The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel
By
Christi Caldwell
Official Blurb
In the next Brethren installment, a clever spinster is matched with a traitor to the Crown.
The death of her father leaves Miss Francesca Cornworthy alone and with one last wish to fulfill for him—that she marry a safe, respectable gentleman. She sets herself on a course to honor that request. That is, until she crosses paths with Mr. Lathan Holman, the very opposite type of gentleman her father wished her to wed.
After a mistake that earned him the title of traitor, Lathan Holman has no interest in reentering Society. Then he meets a quick-witted, sharp-mouthed spinster. His dark past clouds his present and future. He’d been certain he’d never laugh or smile again, but soon he finds himself doing both with Miss Francesca Cornworthy… and wanting more.
Other Titles by Christi Caldwell
Heart of a Duke
In Need of a Duke—Prequel Novella
For Love of the Duke
More than a Duke
The Love of a Rogue
Loved by a Duke
To Love a Lord
The Heart of a Scoundrel
To Wed His Christmas Lady
To Trust a Rogue
The Lure of a Rake
To Woo a Widow
To Redeem a Rake
One Winter with a Baron
To Enchant a Wicked Duke
Beguiled by a Baron
To Tempt a Scoundrel
The Heart of a Scandal
In Need of a Knight—Prequel Novella
Schooling the Duke
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
A Matchmaker for a Marquess
His Duchess for a Day
Five Days With a Duke
Lords of Honor
Seduced by a Lady’s Heart
Captivated by a Lady’s Charm
Rescued by a Lady’s Love
Tempted by a Lady’s Smile
Courting Poppy Tidemore
Scandalous Seasons
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love
A Marquess for Christmas
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love
Sinful Brides
The Rogue’s Wager
The Scoundrel’s Honor
The Lady’s Guard
The Heiress’s Deception
The Wicked Wallflowers
The Hellion
The Vixen
The Governess
The Bluestocking
The Spitfire
The Theodosia Sword
Only For His Lady
Only For Her Honor
Only For Their Love
Danby
A Season of Hope
Winning a Lady’s Heart
The Brethren
The Spy Who Seduced Her
The Lady Who Loved Him
The Rogue Who Rescued Her
The Minx Who Met Her Match
The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel
Lost Lords of London
In Bed with the Earl
Brethren of the Lords
My Lady of Deception
Her Duke of Secrets
Regency Duets
Rogues Rush In: Tessa Dare and Christi Caldwell
Yuletide Wishes: Grace Burrowes and Christi Caldwell
Her Christmas Rogue
Memoir: Non-Fiction
Uninterrupted Joy
The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel
Copyright © 2020 by Christi Caldwell
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Dedication
For my sweet Reagan…from the moment you wake up, to our every car ride, and up until the moment you fall asleep, you are never without a question or story or some other curiosity to talk about. The sweet sound of your voice brings mommy such joy.
My loquacious Francesca’s story is for you!
Table of Contents
Official Blurb
Other Titles by Christi Caldwell
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Other Brethren Books by Christi Caldwell
Biography
Prologue
Winter, 1822
England
Miss Francesca Cornworthy hated house parties.
To be fair, she’d come to despise all ton events.
But she had a particular loathing for house parties.
At least, in the heart of a London Season in bustling ballrooms, a spinster might lose herself in a crowd. In a sea of debutantes and other unwed ladies, there were any number of other unfortunate souls to find themselves the object of pity and scorn and bored indifference.
House parties were different. There could be no going unnoticed at those intimately attended events.
This winter, however, she was to be spared. No invite had arrived from her godmother. That customary note had always come two months before the grand affair, with the same assurance as the rising and setting sun.
And yet, miserable as she was at those gatherings and as much as she hated being an object on display at them, she’d have happily attended. She’d have donned her brightest gown and worn her biggest smile if her father could have been there.
Sadness seized at her heart, squeezing.
It had been six months.
Six months since her father’s passing.
And with the hell that had been his final year, it would have been only selfish on her part to wish he were with her still. But the man who’d left her had been an empty shadow of the father who’d loved and raised her.
Standing at the windows that overlooked the now overgrown gardens out back, Francesca stared below.
She was a woman without a husband or a father to care after her, and in such situations, most of what a viscount possessed ended up passing to another: a distant relative in this case. As such, Francesca’s father had provided for her… as
he could. There was a modest townhouse just on the fringe of Mayfair. There were enough funds for a small staff. And also funds enough to see her if not comfortable, then cared for through the remainder of her days.
