A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) (3 page)

Instead, a family crisis had snared him. First his father had nearly impoverished the family by gambling and philandering away its fortunes, then he had tried to cheat the man who’d come to their rescue, his own natural son, John Rhysdale.

After that, Hugh, his brother Ned and Rhysdale had forced their father to move to Brussels and turn over the finances and all his affairs to Ned. Hugh was charged with making certain their father held to the bargain, which meant repeated trips to the Continent. At least this last trip had been the final one. Hugh had been summoned back to Brussels because his father had dropped dead after a night of carousing and drinking.

Hugh suffered no grief over his father’s death—the man hadn’t cared a whit about him or any of the family. His father’s death freed him at last.

Now Hugh’s independence was again threatened when nearly in his grasp. Only this time it might not be family obligation holding him back.

This time it might be blindness.

* * *

Daphne strode immediately from Westleigh’s bedchamber through the cottage and out into the garden where beds of red tulips and yellow narcissus ought to have given her cheer.

How could she be calm? She’d counted on Westleigh’s family coming to care for him. Who would not want family to nurse them back to health? She’d planned on leaving as soon as a family member arrived. They would never see the elusive Mrs Asher. A mere note would be all they knew of her.

The Westleighs would detest knowing the despised Lady Faville had cared for a family member. Hugh Westleigh would detest it, as well. She’d once tried to steal away Phillipa Westleigh’s new husband after all.

And, because her vanity had been injured, she’d heaved a lighted oil lamp against the Masquerade Club’s wall. It had shattered, just as her illusions had shattered in that moment. In a flash, though, the curtains and her own skirts had caught fire.

Her hands flew to her burning cheeks. She’d been so afraid. And ashamed! What sort of person does such a thing?

Yes, the Westleighs would hate her, indeed.

She’d been a coward that day, running away after Phillipa had saved her from her burning skirts. She was a coward still. She should simply tell Hugh Westleigh her identity—she should have told him from the beginning—

What would the abbess have said?
Do what is right, my child. You shall never err if you follow the guide of your own conscience. Do always what is right.

But what happens if one does not know what is right? What is one supposed to do in that event?

Was it right to tell him the truth or better to hide the truth and not upset him?

Daphne paced back and forth. It would only be two weeks until his bandages came off and he’d be on his way. She stopped and placed her hands on her cheeks.

Unless he was blind.

Please, dear God. Let him not be blind!

She shook her head. Who was she to pray?

She, Carter and Monette simply must take the best care of him. Not upset him. Give him the best chance to heal.

Perhaps the dear abbess would intercede with God for him on Daphne’s behalf. And perhaps the abbess would forgive her if she did not tell the truth this time. No real harm in him thinking she was merely Mrs Asher for such a little while. Feeling only slightly guilty, Daphne strolled around to the front of the cottage.

Two young women approached from the road and quickened their pace when they saw her.

‘Beg pardon, ma’am. Are you Mrs Asher?’ They looked no more than fifteen years, each of them.

‘I am Mrs Asher,’ she responded.

‘We’ve come looking for work, ma’am,’ one said. ‘Mr Brill, the agent, told us you might be needing some help in the cottage—’

‘We can do whatever you need,’ the other broke in. ‘We’re strong girls. Mr Brill will vouch for us.’

Both were simply dressed and their clothing looked very old and worn. In fact, their gowns hung on them.

‘We need work very bad, ma’am,’ the first girl said. ‘We’ll do anything.’

‘I am not sure...’ Daphne bit her lip. Would it be right to hire maids to work in a house where she would stay for only two weeks?

‘Please, Mrs Asher,’ the second girl said. ‘We can show you how good we work. Give us a chance.’

What difference did it make to her? She had plenty of money to pay them. It was the easiest thing in the world to say yes. Besides, the abbess would say she’d done a good thing.

‘Very well, girls,’ she said. ‘Follow me. If Mrs Pitts approves, you may become our new maids of all work.’

They could deliver the meals to Mr Westleigh. Daphne would be able to avoid him altogether. Then it would not matter who he thought she was.

