It Takes Two to Tangle

Twelve

“I thought you’d stopped getting those ridiculous letters.” Caroline handed a fat sealed note to Frances before draping herself onto her morning room’s scroll-armed sofa.

Frances shoved the note halfway under her dark blue skirts, then took up her embroidery again. “I’d stopped sending them for a few weeks, so I thought I would stop getting them. Or you would, actually.”

Her needle whipped quickly through Caroline’s delicate lawn handkerchief, creating a monogram. CS. Caroline, Countess of Stratton. The lady to whom the note was addressed.

She shouldn’t have sent that quick little note of apology following the ball. It was an atonement for mauling Henry in the Blue Room, even after she knew how much he wanted letters from Caroline.

But if he was sending letters again, then she hadn’t really atoned for anything. She’d just compounded her sin.

The needle flashed faster. Its tip caught the edge of Frances’s thimble, flicking it with a delicate ping across the morning room.

“I should never have allowed you to take my name in vain, but I thought the blasphemy would be short-lived. I never imagined your scheme would go on this long.” Caroline stretched back on the green upholstery, chosen to match the shade of her eyes, and picked up the newest issue of Lady’s Magazine. “Do you think a Pomona green gown would look well on me?”

Frances tossed aside the handkerchief again and dropped to the floor, squinting across the vine-patterned carpet for her lost thimble. “Yes, it would look lovely on you. And you know I meant to put a stop to the letters once it was clear to me that Henry was getting fascinated with you.”

“Now there we differ, because that’s not clear to me at all.” Caroline snapped her periodical closed and dropped it on the floor, then hoisted herself up on one elbow. “Why are you scrabbling about on the floor? Are we playing charades?”

“Yes,” Frances said. “I am playing a deranged fool. Could you not guess?” With a wrench of her arm, she laid hold of the thimble under a small writing desk. She then crawled over to retrieve Caroline’s magazine, shook out the pages, closed it, and sat up.

Caroline peered down at her from the sofa. “It was a more than fair imitation, but I do not understand why the urge seized you.”

“I lost my thimble,” Frances said. “It was a perfectly normal reaction.”

“And you got a letter from Henry,” Caroline reminded her in a singsong voice.

“No, you got a letter.”

“No.” Caroline shook her head. “It’s your letter, Frannie. They’ve all been for you, no matter the name on them. Whatever you’ve written is what he’s become fascinated with. You ought simply to tell him the truth, then do the kind of thing to him that makes a man forget all about being angry.”

The kind of thing they’d done last night… hard-muscled thighs, a firm mouth moving hot over her skin, hands stroking and groping in a twilight-dark room. Frances could have moaned at the memory.

“Your cheeks are turning pink.”

Frances frowned and covered them with her hands. “So? It’s hot today.”

“Fine, lie to me.” Caroline reached down an arm and patted around on the floor until she found her Lady’s Magazine. “I’ll just read about Pomona green and wait for the callers to start coming. We’ll just have an ordinary day. We’ll get far too many roses and we’ll feed the blooms to the carriage horses. I wish for nothing else in the world.”

“Nor do I.”

Caroline rolled her magazine into a tube and batted Frances on the head. “Lies, lies, and more lies. I count on your advice, you know. If you’re only going to tell me what you think I want to hear, I won’t want to hear it anymore.”

Frances rubbed at the top of her head and scooted on the floor out of Caroline’s reach. “Right now I’m thinking of something you won’t want to hear.”

“Likewise.” Her cousin waggled the rolled-up magazine. “Tell. Henry. You. Wrote. The. Letters.”

Frances stood and brushed off her skirts. “So we’re back to that? Listen to me, Caroline. I’m not going to tell him.”

She sighed and sank back into her chair, not caring that she rumpled her embroidery. “I can’t tell him. Not after seeing how delighted he was to receive a letter he thought was from you. He said…” She made herself smile. “He said he’d been thinking about leaving London, but your letter convinced him to stay.”

Caroline’s mouth went slack. “What in God’s name did you put in that letter? It must have been some sort of magical incantation.”

“I don’t recall, exactly. Just something that let him know I enjoyed his company.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “But he didn’t enjoy mine, did he? I signed it as ‘a friend,’ and he decided that meant you because your friendship was the one he wanted. He might have welcomed my words, but they held no power until he linked them with your name.”

