The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne (49 page)

“Paul.”

Jeanne glanced back at Mrs. Cook. The woman wrinkled her forehead. “Go fetch Dr. Miller.”

Paul walked to the door.

“Quickly now.” Mrs. Cook’s voice carried urgency and she made a shooing motion.

A doctor.

Memories rose in Jeanne’s mind. Her father screaming, his face contorted in torment as the doctor painted yet another mustard plaster on his skin in an attempt to draw the poisonous humors out. The endless purges and emetics. The excruciating blisters on his skin and the agonizing dry heaves. None of it did anything to cure Papa’s mad fits and mental lapses. And then finally, the insane asylum.

It is how they would deal with this obviously touched gentleman. As though her stays had suddenly shrunk, her chest constricted. No, no, it wasn’t her place to step out of her way to aid this gentleman. He wasn’t her responsibility. She owed him nothing. Her breathing came shorter, faster. It wasn’t safe to stick one’s neck out. And yet the words rose. She tried to hold them back but they burst out, “There‘s no need for a doctor.”

Mrs. Cook frowned deeper. “But he called you Thérèse. That’s a French girl’s name, not yours.”

“He is calling me by my middle name.” Jeanne held her breath and waited to see if this lie would be accepted.

Mrs. Cook blinked several times. “You have a French middle name?”

“Yes. My mother’s mother was French.” Another lie.

The matron’s eyes narrowed. “Just how does this gentleman know you? He seems very well off to be on familiar terms with a decent girl from around here.”

Jeanne caught herself biting her lip. She quickly released it and gave the first answer that came to mind. “He’s my cousin, on my mother’s side, twice removed.”

Again, Mrs. Cook blinked a few times then her mouth twisted until she looked like she’d just tasted a particularly sour lemon.

“My cousin is not well.”

“Apparently. More likely drunk as a lord.” Mrs. Cook’s tone became sourer than her expression. “I don’t like this.”

“Pardon me?” Jeanne tried for genteel outrage.

Mrs. Cook’s tone became sharper. “I have known you since you started coming here on Saturdays with your Papa. I always thought you were such a dedicated daughter. A good girl. But I don’t like having fancy pieces courting trade in my shop.”

“Mrs. Cook, this man is my cousin.”

“A wealthy relation who didn’t help you when your dear Papa was ill?”

“My cousin was out of the country at that time—he was in India, making his fortune.”

Mrs. Cook looked from Jeanne to the gentleman and back. Several times. “I don’t see any family resemblance.”

Jeanne swallowed against a tightening throat. Could everyone hear the pounding of her heart? “I favor my father’s side. He—he is my cousin.”

Her voice came out so strained that she cringed internally.

The matron’s expression hardened. “I think you met this gentleman under less than respectable conditions. Perhaps in a place where you’re known by a false name, a fancy French name to make yourself sound more interesting to wealthy gentlemen.”

Jeanne’s mouth dried and anxiety twisted her insides. “That’s not how it happened.”

“I’d appreciate if you took your
cousin
and left. I’d also appreciate if you never came back. I run a decent shop here, not a place of disorderly assignation.”

Jeanne sucked in a deep breath. That had hurt. More than she wished to admit. This was her place of comfort and respite when her isolation became too much. And she was a horrible liar. But what else could she have done? Consigned this poor soul to Bedlam? Oh God. She’d known he was dangerous. Why hadn’t she listened to that inner voice?

She glanced up at the gentleman. He was gazing at her with an odd, confused expression. Might he be ill, instead of insane? Surely, if he were that ill, he’d be in bed.

She reached a hand to him. “Let’s leave.”

The gentleman released the chair then took her hand and laced his fingers with hers as naturally as though he’d always done so. “Come, Thérèse.”

They walked sedately out of the coffee shop, just like that, with their hands intertwined.

The rain had let up yet the wind still gusted. With her free hand, she readjusted her scarf. His hold remained firm on her hand until they had traveled a block away. The strength of his grip sent prickles of fear darting into her. He could easily overpower her, if his insane whim so dictated.

He stopped just as they were about to turn the corner, and he looked down at her. A slight smile softened his mouth. “My darling.”

Dear heavens, he was such a gorgeous man. But he was still a madman. Dangerous, utterly dangerous. Any sensible person knew well to be frightened of the insane, she more than anyone. She returned his smile but only to placate him.

“Are we headed in the proper direction for the mews?” he asked.

“Yes, we are. They are just down this street and to the right.”

“Esau has the carriage there.”

Well, there it was. She’d done her part keeping him out of the clutches of an overzealous doctor. God and this Esau fellow would have to watch over him now. She wasn’t about to get anywhere near his carriage and risk him shoving her bodily into it.

She offered another, hopefully warm, smile.

She must have succeeded for he relaxed his grip on her hand and they resumed walking. As they rounded the corner, she slipped her hand from his.

And ran.

“Thérèse!”

Her heart pounded and she ran faster.

“Stop, please. For the love of God!” His tone was hollow with desolation. Her sympathy panged her yet again. Unwittingly, she glanced over her shoulder.

Wind whipped the gentleman’s dark forelock. He leaned against a street lamp, one hand holding his side. He appeared to be panting for breath, his expression a mask of loss and despair.

Just like Papa. She’d seen those emotions on her father’s face too many times. But the expression appeared so out of place on such an arrogant, masculine face. Her heart constricted. She turned back to face the direction she was running and put all her energy into it.

Something came between her foot and the pavement. She lost her balance and fell forward. As the bricks rose to meet her, she threw her hands out to brace her fall. She cried out then reeled from the fall. Her arm began to burn like fire. She knew she wouldn’t be able to run easily for much longer.

