by Sara Bennett
Mrs. March’s cold, haughty gaze lingered on Francesca. “Mr. Tremaine rarely has visitors,” she said, more like the mistress of the house than a mere housekeeper.
“Then this is an occasion for celebration.”
Mrs. March pursed her mouth. For one awful moment Francesca wondered whether she was going to refuse to allow them to pass, and they would have to wrestle with her on the doorstep. But perhaps she only wanted to give that impression, because suddenly she stepped back, her skirts swinging.
“This way,” she said, with a mirthless smile. “You may have to wait a moment or two while your rooms are prepared. Mr. Tremaine does not like to have rooms in use when there is no need, so parts of the house are closed up most of the year. I’ll have tea served to you in the second-best parlor.”
“‘The second-best parlor’?” Francesca repeated, feeling cross.
But Amy laid a warning hand on her arm and shook her head. “Thank you, Mrs. March,” she said, to the woman’s ramrod-straight back, her voice falsely bright.
“Mama,” Francesca whispered her protest. “She’s being insufferably rude!”
“That may be true, but I still don’t think we should commence our stay in London by coming to blows with my brother’s housekeeper, no matter how much we might be tempted. My dear, you know you’re inclined to accept first impressions far too hastily. Perhaps Mrs. March is shy…overwhelmed by the occasion…” Amy waved her hand, seeking inspiration.
“Mama, the woman is a nightmare,” Francesca retorted.
“Here we are.” Mrs March had stopped at one of the doors and was waiting for them to catch up.
“Thank you, Mrs. March.” As usual Amy’s manners were impeccable. “I remember this room when it was my dear mother’s sitting room,” she added, gently reminding the housekeeper of her family’s long association with the house, and her right to be there. “Do you know what time this evening my brother will be home?” Amy went on, stripping off her gloves.
“The master is in Oxford,” said Mrs. March, with satisfaction. She watched their faces fall, and allowed herself a smirk. “If you had let him know you were coming, I’m sure he would have been here to greet you, but as it is he won’t be home until the day after tomorrow.”
“Oxford,” Francesca repeated woodenly.
“William has friends in Oxford,” Amy explained, but her voice was full of disappointment. “Oh dear, I suppose I should have written to inform him we were arriving today, Mrs. March, but I so wanted to surprise him.”
Even the housekeeper wasn’t proof against Amy’s sweetness, and her chilly expression thawed slightly. “He’s asked for leg o’ lamb for his dinner day after tomorrow. It’s his favorite and he won’t miss that.”
Amy smiled. “Well, that is a relief. I suppose we can occupy ourselves until then.”
“Ma’am?” Lil was hovering in the hall. “Do you have any further instructions for me?”
“No, it’s all right, Lil,” Amy said kindly. “You go and have something to eat. I’ll send for you when you’re needed.”
“The servants’ quarters are this way,” Mrs. March moved briskly across the hall. Lil fell into line, and her back was, if possible, even straighter than the housekeeper’s.
In the second-best parlor, Amy sat down and stared at the shabby and depressing decor. “I am missing Mr. Jardine already,” she said in a woebegone voice.
“At least we will be able to visit the theater, Mama. And the opera. And Madame Tussauds. Maybe there is a wax effigy of Mrs. March in the Chamber of Horrors.”
Amy chuckled. “Terrible child! I beg you don’t upset her, Francesca. Helen did mention in one of her letters that William relies on her a great deal.”
“You don’t think they are—?”
“No, I don’t.”
Francesca thought of the housekeeper’s cold, unsmiling face and steely eyes, and decided there was little likelihood that Uncle William would want a woman like that sharing his bed. Surely his preference—if he had one—would be for someone soft and sweet and pretty? One of the soiled doves whose only way of surviving was to find a protector who would house and care for her…until boredom set in, and she was once more adrift.
Francesca shuddered. Aphrodite had once been such a woman…
“Do you wish to visit Madame Aphrodite while we are in London?” It was almost as if Amy had read Francesca’s mind.