Chapter Three

H
ugh lost his battle to stay awake. He had no idea how long he slept, but he woke again to darkness.

Cursed eyes!

Was it day or night? Was he alone or was someone in the room?

Was
she
here?

He remained still and strained to hear the sounds of someone moving, someone breathing.

It was so quiet.

The hiss of the fireplace; otherwise, silence. Was anyone near? Would they hear him if he called out for help?

Although he’d be damned if he’d call out for help.

Or for water.

His throat was parched with thirst. There must be water somewhere in the room. She must have left some for him.

He climbed out of bed, not as steady on his feet as he might wish. The carpet on the floor was soft and cool on his bare feet. Carefully, he started from right next to the bed, groping—and finding—a side table. He ran his hand over the table’s surface. No water. Merely a candlestick—certainly an item for which he had no need.

He groped past the table and bumped into a wooden chair. He backed away and knocked the table onto the floor. The carpet muffled the sound. No one would be roused by the noise.

Crouching, he felt around for the table, found it and righted it. The candlestick must have rolled away. Useless to search for it anyway.

Moving cautiously again, he made his way past the chair. With the wall as his guide, he inched his way towards the fireplace, feeling the fire’s heat grow stronger as he neared. His hand found the mantel. His toes smashed against the hearth.

He backed away and found more chairs and another table upon which there was a book. Another item for which he had no use.

Continuing, he discovered a door. It was a dressing room, smelling of dust, its shelves empty. He closed the door and his fingers felt along the wall until he came to another door. The door to the hallway. He turned the latch and opened the door and felt the change in temperature. But the hallway was silent.

He closed the door again and groped his way back to the bed. On the other side was another table. On the table he found a drinking glass and the water pitcher. He could never pour the water into the glass. He lifted the entire pitcher to his lips and took several gulps of the cool, minty liquid.

Placing the pitcher back on the table, he felt his way back to the bed, but halted. Lying abed like an invalid held no appeal.

He might as well continue his haphazard search of the room.

He found his trunk in one corner, his boots, smelling of bootblack, next to it. He found a rocking chair and a window.

A window! Fresh air. Hugh found the sash, opened the window and felt a cool breeze against his face. On the breeze was the scent of green grass, rich soil and flowers. He stuck his hand out the window and tried to sense whether it was day or night.

Without eyes, he could not tell.

He felt for the rocking chair and turned it towards the window. She must have sat in this rocking chair while in the room; her scent, very faint, clung to it. He lowered himself into it and rocked. The rhythm soothed him. The breeze cooled his skin. And banished the memory of the fire’s infernal heat.

* * *

He must have dozed. For how long this time? Half awake, half asleep, he became aware of a knock at the door. The door opened. He knew instantly it was not she.

‘Sir! You are not abed.’ A male voice.

Hugh shook himself awake. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Carter, sir. La—Mrs Asher’s footman.’ The voice did not come closer, so Carter must have remained by the door. ‘I came to attend you.’

‘I am grateful.’ She’d said her footman would come. ‘Can you tell me what time it is?’

‘Seven, sir,’ Carter replied.

‘Morning or evening?’ Did they not see he could not tell?

‘Morning, sir.’

‘What day?’ Hugh tried not to let his impatience show.

‘Oh! You must not realise—’ Carter’s voice deepened. ‘Forgive me—I will explain—it is Friday. We arrived here Wednesday. The day after the fire. You slept most of yesterday. It is Friday morning now.’

He’d lost two days.

‘I will assist you, sir. Shave you and whatever else you might require.’

Shave? Hugh scraped his hand against the stubble on his chin. He must have appeared like a ruffian to her.

Carter’s voice came closer. ‘Unless you would like me to help you back into bed.’

‘No.’ Hugh forced himself not to snap at the man. It was not Carter’s fault he needed the assistance. ‘I will not return to bed. Shave me and help me dress, if you would be so good.’

Gentlemen of Hugh’s rank customarily employed a valet, but Hugh never did. He had no qualms about borrowing the services of someone else’s valet when absolutely necessary, but what he could do for himself, he preferred doing. It made him free to come and go as he wished without having to consider anyone else’s needs.

