A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  “Our daughter has her own little clock, I believe. I wish you success.”

  He stared at the hat in his hands, appeared almost surprised to see it there, and his voice, when he spoke, held an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “If you wish to begin some of the renovations, I have no objections.” He looked at her, the unrevealing expression once more in place. “I only ask that you wait until I return before starting any major alterations so we can plan them together.”

  Frances blinked, shocked he had asked rather than ordered, and was so delighted that she agreed without hesitation. “Of course.”

  “The building is old, and some of your suggestions may not be feasible without consulting the master carpenter.” Again a smile lit his face. “I’d prefer not to have any ceilings come down on our heads.”

  “That would be most unfortunate,” Frances said with a soft laugh. Dare she kiss him good-bye? She gazed at him, the silence stretching awkwardly until the moment was lost, and with it her courage.

  “I have no commissions, sir,” she said at last, glad her voice contained none of the longing in her heart. “Thank you for telling me of your plans. I wish you a safe journey.”

  The earl nodded. “I’d best be going.” He turned and then halted when he reached the door. “By the way, I have sent our acceptance to a formal dinner party Lady Merton is holding next week. It will be a good opportunity for you to meet our neighbors again, as I am certain most of the county will be there. Mr. Compton has the details.”

  He was gone before Frances gathered her wits together enough to answer. For which she was thankful, since she was sure her face displayed every bit of the shock and dismay hearing that woman’s name on his lips provoked. Shakily, she sank onto the dressing table bench and glared at her white-faced reflection. She did not want to even be in the same room as Lady Merton, who was no lady in Frances’ eyes. Nor did she want to accept her hospitality or eat her food.

  Well, the woman would not find Frances so easy a mark this time. If Richard had continued that liaison, it would end now. She did not think he had. Rose, at Frances’ request, had made discreet inquires amongst the staff—and servants knew everything.

  This time, Frances had too much at risk—her home…her family…her husband—and she was darn well ready to fight for them. She jumped up, threw aside her peignoir, and grabbed her blouse. Rose was right. Frances had to get the man back into her bed. She was no femme fatale but she had read a few books whilst in Portugal. Some of them had been graphic enough to turn her scarlet with embarrassment. She was not sure she had the nerve to actually do some of the activities illustrated, but she had the general idea, and if that is what men liked…

  Her spark of determination faded as swiftly as it had come. Frances rested her head on the bedpost, blouse clutched in her hand. Richard does not hate you, or so he claims. And you had a somewhat meaningful conversation last night, if you can call it that. Although shouting and cursing at him are not likely to kindle his affection. While you have made some progress, he is still a far cry from forgiving you. How can you explain why you stayed in Portugal so long when you hardly understand it yourself?

  “It felt right at the time,” Frances whispered. Now, however, her reasoning seemed stupid and selfish. “What cannot be cured must be endured.” The old proverb slid through her mind, and she took a deep, noisy breath. Perhaps so, but in the future—why, anything might happen if she wanted it badly enough…and she did want to save her marriage.

  “Let me help you, my lady,” Joan said as she hurried into the room. “The buttons on that blouse can be difficult to do up.”

  The maid sounded so horrified to think her mistress might attempt to dress herself that Frances smiled, stifling the impulse to tell her that she had dressed alone many times. The young woman had her job to do and took her work seriously.

  Frances also had work to do, and Flora was waiting. It was time to stop mooning about and get started on the day. A day that must include a serious discussion with Joan as to what to wear to Lady Merton’s—and whether there was enough time to have a new evening gown made up and sent from London. Frances might have many a worthier problem to address, but not one of more importance right now. No matter how frivolous and petty it was, she planned to look positively stunning at that party!

  ***

  Frances was busy all day with one thing or another. She allowed time for a morning walk with Flora and delighted in the exuberant curiosity the child exhibited over every squirrel and bird, not to mention any sign of a horse. Halcombe had already purchased a pony for her. Frances believed Flora was far too young for riding lessons, but could only trust that he would see the child came to no harm.

