Sylvia Andrew (15 page)

Marcus hesitated. He had broached this conversation impulsively, cynically almost. His pride had been badly hurt by her scornful refusal of him, and he wanted to hear her admit that she had been wrong to refuse such a splendid offer. So far she had not obliged him, and he now regretted opening the subject at all. His innate honesty compelled him to answer truthfully. ‘Your situation seemed so hopeless. I cannot say that I was in love with you, but I was not in love with anyone else, either. I remembered our past association and thought we could build on that—’

‘You were sorry for me,’ said Francesca, cutting him short. She had known in her heart that he was not in love with her, but his words nevertheless had given her a pang. But no sign of this appeared as she said, ‘Pray say no more, sir. Whatever the misunderstandings were—on either side—it was fortunate that they prevented us from entering into a marriage which could only have led to misery for both of us.’

She took a deep breath. It was all too painfully embarrassing. This conversation should never have started in the first place. He had been sorry for her! Sorry! The great Lord Carne willing to perform another of his charitable acts, to make a
lovesick, idiot of a girl happy at last! Oh, no! There was no going back. She had been a fool to think otherwise. And if she wished to have any self-respect, any peace of mind, she must avoid him in the future, as far as that was possible.

‘You still haven’t told me what your answer would have been, Francesca.’

‘You can hardly expect me to do so.’ They had nearly reached the garden doors. ‘I can’t—I don’t—’ She was stammering like a schoolgirl! Francesca took a deep breath and began again. She said coolly, ‘Lord Carne, pray let us forget what has been said tonight. I hope you will excuse my behaviour in the past. I have clearly misjudged you. In future…’ She stopped, unable to continue.

Marcus regarded her with another slightly cynical smile. ‘You will be kinder? Would like us to meet in order to explain how you have changed? Perhaps often?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You are quite right, of course. “Marcus” was not good enough for you. But it cannot do you any harm at all to be seen in the company of Lord Carne, an eminently eligible member of the
ton,
the object of every matchmaking mama in Society!’

Francesca felt another surge of rage, but her training stood her in good stead. They were now in sight of other people. Her expression was calm and her voice low as she said, ‘You were wrong, Lord Carne. It seems that even I cannot redress the balance of your conceit, nor, sad though it is to see it, have I any wish to do so.

‘I was about to thank you for your protection tonight, and to say that I am ashamed of the things I said to you on that memorable day in the library. And, though your enormous self-esteem makes it unlikely you will believe me, I was also about to say that having made our peace, we should avoid each other as far as possible in the future. Because of the past I could never be easy in your company.’

They were now at the foot of the stairs. She raised her voice and said politely, ‘Thank you for fetching me from the garden, Lord Carne, but pray do not let me keep you from your friends any longer. I am sure I can find Mrs Canfield for myself.’ Then she gave a small curtsy and made her way up the stairs.

M
arcus watched her go with a slight smile on his lips. Francesca wished to avoid his company, did she? He was not all convinced that he wished to avoid hers. You could say what you liked about Francesca Shelwood—or Beaudon, as she now was—conversation with her was never dull. Stimulating, appealing, infuriating—but never a bore. From what she had said, there was no danger that she regarded him as a prospective husband.

That was as well, for though he had sometimes been tempted to take a bride for the sake of the Carne name, the thought of marriage bored him beyond measure. The closest he had ever come to being in love—deeply in love—had been with Francesca herself all those years ago. But he had forgotten her in the time that followed, and he was now a very different man from the callow youth who would have thrown everything away for love.

His rash and quixotic gesture in offering for Francesca when her aunt died had resulted from a remnant of feeling for her, a sense of responsibility for her welfare. It had been very ill-judged. Thank God she had refused him! As she had said, they would both have regretted it.

But perhaps, for old times’ sake, it would amuse him now to cultivate her a little, introduce her to his friends—she might well find a reasonable match among them. The Beaudon fortune could not be very great, but not all the members of his circle were on the hunt for an heiress. One of them was sure to find her suitable—but who?

Marcus frowned. Some of them were sticklers—would they be put off by Francesca’s behaviour? She could be very impulsive…But how could she know how to behave? Her training at Shelwood had not prepared her for life in Society. She was intelligent, she would learn…And she had been upset tonight by Coker’s treatment of her…

Marcus’s frown deepened. Coker might be one of the Prince Regent’s gambling cronies, but he was a scoundrel all the same. What had he been up to with Francesca? It was out of the question, even for Coker, to think of making her his mistress, but the Beaudon fortune was hardly large enough to tempt him into marriage. His two previous wives had both been considerable heiresses.

Marcus shook his head decisively. Whatever lay behind Coker’s interest in Francesca, he was certainly no fit companion for her; if no one else would stop the connection, then it was up to him to do so…she was much too good for Coker! The frown on Marcus’s face gave way to a smile as he thought of Francesca. How lovely she had looked, even in her agitated state! Yes, he owed it to the past to keep an eye on her interests in London. She might yet make a reasonable match.

