It Takes Two to Tangle

Twenty-Six

“Frannie, you must eat something.” A hand thrust a plate of watercress sandwiches into Frances’s field of vision, covering the blank sheet of paper at which Frances had been staring for several hours.

Frances rubbed at her eyes. “Watercress? No. That’s not even food.”

The hand set down the plate. “Yes, it is,” said Caroline’s voice. “My callers eat these sandwiches every day. They positively gobble them down as if the bread is stuffed with ambrosia.”

“That’s because they’re trying to impress you with their good manners.” Frances lifted the plate from the top of her desk and tried to press it back into Caroline’s hand.

“If they want to do that, they should eat a little less. But for your sake, I’m not at home to callers today. So you can eat the sandwiches instead.”

Frances crossed her arms.

“That’s all the response I am to get?” Caroline dropped into a crouch next to Frances’s desk with a rustle of silk skirts. “Fine. I invoke my lofty rank and order you to choose between two options. You may eat something, or you may go to sleep. Or you could go have a bath. Three—three options. That’s quite generous of me.”

Frances stared at the blank paper as though a reply from Henry might materialize on it. She only had to concentrate hard enough, wish for it fervently enough. She was not sure she even remembered how to shut her eyes.

Caroline’s fingers curled on the edge of the writing desk, and she rested her chin in her hands. “Frannnnie,” she chanted.

All right, so Frances did remember how to shut her eyes. She covered them for good measure. “Stop it. Stop that lost-kitten face, Caroline. Stop.”

“But I know you’ve been sitting here all night. One of the footmen told Millie.”

Caroline sighed. “All right, uncover your eyes. The lost kitten is gone. I look perfectly blasé. But please, get up, Frannie. We can send for some newspapers, and we’ll get all the scandal sheets this morning. Or I can send Pollitt to Boodle’s to talk to the servants there. Someone will know what happened.”

“Yes,” Frances said. “But I’m afraid to find out.”

Her joints felt numb from sitting in the same position for hours. The plate of uneaten sandwiches proved that this was far from a normal day, while the blank paper on the desk reminded her of the letter she’d sent.

As long as she sat at this desk, she was connected to him. As long as she stayed in this room, wore the clothes in which he’d last seen her, and did not learn the outcome of the duel. He would still be all right, as long as she didn’t know he wasn’t.

That was stupid, of course. Caroline was right. They might as well find out.

And she might as well stand up. She pushed back her chair, stretched, and realized she was sore in places she’d never noticed. The fronts of her shoulders. The base of her skull. The backs of her knees. And Lord, did she need a chamber pot.

“You look terrible,” Caroline said helpfully.

“I ought to. I’ve given it a determined effort.” Frances’s elbows and knees popped as she shook out her skirts. She felt like the oldest woman in the world. “But it doesn’t matter. Let’s get those papers.”

They had scarcely two minutes to wait before the lady’s maid, Millie, scratched at the morning room door and entered with an armful of newsprint. “We’ve been out gathering these, my lady. Pollitt’s just ironed them for you, but they don’t have the news you’ll be wanting. But I heard from John Coachman that he heard someone talking in the mews, and they said that they’d talked to a maid from Tallant House, and she said the duel’s done finished already.”

Caroline nodded her perfect understanding at this string of confidences. Thus did London’s news circulate; thus did its gossiping heart beat. She shot a look at Frances as she accepted the newspapers from her lady’s maid. “And? What happened?”

Frances couldn’t speak a word. She just waited, rooted to the floor.

“Neither gentleman’s been shot, my lady. And John Coachman says as he heard the earl’s brother made a fine show of himself, for all that he’s got only one arm what works proper.”

Frances clutched at the back of her chair. She wouldn’t sit down again; she’d break into pieces. But oh, thank God in heaven. Henry was safe. It was over.

“That’s wonderful news, Millie. Thank you,” Caroline said. “Here, take a watercress sandwich with you. Take one for John Coachman too.”

Frances tightened her grip on the chair, not caring that she might split the fine old tapestry cover with her nails.

Henry might be feted all over the City this morning, but it was possible he’d gone back to Tallant House first. If he was, he’d have received her letter. Surely he would read it at once. Or he’d decide he didn’t want to read it at all.

How long would she have to wait for an answer? Or how long before she knew silence was all she’d get as a reply?

Longer than she could wait in this room. She sighed. “Caroline, I’m going to have a bath.”

Too many questions. Maybe hot water would wash them away.

***

Caroline knocked while Frances was still soaking in the bathtub.

“Frannie?”

Frances’s head jerked up, and she coughed and sputtered. She’d dozed off in the tub, and her chin had slid below the water’s surface.

Excellent. While Henry survived a duel, Frances would drown on a mouthful of stale, lukewarm bathwater. She rolled her eyes, lifted her hands. They looked soggy and wrinkled.

“Frannie, can I come in?” Caroline peeked in, then averted her eyes at once. “You are still in the bath? God heavens, Frannie, you’ll turn into an old prune.”

“At least I’m a clean prune.”

