One Night in London (21 page)

“Then I suppose I must let you go. For now.” His mouth descended on hers again.

She clung to him. “I’ll send a note to Mrs. Ludlow with my regrets.”

He laughed quietly. “No, my dear, you should go. I’ll find a way to see you.”

She looked up at him, half drunk with desire, and reason trickled back in. She was acting like a girl in the grip of her first calf love. She took a deep breath, a little surprised at herself for losing her composure so quickly again, and smiled. She released him, smoothing his lapels back into place where she had crumpled them. “I should like that very much,” she said as calmly as possible.

A trace of amusement still on his face, Edward gave her a scorching look, as if he knew very well that he was leaving her tense and longing for more. “Until then, my dear.”

She closed the door behind him and slumped against it, her fingertips brushing down her throat, following the trail his lips had so recently traced. Perhaps she should have had more affairs, just so she would be practiced in how to act. Already she was in danger of throwing off all reserve and aplomb and letting herself fall madly, dangerously, passionately in love with Edward de Lacey. That, she reminded herself, would never do, but somehow it felt like a distant and trivial thing to worry about when she was so happy.

She went back to her breakfast, mildly surprised to see she had eaten anything at all. Edward’s coffee cup still sat on the table, and a rather silly smile curled her lips as she regarded it. She must tell Mrs. Hotchkiss to seek out the best coffee in London this very day.

Francesca was still at the table when the knocker sounded at the door. She caught her breath, but it was not Edward’s voice in the hall. Alconbury, most likely, from the way he was laughing with Mrs. Hotchkiss. Oh dear, so soon . . . But it was best to get it done with. She owed him the courtesy of learning it from her, before she and Edward were seen in public together and everyone guessed they were lovers just from the blissful look on her face. When he came into the room a moment later, she got to her feet and smiled at him. “Good morning, Alconbury.”

“A very good morning to you, Francesca dear.” He stopped suddenly and sniffed, and a delighted grin split his face. “God bless my soul—do I smell coffee? Have you finally come to your senses and taken it up?”

“Er . . . not really.” She took her seat and rang the bell. “But I shall have Mrs. Hotchkiss fetch you some at once.”

He laughed. “That’s better than nothing, I suppose! I’ve longed for this day for months, you know, to be served coffee at your table . . .” His voice ran out. Francesca glanced at him from under her eyelashes and saw that he was staring at Edward’s coffee cup. The smile had left his face. Oh, dear.

“You must tell me where to buy the best coffee berries,” she said. “Do sit down.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He circled the table, deliberately taking the seat opposite the one Edward had occupied. “I see I’m not the first to have morning coffee with you.”

“You must take it as a compliment, an overdue acknowledgment I ought to have served it sooner.”

“But not to me,” he said quietly. Francesca closed her mouth and devoted herself to crumbling the remains of her toast. Oh,
dear
.

“Henry,” she said at the same moment he asked, “Dare I inquire who won you over?”

She blushed, and his shoulders fell. “Ah,” he said. That was all.

She pushed back her plate and turned to face him. “Henry, you must know it was never meant to be, between us.”

“No,” he said in a queer tone. “I don’t suppose I did know.”

She reached for his hand, but he folded his arms in clear rejection. She clenched her fingers, then tapped them on the table. “I haven’t encouraged your affections that way,” she tried again. “Your friendship has meant the world to me—I never would have survived the last two years without you.”

“Hmph.” He arched one eyebrow skeptically.

