Mistress of Scandal

by Sara Bennett

  Dramatically, Francesca paused at the door. “Because I am her daughter,” she said.

  Chapter 17

  “Miss Francesca,” Lil began, her eyes suspicious. She’d been waiting downstairs with Martin.

  “Don’t, Lil.”

  But Lil couldn’t be stopped, and she followed Francesca out into the street. It was later than she had thought, the long summer evening beginning to fade. “You be careful, that’s all I want to say,” Lil said.

  “Be careful?” Francesca repeated, feeling slightly hysterical. “I thought I was being careful, Lil, but somehow it went wrong.”

  “Well, sometimes things happen. Men have a way of making them happen,” she added darkly.

  “As much as it would make me feel better, Lil, I can’t allow Mr. Thorne to take all the blame for his actions. It was my fault, too.”

  Lil shrugged. “Have it your own way. Mar—Mr. O’Donnelly says that Mr. Thorne isn’t what he seems, but I don’t believe a word either of them says. Peas in a pod, those two.”

  Francesca frowned. “What did you and Martin get up to, Lil? Perhaps it’s you who should be careful.”

  “Nothing, miss. We walked around about and he bought me an ice. Very nice it was. But I’m not fooled by him. He’s Irish, isn’t he, and he’s kissed the Blarney Stone.” But there was a little smile playing at her mouth, the sort of smile Francesca hadn’t seen on Lil in a very long time.

  Mrs. March waylaid Francesca in the hall to tell her Mrs. Jardine had retired with a headache. “Will you be dining as usual?” Her cold gaze was taking note of the rumpled skirt and the untidy hair beneath the bonnet.

  Self-consciously Francesca cleared her throat. Mrs. March could not possibly know what she’d been up to, but at that moment it seemed as if she did.

  “Mr. Tremaine is dining at his club,” the housekeeper added with a hint of impatience.

  “Oh yes, of course. No, Mrs. March, I’ll have something in my room. I am tired and I’ll retire early.”

  “Very well.”

  Wearily, Francesca made her way to her room, but decided to check on Amy first. Her mother was pale but her headache was fading. She asked if Francesca could get her some sweet tea, because the beverage often helped.

  “Of course.” She reached out to ring for a servant, but Amy stopped her.

  “Please, my dear, would you mind terribly going down to the kitchen to fetch it? The cook is a kindly sort of woman, and Mrs. March made such a fuss the last time I rang. The girls, she said, had enough to do with all the extra work I was causing.”

  Francesca was furious. The woman was insufferable! “She’d better not say anything to me,” she declared, but for Amy’s sake, she went back down the stairs to fetch the tea herself.

  The cook was as kind as Amy said, and Francesca was soon on her way back with the tea and some sweet biscuits to tempt Amy’s appetite. She was thinking of Sebastian. She admitted to being surprised by the unexpected luxury of his rooms in Half Moon Street—the carpets and hangings in deep rich colors. And the portrait that hung over the fireplace of the eighteenth-century woman in the white wig, with dark eyes so very like Sebastian’s.

  He must be her grandson or great-grandson, she realized, but the painting had been that of a gentlewoman, perhaps even a great lady. Was Sebastian the product of a liaison between an heir and a maid? Or had his branch of the family fallen low for one reason or another? Whatever the truth, the portrait meant something to him.

  Francesca realized she had paused in the hall, beside a grandfather clock. As she made to move on, she heard voices farther along the corridor. One of the voices belonged to Mrs. March. Curiously, she made her way closer to the sounds, which she now realized were coming from the best sitting room. The door to the room was ajar, just enough to enable her to see the backs of Mrs. March and a dark-haired woman. There was something familiar about the second woman—her voice or the look of her—but even as Francesca struggled to recall where she’d seen her before, Mrs. March turned and spied her.

  She was startled. “Miss Francesca!”

  Francesca forced an innocent smile. “I was fetching tea for Mrs. Jardine. I went myself so as not to be a nuisance to the servants. I know how busy they are.”

