Sylvia Andrew (19 page)

‘A charming girl,’ said Lord Denver, still smiling.

‘She’s a darling.’

Lord Denver looked at Francesca quizzically. ‘You speak with rare warmth, Miss Beaudon. Miss Canfield is fortunate to have aroused such affection.’

‘She deserves it.’

‘And I? Could I hope in time to deserve a little of your affection?’

Francesca was unprepared for such a direct approach. She was still holding her sketchbooks and fingered them nervously as she replied, ‘You have been very kind to me, Lord Denver. But I…I…’

He smiled. ‘I spoke out of turn. Forgive me. Dare I hope you will come to the Lady Marchant’s with me tonight? You did say you would.’

‘Of course. I shall be pleased to.’ She spoke warmly, relieved at avoiding a tender scene.

‘I will call for you. Till tonight.’ He took his leave without any further attempt to approach her.

And that evening he was once again the charming, considerate man she was growing to like. They left Lady Marchant’s early. When they arrived at Mount Street, Francesca was so much in charity with him that she invited him in.

‘You left the sketches behind when you went this afternoon. They are still on the table—I told the servants to leave them.’ They went into the salon. ‘Here they are!’ As she held the book out to him, the cover, worn with age, gave way and the contents fell to the floor. They both bent to gather them up, but Francesca froze as she recognised one of the sketches—a small orchid that had been flowering just ten years ago up on the hill above Shelwood. Sunlight on water, leaves against a blue sky, happiness such as she had never known before or since…

‘Miss Beaudon! Francesca! You are not well! Let me help you!’

Francesca did not hear. She was staring at the sketch, overcome by a feeling of such pain and loss that she could not move. Then she became aware that someone was gently raising her and helping her over to the sofa by the window.

‘Shall I ring for a maid?’

She looked up. Lord Denver was at her side. ‘No. No, thank you. It was only a moment’s weakness.’

‘You were pale when I first called this morning. I have overtired you—the drive was too long.’

Francesca forced herself to speak normally. ‘No, it was not that. I probably over-exerted myself at Lady Huntingdon’s ball. I am perfectly well again now. Thank you for your concern, Lord Denver. You are very kind.’

‘I should like to be much kinder to you, Francesca. Indeed, it is my very ardent wish that you would give me the right to cherish you for the rest of your life.’

The pain in Francesca’s heart eased a little at the sincerity of his tone. ‘Cherish’ was a comforting word. She even managed to smile.

‘Francesca? Would you…could you ever consider marrying me?’

She looked into the brown eyes so close to her own. True, faithful, kind, considerate, honourable…the temptation was very strong. If she married Lord Denver, she would be safe forever from Marcus, and the torment he could cause, safe from herself. Why did she find it so difficult to take the final step?

‘You are very kind. I am honoured, Lord Denver. But I…I’m not sure…’

‘Say yes, Francesca! I know I could make you happy.’

‘I…I would need time to think…’

‘But you will at least give me leave to hope?’

‘I…yes, I will.’ He snatched her hand and kissed it fervently.

‘You have made me the happiest of men, my darling!’

‘But—’

Neither of them had noticed that the door was open, nor that a tall figure was coming through it.

‘Forgive me for interrupting you like this. The matter is urgent, or I would not have intruded on what is evidently a private moment.’ Marcus was very pale, and he spoke in clipped tones. ‘Your father is ill, Francesca. I have come to take you to him.’

F
rancesca put her sewing down and looked over to the bed. Her father was restless. She went over, and gave him a sip of water, speaking to him softly. But he did not respond, and eventually she sighed and laid him back against the pillows, which were piled high behind him. She went back slowly to her chair by the window and picked up her sewing again. Dr Glover had assured her that his patient was making good progress, but it was difficult to believe him. For three days now, ever since he had been taken ill at White’s, Lord Beaudon had been lying helpless, unable to talk or move without assistance.

‘But he hears you, Miss Beaudon!’ Dr Glover had said. ‘He may not always understand the words, but a familiar voice is a lifeline to him. You must talk to him, let him know you are there.’

This Francesca had done. She had spent most of each day in her father’s room and at night she had the room next to his, ready to be fetched at a moment’s notice. The outside world had not existed for her. All her attention and energies had been directed towards the figure on the bed, willing him to recover. She had talked to him often, dredging her memory for details
of their life on St Marthe and the people there—her mother, Maddy and the rest.

Talk of London had seemed to distress him, and Francesca had avoided mentioning it, though she had wondered what the cause was—her father had always seemed so content with his life in the capital. Mrs Canfield, when asked, had seemed to think it might have something to do with the events at White’s immediately before Lord Beaudon’s collapse, but had not been able to tell her more precisely. Francesca had not pursued the matter—there would be time for that later. For the moment, she was content to concentrate on ensuring her father’s recovery.

There was a gentle tap at the door and Mrs Canfield came quietly into the room. ‘You have a visitor, Francesca. I’ll sit with your father while you see him.’

‘Who is it?’

