Frustrated by this, she prepared to leave. Turning, she peered through the gap in the tent flap to see if her exit would be noticed. Directly outside, she saw RJ blocking the way with his large body, as if standing sentinel. He turned his gray head in her direction, and she could have sworn that he winked at her. But no, that was impossible.
“What do you want to know?” Lucan asked from directly behind her. His hand closed over hers on the tent flap, drawing it away and turning her to face him at the same time.
His resolute expression told her that this was not an easy question for him. But apparently, he wanted her to stay. That alone touched her far more than it should have. She decided to go easy on him. “A few minutes ago, you gave a young boy a ribbon so that he could give it to his mother. Why?”
“You were watching me. And I thought you were too distracted by strawberry wine.”
Ah, then he’d been watching her too. The knowledge made her feel warm. “You’re distracting me and stalling.”
“Am I such a curiosity, Miss Thorne?”
He was, and she wanted to know everything about him. “You knew the magician was hiding the bean and that the boy would have lost no matter which bowl he chose.”
He shrugged, but there was a level of tension in the movement. “The man was a bully, amusing himself with the misfortunes of a child.”
Suspicion filled her and she couldn’t let the matter drop. “How did you learn his trick, and the other one you did at Fallow Hall?”
“My father.” He took a step away and began to prowl around the tent like an amber-eyed lion in a cage. Anger rolled off him, giving her a glimpse into that darker part that he usually kept hidden. “But for me, there were more dire consequences than the loss of a coin.”
“What were yours, then?” she asked in a whisper of dread. She didn’t want to know, but at the same time, she had to know.
Another shrug. “The loss of a glazed bun. The loss of supper as well. Sometimes the loss of consciousness. Sometimes worse.”
She felt sick. He’d been starved and beaten as a child. What could be worse? She didn’t ask, however. If he wanted to tell her, he would. If he felt that he could tell her—if, perhaps, he saw her as a friend—then he would. Drawing in a breath, she waited.
“I was fortunate to escape,” he said at last. “My mother, however, was not. As you know, she . . . died when I was in my fourth year of school.”
Sudden awareness struck. All this time, she’d thought it had been an accident. All this time, she’d been so blind . . .
“Lucan, I’m so—” Tears gathered in her eyes and clogged her throat before she could compose herself. Quickly, she turned away before he could see her. Removing her spectacles, she blotted away the dampness with her fingertips. She felt his approach more than heard it. The security she felt at his nearness enveloped her, tempting her to close her eyes and simply fall back into his embrace.
But of course, she would not do that. Instead, she replaced her spectacles before facing him. She opened her mouth to tell him how sorry she was for the horror he’d lived through, but he pressed a fingertip against her lips, silencing her.
“You used my name without formality.”
She wanted to shrug as he had done, but he was now holding her shoulders and drawing her near.
“I hope it was not pity that inspired you.” He searched her gaze, seeing through her lenses in a way that made her feel undressed.
“My own error,” she explained. “Since I rarely use the formality in my thoughts, it must have slipped.” It wasn’t until she glimpsed the appearance of his dimple that she realized what she had revealed. Drat her tendency to blurt! “Merely because thinking your entire name takes a great deal of effort . . . and therefore needs to be shortened. You have spent very little time occupying my thoughts. At all.”
Lucan shook his head slowly. “And if I said the same, would my lies hold the fragrance of strawberries, as yours do?”
Her pulse beat wildly. “Have you eaten strawberries today?”
“I lived vicariously through each berry that passed your lips,” he said, holding her against him now. “You’re not easy to resist.”
“But you do resist me, just like those pastries on the table.”
The rasp of a wry laugh escaped him. “It isn’t the same at all. In fact, you might be my downfall.”
She saw his intent in the subtle shift of his posture and in the way his gaze drifted to her mouth. He was going to kiss her once more. At last.
Yet in that same instant, the tinkle of bells at the back of the tent alerted them to the fortune-teller’s arrival. Swiftly, Lucan set Frances apart from him.
