“So will you speak to Radcliffe?”
“Yes, I’ll call on him tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
“Of course.” They made arrangements to meet the next morning, then Thornton thanked him and left. James poured himself another brandy and pondered the question of Lady Charlton and her secret lover.
He couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. But that was foolish. At his age, he should know better than to put people on pedestals.
So she was human. But he’d stake everything he owned that she wasn’t a wanton. In fact he’d thought her quite shy of men. He’d flirted with her in the mildest way, and she’d practically run a mile.
And as far as he could see, she made no effort to encourage the attentions of other men. Quite the contrary.
So if she’d had a secret lover—and he wasn’t sure of that, though what else could those letters be about?—it must have been for love, rather than the boredom or neglect that drove many wives to infidelity. And given the shameful way her husband had treated her, who could blame her for that?
It was a mystery. But it wasn’t going to hold him back from doing everything he could to help her.
And did this revelation of her past change how he felt about her? Did it make him want her any less? He swirled the last of his brandy, inhaled the potent fumes and considered the question.
The answer he found was, quite clearly, no. Well, then . . .
* * *
* * *
The following day Lord Tarrant sent a note to Alice, informing her he was back in London and adding that he was looking forward to introducing her to his daughters.
Alice read the note through several times, looking for some hidden meaning, but there was none. She responded with a note inviting him and his daughters to afternoon tea the day afterward.
As soon as it had gone, she felt absurdly nervous. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. A daytime visit by three small girls and their father was nothing to be nervous about. Besides, Lucy would be there.
She’d thought of him far too often for her peace of mind, the image of his tall person and those mesmerizing gray eyes popping up in her thoughts at odd moments throughout the day. And especially at night.
But it was ridiculous to imagine she’d missed him. She hardly knew him.
He’d made it clear that he just wanted friendship from her, she reminded herself. Friendship! Which suited her perfectly.
But did friendship mean the same thing to him that it did to her? There were times when she’d noticed an intense look in his eyes that seemed to indicate more than just friendship. It was that look that disturbed her, and generated unsettling feelings in her, feelings she’d never had before, sometimes when he wasn’t even there. Feelings that seemed to be guiding her to the edge of some unknown cliff.
Oh, what nonsense. She was a mature woman, past her prime, and he knew she wasn’t interested in marrying again. She’d also made it plain to him that she wasn’t the kind of widow who’d welcome men to her bed. It was just afternoon tea, for heaven’s sake.
Mrs. Tweed was thrilled when Alice told her there would be a gentleman and three small girls coming for afternoon tea. She immediately went into a frenzy of baking plans, which only exacerbated Alice’s nerves. “Whatever you think best, Mrs. Tweed. I’m sure you’ll do us proud,” she said and scuttled out of the kitchen in fine cowardly form.
* * *
* * *
The day of the visit by Lord Tarrant and his children dawned clear and sunny. Lucy was up early and disappeared into the garden, as she did most mornings. Delicious scents floated from the kitchen, as did the sound of singing, loud and slightly off-key. Mrs. Tweed was in a good mood. Children in the house, at last.
Alice pushed that thought from her mind. It wasn’t a reproach. Mrs. Tweed was just happy. She liked children, and she enjoyed baking. And it was a lovely day, and not too hot.
Tweed, too, had been fussing around all morning, making sure everything was in perfect order. Fresh flowers in the hallway and drawing room. Floors polished and smelling faintly of beeswax, cushions plumped, windows washed, the silverware shining—all days before the usual household routine.
One would imagine the King was coming to call.
As the time grew closer, Alice dithered about what to wear. She didn’t want to appear to be dressing up for him. She wasn’t dressing up for him. It was just an ordinary afternoon visit. With small children, who would no doubt end up with sticky hands from the delicacies that Mrs. Tweed was making.
But she didn’t want to look drab, either. Neat and quietly à la mode would do, she finally decided, then emptied her wardrobe looking for something neat but not too stylish. She finally settled on one of her old mourning dresses, a dove gray dimity frock. It was a little on the drab side, but if there were any doubt about her intentions, it would send a subtle message. She was not trying to attract.
Her maid, Mary, eyed the chosen dress disapprovingly. “You’re not wearing that, are you, m’lady? Not for afternoon tea with his lordship and the little girls.” Clearly Alice’s entire household was taking a very different view of the purpose behind the visit.
“Yes, Mary, I am. I don’t know why everyone is making a fuss. We have visitors for afternoon tea all the time.”
Mary sniffed, and fastened the dress with an expressionless face that fooled Alice not at all. “At least wear this, m’lady,” she said, draping a lacy cream shawl around Alice’s shoulders.
Alice pushed it off. “No, I don’t like wearing shawls when taking tea. They always slide off me.” Or the ends fell into her teacup.
“Then what about this?” Mary brought out a three-quarter-sleeved, dark-cherry-pink spencer. It was an old favorite, and Alice had almost forgotten she owned it, but she had to admit it suited the dress perfectly, without making her feel as though she’d gone to any special effort. She gazed at her reflection in the looking glass and nodded. It would do.
* * *
* * *
Alice paced restlessly around the drawing room awaiting the arrival of Lord Tarrant and his children, and she was rearranging the flowers for the fifth time when Tweed knocked on the door.
“This communication just arrived, m’lady.” He held a silver salver, on which sat a letter. “Delivered by an Unknown Person. I found it slipped under the door. Shall I burn it, or do you want to read it?” His expression made his own preference clear.
Alice held out her hand. “No, I’ll read it. You didn’t see who delivered it?”
“No, m’lady.”
Tweed retreated. Alice could think of only one person who would send her a letter by such means. She broke open the seal, unfolded the letter and another piece of paper fell out. She picked it up, set it aside and read the letter. Just as she thought, it was from Bamber.