  After returning a sleepy Flora to her nursemaid, Frances worked steadily in her office until Benson announced a visitor in mid-afternoon. Mr. Jensen. Frances debated whether to see him or not. A courtesy call, she supposed, for the trifling service yesterday. Was it only yesterday? Somehow it seemed much longer. She could see no reason to put him off and was not averse to a short respite herself.

  “Very well, Benson. Have Mr. Jensen wait in the library whilst I change my dress. Ask Cook to send up some refreshments and tell Joan I need her.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Frances locked her papers in a drawer and went off to change her dress and have Joan arrange her hair into a more becoming style than simply pulled into a twisted knot. Feeling much refreshed, Frances entered the library a short time later, along with her maid and a footman bearing a laden tray. Frances did not expect her visitor to be overly forward, but she did not want to raise any eyebrows.

  “Mr. Jensen, good afternoon. How nice of you to call.” The room was amply lit by the afternoon sun. Frances had to admit the man was handsome. Blond hair, cut in what she imagined was the latest fashion, set off his perfectly classical features—truly an Adonis, as she had thought before. She swallowed the urge to laugh at her fanciful idea as he turned to greet her and bow over her hand.

  “The pleasure is mine, Lady Halcombe. I wanted to thank you again for your help yesterday.”

  “I am happy I could be of assistance.” Frances gestured to a pair of chairs flanking the small table holding the tray. “Please have a seat, Mr. Jensen. Might I offer you some refreshment? Tea or lemonade?”

  “Some lemonade, please,” he said with a smile. He waited until Frances was seated and took the chair opposite.

  The footman served Jensen his drink and then looked at Frances.

  “Tea for me, Evans.” Frances stirred some sugar into her cup and chose a pastry. “Cook’s sweets are excellent, sir. Do try one.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure they are delicious.” Jensen put several of the tiny fruit tarts on a plate. “This is a fine room, my lady.” He looked around in obvious approval. “You have an extensive collection, I see.”

  Frances smiled, gratified by the compliment. She was proud of the library, and not solely because she loved books. The newly polished mahogany paneling gleamed and the brass fittings glowed with repeated polishings. With the removal of dust from the handsome damask draperies and beautifully patterned carpet, the room invited one to relax in one of the big leather chairs and read. The single chamber in the manor that did not require redecorating, Frances had set an army of servants to clean it within a day of her return.

  “It is a wonderful room, isn’t it?” She laughed and lifted a shoulder. “I can say it without danger of being considered a boastful Betty, since with the exception of a good cleaning, it was already like this when I married Halcombe.”

  Surprise crossed Jensen’s face so rapidly that Frances doubted her eyes. Why would the man exhibit such at the state of the library?

  “The family must be bookish to have assembled and read so large a collection,” he said, his tone so casual as to indicate nothing but a polite interest.

  Deciding she must have imagined his startled expression, Frances shook her head. “I do not believe more than a few were scholars, if t
hat is what you mean. Many of the books have to do with mundane subjects such as livestock and planting,” she said lightly. “Lord Halcombe’s father was a more serious collector and acquired some first editions and other unique volumes.” She looked questioningly at him. “Do you share such an interest, Mr. Jensen?”

  “I have a small collection of my own,” Jensen said with a modest smile. “I hope to add to it as my fortune allows. Books can be costly.”

  This was said with a rueful smile and Frances warmed to him. Even if he was a guest of Lady Merton’s, the man had a charming manner. “Yes, it can be an expensive undertaking.”

  A short, not uncomfortable silence followed, while Frances sipped at her tea and Jensen at his lemonade. An interlude like this, taking tea with an almost stranger, and a man at that, was not something Frances had experienced before. Her enjoyment of so simple a thing was unexpected. It was rather nice to converse with a gentleman and not be at odds. But after a glance at the tall case clock, she realized the proscribed time for a call was at an end. In any case, she had other things to do.