He bowed to the gypsy and slipped silver into her palm. “Please be kind to the lady.”
And then he disappeared.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A scream broke through Lady Whitelock’s chamber door the following morning. Frances rushed in. Mrs. Darby was leaning over a wild, clawing woman who only partly resembled the other-worldly lady who usually resided here.
“Wantonness! Filthy succubus!” the viscountess hissed, her body writhing off the bed.
Mrs. Darby, who outweighed her mistress by two stone, was struggling to hold her down. Her ruffled cap had fallen and hanks of graying hair stuck to her face with perspiration.
“What can I do?” Frances asked, beside her. A shattered teacup lay at her feet with a fan of liquid spattering the floor and the bedside table.
“Her drops. In the drawer. She needs her tea.”
“Tea! Tea! She needs her tea!” Lady Whitelock screamed and then hysterical, high-pitched laughter filled the room.
At the commode, Frances jerked open the drawer to find the brown vial. With the teacup in pieces, she had to improvise with a water glass. “How many drops, Mrs. Darby?”
“Two. Only two,” the nurse replied, panting from exertion.
Frances’s hand shook as she lifted the dropper. She’d been warned about Lady Whitelock’s spells, but this was her first time witnessing one. It was truly terrifying. She added a splash of tea to the glass, only enough for a single swallow. A bitter, somewhat familiar, scent rose as she moved to Mrs. Darby’s side. A chill sliced through Frances, but she attributed it to the urgency of the moment and dismissed it.
“I’ll hold her still. You’ll have to pry her mouth open,” the nurse told her. “Put your hand on her chin and pull down. You won’t hurt her—she’s stronger than she appears.”
Lady Whitelock turned that feral gaze to Frances and bared her teeth. “You’re next, dearie.”
Frances hesitated. That was a mistake. Lady Whitelock snapped at her, trying to bite her fingers. Drawing back, Frances collected herself with a quick breath and tried to think of this as simply a part of her duties. She always managed to complete every task required of her. This was no different. It simply had to be done.
With a firm hand, she held Lady Whitelock’s chin, drew it down, and then poured the tea into her mouth. Her ladyship coughed. Some of the tea sputtered out. Not knowing what else to do, Frances covered the viscountess’s mouth with her hand until she swallowed.
“Move your hand before she nips you,” Mrs. Darby warned, and Frances obeyed, taking a step backward.
Lady Whitelock’s head thrashed back and forth, her chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths. Then in a matter of moments, her white-knuckled grip on the bedclothes relaxed. Her spine eased down onto the bed. Her breathing turned, deep and even.
Mrs. Darby stood back and wiped perspiration from her brow. “And now she’ll rest. Her ladyship is at peace.”
“Is this what normally happens?” That bitter scent clung to her. Frances folded her arms in a measure of comfort. She instantly thought of Lucan, wanting to feel his arms around her. She wanted to feel safe. It was morning, but still she had the urge to run to the gallery and call out for him, hoping he would materialize at her will.
“Her ladyship suffers greatly when the pai
n is upon her,” Mrs. Darby said, walking toward the door. “Now, I must inform his lordship directly about the episode.”
“Is there nothing that can be done for her?” To live like this was no life at all. The viscountess either lingered in a dream state or was trapped in apparent agony.
The nurse breathed a heavy sigh. “His lordship does everything he can for her. It makes my heart ache to think of how much he gives but takes nothing in return.”
Absently, Frances watched her disappear through the doorway. Again, Lucan’s words sifted through her mind. Perhaps he wants your gratitude. A shiver ran over her skin, and she hugged herself tighter. Why was Lord Whitelock was so selfless and generous? Was it because he indeed wanted gratitude and for people to feel indebted to him? If that were true, then was his purpose for the flattery of his own ego or something more sinister?
