The Bargain of a Baroness Page 13
He gathered his boxes into one arm and paid the driver. Unsure if a butler was employed, he opted to simply step into the vestibule and see to his own hat and greatcoat.
Finding the house quiet, he made his way to the parlor, sure he would find his mother enjoying a glass of claret. “It’s just me, Mother,” he called out as he stepped into the parlor.
And stopped short.
A young woman who was definitely not his mother was regarding him with large blue eyes and an expression of shock.
In the middle of a particularly fine brush stroke, Laura gave a start and stepped back from the easel at the sound of the front door opening. Given that Dahlia and the Wellinghams had all taken their leave, she was quite sure she was the only one in the townhouse. At the sudden appearance of a rather tall gentleman, she straightened and briefly wondered if she might be close enough to the fireplace to grab the poker. Her paintbrush would hardly work as a weapon.
“You’re not my mother,” the man said as he stopped in his tracks.
“I’m not anyone’s mother,” Laura said with a shake of her head. She watched as the intruder glanced around the parlor, apparently unsure of his surroundings.
He furrowed a brow. “This is Number Three, is it not?”
Laura nodded. “It is.”
Appearing flummoxed, he asked, “And the Wellinghams still live here?”
“They do,” she affirmed.
His eyes darted about. “Are they... in residence?” he asked as he took a few steps in her direction.
She shook her head. “They are not,” she replied as she took two steps back, her paintbrush held up as if she might use it as a dart. Perhaps the threat of the bright red paint at its tip might act as a warning to the intruder.
“Might you be expecting them? Soon?” he asked as he stepped around her easel and glanced at the canvas that was mounted on it.
Laura watched as he did a double-take and then took a step back in her direction. She would have taken another step back, but her backside was already pressed against the front of an escritoire.
“Well, I’ve found my mother,” the man said as he blinked. He glanced back at her. “An excellent likeness, although I admit I cannot attest to the exactness of her...” He inhaled and let the breath out in a whoosh. “Backside,” he whispered.
“Thank you,” Laura replied, not quite sure what else she could say. “Am I to understand Mrs. Wellingham is your mother?” she asked.
Graham’s attention had gone back to the painting. “She is,” he murmured as he bent and examined the painting more closely.
“It’s not quite finished.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she countered. “I am the artist, after all.” When he turned around again, she inhaled softly. “Graham?”
“I am,” he acknowledged as he bowed. His brows furrowed as he seemed to struggle with determining her identity. “You have me at a disadvantage, my lady,” he finally admitted. “You seem familiar, but...”
Blinking at the courtesy, Laura said, “Laura Overby,” as she dipped a curtsy.
Graham blinked. And blinked again. “Laura?”
Her eyes widening—she could hardly believe he would remember her, let alone her name—she said, “I am.”
“I saw your father this morning. At the warehouse,” he said with excitement. “He’s certainly come a long way since his days as a caddy for my father,” he remarked.
Laura relaxed, happy to hear his words. “He has been promoted many times since then.”
“And you... you are a painter?”
“I am. I do portraits. I actually just finished one of your mother.”
When he indicated the one on the easel, she shook her head. “Your father doesn’t know about this one,” Laura said as she quickly dropped a cloth down from the easel so the painting was hidden. “Your mother commissioned it as a surprise for him. He commissioned the other,” she added as she gestured toward a much larger painting.
Mostly covered with a Dutch cloth, Graham was about to see that it was a more traditional pose, one that made Emma Wellingham appear as if she was an aristocrat.
She wasn’t. Not quite, anyway.
“It’s beautiful,” Graham breathed as he gently pulled away the white cloth and leaned forward to study the painting.
“Thank you.”
“Have you any idea of where she and my father might be?” he asked as he straightened, his attention still on the painting.
Laura’s eyes widened. “On their way to Woodscastle. They’re expecting to find you there. To join them for dinner,” she replied with some consternation.
Graham rolled his eyes. “Ah. A bit of a mix-up on my part. I assumed we would be eating here. I’ll just...” He glanced around. “Hail a hansom cab and be on my way.” He paused, his brows once again furrowing. “Are you in need of a ride anywhere? We can share a hackney,” he suggested.
Laura shook her head. “The Overby coach should be here at any moment to take me home,” she replied. “We could give you a lift to Woodscastle, if you’d like.”
Graham scoffed. “Woodscastle is six... seven miles away.”
“A long drive would be most welcome about now,” she argued. “I’ve been standing most of the day. Most of the week, actually.” Even on a rough road, the thought of riding in a coach through a part of town she rarely saw would be a welcome treat.
Reluctant to agree, Graham glanced around the parlor. “Have you a lady’s maid or a chaperone to accompany you?”
“I do not. Scandalous, isn’t it?”
Graham stiffened. “Truth be told, I’ve been in the United States for the past eighteen years. I’ve no idea how things are done here these days.”
“Good. Then you can pretend everything has changed.”