Caroline had shoved herself upright on the sofa. Under her crown of golden hair, her ocean-green eyes were huge and bright, and her mouth sagged.

“Don’t make your lost-kitten face at me.” Frances covered her eyes. “That’s not fair. I’m not even going to look at you until you stop.”

“Oh, fine.” Caroline’s voice sounded normal, but when Frances lifted her face, the countess still looked a little distressed. “I know you don’t like that expression, but the feeling’s real enough. I absolutely hate that you think you aren’t everything he wants. And I hate him a little bit for making you feel that way.”

“Don’t hate him,” Frances said. “It’s not his fault. This muddle is my doing. I wrote more letters knowing he thought they were from you.”

“How silly of him. I suppose that’s proof of male arrogance, because I’ve tried to give him no encouragement. Not since the first time I met him, and certainly not since you sent him a letter. If he had eyes in his head, he’d see that readily enough.”

It was silly of Henry, maybe. But it didn’t take much for a man to become fascinated with Caroline. Her ever-full drawing room was testament to that.

“Maybe he just thinks you’re being devious,” Frances suggested.

“I usually am,” Caroline said, the lost-kitten expression now entirely vanished. “But in this case, you’re being far more so.”

“I’m not going to tell him the truth. I just told you why.”

“Then I pity you both, because one day he’ll find out the truth and he’ll hate you for lying to him.” Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “Oh, damn, and he’ll probably hate me too, for going along with it.”

“He won’t find out. And please don’t say that you pity either of us, Caroline.” Soldiers never want pity as much as they want a good meal and a quick tumble.

Or a not-so-quick one.

“All right.” Caroline slid to the floor. “The words will not come out of my mouth again. They might run through my thoughts, though.”

With a quick swoop, she grabbed the still-sealed letter from the chair where Frances had left it. She cracked the seal and flapped the paper open in front of Frances’s face. “Read it, you stubborn wench.”

Despite herself, Frances laughed, and she took the paper from Caroline’s outstretched hand.

Dear Caro,

Thank you for your letter. I was pleased to see you at the ball as well. It’s kind of you to write that you wished I had danced more. I found one minuet quite enough, though I hope in time to find other amusements that suit me just as well as dancing.

I shall call on you this afternoon—with violets, of course—and must speak to you privately. Would you grant me a few minutes of your time for a discussion of a highly secret but not at all improper scheme?

Yours,

Henry

Her fingers felt chilly, and they trembled. “Here.” She thrust the letter back toward Caroline. “I told you it was intended for you.”

As Caroline skimmed the lines, Frances made herself stand and roam around the room, tidying periodicals, folding up her sewing. If Henry intended to call today, he might be here in little more than two hours.

So. She had two hours to wrap her mind around the knowledge that Henry wanted a private interview with Caroline. The secrecy alone made it improper—just as was his supposed correspondence with Caroline.

Yet Frances was the one he had kissed and touched. Frances was the one who had made his breathing rush, who had roused his body.

Or had he only kissed her back? He was the one who had pulled away first, though he pretended it was for her own good.

She creased Caroline’s delicate handkerchief into a tiny square and crammed it into her sewing basket.

“A secret scheme,” Caroline murmured. She cast the letter onto the floor with her usual carelessness, and Frances snapped it up and tossed it onto the morning room’s small writing desk. “I can’t imagine what it could be.”

“Are you going to oblige him?” The tone of Frances’s voice rang falsely bright even to her own ears.

“I’ll see what he has in mind.” Caroline frowned. “You don’t think this is one of Emily’s matchmaking schemes, do you?”

“I really can’t say.”

Caroline chuckled. “No, I really can’t say what goes through Emily’s head either. But still, this doesn’t sound like one of her plots. If she had dictated the letter, I’m sure she would have been much more effusive about her ball.”

“No doubt.” Frances returned to her chair and folded her hands neatly, facing her cousin. “So. Violets. A secret scheme. Are you still willing to say he’s not besotted with you?”

Caroline clambered back onto her scroll-armed sofa, Lady’s Magazine again in hand. “I’m willing to hear him out. It might be something quite innocent. It could even be a surprise for Emily and Jem.”