But when Marcus began to review his circle of acquaintance, he was surprised to find that the thought of any of them marrying Francesca repelled him. They made excellent friends, but each one of them lacked some quality or other which he considered essential for her happiness. Richard Caughton was a steady, kind fellow and he certainly wasn’t
hanging out for a rich wife. But it had to be said that he sometimes was rather a dull dog—Francesca would be bored with him in a month.

Vincent Tatham was much more the type for her—amusing, witty, polished…but would he cherish her when she was ill or unhappy? It was doubtful—he could be a bit of an unfeeling brute.

Monty Banford? Never! His taste was for a full-blown, obvious sort of beauty, and his mental processes were equally unsubtle. He would never appreciate Francesca’s elusive charm.

What about George Denver? Now he was a distinct possibility. Plenty of address, nice little property in Kent, a very good fellow all round…but no, it wouldn’t do! George simply wasn’t up to her weight—she would walk all over him, and despise him for allowing it. He couldn’t submit poor George to that. Who else was there? More names occurred to him, but each had something amiss. Devil take it! There wasn’t one of them fit to marry her! Not one!

Irritated with his lack of success, Marcus decided to consult his sister. He had asked her once before to help him with Francesca without much success, but the present situation was very different. Francesca was now perfectly respectable. Her fortune might be only moderate, but she was worthy of any man’s consideration as a wife. Lady Chelford was bound to think of someone—her circle of acquaintance was wide and comprised some of the most respectable families in England. But when he broached the subject, his sister’s reaction was not what he had expected.

‘My dear Marcus!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where have you been all these weeks?’

‘In Paris—as you very well know. Why is that to the purpose?’

‘Why should you imagine that Miss Beaudon needs any help from me to find a husband? The idea is absurd!’

‘Come, Sarah! You can surely help me this time! Miss Beaudon is no longer a penniless nobody. She is perfectly respectable now, with the Beaudon name and fortune behind her. It shouldn’t be that difficult to think of someone who would be prepared to marry her.’

Lady Chelford’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am positive I can find at least a dozen, if not more! But…before I go any further, Marcus, tell me why you regard Miss Beaudon’s future as your concern?’

‘Damn it, I feel responsible for the girl!’

‘I know you do, Marcus. But what puzzles me is
why
! You said you were sorry for her in the past, but Miss Beaudon no longer has the slightest need for your pity. She is a very fortunate young woman.’

‘Sarah—’

Lady Chelford swept on. ‘And unless you are about to declare a directly
personal
interest in her, Marcus—’

‘You know I don’t think of marrying anyone at the moment.’

‘Then I suggest that you leave Miss Beaudon, together with her father and Maria Canfield, to sort out her future for herself. Good heavens, man, Francesca Beaudon could take her pick of London society!’

‘That is surely a trifle exaggerated? She is beautiful enough, but the Beaudon fortune is modest—’

‘Modest! Marcus, you have been out of London too long! Did you not know? The girl was her grandfather’s heir. She has a personal fortune of seventy thousand pounds, and a large estate in Buckinghamshire. There isn’t an eligible man in London who wouldn’t give his eyebrows to capture the Shelwood heiress!’

‘Her grandfather’s heir…’ Marcus was stunned. ‘The devil she is!’ There was a pause, then he said slowly, ‘She said something about it that time in the library, but I ignored it…I thought she was telling me a tale…’ He fell silent again. ‘An heiress…’

‘A considerable one. She is, of course, courted and flattered wherever she goes. In fact, it is perhaps as well that you are not considering her for yourself, Marcus. You might find it difficult to get near her!’ This was said with a touch of malicious amusement.

Marcus felt unaccountably irritated. ‘I had no idea…Well, you’re right for once. She certainly doesn’t need my help to find a husband. What a ridiculous idea! Quite mad. I’m glad I spoke to you, Sarah—I was close to making a fool of myself.’ He went to the door, then stopped. ‘I don’t know why it is,’ he said angrily, ‘but that girl has the knack of causing trouble wherever she goes!’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘She rushes about knocking me into streams, falls into ditches, reviles me for trying to help her, romps through the forest interfering in my concerns, and now—’

‘We cannot be talking of the same person, Marcus! Miss Beaudon has charming manners! What is more, she is known for her detachment and poise. As far as I know, she has never put a foot wrong in matters of propriety.’

‘Ha! You don’t know her, Sarah!’

‘No, I obviously don’t. Nor, if what you say is true, does the rest of society! Tell me more about this creature.’

But Marcus recollected himself. Charlotte had willingly agreed to say nothing about what had happened in the forest, and now he had very nearly revealed the ridiculous story himself! ‘No, no! It’s of no consequence. It all took place in the very distant past, when…when she was still a child. Though I cannot believe she has changed as much as you say.’

