A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  “I saw that, my lord,” Cook chided with an indulgent smile. “You’ll be about burning your fingers if you don’t have a care.”

  “My fingers are intact, Mrs. Hinks, and my stomach thanks you.” Halcombe, never breaking stride, was out the door before she replied. The woman had worked in the Manor kitchen since he was a child—was head cook, now—and had always had a soft spot for a hungry boy. Someday Flora, too, would be cajoling treats, just as he had done. It was a warming thought. God willing, Mrs. Hinks would have the chance to spoil another little boy or two and he planned to do his best to make this happen. A picture of Frances, flushed and rosy-lipped, popped into his head. Yes, and he would enjoy every minute of the effort.

  ***

  Frances had no sooner spoken to Thomas, requesting he stay the night so she could respond to several letters recently received, when Benson came in with word that Mr. Jensen wanted to see her. Gracious, the man was persistent. It was not that she disliked him. He was knowledgeable and a good conversationalist. He tended toward being overly familiar, however, and such a manner made her feel uncomfortable rather than flattered. She had no interest in superfluous flirtation.

  “Is Lord Halcombe in, Benson?” Frances felt it unlikely but, if not, Rose would be needed.

  “No, madam. His lordship went out some time ago and is not expected until later this afternoon.”

  Frances let out an exasperated huff, glanced at the array of house plans and letters on her desk, and summoned a faint smile for the concerned butler.

  “I can tell him you are otherwise occupied, my lady,” Benson said. He looked like he relished the idea and Frances’ smile widened.

  “That will not be necessary, Benson. I can spare him a few minutes. I suspect he wishes to take his leave of us.” Frances bit at her lower lip while she debated whether to see him in the library, or here in her parlour. She finally concluded that the library was much less personal.

  “Please ask Mrs. Blount to join us in the library.” No servings of sweets and drinks today. She wanted to waste as little time as possible on her guest.

  Rose was already settled in a chair near the door, knitting, when Frances walked in. Jensen stood by a window leafing through a book. He turned at once, put the volume on a small table, and walked toward her.

  “Lady Halcombe. You are good to give me this time to say farewell,” he said, bowing over her hand.

  Frances thought his well-featured face less handsome today, marred as it was by a look of strain around his eyes and a mouth downcast with some worry or other. Perhaps Lady Merton was being more troublesome than usual, she thought spitefully. The woman had obviously been out of temper when she left yesterday. Frances had no doubt the viscountess’ guests had borne the brunt of her anger.

  “So, you are firm in your plan to leave tomorrow?” Frances asked politely. She did not care when he left as long as he stopped haunting the Manor. She waved toward a chair and sat in one near it.

  “Yes, I must get home.” Jensen sat, too, a grave look settling on his face. “I have received word that my father is ill. No, not dangerously so,” he said quickly, responding to her look of alarm. “He will fare better if I am with him, however.” Jensen paused and leaned forward, hands resting on his knees. “I admit to another purpose for my visit this morning, although I did want to thank you and Lord Halcombe for allowing me access to your fine library.”

  He smiled with a boyish chagrin that immediately put Frances on edge. She moved back slightly, putting more space between them.

  “A favour, if you will,” he said, and something in his eyes told her that he had noticed her withdrawal.

  “And that is…?” Frances smiled with more warmth than she felt. She was being nonsensical. This practiced charm was just his way and meant nothing.

  “I’m sure it would do my father a world of good were I to bring him a gift. Something for his collection would be ideal. If you might kindly allow me to purchase a small item from the estate?” He lifted his shoulders in a casual manner that implied the request was not of great importance.

  Frances suspected it was, however. Since she had no reason to question what seemed a simple enough desire to honour a loved one, she cast about in her mind for a volume in her personal inventory both unique and of reasonable cost.

  “That is most thoughtful of you, Mr. Jensen,” Frances said, and meant it. She, of all people, readily approved of familial affection. There was not a day gone by she did not think of her own father. “I do have several volumes that might be of interest to you.” She named two of the most suitable selections and offered to have them brought to the library for his perusal.

  “You are very kind.” Jensen half-bowed and smiled sheepishly at her. “But I wonder if perhaps a map may be available? Father has a somewhat keen fondness for maps.” He indicated the map cases with a jerk of his chin. “I could not help but notice you have some.”

  “They are Halcombe’s, not mine. I am not familiar with the entire collection, but we can take a look if you like.” She stood and went to take a key from a small drawer in the desk. Jensen wanted a map? He had shown little interest in any of the maps before today, but then this was for his father, not for himself.

  Jensen joined her by the largest chest as Frances rolled out the drawers in search of a folio she had seen recently that contained several maps. While they were not of impressive value—being both woefully inaccurate and nor particularly old—the designs were highly unusual. Frances recalled that the amateur mapmaker had embellished his idea of the west coast of Africa with charming pictographs of native animals and flowers.

  “This may do,” she said, gratified that her memory was indeed correct. She handed the folio to her guest, closed and relocked the storage chest, and indicated a nearby table. “Please, take a look. I don’t think my husband would object to you having these, if you wish.”

