Sylvia Andrew (18 page)

‘That’s inevitable, I suppose. But she need not concern herself about them. There are many other, more honorable men,’ said Marcus, adding casually, ‘George Denver for one.’

‘Yes, Denver. He seems quite taken. And she certainly seems to spend more time with him than with most of the others. Except yourself.’

‘Me? I enjoy Miss Beaudon’s company, of course, but it would be more true to say that I spend time with the Canfields. And since they share a house with her, it is natural…’

‘Of course, of course. Quite natural. Another hand of piquet?’

‘I am promised to Mrs Canfield for the supper interval. Perhaps later?’

‘I’ll come with you, Carne. Perhaps Francesca will be free to accompany her father.’

‘I doubt it.’ The two men watched as Lord Denver escorted Miss Beaudon off the ballroom floor. She was smiling as they disappeared through the doors and Marcus suddenly frowned and turned back to the library. Lord Beaudon was standing in the doorway, and Marcus was surprised to see him looking rather stern. He looked as if he was debating something in his own mind, but in the end he smiled and said, ‘Shall we go?’

Though he badly wanted to speak privately to Francesca again, Marcus was given little opportunity that evening. During the supper interval she kept close to her father, or talked to Lord Denver. And when he returned to claim the second set of dances he had written in to her programme at the beginning of the evening, she was not to be found. When he finally tracked her down, she was talking to Lady Clayton, who was regaling her with tales of her father’s exploits in London twenty-five years before.

‘Lord Carne! You must forgive me,’ Francesca exclaimed brightly. ‘I had to repair my dress, and by the time I had finished the dances had started. I am afraid I assumed you must have found another partner. You will think me very uncivil, but I assure you the repair was necessary.’

‘In that case, how can I not forgive?’ He bowed. ‘Lady Clayton.’

‘I suppose you’ve come to take this charming young woman away from me, Carne?’

‘I am sure Lord Carne will excuse me if I do not go,’ said Francesca. She turned to Marcus. ‘Lady Clayton has been telling me such stories about my father.’

‘My attractions apparently outweigh yours, Carne!’ said the dowager with a malicious smile. ‘What will you do?’

‘Give in gracefully, I hope, ma’am,’ said Marcus. ‘Your stories are renowned. May I hear some, too?’ He sat down on the chair at Francesca’s side.

Lady Clayton’s black button eyes took note of the colour rising in Francesca’s cheek, then switched to Marcus, whose countenance was impassive. ‘Of course you may, Carne,’ she said. ‘Though what the younger generation is coming to I cannot imagine. A ball is an occasion for dancing, not listening to an old woman’s tales!’

‘But since my present dancing partner is at your side, I shall be forced to spend the next half hour alone—unless you take pity on me. Or are your tales unfit for my unsullied ears?’

Lady Clayton cackled with pleasure. ‘I could tell you tales that would make your hair stand on end, Carne…but I won’t. Indeed, I’ve just about come to the end of my repertoire.’ She turned to Francesca. ‘I’m a touch tired. I hope you won’t mind, my dear—you must ask your father for the rest. Take her for some refreshment, Carne. The child looks flushed.’

‘I…I…What about you, Lady Clayton?’

‘I shall be perfectly happy here, Miss Beaudon. Look, here comes my son—he’ll take care of me. Thank you for listening to my tales.’

‘I enjoyed them. May I hear more another time?’

‘Of course, of course. Call on me whenever you have the
time. Bring your father! I wasn’t allowed to have much to do with him in the old days.’

As they walked away, Francesca said, ‘I do not need refreshment, Lord Carne. I should like to find my father, if you please.’

Marcus looked at her determined face. ‘Very well. It seems I shall have to wait for a more suitable opportunity to continue our discussion.’

‘I have told you! I do not wish to discuss anything with you. Why will you not leave me alone?’

‘I cannot. I cannot let matters rest as they are at the moment. I will not let you shut me out, Francesca. But there’s no time now to pursue the matter—I will call on you tomorrow or the next day.’