‘You will see for yourself. But if you have no wish to marry her, then you must leave her alone!’

‘You need not say anything more, Sarah. I will certainly leave her alone! I wash my hands of her. Completely. The rich
Miss Beaudon can choose a husband whenever she will without my aid!’

He left at that point in what seemed remarkably like a fit of temper. Lady Chelford stared at his departing figure in astonishment. Marcus was the soul of patience and calm. She could not remember when he had last slammed a door like that. What had got into him?

Then she raised an eyebrow, and started to smile. Perhaps…just perhaps, her brother might be deceiving himself. How delightful that would be! Marcus was a very dear brother, always ready to help in any difficulty, and she was truly grateful to him. But there was no denying that, since he had come in to the title, he had been disgracefully spoilt. He had had his choice of Society’s beauties for far too long. It would do him no harm at all if he was attracted to someone who did not fall over herself to win him.

Marcus may have washed his hands of Francesca, but he could not help observing her as she danced and conversed, as she took part in all the many events which made up the London Season. And, to his surprise, he soon saw that his sister’s account of Francesca’s conduct in society was perfectly correct. Francesca knew how to behave rather better than most her contemporaries, in fact. In spite of the persistent attention of so many members of the
ton
, she bore herself with dignity and grace. And in the face of their flattery and obvious admiration, she remained detached, even politely amused.

He could never find anything in her manner to fault. He was amazed. Her collapse into tears, her agitation and loss of temper in the garden at Carlton House—these had been completely out of character for the Honorable Francesca Beaudon as Society knew her. He had never liked Coker, but now he found it difficult to address the man with any degree of civility, for he was sure Coker was to blame.

In this he was wrong. Lord Coker’s behaviour had merely set the scene. Marcus remained unaware that he himself had been the real cause for Francesca’s distress. It did not occur to him that few people would ever be permitted to see her as he had seen her that night, that he was one of only two people in the world who could break through the wall of reserve to the vulnerable, passionate girl behind. London society approved of Miss Beaudon, but would have laughed to scorn the idea that her heart was not always ruled by her head.

The longer Marcus studied Francesca, the more puzzled he became. She was an enigma. It was not that she was beautiful in her fine dresses and fashionable hairstyles—that came as no surprise to him. He had always seen beyond the shabby clothes and the wilful refusal to attempt any personal adornment. The fineness of her bone structure, the clarity of her gray-green eyes, even the gleam of dark gilt hair—he had noted all these on their first acquaintance.

Her beauty was less obvious than those of vivacious charmers such as Lydia Canfield—or in her different sphere, Charmian Forrest. Francesca Beaudon’s attractions were for a connoisseur’s eye, someone who appreciated a more subtle play of colour and line. Her beauty was wasted on the general herd, yet he had seen it from the first.

But he had always been aware of a mysterious line of communication between them. It was there whether they wished it or not, something quite out of their control. He had known when she was worried and distressed, whatever she actually said to him—it had produced an irrational desire to help her. But now this ability to read her mind, to know her true feelings, had vanished without trace. Francesca had closed him off, and Miss Beaudon was as proper, as reserved with him as she was with everyone else—a pattern of decorum, grace and charm.

He had not been aware how much he valued the warmth, the freedom that had previously existed between them, until they were no more. Damn it, she could be what she liked with others—they did not know what she was truly like. But he—he missed the laughing, impetuous…
real
girl he had fallen in love with on the hill above Shelwood!

Then there was the question of her fortune. At first, Marcus was strongly irritated by the thought that Francesca was rich. He had made a fool of himself that day at Shelwood with his offer of marriage. Mistress of a large fortune and with her own father to look after her, Francesca could well manage without Lord Carne’s solicitude then—and now. She was far from needing his help.

But, as Marcus watched Francesca dancing, walking, driving with some of the most eligible bachelors in the town, he began to change his mind again. However little Francesca realised it, she
did
need him! Her fortune was a very real source of danger to her, putting her at risk with all the sharks and self-seekers at loose in the polite world. Lord Beaudon, much as he loved his daughter, had been away from London too long to recognise all the pitfalls, and he was quite clearly not in the best of health.

The obvious fortune-seekers were soon chased away, it was true, but one or two more apparently respectable characters, friends of the Prince Regent such as Lord Coker, or charmers, such as Sir Anthony Perrott, whose engaging manners hid their cold-hearted ambition—men such as these were cultivating Francesca. She even seemed to be enjoying their company!

It became obvious to Marcus that something more was needed. And who better was there than Marcus himself? He had the entrée to all levels of society, from the Prince Regent down. He knew Francesca and he knew both the world she had moved in in the past, and the world she moved in now. However little she would thank him for it, protecting her from her own folly, until she found the right sort of man, was the
least he could do. Marcus was filled with a sense of satisfaction at this clear call to duty. Perhaps on the way he would find that missing girl.