“No,” she said shortly.
The subject, she hoped, was closed.
Aphrodite was busy with the evening entertainment, gliding about the room, making certain that her guests were being entertained and that their glasses were full of champagne. She seemed to know just what to say to each of them.
Years of experience, Sebastian supposed, watching her as he half listened to the pretty girl at his side. Her smile was seductive, promising more than conversation, if he was interested. He knew she’d be knowledgeable in the giving of pleasure without emotion—no need to think beyond the moment—which was what most men here tonight were seeking. But Sebastian wasn’t. Passionless encounters bored him, even more so now that he’d known Francesca.
He wondered whether she was thinking of him. Thinking of Mr. Thorne, the dangerous, wicked Mr. Thorne. If she knew the truth…would she be interested then?
“Mr. Thorne.” The soft, French-accented voice brought him out of his musings. Aphrodite, in a cloud of sweet perfume, was standing at his side.
“Madame.” He bowed over her fingers, heavy with rings. “I have news.”
Her hand trembled, but her beautiful face gave nothing away. “Very well. If you will wait for me in my sitting room, I will join you as soon as I am able. Dobson!” A straight-backed man in a red military-style uniform, with the battered-looking face of a pugilist, approached them. “Show Mr. Thorne into my private sitting room, Dobson,” she said, and then leaned close, resting her hand on his shoulder to murmur something in his ear. Dobson nodded and proceeded to lead the way from the salon into the quieter, private areas of the house.
“Madame won’t be long,” Dobson said, showing him into the sitting room. His gray gaze swept Sebastian, assessing him, and Sebastian wondered if this was the spy who had given information to Aphrodite’s enemies. Dobson didn’t look like a spy, but then Sebastian had learned that in life nothing was as it seemed.
With the door closed, the gaiety was muted. The sitting room was furnished very differently, too, from the flamboyant air of the public areas of the club. The colors here were soft and restful, and there were some beautifully rendered miniatures arranged on a small table. Sebastian inspected them and recognized Aphrodite’s three daughters. Vivianna, Lady Montegomery, was the eldest, a striking woman with chestnut hair and hazel eyes. Marietta, Lady Roseby, was more conventionally pretty, with fair hair and blue eyes and an angelic smile. And then there was Francesca, resembling her mother to a striking degree with her dark hair and eyes. But there was something elusive in her smile, as if she were here under protest.
Sebastian knew she expected never to see him again, but that was her misconception. He’d promised to leave Yorkshire the morning following the fire, and so he had. How would he arrange their next meeting? A chance encounter? A surprise visit? Or should he simply climb through her window at midnight? It might be worth it, just to see the expression on her face…
The door opening startled him, and he turned, Francesca’s likeness still in his hand. Maeve smiled as if she was genuinely pleased to see him.
“Mr. Thorne, Mr. Dobson said you were here. I came to ask you if you’d like something to drink. Champagne, coffee, tea?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I’m Maeve,” she babbled on, strangely nervous.
“I remember you, Maeve,” he said, and waited.
Maeve gave him another smile, as well as a searching glance from under her lashes that took in the miniature in his hand. “Well, then, if there’s nothing I can do, Mr. Thorne…?”
“There’s nothin
g more, thank you, Maeve. Perhaps another time…?”
She smiled, and the door closed softly behind her.
Sebastian stared after her, thinking. Had the invitation really been there? Was Maeve willing to lie with him, and was it because she was attracted to him, or because she wanted to know what he was up to? Was Maeve, with her penchant for listening at doors, his spy?
When Aphrodite joined him, and before she could begin to speak, he put his finger to his lips and went to the door, opening it to check that the entrance hall was empty this time. When he turned back, Aphrodite was watching him with a crease between her arched brows. “You do not trust my staff?” she queried, and she wasn’t pleased.
Sebastian, who had been considering telling her of his doubts concerning Maeve, changed his mind. He’d just have to think of another way of keeping a watch on the Irishwoman. “Habit,” he reassured her with a smile.