  Jensen’s smile was forced. Frances imagined he was less than happy by her choice, but it was all she had to offer and, really, the matter was taking far too much of her time. She was eager to return to her examination of the house plans. There was something off on one of the drawings and it continued to nag at her. She intended to ask Halcombe about it the first chance she had.

  When Jensen looked up from his study of the two maps, his face once again wore its customary mien of affable accommodation. “They are delightful, my lady. I am sure Father will be pleased. If you will tell me the cost, I will write a draft on my London bank.”

  Frances pronounced a reasonable sum, sent for some additional paper to wrap the folio in, and supplied Jensen with stationary and a pen. It seemed she was unsuccessful in hiding her impatience, for Jensen handed her the draft with an apologetic smile.

  “I am keeping you overlong, my lady. Forgive me. My father…” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Father will be pleased with the gift, even if it is not his true heart’s desire.”

  “And what might that be, Mr. Jensen?” Frances asked as she walked toward the door.

  “Oh, that rarest of antiquity maps—the Legacy Folio. I personally believe it a mythical thing, something akin to the Golden Fleece or Holy Grail!” Jensen laughed.

  Masking her shock with an effort, Frances laughed too. “There are many such myths in the world of antiquities. I believe my father once mentioned this one, but I have no idea whether it actually exists.” Her remark was made with all honesty, for they had solely the mention of it amongst the previous earl’s papers to go by, and they had yet to find the thing. Frances glanced sideways at Jensen but saw nothing in his polite expression to indicate undue interest in the Legacy maps. Yet surely it could not be coincidence. She herself was not much of a believer in coincidence, but in this case…? Perhaps she was suffering from an excess of imagination.

  Pushing aside her misgivings, she stopped at the doorway and held out her hand. “A safe journey to you, sir. Perhaps we will see you again should you visit England in the future.”

  Jense
n bowed and actually kissed the back of her hand. “My pleasure entirely, my lady. You have been very kind. I hope you will give my regards to Lord Halcombe.”

  Resisting the urge to rub her hand against her skirt, Frances managed a weak smile. “I will do that, sir. Now, here is Benson to see you out.” She gave her departing visitor a friendly nod and turned back into the room.

  Frances could not like Jensen’s mention of the Legacy Folio. It was immensely disturbing, but what could be done about it? Nothing at all, Frances. You are making too much of a casual comment. Tell Richard of it, and put it from your mind. After all, Jensen is leaving and you will not be seeing him again.

  Mildly reassured by this line of reasoning, Frances thanked Rose for her attendance and went to see if Flora was napping. She suddenly felt a need for one of their lively walks, and if they came upon Richard and persuaded him to join them, so much the better.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “I see you are going out,” Halcombe said as he walked into his wife’s chambers, an obvious observation since Frances wore her riding habit. She was seated at her dressing table while her maid arranged her hair. Halcombe watched as Joan set the last pin in place and then caught Frances’ gaze in the mirror. Correctly reading his expression, the countess smiled at the young woman. “Very nice, Joan. You may go.”

  “How do you always know what I want?” Halcombe asked. He came up behind her, bent to kiss her cheek, and then deliberately brushed her ear with his lips and nibbled on the outer edge.

  “Richard!”

  Her cheeks coloured with a delightful shade of pink and he laughed. “You are so very tasty,” he teased.

  “And you, sir, are dreadfully forward.” She made a face at him, her eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Indeed.” He drew out the word, thinking of the morning she had scolded him about it and knew she was also reminded when her blush deepened.

  “Don’t ‘indeed’ me,” she said with mock severity, rising and turning to face him.

  “No?” Halcombe put his hands around her waist and brought her close. “Something else, then.” Her lips were warm and soft, and a hint of sweetened coffee lingered on her mouth. “Umm, you are tasty,” he said.

  “We will never get out of this room if you continue so,” Frances said with a mischievous smile. She took a prudent step back when he released her.

  He raised a brow and grinned. “You will have to venture further than that if you wish to be safe.”

  Still smiling, Frances moved out of reach. “I would prefer the enjoyment associated with being ‘unsafe’, but had not put you in my schedule this morning,” she said with a sly glance.

  “And would you put me in your schedule if I wanted it so?” He said this jokingly, but with an underlying seriousness that made him realize he still was unsure of her.

  “Always,” she said and came back to him. She cupped his face with her hands. “Always.”

  She rose up on her toes and brought him near enough to put her lips to his, so sweetly and tenderly he was tempted to take her to his bed and make good on her promise. Instead, all too aware of his pressing responsibilities—and hers—he satisfied himself with a long, deep kiss.

  It was never like this before, this intimate banter and exchange of affection. Halcombe had to keep in his mind that, in many ways, they were as a newly wedded couple learning of each other every day. With the added reward that you know much about her already, as she does you.

  As they moved apart, the other reason for his visit returned to mind. “I came in to tell you that I expect Summerton to arrive sometime in the next few days. We will need a room prepared for him.”

  Frances picked up her hat, smoothed the feather, and looked a question at him. “This is a friendly visit, or is something amiss?” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you told him I am his informant?”