It was far more than most women had.
That did not, however, preclude her from the sting of resentment at the lot of women in a world where everything passed to men. Including the artifacts that meant nothing to the new lord, but for the women left behind were tokens of the mother they’d never met or the father they’d so loved.
She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane and sighed. The sough of her breath left a little circle of moisture upon the glass.
Not that she required any “things.” She didn’t. She’d never been one for material possessions. Her life, for so very long, had been her father. In fact, that was all it really had ever been. As a young girl without a mother and then a young lady without a suitor and then a woman without a husband, her life had become entwined with her father’s. As such, all of this… an existence without him… was foreign. She was as at sea as she’d been six months ago when he’d first passed.
A knock sounded at the door, briefly raising her focus away from her own sorrows.
“Enter,” she called quietly.
Her butler, gracious old Callows, who’d even taken a reduction in salary so that he might remain on, stepped forward. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Sutton, to see you, Miss Francesca.”
Oh, bloody hell.
This was even worse than a summons to any annual holiday party… an actual visit from her godmother.
Framed at the entrance of the room, the regal duchess stood as elegant as a queen—and as frosty as one, too. Her godmother sent one thin, razor-sharp eyebrow arcing up, compelling Francesca to speak at last. “Your Grace,” Francesca greeted and made her legs move in the requisite motion of the deferential curtsy. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her godmother. Quite the opposite, really.
Rather, it was the powerful woman’s intent to maneuver Francesca about like a pawn upon a chessboard. Her intentions were good. Her efforts, however, were unwanted and unappreciated.
The Duchess of Sutton came forward with the graceful eloquence that only a woman who’d been betrothed and destined for the role of duchess might manage. “Francesca,” she said, all perfunctory business.
As Callows drew the door closed behind him, the click of the panel drove away the earlier misery and forced Francesca to be as sharp as a tack.
“You’re attending my winter party.”
Francesca shook her head.
A droll grin curved the duchess’ lips. “It wasn’t a question, my dear.” She managed to stretch the endearment into four syllables.
Nay, a duchess would never anticipate being challenged in any way. Francesca, however, had little intention of subjecting herself to the duchess’ house party this year. Or mayhap any year. Francesca smoothed her mourning skirts. “I appreciate that kindness and consideration.”
“Having my goddaughter for a winter stay is hardly a kindness.”
Francesca continued past that interruption. “However, my father—”
“Would not have wanted you to shut yourself away, alone, here, Franny.” The duchess abandoned formality and opted instead for the familiar—if much-hated—endearment. Francesca’s father had preferred it above all others, and unfortunately, Society marched to the beat of the drum set by a father or husband, so “Franny” she’d been and would always now be.
Francesca held her silence. The duchess might be her godmother, but their relationship was only as close as one could be with one of the most powerful peeresses in England.
Her godmother claimed a seat. “Securing your visit is hardly the reason I’ve come.” She smiled. “Because, of course, you are coming.” Of course. “Rather,” the duchess went on, tugging her gloves off and lining up the fine leather articles before she lay them neatly upon the rose-inlaid table, “I’m here to help.”
Francesca’s stomach fell, and horror chased away every last vestige of earlier sorrow. “Help?”
The elegant woman gave a tight nod. “Well, of course. I’m not just here about my house party.”
Warning bells clamored, loud and jarring and pointed.
Because, ultimately, when an unwed lady and a duchess were about, there was only one fate the latter wished to concern herself over.
Absolutely not.
The duchess smiled and nodded expectantly.
Francesca finally found her voice. “I… am grateful to you for coming…” she began again.
“Pfft, stuff it with that polite rejection, Francesca Cornworthy,” the other woman said without inflection and also with such an absolute lack of duchesslike decorum that Francesca’s carefully crafted response flew from her head. “You believe it best that you shut yourself away here, in your widow’s weeds, mourning your father and not living your life. And I am here to tell you that is not what your father wished for you.” The duchess patted the spot beside her.
Francesca fisted the sides of her skirts. Who was the Duchess of Sutton to say what her father might have wished for in his final days? In the last six months of his life, he’d not even a recollection of Francesca’s name. He’d been alternately confused and angry, and she’d suffered the pain of losing him even as he’d still been living. Even so, she’d never been impolite to her godmother—or anyone, really—and she’d not begin now. No matter how miserable she was.
