It Takes Two to Tangle

Seven

“This is snug. Quaint. And I do not mean that as an insult, Hal, though those words usually mean social ruin.”

Henry accepted this magnanimous praise from Emily, who perched at the edge of a delicate chair of gilded beech. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap as she surveyed her small domain.

Small their evening gathering was, at Henry’s request. Only Bart, Caro, and Frances had joined the family party at Tallant House. Dinner now over, the six sat in the gilt-papered, lamp-lit drawing room. A low coal fire winked, banishing clamminess from the long reach of the room. A space for cards, a space for books, a space for music, a space for just sitting and wishing one had a cheroot to smoke.

Henry and Emily sat in the latter space, while the other four battled through a rubber of whist. “Would you care for a cheroot, Emily?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You’d regret it if I said yes. Jem would have my head for it, and then he’d be hanged for beheading me. And then you would have to assume the care of John and Stephen. They can be absolute hellions, and I do mean that as an insult. Though also as a statement of fact.”

“Just a suggestion,” Henry said lightly.

Emily paused. “This plan of yours. Dinner at home. Hal… it was a good idea.” Her brows puckered, an expression of doubt she wore with enviable rarity. “Perhaps I should have arranged more small events like this one, instead of the grand ball in the Argyll Rooms next week.”

Such an admission was akin to Bonaparte saying that perhaps he should have stayed on Elba and not caused so much trouble on the Continent.

“It’s all right, Emily,” Henry said, hiding his astonishment. “Thank you for arranging the dinner tonight.”

Her aplomb reappeared in an instant. “It’s all part of the plot,” she said with a dismissive flick of fingers.

“The throwing-me-a-ball plot?”

“No.” She peeked over the high back of her chair, then ducked down and whispered, “The finding-a-wife plot.”

“Ah. Yes. That.” Discomfiture knotted Henry’s stomach. After his first introduction to Caro, he had wanted to take on the rest of his courtship without interference.

At least, without any interference besides what he sought out on his own.

It was damned difficult to keep up a wall of confidence when no one had faith he could rebuild his life. Maybe not even himself. Why else would he have asked Frances to help him win Caro, if not doubt that he could triumph alone?

He peered around the back of his own chair. Frances was laughing and sliding coins across the card table to her partner, Bart. Caro gave an exaggerated sigh and tossed her cards down. “Jem,” Henry heard her say, “we’re going to be roasted and toasted, you and I.”

Chagrin, confusion, unease—whatever one called it, it twisted through Henry’s chest at the sight of Frances’s smile. Already, he had wrapped her tightly into his fledgling courtship of Caro. He couldn’t write a letter to Caro without recalling Frances helping him shape letters; he couldn’t give her flowers without thinking of Frances’s advice. He couldn’t hear Caro’s voice or see her face without his eyes seeking Frances, his ears sifting sounds for the careful speech and wicked laugh of his own ally.

And yet, with all the help Frances had given him, he had given her very little in return. It was hardly flattering to ask the help of an unmarried woman in winning the hand of another. It implied that she wasn’t worthy of attention herself… didn’t it?

He didn’t mean to do that. It certainly wasn’t true. She looked vivid in the low glow of fire and lamp, her strong features all shadow and light. Deep eyes and a mouth made for secrets. Chiaroscuro, that stark Italian technique, would be the perfect way to paint her.

If he could paint.

Which he couldn’t.

Which was why he needed Caro.

There was no denying the countess was as lovely as Botticelli’s Venus. If he could persuade her to look his way, it would be no hardship to look back at her.

That was the odd thing, though—she hadn’t looked his way much this evening. Certainly not as much as one would expect from the partner in a secret correspondence.

“Excuse me, Hal.” Emily had perked up. “They finished their rubber of whist. I shall arrange things to further our plot.” She called, “Jemmy, do deal me a hand. But I shall scream if I have to partner you.”

She glided over to the card table, while Henry stared at the grate. The coals were glowing, not much more than ash now, occasionally split by faint fire. He could see the slanting flickers through the milky glass of the fireplace screen. It was walnut framed, painted with a snowy marble temple flanked by two sturdy oaks, their wavy branches intertwining.

