An Inconvenient Wife by Constance Hussey Read Free Book Online Page B

arrived at her gate, resisted the urge to kick it open and instead
knocked—loudly.
    Her watchdog answered,
looking none too pleased to find Blackwell on his doorstep. “Mr. Fenton. Good
day. I would like to see Miss McKenzie.”
    “Would you, then? I don’t
believe you are expected until later in the day, Mr. Blackwell.” Fenton stood
square in the doorway, his expression non-committal.
    But not hostile. Somewhat
encouraged, Blackwell nodded. “Yes, I know Miss McKenzie suggested an afternoon
visit, but we had little time yesterday, and it is important that I speak with
her before meeting Miss Durant. If you could ask her to spare a few minutes?”
    The older man studied him
intently, and then stepped back. “Well enough. Stay here.” He waited until
Blackwell had stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him before
walking toward the house.
    Blackwell moved to stand in
the shelter of a large tree. He had paid little attention to his surroundings
yesterday and took advantage of the time to examine the courtyard. As was
common to Oporto, fountains gurgled on both sides of the drive and a path of
beautifully painted tiles led to the door. Pleasant now, with cooler weather,
but he knew from experience that in the summer these courtyards were like
ovens. He preferred the rainy season. Today the rain was light, no more than a
mist. Would the lady invite him inside, or make him stand out in the wet? That
is, if she saw him at all. He was considering various avenues to pursue if she
did not, when Fenton reappeared.
    “Miss McKenzie will see
you.”
    Surprise and disapproval
mingled in the man’s voice and Blackwell kept his expression neutral, although
he wanted to grin at the disgruntled look on Fenton’s face. The lady was more
independent than he had judged.
    “Thank you.” He strolled
through the door behind his reluctant guide, into a small room that appeared to
serve as the parlour. A basket of sewing sat on the floor by one of the chairs
and a book lay face down on another. Curious, he walked over to look at it.
Wordsworth. He preferred Coleridge, but in truth, he was not overly fond of
poetry.
    “Mr. Blackwell.”
    Miss McKenzie’s head was
bare today and he was surprised to realize he had speculated about the colour
of her hair. A light brown, he now saw, streaked with lighter strands and
gathered into a knot at the back of her neck. The simple style suited her. The
urge to remove those pins and see it tumble free around her slim shoulders was
unexpected—and unwelcome. Suppressing the wandering notion, he bowed.
    “Miss McKenzie. I appreciate
your granting me a few minutes of your time.”
    “Our arrangement was
otherwise, sir, but as you seem to be somewhat insistent.…” She looked
resigned. “Besides, I have the feeling you are not one to give up and I prefer
a gracious concession when possible.” She motioned toward him and sat in one of
the two chairs. “Sit down, sir, and tell me just what it is you want.” A quick
smile lit her face. “It does not mean I will supply it, mind, but I will
listen.”
    Startled by this glimpse of
humour, so opposite her hereto-now solemn expression, Blackwell set aside his
hat and gloves and took a seat. The lady appeared almost friendly today, which
perversely filled him with misgiving.
    “As I said yesterday, I did
travel from England to meet Danielle Durant. I am charged with assuring that
she is well placed and needs no assistance.” A reaction at that, if no more
than a flicker of disturbance under her intent gaze. Your instinct is
sound. There is something wrong about that household. Now if you can persuade
her to confide in you….
    “I have been observing
Meraux and the children for several days now, as well as making inquiries, and
cannot feel all is well there,” he continued. Perhaps something of his true
concern for the children showed, for she leaned back, steepled her fingers
together beneath her chin, and studied him with careful