Frances shook her head, disliking the direction of her thoughts. She was allowing Lucan’s opinions too much free rein inside her head. After all, an important man such as Lord Whitelock could not deceive everyone. She knew how society worked. Whispers of scandal sprouted from small things—the barest hint of indiscretion—and she’d heard many while working at Mrs. Hunter’s. But there had been no whispers about Lord Whitelock. Only servants who sang his praises for coming to their rescue.
There was no reason for her to imagine Lord Whitelock as anything other than a kind benefactor. And if the gratitude of his servants appealed to his ego, then surely there could be little harm in it. After all, his wife was incapable of providing him with praise or attentiveness. Even at his age, he was still a handsome man who doubtlessly missed the affection that only a wife could provide. Or rather, only a wife should provide . . .
Stop it, Frances. She would not discredit his benevolence simply because she’d been startled. Pushing her puzzled thoughts to the back of her mind, she went about cleaning up the mess.
By the time Lord Whitelock walked into the bedchamber, she was feeling more like herself. He looked over at his wife, resting peacefully now.
Then his dark gaze skimmed over Frances as he crossed the room. “How are you faring?”
“I am well, my lord,” she said firmly, straightening her shoulders in an attempt to appear as if the episode had not shaken her. “However, her ladyship was in a great deal of agony.”
“It is a difficult thing to witness for one not used to such trials.” He reached out in a friendly gesture and patted Frances on the arm.
She smiled reassuringly, not wanting him to think she couldn’t fulfill her duties here. “I wish I could have done something more for her.”
“Mrs. Darby said you were remarkable.”
Only now did Frances notice that Mrs. Darby had not returned with the viscount. The door was closed as well. Suddenly, his close proximity and lingering hand on her arm disquieted her, and her previous thoughts interrupted.
She took a step back and gestured toward his wife. “Her ladyship needed our strength, and we came together for her sake.”
“I can see your mother in you, Miss Thorne,” he said with tender affection. At least, that was the reason Frances gave herself for seeing the unexpected grin on his lips. “Elise had a strong will and a feisty spirit. It’s what called me to her. Alas, she chose your father, and our friendship ended. Yet I still hold her memory in my heart. I am pleased—perhaps selfishly so—that I can claim part of her spirit once more by having you here.”
Frances felt another shiver slither through her, but did not reveal it. “I hope to serve her ladyship well.”
“I’m certain you will serve us both very well indeed.” He held out his hand in a request for hers.
When she complied, he covered it with his other hand and gently squeezed as if to comfort her. Yet she felt no comfort, only coldness and the desire to quit the room.
“Take the rest of the day for yourself. I should like to see you refreshed at dinner this evening.”
She sank into a grateful curtsy when he released her. “Thank you, my lord.”
Then without any further exchange between them, she swept out of the room, out of the house, and down the road that led to Fallow Hall.
Lucan rode Quicksilver toward Whitelock’s manor. He needed to speak with the driver who’d taken Henny Momper to Wales. Because, according to the missive that Lucan had received this morning, Henny Momper had never arrived.
Lucan’s friend in Wales had scouted Whitelock’s property there and even met up with the caretaker. At that point, he’d learned that Miss Momper wasn’t even expected to arrive for another two months.
Thinking of Arthur and the promise Lucan had made to him, Lucan felt sick with dread. The toll of those bells rang louder, deafening him. Two months? Then where was Miss Momper now? More important, why hadn’t she written to her brother?
Compiling the list of all he knew about Henny Momper, which wasn’t much, he tried to see things from a different perspective. Suspicion regarding the debt he owed Whitelock in addition to Lucan’s near-obsessive desire to ensure that Frances was safe clouded his judgment. It was difficult to see past those elements, but he tried.
Whitelock had taken in Miss Momper and quickly elevated her to a position of companion for the viscountess. Then, Henny had left Whitelock’s lair to begin a new position as housekeeper—a position at which she was not expected for two more months. And finally, she had not written to her brother—her only surviving family—since leaving.