  Frances set her cup down. “Do you make a long stay at Lady Merton’s, Mr. Jensen?” She waited until he had followed her lead. Once he had put his glass on the table, Frances rose.

  “Not long. Lady Merton is giving a small dinner next week. I will stay for that. I understand you have received an invitation,” Jensen said, and stood. “One you have accepted, I hope.”

  His amiable smile held an obvious interest in her answer that could not help but flatter. Frances’ answering smile was warmer than she had intended, or was wise, she recognized at once. She would not have flirting with a strange man added to her sins.

  “Yes, we expect to attend. I shall see you then, sir. Now you must excuse me.” Frances held out her hand.

  “Of course. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Jensen held Frances’ hand just a shade longer than propriety allowed and she smoothly disengaged. “It was kind of you to call.”

  He made no effort to prolong the visit. Perhaps she had misjudged him. No doubt it was a habit of his native country—and where he originated from she still did not know.

  Dismissing Joan, Frances lingered, idly rotating the huge globe. The book she had sent out yesterday was destined for Brussels, one of the more accessible cities where some of her customers lived. In fact, she had directed Thomas Blount to send most of the correspondence and packages through Brussels. She was fortunate that one of her father’s oldest and closest friends lived there. He was willing to help her in arrange courier services, route letters, and generally expedite her business affairs. Including and not the least of it, handling her banking matters on the continent. While there had seldom been problems with lost shipments, it was much safer to transfer funds by letters of credit than actual currency. Delays in delivery? Now that was another story!

  Frances had Aunt Olivia to thank for putting her on this path. In settling his affairs, her father had sent his sister a number of valuable books as a gift. Olivia was no bibliophile, however. Once Frances had recovered from the journey to Portugal, Olivia had asked her niece for help in disposing of the majority of the books.

  Although tentative at first, Frances had, with Olivia’s encouragement and support, taken up the widespread correspondence her father had maintained with collectors all across Europe. Scholars, curators, wealthy titled dilatants and even a prince or two, all with similar interests—the acquisition of rare books and antique maps. When she realized many of the correspondents also enjoyed exchanging information, opinions, and just plain gossip about the events of the day, she had encouraged them to provide her with any political, and in some cases, military news that came their way. Frances then passed it on to London, when she thought it worthwhile.

  Naturally, Lord Summerton had never replied, since she remained anonymous. Would he think better of her if he knew it was she who was his informant? It was so cheering to imagine the viscount’s surprise at the discovery of her identity that Frances had to choke back a laugh. Perhaps someday she would tell him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Not so coincidentally, the subject of the anonymous informant did come under discussion at Lord Summerton’s London home late that evening. Halcombe had reached the city at dusk. On this visit, he did not plan to see his mother unless he heard anything disparaging about Frances’ reappearance. Since such gossip he would certainly put at his mother’s door, a visit might become necessary. Otherwise, he had no inclination to endure any of her inquisitions or tirades.

  As Halcombe had expected, Summerton was not at home. After requesting that word of his arrival be sent to the viscount’s club, he took the opportunity to wash and change his clothes. He was enjoying a cold collation of meats and cheeses with thick, buttered slices of bread and strong ale when his host walked in.

  “No, don’t get up,” Summerton said, when the earl started to rise. “You look too comfortable. So much so, that if you will excuse me for a short time, I will join you.” He disappeared before the earl could answer.

  Not but a quarter hour had passed before Summerton entered the room, a bottle and glass in one hand and a platter of food in the other. The viscount was coatless, and bootless, Halcombe was amused to see.

