A Love Laid Bare (3 page)

“But the house has been unoccupied for some
time.”

The quiet statement did nothing to lessen Halcombe’s
annoyance at having his missing wife come up in the conversation,
even obliquely, and his voice roughened. “Not entirely. Some staff
remains.” He frowned. “Where did you get this so-called
information? How reliable is it? Rumours abound along the
coast—tales of smugglers, wreakers, ghosts that walk the cliffs.
It’s all a pack of nonsense.”

The speculation in Summerton’s eyes was enough to
cool his fit of temper. Halcombe picked up his port, drank, and
changed his expression to one of mild curiosity.

“I have had previous correspondence from this source
that has proved to be most accurate,” Summerton said with a lift of
his brows.

“One of your own agents? Then why can’t he
investigate?” There was something in the viscount’s manner that
made Halcombe curious, in spite of his determined disinterest.
Was there something suspicious about the informer?

“Not one of my agents.” Summerton’ mouth twisted in a
wry smile. “I wish it was. He is a well-informed fellow, whoever it
is.”

“You don’t know who it is? And you trust him anyway?”
Surprised, Halcombe straightened. “Why?”

“For some months, I have received occasional letters
with information concerning Napoleon’s political movements across
Europe. It has, at times, been extremely helpful.”

“Do you even know where these letters come from?”

“No,” the viscount admitted with a shrug. “The
letters simply show up, most often delivered by some scruffy errand
boy, and they are signed ‘a friend’. At this point I don’t care
who
it is, although I’d like to respond, if solely to say
thanks.” He grinned. “I wish I could ask a dozen questions, to be
frank, but will take what I can get.”

Halcombe shook his head. “I suppose I’ll have to take
your word for it. I will find out what I can—assuming there is
anything to discover, which I doubt.” He changed the subject with a
wave of his hand. “What do you hear of Montford? Is he still
skulking around Europe?” Edward Hollings, Baron Montford, was the
third of their ‘terrible trio’, as Colin’s sister delighted in
dubbing them. Montford was rarely in England these days. Halcombe
had not heard from him in close to a year.

Summerton laughed. “Ned is with the army in Spain,
doing a bit of exploring. Last I heard, not too long ago, he was
well and just as elusive as ever.”

Halcombe’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Good for
him. From what I hear of conditions there, it is wise to keep your
head down and keep moving.” He stood and held up his glass. “It has
also been a long day for me. I am more than ready to eat. Is there
anything to be had in this palace of yours?”

“Hardly a palace, my lad. Obviously you have not seen
the Prince’s latest obsession. His Brighton pavilion is a sight to
behold—an extremely expensive one.” Summerton rose, walked over to
ring the bell, and then cleared a chess set from a small table on
the other side of the room. “But food there is and it will soon
arrive. Come and join me.” He gestured to the table, picked up a
bottle from the sideboard, and turned the discussion to the latest
London gossip.

This interested the earl not at all, but left his
mind free to think over the earlier conversation. The whole thing
sounded improbable to him, but if Summerton needed an
investigation, he would do his best to determine if there was any
basis to it. He owed the man more than a few discreet inquiries
could repay. If Colin had not sent him off to draw maps for the
government, who knew what folly he might have committed? There was
no question in his mind that the years he had spent wandering in
Europe were the making of him, and the one thing that had kept him
from a total break with his father. Yes, he would do what he could
to help.

London1809

Aunt Olivia’s business manager met Frances and her
companions at the dock in Portsmouth and settled them in a
comfortable coach soon after they disembarked. Charles Reede was a
soft-spoken gentleman who kept Olivia’s winery and household well
run, and Frances counted him a friend. The man had been in love
with Livvy for years, and she hoped one day her aunt would realize
it. Perhaps she did to some extent. At times, Frances judged Olivia
was flustered in Charles’ company. It was a hopeful sign.

