‘Some would say exercise to be the most beneficial.’
‘To keep my mind off the thought of another brandy?’
‘Exactly.’ She did not understand the humour that accompanied his question. ‘The most important thing, however, is to admit that you do have a problem; if one holds the notion that this affliction is trifling…’
‘I can assure you, Mrs Bassingstoke, that I do not think my affliction trifling.’
For the first time since she had begun talking to him she felt that they had the same viewpoint. ‘Your measure of honesty is something that should help then, my lord.’
When he remained silent she took her courage in hand. ‘Have you spoken to your family about this?’
‘As little as I possibly can.’
‘Would it help to speak to me of it?’
The silence was deafening.
‘I am a woman who would respect every confidence.’
‘I know you to be that.’
When his smile took on a quality of wickedness she realised exactly what he had said and flushed a bright beetroot red. ‘I did not mean, of course, to allude to the night we spent—’ She stopped as another thought struck her. Perhaps he had not meant that at all. She was too far in, however, to just pull back now. ‘I would never say anything of it—we had both agreed that we should not.’
As she moved to one side he did the same and their hands touched. She felt her heartbeat quicken, to know again that living spark of recognition.
Jerking away, she looked around to see if anyone watched them and was horrified to notice patrons hurriedly averting their eyes. Taris Wellingham was a man who drew the notice of all those around him, with his height and his presence and his bearing. He was a man who looked as though he did not fit into the dusty quietness of this reading room, but should be on a battlefield somewhere, danger imprinted in his eyes.
‘When could we start?’ His question in the light of such thoughts disorientated her.
‘Pardon?’
‘When is it that you would begin helping me?’
‘You are saying that you would like me to try?’
‘Indeed. After such an eloquent persuasion why should I not?’
‘Some men may be…too timid to admit to such a fault.’
‘Not me.’
‘Then you are unusual in such honesty, my lord, and I admire you all the more for it.’
His lopsided frown concerned her.
‘If you are free tomorrow, perhaps a walk in the park might be a good beginning.’
‘I am sometimes a little uncertain of my footing in wide-open spaces. The vestiges, I suppose, of the drink wearing down my balance.’
‘Then I shall, of course, help you.’
‘How would you do that?’
‘Would it be frowned upon if I threaded my arm through your own, my lord?’
He shook his head firmly.
‘Perfect,’ she answered, feeling for the first time in two days a little more in control of everything. She had let Frankwell get worse and worse without doing anything. Could his own redemption have been as easy as Taris Wellingham’s? My God. Why had she not tried such a remedy for him?
She knew the answer even as she asked the question. Because she had hated him, hated her husband and everything he stood for and in the late-night drunken ramblings he took by the river she always hoped he might just trip and sink unbeknown into the murky depths of the water. Guilt rose in force, as did contrition, though when the companion she had first seen with Taris Wellingham reappeared in the background she could tell that he was waiting for them to finish.
‘I do hope to hear from you, my lord, regarding a time and a place for this exercise.’
‘Oh, you will, Mrs Bassingstoke.’
‘And I shall not say a word about anything we have discussed today…’
‘A sensitivity that I should ever be grateful for.’
‘There is one other thing that I would suggest, if I may.’
‘Yes?’
‘Throw out all the strong liquor in your house and replace it with water. That way temptation is never close at hand.’
His laugh reverberated around the space they stood in as she gave him her goodbye and hurried for the door.
Temptation?
Lord, it was not the drink he was tempted by, but the sound of her voice and the feel of her skin against his when he had moved and touched her by mistake.
Too damn tempted! He forced down desire as Jack Henshaw spoke.
‘Who is she?’
‘Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke from Ipswich. She was one of the occupants of the carriage accident I was involved in.’
‘She had much to say to you?’
‘She thinks I am a drunk.’
‘Why the hell would she think that?’
‘Because the other day she saw me lose my footing and my direction. I would guess from what she does not say that her husband used to be a heavy drinker and, putting two and two together, she has come up with five.’
‘You didn’t enlighten her then, I gather?’
‘You know me too well,’ he drawled back. ‘Blindness or a predilection for the bottle? Which one would you pick?’
Jack stopped walking. ‘It’s got a lot worse, then? Your eyesight?’
Taris nodded and made to walk on, irritated when Jack stayed firm.
‘There are doctors who might help you if you went to see them.’
‘Which I won’t be doing.’ Lord, he had done the rounds of the medical fraternity when he had first returned home from Jamaica and not one of them had been hopeful; his denial at what they had told him curled up into a harder anger. He did not wish to be hauled off again to a physician who would only disappoint him and the risk of gossip emanating from such a visit was too high. No. He would fight this creeping blindness on his own terms and in his own way. He swore it.
Another thought surfaced. What would happen should Beatrice determine the truth? Today with the full light of the window upon her he had made out the outline of her face. Not in detail, but not in grey sludge either. A halfway point to knowing what she might look like. He wished he could have used his fingers to fill in the nuances and touch her. Again. Even though he knew the foolhardiness of doing just that.
Taris Wellingham and his carriage arrived at her door almost exactly at two, after sending a note earlier to ask whether this time would be suitable.
Dressed in her bonnet, coat and gloves, Bea found him standing outside next to his coach. Today he wore brown, the colour showing up the darkness of his hair. Surprisingly he also wore a patch of the finest leather across his left eye.
‘My lord,’ she began, hating the tremor in her voice, ‘have you been hurt?’
‘No.’ He did not elaborate or embellish his reply as he held open the door to a carriage emblazoned with a family crest and pulled by four perfect chestnut horses. Two footmen tipped their hats to her when she acknowledged them, both adorned in the livery of gold and blue.
Taris Wellingham followed her in, sitting in the seat opposite hers. Taking a breath, she smiled and tried to initiate some conversation between them.