His expression was all solicitous concern; all except for the eyes. Those were cool and gray and sharp, like dirty icicles. “Dear me, Mrs. Whittier. What a state you’re in. Well, we all have our little accidents sometimes; no need to berate yourself. Do you require help clearing those? I’m sure another servant could come to your aid.”
Frances spared a quick second to glare at him before glancing around the room. Caroline and Henry were oblivious, talking head to head on the sofa. Caroline was grinning and nodding.
Bah. They didn’t even need the letters anymore.
She swallowed a sick little heave of her stomach, then caught the eye of Bart Crosby. The good-hearted young baronet was hovering behind Caroline and Henry, but he noticed the food scattered over the carpet and made a convulsive movement, as though ready to come to Frances’s aid.
With a quick shake of the head, she warned him back. Whatever Wadsworth meant by this game, there was room for only two to play.
“Since I’m Lady Stratton’s companion,” she said in her sweetest voice, “it is my responsibility to help her callers, even if their behavior is asinine and rude.”
She gave Wadsworth a bright, innocent smile, an expression she’d learned from Caroline. “Not that I refer to you, of course. I am sure in your mind, it’s perfectly normal to throw sandwiches onto the floor. Shall we leave them right there, or would you prefer to arrange them into a pattern? Do you mean to eat all of them? Shall I get you a cup of tea for you to wash down your floor sandwiches?”
Wadsworth’s eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits. “I pity Caro the companionship of such a jade.”
Frances narrowed her eyes right back. “If you mean to compare me to a precious stone, I thank you. And if there is anything else I can do to ensure your comfort, do let me know. I’ll be standing across the room, next to Caroline, in whose house you have made such chaos.”
She stood, savoring the luxuriant shushhhhh of the stiff silk skirts. She trod on the platter Wadsworth had dropped, then swanned across the room to stand by Bart Crosby.
It was a rather decisive exit, if she did say so herself. And just in time, because she could feel her face growing hot as if it had been slapped. Soon her throat would have closed, choking her, and she would have been unable to defend herself.
“Sir Bartlett,” she murmured by way of greeting.
“You did excellently,” he replied. His brown eyes squinted with suppressed laughter. “I’d never have thought of all that sympathetic tosh.”
“You’d never have needed to.” She could have sighed.
She was among the vulnerable now, the questionable fringe of society whose reputations hung upon the kindness—or unkindness—of others. After a single Season in London, she was accustomed to being seen only as an accessory to Caroline. But when she was singled out… well, that she was not accustomed to.
She realized she was still holding her violets in a tight grip, crushing the slim stems together and bruising the blooms. No, she hadn’t expected to be singled out by either Henry or Wadsworth. Perhaps the one had inspired the other.
After all, they both wanted Caroline. She was a means to an end for them both. For good or ill.
“Are you quite well? Mrs. Whittier?”
Frances blinked and pulled her thoughts back into the drawing room. Sir Bartlett was watching her with the type of solicitude a man might bestow upon an older sister. “You look rather pale, if you’ll permit me to say so.”
“I’m fine, thank you. You needn’t worry about me.” She made herself smile. “Do you wish to sit?”
The baronet looked sheepish. “I was hoping to speak with Caro.”
“Ah. Yes, well, she’s scheming. I’m not certain about what.” Another smile, this one a little tighter. Henry and Caroline still spoke low, their golden heads visible over the back of the sofa.
At the other end of the room, Wadsworth was jawing out a footman and gesturing at the fallen sandwiches in the corner of the room. This was unfortunate for Caroline’s footman, but at least Wadsworth’s spleen had turned impersonal. It could now be quickly vented, quickly forgotten.
“She does enjoy her schemes,” Sir Bartlett was saying, his quiet voice warm with amusement. “She’s the one who got Hambleton and Crisp to dress identically. Did you know that?”
Frances discarded the thought of Wadsworth and gave a much more genuine smile. “That sly woman. I did not know that; I thought they’d always been in the habit. How ever did she do it?”
The baronet shrugged. “Some compliment on the clothing of one, then the other. And then I believe she said if one was so handsome, two such would be nigh irresistible.”
With a quick hand to her mouth, Frances covered a laugh. “She seems to be resisting them quite well. Have they not noticed?”
Sir Bartlett grinned, looking more boyish than ever. “Maybe not. I’m guessing they get great enjoyment out of the effect. And now they have an excuse to talk about their clothing all the time with one another.”
“A match made in heaven,” Frances murmured.
“Something of the sort. I’ll never complain, because the more she distracts her other suitors, the more time she has for—”
He cut himself off abruptly as Henry gave a final nod and stood from the sofa at last.
“Have Millie help you,” Caroline said in a louder voice. “Now, if the moment suits you.”
Henry nodded again, and his eyes met Frances’s over the back of the sofa. He gave her a wink.
She instantly turned into a Christmas pudding, all soft and overheated.
Stupid of her. It wasn’t even remotely the right time of year for pudding.
“Thank you, Caro,” Henry said, again focusing on the countess. “The evidence of one’s own eyes is always the best sort of proof. Surely you agree with me.” He grinned down at Caroline, a conspiratorial sort of expression.
You like proof, facts, evidence.
So Frances had written in her first letter, before she knew it would be credited to another. Caroline had never read that one.
From behind, Frances could see Caroline’s shoulders lift. “If one is a doubting sort. Actually, I…”
Frances gave a very unladylike cough.
“I am just that sort,” Caroline finished smoothly. “Full of doubts. Very reliant on evidence. Yes, I’ve said something to that effect, but I suppose I forgot I’d mentioned it to you.” She gave a shimmery laugh. “My memory is a sieve, you know. My head is too full of frills and fribbles. I am completely without Frannie’s gifts of recall.”
Now Frances rolled her eyes elaborately.
But Henry didn’t notice, he only took his leave. As soon as he’d exited the drawing room, Caroline turned on the sofa. “Dear Frannie, what a terrible cough you have. Come and pour out a little tea, won’t you? And, Bart, you must come and sit by me.”
Thus summoned, the two moved around the sofa and seated themselves to either side of Caroline. As Frances smoothed her skirts into place, she hissed, “You’ll ruin the whole secret if you’re so obvious about every little bobble you make.”
Caroline smiled. “Yes, Frannie, I’d adore some tea. Thank you.” Much lower, she murmured, “I can’t be expected to know when he’s referring to something I’m meant to have written. I didn’t write it, you know.”
“You can be expected to be subtle, though.”
Caroline waved a hand. “Subtlety is utter bosh. Confidence is what one needs.”
“Hmmm.” Frances couldn’t quite bring herself to say what she thought—namely, that those sounded like Henry’s words.
“If you’re only going to sit there and hum, you might as well pour out at once.” Caroline gestured toward the tea tray. “You can serenade us all quite as well while you tip that teapot on end.”
She sat up and extended her cup, and the commotion across the room finally caught her eye. “Good lord, what has Wadsworth done with all the sandwiches? Did he stumble?”
“It was a stumble of sorts.” Frances sat herself primly on the sofa next to Caroline. As she filled teacups and measured out careful slivers of lemon and lumps of sugar, she felt her poise return.
Perhaps her life would always be portioned out by teaspoons and hours for callers and the occasional bunch of violets. It was not much to be proud of, but she was useful in her way.
And life could hold its tiny triumphs nonetheless.
Across the room, she caught Wadsworth’s eye, and she raised her teacup to him for the sheer pleasure of watching him glare.