More Than A Lover. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
something wrong?’
‘I took the liberty of asking for dinner to be served in here and booking you room for the night. I had your valise and purchases taken upstairs.’
Her stomach pitched. ‘I cannot be away all night. Tommy will worry.’ He was a clever little boy. It had not taken him long to realise that most children had two parents as well as extended families. He knew his father had died and had become terrified she would die, too, leaving him completely alone.
Mr Read’s expression darkened as if her anxiety was his fault, but he gave her no chance to explain. ‘We have no choice,’ he bit out tersely. ‘It is too late to set out tonight. Sir Reginald has promised to send over his carriage for our use in the morning, but he needed it to return home. Lane’s cart is required for funeral purposes.’ His voice was harshly matter-of-fact.
They were stranded. She took a deep breath. ‘I see. Well then, there really is no alternative.’
‘Mrs Lane will show you up to your chamber to freshen up. Dinner is to be served in here in an hour.’ He hesitated and went on in a voice devoid of all expression. ‘If you don’t care for company this evening, I am more than happy to take my meal in the kitchen.’
Despite the flatness of his tone, and an apparent lack of concern about her decision one way or the other, she sensed an underlying tension. As if he expected her to consign him to dine with the servants. He must think her rude indeed. ‘After today’s events I would be grateful for your company, Mr Read. And I wish to hear more of Sir Reginald’s opinion with regard to the accident.’
His expression lightened, very slightly. He bowed. ‘It will be my pleasure. I will let Mrs Lane know you are ready to go up.’
His pleasure. Now, why had that word sent shivers skating down her back?
* * *
Waiting in the parlour for her return, Blade cursed himself for his weakness, for wanting to spend time in her company. He should not have even thought of having dinner with her, let alone suggesting it in a manner that made it impossible for her to say no. So typical of him, Charlie would say. He’d spent too many years on the strut honing his seductive skills to leave them at the door when in decent company. Too bad. He made no pretence of being more than the guttersnipe he’d been born, the reason why some of the more daring ladies liked him in their beds. A taste of excitement and danger. A bit of rough, one had called him to his face.
Not this one, though. This one was a respectable lady who would not have given him the time of day if he wasn’t Charlie’s friend. And nor should she.
He still didn’t know what to make of her assertion that Garge, or someone, had opened the door, and it was that someone who was worrying him. Who had opened the carriage door and looked in? Why would anyone do that and not render assistance?
Old Sir Reginald had seen it as female megrims, but that was too out of character for Mrs Falkner. Could someone have come across the accident, thought to rob the carriage and been deterred by the sound of him coming along the road? Or could it be something more sinister, such as someone hoping to cause Tonbridge harm? Someone who had been surprised by the presence of a woman in his carriage and taken off. Or was it simply a case of the door latch letting go as the carriage twisted and settled on its broken axle as Sir Reginald thought? Blade might have thought so, too, if not for the one unaccounted-for boot print in the mud beside the carriage door.
Nevertheless, whichever it was, Mrs Falkner had been lucky she wasn’t more seriously hurt.
Fortunately, like Sir Reginald, she seemed to have no suspicion that it might be anything other than an accident. And since he did not want her frightened out of her wits any more than she had been already, he planned to leave it that way. He still couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t simply taken to her bed after such a scare.
His unruly mind wandered back to the scene of her drowsing in the chair when he had come to warn her of Sir Reginald’s imminent arrival. Asleep, her face relaxed, she had looked younger, prettier, more like the girl he had been smitten with that long-ago spring. A memory she clearly did not want to acknowledge any more than he did. She was the daughter of a vicar and he was the bastard son of a prostitute who’d kicked him out at the age of ten. ‘I don’t need you hanging around. You are just another mouth for me to feed.’ The pain of those words stabbed him behind the breastbone. Less sharp than when spoken, but still there. While he hadn’t thought so at the time, he’d been fortunate his father had agreed to recognise him as his son or he’d likely have died on the streets of London. Or been hanged for a criminal.
He heard her soft tread on the stairs outside the parlour and opened the door.
She looked startled. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘By your step.’ He led her to the chair by the hearth. The table was set, but the food had not yet appeared.
He stood at ease, wrist crossed over his forearm behind him. A trick he’d perfected to make the missing hand less noticeable.
‘Please, Mr Read,’ she said sharply. ‘Be seated, before I get a crick in my neck.’
He was tempted to resist what was clearly an order. That had always been his trouble. Rebelling at stupid orders. She suffered from a similar affliction, he recalled, and he wanted to smile.
Her expression carved in stone, her hands folded in her lap, she waited for him to do as she bid.
He picked up the poker, raked around in the fire for a moment or two as a sop to his pride, before he sat in the chair recently occupied by Sir Reginald. ‘Why do you pretend we did not meet before?’
Hell, why had that been blurted out of his mouth? Why the devil did it matter?
Her lush lips parted. Her eyes widened in shock before her gaze lowered to her clasped fingers. ‘You gave no sign of remembering me either,’ she said in a low voice.
At seventeen, and a newly minted ensign, he’d thought her akin to an angel. He’d been far too tongue-tied seeing how pretty she was, how very different from the women he’d known when living with his mother, or those in his adoptive parents’ house, to do more than stutter a greeting.
She was also the reason for his first reprimand. He’d gone for Carothers’s throat when he’d called her a round-heeled wench in the officers’ mess the morning after the local assembly, where they’d been invited to make up the numbers of gentlemen. For that, he’d received a tongue-lashing from his commanding officer and a black mark on his record. Only his father’s name had kept him from being thrown out of the regiment.
‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. Too long ago for it to be of any relevance.
‘Yes.’ She raised her gaze to meet his, clearly glad to put the recollection behind her. ‘Much has occurred since then.’
‘Indeed.’ She had been married and widowed. He had been as good as discharged from the career he loved.
‘I assume Sir Reginald has finished his investigations?’ she asked, clearly anxious to change an awkward subject.
He gave a brief nod. ‘Apparently it is not the first fatality to occur on that particular corner.’
‘I hope he did not blame Josiah Garge. I am sure he did his best.’
‘No. No blame.’
‘His wife will take some comfort from that, and I know Lord Tonbridge will make a generous settlement. Still, it is a very sad day for the Garge family. What are the next steps?’
‘The jury will be called by the coroner tomorrow. They will meet below.’
‘Will I need to appear?’ She sounded surprisingly anxious. Was there something she knew that she had not told him? Something she wanted to hide? He wanted to question her further, but she looked so pale, so tired, he decided to leave it. For now.
‘I believe not. My word and that of the constable will be enough. Once