She leaned back and flipped open the magazine, then laid it over her face. “Now do let me rest for an hour,” came her muffled voice. “If we’re to have a roomful of callers this afternoon, I need to prepare myself.”

She tugged the paper down for a second. “Have Millie lace you into that ravishable bronze-green gown again, won’t you? Just in case.”

And with a roguish wink, she vanished again under the pages of fashion, leaving Frances with Henry’s letter and far too many questions.

***

Frances fully expected to see some change in Henry’s face when he entered Caroline’s drawing room that afternoon.

From her customary seat in the corner, she could read each arriving man like a book. Bart Crosby was a sweeping romance, all courtly admiration and puppy love. Lord Wadsworth was rather gothic in the way he squinted at everyone else, as though they were family skeletons he’d intended to shove back in the closet. Hambleton and Crisp were a farce, as always, dressed in identical high-starched cravats and waggling ivory-headed swordsticks.

But when Henry was shown into the drawing room at last, he looked annoyingly normal considering he was plotting a secret. Which made him a mystery.

There were no such shadows under his eyes as there were under Frances’s: horrible gray-yellow circles that not even the bewitching bronze-green dress could banish. Henry’s smile was bright and confident too, nothing of self-consciousness in it. He strode into the room with his left arm crooked around a bouquet of violets and swept into a bow before Caroline, straightening before his stiffened right arm could swing out of place.

“For me?” the countess asked—rather obtusely, in Frances’s opinion.

“Somewhat.” Henry tumbled the violets into her lap, then retrieved what Frances now realized was one of two bouquets he’d been holding. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Caroline’s smile widened to a positive sunbeam. “Be off with you.”

As seemingly everyone in the room stopped talking, Henry strode over to Frances.

To her, he handed the violets with an entirely different gesture. There was nothing theatrical about the half smile, the simply outstretched hand. Frances sat dumbly, watching, as he waited for her to take the flowers.

“You deserve blooms of your own,” he finally said. “I would like you to accept these, if you’re willing.”

“If I’m willing?” She gave a little bark of laughter. “I’m shamefully willing. No one’s ever brought me flowers before. Thank you.” She took the bunch from him with a clumsy, overeager gesture.

He gave her a searching look, suddenly a strategist. “Consider this an appeasement, to keep you from ripping my head off in the middle of the drawing room.”

Her fingers tightened on the ribbon-bound stems. “Why? Have you done something unforgivable?”

His mouth kicked up on one side. “I hope you don’t think so,” he said in a quiet voice.

Under the armor of the bronze-green silk, Frances felt suddenly conscious of every inch of her skin. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

The grin he shot her was pure mischief. “I am relieved to hear it.”

“I’m not relieved in the slightest,” she muttered, too low for him to hear. The tight, sweet tension of unfulfilled desire rippled through her belly at the sight of him, making her nipples harden.

Settle down, she told herself. These violets were meant to atone, their frail little blooms covering over a furtive interlude that should never have happened. He was too stubborn in pursuit of his countess, and she was too proud to throw herself at someone who didn’t truly want her.

Probably. She was probably too proud for that.

“Is that all, then?” Her voice sounded brisk, as if she were truly the teacher she’d once pretended to be. And why not? If he thought to buy her off with violets, he must not know how glad she was for even this sign of his regard. Which was really a dismissal.

“For now.” And with that brilliant grin that wiped her mind blank and muddled her thoughts into a froth of longing, he inclined his head to Frances and strode back to Caroline.

Only a few feet away, yet far enough that she had no idea where she stood with him.

Caroline had piled up cushions next to her to save a spot on the sofa for Henry. All the better to scheme with you, my dear. Wadsworth tried in vain to shoulder his way into their conversation, but every time he interjected something, Caroline found another small task for him to perform—a vase to relocate, a tray of dainties to pass among the guests.

Caroline was using him as a footman. It made a welcome distraction from Frances’s own uncertainty.

The viscount grew distinctly sour as Caroline’s indifference persisted through minute after minute. His courtly veneer thinned, then dissolved entirely as the other men ignored him, chatting about horses and boots and the cut of their coats, plucking sandwiches from the tray he held, granting him as little attention as they’d give a servant.

