by Sara Bennett
“Madame…”
Her gaze was firm and direct, and any arguments he had dried up unspoken. Aphrodite might have been slow to take action, but now she would not be swayed from her course, even if it meant she was heading into disaster.
It was Sebastian’s job to avert that disaster.
“You are protecting my daughter?” Aphrodite’s urgent question interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes, Madame, I am.”
“I am glad you were with her when she saved Rosie. It was a wonderful thing she did, but she must not be allowed to risk herself again.”
“I told her not to, but…” He shrugged. “Your daughter is headstrong, Madame.”
Aphrodite smiled. “She followed her heart. That isn’t bad, that is good. She should do it more often, instead of playing the part of Miss Respectability.”
He laughed. “I wish she would,” he said. If her heart led her into his arms and his bed, then he’d be very happy.
Perhaps something of his thoughts showed on his face, or perhaps Aphrodite was especially intuitive, because she reached out and pressed her fingertip to his chest. “Are you sure it’s not your heart we’re discussing, Mr. Thorne? My daughter is a beautiful young woman. It would be a shame if she lived her life alone because she was afraid to love.”
He smiled, but his eyes were bleak. “I have no heart, Madame. I cut it out years ago.”
“Then I pity you,” she said quietly. “Because without love, Mr. Thorne, we may as well be dead.”
Francesca awoke to the sounds of London. She’d been having a wonderful dream. Sebastian Thorne had climbed up the wall outside her window and in through the dusty panes. She had felt his hands on her, sure and strong, as his body moved with hers. Now she felt flushed and warm, tingling in places she hadn’t known could tingle.
She missed him, and that frightened her. There was a yearning within her to be in his company, to seek him out, to go to his rooms in Half Moon Street. Aphrodite would have done such a thing; she would have abandoned everything for love, and ended up with nothing. And that was why Francesca couldn’t.
With a groan, she sat up in the dawn light. She needed to escape this place as soon as possible, and return to the moors where she was safe. He was here in London. And although Francesca kept telling herself that she would continue to resist him with all her might, she knew that when she was with him it wasn’t that simple. She didn’t trust him…she didn’t trust herself.
Perhaps if she’d married some safe, dull gentleman she wouldn’t have this problem. However tempted she might be by Sebastian, her marriage vows would have stopped her from throwing caution to the winds. Why hadn’t she wed? But Francesca knew why. She hadn’t been able to bear resigning herself to a loveless marriage. It would be worse than remaining a spinster and never knowing love at all, but she’d been prepared to do so…until she met Sebastian.
Now she was so confused, she didn’t know what to do. Either way she was going to be hurt.
Ask Aphrodite. She’ll understand. She’ll know the answer.
The voice in her head shocked her. She didn’t doubt that her mother would understand, but as to knowing the answer…Aphrodite hadn’t been able to organize her own life; how could she help her daughter?
Washed and dressed, Francesca went downstairs to breakfast. Yesterday they had visited Trafalgar Square and taken tea with an old acquaintance of her mother’s. Amy was already busily planning this day’s activities, filling up every moment so that she couldn’t miss her husband.
She looked up at Francesca with a smile. “Francesca, there you are! Today we are taking Helen shopping with us.”
“Mama, please, I really don’t need a new wardrobe.”
Amy raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking of myself, my dear. You wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of your company, surely?”
Francesca wouldn’t, of course, but she strongly suspected it was one of Amy’s ploys to “smarten her up.”
“Mrs. Jardine. Miss Francesca. Good morning.” Mrs. March appeared in the doorway to the breakfast room, her face as impassive as ever. Her glance flicked to Francesca, and she gave the faintest of smiles. Since Rosie’s departure, and her own victory, she seemed to have grown in confidence.
“Good morning, Mrs. March,” Amy replied sweetly. “We will be going out this morning and may not be back until this evening. We have a great deal to do. Will you tell my brother?”