“I know you may not approve of my actions,” she forged onward, “but I hope you can respect my decisions. I hate it when we disagree, and I never wanted to hurt you.” He just looked at her, his eyes shadowed with anger and hurt. She sighed. “Truly I didn’t. This wasn’t something I planned—”

Alconbury sat forward, his face taut with urgency. “Then listen to me—I hesitated to confront you with this earlier, because you swore it was just business between the two of you. I had a hard time believing it but I trusted you to guard yourself. Now I see—the bloody bounder no doubt planned all along to help you only to get into your bed!” She started to protest, but he put up one hand to quiet her. “Edward de Lacey is the very model of a cold, uncaring aristocrat. I’ve asked around, you see. His father, the Duke of Durham, was well-known as a hard-driving, domineering man who wielded his considerable power to his advantage, ruthlessly at times. His duchess died some twenty years ago or more, and it’s no secret he raised his sons in his own image, with no moderating maternal influence. Edward is the son most like him, according to all accounts, and I’ve seen nothing to alter that image.”

“Alconbury,” she said firmly, “you’re condemning a man based on gossip. You would know better if you met him.”

“I don’t want to meet him,” Alconbury snapped. “This man is too far above you, Francesca! He won’t think anything of discarding you for a more eligible woman of his own class—like Louisa Halston. That was a marriage based on money and power and rank, not any finer emotion such as you might think you feel. At best you’ll only ever be an amusement to him, enjoyed and quickly cast aside. He’ll never marry you, no matter what he says now.”

“He hasn’t asked me to marry him,” she said without thinking.

Frantic hope sprang into Alconbury’s eyes. “But I will.” He was off his chair, down on one knee, reaching for her hand. “Francesca, darling, you know I adore you. I have for years. Marry me.”

Her chest felt squeezed in a vise. “Stop,” she said, her voice low and rough. “Please don’t . . .”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to find Georgina,” he promised. “We’ll raise her as our own child, and, God willing, several more. We can be happy together; we already are! I can give you the life you deserve, and should have had all along.”

“No,” she whispered. The word scraped harshly against her throat. Everything he said was like a thorn pricking deep into her flesh. “I’m sorry, Henry . . .”

“All right,” he said a little desperately. “I can accept that for now. At least tell me you aren’t in love with him. At least assure me you’ve kept your head.”

She opened her mouth, but found she didn’t know the answer. Did she love Edward? It was surely too soon . . . but she was in real danger of it. The man Alconbury described was nothing like the man she knew, the man who had made such sweet love to her last night, the man who made her heart thump and her stomach leap with just one of his rare smiles, the man who could reason her out of her stubborn moods and absorb her temper with calm patience. Would he stay with her as long as she wanted him, maybe even marry her? She didn’t know. But was she willing to chance the terrible fate Alconbury warned her of, just for the joy of Edward’s company, however transient it might be?

She didn’t know.

Her silence went on too long. Alconbury let her hand slip out of his. He sat back on his heels, looking drained. “Francesca,” he said in despair. “I can’t bear to watch you do this to yourself.”

“How can
you
do this to me?” she cried, clapping one hand to her chest. “I would never upbraid you so for your interest in any woman, yet you give me all the credit of a simpleton and scold me like a father would his daughter. Do you think me blind? A fool? Utterly incapable of determining my own life? Don’t treat me like a child, Alconbury. I can make my own decisions, for good or for ill—just as you can. I only ask you to be my friend!”

He put his hands over his face for a moment. “Very well,” he said at last. “Very well. You decide your course. But as your . . .
friend
, I can’t help but look after you. If—when—he throws you over, I’ll still be here, still your friend. Remember that.”

She felt like crying. It would never be the same between them, no matter what, but it was too painful to say. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded. Heavily he got to his feet and was gone, with barely a mutter of farewell. The door closed and she was left alone with the ache of his disappointment, and the terrible unanswered question about Edward, filling her mind.

Chapter 20

E
dward walked home from Francesca’s house. He waited for the contentment humming through his body to fade and die out, but it didn’t. Perhaps it was the natural rejuvenation after making love so thoroughly and so many times. It might have been due to the anticipation of seeing Francesca again that evening and repeating the exercise. But somehow he couldn’t shake the idea that he’d lost some outer shell, that Francesca had stripped him in more ways than one. The morning breeze felt fresh against his face. Instead of striding briskly along, mentally tallying the work that must be done today, he studied the people he passed. London held an extraordinary variety, from the black-faced chimney boys scurrying along with their long brushes to the apple-cheeked vendor selling pies from a cart, his hoarse voice ringing out over the rumble of carts and wagons: “Fresh pies! Hot meat pies, ninepence!” He had never seen this part of town without a pane of glass separating him from them. How novel it was, like a brave new world opened before his eyes.

