One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  Chapter 11

  Francesca left Berkeley Square torn between humiliation and hope. The interview with Mr. Fowler was bad enough, but when Lord Edward abruptly sent off Mr. Hubbertsey, too, she wanted to throw something, or crawl under the sofa. Somehow it was much worse to be rejected in front of Lord Edward, for all that he sat there with his gray eyes as cold as a winter’s sky and called both attorneys unsuitable. When he returned her list and declared them all unsuitable, Alconbury’s warning about being brushed aside had echoed in her ears. And wouldn’t Lord Edward have ample reason to turn her away? He might well think her delusional and tiresome, unable to convince a single attorney in London to take her case.

  But he didn’t send her off with empty regrets and murmured hints that she look elsewhere for assistance. He offered to think of other possibilities, ones that wouldn’t involve humbling herself to beg solicitors to reconsider her case. Francesca was wild to know what he meant by other possibilities, even as she tried to keep her surging hope at bay. Alconbury, who was no naive innocent, had assured her she needed an attorney to handle the matter. Alconbury had suggested most of the men on her list, the ones Lord Edward dismissed as unworthy of his time. Of course, Alconbury never interviewed anyone with her, as Lord Edward had done, or assured her he knew what she wanted. Lord Edward didn’t shake his head and sigh when she declared she would do anything to get Georgina back; he smiled, the vaguely predatory smile of someone who was accustomed to getting what he wanted. Her opinion of him was a great deal warmer for that.

  All the way home she wracked her brains for other options. Giving up, as Alconbury had suggested, was unthinkable. She could try again to bring Mr. Kendall to see the justice of her goal, and secure his help; perhaps he would be moved by Ellen’s recent disappearance. Of course, he had shown little to no interest in Georgina so far, despite her strongly worded pleas, and as he would be abroad for the next several months, he could hardly get the results she wanted in the near future. She supposed she might hunt Ellen down and kidnap her niece, but that would unleash a whole new set of troubles. So what other choices would Lord Edward propose?

  Not for the first time, she had some very unkind thoughts about John Haywood. He had been a charming fellow, handsome and easygoing and always ready to laugh, but at heart he’d been a weak man, easily led by others. Giuliana’s more forceful, practical personality had complemented his in every way, and her fortune certainly made their life easier. But once her sister died, Francesca had almost seen the backbone melt out of John. He forgot to pay bills for months, then lavished money all about in a way that would have put the Prince Regent to shame. Money ran through his fingers like water. She thought his servants must have begun stealing from him, he spent so heedlessly and with nothing to show for it. He spoiled Georgina outrageously—even Francesca, who adored the tiny girl, knew he went too far in indulging her, but her diplomatic suggestions were all brushed aside. John’s marriage to Ellen brought some order back into the household, but not enough. Ellen had the restraint and moderation John lacked, but not the strength of character to impose it on her husband. John never found time to change his will, not even after he promised Francesca that she would have the raising of his daughter in the event of his death, nor even after he’d married again and his wife was expecting a child. John hadn’t had much to leave, it was true, but to have been so careless of his duty to his new wife and to his children, both Georgina and his future offspring, was almost unforgivable, in Francesca’s opinion.

  And now he was dead, and Ellen was hiding his daughter away. In her softer moments Francesca felt some pity for Ellen, who had been left a widow with two infant sons and very little money—again thanks to John and his inability to economize even the slightest bit—but that sympathy never lasted long once she thought of Ellen’s actions since. Ellen had been in the room when John promised Francesca that she should have the care of Georgina; Ellen had known his wishes and then deliberately obstructed them. For that alone she could never forgive her.

  Mrs. Hotchkiss divined from one look at Francesca’s face that the interviews had not gone well. “I took the liberty of preparing tea, madam,” the housekeeper said as she took Francesca’s hat and pelisse. “I’ll bring it right up.”

  Francesca nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Hotchkiss.” She went into the drawing room and sank onto the sofa. When the housekeeper brought in a tray a few moments later, she mustered a smile. “You always know just what I need.”