“Mr. Thorne, I promise you we cannot be overheard in here. Now, please, tell me what it is you learned in Yorkshire?”
There was no easy way to break the news. “Mrs. Slater is alive.”
Her face lost all color. “You spoke to her?”
“No. Not yet. She’s here, in London.”
“Do you know…?”
“I’ve yet to discover her whereabouts, but never fear, I will.”
She stood, frozen, staring beyond him into the past. “I knew she was alive. I felt it. Here,” and she pressed her closed fist to her breast, above her heart.
“I will find her, Madame.”
“Yes, you will,” she said grimly. “And when you do, she must be made to name the one who planned the kidnapping of my children. I must hear that name, Mr. Thorne.”
Gazing into the courtesan’s face he could see Francesca—her determination, her spirit, and her passion—and for a moment he was mesmerized. But Aphrodite wasn’t finished.
“I fear for my daughters, Mr. Thorne. I fear particularly for Francesca…because of her—her father.” She struggled with the words.
“Her father?” he echoed sharply. “Madame, if there is something I need to know…?”
But Aphrodite shook her head. “I can say no more, not yet.”
“Have you warned Francesca she might be in danger?”
A bitter twist of her lips. “Mr. Thorne, my youngest daughter does not speak to me. She prefers to pretend I do not exist. Any fears I have for her must be kept secret. She is quite likely to rush into that danger if she discovers I do not want her to do so, just to defy me.”
Sebastian smiled. Yes, he could see her doing that.
“I thank God she is in Yorkshire and far away from all of this!”
He realized what she’d said, and what it meant. “But Madame, I thought you knew? Frances—your daughter is in London. She and Mrs. Jardine traveled down by railway train. They are presently staying at the home of Mr. William Tremaine in Wensted Square.”
If she had been pale before, she was white now. “Mon Dieu! She is here? And Mrs. Slater is alive and in London, with her…her master…” She began to pace back and forth in the small sitting room, very agitated. “He will strike to save himself, I know it. He has no soul. Mr. Thorne, I beg you to protect my daughter!”
He thought of protesting, but he could see she was in earnest. Besides, the request suited his own plans. “Would she agree to that?” he asked curiously.
“Don’t tell her!”
“She does not like me, Madame.” Suddenly Sebastian felt uncomfortable as Aphrodite’s penetrating gaze turned on him. “I should have told you straight away; we met while I was in Yorkshire.” He explained briefly, leaving out the physicality of their encounter.
Aphrodite fell quiet. “My daughter is in danger. I thought she was safe at Greentree Manor, and all along she was living among those who wished her ill. Mrs. Slater,” she spat the word, “a buyer and seller of children.”
“She was safe,” he assured her. “Until I arrived. It was me they were trying to stop.”
She sighed. “You did not know, but in a way it is a timely lesson. Now you see why I have been so afraid all these years. These people have tentacles reaching everywhere, just waiting to pounce.”
Her sentiments were heartfelt, despite the mixed metaphors. “Look at it this way, now we both have reasons to seek revenge.”
“Yes.” Suddenly she smiled at him, and her dark eyes were curious as they assessed him. “I cannot believe my daughter does not find you attractive, Mr. Thorne. Most women would.”
“Your daughter is not most women, Madame.”
She laughed. “My daughter is my daughter, no matter how she chafes against the fact. Believe me, she is a woman well and truly. You must protect her, Mr. Thorne, whether she wants you to or not. I must insist upon it.”
He bowed. “As you wish, Madame.”
“Francesca is her own worse enemy,” she murmured. “She fights against her nature. When she learns to be true to her nature, then she will be happier. We all must learn to be true to our natures, Mr. Thorne.”
“Sound advice, Madame, thank you.” But he already knew his true nature, and he didn’t like himself very much.
“You will keep me informed?” Aphrodite was brisk now, her fears set aside.
“I will.”
She nodded, but the lines about her eyes had deepened. Her secrets were wearing her thin. Why, Sebastian wondered, was Francesca in especial danger? What was it about Aphrodite’s youngest daughter that put her at extra risk? Who was her father?