Francesca sat.
“Now, there is a reason all wise mothers and fathers know to name me as godmother.”
Francesca bit the inside of her lower lip to hide a smile at that very matter-of-fact avowal that only a woman of the utmost confidence might manage.
“Because they know, my dear, that I will ensure that their daughters do not remain… well, as you have, alone. Six months I’ve allowed you. And neither I nor your father would allow you one month more.”
With a grand flourish, the duchess retrieved several folded pages from within the front pocket of her silvery-gray satin gown.
Francesca glanced down at the ivory sheets. “What…” Her words trailed off as she fixed on just one thing in the middle of the folded packet: her name. Nay, it wasn’t her inked name upon it, but rather, the familiar hand.
Oh, it was slightly uneven. The looping flourish that had once been so grand showed the unsteadiness of the fingers that had written those words. And yet, that handwriting would always be familiar.
Fisting a hand, Francesca raised it to her mouth. And here she’d believed she’d had everything there was left of her father.
The duchess did not press Francesca, but rather, waited until Francesca accepted the heavy letter. Francesca managed just one word: “When?”
“The moment he began forgetting himself and his thoughts, he became afraid,” the duchess said gently. “I tried to assure him he was fine. We all forget ourselves sometimes. He insisted this was different.” She drew her shoulders back. “And this proved the one time I was wrong.”
Francesca managed a smile, one she didn’t bother to try to hide. She would have wagered every link she had to Papa that the duchess had sought to elicit that grin.
“Franny, your father wanted to be sure that he said everything there was to be said, in the event he forgot more of himself. He put it there and insisted on several things. One”—she lifted a finger—“that I give that to you. Two, that I not ever leave you to yourself.” She bristled. “As if I ever would.” A third digit came up. “Three, that you’d still join me at my annual events, as you loved them so very much.”
Francesca didn’t move for a moment, and she would have sworn there was a dry edge to that slightly overemphasized word. Except, lifting her gaze, she searched for some hint that the duchess teased, for a sign that the older woman knew precisely how Francesca felt about those affairs. Alas, when she lifted her gaze, the duchess wore her usual serene and very even expression.
“And fourthly,” Her Grac
e said, “there was the matter of your wedded state.”
Francesca’s eyebrows went flying up. There it was. “M-my…” She strangled on the word.
The door opened as Francesca struggled to get the remainder of her reply out.
The duchess beamed. “Ah, splendid.” She motioned the young maid, Tess, forward. “Tea.”
Yes, because no moment in any English household was complete without the requisite brew. And yet, the Duchess of Sutton should so casually pour herself a cup from the porcelain teapot after she’d just said… after she’d just said…
“Marriage?” Francesca blurted.
Tess paused, casting a befuddled look between the two women. “Beg pardon, miss?” she asked hesitantly.
Her Grace clapped once. “That will be all.”
With a relieved glance, Tess dropped a hasty curtsy and scurried off.
“Now, where were we?” the duchess said as she added sugar to her delicate cup and proceeded to stir it.
“We were speaking of my father,” Francesca hurriedly supplied.
“Ah, that is right… marriage. Your marriage.”
Her head still muddled, Francesca said the only thing that did make sense. “I’m not married.”
From over the rim of the teacup she’d partially raised, the duchess flashed another smile. “That is precisely the point, my dear.”
“What… point?”
The Duchess of Sutton took another dainty sip. “Ensuring you at last marry a kindly, respectable, devoted, and loyal gentleman.”
Had any other woman put those very words to her, Francesca would have happily pointed out that those latter two descriptors meant the very same thing.
Her father’s notes briefly forgotten, Francesca lowered them to her lap. “Your Grace, there are no kindly, respectable, devoted gentlemen. Not for me.” Not where she was concerned. At thirty years of age, she’d taken part in all but one London Season over the past twelve years. There’d never been a betrothed. Why, there’d not even been a suitor. Not even the casual sort to beg a dance one day, pay a visit the next, and then disappear on the third.
“Ah.” The duchess wagged another long digit. “But there is someone for everyone, my dear. And your father would not have been your father had he not at least considered that before he passed.” Her godmother lifted her chin. “The top page, my dear.”
The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel (The Brethren Book 5) Page 1
