Dutifully raising the packet, Francesca unfolded and read the top page.
My dearest Franny,
If you are reading this, it is as I feared, and my memory has now failed me, and I am now gone.
Her throat moved spasmodically, the letter trembling in her fingers, and she tightened her hold upon it to steady her grip.
In yet another break with her usual decorum, the duchess rested a hand upon Francesca’s knee. “I promise the remainder is a good deal less sad,” she murmured.
Francesca resumed reading.
It has always been my greatest wish that you would know the love and happiness shared by your mother and I.
Yes, that, too, had been Francesca’s wish. Though she’d never met the mother who’d given her life, she’d listened over the years to telling after telling and then retelling that her father had shared of that happy union. And she’d wanted all of that for herself. But now she’d not allow herself any more of that regret about her circumstances, with which she’d come to terms, if not to peace.
It is also my belief that you still can and will know that joy-ever-after. And though you did not yourself find the gentleman who might be that and bring that for you, I have.
As if singed, Francesca dropped the letter. It fell in a soft, whispery heap onto her lap. The duchess had been correct. The letter left by her father was a good deal less sad, but certainly no less horrifying and troubling and… well, every other manner of word ending in ing that denoted distressing sentiments.
“He is the Marquess of St. James, my dear. In need of a good wife as much as you are in need of a good husband. It is, therefore, a match made in English heaven.”
In a place given to rain and where its inhabitants were equally bent on marrying people off and gossiping, was there such a thing as an “English heaven”?
Alas, by the pleased coloring to the older woman’s tones, this was where Francesca was to express her proper gratitude… and offer her capitulation. “I do not know what to say.” There, that much was true. Making herself pick up Papa’s letter once again, she forced herself to continue reading.
I was a friend of his father’s some years ago, and I’m familiar with the gentleman, so you have my assurance that you will be cared for. And in the end, that is all I want, my dear Franny—to see that you are cared for.
Just like that, the immediate rejection she’d intended to give was caught and held back by that last sentence.
And in the end, that is all I want, my dear Franny—to see that you are cared for.
It had been his last wish for her. Of her. One that whenever he’d been cognizant and lucid, he’d attempted to bring it up, and she’d refused to speak of.
Guilt sat like a boulder upon her chest. That one assurance Papa had sought, she’d not given him. And now… he should ask her now. Tears smarted behind her eyes, and she was dimly aware of the duchess pressing a kerchief into her spare palm.
Francesca brushed back the moisture.
“You do not have to marry him, Franny,” the duchess said softly. “I would urge you, however, to join me this winter for my house party, where you might spend time alone with the gentleman and ascertain whether he is a fit for you.”
Whether he is a fit for you.
They might as well have been speaking of a pair of lady’s riding boots. Granted, a pastime that she’d never pursued.
And yet, saying no now was vastly more different and difficult than it had been mere moments ago.
“You don’t have to decide now, of course,” the duchess murmured. “But I’d have you think on it… when you join me.”
When.
Not if.
A short while later, after the requisite tea had been drunk and the small talk exchanged, the Duchess of Sutton left. As soon as she’d gone, Francesca carried her letter over to the window and reread the top page.
Nay, there’d been no imagining or mistaking either the contents or the visit.
Papa wished her to marry. Even in the hereafter, he was concerned first and foremost with her future and well-being. Giving her head a shake, she absently turned to the next sheet.
Now, my dear, this isn’t all a matter of security. I’d also have you think about your happiness and what that means. You’ve been a dutiful daughter, and sadly, I’ve not ever properly allowed you the opportunity to pursue your own life apart from my own.
Francesca had done it without complaint, and she’d do it all over again.
And as Patrick M. Carlisle wrote in Unfair & Unbalanced: The Lunatic Magniloquence of Henry E. Panky, “So, anyway, a Great Man, in his querulous twilight years, who doesn’t want to go gently into that blacky black night. He wants to cut loose, dance on the razor’s edge, pry the lid off his bucket list!” With all that being said, I am leaving behind a list of items for you to complete, things to bring you to a smile.
A half laugh, half sob escaped her. In death, he’d quoted his favorite book. One he’d read over and over, which she’d never understood, because, well, what was the fun in that when one could read an altogether different book?
Returning to her seat, Francesca began to read the list her father had created for her.
Chapter 1
Lathan Holman was going to kill the bastard.
And he was going to do so with great glee.
In fact, one might argue it was a miracle Lathan hadn’t yet murdered the bugger.
Having served in the Home Office, he’d been trained with every weapon, from a dagger on down to a pistol and a sword. At various points, he’d employed all in the name of King and Crown. His shot had become near perfect. He could throw a dagger with deadly precision almost fifteen yards, if he wished.
Though the rapidity with which he’d carry out the deed all depended upon how long it took to catch the bloody bastard.
This nemesis, however, had proven wilier than all others who had come before. Which, given he’d dealt with the darkest, vilest traitors to the Crown, was saying a good deal about his opponent.
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
Staring at the watermark overhead, Lathan dragged the hay-stuffed pillow over his eyes, the threadbare scrap doing little to mute the damned rooster’s morning greeting.