There was no time for more. Lord Beaudon was just a few yards away. Marcus bowed and left her.

Francesca spent a sleepless night. For some mysterious reason of his own, Marcus was determined to reawaken feelings in her that she thought she had conquered. And, in the small hours of the morning, she faced the unwelcome truth that, if Marcus chose to exert the inexplicable power he had over her, she would be powerless to stop him. The thought filled her with dread. She had sworn that she would never again be as impulsive, never as subject to her emotions, that no man would ever hurt her again! Never! She had made herself invulnerable. But not to Marcus, seemingly.

What should she do? Was flight the answer? Madame Elisabeth had returned to her cottage in Shelwood after Francesca and the Canfields had come to London—perhaps she should do the same? The idea was appealing. She could occupy herself running the Shelwood estate—there was much she would like to try. Marcus would hardly pursue her there.

But…what would her father say if she fled to Shelwood? They had learned to love each other again during these
months at Packards and in London. He had sacrificed his comfort, his life in Paris to be with her. What would he think if she abandoned all their plans?

In the end she decided to go back to her original plan of finding a husband and an establishment of her own. It was undoubtedly what would most please her father. But marriage was a solemn step—one she could not undertake lightly, and for all the offers she had received, there was not one which had tempted her.

Francesca threw up her hands impatiently and took herself to task. This was absurd! At least three or even four of the men who had offered for her were men of honour and consideration. And now there was George Denver…more than moderately well off, handsome, quite amusing. Why was she being so difficult to please? She was a fool! She shivered. Unless she did something soon, Marcus would make an even greater fool of her! On this frightening thought, Francesca lay down and finally fell asleep.

The next day, Francesca’s desperate desire to find a way out of the trap that was closing round her, assumed even greater urgency. In the afternoon, Lord Beaudon arrived, demanding to have a talk with her. But he had not come, as she thought, to talk of Paris.

‘I’ve been thinking about Carne,’ he began abruptly. ‘He’s Freddie’s friend, isn’t he? The one you fell in love with years ago. The rake.’

Francesca was too startled to put up much of a defence. ‘How…how can you say so?’ she stammered. ‘Everyone knows that Lord Carne is the pattern of honour and decency. No rake.’

‘Don’t prevaricate, Francesca. I am right, aren’t I? Aren’t I?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Then he shall marry you!’

‘No!’

‘He won’t need much persuading. I had a word with him last night at the ball. He’s very intrigued with you. He could hardly take his eyes off you. He’ll marry you after I’ve had a word with him. You still love him, don’t you?’

‘Papa, you mustn’t! You don’t know what you’re saying. No, I don’t love him!’

‘It’s my belief you do. And you obviously haven’t anyone else in mind for a husband. Carne would be an excellent choice.’

‘I could not possibly marry Lord Carne, Papa. The idea is absurd. I won’t let you approach him.’

‘Couldn’t stop me if I’ve made up my mind.’

‘Please, Papa, please do not say anything to Lord Carne!’

‘Why not, Francesca? Are you afraid he will refuse?’

‘Yes. But I would be even more afraid if he agreed.’ The words had slipped out before she could stop them.

Lord Beaudon regarded her for a moment. ‘I find that very curious, Francesca. I can’t believe he’s a monster. He seems a very civilised sort of fellow…why should you say a thing like that? Unless…My child, I want to help you all I can, but I must know the truth. What is it about Carne that frightens you?’

Francesca gave a little shrug of resignation. Then she took a deep breath and said stiffly, ‘Lord Carne has already asked me to marry him.’

‘Well, then…?’

‘Last year. At the time I thought he was hoping to make his fortune by marrying me, and I refused him. I told you about it.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. He’s a very wealthy man himself.’

‘I…I didn’t know that at the time.’

‘But now you do know.’ Lord Beaudon frowned. ‘But I don’t understand—if he was rich, why did he want to marry you? He must have been in love with you, Francesca!’