It had been Henry’s wedding present to Jem and Emily a decade before. He’d thought himself very clever, representing the story of Baucis and Philemon: the couple who grew old together, kindhearted, and were transformed into trees after their deaths so they could live on side by side.

The story was apt. But he hadn’t been clever enough to fix his colors. The glass hadn’t been fired well after he had painted it, and the paints had bubbled and dimmed, the colors smoky.

Oh, well. It still looked better than Aunt Matilda’s greasy red-painted baroque table.

He heard Emily shriek, heard the others laugh, and realized his sister-in-law had been paired with Jem after all. So someone else would come to join Henry at the fireside now. Fair enough. He could handle these small bites of friendship, which he need not lift a finger to consume. Which was well, since he had only half the usual working complement of fingers.

He gritted his teeth. It was tedious how his mind worked sometimes. How dearly he would love to forget that anything had changed. Or barring that, have it not matter.

Enough.

He shoved himself out of the chair and joined the rest of the party.

“What’s all the screaming about?” he said in a jovial voice as he skirted the card players.

“Oh, Hal,” Emily collapsed into a chair at the velvet-draped card table. “I am ruined. Your brother can never remember the cards that have been played, and I shall lose all my pin money.”

“And I shall win it,” said Frances, snapping and bridging the cards before handing them to Jem to deal. “Or we shall, Mr. Crosby.” She flashed a bright smile at her partner, Bart.

Henry suddenly wished very much that he were part of the game.

But if he was not, Caro was not either for this rubber. “So you have been dealt out, Lady Stratton?”

Caro smiled. “Indeed. I am not sure now whether I have been lucky or unlucky.”

“You are lucky if you were partnering Jem. I only thank heaven Hal is not playing,” Emily said with mock innocence. “He cheats.”

“I do not,” Henry protested.

“Good lord, Em,” Jem interjected. “It’s a good thing you’re not a man. You’d be called out for saying such a thing.”

Emily rearranged the cards in her hand. “My dear husband, it’s a good thing I’m not a man for many reasons besides that one. Besides, I am only teasing Hal. I do it out of my bitterness, knowing that I am going to lose my pin money.”

“I’ll give you more,” Jem said. “Only you must remind me what trump is. Hearts?”

Emily shot Henry a what-did-I-tell-you look. “Yes, my dear heart, it is hearts. Caro, would you be willing to sing something to keep us company?”

Frances didn’t even look up from her cards. “I would consider Lady Stratton’s singing to be a blatant attempt to undermine our concentration.”

“Would it?” Bart sounded interested. “Are you very accomplished, my lady?”

Caro shook her head. “Not at all. I sound like a raven crowing. Or croaking, or whatever they do.”

“Caw, maybe.” Henry peered over Bart’s shoulder. Not a trump in his hand, poor fellow. “Good lord, Bart. Seven trumps? Jem is clearly the one who cheats, since he’s dealt you so many.”

“You are a child, Hal,” Emily said, her brow furrowing as she selected her next play. “You are almost as bad as my Stephen, who reads out everyone’s cards, and he is only eight years old.”

“I was the one who shuffled the deck,” Frances said. “Does that mean I cheat at cards too?”

Henry smiled. “I would believe you capable of anything, Mrs. Whittier. You are sinister; you told me so yourself.” He was inordinately pleased to see color rise to her cheeks.

Caro began to peep at the hands of each of the card players. “My, my, Emily. Your pin money is surely gone. Frannie is frighteningly capable. I believe she could have cheated at cards anytime, and none of you would have suspected a thing.”

Frances slapped a low diamond onto the table with a frown. “If I truly cheated, I would have made certain that I got a better hand.”

“Or that I did,” Bart murmured. “I only wish I truly did have seven trumps.”

Jem tossed his cards onto the table, facedown. “Jupiter’s nightgown, how am I to think with you all talking? Is everybody cheating now?”

“Jemmy, how unkind of you. I shall call you out if you say such a thing again,” Emily said. “Drat; no, I won’t. With you dead, we would surely lose the rubber.”

Jem blinked. “Was that a compliment, Em?”

She sighed. “I suppose, though I only implied that you played better than a corpse.”

