Sylvia Andrew (26 page)

‘You’re not going, my dear fellow, are you?’

‘I’m afraid I must, Lord Beaudon. There are matters which must be attended to in London. I only came in order to make sure that your daughter and…her friends arrived here safely.’

‘But when shall you come again, then?’

‘I…’ Marcus hesitated. ‘I am not sure. Do you plan to stay at Packards for the rest of the Season?’

‘I shall do so, certainly. Madame Lachasse will need my company during her convalescence in a strange country. But I am sure Francesca will come back to town, eh, my dear?’

‘I thought I’d stay here for a while, Papa.’

‘Nonsense! You’ll return to London just as soon as you’ve recovered from your journey, and had a chance to talk to Madeleine. There’s very little of the Season left, and you can come down again as soon as it is over. Now take your leave of Carne, my dear, then you can go and see if Madeleine is rested. I’ll see you to your carriage, Carne.’ He walked to the door.

Marcus took Francesca’s hand to his lips and bade her
farewell. Francesca said stiffly, ‘I am conscious that I owe you a great deal, sir—’

‘Say nothing of that. You owe me nothing, Francesca, except…’

‘Yes?’

His voice dropped. ‘Be very careful what you say about Paris. To anyone at all. Your reputation will be in shreds if—’

‘You have no need to warn me! I shall be careful.’

‘And…remember what I said about Denver. He’s not for you.’

She snatched her hand away. ‘We have already said enough to each other on that score, Lord Carne. Your efforts to protect your friend from…from my wiles are ridiculous! If Lord Denver chooses to visit me here, I shall be delighted to receive him. You I shall no doubt see next in London.’

His face was grave. ‘Perhaps. We shall have to wait on events. Till then, live well and be happy with your beloved Maddy. That at least is something good which came out of our Paris adventure. Goodbye, Miss Beaudon.’ He bowed and she watched him as he joined her father at the bottom of the steps. Sudden tears started to her eyes; with an impatient sigh she turned and hurried upstairs.

Lord Beaudon stared soberly at Marcus. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Am I to send an announcement to the
Gazette
or not?’

‘I’m afraid matters are a touch difficult at the moment, sir. Much as I honour your daughter, I cannot at the moment ask her to be my wife.’

‘I thought you already had, Carne!’

‘A ruse, merely, to ease your mind. There’s still some way to go.’

‘What the devil is all this about, Carne? I expected that you at least would behave as a man of honour!’

‘That is precisely what I am doing my damnedest to do,
Lord Beaudon!’ Looking grimmer than ever, Marcus got into the carriage and gave a curt command. The carriage rolled away, leaving Lord Beaudon staring after it.

W
hen Francesca finally came back to London after three weeks at Packards, the town had a slightly faded air. It was very close to the end of the Season—a few less fashionable couples had already left for their estates, preferring the freshness of the country to the dust and smells of London in summer. The Prince Regent was still at Carlton House, playing cards with his cronies, riding, driving and taking part in the normal activities his gregarious nature demanded, but his household was preparing for the move to Brighton.

However, there were changes that could not be ascribed to the end of the Season. The Prince was again much to be seen in the company of Lord Coker, who seemed to have made his way back into royal favour. On the other hand, Lord Carne, who had previously been held in such general high esteem, including that of his royal master, now seemed to have fallen from grace.

There was a change, too, in the atmosphere in the house in Mount Street. Before Francesca’s departure for Paris the three ladies—Mrs Canfield, Lydia and Francesca herself—had lived in happy harmony. But now the two Canfields seemed reluctant to indulge in the pleasant chats and ex
changes of gossip which they had all previously enjoyed, and Lydia seemed ill at ease, avoiding Francesca’s company whenever possible.

Francesca was hurt. She had expected a certain amount of coolness from Maria Canfield—after all, she had deceived her friend about her plans to go to Paris. But she would have expected that Lydia, whom she had come to love, would admire her for undertaking what would seem to her such an adventure!

However, she owed too much to the Canfields to allow this situation to continue, so she set herself to coaxing Maria Canfield into a better mood, and in the interest of regaining her friend’s confidence she was more open than she had ever been about her reasons for leaving for Paris so suddenly.

‘You know, better than most, how hard it was for me to learn to give my affection—even to someone like you or Lydia. Lord Carne once broke my heart, Maria. I did not wish to risk another such experience. A man like Denver would be so much…safer.’

Even as she said these words, she wondered fleetingly whether George Denver would ever have risked as much as Marcus had to save her from her own idiotic actions in Paris. He was essentially very conventional. Would he have turned away in shock—disgust even? She pushed the thought away and turned to her friend with a smile. ‘But I am truly sorry I had to deceive you. I hope you will forgive me. Indeed, I value our friendship more than I can say. And I regard Lydia as a sister.’

