A Love Laid Bare (28 page)

What she
could
do was try to repair the frayed
and twisted ties that bound them together—beginning with this very
night. It may not be the best time to approach him, with both of
them feeling raw and vulnerable, but neither was it wise to let
things fester, permitting a painful sore to grow ever larger.

The hell with it. Stop dithering—and for heaven’s
sake, stop cursing! You have already shocked Richard and what if
Flora was to hear you?
Frances had never so much as
heard
a curse word until her stay in France, but the
fishermen were colourful in their language. With a vague curiosity
as to why she had translated some of the milder expletives into
English in her head, Frances went to take her bath.

***

Once she felt composed enough to approach her
husband, Frances knocked lightly on his door. She was momentarily
disconcerted to have the valet respond, although after a second’s
thought wondered why. Of course Richard’s man was on duty at this
time of day.

“I wish to see Lord Halcombe, Johnson.”

“His lordship is bathing, my lady.”

“Oh.” Frances hesitated. Should she return later? If
she did not do this now…

“I will wait out here, in that case. No need to
disturb Lord Halcombe. You may tell him I am here, but he is not to
hurry on my account. Perhaps you might find me some sherry to
drink.”

“Very well, madam.”

Johnson stepped aside to allow her entrance. Frances
smiled to herself. She had thought for a minute that he was not
going to let her in. The man obviously did not approve of this
intrusion.

Although she wanted to roam around the room, Frances
did not care to do so under Johnson’s curious eyes. Instead she sat
in a large chair, folded her legs under her, and stared at the
small fire burning in the grate. She sipped at the wine Johnson
handed to her and listened as he quietly performed his duties. She
eventually heard a door open and close, followed by the occasional
low rumble of voices. It was…peaceful.

“Madam?”

Frances was not sure how much time had passed when
she finally heard Richard’s voice. She looked up, blinking the daze
from her eyes. He was seated in the chair opposite, his hair still
damp from the bath, and he held a glass in one hand. The vee
between the satin lapels of his banyan exposed his strong neck and
provided a generous glimpse of the dark hair that curled on his
chest. The firelight cast a reddish glow over his face and deepened
the tan that long days in the sun had given him. His blue eyes were
startling in contrast. If only she had the right, the
courage,
to go to him—to sit in his lap and tease his hair
with her fingers…rest her head on his shoulder.

Richard’s gaze swept over her coldly. “I understand
that you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, for a few minutes.” Daunted by his evident
dislike of her presence, Frances hesitated. The temptation to get
up and walk away was strong. She stifled it with an effort,
determined to see this through, no matter what he thought of
it.

“I’d like to tell you something more about my
activities in Portugal. It is one of the reasons I continue with my
book trading. It will not take long and then I will leave you in
peace.”

“You believe this will make a difference to our
relationship?”

Frances flinched at the cold skepticism in his voice,
but then, had she really expected a warm welcome after the scathing
tirade she had endured earlier?

“Not especially. I did, however, feel this is
something you should know.” Her mouth tightened. “Given your views
on my ‘lies of omission’ as I believe you said.”

“Indeed.”

Frances almost smiled at the familiar usage. It was
one of Richard’s favourite words and he was quite adept at using it
to convey a variety of inferences. In this case, Frances detected
strong doubt.

“Indeed,” she echoed, with no inflection at all. She
straightened, set her sherry on the table, and folded her hands in
her lap.

“Collectors in any field of art have certain things
in common. They are men—and a few women—who are almost always
wealthy, well educated, and have an avid interest in history and
politics. They are also secretive, avaricious, and at the same
time, clubbish—for want of a better word.”

Frances glanced at the earl, saw his eyebrows rise,
and answered his unspoken question. “For you to understand my
reasoning in this, it is important to tell you something about this
very singular world.” That garnered a sharp nod from him. Frances
paused to order her thoughts.