Finally, Wadsworth stalked over to Frances’s chair, tray still in hand, and leaned against the blue-plastered wall.

“So you’ve learned one of the cardinal rules of good society,” she said. “With the simple addition of a tray or a duster to one’s hand, anyone can become invisible.”

“You underestimate me, Mrs. Whittier,” he said with a lazy smile, leaning so close that she could smell the floral-citrus of the bergamot with which he evidently anointed his hair.

“I’m sure I don’t,” Frances muttered, clutching her violets more tightly.

Wadsworth pretended he hadn’t heard. “You know I am scrupulously conscious of manners. For example, I’m aware that I ought more properly to allow you to hold this tray. Since you are a servant.”

He held out the platter of tiny sandwiches at arm’s length. Before Frances could decide whether or not to take it from him, he released it.

Thump. The silver tray fell to the floor, sandwiches rolling every which way.

His expression was all solicitous concern; all except for the eyes. Those were cool and gray and sharp, like dirty icicles. “Dear me, Mrs. Whittier. What a state you’re in. Well, we all have our little accidents sometimes; no need to berate yourself. Do you require help clearing those? I’m sure another servant could come to your aid.”

Frances spared a quick second to glare at him before glancing around the room. Caroline and Henry were oblivious, talking head to head on the sofa. Caroline was grinning and nodding.

Bah. They didn’t even need the letters anymore.

She swallowed a sick little heave of her stomach, then caught the eye of Bart Crosby. The good-hearted young baronet was hovering behind Caroline and Henry, but he noticed the food scattered over the carpet and made a convulsive movement, as though ready to come to Frances’s aid.

With a quick shake of the head, she warned him back. Whatever Wadsworth meant by this game, there was room for only two to play.

“Since I’m Lady Stratton’s companion,” she said in her sweetest voice, “it is my responsibility to help her callers, even if their behavior is asinine and rude.”

She gave Wadsworth a bright, innocent smile, an expression she’d learned from Caroline. “Not that I refer to you, of course. I am sure in your mind, it’s perfectly normal to throw sandwiches onto the floor. Shall we leave them right there, or would you prefer to arrange them into a pattern? Do you mean to eat all of them? Shall I get you a cup of tea for you to wash down your floor sandwiches?”

Wadsworth’s eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits. “I pity Caro the companionship of such a jade.”

Frances narrowed her eyes right back. “If you mean to compare me to a precious stone, I thank you. And if there is anything else I can do to ensure your comfort, do let me know. I’ll be standing across the room, next to Caroline, in whose house you have made such chaos.”

She stood, savoring the luxuriant shushhhhh of the stiff silk skirts. She trod on the platter Wadsworth had dropped, then swanned across the room to stand by Bart Crosby.

It was a rather decisive exit, if she did say so herself. And just in time, because she could feel her face growing hot as if it had been slapped. Soon her throat would have closed, choking her, and she would have been unable to defend herself.

“Sir Bartlett,” she murmured by way of greeting.

“You did excellently,” he replied. His brown eyes squinted with suppressed laughter. “I’d never have thought of all that sympathetic tosh.”

“You’d never have needed to.” She could have sighed.

She was among the vulnerable now, the questionable fringe of society whose reputations hung upon the kindness—or unkindness—of others. After a single Season in London, she was accustomed to being seen only as an accessory to Caroline. But when she was singled out… well, that she was not accustomed to.

She realized she was still holding her violets in a tight grip, crushing the slim stems together and bruising the blooms. No, she hadn’t expected to be singled out by either Henry or Wadsworth. Perhaps the one had inspired the other.

After all, they both wanted Caroline. She was a means to an end for them both. For good or ill.

“Are you quite well? Mrs. Whittier?”

Frances blinked and pulled her thoughts back into the drawing room. Sir Bartlett was watching her with the type of solicitude a man might bestow upon an older sister. “You look rather pale, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

“I’m fine, thank you. You needn’t worry about me.” She made herself smile. “Do you wish to sit?”

The baronet looked sheepish. “I was hoping to speak with Caro.”

“Ah. Yes, well, she’s scheming. I’m not certain about what.” Another smile, this one a little tighter. Henry and Caroline still spoke low, their golden heads visible over the back of the sofa.

