Frances only hunched her shoulders. Being noticed by the ton would have delighted her before she met Henry. She would have loved to feel as if she belonged again in the world she’d given up for Charles.
Now she would have loved… well, just to feel loved.
***
Five dreary, stifling days passed. Days in which the city baked, and letter after letter came, inviting Frances to all manner of end-of-season festivities. But gossip began to dwindle as Frances stayed home, and Caroline went out and about as if nothing was out of the ordinary. She went to Lady Protheroe’s supper party. She went to teas and breakfasts. Always, before she left, she cast Frances a wordless glance. It was easy to interpret.
Pity.
I’m sorry, Caroline’s face said. Well, Frances was sorry too. Her faultless memory replayed the past weeks for her, wondering at what point everything had been knocked askew.
The puppies were not calling; that was a small blessing. Caroline had given Frances the gift of a peaceful house, which was as much as anyone could give right now.
Five days after the duel, Frances sat in the deserted drawing room, just as she had for the four days previous. Silence pressed so heavily at her ears that they rang, high and faint. The summer heat seemed to have wilted her within her gown, and she sprawled in a puddle on a tufted settee covered in drab-colored velvet.
A scratch at the door heralded the arrival of Pollitt, bearing a note on a salver. “For you, Mrs. Whittier.”
In a hectic instant, Frances sat up straight. Somehow, her voice was calm as she scrabbled for the folded paper. “Thank you, Pollitt.”
But even before the butler had bowed from the room, she knew this wasn’t from Henry either. The writing was as smooth and feminine as she had once pretended hers was, when she falsified the form of it for Henry.
She sighed to herself. It was probably from some bored noblewoman who wanted her to plan a Venetian breakfast while wearing a courtesan’s night rail. The polite world seemed determined to make a spectacle of her.
But this note was different.
Dear Mrs. Whittier,
Surely every runner in London has now been tired out on your behalf, and my brother’s. Notes have been flying about the City faster than money changes hands at Devonshire House’s gambling parties.
As you know, Henry is mindful of his handwriting, so I am bade to summon you. Won’t you take pity on the poor runners and come to Tallant House?
Sincerely,
Emily Tallant
At last, at last.
The letter fluttered from Frances’s hand. Before it reached the floor, she was calling for her gloves and spencer.
Twenty-Seven
For the second time in recent weeks, Lady Tallant shut Frances into the morning room. Henry let himself in not a minute later, knocking the door shut with his elbow. “What’s this about, then?”
“Why, you summoned me.” Frances had flown through the streets to Tallant House. Now the shortness of Henry’s voice clipped her wings.
He shook his head. “Caroline sent me a note saying there was something you needed to discuss with me.”
Frances’s mind wobbled. “Caroline sent you a note?”
Henry nodded, his brows bronze slashes on a wary face.
Damn Caroline. Frances grimaced. “What a horrible thing for her to do. I’m sorry for the trick. I have come because Lady Tallant sent me a summons, I thought on your behalf. I have the letter here.” She produced it from her reticule.
His eyes flicked over it in an instant, a corner of his mouth lifting. “It seems our relatives wanted their place in our correspondence after all.”
He made a hm sound in his throat, as though noting something mildly interesting.
What was going on here? Henry didn’t look angry. But he could not have wanted to see her, or he’d have written to her himself or paid her a call.
Frances had waited long enough for answers. “So Emily and Caroline have played a little trick on us. Now that we are together, do you have a reply to my letter from five days ago? Or am I to take your silence as reply?”
Amusement vanished from his face. “I have been waiting to reply until I knew exactly how.”
“And have you decided?”
“Some of that depends on you.”
She lifted her chin. “What more do you need from me? How much more frank could I have been with you?”
Henry’s left hand fumbled with his right sleeve. His mouth was set in a grim line.
Apprehension clenched Frances’s stomach. “What is it? Have you done something?”
“I… wrote a letter of my own. I’m not sure what you’ll think of it.” His lips flexed and pulled, as if he wanted to draw the words back.
Were their roles reversed, Frances would have thrown herself upon his body to make him forget she’d said anything. She’d done so twice. But Henry had more courage—or maybe just less desire.
“Tell me quickly,” she demanded, “before I imagine that you’ve bought six harem girls and intend to turn Tallant House into a den of sin.”
“Nothing of the kind, I assure you.” He pulled a folded paper from the tail pocket of his dark blue coat. The letter flapped loose, its seal already broken. “Here, you’d better read it.”
Mystified, she took the missive from him.
Dear Mr. Middlebrook,
Thank you for your recent correspondence regarding your attachment to my daughter. As you are no doubt aware, I have not been in communication with her for years.
I am more delighted than I can express to know she is well, and that she has found a friend in yourself. I knew your late parents slightly. It is clear to me from your letter that you are honorable, just as they were.
You need not have asked my blessing on your prospective match, as you know, though I am happy to grant it. I appreciate the invitation to your wedding; however, I regret that ill health makes travel on such short notice impossible.
Please give Frances my love. I regret that so much time has gone by since we parted, and I hope one day we shall be reunited.
Yours sincerely,
Sir Wallace Ward, Bart
The hand was fainter and shakier than she remembered. But she could hear his voice speaking the words as clearly as if no time had passed. As if they had never fought and he hadn’t all but disowned her.
Seven years ago, when her mother died, Frances’s father had sent her the rosewood box that had once held Lady Ward’s jewels. No note was enclosed, as if he meant to tell her, I know where to find you, but I have nothing to say to you. The silence was worse than a reprimand, so on it stretched.
His voice still echoed in her ears, though. Fifteen years ago he had checked her arithmetic with a proud, “Well done, daughter.” Twenty years ago, he explained the rules of chess and whist, sure she could master them as well as any male child. Twenty-five years ago, he bounced her on his knee, laughing as hard as she.
She had not thought of these things for a very long time. There had been no point. But now—here was the past, right before her face.
“This is from my father.” She could hardly believe it. But it was his hand. His signature. It sounded like him, all sternness over hesitant warmth.