“In fact, Mr. Tremaine asked me to inform you that he will be at his club this evening.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Mr. Tremaine is a very busy man.”
“I’m sure there will be plenty of other occasions when my brother and I can chat.”
Mrs. March looked as if she doubted it, but she didn’t comment and left the room as regally as a ship in full sail.
“William seems to be making himself scarce,” Amy said, reaching for more toast. “Anyone would think he didn’t want to repair our relationship.”
“He’ll come around, Mama.”
“I hope so. I mean to win this war between us, Francesca.”
“Speaking of wars…I have the distinct impression that Mrs. March is fighting one with us for possession of Uncle William. Is he such a prize, Mama?”
“She may be concerned about her position in the household, my dear, that’s all. Being a servant can be tenuous, and I imagine she has seen many others come and go. My brother is an exacting man with a fiery temper.”
“I shouldn’t think she’d have to worry about him bringing a wife home just now, not if his behavior the other night, when you mentioned it, is anything to go by. He’s a confirmed bachelor. Surely that is every housekeeper’s dream?”
Amy sighed. “Francesca, William is quite a catch. And he’s had his fair share of amours,” she added, and laughed when she saw the expression on her daughter’s face. “You’re surprised! But it is so; in fact, William considered himself quite the ladies’ man when he was younger.”
“Please, Mama, stop. The thought of Uncle William breaking hearts is making me feel quite ill.”
“I don’t know why, you silly child.” She paused and grew thoughtful. “Though now I come to think of it, Thomas was the real heartbreaker, not William. The ladies always fell for Thomas. It wasn’t his fault—he just seemed to draw them like flies to jam—but it was another reason for William to dislike his elder brother. How I wish…”
Amy was growing maudlin. Francesca decided it was time to cheer her up. “Hurry up, Mama! We are going shopping, remember? Finish your tea and toast.”
Amy’s eyes lit up, and she cast a speaking glance over her daughter’s dowdy ensemble. “So we are.”
“I know of a new modiste,” Helen informed them when they arrived in Bloomsbury to collect her. “She’s quite the rage.”
Francesca was relieved to discover that Toby was out, visiting a dentist. He’d been suffering with a troublesome tooth but had refused to have it seen to until he found a modern-thinking dentist, one who used ether to reduce the pain. Toby was never one to suffer if he could help it.
“I thought only Her Majesty uses ether, when she—”
“Why, anyone can use it,” Helen broke in, “not just women in childbirth.” She sat back in the carriage, fussing with her gloves. “Have you seen the latest fashions, Amy? I have a copy of the Ladies’ Gazette of Fashion you must look through. There is a style that would have looked splendid on me when I was a young girl.” Poor Helen looked momentarily woebegone, before shaking off the past. “I am too long in the tooth for that now, of course, but what I meant to say was that I am quite certain it will suit Francesca very well.”
Francesca’s heart sank down to her boots. She could just imagine herself in the sort of frilly, frothy, girlish outfits Helen would favor; all ribbons and flounces. “Under no circumstances,” she whispered to Amy, as Helen rambled on about an assembly she’d once attended at Almack’s and what she’d worn.
“Now, my dear,” Amy murm
ured in reply, “we all have to make sacrifices. Poor Helen needs cheering up and it’s our job to do it, even if it means buying an entire new wardrobe of pretty dresses.”
Regent Street, with its plate-glass windows, was the premier shopping street in London, but there was also Burlington Arcade, with small dressmakers’ shops and specialty shops. There was so much to see that despite herself, Francesca was tingling with excitement, but most of the time she was kept too busy listening to Amy and Helen chatter and trying to prevent them from getting lost among the splendors of fashion.
She wasn’t sure when she first noticed the man. He was leaning against the wall in one of the smaller arcades, and he had sandy hair and was wearing a brown jacket. Tall and gangly, he had the air of someone with time on his hands. There was nothing special about him, nothing that should have drawn her attention, except that when their eyes met, he immediately turned his back and pretended to peer into a window full of confectionary.