  “Not that you always take my advice,” the woman murmured with a pleased smile as she fussed over the tray. The Hotchisses were worth every farthing of their salaries, Francesca thought gratefully.

  “And that is what I admire about you, Mrs. Hotchkiss. You offer your good advice so freely, and then bring me tea and sympathy when I choose my own doomed path anyway.”

  “Never doomed,” said the housekeeper loyally. “I’d never say such a thing, madam.” She handed Francesca a cup of tea, perfectly prepared.

  Francesca swirled the spoon in the tea and watched the steam curl and billow around it. “It certainly seems like it today,” she said with a sigh.

  “Things will look vastly improved tomorrow, I’m sure. But until then . . .” Mrs. Hotchkiss tilted her head at the brandy decanter. “Maybe just a drop, in your tea?”

  Francesca shook her head. “No, not today. I think a clear head will serve me better. It appears all my well-laid plans may come to naught.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with a new plan, madam. And Mr. Hotchkiss and I will do everything we can to help. It would be so lovely to have a child around the house, to say nothing of two or three.”

  She narrowed her eyes at the housekeeper, whose face was blandly innocent. “I have only one child in mind at the moment, not two or three. Let us not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Of course not! I was thinking of Miss Georgina. She might be lonely without other children around; that was my only fear.”

  “Hmm.” Francesca sipped her tea. “I could get her a puppy. Or a parrot.”

  “A parrot!” Mrs. Hotchkiss swelled with indignation. “No, Lady Gordon, I beg you. Nasty, smelly birds, parrots. And they bite! Not at all suitable for children, I should think. Lady Cartwright, my former mistress, had a parrot. It was terribly noisy, madam, squawking at all hours like it was being tortured to death—which some people might have considered doing, mind you. You’ll reconsider once the young lady is here, mark my words.” She nodded her head for emphasis, then bustled from the room, muttering, “A parrot, indeed!” under her breath.

  Francesca’s smile over the housekeeper’s tirade against parrots faded quickly. Teasing Mrs. Hotchkiss about the animals she might buy to amuse Georgina was completely pointless if she couldn’t even visit her niece. And without a solicitor, knowing where Georgina was would only be small comfort, because Ellen could run away to parts unknown again and she would be powerless to protest.

  She would have to wait and see what Lord Edward proposed. He had looked so confident when he put her list back in her hand . . .

  That night she tried to keep her mind off Georgina. Perhaps Alconbury was right; she was in danger of driving herself mad over attorneys and wills and other things far beyond her control. That would certainly not help her cause. So she joined some friends at the theater, laughing and talking and losing herself in the farce onstage. Alconbury came by between acts, bringing glasses of champagne and a beaming smile.

  “What a relief it is to see you enjoy yourself again!” He brought her hand to his lips. “I was afraid I overstepped myself the other day and spoiled our friendship.”

  She laughed, and took a sip of champagne. “You did overstep yourself, but fortunately for you, I am a forgiving sort of woman.” Of course, it was much easier to forgive him when Lord Edward supplied all the affirmation and sense of purpose Alconbury lacked. She was mildly startled to realize how inconsequential Alconbury’s disapproval felt compared to Lord Edward’s support.

&nbs
p; “It is just one of many things I adore about you.” He grinned. “In fact, there are so many, I feel positively weak at the knees . . .” He started to sink down, as if falling to his knees. His expression was smiling, but his eyes were serious—and determined.

  Francesca gasped, then made herself laugh again. “You were quite put out with me the other day, and well did I know it. A true gentleman would say nothing more of the matter, and merely be pleased to see me taking your advice to go out at nights.”

  “Well, I’ve always been a true gentleman, haven’t I?” He leaned closer. “Even when I didn’t want to be.”

  She met his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, smiling, but more in warning than humor. “You’re a thoroughgoing scoundrel.”

  “No.” He held up one hand. “I won’t be. Not while you are caught up in finding Georgina and winning custody of her. Just know that . . . know that I respect your desire to do this, and I’m always ready to lend my support, in any—and every—way you need.” She stared at him in surprise. He had listened to her troubles and given his advice when asked, but never offered to take up the fight with her. He smiled, and ducked his head to kiss her cheek. “Remember that, Francesca. You don’t need to turn to people like de Lacey.”