The trip to London was uneventful. In a surprisingly
short time they were installed in a suite at Grillon’s Hotel. The
first few days were spent recovering from the long journey and
seeing about new clothing for them all. Livvy’s English dressmaker
personally delivered the wardrobes they had ordered before they
left Portugal. Now, the fittings were done and the completed
clothing hung neatly away. Frances no longer had the excuse of
outmoded gowns to put off the inevitable. However unready she felt,
it was time to proceed with her plans.

She studied her reflection soberly while Nancy did up
her hair. The dark blue walking dress and matching spencer were
elegant and restrained, with just a hint of dash provided by the
single feather on the hat that lay in her lap. It was a far
different outfit than the more girlish clothing she had worn before
she left England, but she had no intention of appearing before Lord
Summerton resembling some penniless waif.

Suddenly impatient to get on with it, Frances picked
up her rouge pot and applied the faintest blush to her pale cheeks.
The instant the maid thrust the final pin into her upswept hair she
put on her hat and stood.

“Thank you, Nancy. It is time for us to go. Mr. Reede
will be waiting downstairs to escort us.”

The maid bobbed a curtsey and smiled shyly. “I’ll
just get my cloak, madam.”

She hurried off and Frances sighed. Nancy was kind
enough to act as a ladies maid for them, but her first
responsibility was to Flora. Although the hotel had supplied a maid
for general duties, that was a temporary measure at best. She must
remember to ask Charles to send some applicants for her to
interview.

As Frances expected, Charles was waiting, and with
his usual grave courtesy saw them seated in the cab before he
stepped in and took the seat opposite. The distance was short and
all too soon the vehicle stopped before a tall house on Cavendish
Square.

“Are you sure you do not want me to come in with
you?” Charles’ expression held such concern that Frances reached
over and patted his hand.

“Quite sure. Lord Summerton will do me no harm. In
fact, I expect he will be so shocked as to be speechless.” She
grinned impishly at him and was rewarded with a reluctant
smile.

“Yes, I suppose he will be.” Charles stepped from the
carriage, helped her out, and then assisted Nancy. He escorted them
to the top of the steps, knocked on the door, and squeezed Frances’
hand before he returned to the cab to wait for them.

Frances gave the maid an encouraging smile and
schooled her face into that haughty, superior mien that butlers
seemed to appreciate. When the door opened, she stepped inside as
though she were an honored guest—not someone who might be turned
from the door!

“Lady Halcombe, to see Lord Summerton.” Without the
slightest tremor, Frances gave the man her card and added smoothly,
“Please tell him I would appreciate a few minutes of his time.” No
need for anyone to know her stomach was fluttering up and down like
a seesaw.

The man stared at the card, looked at her face, and
swallowed. “Certainly, my lady. I will ascertain that Lord
Summerton is at home.”

Since Frances had made inquiries to make sure his
lordship was indeed at home this morning, she was certain of his
presence. The butler showed her to a graciously appointed salon
before going in search of Lord Summerton. She bade Nancy to have a
seat on one of the benches in the passageway, laid her hat and
gloves on a chair, and glanced around. The room was charmingly done
up in rose and gold and was somewhat delicate in style. Perhaps
Summerton’s mother had chosen the furnishings. He also had a
sister, if she remembered correctly. She might have been the
decorator.

Too nervous to remain still, Frances went to gaze out
the window. Calm, she had to stay calm. She could not display the
slightest fear in front of this man. He was Richard’s best friend
and someone she, too, had considered a friend, although they had
not spent much time in company. He would undoubtedly be angry—for
Richard’s sake, if not his own. But she believed he would help her.
Forcing her breath to steady, Frances opened her clenched hands,
dropped them loosely at her sides, and assumed a polite expression
at the sound of footsteps approaching the door.

The gentleman who stepped inside the salon had such a
look of amazement on his face that she wanted to laugh. It was
almost worth everything she had gone through to see this usually
impervious man display any kind of emotion. She took a few steps
forward.

“Lord Summerton.”