For a moment Francesca thought Maria was about to refuse this olive branch, for she coloured up and looked distinctly uncomfortable. But then she held out her hand and smiled. ‘I am glad you are back, Francesca. And I am sure that Lydia will be, too, when…’

‘When what?’

‘When she is feeling better.’

‘Has she been ill? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Not exactly, no. Please—I should prefer to leave this subject till later. Meanwhile, believe me, I am your very good friend still. Er…what if I were to tell you that Marcus loves you? Would you still be determined to refuse him?’

‘There are times…when I am afraid. Someone like Denver would be so much easier to live with. And he, at least, has already asked me to marry him, whereas Marcus has not. I don’t know, Maria.’

‘I see.’ Maria Canfield’s voice had grown cool again.

‘How is he?’

‘Denver?’

‘No, Marcus.’

‘We have not seen a great deal of him. He came once to tell us you were safely back, but since then he seems to have avoided us. Lydia is quite distressed. But now…’

‘What is it?’

‘I am not sure. There are whispers…Did you see much of him in Paris?’

‘I…I only saw him once. Then he escorted us home—but that is between ourselves, Maria. Marcus does not wish it to be generally known.’

‘Francesca, he loves you and is trying to protect you. Something untoward seems to have happened while he was there. It seems to have been something unsavoury, so I don’t expect he said anything about it to you. But it has undoubtedly done Marcus harm in the eyes of the world.’

‘What…what can it be?’

‘I think it’s better not to ask. It’s one of those things that gentlemen talk about in clubs, but ladies are not supposed to know. It is all very strange. The Foreign Office seems to be involved as well. Denver is certainly privy to what has been going on, but he wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to us.’

‘Denver?’

Again, Maria’s voice was restricted as she answered. ‘Lord Denver has been very kind while you were away. We have seen quite a lot of him. His attention is all the more welcome since Marcus has not been seen much in company.’

Francesca was worried. It was clear that something of the business in Paris had become known. She must find out how much, and how seriously it was affecting Marcus. She regarded her friend thoughtfully. It was useless to question Maria—she would never have been told the scandalous details, the very idea was absurd. Denver was connected with the Foreign Office, he would certainly know…but would he talk? Almost certainly not to her. It was all extremely frustrating, but she was determined to find out, somehow.

Meanwhile, it intrigued her that Maria’s interest was clearly not with Marcus, but with Denver. This was a new development, surely? It appeared that Denver’s visits had been as frequent as ever, even while she had been away. What had been going on here during the past month? Her eyes widened as a thought struck her. Lydia and Denver? Was that possible? Of course it was! And it would explain everything!

What was more, Denver was exactly the sort of man she would have chosen for Lydia herself, and, if Lydia loved him, she would relinquish her own claim without a second’s hesitation. But she decided to say nothing for the moment. She would soon meet him—and observe for herself.

Sure enough, Lord Denver called that very afternoon. Francesca noticed with interest that Lydia, always so open, so artless in her approach to visitors, gave him the briefest of curtsies, then picked up her embroidery again and stitched with unusual concentration. Maria was as courteous as ever, but was obviously tense, and her conversation was uncharacteristically forced.

Francesca grew increasingly confident that her suspicion of an attachment between Lydia and Denver was correct. She must act as soon as possible—Lydia’s happiness was far too important to delay putting matters right. While she waited for Lord Denver’s call to come to an end, she considered what she would say to him, and it occurred to her that she might even put some of it to good account.

So, when Lord Denver finally rose to take his leave, she said boldly, ‘Lord Denver, if you have a moment, there’s something I would like to discuss with you.’

The sudden silence was broken only by the small crash as Lydia’s embroidery fell to the ground.

‘Of course, Miss Beaudon.’ Lord Denver’s tone was gallant, but his smile was forced. Maria and Lydia bade him farewell, and if Francesca had not already had a very clear idea of what had been happening in her absence, she must have seen and wondered at Lydia’s pale face, her haunted glance into Denver’s eyes, her hasty and unusually clumsy exit.

‘Do sit down, Lord Denver,’ said Francesca affably, when they were alone.

‘Thank you…I think I prefer to stand. You…you had something you wished to say to me?’

‘Yes. I wonder if you could tell me what it is that they are saying of Lord Carne? I hear he is in some trouble.’ When he looked surprised, she explained, ‘He was kind enough to help me in France. I want to know what he is accused of doing there.’

His face pokered up, as she had thought it would. ‘There’s absolutely no truth in any of it,’ he said. ‘His friends need not concern themselves with it.’

‘I should still like to know what it is. What is he supposed to have done?’

