Diana Sensational Spinster's Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book)

by Charlotte Stone

  She adjusted herself in her chair as she tried to get comfortable. Sitting in chairs with straight backs grew bothersome after a while. She ignored the reason why, and pressed on with the conversation. They’d both lost their mothers. She wanted to know how he’d lost his, but feared the answer. She didn’t want to speak about death.

  “How many others do you count as family?” she asked instead.

  He turned toward her as Michael took away his plate, and dessert was brought out. Strawberry tarts. “Eight more men, and nine other women. Along with their children. I’ve five nephews and six nieces.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Or is it seven? There are so many, I can barely keep count. And you?”

  His family sounded much like hers. “I’ve my brother, but like you, I count many of the people who work for my brother as family. I’ve known them for so long.”

  He nodded as if in full understanding.

  A compatible silence fell.

  “I had a chance to speak to Mr. Hit,” he said later. “He seemed to care greatly for you, more than the usual bodyguard would.”

  She’d been leaning closer to him during the conversation, and she pulled away. “I’ve known Hit since I was a child. I’m sure this whole mess has taken its toll on him.”

  “Don’t feel guilty,” he commanded. “You are not at fault for someone else’s actions.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “How did you meet Mr. Hit?” He seemed readily prepared to distract her. She liked that, especially since her mind grew lost when it ventured too close to the dark.

  Her mind went back to a time of innocence. “Well, you must cease to call him Mr. Hit. It’s just Hit.” She knew the upper-class enjoyed being proper, but there was nothing proper about Hit. “I doubt my brother has shared much of our life with you, but we were never officially claimed by our father. Instead, we grew up with our mother in Covent Garden. She was a lacemaker, and a very good one. Her designs were coveted by many, though without a man to oversee the business, she was never paid what she deserved for her work. Merchants knew how desperate she was for money and gave her very little.” And once Bancroft had taken over Covent Garden, he’d made sure that every fabric merchant who’d ever shortchanged their mother regretted doing so.

  “Hit’s father was our landlord. He was a very good man who taught his son that women needed looking after. He’d also taught him how to fight.” She grinned as she recalled the thin young boy Hit had been, yet his punch had always been accurate.

  “And the name?” Dr. Lockwood asked with open interest.

  “That’s what I’ve always known him as,” she confessed. “And though I know his real name, I must confess that I’m forbidden from sharing it.” Hit’s orders.

  Dr. Lockwood chuckled. “Diana.”

  She grew still as her name on his lips echoed through her mind. She tried to capture the way it sounded when he said it. He embraced every syllable with his speech.

  “A Roman goddess.” he went on with a composed gaze. “It’s a very fine name.” What would it take to rile this man?

  “Franklin,” she whispered. “Where did it come from?”

  Finally, a reaction. Embarrassment? “It is a family name. My lineage goes back to nearly the founding of England. A franklin six hundred years ago was actually a social class. It means we owned land, and no one owned us.”

  No, she couldn’t see this man being owned by anyone or bowing down to anyone— not even her brother, and Diana was sure that even Hit took caution where his old friend was concerned.

  “You’re fascinating. Your name, I mean.” She closed her mouth and pressed the wine to her lips to fight off her own embarrassment.

  He studied her silently for a moment and smiled again. “Usually everyone simply calls me Frank.”

  She swallowed. “Your friends and those you count family, you mean?”

  He inclined his head.

  Was it an invitation to having such a place in his life?

  “Then you must call me Diana.”

  He nodded but said nothing. His lids lowered and his gaze darkened.

  She flushed.

  He turned away and stood. “Thank you for the meal, but I must retire to my rooms. I’ve correspondence to write.”

  She stood. “Yes. Goodnight.”

  He left, not seeming to walk in any hurry, and yet she felt as though her marble man wished to run.

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  8

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  CHAPTER EIGHT

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  Frank found Diana in the drawing room the next morning. She held a book in her hand, but looked up upon seeing him, with the faintest of smiles. She wore brown today. A muted, ghastly color that should have made her look like a pauper, but instead, she simply looked like a princess in hiding, which to him, was exactly what she was. She was the sister of a man who owned half the people in London, and he’d better to remember that.

  “Frank, you didn’t come down to break your fast.” She closed the book and stared at him with powerful pale blue eyes.

  Frank. He’d thought to return them to their formal selves this morning, but now wondered if that would undo the progress he was making. He didn’t even know if he were making any progress. She was a performer. What was real? What was pretend? She seemed so comfortable around him, something that should not have come so easy for a woman who’d just suffered what she had.