  Mrs. March’s nostrils flared. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder and then moved to fill the doorway, almost as if she meant to prevent Francesca from seeing the other woman. Anyway she, whoever she was, had moved toward the far corner and was lost in the shadows.

  “Nevertheless, you should have rung for a servant,” Mrs. March said coolly.

  Francesca was sorely tempted, but she managed to control her tongue. “I must remember to do so next time. You have a visitor, Mrs. March?”

  “Yes.”

  Francesca waited a beat, but Mrs. March was silent. “Good night, Miss Greentree,” she said firmly, and she closed the door in Francesca’s face.

  “Miss Greentree has hired us to watch over her family,” Sebastian said as Martin put his clothes away.

  “That will be interesting,” Martin replied with a comical look. “Does that mean we’re working for Miss Greentree or Madame Aphrodite? Or are we working for them both?”

  “We’re working for Aphrodite,” Sebastian said, with a frown. “Miss Greentree only thinks we’re working for her.”

  “Ah, I see.” Martin grew thoughtful.

  Sebastian wondered whether he did. Keeping Francesca safe was his main objective. It filled his head; it kept him awake at night. Today, when he’d held her in his arms, he’d felt the wildness in her, that primitive emotion he had known was there the first time he saw her. She kept it leashed but he had set it free, and she admitted that she couldn’t think straight around him.

  What would happen when Mrs. Slater was caught and her secrets were out in the open? Would Francesca still come to him? Or would she accuse him of duplicity and return to her lonely life on the moors?

  Since she’d saved him from the mire, he couldn’t remember what his life was like without her. The thought of being without her again unnerved him as it never had before, as if he’d shed the person he’d been for the past eight years, and become another. He’d begun to remember events, moments from his boyhood. He’d begun to remember Barbara, his sister.

  It was Barbara who’d caused him to turn his back on all he’d known and become someone else. He’d been punishing himself. Was it possible to forgive himself after all, something he would never have believed when the tragedy happened? Would Barbara have forgiven him already, if she’d still been alive?

  “Sir?”

  He looked up, startled. “Sorry, Martin, I was miles away.”

  “Are you going out again tonight, sir?”

  “Yes, Martin, I am. And so are you.”

  Martin sighed. “I thought I might be.”

  Helen arrived early the next morning, and she and Amy were closeted in the breakfast room. By the time Francesca came down—after another restless night—they were flushed and bright-eyed over breakfast, and obviously up to something.

  “Please, I beg you, no more shopping,” Francesca groaned. “As much as I love my new wardrobe, I don’t think I would survive the experience.”

  Amy laughed. “No, my dear. But your Aunt Helen has had another wonderful idea, haven’t you, Helen?”

  Helen leaned forward excitedly. “Francesca, your mother and I wanted to do something to bring this old house to life again. It has been so long since your Uncle William held any sort of entertainment here…”

  “I think the last truly memorable gathering was your coming-out ball, Helen.” Amy gave her daughter a pleading glance.

  “Yes.” Helen sighed, and for a moment she fell silent, remembering.

  “You must have looked a picture,” Francesca said gently.

  Helen smiled but shook her head. “This isn’t about my coming-out ball. This is about you, Francesca. We want to throw a ball in your honor.”

  Francesca looked from Helen’s
excited face to Amy’s hopeful one. “Oh no, I…I’m too old to come out!”

  “I know that.” Helen laughed. “It’s not a coming-out ball, not as such. It’s an—an introductory ball. To introduce you to London society!”

  “Oh please…” Francesca groaned.

  Amy poured her some tea and handed her the cup. “My dear, I know this isn’t strictly what you prefer, all this fuss, but I’m asking you for my sake, for Helen’s, for Mr. Jardine’s, for Uncle William’s! It seems such a perfect way to bring us all together. And Tremaine House can return to life again, and become the wonderful place it was when we were young.”

  Their eyes shone, their faces glowed.

  Francesca sipped her tea, refusing to be won over so easily. They watched her without blinking, trying to guess what she was going to say. After a moment Helen grew impatient and began to speak, but Amy touched her arm and hushed her. Eventually Francesca set down her cup.