“I suppose I ought to be pleased about that.” Caroline rummaged through Frances’s wardrobe and found a wrapper. She laid it out on the bed, carefully arranging and smoothing the garment with her back to the great copper tub. “Towel off and wrap up. A letter’s been delivered for you.”

Water splashed and flopped as Frances hoisted herself to a sitting position. With her back still turned, Caroline added, “It’s not from him, Frannie. But you might as well come see. It’s better than staying in the bath until you get as waterlogged as a dead fish.”

“Old prune and dead fish. The absence of your suitors has inspired you with disgusting flights of creativity.”

“Well, if you don’t like it, you should come read your letter and let us both rejoin the social world.”

With Millie’s help, Frances was dried and dressed in less than ten minutes. Her hair fell loose down her back, leaving wet spots on her gown, but it was a sensible dark cotton day dress that wouldn’t stain.

She found Caroline and the mysterious letter in the morning room. With a swift swipe of her thumb, she cracked the seal, eyes darting over the unfamiliar round handwriting in search of her correspondent’s name.

Sir Bartlett; that is, Bart Crosby.

A letter for her, from Bart Crosby? How odd; he was Caroline’s admirer. Yet the letter was for Frances. The salutation confirmed that.

Dear Mrs. Whittier,

I thank you for standing as my friend during my calls on Lady Stratton.

As you may know, I have a country estate, Beckworth, to which I customarily invite a party at the end of the season. I have recently learned that you are fond of country life.

If you should ever take a fancy to escape the City, please know that you—and Lady Stratton, naturally—are always welcome at Beckworth. I plan to depart today, so if you wish to reply, you may direct your letter there.

Yours truly,

Sir Bartlett; that is, Bart Crosby.

How distinctly odd. Decidedly strange. Indescribably bizarre.

A letter from Bart Crosby.

The only person with whom Frances had recently discussed country life was Henry. Had Henry told Bart—and if so, to what purpose?

“What does it say?” Caroline asked, walking over to peek at the paper in Frances’s hand.

“Nothing much.” Hastily, Frances folded it again and pressed at the soft seal. Her own puzzled questions were enough to contend with; she didn’t want Caroline to start speculating as well.

Of course, when the second letter for Frances arrived only a few minutes later, Caroline could not help but speculate.

“Good heavens, Frannie. That looks like the Applewood seal. Can you think why they would be writing to you? I was sure we had behaved ourselves tolerably well at their ball a few weeks ago.”

“I am sure we did.” Frances’s brows knit as she coaxed open this new seal. “They wouldn’t care that you hit Lord Wadsworth with your fan. And I know we didn’t spill lemonade on anyone.”

“Then we behaved much better than Lady Applewood’s eldest girl,” Caroline said, but Frances was hardly listening.

Dear Mrs. Whittier,

I am writing to ask you for a favor! Would you have guessed?

At my recent ball, dear Lady Stratton told me you always make everything better and easier for her. I know there is only one of you!—but if you have a moment, I’d be delighted to have you pop over and advise me on some arrangements for our next ball. Someone with a fine memory and impeccable manners is just the sort of woman I want at hand. I hope to wrest Lady Stratton’s receipt for lemon tarts from her clutches—and if I do, of course, we shall sample cakes and tarts aplenty.

Kindest regards,

Venetia Applewood

“What does she want?” Caroline pressed. “Is it about spilled lemonade?”

“In a way,” Frances said, handing her the letter. “It seems she wants a companion’s aid. She offers cake as an incentive. Rather wise of her.”

“Ah, this is my fault. I praised you to the heavens when I last spoke with her.” Caroline looked self-conscious. “I might possibly have been feeling a bit envious of her elegant mansion, and I wanted to remind her that I had things she had not. Namely, the help of a Frannie.”

“Ah. Well, you are very lucky in that regard. I can’t deny that I’m a rare gem. Even Wadsworth once called me a jade.”

Caroline ignored this mild attempt at humor and set the letter down carelessly on the edge of a table, from which it fluttered to the floor. The morning room was as untidy as Frances had ever seen it. Post and papers and periodicals littered the room; dried petals fallen from vases of wilting flowers were scattered over tabletops. Caroline had been warning the maids away for the past day—a negligence of great kindness.

“Frannie.” Caroline drew a deep breath. “I did mean well, for both of you.”

There was no sense in pretending not to understand. “I know. I meant well too. It doesn’t matter, though. We’ll be fine, just as we have for the past year in London. You can topple suitors like ninepins and throw roses in the privy.”

Caroline’s mouth pulled into an approximation of a smile, about as far from the real thing as an alleyway dolly-mop from a French courtesan. “It’s a compelling picture. But I cannot really be as selfish as the world thinks me, because I’ve tried to give away my dearest friend in marriage.”

Frances stifled a sigh and sank onto the sofa before remembering, damn it, this was the sofa on which everything had happened. The sex and the betrayals. It was a lot for one piece of furniture to hold up to.

She slid to the floor and leaned her head back onto the cushioned seat, studying the delicate plasterwork tracery of the room’s ceiling. “I shan’t marry again.”

“Of course you won’t.” Out of the corner of her eye, Frances saw Caroline drop into a chair. The same one Henry had occupied the night before. “A man fought a duel for you, but he’s not interested in marrying you.”

