ignored him. She gave the lawyer her hand. “Please accept my apologies, Mr. Churchward, on behalf of my late husband for placing you in such difficult circumstances,” she said. “I am always grateful for the service you have provided my family and I am so very sorry you have been drawn into this situation.”
“Madam—” Churchward sounded shaken “—you know that if there is any way in which I may serve you …”
“Of course.” Joanna took a deep breath and Alex realized suddenly what it was costing her to maintain her innate dignity. “Be assured that I shall be in touch, Mr. Churchward, and thank you.”
“Wait,” Alex said again. He put out a hand to her as she started to walk toward the door. “I will escort you to your carriage, Lady Joanna.”
Her blue gaze flickered up to meet his again. “I do not require your escort.”
“I insist.”
“Pray, do not.” She turned on him fiercely and he saw how close she was to the edge now, how tightly stretched her control. “I know that you only wish to accompany me in order to speak with me,” she said, “but I cannot talk about this now. Please excuse me.”
The door closed behind her and for a moment there was a silence in the office. Alex realized that Churchward was watching him with an unreadable expression.
“Was there something else, Mr. Churchward?” Alex asked politely.
“No, my lord.” Churchward shut his mouth like a trap.
“It seems,” Alex said, “that you have a deal of sympathy for Lady Joanna.”
The lawyer’s eyes narrowed with disdain. He took off his spectacles and polished them violently on the edge of his coat. “I am impartial in my dealings with all my clients, Lord Grant,” the lawyer said. “Lady Joanna has always treated me with the utmost courtesy and consideration and in return she has my absolute loyalty.”
“Very commendable,” Alex murmured. “And David Ware? Did he have your loyalty, too?”
There was an infinitesimal silence before Churchward answered.
“I served Commodore Ware well,” he said.
“A lawyer’s answer,” Alex said. “You did not like Ware?”
Churchward inclined his head. “It is generally accepted that Commodore Ware was a hero.”
“That,” Alex said, “was not what I asked.”
There was another silence. The door to the outer office was ajar; Alex could hear the sound of voices and the scrape of quills as the clerks worked, but in Mr. Churchward’s inner sanctum there was a tense quiet.
“Perhaps,” Churchward said, “you should be asking yourself why my answer matters to you, Lord Grant. Why do you question?” He looked up and met Alex’s eyes very directly with a challenge in his own. “You were Commodore Ware’s greatest friend,” he said. “Surely your loyalty to him is unshakable. Good day, Lord Grant.”
And he held open the door for Alex, leaving his question hanging in the air.
Chapter 4
JOANNA HAD PUT Max in the carriage, where he jumped up on the seat and went to sleep. She asked the coachman to wait for her and walked briskly along the crowded pavements to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She needed to be in the open air, needed space and time to think. She barely saw the crowds that passed her other than as a flash of color and a blur of faces. The babble of voices, the shouts of street vendors and the calls of coachmen and grooms broke over her like a wall of noise; the sun seemed too bright and hurt her eyes, the smells of unwashed bodies pressing close, of dung, of cut grass and flowers, sweet and sour, seemed to assault her. She walked almost blindly until she found a bench in the shade of an elm tree, and she sat down on it feeling suddenly old and tired.
It did not grieve her that David had been unfaithful to her. The thought left her hollow and unemotional. It had happened so many times before that she had no trust in him remaining to be betrayed. She had known from early on in their marriage that he simply could not keep his breeches buttoned. And yet it had never occurred to her that he might have fathered a child on another woman. When she had first heard Churchward mention David’s daughter, she had felt shock and disbelief, a blind denial. Her whole world had seemed to shift and turn dark, blurring at the edges. She felt stupid and sick and naive to have assumed that just because she and David had no children, another woman had not borne him a son or daughter. In that moment all the desires and dreams of motherhood that she had secretly cherished and had fiercely repressed burst out. She was almost engulfed in anger and bitterness, and in a regret so poignant that it stole her breath.
“You are a barren, frigid bitch …”
She could still remember every last word of that last horrible quarrel she had had with David that had culminated in him leaving her lying unconscious and bleeding on the floor. He had been incandescent with fury that after five years of marriage she had failed to burnish his glory by providing him with a son and heir, a whole tribe of little explorers to follow in his footsteps around the globe. How he would have loved that.
David had been absent for the majority of their married life, which, as far as Joanna could see, was a big disadvantage in the production of progeny. He had seemed to believe, however, that he should merely have to look at her and she should be pregnant with triplets. When it had not happened, his pleasure in his young wife had turned to impatience and then to outright hostility and anger. Joanna had suffered his fury in silence, racked with guilt that she had not been able to perform a wife’s duty.
Her courses had always been regular. To start with, that had been reassuring. It had made her think that surely a pregnancy was only a matter of time. But after a while it became a mockery. Her sexual relationship with David, initially no more than a mild disappointment to her, had turned to an obligation and then to something that she dreaded for its cold lack of love. She knew that many women disliked the enforced intimacy of the physical side of marriage, but she had stubbornly hoped for more pleasure than their meaningless coupling provided. Yet it seemed it was not to be. She told herself that a child would be a solace; it seemed that was not to be either.
Her aunt, superstitious as a witch in the last few years of her life, had sent potions and unguents and advice that had been quite shocking and inappropriate from the wife of a vicar. She had lectured her niece on a wife’s submission in the marriage bed and Joanna had tried to obey. Neither the advice nor the potions had worked to produce the longed-for offspring. And then David, fueled by his rage and his frustration, had come to her bed one night and taken her once again with no care or consideration, and afterward had hit her, beaten her, and at last her guilt had turned to hatred for him.
Joanna wrapped her arms about her body and hugged herself tightly. Hideous visions, hideous memories filled her mind, blocking out the blue of the sky and the call of the birds. The searing pain, David’s shouts of anger, the crop falling again and again on her naked body, merciless and harsh. She had known that David had been intent on demonstrating his absolute power over her, master in his home and of his wife, her body, her spirit. He thought he had claimed every facet of her life, but he had been mistaken. His viciousness had turned his biddable country wife into a different woman. Oh, how she had changed.
After the attack Joanna’s courses had stopped completely and she had