He smiled at himself for that image. It was a brave new world, fresh and exciting and almost gilded with gold. All due to Francesca.

Blackbridge must have been watching for him, because the butler swept open the door as he reached the top step. “Welcome home, my lord,” he intoned, taking Edward’s hat and coat. “Mr. Wittiers has called, and awaits you in the blue salon.”

Edward inhaled deeply. Yes, he must get back to work and shoulder his duty again, but somehow it felt easier after the bliss of last night. “Excellent. I’ll see him shortly. Has White arrived yet?”

Blackbridge followed him up the stairs. “Yes, my lord. He is in his office working.”

“Very good.” At the top of the stairs Edward paused and swung around, seeing the house with new eyes. It felt so formal and cold after Francesca’s cozy little home. He wasn’t about to paint everything bright yellow, and obviously he couldn’t replace Blackbridge with Mrs. Hotchkiss, but he could make some small change, surely. “Why are there no flowers in the house?” he asked abruptly.

Blackbridge had stopped short on the stairs. He blinked at Edward’s query. “None were ordered, sir.”

“Every morning, a fresh bouquet here, and there, of whatever is in bloom,” Edward directed him, pointing. “Something bright, Blackbridge.”

“Yes, my lord.” Blackbridge bowed, but not before Edward caught the flicker of surprise on his face.

He hid his amusement and went into his rooms, where his valet had already laid out a fresh set of clothing, as if Edward came home every morning still wearing his evening clothes of the night before. Not that his servants would ever say a word about it, but a whisper must have gone around the house when the coach returned last night, leaving him at Lady Gordon’s home.

“Will you bathe, my lord?” Mills asked.

Edward shrugged off his jacket and handed Mills the crumpled cravat from his pocket. “No, not this morning. Just a shave—but quickly.”

Half an hour later he walked into the blue salon, freshly washed, shaved, and attired. “Mr. Whittiers,” he said as the solicitor leaped to his feet. “You have been waiting. My apologies.”

“It is nothing, my lord.” Wittiers bowed. “I have news.”

“Indeed.” Edward waved one hand at the chairs before the fire, seating himself across from the solicitor. “Good news or bad?”

Mr. Whittiers’s mouth pursed. “Complicating—not unexpected, but unwelcome just the same. I have heard your distant cousin Augustus de Lacey plans to petition the Crown claiming his right to the dukedom of Durham within the next fortnight.”

“Ah.” Decidedly unwelcome news. “I presume you have prepared for this—as it is, in your own words, not unexpected?”

“Of course. I proceeded as if it would happen and took the liberty of making a few inquiries into your cousin’s situation. He will have some trouble proving his pedigree; there is at least one birth of questionable legitimacy in his lineage, and he does not have the luxury of descending directly from a recent holder of the title, but must reach back at least three generations. Additionally, he will have to present evidence that disputes Lord Gresham’s claim, and I have found that exceptionally difficult to come by. Our petition is nearly ready. I want but another few days to satisfy myself on a few points and refine the language.” Edward said nothing when the lawyer paused. “I stand by my earlier predictions regarding the case, my lord,” Wittiers added. “It means the matter will not be decided quickly, however.”

Edward nodded. “Very good, then. Do what must be done.”

“Can you provide an insight into any weakness of his claim?” Wittiers moved to the edge of his seat. “Any suggestion where we might look for fault?”

