A Lady of Notoriety

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Goodness. She did not care. ‘Whenever you wish.’

‘Name a time.’

She ought to check with Mrs Pitts before making a decision. The woman had toiled very hard this day. The new maids had caused her more work and the prospect of hiring more workers had created more anxiety in the poor woman.

What thoughts were these? When had she ever considered the feelings of servants?

‘I will send Carter in the morning to help you dress. We will have breakfast ready soon after.’

She left him at his doorway. ‘Goodnight, Mr Westleigh. Carter will be up to tend to your needs soon.’

His hand slid down her arm to clasp hers. ‘Thank you for a very enjoyable evening.’

Her heart fluttered with pleasure. Appreciation from a gentleman had always gratified her, but did not usually excite such emotion. Not from her husband, certainly. From only one man, the man who’d married Westleigh’s sister.

It must merely be the novelty, she thought. She’d been secluded from men for a long time when at the convent. Certainly Hugh Westleigh was the last man on earth who should excite her sensibilities.

She crossed the hallway to the bedchamber opposite Westleigh’s. It was smaller than the one she’d given Westleigh, but there was another, even smaller room next to it that was perfect for Monette.

Besides, she’d become used to sleeping in a room in the Abbey even smaller than a maid’s room. A cot. A side table. A chest for her clothing. It had been all she needed.

Inside the room, Monette was laying out her nightdress.

She looked up at Daphne, her brows raised. ‘Was that Mr Westleigh I heard with you? Carter said he came down on his own for dinner.’

‘Yes. I walked with him upstairs.’

‘Is he to be up and about, then?’ Monette asked.

‘Yes. He has no wish to spend time in his room.’ Unfortunately.

‘That makes you unhappy,’ Monette guessed.

Monette was not in Daphne’s confidence. In fact, Daphne had told the younger woman very little about her life. She was the widow of a viscount, that was it. Daphne had not told anyone, even the abbess, any more than that. While in the convent, she wore her unhappiness as plainly as the sisters wore their habits, but she’d never explained.

She needed to give some answer, though. ‘It makes matters more complicated. No matter what he thinks, he cannot get about on his own.’

Monette folded down the coverlet and bed linens. ‘It is good, then, that you have hired more help. There are more of us to tend to him.’

Yes, but Westleigh was her guest, and a hostess did not leave a guest to be entertained by the servants.

‘That is so,’ she said, there being no reason why Monette should know precisely how difficult it would be for her to spend time with Westleigh.

Spending time with him was like a constant reminder of her lie and of what she was most ashamed.

And now she was also too much aware of him as a man.

Chapter Five

As promised, Carter appeared the next morning in time to ready Hugh for breakfast, and, rather than eating alone, Hugh had company. Mrs Asher breakfasted with him, making polite conversation as if seated with a man who could see. The food was easy for him to eat. He suspected she’d made certain of that.

Her chair scraped against the floor. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Westleigh, I must meet with the housekeeper.’

He stood.

‘A new cook and kitchen maid are arriving today,’ she explained. ‘A new footman, as well. Mr and Mrs Pitts need to involve me in the arrangements, for some reason. Carter will attend to you. He is here to assist you when you are finished eating. Do take your time, though.’

The dining room held no further appeal after she left and Hugh did not remain long. Carter walked with him to the drawing room, although what he would do there, he did not know.

He sat in the same chair as the day before. ‘How long have you been with Mrs Asher?’ he asked Carter.

‘Not long,’ the servant replied somewhat hesitantly. ‘She hired me right before her travel home.’

‘You were in Switzerland?’ An odd place to find a footman for hire.

‘I was, sir,’ Carter responded, but did not explain.

Not that Hugh required an explanation from the poor man. It was merely that Hugh had nothing to do but talk.

‘I must beg your leave, sir, to complete my other duties,’ Carter said. ‘I will return to see if you are in need of anything. Say, in an hour or so?’

‘Go, Carter. I shall do very well on my own.’ What other choice did he have?

He heard Carter walk towards the door.

‘Carter?’

‘Yes, sir?’ the man answered.

‘Could you find me a cane?’

‘A cane, sir? Forgive me, sir, I had not noticed you walking with any difficulty.’ His voice was distressed.

‘No difficulty,’ Hugh assured him. ‘I merely thought that if I had a cane, I could keep myself from bumping into things. I could walk around without assistance.’

‘I see, sir.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘I will look for a cane for you.’

Carter closed the door and Hugh drummed his fingers on his knee. What the devil was he going to do to pass the time?

He rose and explored the room, treading carefully and trying not to tumble over furniture or break priceless ornaments.

It was a modest drawing room. He found at least three separate seating groups and some cabinetry along the walls. One of the cabinets held the claret. He was tempted to pour himself a glass, but feared he would spill the liquid and stain the carpet. He could drink from the carafe, but that seemed too ill mannered. Besides, he’d just consumed breakfast. It was a little early for imbibing.

He continued through the room and along the wall until finding a window. He knew from opening his window before breakfast that the day was a chilly one for April and to open this one would defeat the fire’s battle to warm the room, but he could not resist. The fresh air smelled like freedom.

He took in big gulps of air, as hungry for it as he’d been for his first meal here. But he closed the window again. Nothing was more of a nuisance than a guest who took over and changed a household’s entire routine. He was just so extremely tired of being closed inside walls.

But that was his lot for the moment. He ought, at least, to bear it without this constant pitying of himself.

He continued his way around the room.

He found a pianoforte in one corner of the room and ran his fingers down the keys. He pressed one. It sounded a note.

And reminded him of his sister.

How was Phillipa faring? he wondered. Was she still spending long hours at the pianoforte, composing those songs of hers? Was her husband still selling her music? Hugh had heard one of the songs played by the orchestra at Vauxhall Gardens, quite an unusual accomplishment for a well-bred young lady.

Phillipa followed her own desires, no matter the pressure from their mother and the neglect of her father and brothers. Look at the result. She’d married Xavier—a man decent enough to put the whole Westleigh family to shame and well able to provide for her. And she’d just become a mother.

Hugh hoped Phillipa still played music, even though she was now a mother. He’d never given her music much thought—if truth be told, he never gave Phillipa enough thought. With her scarred face, she’d always hidden herself away. And she was seven years younger. He’d been at school, then in the army while she grew up.

He admired her now.

Phillipa’s scar, her music, the abominable way everyone had treated her, all freed her from any responsibility to the family. Ned, now the earl, was charged with preserving the family property and good name for coming generations. Hugh had been given the task of family workhorse.

Difficulties emerged at the country estate? Send Hugh to fix them. Papa engaging in bad behaviour again? Dispatch Hugh to set him straight.

All that was at an end. Ned must attend to his property now and their father would no longer trouble anyone. Hugh was free.

Or would be, if his sight returned.

He made a fist and struck the keys of the pianoforte again. The sound was as discordant as his emotions. His freedom was dependent upon his eyes. What if they did not heal?

He straightened. Enough self-pity.

He drummed his fingers on the keyboard and made more pleasant music.

For want of anything else to do, he sat at the pianoforte’s bench and felt the keys, hearing his sister’s endless scales that echoed through their house for so many years. He found middle C and played the simple C scale, which pretty much exhausted his knowledge of playing.

He played the scale again. And again. And again until his fingers moved smoothly from note to note and the novelty wore off. He tried picking out a tune, an exercise in trial and error, but he kept at it.

He picked out the tune for the military bugle call that signalled the end of the day—or the end of battle.