Francis wrapped the fan up again and looked at Ottilia. “Are you ready?”
But the Runner stayed him. “Here, that’s evidence that is, me lord.”
“Then, should he wish for it, I will hand it to Sir Thomas Ingham. Content you with the rings, if you find them.”
Ottilia felt him take her arm and went with him to the door. From there she took a last look at Abel. His head was down, his chin sunk into his chest, defeated. She turned from the sight and left the room.
The dining parlour had become the scene of vociferous argument interspersed with wild expressions of relief and joy. The marquis had returned from Bow Street shortly after the unexpected reunion of the dowager and Lord Francis with the son of the house. Giles, Earl of Bennifield, having travelled day or night without pause, so he said, and arriving just in time for breakfast, had been welcomed back from Italy with tears and laughter.
Barely had he been regaled with a brief version of events than a hackney deposited his father on the doorstep. As Madame Guizot and her children came down at the same time, pandemonium reigned for several moments.
Ottilia had borne little part in the excitement, although she had watched from the sidelines, enjoying the exuberance brought by release from tension. She had been introduced briefly, but effaced herself as quickly as she could, reluctant to detract from the family’s happiest moment since the start of the afflictions that had befallen them.
Presently, when Madame Guizot, having satisfied herself of the safety of Lord Polbrook, had retired with her children, the talk turned upon the public face that must be decided. There was no avoiding scandal, the dowager held, but they must stand firm together against the world and their tales must be the same.
Breakfast was long over, but the party had lingered in the dining parlour, Giles full of question, and with the zeal of the very young, hot against the world for daring to criticise his mother.
These were matters in which Ottilia felt she had no part to play. Choosing a moment when everyone’s attention was engaged, she slipped out of the room and into the vestibule. She had it in mind to go to her chamber, but she had barely reached the top of the first flight of stairs when lethargy overcame her. Turning, she sank down upon the step and rested her head against a convenient baluster.
She was weary and heartsore, and the end of the adventure left her utterly deflated. Her mind felt woolly and she could not think. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes.
“Tillie?”
Her eyelids fluttered up. Francis was standing in the vestibule, regarding her. Ottilia made to rise and could not. She sank back.
A frown in his eyes, Francis came quickly up the steps, halting just below her. “What is amiss?”
She put out a staying hand. “Nothing at all.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She tried to smile, and felt pricking at her eyes. No, she must not weep. Swallowing upon a thickened throat, she did her best to make light of it.
“I felt de trop. What is being discussed in there is hardly my concern.”
He was regarding her keenly. “Nor was it your concern to discover Emily’s murderer, but that did not stop you.”
The urge to cry was smothering her breath. “That was—different.”
For a moment he did not speak, for which Ottilia was both grateful and disappointed. Then he caught her hand and tugged.
“Come with me.”
Ottilia held back, a riffle disturbing her heartbeat. “Why?”
“That you shall know presently.” An eyebrow quirked. “Tillie, if you don’t come, I give you fair warning I shall pick you up and carry you.”
Despite herself, a tiny spurt of laughter escaped her. He grinned. “That’s better.”
Before she well knew what had happened, she had been drawn to her feet, led down the stairs, dragged willy-nilly through the little lobby where they had so lately eavesdropped upon Sybilla and Lord Polbrook, and was thrust without ceremony into the library.
Francis released her and closed the door. Ottilia’s heart began to pound. All desire to weep had left her. Her throat was dry, but she managed to speak, albeit in what sounded to her own ears like a croak.
“What did you bring me here for?”
His gaze met hers and what she saw there drove the breath from her lungs. “Did you think I was going to kiss you in full view of the world?”
Ottilia could only stare, utterly taken aback, as yet unable to take in the implication of his words.
He uttered a laugh that broke in the middle. Next instant she felt herself gathered into a stifling embrace.
“Oh, Tillie,” he breathed.
His face came down and Ottilia automatically closed her eyes. The warmth of his lips made her knees weak and her head dizzied. An uncountable time later, his hold slackened and he released her mouth, leaning back to look into her eyes.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for days.”
Ottilia’s hands came up without will and she set them against his chest. Her head was whirling and she could only say exactly what came into it.
“Why did you not?”
Francis smiled and her heart melted. “I did not dare. I would not have dared yet, if Mama had not this morning told me to stop being a prevaricating fool.”
“Sybilla?” Ottilia was so surprised, she broke away. “She said that?”
“And more.” He captured one of her hands, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her fingers.
“What more?” But her attention was wandering to the tingling sensation his lips produced in her hand.
Francis’s eyes were alight. “She said that if I was by chance wondering why you had turned into a watering pot, I had only to look in a mirror.”
Ottilia let out a gurgle. “Oh no. Does she think I have fallen in love with a handsome face?”
The hand holding hers stilled. “Have you? Fallen in love, I mean.”
All at once Ottilia was weeping. “Oh yes, Fan. Oh, so very much.”
He cradled her, placing his cheek to hers and stroking her back. “And here I had thought you invincible, my dearest dear.”
“Invincible?”
He drew back and wiped away her tears with his fingers. “Always so assured, so capable. Ready with a quip or a word of comfort at every hand. How was I to find the chink?”
Ottilia gave a watery chuckle. “You had no need to search. It cracked open at the first and widened thereafter in despite of all I could do.”
“I am glad.” He took her hands in his. “I love you very dearly. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
Francis kissed her again, a strong, persuasive kiss that went on for some little time and left her breathless and weak. He seemed to realise this, for he drew her to sit beside him on a cushioned bench between the windows. Here he indulged in a good deal of gratifying, if sentimental, conversation, in which Ottilia readily encouraged him.
At length, it occurred to her that things were more complicated than she had foreseen. “Francis, we cannot possibly be married—not yet.”