“Men fight duels for stupid reasons all the time.”

“True, but you are generally far from stupid. Besides, Wadsworth was not to be borne by anyone of good breeding. I was glad when Henry called him out. I ought to have done it myself, instead of throwing a vase at him.”

“You threw the vase?” Frances’s head snapped up.

“Certainly. You didn’t think one of my puppies had done so, did you?”

“Yes, I did. I thought Wadsworth threw it after you refused him.”

“Oh, no.” Caroline studied the perfect pink and white moons of her fingernails. “I threw it at Wadsworth after he importuned me once too often. My aim was off, unfortunately.”

Importuned. Frances snorted.

“It was a shame, for I liked that vase.” Caroline pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t suppose Wadsworth will be coming back, and that’s worth the loss of a bit of porcelain. As for you—I cannot think of anything to counter my loss of you, even if it is for the happiest of reasons.”

“Don’t be silly, Caroline,” Frances said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Before Frances could reply, Pollitt entered with a salver bearing another note.

“For me?” Caroline asked.

“For Mrs. Whittier.” The butler bowed, holding forth the salver to Frances.

She thanked him and collected the note. “This is getting ridiculous.”

At a glance, she could tell it was not from Henry. The writing was too clear and certain to have been scrawled by a right-handed man using his left hand.

Caroline seemed relieved to leave behind the heaviness of the previous minutes. “My goodness, Frannie. I haven’t seen you get so much post in years.”

“I haven’t. Probably not in the past year put together.” She slit the seal and glanced at the letter. “This one’s from Lady Protheroe, inviting me to a small party tomorrow evening.”

“Ah, excellent. I accepted last week before I realized she meant to keep the party small. I am glad she decided to include you.”

“Why should she?”

Caroline drummed her nails on the giltwood arm of her chair. “You are notorious, my dear.”

Frances snorted again. Words were wholly inadequate to capture the ludicrousness of that statement.

“You are,” Caroline insisted. “Henry defended your honor in a duel. Now everyone wants a look at you.”

“He did nothing of the kind. You know as well as I that the duel was not for my sake. Wadsworth simply provoked him beyond endurance.” Frances drew her feet up, tucking herself into a ball.

“Ah, but you were standing at his side; he drew you in to the Fateful Encounter. I’m afraid the ton is not going to believe anything except that Henry is a man deeply in love. Which in itself is not notable, but we are all wrung for things to talk about at the end of the season. Unless Prinny gambles away a hundred thousand pounds, this duel will probably be the most interesting thing that happens this week.”

“You could cause a scandal and draw all the gossips away,” Frances suggested. “You’re much more interesting than I.”

“I have another idea,” Caroline said, picking up a fallen issue of Lady’s Magazine and snapping it open to a random page. “Why don’t you try to enjoy the attention? For once, the ton is giving you the regard you were born to. Wadsworth might have done you a very good turn after all.”

Frances only hunched her shoulders. Being noticed by the ton would have delighted her before she met Henry. She would have loved to feel as if she belonged again in the world she’d given up for Charles.

Now she would have loved… well, just to feel loved.

***

Five dreary, stifling days passed. Days in which the city baked, and letter after letter came, inviting Frances to all manner of end-of-season festivities. But gossip began to dwindle as Frances stayed home, and Caroline went out and about as if nothing was out of the ordinary. She went to Lady Protheroe’s supper party. She went to teas and breakfasts. Always, before she left, she cast Frances a wordless glance. It was easy to interpret.

Pity.

I’m sorry, Caroline’s face said. Well, Frances was sorry too. Her faultless memory replayed the past weeks for her, wondering at what point everything had been knocked askew.

The puppies were not calling; that was a small blessing. Caroline had given Frances the gift of a peaceful house, which was as much as anyone could give right now.

Five days after the duel, Frances sat in the deserted drawing room, just as she had for the four days previous. Silence pressed so heavily at her ears that they rang, high and faint. The summer heat seemed to have wilted her within her gown, and she sprawled in a puddle on a tufted settee covered in drab-colored velvet.

A scratch at the door heralded the arrival of Pollitt, bearing a note on a salver. “For you, Mrs. Whittier.”

In a hectic instant, Frances sat up straight. Somehow, her voice was calm as she scrabbled for the folded paper. “Thank you, Pollitt.”

But even before the butler had bowed from the room, she knew this wasn’t from Henry either. The writing was as smooth and feminine as she had once pretended hers was, when she falsified the form of it for Henry.

She sighed to herself. It was probably from some bored noblewoman who wanted her to plan a Venetian breakfast while wearing a courtesan’s night rail. The polite world seemed determined to make a spectacle of her.

But this note was different.

Dear Mrs. Whittier,

Surely every runner in London has now been tired out on your behalf, and my brother’s. Notes have been flying about the City faster than money changes hands at Devonshire House’s gambling parties.

As you know, Henry is mindful of his handwriting, so I am bade to summon you. Won’t you take pity on the poor runners and come to Tallant House?

Sincerely,

Emily Tallant

At last, at last.

The letter fluttered from Frances’s hand. Before it reached the floor, she was calling for her gloves and spencer.