“You bloody bugger,” he cursed, the pillow muffling that insult.
Cock-a-dooooodle-doo.
With that second, more boisterous morning greeting, the damned bird might as well have lifted two middle fingers in salute, as that cry pealed crisp and clear, penetrating Lathan’s pillow.
Not that it was much of a pillow, or bed for that matter. Certainly not the luxurious things he’d enjoyed over the years, those gifts a product of his obscenely wealthy parents, the Earl and Countess of Maldavers. With residences of such grandeur, they could be confused for the king, and Lathan had never known anything but comfort.
Until he hadn’t.
Until he’d been cut off by his family.
And Society.
And, hell, even the king had cut him off.
Not without just reason, of course.
Treason was as good a reason as any to banish someone from the living. In fact, Lathan was fortunate his neck hadn’t been stretched or that he hadn’t found himself aboard another ship, bound for the penal colonies.
Tossing aside the straw-stuffed pillow so it landed with a scratchy plop on the floor, Lathan stared overhead at the cracked plaster, where moisture puddled and tested the limits of the white paint.
Fortunate. His lips twisted wryly. “How very lucky I am,” he said into the quiet. As if mockingly lending its agreement, a lone drip hit him square in the middle of the forehead.
There was nothing fortunate about his life. Or more so, the fact that he’d been spared.
Drip.
This wasn’t living. Nor was that acknowledgment a product of his living circumstances. But rather, everything he’d cost himself.
The one thing he’d found joy in, the work he’d done at the Home Office, devoted and loya
l to King and Crown, he’d lost. Because he’d trusted where he shouldn’t. Because he’d naïvely believed a superior officer could never be so blackhearted as to carry out the ultimate act of treachery.
Because of that naïveté, Lathan had made himself an unwitting partner in that deception.
In the end, he’d been too much of a coward to swing when the other man, the one who’d deceived Lathan’s weaker, stupider self, had found his way to freedom.
Wind battered the window, striking the frosted panes and penetrating the walls. Lathan swiped his hands over his face and made to greet yet another day.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he let his feet rest on the chilled floor.
Everything about this place was chilled.
There were no servants to start or stoke the fires. Or cook. Or clean. All those tasks fell to him. And he was glad to see to them. They were the smallest of penances for his crimes and sins.
Naked, he padded across the room to the crude wood armoire, one door missing, the other door crooked. He pulled the latter open.
The panel hung forlornly off the side.
Ignoring the wintry chill that brought gooseflesh rising on his limbs, Lathan reached inside and grabbed the closest clothing at hand—trousers, lawn shirt, and wool jacket. He wadded his belongings in a ball and tossed them across the small room onto the bed. The fine garments landed in a sloppy heap that would have had his mother wilting had she seen it. But then, his parents would have already fainted dead away the moment they walked the winding lane to his new abode.
Not that his mother would ever see even a hint of him again. She and his father had been all too clear about just what contact they wished with their youngest son—none.
Lathan made his way over to the water he’d fetched the night prior, stone-cold from having sat untouched for four hours. He splashed his face. In the cracked bevel mirror that hung over the washbasin, the ragged, scarred face of a stranger, with two days’ worth of growth upon it, stared back.
That man was the stranger he’d become.
Not even closing his eyes, Lathan cupped water in his hands and doused himself again.
The cold pierced and pricked his skin like the edge of a just-sharpened blade.
After he’d washed himself, changed, and sat down to pull on his boots, a rapping came at the door. Quick, staccato, but not in any way forceful, the rapping could have all too easily been mistaken for a heavy wind battering the cottage.
Tamping down a groan, Lathan did a sweep for something that would tell him the damned time.
Alas, the lone clock atop the wood mantel remained stuck at the two o’clock hour, just as it had been since Lathan had arrived in the Leeds countryside six months prior.
Another gust, followed by another knock, confirmed all Lathan required in terms of the time. Stomping across the room, he made his way out into the narrow hall and then down the even narrower stairway that led to the front door.
Lathan dragged the door open before the person on the other side could get so much as a third knock in.
“Good morning,” the miserably cheerful bugger on the other side greeted, as if it were the noon hour and not still dark with a winter storm threatening.
Good morning. There’d been nothing good about mornings or any part of the day since he’d been cast out of his role with the Home Office.
“Why are you here now?” Lathan asked by way of greeting, already knowing what his sibling wanted. The same damned thing he’d been pushing him for since Lathan was cleared of wrongdoing six months earlier.
Ewan’s smile deepened, dimpling both his cheeks. “Come now, little brother, that is hardly the manner of greeting for one’s favorite sibling,” he said, doffing his hat and knocking it against his leg.
In truth, Ewan always had been Lathan’s favorite brother. Lucas, the heir and pride of their parents, had always been shut away, working on important estate matters. There’d never been time for a younger brother.
Now, Lathan rather found himself preferring his elder brother for not only allowing Lathan to his peace, but for delivering a package on Lathan’s behalf every three weeks to the Home Office.
“Don’t you have other matters to attend? Casework to prepare? Clients to represent?”