Before Jem could reply, there was a scratch at the door then the butler Sowerberry peeped his angular head into the drawing room. “I beg your pardon, Lord Tallant, but Master John and Master Stephen are asking you for a…” He paused and enunciated the next words as if they were in a language he did not understand. “A bedtime story, my lord. They insist that you promised them one if they spent the evening without breaking anything. They have requested that it be horrible.”

Henry smirked. “Oh, it’ll be horrible.”

The cuff on his shoulder as Jem stood felt blessedly normal. But after Jem left, Henry felt slow and stupid as he tried to think of the perfect thing to say. Or anything to say at all.

Because if there was one thing he could not do, it was take his brother’s place in the game and hold a sheaf of cards for whist. Not with one hand.

Maybe Emily noticed his sudden awkwardness, because she shrugged off the idea of further cards. “Well, that game was brief and combative. I am sorry for that. Though I am relieved not to lose any money to you flock of carrion crows. Mrs. Whittier, do come and play the piano, so Bart and I can have a dance.” She laughed when Bart’s face reddened at her teasing.

Briskly, Emily sorted them all out. Frances shuffled through music, and Caro joined her, exclaiming over a waltz. “Rather fast of you, isn’t this, Em?”

She looked as light and lovely as one of Leonardo’s angels as she shifted a lamp into place to study the music and began humming tunelessly. Next to her, Frances fell into shadow.

“Not a waltz, please,” Bart said, growing still more red.

Caro laughed again and set the scandalous music aside. “Perhaps a reel, then, for two couples? Frannie could play for us.” Her bright eyes twinkled as she held a hand out to Bart.

It felt like she’d slapped Henry with it.

So, she would write to him in private, but she wouldn’t acknowledge their closeness even in such a small party? And yet close was exactly how she wanted to hold him. She had written him so.

He felt hot-headed and hot-blooded, wanting to cut in and take her hand, wanting her to extend it to him.

Instead, he beat a strategic retreat to the fireside, unwilling to watch himself be defeated.

“I think I’ll sit out the dancing, ladies, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Though I’ll be happy to observe and critique your form.”

When all three women pulled faces at him, Henry knew his grin had stayed in place and no one suspected the truth.

Namely, that he had to fabricate a new kind of courage or he would never get even the ashes of what Baucis and Philemon had shared.

With a rustle of fabric, a woman dropped into the chair next to Henry. The faint, crisp scent of citrus told Henry it was Frances, even before he turned his head.

“Mrs. Whittier.” He straightened in his chair, glad she sat to his left, his good side.

“Mr. Middlebrook,” she mimicked. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you. I have been evicted from the piano. As it turns out, your friend Mr. Crosby is by far the best musician of us all.”

“So Emily is dancing with Caro?” He twisted, peering around the broad circular back of his chair. Hmm. So she was.

“Most women learn to dance with one another, you know,” Frances said. “I do believe your sister-in-law is more comfortable at leading than at following.”

“I completely and wholeheartedly believe that,” Henry said drily. “What shall we do, then? Shall we play a game of our own?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Very well. I’m thinking of something with blond hair and a red gown. Do you care to guess what it is? It’ll be easy because you’re probably thinking of it too.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Ha. You are riotously funny.”

“A transparent attempt to dodge the question. You have no guess, then?”

He settled himself into his chair, wedging his numb right arm firmly in the angle where the seat back met the side. “Of course I have a guess, but you may not like it.” He gave her The Grin, his most charming smile. The old, carefree expression hadn’t sat so easily on his face for a long time.

“Try me.” Her tip-tilted eyes looked roguish.

“The queen, of course. I’m a devoted servant of the Crown.”

Frances snorted. “Nonsense; the queen hasn’t been blond for at least thirty years. And why shouldn’t I like that guess?”

“Because I spoiled your fun.” He gave a little shrug. With his right arm wedged into the corner of the chair, he could almost believe its stillness was normal.

She held up a hand and ticked on her fingers as she replied, “At the present moment, I’m not losing money at cards, I’m not bumbling through a minuet on the piano, and I’m not racking my brain for the steps of a reel. So how could you think you’ve spoiled my fun?”

“If I’m the only remaining option, I should try to be more amusing.”

“Please do.” She folded her arms and looked down her nose at him in one of the haughtiest expressions he’d ever seen.

“Good lord, Frances, you’re as stiff as a fireplace poker.”