‘It is nothing fit for a lady’s ears, Miss Beaudon,’ Denver
said dismissively. ‘I could not possibly repeat it. Was there something else you wished to say to me?’

‘I see.’ Francesca saw that, as she had suspected, he was not prepared to discuss it—nor would anyone else. She would have to try other means. ‘Well, it will probably soon be forgotten,’ she said airily. She saw the look of doubt on Denver’s face, but did not pursue it. Instead, she went to the sofa and sat down. ‘If you will forgive my saying so, Lord Denver, you do not look as pleased to see me as I had expected.’

‘Of course I am…er…I am delighted, of course, that you are safely back in England. I hear that you found your nurse.’

‘Yes, she is at present resting. You might meet her some day. When you come down to Packards.’ Francesca looked with some satisfaction at Denver’s reception of this semi-invitation. She was sorry for his discomfort, but it was no part of her plan to make things easy for him.

‘Miss Beaudon, I…’ He stopped.

‘Yes, Lord Denver?’

‘I…I…nothing.’

‘Mrs Canfield tells me how well you have been looking after them both while I’ve been away. That was kind of you.’

‘On the contrary, it was my pleasure,’ he said sincerely, if a touch uncomfortably.

‘I’ve been thinking a great deal about your proposal, you know.’

‘Really?’ he asked, apprehension in his tone. ‘And what…what have you decided?’

‘Well…I think we should deal very well together.’

‘Miss Beaudon, I…’

‘On the other hand…I am beginning to suspect that you are no longer as devoted as you once were. Am I right?’

‘How can you say so? I have asked you to marry me, and am bound in all honour—’

‘But I don’t want you to be bound, Lord Denver. Not to
me. I value your friendship, I enjoy your company, but I am not in love with you. I never said I was. In fact, if you will do me one small favour—which you will not enjoy—I shall willingly release you from any promises you may have made me. Then you will be free to approach Miss Canfield with an easy conscience.’

He looked astounded. ‘But…but…How did you know?’

‘No one has said anything, but I have eyes and ears, you know. And I am even fonder of Lydia than I am of you. I will wish you happiness with all my heart, and think you will find it, too. Lydia will make you a much better wife than I ever would.’

He came over and kissed her hand. ‘Francesca, you are wonderful! Noble!’

‘I’m afraid I am not that. You did say you would do me this favour, didn’t you?’

‘Anything, anything!’

‘Swear?’

‘Of course!’

‘Then you will tell me exactly what they accuse Marcus of doing. In detail. All of it.’

He took a step back, looking horrified. ‘I couldn’t do that! You would be shocked.’

‘You did promise. And—’ her voice grew serious ‘—it may help to put right a very grave injustice which is being done him. You are his friend, Lord Denver. Trust me. This is no mere female whim. You will not shock me. You see, I know most of it already.’

‘Forgive me, but that is impossible. How could you have heard of such things?’

‘Never mind. Tell me!’

He was reluctant, but hers had always been the stronger character, and he eventually told her all he knew. It was far worse than Francesca had feared. Coker had obviously spread his poison far and wide. Marcus had told her that he might be
regarded askance by the more stiff-necked members of Society if his presence in the
Maison des Anges
became known, but she had had no idea that there was a more serious, political dimension to the affair, one which would ruin Marcus’ career and expose him to the severest possible censure.

She was not shocked, but she was furiously, royally angry. To think that Marcus, who had behaved with complete integrity throughout, was being ostracised, calumnied, on the word of a scoundrel like Coker! She was speechless with rage.

Lord Denver looked at her white face. ‘It has shocked you,’ he said miserably. ‘I knew it would. Can you ever forgive me?’

‘I am not shocked,’ said Francesca carefully, her voice trembling. ‘Not in the slightest. The only part of it that I did not know already was that they were accusing Marcus of double dealing. How dare they? How could they?’

‘But how
could
you know?’

‘I was there,’ she said, forgetting all caution in her anger.

‘In Paris? I knew that, but…’

‘In the
Maison des Anges.’

‘No, no! That cannot be! Miss Beaudon! Please! You must not joke about such a dreadfully serious matter. If you were believed—’

‘I am more serious than I ever was in my life before, Lord Denver,’ she said, interrupting him without ceremony. ‘How do you suppose I know the name of the place? You were careful not to mention it.’

He sat down and put his head between his hands. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, appalled. ‘What can you have been thinking of? I regarded you—’

‘Oh, it all happened very innocently! I am not the fallen woman you obviously think me,’ she said bitterly. ‘My nurse was ill and had taken refuge with her friend, Countess Rehan. She…she is…’

‘Countess Rehan’s name is known to us.’