  So that was it. Oddly, she felt more relief than dismay that his motives sprang out of jealousy and not from any newfound conviction she was right about Ellen and Georgina. It meant nothing had really changed between them. “Good night,” she said lightly. “I appreciate your offer of support very much; you may be sure I shan’t forget. It was so kind of you to come see me, but I don’t want to keep you from the play.” Thankfully, the drama was beginning, and there was no excuse for Alconbury to linger. He pressed her hand once more and left to return to his own box, and Francesca turned her eyes to the stage, even though it was harder to concentrate on the performance now.

  A week ago she would have been overjoyed to hear Alconbury pledge his support and assistance. She knew he thought her battle would be long and difficult, although he had never suggested surrendering altogether until the other day. But now that he was offering all she wanted, for whatever reason, she didn’t feel like taking it. He was ridiculous to be jealous of Lord Edward, who had never done anything more forward than take her hand and hold it. Perhaps a few moments longer than necessary, although it hadn’t been unpleasant at all. Quite the contrary, as he had strong, lovely hands, and a light touch. Francesca realized she was rubbing one thumb along the back of her other hand, imagining his fingers cupped around hers again, and reached for her fan.

  Sally Ludlow, her hostess and friend, changed seats to sit beside her. “He’s besotted,” she teased. Francesca started, still thinking of Edward de Lacey. “Poor Alconbury,” Sally added.

  “Infatuation,” Francesca whispered with a dismissive flick of her fan.

  Sally glanced at her shrewdly, and raised her own fan to cover her words. “Nonsense,” she said as the crowd roared with laughter at the actors onstage. “He’s in love, and you know it as well as I do.”

  “You’re wrong,” Francesca returned quietly. “He’s very fond of me, I grant you, and I of him—but we’re not that suited to each other. Ours is a light, frivolous affection that would never survive the hardships of marriage.”

  They applauded as the lead actress swept onstage. She had carried the play thus far, and the audience quieted in anticipation. “He’s hinting that he wants to marry you,” Sally murmured. Francesca didn’t reply. “I take it you plan to refuse . . . ?” she added, a lilt of surprise making it half a question, half a statement.

  “He hasn’t asked me.” Francesca kept her eyes on the stage. “There has been nothing to refuse.”

  “Indeed.” Sally was watching her in the dark theater. “You had better prepare yourself, for he intends to.”

  Francesca smiled as if it were no matter one way or the other. “Thank you for the advice.”

  But she knew Sally was right. Sooner or later she would have to confront Alconbury’s unspoken proposal, particularly if he were telling other people it would become a formal one soon. He’d been patient and lighthearted about it so far, but obviously something about her association with Lord Edward piqued him. Francesca knew she was being a coward, but she dreaded telling Alconbury no, once and for all. He was a very dear friend. He was amusing and clever, an excellent dancer and a good listener. He always had a kind word and a handkerchief ready when she was in low spirits. She wasn’t sure she could have done without him these last two years, since her husband died.

  For a moment Francesca felt the echo of Cecil’s loss. Cecil, she was sure, would have been very much in favor of bringing Georgina into their home, since they had no children of their own. He always agreed with what she wanted. Several years older than she, he’d said he waited a long time to find a woman like her, and it was a pleasure to indulge his young wife. The six years of their marriage had indeed been indulgent, as Cecil introduced her to the world of politics, the arts, and a social whirl quite different from her quiet upbringing. Francesca had said at times that Cecil was training her to be the wife he wanted, but he corrected her; he was showing her how to be the woman she should be. Francesca supposed she had never lacked a strong will, but Cecil showed her how to channel it appropriately. Alconbury once joked that Cecil would rue the day he gave Francesca her head, for he’d never get the bit between her teeth again. She had exclaimed in indignation, but Cecil just laughed.