She relaxed, grinned. “At least I’m sitting in the right seat, then, in front of this lovely warm fire.”

“It is lovely, isn’t it? I painted the fireplace screen, you know.”

“Well, it’s only an early effort. You are still relearning how to paint with your left hand. I am sure you will get better with time.”

His head reared back. “I painted the screen long ago.”

“Oh. You did? It’s… hmmm.” She furrowed her brows, obviously trying to think of something kind to say.

“It’s been damaged over time.” Henry felt the need to defend himself, though a smile crept over his features. “It was never an astounding work, but I promise you when I finished it, it didn’t look like an ash heap had been sick all over it.”

“I’d never have described it that way.” The dratted woman was trying not to laugh.

“No, but you obviously thought it. I’ve been insulted, and by my own fellow soldier.”

“Oh, come now, you know it’s not your best work. If you want a compliment, you can simply ask, and I’ll think of a much better subject than an old, damaged painting on glass.”

Citrus caught at him, a sweet scent that reminded him she sat only a touch away. The sound of Bart plunking out “Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot” became dimmer in Henry’s ears. “Would you, now? I wonder what you’d say. Are you trying to be terrifying again?”

“Why? Are you terrified?”

A little. “Of course not,” he huffed. “It would be beneath my considerable dignity.”

“It is considerable. Maybe that’s what I’ll compliment you on. Many men in the ton would be helped by a little more dignity and a little less vanity. Have you seen the dandies who can’t even turn their head within their high collars?”

“Yes, but surely it’s worth it. Isn’t that fashion all the crack?”

When she laughed, he felt a hot clench of pleasure in the center of his chest.

“I don’t know,” she laughed. “I haven’t been all the crack for over a decade, Henry.”

“Now who’s angling for a compliment? I know this is false modesty, because you notice and remember everything. You could easily be whatever you wanted to be.”

Her smiled dropped. For a too-long moment after this speech, she watched him, her eyes slightly narrowed. If he’d had ten fingers at his disposal, he probably would have embarked upon a world-class fidget under her scrutiny, drumming his fingers and shifting in his chair.

Instead, he sat carefully still, and he spoke lightly in a moment that had mysteriously turned heavy. “What is it, Frances? You’re acting like I just transformed into a wolf and howled at the moon.”

“I’m just wondering,” she answered quietly, “if you meant what you said.”

“That you had false modesty? Of course.”

Her mouth curved into a wry little smile. “Never mind. Forgive my distraction. I suppose I’m just distraught over being banished from the pianoforte.”

That armor of humor she kept—he knew it, because he wore it too.

It looked well on her. Her rich dark hair was pulled back by a celadon bandeau; her gown was cut low across her bosom, edged with lace of a darker green. Her skin glowed in the wavery light that penetrated the unfortunate fireplace screen. Subdued but so touchably lovely that he wanted to stroke her. Feel her warmth, take it in. He felt it, the want—a clenching hunger low in his stomach.

“You might be surprised,” she said with a sigh, “at how aggravating it can be to remember everything. Sometimes I can’t get to sleep for all the thoughts jostling at the inside of my head.”

“I know that feeling.”

She shot him a quick sideways look. “Yes, I suppose you might.”

“If you recall—which I’m sure you do,” he said more lightly, “I did give you a genuine, unsolicited compliment.”

She shot him another look, this one wicked. “On my memory, which is nothing but a parlor trick? Come now, Henry. You must know that women want only to be praised for their bonnets and gowns. There are quite a few common synonyms for you look very nice, you know.”

With a rueful smile, she turned back to the fire, watching a coal crumble into cinders. Henry saw it lick hotly at the thick glass of the fireplace screen; then its light vanished.

“You do look very nice,” he said slowly, “but to give or receive a common compliment is no real honor. Anyone might look lovely, but I’ve never met anyone with your gifts of memory or your talent in teaching left-handed writing.”

The words swelled within him, filling him with an unexpected heat. She did look lovely. She was uncommonly gifted. He felt a pull to her, an ease in her presence, that he hadn’t felt since returning to London. He wanted to capture this feeling, to hold it close, as in a lover’s embrace. His shoulders flexed involuntarily, and he felt the inevitable tug at his right shoulder, the pendulous weight of his still right arm.

The heat turned into a chill reminder of all that had changed.