Aphrodite wasn’t about to tell him, but Mrs. Slater was the key. He’d find her and unlock the secret, and save the damsel in distress.
He smiled. Mr. Thorne as the hero—what a novel idea.
Chapter 10
William arrived home exactly when Mrs. March had said he would. Amy and Francesca were already seated for the evening meal, and they could hear voices in conversation outside the dining room door, too low to make out the words but lengthy enough for Francesca to wonder if she’d been mistaken in her assumption that her uncle and the housekeeper were not romantically involved. Or perhaps Mrs. March just had a lot to tell him.
When William finally entered the room, his expression was every bit as irritable as she’d expected. There was also an element of the henpecked male about it.
“My dear Amy,” he said, “why can’t you stay with Helen?”
Amy’s lips twitched at his lack of tact, but she answered him with her usual unruffled calm. “Helen has little enough room as it is, and you know that Toby gambles away her housekeeping. How would she feed us? Whereas I know that you, William, as head of the family, will always make us welcome. It is your duty, and you are famous for your diligence to duty.” She gave him a sweet smile. “It is good to see you, brother.”
His mouth opened and closed again. Francesca bit her lip to stop herself from laughing aloud, but perhaps she made a sound because her uncle fixed her with a disapproving, beetle-browed stare, before shifting his attention back to his sister.
“Is he here?”
“If by ‘he’ you mean my husband, then no, he is not.”
“Well, at least you had the sense to leave him in Yorkshire where he belongs.”
Amy’s back went rigid and her eyes lost their warmth. “William, if you continue to speak of my husband in that rude manner, then I’m afraid we will have a serious falling out. And you do not want to fall out with me, you really don’t. Remember, I am not Helen, and you cannot frighten me.”
He glared at her a moment more, while she returned his look, and then, to Francesca’s astonishment, he grinned. “You always were a headstrong girl, Amy,” he said admiringly. “You refused to listen to me once before and went ahead and married Sir Henry Greentree.”
“And very happy I was, too,” Amy replied mildly. She sighed and shook her head at him. “William, must we fight like children? I make my own decisions, you know that…or you should by now. Helen has nothing to do with it. To make her miserable just t
o punish me is unforgivable, especially when she depends upon you so.”
With a shrug he sat down and gulped his glass of wine. “Helen is weak,” he pronounced impatiently. “She always was.”
“Marrying Toby hasn’t helped her state of mind.”
“Toby,” he snorted in disgust. “Please, let’s not talk of that fat wastrel. Last time I saw him he was laced so tightly into his corset, I thought his eyes might pop out. I wish they would—I would pay to see it.” He flung himself back in his chair and observed them a moment in silence. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”
“Yes, thank you. The first-class compartment on the train was extremely comfortable.”
“Smelly, noisy things. Give me a horse any day.”
“You’re being old-fashioned, William. One must be progressive.”
“Progressive? What’s progressive about it? I prefer as little progress as possible when it comes to my life. As you can see, I haven’t rushed to have gas lighting in this house—candles were good enough for our father and they’re good enough for me!”
“I wonder if Mrs. March agrees with you, William?”
“Why should I care what she thinks?” he demanded belligerently. “She’s my housekeeper. She takes her orders from me.”
“She seems most efficient, William.”
“She was recommended by one of my acquaintances.” He sounded smug, as if he’d gotten himself a bargain.
At that moment the servants brought the meal in, and conversation waned. It wasn’t until the apple pie that it resumed.
“Did you enjoy your stay in Oxford, William?”
“It was well enough. Always glad to get home, though.” He eyed his bowl greedily, reaching for the cream jug.
“You must get lonely, here on your own? I always thought you’d marry and have an heir, to carry on the Tremaine name.”
This time Francesca truly believed William was about to have an apoplexy. His face went the color of beetroot, and his hand was shaking so much, he spilled the cream on the tablecloth. “Good God, is there no end to your interfering, woman!”
“William, really, I was only—”