Page 13 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Mallon could not place the connection, but she was familiar to him. Her English was proficient, though her accent was pronounced. She had surely never visited Constantinople but where else would he have met her? In Paris, or during his time in London? A group of French had sat at the table adjacent to his at the Criterion. It had been too gaudy for his taste, but he’d heard it was a favorite with Conan Doyle.
He’d read a copy of his book,The Hound of the Baskervilles. The man had apparently spent some time on the moor and heard its tales. The rendering had been eloquent, making Mallon all the more eager to see Wulverton once more.
She glanced over to him, then swiftly away, with the look of a deer caught in the headlamps of a carriage and not knowing which way to run. He’d been staring too intensely and had discomforted her, it seemed, though her manner of dressing indicated that she was a woman who liked attention.
He was tired and would have excused himself to his bed, but he must approach and make right his ill manners.
Geneviève had turnedher back utterly, but it was too late. He was beside her. She’d been thinking only of the necessity of concealment. Now, hearing his voice, so deep and rich, heat assailed her body. He wore the starched formality of evening dress, but she was aware of the muscle and blood beneath. She remembered the weight of him above her and the taste of his sweat. Grasping the window ledge, she willed herself into composure.
Viscount Wulverton introduced himself with a bow and made the usual courtesies of asking after her health, her journey and as to whether her comforts were being met. How she answered, she couldn’t have said but he seemedto accept all her replies.
His attention then turned to the doctor’s research of the moor, and Hissop lowered his eyes in a show of modesty. “An interest I shared with the late viscount. I offer my deepest sympathies.”
Mallon seemed to hesitate, as if finding difficulty in framing his words. “You attended him, I believe—at the end.”
“I did little more than make him comfortable in the final hours,” said the doctor.
Mallon grimaced. “He spoke of me, before passing?”
Dr. Hissop shook his head. “The stroke robbed him of speech.” The doctor made bold to touch Mallon’s arm. “No doubt, you were in his thoughts, though he was unable to express them.”
Mallon stepped back a little. “No doubt…”
It was an awkward moment. Despite the brevity of her sojourn at the hall, even Geneviève was aware of the late viscount’s estrangement from his son. Surely the doctor knew how things had stood between them. She was able to imagine some degree of Mallon’s grief, likely tinged with regret, for years lost and sentiments unspoken.
Marguerite called for them to sit, and it was with relief that Geneviève took the seat offered on Hugo’s far side. Resigning herself to Tootle placing his great paws across her feet was a fair exchange for being able to turn her face—at least partially—toward the hearth. Mallon lowered himself into an armchair, stretching his legs before him as he accepted more Cognac.
“I do hope Samuel hasn’t been boring you, talking of his hobby.” Mrs. Hissop gave a fluttery laugh. “Fewshare my husband’s enthusiasm for the contemplation of ancient granite.”
“My dear, I do not just admire the moor’s beauty, I wish to protect it against our exploitation of its metal, stones, and minerals.” The doctor protested with an exasperated expression.
Geneviève allowed Withers to replenish her cup and continued her contemplation of the flames.
“There’s never been mining on Wulverton land,” Mallon asserted.
Dr. Hissop was not to be deflected. “Nevertheless, the moor needs protection from man’s greed. Were there no laws to govern its use, who knows what state it would come to.”
“You might join the Preservation Association,” chimed in Hugo. “The doctor always wants me to get involved but you’ll do much better than me.”
Mallon’s voice seemed all the more resonant for following the light tones of his nephew. “I’m sure you’re too modest Hugo but, of course, I’ll support any noble-minded venture. We’re only guardians, after all.”
“My household visits to my patients have been a double blessing,” Dr. Hissop continued, “For I’ve had not only the opportunity to heal their ills but to compile a catalog of their superstitions and tales.”
“And very gruesome they are!” Mrs. Hissop gave a theatrical shudder. “Once dusk has come, I won’t step more than a few feet from our door, knowing what I do!”
“I love a good ghost story!” said Hugo. “Very traditional at this time of year.Dr. Hissop, you’ll oblige us?”
“If you wish it, of course.” The doctor adjusted the cushion in his chair and pondered a moment.
“Some women bring grief upon those closest to them, while others are the victims of others’ greed. Of Lady Mary Fitz, some say she was a murderess. Others, only that she was ill-used by those who might have given her protection.” He rested his chin upon his fingers. He had every ear, for the only other sound in the room was the crackling of the fire.
Nonetheless, Geneviève was aware of Lord Wulverton’s gaze upon her. Did he know or suspect where they had met before? Despite her caution, had she given herself away?
CHAPTER 7
Mallon had heardthe story often enough when he was a lad. Back then, it had given him nightmares and had been effective in keeping him abed, when he might have been tempted to rise, fetching out some toy or book. To glance out of the window brought the risk of seeing Lady Mary’s ghostly carriage, cursed with ever travelling the moor.
The countess looked pale, her brow furrowed in concentration, or anxiety—he couldn’t decide.