She hauled herself to her feet and scanned the shop fronts.

Mrs. Mason’s Bakery.

Relief washed over her. Mrs. Mason had always been friendly. She had even given her day-old bread on days when she couldn’t pay.

She darted into the shop and the scent of baking bread and spicy cinnamon and apples comforted her.

“Good day, Miss Darling!” Mrs. Mason sang out. “What shall it be today?

“I think I’ll have whatever smells of apples and spice.”

“You sit and I’ll bring it right out.”

Jeanne sank into the nearest chair. Moments later, Mrs. Mason brought hot tea and apple pie. But Jeanne found the pie tasted like ashes and could only manage a few tiny bites. Unable to stop twitching and fidgeting, she kept catching herself glancing back at the window.

She jerked her head away.

No, don’t look. He is not your affair.

She forced herself to focus on Mrs. Mason’s steady chatter. The wind made a long, low, threatening howling sound. Such a dreadful day. What about—

No, he isn’t your responsibility.

A loud crash seemed to rumble through her body and shake her bones and resound in the pit of her stomach.

What happened? An accident? A carriage trying to avoid a disorientated pedestrian and yet hitting them all the same?

She jumped to her feet and rushed to the window. Some crates had blown over. Men were shouting and running about. The sky had grown darker.

Against all her caution, her gaze was drawn back to the direction whence she had come.

Oh God, there he was, staggering down the street in a wavering pattern. For such a stalwart-looking man, the gentleman walked so oddly, so slowly. Had he been in the war perhaps and suffered some irreparable head injury that had left him this way?

Almost completely in front of the shop, he glanced up. He had that lost, desolate look.

Her throat burned.

His gaze sharpened. Homed in on her.

Oh, damn. How stupid of her. Of course, he’d seen her at the window. She stepped back several paces. But it was too late. He began walking toward the door.

“Isn’t it just awful weather, Miss Darling?” Mrs. Mason exclaimed. “My Ben can take you home in the gig later, if you like. Come sit back down and have a chat.”

Jeanne didn’t answer, her gaze was fixed on the gentleman as he reached for the door. He was coming in. And he looked absolutely furious, in a cold, controlled way that was all the more frightening. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry of protest that sprung from the depths of her and she backed away from the window.

The tiny bell tinkled as he entered, an incongruously gay herald. His eyes blazed into hers. She gave a little squeak and took several steps backwards until her bottom hit one of the display cases.

As he approached, he looked down at her arm. She followed his eyes. Long red scrape marks still oozed a little blood. She drew it behind her, scratching it along her wool gown and the wounds burned. She winced.

His expression softened. “My darling, are you all right?”

“Dearie, is he bothering you?” Mrs. Mason asked in her grandmotherly tones.

“We have something to discuss,” he answered.

Jeanne inhaled sharply and gave the first plausible explanation that came to her mind. “My father owed him money. He thinks I can pay but I don’t have it.”

The gentleman gaped at her, his eyes gone wide with shock that quickly transformed into raw-edged hurt.

His pain sliced into her. She began rubbing her hands together. As though iron bands constricted her, she could barely breathe, so greatly did sympathy overwhelm her. “Please, sir—”

She couldn’t think of what else to say.

His expression hardened, his eyes frosted.

“That’s just about enough.”

At the sound of Mrs. Mason’s voice, Jeanne turned to the serving counter. The older woman narrowed her eyes. She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small pistol.

Every hair on Jeanne’s body stood on end and she gasped. “Oh, please don’t—”

“Don’t fret, dearie, I’ll take care of this,” Mrs. Mason said as she leveled it straight and steady at the gentleman.

“Please, Mrs. Mason, put your gun away.” Jeanne forced the words past her tightening throat muscles. “I can handle him.”

“I know how to deal with these uppity nobs. They get two pence to rub together in their pockets, some fancy clothes, and they think they are the lord of the manor.” Mrs. Mason said, keeping her pistol aimed at the gentleman’s chest. “Mister, I think you better leave.”

He frowned. “Madam, do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”

“To whom
am
I speaking?” Mrs. Mason asked.

The gentleman stared at her blankly. He lost that arrogant expression. He looked forlorn once more.

Jeanne’s chest tightened again.

“You forget yourself, where you are at. You’re not among your type here, sir.” Mrs. Mason walked closer to the gentleman. “I left my home in Pennsylvania over forty years ago when I married. And I have lived here among the British and made my husband‘s home my own. But I have never been settled to bow and scrape to your kind.”

“My kind?” The gentleman asked.

Mrs. Mason jabbed the gun into his chest. “I am sixty-seven years old. I’ll be damned before I cower to one such as you.”

The gentleman held his hands up. “I mean no trouble.”

“What else could you be about, coming here and terrorizing a sweet young thing like this?” Mrs. Mason harrumphed.

“I thought we had something to discuss.” He gave Jeanne a cold, hard glance. It was so full of sadness, bitterness that it made her heart jump. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”

“Yes, you certainly were,” Mrs. Mason said.

He turned on his heel and left the shop. The little bell rang in the wake of his departure.

Jeanne returned to the window and watched him staggering and veering down the street. The wind gusted again. It was such a cold day. He had no hat. Where would he go? Who would watch out for him?

He wasn’t her responsibility.

It was dangerous to reach out to others. Someone like him, with a disorder of the mind, would be a bottomless pit of need. Sucking her dry.

He was turning the corner. She put her hand to the glass. Her throat began to burn again.

A light touch settled on her shoulders. She started and twisted around.

Mrs. Mason smiled. “It’s all over, dear.”

It was over. She was safe now. He was gone and gone in a way that didn’t involve doctors treating him with all sorts of barbaric, useless torture. She should be relieved. She
was
relieved.