None of it made sense. If Whitelock was as good as he made himself appear, then where in damnation was Miss Momper? Of course, her disappearance could merely be a misunderstanding. Perhaps she was off somewhere receiving training for her new post.
Instinct, however, told Lucan otherwise. Miss Momper could very well be in danger. Or worse.
That was the thought spinning webs in his mind when he rounded the bend and saw Frances walking on the road toward him. She stopped the instant she saw him. Her shoulders drooped on an exhale and her lips curved slightly upward, as if she was glad—or even relieved—by his presence.
Concerned, he dismounted instantly and strode to her. He noted the uncharacteristic waywardness of her hair. Fine, burnished bronze tendrils had broken free from the sensible twist at the crown of her head. The breeze lifted them like feathers, to brush against her cheeks and forehead. A sheen of perspiration on her face made them cling.
He stopped just short of taking her by the shoulders. If he took her by the shoulders, then he would likely haul her against him. And he might not be able to let her go.
They stood toe-to-toe nonetheless. “What has happened?”
She shook her head. “Nothing—”
“Miss Thorne, do not pretend for one moment that I know you so little. We are beyond that.”
She must have witnessed the doggedness in his expression because she slowly nodded. “We are. However, if it were a matter that I wished to keep to myself, no amount of coercion—kindly meant or not—could induce me to speak.”
He knew that well enough. Lucan offered a stiff nod, not wanting to delay her explanation further. He was already imaging the worst possible circumstances, and he only needed a single word from her to head straight to Whitelock’s manor and murder the viscount.
Frances glanced away. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling somewhat unsure of myself. The experience I had just now has me in a muddle. I don’t know what to believe.”
“What happened?” When an opponent at the tables refused to meet his gaze, it was a telltale sign of withholding and the fear of giving himself away, either with a good hand or a bad one. Lucan didn’t like not knowing what Frances’s eyes would tell him. It left him to wonder what she wasn’t saying.
“I was in the viscountess’s bedchamber and . . . ” Still, she didn’t look at him. “Her ladyship had an episode this morning. She was writhing in agony. She needed her drops—the medicine the nurse puts in her tea—but I stopped cold. For the first time, I was faced with a circumstance in which I
did not know how to react.” Shaking her head as if in self-disgust, she finally met his gaze. “I am being paid handsomely for my job as companion. Far more than I deserve. And now I cannot resolve the amount of guilt inside of me. How can I take a salary without performing all of my duties to the best of my ability? Not only that, but I’ve been given the rest of the day off as well.”
Lucan relaxed marginally. For a moment, he’d thought she was going to confess something else. There was no need for murder, after all, only reassurance. Reaching out, he grabbed Quicksilver’s reins when what he really wanted to do was take Frances in his arms. But he wasn’t in control enough to trust himself at the moment. “I’m certain you performed to the best of your ability at the time. Surely having never expected or encountered one of the viscountess’s episodes, you can easily forgive yourself.”
She shook her head. “My hesitation today could have been detrimental.”
“If your friend Miss North were to come to you with the same concerns, would you forgive her and advise her to forgive herself?”
Her eyes lifted to the canopy of trees overhead. “Kaye? Of course.”
“Then it is settled,” he said and waited for the furrows of worry to smooth away from her forehead. Instead, she knitted her fingers. “Unless . . . ” he added, “there is more to your experience that disturbed you?”
She blinked owlishly at him but quickly shook her head. “No. Of course not.”
Her reaction alerted his suspicions once again. Yet instead of pressing further, he decided on another tactic. What she needed was a distraction to forget about this morning and the sense of failure. “Place your hands on my shoulders, Miss Thorne.”
“For what purpose?” she asked but complied instantly.
He would have preferred a little hesitation on her part. Or he should have. With her hands on him, he was already abandoning his resolve to keep his distance and not test his control. Then, even though he had not asked her to, she stepped closer. Too close and yet not close enough.
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 15