  “I’ll agree. But,” she added loudly, when they tried to talk over her, “only if Uncle William does. After all, we can’t hold a ball in his house if he refuses, can we?”

  Helen clapped her hands together. “He will agree, I know he will!”

  Amy appeared more uncertain.

  Francesca tried not to feel relieved. She couldn’t imagine Uncle William agreeing to a ball, especially one in her honor. Although it was a shame to disappoint the two older women, Francesca did not think she could survive it. A ball meant being thrust into London society, and then what next? A list of suitable beaus? No, Francesca didn’t want to be remade in someone else’s image. She was herself, for better or worse.

  But her relief was short-lived.

  “A ball!” William repeated, when he arrived at breakfast and Amy determinedly broached the subject. He didn’t sound enthused.

  “We used to have them, remember?” Amy said wryly. “The last time the house was full of guests was for Helen’s coming out. How long ago was that, brother?”

  Francesca watched them with interest, waiting for the shouting to begin. But to her amazement and horror, Uncle William grew maudlin.

  “Helen was an angel that night.”

  “Thank you, William.” Helen flushed with pleasure. “I did think I looked very well. The gown was—”

  “You could have made a great match, you know. There were several very important gentlemen interested. But no, you had to go and spoil it all by running off with that half-wit Toby!”

  “Francesca is not about to run off with anyone, William,” Amy said quickly, to avert Helen’s tears and William’s bad temper. “But you never know, she may make just as good a marriage as her sisters.” She gave Francesca a sharp glance, stifling any protests.

  “Do you think so?” William gave Francesca a doubtful look. “She is pretty, I grant you, or would be if she would only leave off those frightful Yorkshire bags and wear something smart. Her manners…well, she can be opinionated, but all of your girls are, Amy. At least there is no scandal attached to her name. Yet!”

  “I think Francesca could shine almost as brightly as Marietta,” Amy said slyly.

  “Max Valland will be a duke one day,” William followed on with her train of thought. “But an earl would be acceptable. Is that what you mean, an earl?” His eyebrows rose. “Well, I suppose anything is possible. What do you say to that, girl? Do you have an earl hidden up your sleeve somewhere?”

  As always, Francesca had the impression he disliked her, but she gave him a wan smile.

  “Do you really think she could do the family proud?” William asked Amy, as if he didn’t hold much hope.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Francesca is a very beautiful woman, just like her mother,” Helen added, trying to be helpful.

  There was a silence. William gave one of his most savage frowns. “The less we say about that, the better.”

  Helen’s lip wobbled.

  “And she has her portion of the Greentree fortune for her dowry,” Amy hurried to move matters on to something William found more palatable. “She is not penniless, William, and she has connections. You are her uncle…” She let the sentence drift, watching him.

  William nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean. She can’t help but be touched by my own respectability. You’re a good girl, niece?”

  “Uncle, I am—”

  “Francesca is a very proper young lady.”

  “Well, then.”

  Francesca tried her best to appear “proper” beneath his steely gaze, and she must have done a reasonable job of it, because he looked almost benevolently upon her.

  “Very well, then. I will speak to Mrs. March about it. Thank me, girl!” to Francesca. “You are about to have more money and time lavished on you than you no doubt deserve.”

  “Uncle William, I have no wish to—”

  “Thank your uncle, my dear.” Amy’s eyes could be just as steely as her brother’s.

  Francesca knew when she was beaten. “Thank you very much. Now, if you will excuse me. The excitement…” She closed the door and stood a moment, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. A ball meant people she barely knew assessing her looks and her prospects and her secrets. And all the time Uncle William would be watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake. Waiting for the real Francesca to escape her bonds and scandalize London.

  She shivered.

  And what about Sebastian? If Uncle William knew about him, he would have an apoplexy. Two apoplexies. But was it likely he’d find out? Sebastian was not someone who would ever be invited to the ball. He belonged in the shadows, and that was where he must stay.