  Summerton set his burdens on the table, sank into a chair with a grunt of satisfaction, and stretched out his long legs. “This is the first time I’ve relaxed all day,” he said, pouring some wine. “Salut.” He waved his glass in Halcombe’s direction and drank. “This is a welcome surprise, old friend. I’d not expected to see you so soon.” He grinned. “You being otherwise occupied with the new-found family.” Emptying his glass, he picked up a wedge of cheese and raised his brows in a rather fatuous manner. “Trouble in paradise, Richard?”

  “Idiot.” Halcombe gave him a sour look, but there was no rancor in his voice. “Never a chance of paradise, as you know damn well.”

  A tranquil silence followed this exchange, while both men addressed their food. Halcombe was the first to finish. He topped off his ale and slouched back in the comfortable folds of the chair. He had not been at ease since he’d seen Frances turn to face him at the hotel. Now a shadowy barrier seemed to put his problems at a distance, easing the emotional turmoil of the past weeks. Just being apart from Frances was a relief.

  The sound of her voice, the graceful sway of her body, the blasted scent of her, made him ache with a desire that appalled him. He wanted to hate her, hurt her, make her pay for the hell he had endured. Halcombe downed the last of his drink and pushed the problem of Frances from his mind. Her presence was a constant burr under his skin and just as unwelcome as one.

  Summerton swallowed his last bit of cheese and let out a satisfied huff. “Very nice and exactly what I needed. I had not realized how hungry I was.”

  “You did not eat at the club?” Halcombe asked.

  The viscount shook his head. “I had been there only a short time when your message reached me. It gave me a good excuse to come home. I have had enough of endless speculation, without a grain of fact behind it, to last me several days—possibly a week!”

  “Oh? Speculation about what?” Halcombe asked, his curiosity piqued, since he seldom saw Colin riled.

  “Anything one can imagine, from who will replace Portland if his health continues to decline, to the when and where of Napoleon’s next campaign.”

  “And the real story behind it?”

  Summerton narrowed his eyes. “That’s just it. There are a number of contenders in line for the Prime Minister’s position and no one knows what Napoleon will do. There is little news coming from the continent right now. Even the latest message from my anonymous informant was brief—and contained an apology for the scarcity of information!”

  “Are you still receiving those?” Halcombe straightened, his interest in this oddity rekindled.

  “One arrived quite recently, in fact, although after so long an interval I gave up expecting anything more. The handwriting had al
so changed, which worries me somewhat. The style and content are much the same, but even so, I fear that something has happened to the original writer and someone else has taken up the task.”

  “If that is the case, there is nothing you can do about it. Perhaps when this war is over, your secret correspondent will come forward.”

  “Perhaps. I hope so.” Summerton tipped his chin toward Halcombe. “Glad as I am to see you, I doubt you came all this way to talk about my problems. Is it very bad, this business with Frances and your daughter?”

  “Flora is a delight,” Halcombe said with a broad smile, warmed as he always was when he thought of her. “She has taken to life at Halcombe Manor like she never lived elsewhere. She loves horses, all animals, and I’ve purchased a pony for her.” He looked rather sheepishly at his friend. “I never expected to be bowled over by fatherhood, but I am besotted with her. It is hard to explain, but I will do anything to keep her safe and content.”

  “I’m glad. You deserve some happiness,” Summerton said. He looked intently at Halcombe. “And what of Frances? Have you decided on any course as yet?” The viscount paused, waited for a rebuff, but when no response was forthcoming, he added, “It’s none of my business, of course, but has she given you any explanation or reason for her absence?”

  There was no insistence or even expectation in the viscount’s voice or expression. If Halcombe wanted to talk, Summerton would listen. If not, that was equally acceptable. It was the nonjudgmental friendship Halcombe so valued and depended upon. He leaned forward and braced his hands on his thighs.

  “Frances has told me some of it, but not all. She says she will tell me the rest. Whether she will or not, I don’t know, and after hearing as much as I have, I am not sure I wish to hear more.” His voice roughened. “No, that is untrue. I need to hear it because I still don’t know why she stayed away so long. It is eating at me to the point where I am consumed with it.”