A knock sounded at the front door.
“Your coachman?” Graham asked as he made his way to the parlor door.
“Probably. I just have to retrieve my valise from my bedchamber,” Laura said as she passed him and headed up the staircase.
Graham watched her go before he moved to open the door.
As expected, the coach driver stood on the stoop. He frowned at seeing Graham. “I’m here to collect Miss Overby,” he said with a bow.
“She’ll be right down,” Graham said as he donned his hat and collected his boxes. “I do hope it won’t be an inconvenience for you to drop me at Woodscastle,” he added as he held the door for Laura. She appeared from inside the house carrying her luggage in one hand and a key in the other. Once Graham stepped out of the house, she turned and locked the door before dropping the key into her reticule.
The driver’s eyes widened until Laura said, “Tucker, we’re taking Mr. Wellingham to Woodscastle. In Chiswick.”
“Yes, Miss Overby.” He bowed again and moved to open the coach door, stepping aside to allow his passengers by.
He closed the door behind them and stepped up to the box.
Meanwhile, across the street
His labored breaths becoming more so, Henry Simpson watched as the young woman stepped from the Wellingham residence, her valise clutched in one hand as she locked the door with the other.
From her expression, it appeared she was quite pleased. Happy, even. Perhaps this week’s labors had been light, or her duties were those she enjoyed doing.
Well, he supposed from her happy expression that she had enjoyed her work. That she was satisfied with what she had accomplished.
He could imagine how it might be to spend time in the company of someone who took pride in their work. Who enjoyed it. Who looked as happy Saturday afternoon as she had appeared in the early hours of Monday morning.
He sighed and vowed he would introduce himself when she arrived Monday morning.
His rumination was interrupted when he noted that she wasn’t just in the company of the coachman.
A rather tall gentleman followed her. Followed her and paused as she stepped into the
coach.
Bent and followed her right into the coach.
Henry stepped back from his window, sure he had cursed out loud.
Clutching his chest, Henry felt panic and disbelief. Pain and confusion.
It seemed that the woman he had been imagining might one day be his already belonged to another.
The happy thoughts he had allowed only the moment before quickly dissipated, and for the first time in his life, Henry Simpson felt despair.
Chapter 19
Mistaken Assumptions
A few minutes later
The glossy black town coach bearing the crest of the Mayfield earldom turned south onto King Street, its occupant peering out the window. Even though several townhouses had doors painted a different color than they had been when her parents owned them, those along this stretch of King were familiar.
Having grown up in one of them, Hannah Simpson Harrington remembered the names of every resident in the neighborhood, especially those who had children her age.
One townhouse had her particular attention on this day, and not only because it was across the street from the one in which she had been raised.
The Wellinghams owned it. Although they had also called their country estate in Chiswick home for most of their lives, the townhouse offered a place to stay when they didn’t wish to make the trip south. That meant there were occasions when her best friend was close.
Graham Wellingham hadn’t been so for nearly two decades, though. Although she had known their relationship would change when she had her come-out, she had no reason to expect Graham Wellingham would flee London upon her acceptance of Charles Harrington’s proposal.
She expected a scolding. A rebuke. A speech about living up to bargains, for she had made one with Graham.
She didn’t expect he would simply leave London without saying good-bye.
She had gifted him her virtue the night before his departure, a deliberate act meant to seal her bargain with him and afford her a night with the only man she had ever truly loved.
To this day, she had never regretted that night. She had never told anyone about it, nor had Charlie suspected anything on their wedding night.
Now that she thought about it, she supposed from his tentative behavior and unsure moves that he had never bedded a woman before her.
At least Graham had written upon his arrival in Boston. Apologized for his sudden disappearance. Begged forgiveness for not being in London for her wedding.
His postscript had been quite the entertaining read. Something about how despite what she might look like when she was widowed and eighty years old—wrinkled skin, white hair, rheumy eyes, stooped posture, and claws for fingers—he would hold her to her bargain, and she could expect he would marry her.
Well, she was widowed, and she had been for almost exactly a year. Her hair wasn’t yet completely gray, and she still carried herself with the posture of a young lady having recently completed finishing school. Her eyes were clear and her fingers were still much as they had been when Graham was still in London.
She had written him with word of Charlie’s death, but when she didn’t receive a reply after six months, she began to wonder if he was still in Boston. Perhaps he had finally married, or perhaps he suffered from poor health, his hair gray and his skin wrinkled, his eyes rheumy and his fingers having turned to claws.
Rolling her eyes at her imaginings, Hannah regarded the pasteboard boxes that were stacked on the velvet-clad bench across from her. They contained two of the most beautiful ball gowns she had ever had the opportunity to own.
She had entered Suzanne’s in Oxford Street expecting to find only one ball gown and perhaps a new dinner gown or some fripperies. Given the impending Season, she had no reason to hope there would be much left from which to choose.