Now, though, he was not free. He was as dependent as a suckling babe.

He submitted to Carter’s ministrations with as good grace as he could muster, even though Carter needed to help him with his most basic of needs. He’d do them all without help as soon as he could, he promised himself. After he was shaved, bathed, toileted and dressed, he found his way back to the rocking chair, more fatigued than he would ever admit.

‘Thank you, Carter,’ he said. ‘What of breakfast?’ His hunger had returned. ‘Will you help me to the breakfast room?’

He sensed Carter backing away. ‘I—I believe Mrs Asher preferred you eat here, sir. Your health is fragile, I’m given to understand.’

Hugh refused to be fragile. ‘Very well, but tell Mrs Asher I wish to speak with her as soon as it is convenient.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Carter moved towards the door.

‘In fact—’ Hugh raised his voice ‘—tell Mrs Asher that I would like to see the village doctor. I am well able to pay for his services, so let there be no worry over that. I wish to see him today.’ And find out, if possible, if he was to be blind or not.

‘As you wish, sir.’ He imagined Carter bowing. ‘Breakfast as well, sir.’

The door closed and the footman’s steps receded.

Hugh rose again. It felt better to be dressed, even if he was merely in shirt, trousers and stockings. At least when Mrs Asher returned, he would look more like a gentleman and less like an invalid.

If one could ignore the bandages covering his eyes.

He made his way around the bed. If his memory served him, the table on the other side of the bed, the table he’d knocked down during the night, was where he had eaten the porridge. He found the table again, bumped into the wooden chair again and kicked the lost candlestick with his toe, sending it skittering away.

Nonetheless, he managed to arrange the table and chair for eating. It was a minor matter, but a victory all the same. He was not entirely helpless.

Even so, a lifetime like this would be unbearable.

* * *

Daphne had left the two prospective maids in the company of Mrs Pitt after finally sorting out the matter. She’d thought she could simply hand them off to the housekeeper and be done with it, but the woman was shockingly dependent upon Daphne to make even the smallest of decisions, like what their duties should be, whether they should live in the house—yes, they should. Why have maids if they were not around when you needed them? Mrs Pitt also would have offered the girls a pittance for what would be very hard work, tending to the fires, cleaning the house and otherwise seeing to her needs. It was also very clear that they needed new clothes.

And that they were hungry. They both kept eyeing the bread Mrs Pitt had taken from the oven, and neither could pay attention to the discussion. So Daphne told Mrs Pitt to feed them, which led to a long discussion of what to feed them and what to feed Mr Westleigh and how was she—Mrs Pitt—to cook all that food, now that there were two more mouths to feed and two more workers to supervise.

By the time they’d finished, Daphne had given Mrs Pitt permission to hire a cook, a kitchen maid, another footman and two stable boys to help John Coachman. Mr Pitt was sent into the village to speak with some people he and Mrs Pitt thought would be perfect for the jobs, and Monette was getting her cloak and bonnet so she could accompany the girls to the local draper for fabric to make new dresses and aprons.

What fuss. Her husband would have been appalled at her being so bothered by such trivial matters. Even at the convent at Fahr, someone else saw to the food, the clothing, the cleaning.

As tedious as it all was, Daphne walked through the hall with a sense of pride. Her decisions were good ones after all. And she could well afford to pay all the servants even if she stayed here a year instead of two weeks.

As she crossed the hall, Carter descended the stairs.

She smiled up at him. ‘How is Mr Westleigh this morning, Carter?’

He reached the final step. ‘Much improved, ma’am. He wishes to speak with you.’

Oh, dear. And she wanted to avoid him.

‘What about, do you know?’ Perhaps he’d changed his mind about contacting his family.

Carter frowned. ‘He wants to see a local doctor. I believe he is most unhappy about being bandaged and confined. He wants to see a doctor immediately.’

It was a reasonable request. He’d been nearly insensible when the surgeon at Ramsgate examined him. If only she’d known a few minutes earlier, she could have asked Mr Pitt to fetch the doctor.

‘Could you go to the village and locate the doctor? Or find Mr Pitt and give him the errand? He left for the village a few minutes ago.’