The next moment Helen was diving into a glove-maker’s, giggling like a girl, and when Francesca glanced around again for the man he was gone. For some reason she wasn’t relieved, and she began to take more notice of her surroundings.
Several shops later, she thought she saw him again on the other side of the street, but it was only his back in the brown jacket. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. He’s probably waiting for his wife and spending his time ogling other women. You’re making something of nothing, and all because Sebastian frightened you with his tales of dangerous people.
Just then Helen fell into raptures yet again, this time over some millinery in the window of Swan and Edgar, calling for their opinion on one of the new straw bonnets with the rounded shape and horizontal crown. Suddenly Francesca was weary of the expedition. She quite liked the bonnets, but what was the use in giving her opinion, when neither Helen nor Amy listened to it anyway? She strolled farther down the street and stopped in front of a haberdasher’s.
A bolt of rose red satin seemed to jump out at her.
Francesca gave a groan of sheer feminine pleasure.
“Oh, how pretty!” Amy was at her side.
“Yes.” She glanced back toward the milliner’s. “Is Aunt Helen finished swooning over those bonnets?”
“Not quite. That color would suit you very well, you know,” Amy announced, tucking her hand into Francesca’s arm and leading her inside.
“Mama…” she protested, but her voice was weak from exhaustion and a sudden desire to own the rose silk. She could imagine the expression on Sebastian’s face, when he…if he saw her in a dress made up from it.
“The pale blue crepe, too,” Amy was directing an assistant who had coming hurrying to serve them. “And I think…yes, lace for an overskirt, and ribbons, and…”
It was pointless protesting. Amy was like a railway train, sweeping away all in her path. In no time Francesca found herself being bustled onto the premises of a supercilious-looking modiste, and Amy and Helen were engaged in a series of discussions on style and cut, and the short sleeves as opposed to those with a fall of lace to the elbow.
“She’s not petit,” the modiste announced, sharp eyes taking in every detail of Francesca’s figure.
Francesca opened her mouth to argue—My mother calls me petit chaton—and then realizing what she was going to say, closed it again.
“With such a striking figure, she needs to make something of herself. Her height, her waist and bosom and hips, are all to be put on show. No frills and clusters of ribbons. No fussy little prints. She would look ridiculous. Colors that complement her dark hair and eyes, and that flawless creamy skin. Necklines to show to best advantage her excellent bosom. Stiffened petticoats to hold out her skirts and accentuate her tiny waist.”
Francesca wanted to squirm, but at the same time she knew that the modiste was right. This was a woman of good sense, even if she did lack tact. Why pretend she was petite like Helen and Marietta? She was a statuesque woman, like Vivianna; one who would always stand out in a crowd. It was the truth and she should make the most of it.
“She will need gloves, bonnets, stockings, drawers, chemises, stays, petticoats, boots, shoes and evening slippers.” Helen began listing them off on her fingers, her eyes shining with excitement. “Oh dear, I haven’t had this much fun in ages!”
At that moment any last protests Francesca might have voiced died on her lips. How could she be churlish when Amy and Helen were having such a marvelous time? And what harm could it do? She might—she realized with a tremble of excitement—even enjoy herself. It would be a change to wear clothes that enhanced her best features, rather than hiding them. Mrs. Hall, the seamstress in the village, seemed to have only two dress sizes—big and bigger.
By the time they were finished, Francesca was dizzy from looking at so many patterns and standing still, or turning around, while she was poked and prodded, draped and pinned. Altogether she was to have six new dresses, and a rose red satin ball gown. Francesca, who had never had a ball gown, wasn’t quite certain what she was going to do with one now, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that Amy and Helen did.
She’d forgotten about the loose-limbed man with the sandy hair, but as they were leaving the modiste’s establishment, she saw him again. This time he was standing by a drinking fountain, and he was looking directly at her. There was no possible doubt about it.