Edward was having the hardest time keeping his concentration fixed on this topic. He certainly should—Augustus was a rogue, an infamous reprobate who would desolate Durham if he ever got his spendthrift fingers on it. The mere thought of that man reaping—and wasting—the fruits of his labors should have sent him into an icy, resolute fury. Perhaps it did accomplish that, but the fury was muted, lessened somehow. He no longer had the pervading sense that everything he was and everything he wanted was bound up in Durham. He was still firmly determined to hold onto his inheritance by every means at his disposal, but perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . if the unthinkable happened and Augustus prevailed, or the estate was cast into abeyance, it wouldn’t mean the bleak existence he had imagined. Thirty thousand pounds had been left to him outright; it was nothing to the enormous wealth of Durham, and it didn’t include Lastings, the estate his father had intended for him, but it could be enough for a quiet life, particularly if he shared it with a woman already in possession of her own home and modest income . . .

“Augustus doesn’t really want the title,” Edward said, mentally closing off that line of thought. “He wants the money. His own fortune varies widely, from what I hear, ranging from barely solvent to deeply indebted. I imagine his solicitor wouldn’t be anxious to wage a long and difficult suit, knowing he’ll never be paid if Augustus is unsuccessful. And—to be blunt—he may not be paid to his satisfaction even if Augustus triumphs. My cousin is far better known for his willingness to evade debts than for his rectitude in paying them.” He glanced at Wittiers. “I assume you are acquainted with the solicitor he has engaged.”

“Indeed, sir, I am.” Wittiers smiled his cold, cunning smile again. “We are colleagues, rather adversarial ones, but professional men nonetheless. There aren’t terribly many solicitors in London who are suited to argue before the Committee for Privileges in the House of Lords.”

“No.” Edward closed his eyes for a moment. He must focus his mind on this, and stop thinking how appealing it was to consider a life with Francesca. He had known the woman less than a month. They had been lovers less than a day. He was planning too far, assuming too much. He was actually weighing his entire life and heritage against the bone-deep pleasure he found in her arms.

“Then I leave it in your hands,” he told Wittiers. “Between professional colleagues, of course. Submit my brother’s petition as soon as practicable. Perhaps the Crown will indicate preference, and that will deter Augustus from proceeding. But regardless, we don’t intend to retreat, whether Augustus contests our petition or not.”

“Of course not, my lord.”

“I want this in motion within the week, to give no hint of doubt or hesitancy. I still believe we hold every advantage, and mean to press them all. If Augustus is intimidated, so much the better, but there’s no need to do so overtly.”

“Yes, my lord.” Wittiers looked delighted with this aggressive instruction.

Edward nodded, rising to go. “Good. I expect to hear from you in a few days.”

He went to the study, sobered by the conversation. This could grow into a war. He was still confident Charlie’s claim was stronger than anything Augustus could present, but that didn’t mean the decision would go to them. There was a long and delicate path they must take through the process, and now that there was an opposing case, anyone in the House of Lords could cause trouble. Edward thought he personally had no real enemies, nor did Gerard, but Charlie was a different story: an aggrieved husband, a thwarted rival, anyone Charlie had bested or slighted . . . They couldn’t award the dukedom to Augustus just to spite Charlie, but if there was any doubt under the law, members of the Committee for Privileges could be influenced in their recommendations. At worst, they could deem Augustus’s claim solid and superior and recommend he receive the title, but they could also forward a recommendation that neither Charlie nor Augustus had a claim beyond reproach. Durham could be left unsettled, tied up in legal snarls that might last a century. That, Edward realized, would be just as awful as losing it outright. And despite his growing feeling that he could possibly survive without Durham and be happy in Francesca’s world, he didn’t intend to lose his birthright without a fight. If Augustus provoked a battle royale, he would meet his cousin on the field.