Wordlessly, Lathan stepped aside and allowed his middle brother entry.
“You’re early,” he said flatly.
Ewan thumped him on the back. “You’ve not asked the reason for my change in schedule, dear brother.”
“No, I haven’t,” he said coolly as Ewan doffed his hat. Lathan didn’t want to know, because it didn’t matter. Unless whatever news his brother wished to share meant Lathan would get his post back, he’d no interest in hearing it.
“If you wished me to deliver your missive to the Home Office in time, there was no other option,” Ewan explained.
Lathan’s missive. It was a likely assumption his brother made. Four months ago, he’d swallowed the last of his pride and asked Ewan to act as an emissary between him and the powers that be at the Home Office. His brother would rightly assume the notes were nothing more than Lathan sending out pleading requests to be reinstated. Ewan didn’t know that Lathan wouldn’t beg, that he’d instead try to redeem himself through his work. “I take it you’ve family to visit this time of year.”
Bloody hell. It was the wrong thing to say. The words left him before he could call them back, words that would merit only an invitation and no doubt would serve as the very basis for Ewan Holman’s arrival at this hour. “I thought we might speak.”
“No,” he said, but his brother wouldn’t be deterred.
“That I might convince you this time to return. To… visit the family.”
“I don’t have a family.” Not one he cared to see.
Hurt paraded over the other man’s sharp features, but was gone as quick as it had come, to be replaced with Ewan’s usual good cheer. “Ah, but you have me,” his middle sibling pointed out, briefly eyeing the coarse painting that had, at some point, fallen and lay forlornly on the floor. Making use of the nail, allowing it to serve as a hook, Ewan hung his hat.
“I assure you, I’ve no need for company at this time.”
Ewan, of a like height, slapped him on the back. “Ah, but I’m not company. I’m family.” With that, he released Lathan and started down the hall.
Lathan swallowed a sigh. It was to be a lengthy visit, then, and would include a family talk. “I’d suggest we adjourn to my offices,” he called after his brother, “but they are otherwise damp.” Or, if one wished to be more specific, wet. Wet was what they were. Because the temperate England had of a sudden become an arctic hell, bringing with it snowy day after snowy day. And by the smell and feel of the air, more snow was coming.
“No worries,” his always accommodating brother assured. “After the cold of that ride, I’m feeling a need for strong tea.”
Strong tea.
Had his lips been capable of moving in an upward tilt, he’d have found a smile. “I’ve no tea.”
His brother walked on to the kitchen. Lathan followed behind him.
Shrugging out of his cloak, Ewan hung it along the back of his chair and eyed the room askance.
“I forgot…”
“That I’ve no servants?”
His brother pounced. “You can, you know. You don’t have to live here… like this.”
“I assure you I’m quite content with my circumstances,” he said crisply. Lathan made his way over to one of the tables. Collecting the drip pot, he added ground coffee to the upper container stacked atop the empty lower one.
All the while, he felt his brother’s gaze boring into him.
“Lucas has married.”
Lathan hesitated a moment. Why should that take you aback? Did you expect an invitation or word about your eldest brother’s marriage? Given Lucas’ absence through Lathan’s return from impressment and then his second trial, should he have expected anything other than being shut o
ut? Lathan resumed lighting the stove. “Lord Grimslee has wed,” he said with a cool, mocking edge. “As it was, it’s been five years later than I would have expected him to step up and see to his responsibilities.”
“He attempted to,” Ewan pointed out, the scrape of wood on stone indicating his brother was rearranging his table and chairs, as he invariably did every time he came to visit.
“Attempted to,” Lathan repeated sarcastically. Having broken it off with a lady their family would have never approved of, Lucas had been bound to replace her with someone proper and of equally vaunted stations. “I trust his new bride is someone the earl and countess entirely approve of,” he said, shifting the pot of water onto the stove.
“One would expect as much.”
He turned, and sure enough, Ewan had his sleeves up and was in the middle of taking down the bench and chairs that been stacked atop the table.
Something in his brother’s tone gave him pause.
“He married Merry Read.”
Lathan, who’d believed himself incapable of being surprised, found his eyebrows flying up of their own volition. Merry Read. As in…
“Yes, the housekeeper and steward’s daughter.”
Lathan rocked back on his heels. Then, proving himself the merciless, heartless bastard he was, he found himself grinning after all, the smile cold and harsh, borne not of any real amusement. “I trust the earl and countess were anything but pleased.”
“Oh, you imagine correctly,” Ewan said, taking a seat. He planted his elbows on the table and looked across the scarred surface at Lathan. “They were outraged. Horrified. Mother was in tears. Father was in shock.”
In short, they’d met Lucas’ marital decision with the same contempt they’d met Lathan’s scandal. Had there been any different response, that would have merited real shock.
“Until they weren’t,” his brother said quietly, jolting Lathan from his thoughts.
Lathan stared askance. What was his brother saying? Surely he wasn’t suggesting…
“They realized they were wrong. They saw that Merry makes Lucas happy and support the arrangement.”
The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel (The Brethren Book 5) Page 2