Mrs Canfield shook her head and put a finger to her lips. ‘I think you should go down and see for yourself.’

Puzzled, Francesca got up and after a quick glance at her father she went downstairs. Marcus was waiting for her in the salon. Shocked, Francesca turned to go back upstairs.

‘No! Francesca, wait! I have to know how your father is.’

‘You could have asked Mrs Canfield.’

‘She thought I ought to see you.’

Francesca looked at him in astonishment. ‘Maria wanted me to see you? Why?’

Marcus did not immediately reply. He strode about the room, looking most unusually ill at ease. ‘Damn it, I don’t like this,’ he said savagely. ‘I don’t like it at all. Why the devil couldn’t Maria have dealt with this?’

‘What are you talking about? I don’t underst—’ Francesca drew in her breath and gripped the chair in front of her. ‘It’s about my father, isn’t it? You were with him at White’s. You know what happened. Were you the cause of his attack—is that it?’

‘No, on my honour! But…but I was involved.’

‘
What happened
, Marcus?’

‘Your father was very angry at something he heard. He was about to challenge someone when he…when he fell ill.’

‘Go on,’ said Francesca. ‘I want to hear everything, Marcus. Was it you he challenged?’

‘No. It was Coker.’

‘Coker!’

‘We were all there at White’s—your father, myself, Monty Banford, some others, and…Coker. And the Witham crowd. You don’t want to hear this, Francesca.’

‘Yes, I do!’ she said fiercely. ‘My father is lying upstairs helpless. He might even die. I want to know it all!’

‘We’d all been drinking, but Witham and Freddie Chantry more than most. They hadn’t seen your father—he was at a corner table. They started talking about the old days, about the parties at Witham, and how your grandfather had tried to stop them. One thing led to another and Freddie mentioned you…and me.’

‘What…what did he say?’ Marcus looked uncomfortable, and she added bitterly, ‘No, you needn’t tell me—I can guess. I know what he thought of me—he made it plain enough at the time.’

‘But how could Freddie have said anything to you? He never saw you.’

Francesca looked at him derisively. ‘Oh, but you’re wrong, Marcus! He sought me out a few days after you left. On the bridge where I first met you. I think you must have given him a false impression of my…availability.’

‘What?’

‘Freddie and the others were very impressed with your account of my charms. The night after we met. I suppose you had to tell them? Anyway, he thought he could console me for your defection.’

‘Good God—I never knew! Francesca, I swear it wasn’t like that at all!’

‘I deserved it. I had behaved like a w-wanton.’ Her voice revealed self-condemnation. ‘I deserved it all. But now my father has suffered because of it.’

‘How could you possibly have deserved anything like that? What happened?’

‘With Freddie? I was shocked and frightened, of course. Whatever impression I may have given you, I was…very innocent. My life had been rather isolated. He tried to kiss me, and I couldn’t get away from him. That was when my aunt found us. She thought the worst, of course. I was in disgrace for a considerable time.’ She gave him a twisted little smile. ‘Wasn’t that an ironic turn of Fate? The right punishment for the wrong man.’

‘By God, if I’d known that I’d have throttled him! You have to believe me, Francesca, I had no idea of all this! Not till this moment.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘How should you? You were away fighting for your country, weren’t you? I expect you had already forgotten me. But why are we talking of this? It all took place a long time ago. Are you going to tell me what happened at White’s? Was that when my father came into it, when Freddie told his tale?’

‘Not then, no. I lost my temper and knocked Freddie down. I realised afterwards it was the wrong thing to have done. It only made the whole affair more public—it would have been better to take him outside quietly and deal with him there. But…I was in a rage. Freddie apologised when he came to, and withdrew what he’d said. Even then, if it had been left there, it would have been forgotten. No one takes much notice of anything Freddie Chantry says.’

‘But Lord Coker was listening.’

‘Yes. He sneered at Freddie for apologising. He never
forgets an injury. He said he had seen us in the garden at Carlton House, and that anything Freddie had said was perfectly true. You can imagine the rest.’

‘And?’

‘I turned on him, but your father just swept me aside. He went up to Coker and demanded he withdraw his words. By God, Francesca, your father was impressive! I’ve never heard Coker so spoken to before.’

‘But getting in a rage is bad for him! He shouldn’t have done so. Why didn’t you stop him?’

‘I couldn’t. No one could. And he didn’t seem to be in a rage. He was cool. Icy. Very much in the grand manner. Coker couldn’t bear it. He lost his head and went for your father.’

‘Good God!’

‘I hauled Coker back, but your father had already fallen. When I got to him he was unconscious. I thought…I thought at first he was dead.’ He paused. ‘You know the rest. Tell me, how is he now? I hear Dr Glover gives some hope?’

‘I believe he is improving. There are more signs of consciousness than there were. What happened to Lord Coker?’

‘He…er…nothing.’

‘Tell me, Marcus! I shall ask someone else if you do not.’

‘He objected to the way I had handled him. He was right. I hadn’t been gentle. He challenged me.’