  “I am leaving that delight up to you.” Halcombe took the hat from her hands and put it on her head, careful not to disarrange her hair. “No need to look so worried. Colin will be pleased as punch—once he gets past his disbelief.” He tied the ribbons under her chin. “And yes, this is a friendly visit.” There would be time enough to tell her of the mysterious stranger at Clifftop—or the possible intruder—when they had more information.

  The earl waited until she had found her gloves and then opened the door for her. “Are you going anywhere in particular or just for your ride?”

  “I thought to ride along with Thomas as far as Mary’s. It’s on his way and will save one of the grooms from escorting me.”

  Halcombe stopped abruptly and frowned at her. “You do not plan to ride back alone, I trust?”

  Frances sighed. “It is not so very far and the road is good…”

  “No.”

  His tone was firm and concise. Frances took one look at his face and sighed again. “Very well, sir. I will have one of Mary’s grooms accompany me or you can send Jim around eleven. It seems that I never stay more than an hour with her.”

  “Jim is busy elsewhere, but Mathew will meet you there promptly at eleven.” Halcombe started them walking again along the passageway.

  Frances was silent until they descended the stairs and then halted outside his study door. “I have been meaning to ask you what you know about Mary,” she said in a low voice. “I hold her in affection and feel something is very wrong in her life, but I have been unable to persuade her to confide in me.”

  Halcombe considered her inquiry. “I know very little about the family, or Lady Alten. The family has held the property for years, but were only occasionally in residence, preferring their London home. But they moved here permanently about three years ago. Mr. Cauley was alive at that time. He died a year or so after Mary wed Lord Alten, I believe. Mrs. Cauley, who I’ve heard is in poor health, remained in the house with a companion. Lady Alten moved in to care for her after Lord Alten was killed in a riding accident.” He looked at her somewhat apologetically. “I’m afraid that is all I know and most of it is hearsay.”

  “Did you know Lord Alten?”

  “By reputation only. I admit I was curious as to why a young woman like Mary chose to marry such a man, but I supposed it to be money, or maybe position.” That last remark touched a bit close to home, but Frances did not appear to notice and he quickly went on. “Colin might know more. He is far more cognizant of the ton than I.”

  “I will certainly ask him,” Frances said. “Now I must go. Thomas has a goodly ride ahead of him.”

  Halcombe touched her cheek, aware that the eyes and ears of lingering servants might be nearby. He shook off any concern and lost himself for a moment, his gaze preoccupied with the fullness of his wife’s lips. Let them linger. If I want to kiss Frances in plain sight…He allowed his hand to trail lightly along her jaw. “I will be in and out most of the day if you need me.”

  Frances had apparently caught the gleam in his eye. “Thank you, sir. I will do just that.” Then she turned away, a little smile tipping up the corners of her mouth as she hurried off.

  ***

  Frances was not exactly sure why she felt Thomas had another reason for his visit—besides seeing Rose and collecting parcels from Frances. Thomas denied any such thing, and her efforts to draw him out being unsuccessful, the two friends parted company at the Cauley’s house with her curiosity left largely unsatisfied.

  She knocked at the Cauley’s front entry and waited. Frances believed her suspicion about Thomas was somehow connected to Halcombe. The men had talked yesterday morning and she was sure it was the one time they had done so since her return. Frowning, she watched Thomas ride away, briefly ignoring the maid who had appeared at the door to answer her knock.

  Mary met her in the small parlour used for guests. She appeared pale and drawn, and Frances rushed to greet her with a hug. “My dear, you look terribly fatigued. Come, sit down and tell me what is amiss.”

  Frances guided her unresisting friend to the sofa, and then sat beside her, gripping Mary’s limp hand
with both of hers. “What is it?” For once, the overbearing and intrusive Mrs. Norton was not in sight.

  “You really should not stay, Frances,” Mary said. “We have illness in the household. I would not see you become ill.”

  “Nonsense. I am as healthy as a horse,” Frances said stoutly. “That explains the absence of your companion, I suppose. Who else is infected? Not your mother, I hope!” Mary’s mother was already beset with a number of ailments and had little defense against infection of any sort.

  Mary nodded glumly. “And one of the maids as well. I sent most of the staff away and am terrified we will all succumb. Mr. Morrison has been by several times. He says there is little to be done except to keep the patients quiet and well watered.”

  “Well watered, indeed,” Frances repeated with a laugh, glad to see even a spark of amusement in Mary’s eyes. Mr. Morrison was the local apothecary. He was famous, or perhaps infamous, for his conviction that copious draughts of water and broth encouraged recovery from the fever—and just about every other ailment. He was not quick to bleed his patients either—another oddity in his method of treatment. Since Frances was in full agreement with the regimen of fluids, and abhorred the practice of applying leaches to extract so-called impurities from the body, she had no quarrel with his treatments.

  “I cannot stay and chat for long,” Mary said, allowing her hand to rest on Frances’. “Mother gets very restless when I am not there.”

  Surprised and touched, Frances kept her grip loose, grateful that Mary accepted any solace at all.

  “I will not overstay,” Frances said. “Have you everything you need here? Adequate food and bedding? We have both to spare and I know how often the linens need to be changed when someone is ill. With the maids away, I imagine no one has been doing the laundry.”