‘No. He was sorry for me. He felt some lingering sense of responsibility because he had abandoned me all those years before.’

‘Rubbish! No man chooses a wife because he is sorry for her!’

‘You’re wrong, Papa. It’s just the sort of thing Lord Carne would do. He is very involved in charitable works of every kind.’ Francesca’s tone was bitter.

‘Well…it’s just possible, I suppose.’ Lord Beaudon sounded far from convinced. He went on briskly, ‘But even so, that is no reason to reject him now. He’s no fortune hunter, and you no longer need his pity or his money. Your pride wouldn’t be hurt. It’s perfect!’

‘I
will not
marry Lord Carne, even if you managed to persuade him to make me the offer,’ said Francesca fiercely.

‘He would make a kind, considerate husband, Francesca. Isn’t that what you were looking for?’

‘Papa, don’t you understand? I once loved Marcus to distraction. I could not now marry him for less. Kindness, consideration, friendship even—these are what I might seek in any other man. But not Marcus! Never Marcus…I could not be content with so little from him!’

‘I see.’

‘If it will make you happy, Papa, I will marry someone else—of your choosing, if that is what you wish.’

Lord Beaudon shook his head. ‘I think you would be making a grave mistake, my dear. I must consider…’

‘But I have your promise that you will not approach Lord Carne?’

‘Oh, yes. That wouldn’t answer. Not at the moment.’

He was still looking preoccupied when he left a few minutes later. Neither of them had thought of mentioning Paris.

Francesca’s next visitor was Lord Denver. When he came in to the saloon, she was standing at the window, staring down into the street.

‘Miss Beaudon! I hope you are well?’ His voice, cultivated, resonant, with a pleasant timbre, expressed concern.

Francesca pulled herself together and turned to welcome him. ‘Lord Denver—how pleasant to see you. I am quite well, thank you.’

‘You look a little pale…’

‘That is because I was too idle to go out for my walk this morning. And you?’

‘Oh, I’m always perfectly fit. I rather hoped you would come for a drive with me. I have the carriage outside.’

Francesca was about to refuse, but then changed her mind. ‘I’ll get my bonnet,’ she said.

Lord Denver handled the horses with considerable skill through the crowded streets, then they drove out to pleasantly green parts of the town that Francesa had not seen before. His conversation was undemanding, but revealed facets of his personality she had not previously noticed.

He made her laugh with his account of the difficulties in running a family home that had its origins in a Norman castle, and had hardly been improved since, and she was impressed by his love of the countryside and his considerable knowledge of its flora and fauna. He was attentive without being obvious, and they returned to Mount Street perfectly in charity with one another. Francesca’s spirits were considerably improved, as she thanked him.

‘You…you mentioned that you had sketched some orchids near Shelwood,’ Lord Denver said. ‘May I see the sketches some time?’

‘Would you like to see them now? I have them in my room here. You must not expect too much of them, Lord Denver—they have no great artistic merit. But I tried to capture the main characteristics of the plant.’

He made some complimentary response and she left him in the saloon while she fetched her drawings. When she returned he was speaking to Lydia, who had just come in from her ride. Her hat and veil had been discarded, reveal
ing dark curls and glowing cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as she described some event at the previous night’s ball. She was a picture of life and animation.

‘Francesca! Lord Denver here swears that I must be teasing him. Tell him, if you please, what happened to Lady Portman’s wig! Did it or did it not catch in Sir Rodney Forrester’s coat button?’

‘I assure you it did, Lord Denver.’

‘You see?’

‘I was wrong to doubt you, Miss Canfield. I wish I had been there to see it.’

‘Francesca had to take me away before I disgraced her by laughing out loud. But I think she was just as hard-pressed. And now you must excuse me. I have to change my clothes. Mr Endcombe is taking me to Somerset House, and I hardly think these will do.’ Lydia curtsied and left them.