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If you should ever take a fancy to escape the City, please know that you—and Lady Stratton, naturally—are always welcome at Beckworth. I plan to depart today, so if you wish to reply, you may direct your letter there.

Yours truly,

Sir Bartlett; that is, Bart Crosby.

How distinctly odd. Decidedly strange. Indescribably bizarre.

A letter from Bart Crosby.

The only person with whom Frances had recently discussed country life was Henry. Had Henry told Bart—and if so, to what purpose?

“What does it say?” Caroline asked, walking over to peek at the paper in Frances’s hand.

“Nothing much.” Hastily, Frances folded it again and pressed at the soft seal. Her own puzzled questions were enough to contend with; she didn’t want Caroline to start speculating as well.

Of course, when the second letter for Frances arrived only a few minutes later, Caroline could not help but speculate.

“Good heavens, Frannie. That looks like the Applewood seal. Can you think why they would be writing to you? I was sure we had behaved ourselves tolerably well at their ball a few weeks ago.”

“I am sure we did.” Frances’s brows knit as she coaxed open this new seal. “They wouldn’t care that you hit Lord Wadsworth with your fan. And I know we didn’t spill lemonade on anyone.”

“Then we behaved much better than Lady Applewood’s eldest girl,” Caroline said, but Frances was hardly listening.

Dear Mrs. Whittier,

I am writing to ask you for a favor! Would you have guessed?

At my recent ball, dear Lady Stratton told me you always make everything better and easier for her. I know there is only one of you!—but if you have a moment, I’d be delighted to have you pop over and advise me on some arrangements for our next ball. Someone with a fine memory and impeccable manners is just the sort of woman I want at hand. I hope to wrest Lady Stratton’s receipt for lemon tarts from her clutches—and if I do, of course, we shall sample cakes and tarts aplenty.

Kindest regards,

Venetia Applewood

“What does she want?” Caroline pressed. “Is it about spilled lemonade?”

“In a way,” Frances said, handing her the letter. “It seems she wants a companion’s aid. She offers cake as an incentive. Rather wise of her.”

“Ah, this is my fault. I praised you to the heavens when I last spoke with her.” Caroline looked self-conscious. “I might possibly have been feeling a bit envious of her elegant mansion, and I wanted to remind her that I had things she had not. Namely, the help of a Frannie.”

“Ah. Well, you are very lucky in that regard. I can’t deny that I’m a rare gem. Even Wadsworth once called me a jade.”

Caroline ignored this mild attempt at humor and set the letter down carelessly on the edge of a table, from which it fluttered to the floor. The morning room was as untidy as Frances had ever seen it. Post and papers and periodicals littered the room; dried petals fallen from vases of wilting flowers were scattered over tabletops. Caroline had been warning the maids away for the past day—a negligence of great kindness.

“Frannie.” Caroline drew a deep breath. “I did mean well, for both of you.”

There was no sense in pretending not to understand. “I know. I meant well too. It doesn’t matter, though. We’ll be fine, just as we have for the past year in London. You can topple suitors like ninepins and throw roses in the privy.”

Caroline’s mouth pulled into an approximation of a smile, about as far from the real thing as an alleyway dolly-mop from a French courtesan. “It’s a compelling picture. But I cannot really be as selfish as the world thinks me, because I’ve tried to give away my dearest friend in marriage.”

Frances stifled a sigh and sank onto the sofa before remembering, damn it, this was the sofa on which everything had happened. The sex and the betrayals. It was a lot for one piece of furniture to hold up to.

She slid to the floor and leaned her head back onto the cushioned seat, studying the delicate plasterwork tracery of the room’s ceiling. “I shan’t marry again.”

“Of course you won’t.” Out of the corner of her eye, Frances saw Caroline drop into a chair. The same one Henry had occupied the night before. “A man fought a duel for you, but he’s not interested in marrying you.”

“Men fight duels for stupid reasons all the time.”

“True, but you are generally far from stupid. Besides, Wadsworth was not to be borne by anyone of good breeding. I was glad when Henry called him out. I ought to have done it myself, instead of throwing a vase at him.”

You threw the vase?” Frances’s head snapped up.

“Certainly. You didn’t think one of my puppies had done so, did you?”

“Yes, I did. I thought Wadsworth threw it after you refused him.”

“Oh, no.” Caroline studied the perfect pink and white moons of her fingernails. “I threw it at Wadsworth after he importuned me once too often. My aim was off, unfortunately.”

Importuned. Frances snorted.

“It was a shame, for I liked that vase.” Caroline pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t suppose Wadsworth will be coming back, and that’s worth the loss of a bit of porcelain. As for you—I cannot think of anything to counter my loss of you, even if it is for the happiest of reasons.”

“Don’t be silly, Caroline,” Frances said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Before Frances could reply, Pollitt entered with a salver bearing another note.

“For me?” Caroline asked.

“For Mrs. Whittier.” The butler bowed, holding forth the salver to Frances.

She thanked him and collected the note. “This is getting ridiculous.”

At a glance, she could tell it was not from Henry. The writing was too clear and certain to have been scrawled by a right-handed man using his left hand.

Caroline seemed relieved to leave behind the heaviness of the previous minutes. “My goodness, Frannie. I haven’t seen you get so much post in years.”

“I haven’t. Probably not in the past year put together.” She slit the seal and glanced at the letter. “This one’s from Lady Protheroe, inviting me to a small party tomorrow evening.”

“Ah, excellent. I accepted last week before I realized she meant to keep the party small. I am glad she decided to include you.”

“Why should she?”

Caroline drummed her nails on the giltwood arm of her chair. “You are notorious, my dear.”

Frances snorted again. Words were wholly inadequate to capture the ludicrousness of that statement.

“You are,” Caroline insisted. “Henry defended your honor in a duel. Now everyone wants a look at you.”

“He did nothing of the kind. You know as well as I that the duel was not for my sake. Wadsworth simply provoked him beyond endurance.” Frances drew her feet up, tucking herself into a ball.

“Ah, but you were standing at his side; he drew you in to the Fateful Encounter. I’m afraid the ton is not going to believe anything except that Henry is a man deeply in love. Which in itself is not notable, but we are all wrung for things to talk about at the end of the season. Unless Prinny gambles away a hundred thousand pounds, this duel will probably be the most interesting thing that happens this week.”

“You could cause a scandal and draw all the gossips away,” Frances suggested. “You’re much more interesting than I.”

“I have another idea,” Caroline said, picking up a fallen issue of Lady’s Magazine and snapping it open to a random page. “Why don’t you try to enjoy the attention? For once, the ton is giving you the regard you were born to. Wadsworth might have done you a very good turn after all.”