Carter’s brows knit. ‘Shall I take Mr Westleigh his breakfast first, ma’am? I told him it was coming.’

The poor man must be famished. He’d only eaten a bowl of porridge since they’d arrived here.

She sighed. ‘No. I will take him his breakfast. Perhaps there was something else he wanted to say to me.’

Carter came with her to the kitchen where Mrs Pitt gave him the doctor’s direction and fixed the tray for Mr Westleigh.

Daphne carried the tray up the stairs and knocked upon Westleigh’s bedchamber door.

‘Come in, Carter.’ His voice sounded stronger than the day before.

She opened the door and entered the room, kicking the door closed behind her.

He was seated at the table and chair where he’d eaten the porridge, and was dressed in a clean white shirt and dark brown trousers that showed off his broad shoulders and lean hips. She swallowed, suddenly remembering his strong arms carrying her in the inn.

‘I can smell the bread from here.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘I will eat at the table.’

She crossed the room. ‘It is Mrs Asher, not Carter.’

He tensed, as if he’d not liked mistaking her identity, and stood as a gentleman does when a lady enters the room. ‘Good morning,’ he said stiffly.

‘Please sit,’ she responded. ‘Carter said you wished to see me, so it is I who brings you breakfast.’

He lowered himself back in the chair. ‘I appreciate you coming so quickly.’

She placed the tray of food in front of him. ‘I sent Carter to fetch a doctor and we did not wish you to wait. Are you hungry?’

‘Ravenous.’ He carefully ran his hands over the food.

She’d instructed Mrs Pitts to serve foods he could eat with his hands and spare him the struggle of manoeuvring utensils. They’d settled on warm bread sliced open with melting butter inside, two cooked eggs, cubes of cheese and a pot of tea.

He hesitated.

It made her uncertain. ‘I will pour your tea,’ she said. ‘I remember how you take it, but do, please, eat. You must be very hungry.’

‘I hope my manners will not offend.’

Oh, he was merely being polite. ‘Have no fear. I am not easily offended.’

How odd of her to say such a thing. At a formal dinner party, she once would have had much to say about poor manners, and she’d often shaken her head at the way some of the lower classes consumed their food. Perhaps she was developing some tolerance, like the abbess had often encouraged her to do.

‘I am surprised to see you dressed,’ she went on in a conversational tone. ‘I thought you would still be in bed.’

‘No more bed.’ His voice was firm. ‘I am well enough to be up.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Are you certain? The surgeon in Ramsgate said you would need time to recuperate. I think he meant you should remain in bed.’

‘I think him wrong,’ he said stiffly. ‘I feel recuperated. Perhaps the village doctor will say I may have my bandages removed and be on my way.’ He paused. ‘I told Carter I am well able to pay whatever the expense. I intend to compensate you, as well.’

‘Money does not concern me. I certainly need no compensation.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I—I do not know if Carter can produce a doctor this very day, though.’

The village did have a surgeon, Mrs Pitts had said, but he was kept very busy.

Westleigh took a bite of bread, chewed and swallowed it. She could not help but notice the muscles in his neck move with the effort. She touched her own neck.

‘Let us hope he can come today,’ he said.

He must be as eager to be on his way as she was for him to leave, but should she trust his care to a village doctor? Perhaps she should send for a London physician. She would love to send for the physician her husband had used when he was in town, but that man knew her.

Of course she could simply tell Westleigh now who she was.

She opened her mouth.

But he spoke first. ‘Might I have a clock?’ he asked. ‘A way to keep track of time. I cannot even tell if it is day or night.’

How awful! All sorts of things must be difficult if one was not able to see. How much worse if one would never see again.

She vowed she would leave a large coin in the cup of the next blind beggar she came upon.

‘I am so sorry,’ she cried. ‘I should have thought to provide you a clock. Perhaps I can purchase a watch that chimes. I have seen such watches. You could keep it next to you.’

Although, now that she thought of it, would a small village have such a watch? She’d only seen them in London shops.

‘A clock will be sufficient,’ he responded. ‘And I am well able to pay for it, if there is not a spare one in the house.’