“While all my correspondence went through Mr. Verney,
as I said earlier, the letters were mine. The responses were sent
on to me, unopened, and thus confidentiality was retained.” She
lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Many of these people had
worked with my father for years and may have suspected that A.
Nesbitt was his daughter and not some unknown relative, but no one
knew.”

Frances’ mouth tilted in a wry smile. “Or cared. The
most important thing was the
acquisition
, or sale, and very
often, going one better than another known collector. The rumours,
truths, and misinformation that pass amongst them would amaze
you.”

“This is going where, Frances?” Richard said with a
weary impatience. “You did not come in here to lecture me on the
art of book collecting.”

Ignoring his obvious irritation, Frances calmly
continued although she was no less anxious for this difficult
conversation to come to an end than he could be.

“No, I came to tell you that I used this network to
collect information…political information I then passed on to
London. This is something I still do, and hope to continue.” She
met his hooded gaze, and then slowly stood. “Your countess is not
only in trade, she is also an informant.

His expression was never easy to read and even less
so in the dim light. But at least he had heard her out. She
steadied a voice inclined to tremble and continued. “I assure you
that very few people know this about me, and I do not believe you
will suffer from my willful and disgraceful behavior. “Good night,
Richard.”

She turned from him then, reluctant to say more. She
had no idea what he thought of all this but was very aware of the
deep silence that now filled the room.

Her hand was on the latch when he spoke. “You say you
sent this information to London. Where did you send it?”

“To Summerton, of course…he being the single one of
my few acquaintances who has any connection to the government. What
he did with it, or whether it was useful, I cannot say. Why don’t
you ask
him
?” she said smoothly and then exited the room,
closing the door quietly behind her.

Joan had already gone to bed, as instructed. The fire
was no more than glowing embers, and the room held a chill that
came from more than an absence of heat. Frances shivered. She took
up a shielded candle to light her way along the corridor that led
to the nursery.

Flora was asleep on her cot. The sheets had slid
halfway to the floor, and Frances set her candle on a high dresser
where the light would not disturb the child. It took a great deal
to waken Flora once she was sound asleep, but still Frances took
care to tuck the covers around her very gently.

She laid her hand on Flora’s head. The child was all
the reason she needed to stay here, no matter what Richard did or
how he felt about her. Flora’s happiness and well-being came before
all else. And perhaps, if heaven so decreed, a brother or sister
might yet come of last night’s joining.

And if not? Then she would act to lure her husband
into bed until it happened. Whether he liked her or hated her, he
no doubt desired her—that was something she could use to her
advantage. He too, wanted another child and Frances resolved to
give him one.

Frances was Summerton’s informant? Of all the things
he’d imagined she was hiding, he had never conjured up this.
Halcombe laughed and shook his head. Incredible as it seemed, it
had to be true—Colin had spoken several times of his anonymous
informant and Frances could not have had any knowledge of it
otherwise.

Richard drank the last of his brandy and got to his
feet as he mulled over this latest development. Why the change of
handwriting Summerton had mentioned on his recent visit? Did
Frances have someone helping her? She must, he realized at once,
and wondered how the correspondence was being transported now that
she was here in England. Thomas Blount! Of course, and no doubt he
was aided by Halcombe’s new housekeeper.

Tempted to go after her and demand more information,
he instead forced his feet to carry him into his bedchamber. After
exchanging his banyan for the nightshirt Johnson had left out for
him, he used the chamber pot and then went to bed. There was
nothing he could do about Frances tonight.

The earl lay down with his arms crossed behind his
head. Devil take it, he was sick of trying to understand her. She
continued to surprise him on an almost daily basis. Any more days
like this one and he would be a candidate for the madhouse! A
tangle of disordered thoughts and feelings twisted inside him in a
dizzying spiral that made it impossible to think clearly. His rant
this afternoon appalled him—the words gushing out heedlessly and
the consequences yet to be reaped. Gad, what an ass he was
sometimes. There are better ways to go about things than shouting
at your wife. And that was the meat of it. For better or worse, he
had made those vows, and by God, he would stick to them.

