Page 120 of Harpy of the Ton
Bugger.The last thing Lawrence wanted was for his prospective employer to think his wife soft in the head.
“I-I had an accident,” Bella said. “I lost my memory.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Trelawney said. “Do you suffer pain?”
“Only from not being able to remember.” She took Lawrence’s hand and gave him a soft smile, her eyes filled withlove. “I don’t know how I would have survived had it not been for my husband.”
“Nevertheless, it must be difficult for you, Mrs. Baxter. Have you been examined by a doctor?”
“Shortly after my accident,” she said. “He said my memory might return gradually—a small piece here and there. Or it might return all at once, if I see or hear something familiar.”
Lawrence squirmed in his seat. It was time to steer the conversation away from the restoration of Bella’s memory. “Tell Mr. Trelawney about the other drawings, love,” he said.
Before she could respond, the door opened and the butler appeared, a glass in his hand. “Your water, Mrs. Baxter.”
“Oh no,” Trelawney said, “that simplywon’tdo.”
Lawrence’s stomach clenched with apprehension. “Is something amiss?” he asked.
“A glass of water in my study is hardly fitting hospitality for a guest,” Trelawney said. “Is it, Jenkins?”
“But sir…”
“We’ll take tea in the parlor in the west wing.” Trelawney turned to Bella. “It overlooks the garden, Mrs. Baxter.” He resumed his attention on the butler. “Please inform Mrs. Trelawney that we have guests.”
“There’s no need to trouble yourself—” Lawrence began, but Trelawney interrupted.
“There’severyneed. My wife would never forgive me if I didn’t. Come—let us take tea.”
Mrs. Trelawney—oh, shit.
How could I have been so damned foolish?
Mrs. Trelawney—only daughter of the late Lord de Grecy. And of all the people Lawrence had encountered since bringing Bella home, the most likely to recognize her.
*
Trelawney ushered theminto the parlor—a bright room decorated in pastel shades with a double aspect over the gardens. Shortly after, a woman entered the room—tall and slender, with delicate features and pale gold hair.
“Ah, Alice, my love,” Trelawney said. “This is Mr. Baxter—the one I told you about. And his wife.”
The woman glided across the floor, her silk skirts rustling, and offered her hand. Lawrence stared at it for a moment, then issued a bow before taking it, making sure the callouses on his huge, rough hands did not come into contact with her delicate porcelain skin.
She was exquisite—an ethereal faerie creature who looked fragile enough to disintegrate at the slightest touch.
“My husband’s spoken much of you, Mr. Baxter,” she said. “He’s told me how knowledgeable you are about plants.” Then she turned her attention to Bella. “And you’re Mrs. Baxter?”
Bella then dipped into a curtsey. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“The pleasure is mine, my dear,” Mrs. Trelawney said. “But I prefer my guests not call mema’am. It makes me sound like a matriarchal gorgon.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Bella said.
Their hostess stared at her for a moment. “You look familiar, my dear. Have we met before?”
“P-perhaps,” Bella said. “I was a lady’s maid before I married.”
“And now you’re taking tea in my parlor?”