  Francesca realized then that she’d miss him. It would have been very pleasant indeed to waltz in Sebastian’s strong arms. She would have enjoyed seeing the expression in his eyes when he saw her in her new ball gown. He wouldn’t mind if she scandalized London. In fact, she realized with surprise, he probably wouldn’t care what she did as long as she was being herself. Sebastian didn’t approve when she played at being the sort of young woman Uncle William wanted her to be.

  He wanted to set her free.

  Francesca couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing.

  Chapter 18

  “You see that man over there?”

  Lil peered across the square, following the direction of Martin’s pointing finger. The house was in darkness, but there was a gas lamp nearby and she could just see a shadow, moving.

  “I think so. What of him?”

  Martin laughed softly, as if her abrasive manner amused him. “He’s off to visit his mistress. We’ll follow him as far as her house and then our job is done.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Thorne has been engaged by the lady’s husband. The fellow has doubts about the heir she is carrying.”

  Lil snorted. “He thinks he’s been cuckolded? Does he really need Mr. Thorne to tell him that? Why doesn’t he just ask her himself?”

  “Ah, these society marriages, Lil. I don’t think they talk to each other at all, except at the breakfast table, and then it’s only ‘Pass the toast, beloved,’ and, ‘More jam, sweetness.’”

  Lil snorted again. “What do they expect when they marry for money or position or because their father tells them to!”

  Martin turned to look at her with interest. “Why do you think they should marry then?”

  “Well, for love, of course!”

  As soon as the words were out she bit her lip, hard. Why had she said that? And to him of all people! He’d think she was angling to marry him.

  “You’re a romantic little thing, aren’t you, Lil,” he said, with that soft Irish lilt that made her heart skip a beat.

  “I’m a widow,” she retorted. “There’s nothing romantic about that.”

  “Oh, are you now? Is that what the black is for? I thought you’d given up color for the sake of your soul.”

  She gave him a look.

  “I’m sorry. Sometimes my jokes fall very flat. Did you love your husband, L
il?”

  “He was a good man.”

  Martin pondered this a moment. “A man can be good without being lovable.”

  Lil wished he’d stop. “Aren’t you meant to be following your gentleman.”

  “Oh God,” Martin muttered, and tugged her arm, hurrying her along the side of the square. “Where is he? Can you see him?”

  “I think…over there.”

  “Thank the Lord for that!”

  Lil, who kept her private feelings very much to herself, giggled at his emotional display.

  Martin’s teeth flashed white. “You may well laugh, Miss Lil, but you don’t know what Mr. Thorne can be like. I’ve only just recovered from my last beating.”

  Lil stopped, wide-eyed with shock. “He beats you! Martin, you must leave him at once.”

  Martin put his hands on her shoulders. “It was a joke. Of course he doesn’t beat me. But he can look very fierce.”

  Lil pulled away and strode off ahead of him. She was upset with him for teasing her and forcing her to show the sort of feeling she usually kept hidden.

  “I’m flattered you care,” he called softly, loping after her to catch up.

  “I’d care for any dumb creature who was mistreated,” she said primly.

  “Oh there, that’s put me in me place.”

  Lil glanced at him and couldn’t help but laugh at his mournful expression. He grinned back, and suddenly Lil had the most peculiar sensation, as if she was falling.

  “Lil?” Martin was holding on to her arm, steadying her, and this time his concern was genuine.

  “I…I came over all dizzy,” she said. “Sorry. I’m all right now.”

  “Do you want me to take you home?”

  Lil took a shaky breath. Strangely, she didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay here with him, but she couldn’t tell him that, so she forced herself to smile. “And get you another of Mr. Thorne’s beatings for not doing your job? Course not.”

  Martin smiled back. “You’re an angel, Lil.”

  Her heart skipped again. An angel? She was far from that, but she wasn’t about to tell him so. She hadn’t told Mr. Keith, her ballooning beau, and she hadn’t told Jacob, and she wasn’t going to tell Martin.