  He wanted to say it was because he’d saved her; but couldn’t help but wonder if it were something else, for he, too, felt quite comfortable around her. There was easiness between them, as though they’d known one another for years, when that simply was not so.

  He’d enjoyed dinner greatly last night, and had been looking forward to breaking his fast with her.

  Which was why he’d restrained himself and stayed in his room for most of the day, writing letters to his colleagues in London, as they continued to discuss the mind of a woman who had fallen and bumped her head, then forgotten her entire history, yet could recall basic skills like writing and reading. It perplexed them greatly, and yet was a thrilling discovery in its own way.

  He bowed to Diana. “I’m sorry I did not take my meal with you. I was occupied with my correspondence.”

  She narrowed her eyes and he saw apprehension before she turned away, giving him her profile. “Well, if you write my brother, do tell him I say hello.” She was once again gazing at the book. In the sunlight, he noticed once again the color of her hair. It was pale brown, the soft color of English oak. She wore it pinned low on her neck without a single hair out of place and again he realized how such a look should have muted her, but she glowed amongst the brightness of the room.

  He didn’t move. “I’m no longer occupied by my writing.”

  She didn’t look at him, but lifted her head and stared beyond the book. She scrunched up her face before looking at him. “Is my brother forcing you to be here?”

  Her brother could force him nowhere he didn’t wish to be. Not even on the night he’d locked Frank in the basement with the Earl of Dahl, could Frank say there wasn’t a great part of him that had wanted to be there, to be the one to break him, figure out the puzzle, and find the treasure at the end.

  And then he’d found her, and had understood the error of his thoughts. She was no prize, but a woman hurt and wounded in ways he’d yet to see. He was here for her, because of her, and currently, it was only she who held any power over him. “No.”

  She spoke as though he’d not, closing the book and rising as she did. “Because if he did, then leave. If you don’t want to be here—”

  “I’m right where I wish to be.”

  * * *

  She didn’t believe him. Not at all. He’d been avoiding her all morning when she’d done nothing but wait with little patience to see him again, to speak to someone who wouldn’t a
sk her how she was, if she’d had the night terrors again—which she had—or if she would ever dance again.

  As the days went by, she grew more firm in her belief that she would never grace the stage again.

  If Frank had chosen to come, then he was wasting his time.

  “You should go.”

  He stood by the door, dressed formally in a dark suit. His clothes were a caliber above other doctors. His wealth showed. His winged brow caught her eye. “I believe we’ve had this conversation before.”

  She stilled and realized they had, in this very room. She’d told him to leave and he hadn’t. “Why are you here?”

  “To help you.”

  “I don’t want to dance.” There. She’d said it. Now he could leave her. Her heart was racing and her eyes twitched with irritation. She moved to the window, giving him her back. “I’ll never dance again. Please, tell my brother so, once you return to London.”

  “Very well.”

  She placed her hand on the glass, finding it warmed by the heat of the sun.

  This could go on for weeks if he chose to stay, and she doubted a man like him wished to miss the season. She could easily see him sweeping some young debutante around a ballroom. Did he have a fiancée? She waited to hear the sound of his retreating footsteps. When she heard nothing, she spun around and had to hold herself back from giving a shout.

  He stood close and moved to stand beside her. He seemed to soak in the sun, drawing it away from the rest of the room. “You say you don’t wish to dance, yet you also claim that you don’t know what you want. So perhaps that is what I will help you find. A new pursuit. Something that fulfils you. I swear that whatever is said between us will go nowhere else, and promise to help you as long as you’ll allow it.” He glanced over at her. “If you’ll let me.”

  A new pursuit?

  Something that would be fulfilling.

  “I’m quite wealthy,” she confessed. “What if I simply wish to spend my days doing nothing at all?”

  He turned to her. “Is that what you want?”

  She stared at him and it only took a second to come to the truth. “Not even slightly, though… There are moments when I feel I should. I’d be safe as an heiress.”

  “But would you be happy?” His voice had lowered, as had the lids of his eyes. At the moment, she wished she’d learned to draw, because the hooded expression was captivating.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what would make me happy.” She didn’t know if she’d truly ever be happy again.

  “Change into your boots and meet me at the terrace door.” He turned and started away.

  She grabbed his arm and felt the power underneath his jacket. Her heart jumped. “Why?”