But the owner of Suzanne’s had approached Hannah with word that she had set aside several gowns for her in the event she required something for an early Season ball.
Hannah had thought to kiss the older woman, she was so happy. Two had fit to perfection and were wrapped in tissue and contained in the pasteboard boxes. A third was this very moment undergoing the removal of one of its bottom ruffles, the dress obviously designed for a woman much taller than Hannah.
It was while she was modeling the third gown for the seamstress that her attention had been caught by a passing hansom cab. The equipage wasn’t the reason for her interest, but rather the face that had been framed in the window facing the shop.
Hannah remembered blinking. She remembered stepping toward the shop’s front window, the seamstress attempting to follow her on her hands and knees as she continued to pin up the ruffle. She remembered staring at the man whose gaze suggested he was dazzled by the sights found in Oxford Street.
When the hansom cab was no longer visible from her vantage, she had finally returned her attention to the matter at hand and apologized profusely to the seamstress.
“He must have meant a great deal to you,” the young woman had said as she continued poking pins into the ruffle.
Hannah had gasped at hearing the words. “I cannot believe it was who I thought it might be,” she had responded. “It cannot be.”
But the more she thought about the man in the cab window, the more she wondered.
There was only one way to find out if Graham Wellingham had received her letter. She was sure the answer lay beyond the door at 3 King Street, and that’s the address she gave to her driver when she took her leave of Suzanne’s and practically ran to her coach.
When the driver pulled up to the curb in front of 3 King Street, she waited until he opened the door for her before she stepped out and hurried to use the brass knocker. Her brows furrowed when the door didn’t open—surely a servant would answer, even if the Wellinghams weren’t in residence.
She knocked again and even tested the door handle to discover it was locked when she was aware she was no longer alone.
“They have taken their leave,” her brother said as he offered her his arm.
Not the least bit startled by Henry’s sudden presence, Hannah allowed a sigh of frustration. “Did they have valises? Or... or trunks?” Hannah asked, her gaze finally turning onto Henry. “You look ill,” she added with worry.
“And you look resplendent, as usual,” he answered as he motioned for the coach driver to pull over to the other side of the street.
“Thank you,” she replied, thinking he was hiding something. “You only just saw me this morning. What has happened?”
Henry looked both ways before he led them across the street. “I admit to having occasionally watched out my window this afternoon,” he replied. “While I was writing my correspondence. The Wellinghams took their leave—along with Mrs. Larsen—not even an hour ago. There was only one valise among them.”
“Which means they are to spend Easter at Woodscastle, no doubt,” Hannah reasoned.
“An hour later, the curly-haired young woman took her leave, accompanied by a well-dressed man I could not identify. He looked familiar, but...” Henry shook his head. “Needless to say, I have reason to believe the woman I have been watching from afar is already claimed.”
Hannah blinked. “You assume that just because the young woman had an escort, she is unavailable to you for courting?” she countered in disbelief.
“What else am I to think?”
“That her escort was a brother, or her father, or a—”
“Her husband,” Henry interrupted.
Furrowing her blonde brows, Hannah said, “If he was tall, he was probably a footman,” she countered.
“To escort a housemaid to her home?” he asked rhetorically. “Unlikely.”
Hannah was about to admit she had confirmed the identity of the woman Henry had thought was a housemaid until earlier that day. She had discovered that Miss Overby was not only unmarried, but she hadn’t yet accepted an offer of marriage because she hadn’t yet been courted by anyone. She hadn’t even had a proper come-out.
“Father. It’s only been a few hours since I was last here,” she protested. She stepped back and regarded him with curiosity. Always impeccably dressed—he could easily pass for an aristocrat despite his former position as a butler—James Simpson was finally showing his age. Liver spots were scattered about the backs of his hands, and his thinning hair was almost entirely white. His posture, however, was surprisingly good, and he still towered over Hannah.
“How is my favorite daughter?” he asked as he waved them both into the house.
“Your only daughter is exhausted from shopping for ball gowns and fripperies,” she replied with a grin before she bussed him on the cheek. “I am your only daughter, am I not?”
James appeared flummoxed for a moment before his wife, just then entering the vestibule, said, “Of course you are, darling. Your father would never dare bed another woman but me.” She turned her attention on her son. “You don’t look so well, Henry.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “So I’ve been told.”
Sophia furrowed a brow before she turned her attention back to Hannah. “To what do we owe this honor? I didn’t expect to see you again until Monday morning. I sent word to Harrington House that the artist can begin our portrait at eight o’clock. I know that’s terribly early, but Henry must be off to the bank by nine—”
“Must I be in this painting?” Henry asked, an expression of pain once again crossing his face.
Reacting as if she’d been slapped, Sophia regarded him with worry. “Something is wrong,” she murmured.
Hannah widened her eyes and jerked her head sideways, hoping her mother would notice and cease her questioning. “I’ll be here bright and early, as will Henry. He’ll be on the lookout for a particular young woman, after all,” Hannah teased.