Fear crept over her with spidery fingers.
Once again he looked away, pretending to be interested in a smart pair of horses pulling a barouche. But Francesca wasn’t deceived. All Sebastian’s warnings came back to her in a rush. She hadn’t listened to him, not really. She hadn’t believed him. Oh, why hadn’t she believed him?
She turned, looking about her, and saw that there were plenty of shoppers in the street. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and everyone was going about his tasks in an ordinary manner. She was safe; no one could hurt her in such a public place. Who had ever heard of a woman being kidnapped in Regent Street during the most fashionable hour for shopping?
The realization calmed her.
“I think that will do for today,” Amy was saying. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about those other silk stockings, Helen?”
“No, I think I will leave them, Amy. Toby is certain to make a fuss if I buy more than one pair.”
“If Toby can find the money for a dentist who uses ether, then you can certainly have more than one pair of stockings!” Amy retorted sharply.
“Amy, he’s not as bad as you think.”
“He is, Helen.” Amy must have been tired, to have said such a thing. Usually she displayed more tact.
Helen chewed her lip, giving her sister a guilty glance. “I know he’s not perfect,” she said tentatively, “but I haven’t always been the perfect wife, either.”
“Nonsense,” Amy retorted, still with less than her usual discretion. “You are far too good for him, Helen. He is a fortunate man to have you.”
Helen’s eyes widened and, to Francesca’s horror, filled with tears. “You don’t understand. I’ve been a very bad wife to Toby. I don’t know how he puts up with me.”
“Helen?” Amy gasped, as shocked as Francesca. “What do you mean?”
Helen had a hectic flush in her cheeks. “It was years ago,” she murmured, fanning herself with her hand, “and I promised I would never speak of it, so I’m afraid I cannot.”
“Promised Toby?” Amy asked, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“Toby and William,” Helen said, and then shook her head and closed her lips firmly, as if she had said too much.
“You really are infuriating, Helen.” Amy sighed. “And no matter what you say, I shall never believe you have done anything bad.”
But Helen didn’t answer her, and the journey back to the Russell house in Queen’s Square seemed an anticlimax after the excitement of the day.
“I wonder what on earth Helen believes she did that was so terrible she must never speak of it,”
Amy mused later, when they were alone in the carriage. “I thought running off with Toby was the worst mistake she could have made.”
“If Uncle William knows and has sworn her to silence, then it must be scandalous.”
“Yes,” Amy murmured. She rested her hand over her eyes, as if it was suddenly all too much for her.
Francesca reached to touch her arm. “You have a headache, Mama. Why don’t you go up and take a rest before supper? I’m sure Mrs. March won’t mind holding back the meal.”
Amy spread her fingers and gave her a droll look.
Francesca laughed, and at that moment she happened to glance out of the window. The carriage had become snarled in a traffic jam between a cart and an omnibus. No wonder so many people preferred to walk, she was thinking; it was far quicker. And then he was there, the man with the sandy hair. He was standing on the corner opposite them, and he was staring at their carriage.
There could be no mistake this time. He was following her, watching her. Pursuing her. Francesca knew this was too important and too dangerous for her to take matters into her own hands. Besides, what would she do? She needed help from someone who was familiar with the dangerous and turbulent world she seemed to have entered. Someone who fit in perfectly.
She needed Sebastian.
Chapter 16
As soon as Amy had gone upstairs to rest, Francesca went in search of Lil.
“How is Rosie?”
“She’s havin’ a lovely time,” Lil said with a smile. “Madame’s girls are all spoilin’ her rotten.” Her expression turned anxious. “You don’t think that her aunt can take her back, do you? After what she did, trying to sell her?”
“Has Rosie asked for her?”
“No, not once.”
“Then I don’t think we should worry about it. The aunt obviously is not a suitable person to care for a child. Rosie is better off with us.” She paused before she went on. “Lil, have you seen anyone around the club who is acting suspiciously?”