“As you’ve never needed to learn to write with the left hand before,” Frances said, “I don’t suppose you could know how skilled a teacher I am.”

“But I do know,” he said, not wanting to explain how much she had helped him answer Caro’s letters. “And surely such compliments are within the bounds of friendship.”

“If you say they are, then they are.” Frances slapped her hands onto her knees, pushing herself upright. “If you say we’re friends, then we’re friends.”

So abrupt suddenly. Had he offended her? “Ah… no, you have a say in the matter as well.”

“Consider this my compliment for you,” she replied with a smile. “You may take my friendship for granted.”

“I will never take you for granted,” Henry said. When her face softened, grew warm in the firelight, he wondered if he’d said far more than he knew. She looked at him with her deep eyes, all the tumbled browns and greens of the Bossu Wood, and he felt stripped bare, known and understood, as he had not in years.

He had never thought to be stripped bare again.

Her lips had parted in surprise, and he could almost feel the warmth of her breath, the very essence of her life, pulling him closer.

“I would not take you for granted either,” she murmured, and reached out a hand to brush, so lightly, over his fingers.

Another touch, just as she’d given him when they first met and when she showed him how to write. Each time, he showed her a weakness, and she still reached out to him. That was a miracle in itself, and the sensation of her touch, forbidden and strange and sweet, woke his skin. Heat arrowed through his body: wistful desire, blessed hope.

Yes, hope. He had hope that he could rebuild his life. Though he knew he could not do it on his own. He needed Caroline for that.

It was hard to remember his carefully calculated reasons, sitting here in front of the fire.

Perhaps Frances sensed his sudden confusion; maybe he’d tensed. She pulled her hand from his, looked back at the fire again, and said in her damnably calm voice, “Doggedness.” Her tip-tilted eyes crinkled in a smile, and he knew she wasn’t annoyed. “That’s my answer to your dignity. Doggedness is probably the best quality I have, though also the worst.”

The change of subject was a relief; they’d been growing a bit too fraught. They couldn’t begin grabbing each other’s hands at every opportunity or people would talk, and that wouldn’t do either of them any good. A companion was in a precarious position in society; it wouldn’t take much to send her tumbling.

A quick tumble, that made him remember. Frances’s words about soldiers the first time they had met. It had been so long since Henry’d had a tumble, he could hardly remember the sensation. Understandable, then, how much it was on his mind; how tense his body felt, how aware of Frances’s closeness, of her every touch.

But this wasn’t the time or the place or the person for such thoughts.

“Come now, it can’t be both best and worst.” His voice came out clipped as he tried to quit thinking tumble, tumbled, tumbling. He waved a hand for a servant. “What do you care for, Frances? Tea or sherry?”

She thought for a moment. “Tea would be a wiser choice than sherry. You are always trying to get me intoxicated so you can learn secrets from me, aren’t you? One would think you’d been a spy.”

Henry snorted and asked for a tea service to be brought over, then turned back to Frances. “If I’d been a spy, I’d have much subtler methods. But I’ve never been very subtle. Not even before the war.”

“Maybe that’s your best and worst quality, then.” She smiled a quick thanks at the footman who set a tea tray down on a low table between their chairs. “Sugar for you, Henry?”

Henry considered. He’d gotten out of the habit of drinking tea sweetened—or indeed, regularly at all—during his tent-centered life in the army. “Yes,” he decided. “Two spoonfuls, please.” He had a taste for something new.

He watched her pour out the tea, her movements efficient and graceful as though they had been practiced thousands of times. And probably they had. She’d once said she was the daughter of a baronet, had she not? He wondered how she’d tumbled into the role of a companion.

Damn it. Tumbled again. His whole body felt tight and eager.

Frances held out a cup and saucer to him, and he tugged his mind back to the tea tray. The cup rattled faintly in its frail willow-patterned saucer, and he extended his hand, then paused. How to take it with one hand? If he held the saucer, he wouldn’t be able to lift the cup.

After cutting his eyes sideways to ensure that the tune of “Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot” was still issuing from the pianoforte, that Caroline and Emily were still practicing their steps with the glee of debutantes, he shook his head at Frances. “Just the cup, please.”