At the other end of the room, Wadsworth was jawing out a footman and gesturing at the fallen sandwiches in the corner of the room. This was unfortunate for Caroline’s footman, but at least Wadsworth’s spleen had turned impersonal. It could now be quickly vented, quickly forgotten.

“She does enjoy her schemes,” Sir Bartlett was saying, his quiet voice warm with amusement. “She’s the one who got Hambleton and Crisp to dress identically. Did you know that?”

Frances discarded the thought of Wadsworth and gave a much more genuine smile. “That sly woman. I did not know that; I thought they’d always been in the habit. How ever did she do it?”

The baronet shrugged. “Some compliment on the clothing of one, then the other. And then I believe she said if one was so handsome, two such would be nigh irresistible.”

With a quick hand to her mouth, Frances covered a laugh. “She seems to be resisting them quite well. Have they not noticed?”

Sir Bartlett grinned, looking more boyish than ever. “Maybe not. I’m guessing they get great enjoyment out of the effect. And now they have an excuse to talk about their clothing all the time with one another.”

“A match made in heaven,” Frances murmured.

“Something of the sort. I’ll never complain, because the more she distracts her other suitors, the more time she has for—”

He cut himself off abruptly as Henry gave a final nod and stood from the sofa at last.

“Have Millie help you,” Caroline said in a louder voice. “Now, if the moment suits you.”

Henry nodded again, and his eyes met Frances’s over the back of the sofa. He gave her a wink.

She instantly turned into a Christmas pudding, all soft and overheated.

Stupid of her. It wasn’t even remotely the right time of year for pudding.

“Thank you, Caro,” Henry said, again focusing on the countess. “The evidence of one’s own eyes is always the best sort of proof. Surely you agree with me.” He grinned down at Caroline, a conspiratorial sort of expression.

You like proof, facts, evidence.

So Frances had written in her first letter, before she knew it would be credited to another. Caroline had never read that one.

From behind, Frances could see Caroline’s shoulders lift. “If one is a doubting sort. Actually, I…”

Frances gave a very unladylike cough.

“I am just that sort,” Caroline finished smoothly. “Full of doubts. Very reliant on evidence. Yes, I’ve said something to that effect, but I suppose I forgot I’d mentioned it to you.” She gave a shimmery laugh. “My memory is a sieve, you know. My head is too full of frills and fribbles. I am completely without Frannie’s gifts of recall.”

Now Frances rolled her eyes elaborately.

But Henry didn’t notice, he only took his leave. As soon as he’d exited the drawing room, Caroline turned on the sofa. “Dear Frannie, what a terrible cough you have. Come and pour out a little tea, won’t you? And, Bart, you must come and sit by me.”

Thus summoned, the two moved around the sofa and seated themselves to either side of Caroline. As Frances smoothed her skirts into place, she hissed, “You’ll ruin the whole secret if you’re so obvious about every little bobble you make.”

Caroline smiled. “Yes, Frannie, I’d adore some tea. Thank you.” Much lower, she murmured, “I can’t be expected to know when he’s referring to something I’m meant to have written. I didn’t write it, you know.”

“You can be expected to be subtle, though.”

Caroline waved a hand. “Subtlety is utter bosh. Confidence is what one needs.”

“Hmmm.” Frances couldn’t quite bring herself to say what she thought—namely, that those sounded like Henry’s words.

“If you’re only going to sit there and hum, you might as well pour out at once.” Caroline gestured toward the tea tray. “You can serenade us all quite as well while you tip that teapot on end.”

She sat up and extended her cup, and the commotion across the room finally caught her eye. “Good lord, what has Wadsworth done with all the sandwiches? Did he stumble?”

“It was a stumble of sorts.” Frances sat herself primly on the sofa next to Caroline. As she filled teacups and measured out careful slivers of lemon and lumps of sugar, she felt her poise return.

Perhaps her life would always be portioned out by teaspoons and hours for callers and the occasional bunch of violets. It was not much to be proud of, but she was useful in her way.

And life could hold its tiny triumphs nonetheless.

Across the room, she caught Wadsworth’s eye, and she raised her teacup to him for the sheer pleasure of watching him glare.