  “We’re going for a walk.”

  Her eyes widened and she backed away—taking a step and hitting the glass. “I c-can’t.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes. “Why not? There’s no one here to hurt you. Also, Hit will be with us the entire time, and if all else fails, there’s me.”

  “You? What would you do?”

  In a blink, his refined features changed to something deadly, but not at all beastly like her brother. This danger had clear cut discernment, reminding her of knights who wreaked havoc with cruel precision. “I’d do what must be done.”

  No wonder her brother trusted him. Something about Dr. Franklin Lockwood was different from other doctors. From other gentlemen entirely.

  She’d never liked the gentlemen she’d met before him. While she’d been hired to amuse people, she’d found the whole of the aristocracy amusing. One didn’t need to throw a masquerade ball when everyone was already wearing a mask wherever they went, some better than others. She knew the truth of what went on behind closed doors. Adulterers. Thieves.

  At least the men she knew in Covent Garden didn’t bother to wear masks. They showed their truths unlike the ‘genteel’.

  And now. She was the aftermath of one madman in particular.

  Frank held out his hand. “I’ll never put you in danger. I swear it.”

  How could she not trust the man who’d plucked her from the abyss?

  She took his hand.

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  9

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  CHAPTER NINE

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  They went into the woods. Underneath the tall trees, the air was refreshing and the sounds of the wild were soothing. She preferred it to the quiet of the house. It was different than the noise of the city for sure, yet held its own liveliness. The flutter of wings and scurry of animal feet across tree limbs overhead caused the shifting of leaves, which in turn made the rays of the sun dance against the green forest floor.

  Yet after living in such close quarters for so long, she felt exposed. Her sleeves still covered her arms, yet the dampness in the air still reached her, and the whispering winds seemed to cool her further.

  She looked behind her and saw Hit walking silently through the trees. Her guard was watching her with a tight look. He’d been forced to keep his distance so they could speak. Otherwise, Diana was nearly sure that Hit would have preferred carrying her to their destination. He didn’t like her being outdoors, and Diana wasn’t sure how she felt about it either.

  She turned to look at the silent man next to her. She became aware of just how tall he was, as they walked. He was forced to take half steps just so they could walk side by side. Aware of her eyes, he turned to her and she caught his grin once more.

  “You must have had a happy childhood,” she said.

  “What would make you say so?”

  She shrugged. “You smile often, and it’s not put on.” And she found it quite… attractive. She was from a world where men were known to brood, more often than not.

  His golden-green gaze traveled her face and paused at her mouth before lifting back to her eyes. “I was quite happy. My father was a good man, and visited my brother and me often while we were in school. And I had my friends.”

  “And your mother?” she asked.

  He turned away. “She loved me in her own way. Who would you say your closest friend was?”

  “Kate Kingsman.” That question was easily answered, though it irritated her that he’d changed the subject back to her. She wanted to know him more, though she realized his life was not the reason for his presence, but her own. He wanted to help her find her purpose. For most of her life, it was dance.

  She asked, “How did you know you wanted to be a doctor?”

  She was holding his arm and felt him tense before he relaxed. “I… don’t know. All I ever wanted was to understand the mind.”

  “Whose mind?” she asked.

  He lifted a brow. “You know, no one has ever asked me that question before.”

  She smiled, glad to have been the first.

  He turned away but leaned toward her. “Look.”

  She turned but stopped walking immediately when she found herself surrounded by bluebells. The forest floor was covered in them. She’d been so lost in her conversation with Frank she hadn’t realized she’d been walking in flowers until he’d pointed it out to her.

  She turned around and saw them everywhere. Hit was glaring as he lifted his boots, as though checking to see if the flowers had stuck to the soles. She turned back to the flowers and saw that they went on for some paces, deep into the forest with the bright sun glowing in various beds.

  She knelt and forgot her apprehension as she touched the hanging petals from whence the plant had gained its name.

  Frank knelt beside her.

  She asked with a smile, “Why did you bring me here?”

  He furrowed his brows. “Don’t women usually like pretty flowers? I thought they’d make you feel better.”

  She stared at him and laughed. “A man usually gathers a few and delivers them to the woman. He doesn’t bring her here.” He doesn’t
allow her to see the beauty of the plant in its natural home.

  “Well, there were simply far too many to carry,” he teased. “But also, this is where they belong. Here, in the forest amongst the trees and the shade, tussled in the wind, and watered by the rain. This is where they bloom the brightest.”