“And, please, Lord Lampton, don’t tell the vicar.”
The request clearly surprised him. “Mr. Throckmorten is the absolute last person I would tell something of this nature. He would likely turn it into a sermon and denounce Layton to the entire neighborhood.”
She’d had that thought herself. Indeed, the more Sundays she spent at Farland Meadows, the more convinced she was that Mr. Throckmorten had added to Layton’s feelings of guilt.
“Thank you, my lord. And thank you for not telling Mr. Jonquil about this conversation. I don’t want him to hate me any more than he already does.”
“If he hates you so much, why are you doing this for him?”
She could feel the color rising in her cheeks. Regardless of his feelings for her, Marion loved Layton. She figured she always would. But it was more than that. In little more than a whisper, she said, “I want him to be happy.”
“Then it seems, Miss Wood, you and I are allies and not enemies. So you needn’t look so petrified the next time you find it necessary to speak with me.”
“I am only the governess, my lord.” Marion felt her low status more by the minute.
“In the Jonquil family, you are poised to be a heroine. Unfortunately, it seems I am the only one likely to know as much.”
“I would appreciate that, my lord.”
“Now, if I am not much mistaken, I am about to be accosted by mounds of watercolors.” Lord Lampton quite suddenly appeared the very picture of a mindless dandy. How did he affect such an all-encompassing transformation so quickly? “Tell me, Most Honorable Governess, shall I clash?” He smoothed out his waistcoat.
“Not at all, Lord Lampton.”
“Ah, the mademoiselle d’art.” He bowed rather theatrically, and Caroline giggled as she hurriedly crossed the room to where her Uncle Flip awaited her, paintings clutched in her tiny fingers.
Marion wandered to the window, watching the light flurries, wondering if she’d done the right thing.
Chapter Twenty
Layton stood at the door of the Lampton Park library and watched two of his brothers with confused interest. Philip and Jason, who historically tended to grate on each other, sat at a table, books and papers spread out in front of them, obviously in the midst of an involved and serious discussion.
“What is this, a council of war?” he asked, still leaning against the doorframe.
Philip looked up, the dandified, feather-headed expression he usually wore absent. That, combined with Jason’s uncharacteristically patient look—he was seldom indulgent, especially when faced with Philip, whose posturing seemed to irritate Jason more than any of the other brothers—made Layton wary. What was going on? Philip shrugged a little self-deprecatingly, a mannerism he once used quite regularly but which Layton hadn’t seen in many years, since before Philip began acting like a fop. Now Layton really was worried.
“You see before you your usually resourceful elder brother with a rather sticky legal situation on his hands,” Philip answered before turning his head back toward Jason and the papers they were perusing.
Layton’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Philip?” He heard the panic in his voice. He crossed the room and took a seat beside his two brothers. Philip looked back at him and smiled, though a little uncomfortably. “The legal question isn’t actually mine.” He scratched the back of his neck. Gads, it was good to see him acting more like himself, at least somewhat serious, his actual smile and not the half smirk he usually wore. “A friend, actually. Good ton but not a lot of connections, you know. Not sure where to turn. Seems her—”
Layton raised his eyebrow at the “her.” Knowing how ridiculously enamored Philip was of his betrothed, Layton couldn’t resist a little good-humored jesting. Philip made an identical raise of his own eyebrow, and Layton chuckled lightly.
“Her husband has fallen into a remarkably persistent state of blue-devilment, beyond what might be overlooked or explained away. I’ve flipped through a few of Father’s books of medical terminology. This particular friend seems to be suffering from something termed ‘chronic melancholia.’”
Layton’s ears had pricked at the words “persistent state of blue-devilment.” Philip might just as easily have been describing Bridget in those last few months. And “chronic melancholia”? Could there actually have been a name for it?
“Can anything be done for this man? This friend of yours?” Layton tried to sound casual. Had he missed something? Some treatment along the way that might have helped Bridget? “Cupping or some medicinal concoction?”