After such a late start, he drove himself hard all day. He went over every report on his desk with Mr. White and kept his secretary busy as well. The footmen came in to light the lamps before they were done, and Edward leaned back from the desk with no small amount of satisfaction. There was something very fulfilling about accomplishing so much in short order. He wondered if Charlie would ever want to take the reins of Durham from him, and then shook his head at the fancy. That was unlikely, and Edward was both sorry and glad. Part of him thought his brother should have to work, somehow, for the luxury of his legacy, to live up to his responsibilities and duties as well as enjoy its benefits. But part of him was also well-pleased with his own role in the family. He liked running the estates. He liked the order of it, the exactitude and discipline it required of him. It had brought him his father’s respect, his brothers’ gratitude, and his own satisfaction as the estates thrived and prospered under his hand. It was the perfect situation for them all. He was the middle son, the spare; in another age he would have been given to the Church as a boy. In another family he would have been relegated to kicking up his heels with no responsibility except to wait, ready to take the heir’s place if necessary. None of that would have suited him at all. Without the running of Durham, he would be as useless as . . . well, as useless as Charlie.

On that happy thought, he closed the last ledger. “That will be all, Mr. White. And you, Mr. Deane,” he added to his secretary.

White bowed as he collected his papers. “Yes, my lord. Good evening.”

“Thank you.” Edward rubbed his hands along the arms of his chair, thinking of his plans for the night. He had worked hard all day because he intended to leave everything concerning Durham behind until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Discipline deserved a reward. “A very good evening to you, too.”

I
t didn’t take much effort to locate Francesca. She had mentioned the Ludlows and Covent Garden, and the theater manager was all too pleased to tell Edward which box the Ludlows had seats in. He was also pleased to sell Edward the rest of the tickets for that box; it wasn’t a new play, and only half the seats were sold. Edward would have preferred to have her all to himself, but it was better than nothing.

He arrived halfway through the first act. The grand entrance hall was nearly empty, and only a few late arrivals lingered in the saloon upstairs. Edward climbed the stairs to the second tier and walked around until he reached the Ludlow party’s box. Silently he turned the knob and slipped inside.

He paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust but saw her at once. She sat in the second row of seats, beside another couple. Her gown was dark and bared her shoulders. A silver pendant gleamed in the candlelight, drawing his eye down the smooth skin of her throat to the swells of her bosom. He inhaled a quiet, unsteady breath and caught the faint scent of her perfume. Just a few hours apart, and it still took him by surprise how much he wanted her.

He took the seat next to her, glad it was unoccupied. She cast a very slight glance at him, then another, longer and shocked, as she gasped. “Good evening, my dear,” he breathed, catching up her hand and bringing it to his lips. Over her knuckles, he watched her face change from startled to self-conscious, and then almost immediately ease as her lips curved in delight. He raised one eyebrow. “Am I welcome?”

She flipped open her fan and swished it energetically in front of her face. “Most certainly,” she said behind the fan. “Merely unexpected.”

The lady in front of them turned around, the feathers in her headdress bobbing indignantly. “Shh!”

Edward gave Francesca a private little smile, and she returned it with glowing eyes. It was pleasure enough to sit by her, for now. He turned his face to the stage, conscious of every breath she took and every rustle of her skirt when she shifted her body. She was glad to see him. A little part of him had wondered if, just perhaps, he shouldn’t declare his interest in her so publicly, so soon. But as soon as she smiled at him in that intimate way she had, as if they alone shared some delightful secret, that lone point of pause vanished. He leaned back in his chair and allowed his thoughts the luxury of wandering.

Francesca was exquisitely conscious of him beside her. She had barely heard him come in, but now Edward seemed to fill the box, and surround her with the warmth of his body and the faint scent of his soap. On the other side of her, Sally Ludlow nudged her elbow three times, obviously seething with curiosity, but Francesca ignored her. It was all she could do to keep her eyes fixed blindly on the stage. He’d said he would find a way to see her, so she had hoped . . . But her expectations had been limited to hoping he would come to her again tonight. A bottle of the best brandy sat in her drawing room, and the finest coffee in London waited in the kitchen. She’d even given Mrs. Hotchkiss explicit instructions to ask him to wait if he should arrive while she was still out, and plotted how she could plead a headache if Sally and Mr. Ludlow wished to stay out late.