But his choices were maddeningly limited. Compromise
or live the rest of his days in a state of war. Frances came to him
tonight and shared an important part of her life. While it was
certainly a step forward, he needed more from her than a simple
recounting of her activities. He wanted to know every last bit of
her, not just the body he ached to have under him. He longed for
admittance to all that was on the inside—the very core that was
Frances. Richard leaned over and blew out the candle on the bedside
table. When she trusted him to know the other reason why she did
not come home, then perhaps he might know what to do about his
wife.

***

In unspoken agreement, they avoided each other the
following day. The weather still being inclement, Frances stayed in
and spent much of the time with Flora. Halcombe was out and sent
word that he did not expect to return in time for dinner. Frances
dined alone in her parlour and then read, an activity much
neglected in recent days. It was restful not to have every nerve on
edge, Frances decided as she wandered off to bed. No doubt Richard
felt a similar relief, although men never admitted to having
nerves. Men, it seemed, never admitted to experiencing any
excessive emotion at all.

When she awoke the next morning, sunlight glinted
around the drapery edges. Frances threw back the covers and sat up,
anxious to begin the day. She glanced at the clock. Joan came in at
the same time each morning—just one minute from now—and Frances
smiled as her maid promptly entered with a tray holding a carafe of
coffee and a plate of toast.

“Good morning, my lady.” Joan set out the plates and
a cup and then opened the draperies while Frances went off to
attend to her own needs.

“I’m calling on Lady Alten this morning, Joan. Please
lay out the blue walking dress and have the gig brought around at
ten.” She did not need a maid to call on a household of females, so
Jim’s escort would be sufficient.

Once dressed, she went to the nursery. Flora and
Nancy were busy with the menagerie, popping the animals in and out
of the Ark with great enthusiasm. It was a wonderful toy and
provided hours of enjoyment for Flora. It was also aiding the
expansion of Flora’s vocabulary.

“Mama!” Flora half-tumbled from her chair and dashed
to Frances, who was very glad Flora’s repetitive use of ‘Ma’ had
ended and her greeting of choice had returned to the much more
pleasing ‘Mama’.

“Good morning, pet.” Frances caught her daughter,
swung her around in a circle, and set her on her feet. “What do you
have in your hand?”

Flora opened her fist. “Lion,” she said clearly.

“So I see,” agreed her mother. “Does your lion have a
friend?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Flora shouted, dancing back to the
Ark. She began searching through the box of carvings to find the
lioness.

Nancy stood by the vacated chair, and Frances
followed Flora to have a word with the young woman.

“Good morning, madam,” Nancy said, and curtsied. She
smiled shyly and gestured to the Ark. “This is Flora’s favourite. I
like to play with it, too. The animals are darling.”

“Yes, they are. I am not above playing with them
myself.” Frances smiled. “I plan to stay with Lady Flora for a
while, Nancy. If you have other things to do, or wish to go
downstairs, please go ahead.”

“Yes, madam.” Nancy dropped a curtsey and left.

Flora, having dumped the entire box of animals on the
table, had not even noticed the maid’s absence. The quest for the
lion apparently abandoned, she carefully lined the animals up, two
by two, with grave concentration.

Frances sat and lifted the child onto her lap. “May I
help you? Perhaps I can find the lion’s friend.” Taking Flora’s
silence for agreement, Frances reached for a gaily-painted parrot
and put it on the roof of the ark. “There, now he can watch over
all the others.”

Flora turned her head and looked at Frances. “No
bird. Lion.”

“Lion it is,” Frances said amicably and resumed the
search for the regal little beast.

***

It had turned out to be an exceptionally fine day.
Frances and Mary halted on the landing of Mary’s residence. They
both looked up at the cloudless sky streaked with a dozen subtle
shades of blue. Frances breathed deeply of the soft spring air.
“Lovely. The rain has freshened the air delightfully,” she said.
She smiled at Mary. “It won’t last, of course, but we can enjoy it
while it’s here.”