He was playing with her fingers, but he looked up at that. “I am aware. But don’t imagine I intend to wait upon a year’s mourning, for I don’t.”
“And let us not forget I am still Sybilla’s companion.”
“By the time we are wed, I daresay Teresa’s leg will have mended. But you will ever be my mother’s companion. She is almost as enamoured of you as am I.”
“Well, I am already very fond of her. But does she mean to take up her residence here?”
“Lord, no! She would be horrified at such a thought.”
“But the house needs a mistress, and much as I love you, Fan, I cannot take upon myself such a role. I would be bored to death.”
He laughed. “No, it is far too mundane a life to satisfy that superior intellect of yours, my dearest. But we are not going to live here.”
Ottilia blinked at him. “No?”
“No.” Francis slipped
his arm about her. “You have not so far asked about my circumstances, but I am not obliged to live upon my brother’s bounty.”
Ottilia nestled into him. “I am not marrying your circumstances.”
“I am gratified to hear it,” he returned, dropping a light kiss on her hair, “but one must be practical. I have an estate. It is only in London that I choose to live here.”
“A younger son, and you have an estate? How so?”
Francis hesitated. “It is not generally known, but it was willed to me by my wife.”
Mischief rippled through Ottilia. “So having found your heiress, you lost no time in disposing of her so that you might live on the proceeds.”
She heard the echo of her own voice with dismay, and felt the arm about her stiffen. Quickly she turned to him. “No, I did not mean it! It was a jest.”
“In exceedingly poor taste, under the circumstances.”
His tone was rough and Ottilia detected the hurt beneath it. She seized his hand. “Pardon me, pray. You must by this have recognised my besetting sin—I cannot stop my tongue running away with me. Francis!”
He turned pained eyes towards her. “If I can’t forgive you for that, I have no business declaring my affection for you.”
“No, I was wrong. So horribly wrong.”
His smile was a trifle crooked. “My darling, don’t take on so. Your besetting sin has been the making of this family. But for your unruly tongue at the outset, my brother would at this moment be languishing in gaol.”
“Yes, but I—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Hush! Let there be no dissension between us.”
Ottilia sighed. “I fear that is too much to ask.”
“Well, if it comes, at least let us pledge ourselves to wash it away as swiftly as we can.”
She let out a contented sigh. “You are unbelievably forbearing, Francis.”
“No, why? We are setting out upon an adventure of discovery. After all is said and done, we have known each other but a few short days.”
Ottilia spread his hand and slid her fingers between his, caressing his palm with her own. “I feel as if I have known you forever, but that is a trick of these especial circumstances. I daresay there are all manner of habits to disgust you of which you as yet know nothing.”
“I know enough of you, my darling, to be sure you could never disgust me.” But a gleam came into his eye. “You will undoubtedly madden and frustrate me and drive me to tearing my hair, but disgust? Never. Especially if you will persist in chortling in that unscrupulous way to get under my guard and disarm me.”
At this, her merriment bubbled over the more and all Ottilia’s doubts and uncertainties melted away.
“Oh, Fan, I adore you.”
A sudden grin lightened his features and he turned her face towards him, lifting up her chin. “A sentiment I wholly reciprocate, my infinitely adorable Tillie.”
His kiss enchanted her. But when he drew away a little, she sighed. A faint crease appeared between his brows.
“That sounded less than contented.”
She gripped his hand, beset by an inevitable reflection. “I cannot help but feel the poignancy of snatching happiness out of tragedy.”
Francis pulled her hand open and set a kiss in her palm. “For my part, I am thanking heaven for the blessing of a silver lining in a cloud uniformly grey.”
Ottilia gave a little shiver. “And I started out with hopes of entertainment.”
“No you did not, my dear one. You began in compassion, and if you found a way to be merry on occasion, you lightened my heart in so doing. I will not allow you to belittle your motives.”
“What, will you make of me a saint?” Her eyes pricked and filled. “Alas, I must ever fall short.”
“No saint ever giggled the way you do, Tillie.”
Ottilia did just that even as the tears spilled over. She dashed them away. “Your mama was right. I have turned into a watering pot.”
Francis smiled into her eyes. “I have a reliable cure for that.”
After which Ottilia was unable to utter a word for some little time, much less weep. When Francis at last released her mouth, Ottilia saw his eyebrow quirk and was swept with suspicion. She leaned back a little, the better to regard him.
“I mistrust that look. What now, pray?”
“It has just occurred to me. If we should ever find ourselves in need of funds—not that I anticipate such a contingency, but it is well to be prepared—”
“Fan . . .”
“—I will hire out my Lady Fan to untangle the difficulties of our neighbours.”
She preserved her countenance, but her lips twitched. “Indeed? Well, to tell you the truth, I was thinking of asking Sir Thomas Ingham if he would care to employ your Lady Fan for a Runner.”
“Oh, not a Runner, Tillie,” said Francis, mock serious. “You are far too good for that. Let Ingham retire and we will ask the home secretary to set you in his place.”
Ottilia could not hold back a laugh, but she leaned into him and curled her fingers around his. “I thank you, dearest Fan, but to be Lady Francis Fanshawe is ambition enough. This one brush with murder will content me.”
About the Author
An avid reader from an early age, Elizabeth Bailey grew up in colonial Africa under unconventional parentage and with theatre in the blood. Back in England, she trod the boards until discovering her true métier as a writer, when she fulfilled an early addiction to Heyer by launching into historical romance with Harlequin Mills & Boon, and fuelling her writing with a secondary career teaching and directing drama.
Now retired from teaching, and with eighteen romances published, she has switched to crime. Elizabeth still directs plays for a local group where she lives in West Sussex, England. She also finds time to assess novels and run a blog with tips to help new writers improve. For more information, go to elizabethbailey.co.uk.
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