“Frances? Frances, my God, it
is
you!” He
crossed the room in a few long strides and took her hands in his.
“I did not believe it when I saw your card. Where in God’s name
have you been? Does Richard know?” He shook his head and answered
his own question. “Of course not, he would have told me. But what
are you doing here?” Summerton sucked in a deep breath and grinned.
“Listen to me. I sound half-cocked, which I suppose I am. Come, sit
down.” He led her to a sofa, waited until she was seated, then sat
beside her. “You look well. Different, somehow, but well.” He ran a
hand though his hair. “We thought you dead! Did you know that?
Where the
devil
have you been?”

His expression hardened and there was more than a
little reproach in his eyes. A chill prickle ran over her skin. If
Summerton was so immediately judgmental, just the thought of her
husband’s reaction was enough to start her stomach churning. She
wanted to race from the room and take the first ship back to
Portugal—not face the furious storm that was about to burst over
her.
Too late, Frances. Much too late to cry craven now. You
deserve whatever comes. See it through.

She allowed herself one soft sigh and gathered up the
remnants of her courage. “I’ve been in France and Portugal.”

“France! How…?” Summerton paused, blinked, and leaned
back, his stunned expression exchanged for one of icy calm. “No,
don’t tell me. Richard deserves to hear this first. The man has
been to hell and back since you disappeared. Contacting him should
have been the first thing you did.” He hesitated, looked aside for
a long moment, and then returned his intent gaze to her face. “Why
have you come to me? What is it you want, Frances?”

His voice was as cold as the look in his eyes.
Frances bent her head and stared at the hands clenched in her lap.
Perhaps she
should
have gone directly to Richard instead of
imagining that an intermediary would ease the shock of her return.
What
was
the protocol for coming back from the dead? She
suppressed a half-hysterical peal of laughter. No book on the
proper behavior of ladies would provide her with instructions for
this situation and it appeared she had already made a grievous
error.

Nevertheless, she was here. She raised her head and
faced Summerton’s watchful eyes squarely. “I wanted your advice on
the best way to approach Richard, some way to better prepare him
for my appearance.”
You were a fool to think anything will make
the return of a supposedly drowned wife easier. Or the discovery
that he has a daughter!

“Nothing on God’s earth will prepare him,” Summerton
said curtly. “I suggest you contact him at once, before news of
this gets out.”

Frances nodded, disappointment flooding her. Why
should he help her? The man had no reason to oblige her and was
staunchly loyal to Richard. “Yes, I suppose showing up on his
doorstep won’t be any worse than if you gave him warning. I will
make plans to go on to Sussex as soon as possible.”

A silence loud with unspoken recriminations filled
the room. Frances felt the weight of it and found it unbearable.
She stood and began to pull on her gloves. “Thank you for your
time, my lord. I know I can count on your discretion in keeping
this quiet for a few more days.”

Summerton stared at her with open speculation, then
got to his feet and raised a brow. “Why, that won’t be necessary,
Lady Halcombe. Your husband is in London.”

His mocking smile hurt. Frances’ lips trembled. She
was to have no reprieve, it seemed, but at least she would not have
several days of anticipation to endure. She turned away and moved
toward the door.

“Where are you staying?”

Surprised at the question, she paused and looked back
at him. “I don’t believe there is any reason for you to know that,
sir.” Dismissal edged her voice. “Good day.”

“There is if you want my help.”

She turned to face him. “I thought you wanted no part
of it.”

He shrugged. “I changed my mind. What is it you want
me to do?”

Frances’ heart pounded—slow, heavy thuds that she
feared might be audible. She had not realized just how
disheartening his refusal was.

“I would like you to arrange a meeting with Richard,
somewhere we can talk privately—and tell him beforehand that I have
returned to England.” She hesitated for a second, trying
unsuccessfully to read something in the viscount’s expression, and
then continued. “I am staying at Grillon’s. They have suitable
private rooms available.”

“You will speak to him this afternoon. I will send
word as to the time.”

“Very well.”

It was an order, but she made no protest. She was too
relieved that he had refrained from further questions. She picked
up her hat and left the room, not caring if it was rude. She had to
get away from this house and its unfriendly owner. She needed some
time alone to prepare for an encounter that would surely be far
more harrowing than this distressing interview—an encounter with
her long unseen husband, Richard Henry Ehlman, Earl of
Halcombe.