gentle was part of her deceptive charm. He must be careful to steel himself against her. His role was to protect Sir John and his interests. Not to begin doubting him. Or himself.
Hannah knew she could not skip dinner again, and avoiding Mr. Lowden would only make him suspicious. Yet how she dreaded the hours alone in his company.
The meal itself, served earlier in the West Country than in the city, passed uneventfully. Now and again Mr. Lowden opened his mouth as if to ask her something, then hesitated, his glance veering to Mrs. Turrill as she laid the courses or quietly directed Ben to carry away this serving dish or that. In the end, he remained silent, except to ask for something to be passed or to compliment the cook-housekeeper on the excellent meal.
Afterward, Hannah rose in relief and withdrew to the drawing room, where Mrs. Turrill had laid out a coffee service. She hoped Mr. Lowden would linger in the dining room over port and a cigar as many men did after meals. In fact, she hoped he smoked a whole box of cigars. Instead, he followed her into the drawing room and poured them each a cup of coffee.
She would stay while he finished one cup, she told herself, and then she would claim fatigue and excuse herself to retire early. Hannah sat in an armchair, sipped her coffee, and then set the cup and saucer on the side table. She picked up a novel to discourage conversation, but could not concentrate on the words. She felt him watching her over its pages. When she looked up at last, he smiled as if she’d just delivered the cue he’d been waiting for.
“Although I did not meet you until coming to Clifton, you are acquainted, I believe, with an old friend of mine.”
Hannah was instantly on her guard. Would she expose herself by not remembering this supposed acquaintance?
She turned a page and affected a casual air. “Oh? And which friend is this?”
“Captain Robert Blanchard.” He watched her face intently. “Tall, thin chap. Curly blond hair? A cousin to Lord Weston, or so he claims.”
“I ... am sorry. I don’t recall.”
“No? Apparently, he had the pleasure of making your acquaintance in Bath last year. At a rout Lord Weston hosted.”
Hannah thought back. Mariannahadgone to Lord Weston’s rout alone, she recalled, while Sir John was away on business. And later she’d pouted that Mr. Fontaine had not made an appearance, so she’d had to make do with other entertainment. Flirting with an officer was certainly the type of diversion Marianna had enjoyed, although as far as Hannah knew, she’d never taken a lover besides Fontaine.
“Perhaps your friend mistook me for someone else,” Hannah hedged. “There were ... many people there.”
Mr. Lowden glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, then said, “But you made quite an impression on this particular man. I saw Blanchard not long afterward and he told me he’d met the enchanting Lady Mayfield, with ‘eyes that drew him like siren song.’ He claimed you flirted with him, stroking his lapel and whispering in his ear. He seemed quite certain that if he’d had the nerve to ask you to leave the party with him, you would have.”
Hannah’s stomach soured and her mind worked quickly. If she decried the accusation as beyond the realm of possibility, he would never believe her. But if she agreed to this particular charge, it might be a trap. And even if true, how mortifying to own such illicit behavior to Sir John’s solicitor.
When she remained silent, he slyly prompted, “A cavalry officer...?”
Hannah knew she had to proceed carefully, and answer as Marianna might. “Oh, acavalryofficer,” she drawled. “You might have said so sooner. I admit I admire a man in uniform, although I’m afraid I don’t recall this particular man. Blanchard, was it?”
His golden brows rose. “You flirt so blatantly with every officer you meet?”
“I ... like to show my appreciation for brave military service.”