  What would Cecil think of her now? Would he approve of her method of getting help, or would he be appalled that she’d invaded Lord Edward’s home and rung a peal over him for perfectly defensible actions? Would he agree with Alconbury that she should consider quitting the search for Georgina, or would he applaud her vow to let nothing stand in her way? Would he want her to encourage Alconbury?

  Alconbury was irrevocably entwined with Cecil in her mind. They had been two of a kind: genial, witty men who made her laugh and who weathered her tempers with good humor. He’d been so often at their home, Cecil declared he was more family than friend. When Cecil had gone out that last terrible morning, never to return, it had been Alconbury he took with him, and Alconbury who brought the devastating news of Cecil’s death home to her.

  No one had been a stronger, steadier presence in her life than Alconbury since then. But she knew his feelings had taken a turn somewhere along the line—or perhaps had always tended in this direction—and hers had not. Selfishly, she wished they hadn’t. She wanted things to go on as they had been, even though she knew that was wistful thinking on her part, as well as unfair to Alconbury.

  The crowd around her erupted in applause, and Francesca forced her mind back to it, clapping dutifully as the actors made their bows. Sally had warned her Alconbury would make his intentions clear soon, but the man himself had promised not to press the matter while she was caught up in her search. Until then, Francesca decided, she would cast her lot with Lord Edward. She knew what sort of help she could expect from Alconbury. With Lord Edward . . . anything was possible.

  Chapter 12

  When the knocker sounded early in the morning two days later, Francesca was sure it was Alconbury, come to demonstrate his helpfulness. He had a habit of calling on her early, even without any extra motivation. She hadn’t been able to get away from the question of his intentions at the theater; after he left her, two other acquaintances, people who didn’t know each other, had asked if he’d finally proposed. She had smiled and brushed it aside, but knew she would have to face it eventually. Sooner or later he would broach the subject, and she felt awful for wishing it would be later—or never.

  Since she was in the hall, having just come downstairs, she went to answer the door herself. With such a small staff, it would be ludicrous to wait for Mrs. Hotchkiss, who was laying out breakfast, to come do it for her. She braced herself for whatever Alconbury would say today, and opened the door.

  Much to her surprise, it was Lord Edward de Lacey standing on h
er front step instead of Henry Alconbury. “Lady Gordon,” he said with a small bow. “Might I have a few moments of your day?”

  “Of—Of course,” she stammered. Good heavens; what could he want? It was unspeakably early for a call.

  He stepped past her into the narrow hall. Mrs. Hotchkiss had come hurrying behind her, and now jumped to take Lord Edward’s hat. Francesca caught sight of herself in the mirror opposite the drawing room. Dear Lord, she looked like she had just rolled out of bed—which was very nearly true—with her hair almost tumbling down her back, wearing a soft and comfortable morning dress that was at least two years old, and without a spot of powder on her face. She frantically tried to smooth her hair into a neater knot, since there was nothing that could be helped about her dress or face. As she twisted a loose tendril around one finger and tucked it behind her ear, Lord Edward doffed his hat and turned to hand it to Mrs. Hotchkiss, facing the mirror. His gaze met hers in the glass, and Francesca froze. For a moment they seemed connected by that shared glance, hers wide and flustered, his thoughtful and intense.

  As usual, she had no idea what he was thinking. But as his gaze seemed to trace every blushing inch of her face in the mirror, she no longer thought his eyes were cold. In fact, for a moment she thought they were exactly the opposite.

  “Won’t you come in?” she said, abandoning her hair. Without waiting for a reply she turned and went into the drawing room—anything to escape that piercing gray gaze. “Please sit down.”

  “Thank you.” He sat on the settee when she took the chair directly opposite it. “I apologize for not sending a note first. I happened to be nearby and acted on impulse, mindful of your desire for haste.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir.” She gave him a warm smile, feeling more in control of herself. Or at least her outward demeanor; her heart, unfortunately, still thumped like a carnival drum inside her chest. When he crossed one leg over the other, his knee was very close to her own. She really ought to rearrange the furniture in here, to provide her guests more space. “I’m very much in your debt after the other day, and don’t require such formality as a note.”