“Oh, of course.” She rolled her eyes at her own mistake. “Sorry about that.” She twirled the teacup so he could grip its tiny handle, then laid the unneeded saucer on the tray again.

He took a too-sweet sip, then returned to the thread of their conversation. “So. You think subtlety isn’t always necessary?”

Frances stirred milk into her own teacup as she considered. “Not for men, no. Subtlety’s probably more important for women. We’re permitted only the flimsy weapons of speech rather than anything really satisfying. Sometimes I think it would be much easier just to shoot out our troubles instead of keeping a smile pasted on all the time.”

Henry let out a low bark and wiggled his fingers against the porcelain cup, trying to keep its hot contents from burning him. “Shooting isn’t always the fun it may seem.”

Another gulp drained his tiny teacup to the dregs. It was syrupy at the bottom, with sugar grains not yet dissolved.

Well, he could use some help to sweeten his speech, because he had something difficult to say to Frances. He was getting too distracted by his alliance with her when it was secondary to his true strategy.

“Frances.” He leaned forward and set his teacup down on the tray. “Look, I’ve got to tell you something.”

Her cup clattered in her saucer. “Then tell me.”

They had just excused the male sex from the need to be subtle, yet Henry didn’t want to be too blunt. “It’s about Caroline. I—well, I’d prefer to court her on my own from this point.”

He stared at his teacup, lonely and saucer-less on the silver-plated tea tray, as though its dregs held all the mysteries of the universe. He didn’t want to watch her face change at his words; whether it was disappointed or relieved, it would be better not to know.

“You don’t care to have my help anymore?” The question sounded light enough, simply seeking information. He looked up, and her face was a sweet mask.

He sidestepped the question. “I’ve been honored by your help. But I think it would be fairest to all of us if I proceeded alone.”

“You want to be fair? How so?”

“None of the other suitors have ever received assistance from you,” he said lamely.

“I see,” she said with that careful smile on her face again. “You don’t want to give yourself an unfair advantage in winning Caroline.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m well aware that Caro isn’t in the slightest danger of being swept off her feet by me or any other suitor.”

He turned in his chair to regard Caro. She and Emily now stood by the pianoforte, laughing as they shuffled through the sheet music, making a snowstorm of paper around Bart. In truth, Caro looked just as happy plunking sour notes on the pianoforte as she had playing cards, dancing at a ball, entertaining suitors. Her mood was constant sunshine—never a cloud, never a storm.

This was why the ton loved her and admired her and sought her company. But did Henry have any idea what lay below that sunny surface?

Yes, he did. He had the letters.

He looked back to Frances, whose odd smile had begun to unbend. “What do you mean, then?” she asked.

“Just that… well, it’s my puffed-up dignity.” It rather magnified the indignity by having to speak of it, so he leaned forward, spoke lower. “I’d rather see whether I can court her successfully on my own.”

She picked up her teacup again, wrapping both hands around it as though pulling warmth from the tiny vessel. “So, just to be perfectly clear, you don’t want me to intercede at all.”

“Right,” Henry said, relieved when she nodded. “And I’ll tell the same to my sister-in-law.”

Frances shrugged. “All right, I understand. I won’t interfere anymore.”

Again, there was something strange about the way she spoke, as though she chose her words carefully to hide something.

He thought he could guess what she was covering up: pity. Why else would her eyes skate away from his? Why would she agree so quickly to his ungracious request to distance herself?

Maybe she too had felt they’d been bound a little too closely. Or maybe distance was what she preferred. He had too much dignity and not enough bluntness to pursue an explanation from her when it was sure to end in another embarrassment. The latest in a long series since he’d returned to London.

With a dissonant crash of keys and another peal of laughter, the trio at the piano called for Henry and Frances to join them. They both stood quickly, not quite looking at one another.

“Don’t forget,” Henry said in a whisper. “It’s all up to me now.”

She gave a little sigh. “I never forget, Henry.”

***

The rest of the evening went by pleasantly. When Jem returned to the drawing room, the six took turns giving dramatic readings out of a book of plays. An aggressively safe activity, as no one could be tugged into an intimate conversation, or even an intimate glance, with anyone else.

That was all right with Henry. He had the letters to rely on, to look forward to.

Or so he thought.

But write to Caro as he might, in the week leading up to his ball, not a single letter came in response to his.