‘To…to a duel? But they’re no longer allowed!’

‘I said I’d meet him wherever and whenever he wished. And I’d have been glad to. But the Prince got to hear of it, and Coker’s now in disgrace. I hear he’s talking of going abroad for a while.’

Francesca got up and walked about the room. Marcus’s eyes followed her.

‘And now?’ she said finally. ‘What are they saying now? About us?’

‘It’s forgotten, Francesca. And you needn’t worry about
Denver. I’ve seen him and made it clear that there’s nothing in it. He…he was with you when it all happened, of course. I’m sorry I had to interrupt you.’ He paused. ‘I must wish you happy. I suppose this business with your father has delayed any official announcement?’ Francesca looked blank. ‘Of an engagement.’

Francesca hesitated. Then she said, ‘Yes. Nothing can be settled until I am sure Papa is on the mend. What did you tell Lord Denver?’

‘That he was a lucky man.’ Their eyes met. Then Marcus looked away and walked to the window. ‘A very lucky man.’

There was silence in the room. Francesca broke it.

‘I must get back to Papa,’ she said nervously. ‘I’m sure he misses me when I am not there.’

‘I should like to see him when he is fit to receive visitors. I’d like to reassure him that all is well.’

‘Of course. I’ll send you a message. And…thank you for telling me. Maria was right to insist.’ She went to the door, but stopped, the handle in her hand as he said,

‘Francesca!’

She turned slowly but stayed where she was, her back to the door. ‘Marcus?’

‘Do you love him?’

Francesca flushed painfully. ‘He is a good, kind man—’

‘Good God, I know that! But it wasn’t what I asked. Are you in love with him?’

‘There are different kinds of love, Marcus—’

Marcus muttered something incomprehensible and strode over to her. He looked at her for a moment, then swept her into his arms and kissed her hard, a passionate, deep kiss which made no concession to propriety or feminine weakness. Her response was instinctive—immediate and overwhelming. He grunted with satisfaction and kissed her again, more deeply than before. When he finally released
her, she would have fallen if he had not supported her. He said with grim satisfaction, ‘Is that the kind of love you feel for Denver?’

Francesca’s eyes filled with tears. She lifted her arm and hit him as hard as she could. Then she opened the door and ran up the stairs as if all the demons in hell were after her.

As Marcus left the house and strode down the street, his cheek was burning from Francesca’s blow. But he was unaware of it. His feelings were in turmoil. He felt anger—with himself, with Francesca, with his long-dead uncle, with the world at large. He felt regret—bitter regret—for the pain and humiliation he had caused Francesca all those years ago. It had been all so much worse than he had ever suspected. Even more bitterly did he regret his carelessness in throwing away something he should have cherished beyond everything else.

But above all, his overmastering feeling was desire—a passionate desire to return to Mount Street, to take Francesca in his arms once more, to feel again her total response to his kiss. Why had he never before realised that Francesca was the one woman in the world for him? The one woman in the world with whom he felt complete? Why had he deceived himself for so long—complacently seeking suitable husbands for her, smugly protecting her from fortune hunters, when he should have been claiming her triumphantly for his own? He had been stupid beyond belief.

But recognition had come too late. Because of his own wilful, incomprehensible blindness, Francesca now belonged to someone else. To one of his best friends, in fact. It was too much to bear. He shouted for a bottle of brandy when he arrived home, and spent the rest of the day in his room, completely failing to drown his sorrows. However, Marcus was made of stern stuff.

The next day, in spite of a bad hangover, he recovered a measure of reason. Though Francesca appeared to be lost to him, he could still be of service to her. His position in Society gave him power to protect her, to stifle any remarks which foolish gossips might venture. His friendship with the Canfields gave him every excuse to visit Mount Street, and once Lord Beaudon was well enough, he could visit him, keep him entertained during his convalescence. There might well be business that needed attention, matters which could not be entrusted to an unmarried female.

He grew happier at the thought that he could still help Francesca in all sorts of ways. It did not occur to him that these services might be better performed by her betrothed. When the thought did occur to him, he dismissed it. Denver was a good fellow, but simply not up to it.

The next time Marcus visited Mount Street he was told that Miss Beaudon was unable to receive him. And the next. When he asked Mrs Canfield to help him, she looked extremely uncertain.

‘I don’t know what was said the last time you were here, Marcus. But Francesca was very upset. I think you cannot have presented the affair at White’s as tactfully as you should.’

‘I know she was distressed. That’s why I must see her—to put matters right.’

‘She’s with her father. I’ll go up and ask her. But don’t place too much confidence in my efforts. She is very determined.’

‘How is Lord Beaudon today? Is he well enough to receive visitors?’

‘He will be very soon. He still cannot speak, but he understands what we say, and can now nod or close his eyes in reply. It is a great improvement.’

She went away, but returned a few minutes later, shaking
her head. ‘I cannot prevail upon Francesca to see you. I have never known her so obstinate. I am sorry, Marcus. Perhaps in a little while…?’