It Takes Two to Tangle (5 page)

Frances sucked in her breath, hard, against the tight lacing of her stays. “This is completely ridiculous,” she gasped. “I can wear one of my own gowns.”

“No,
that
is completely ridiculous, because this gown will be perfect,” Caroline said as she and her lady's maid gave the laces another determined yank. “There, that should do it. Goodness, Frannie, you've got a sweet little waist. It's got to be some sort of crime against good society for you to wear plain clothing.”

Frances passed her hand down the smooth sweep of the stays. “The only crime is the one you just committed, suffocating your own cousin.”

“If you'd truly been suffocated, you wouldn't be able to talk such rubbish,” Caroline said, picking up the bronze-green silk from Frances's bed. “Besides, it's not like this is a court dress. It's simply more elegant than your usual.” She held it up to Frances's chin. “Millie, I told you the color would be ravishing on her.”

“Yes, mum,” the maid agreed, and began helping Frances into the garment.

“I've no idea why Emily summoned you, but it must be important,” Caroline mused, sinking into a chair next to Frances's bed. “Perhaps she needs your help recalling something.”

“Lord Tallant always wears black,” Frances replied in a singsong voice.

Caroline grinned, but Frances couldn't manage another joke. She could barely draw breath, struck as she was by a sudden fear that squeezed her inside her stays.

It was the letter. Lady Tallant knew about the letter Frances had written to Henry, and she disapproved. She intended to warn Frances away, wanting something better than a widow of no family and means—well, not anymore—for her one and only brother-in-law.

In her distraction, she hadn't noticed that Caroline and Millie had finished their assembly. “I knew it,” Caroline said. “Ravishing.”

“Then it's a shame I won't be doing any ravishing today.” Closer to the truth than it ought to have been, since a call at Tallant House was almost a call on Henry.

Maybe she would catch sight of him while she was there. Maybe he would like the way she looked in this borrowed silk.

Maybe she was letting her imagination gallivant around when it ought to tread sedately.

Caroline smirked. “You never know what the day will bring, Frannie. There might be ravishing in it yet. Look how the gown brings out the color in your cheeks. Do you see?”

As Frances knew exactly why the color in her cheeks had suddenly blazed high, she spared herself no more than a glance in the mirror. “All I see is a sow's ear tucked into a silk purse.”

“You just feel that way because you ate an embarrassing amount of ham for breakfast,” Caroline said. “Now go find out what Emily wants, and tell me everything as soon as you come home.”

After five minutes in Tallant House, Frances was fairly sure Lady Tallant didn't want anything at all. She had barely greeted Frances, only welcoming her into the morning room and then excusing herself in a hurry.

So, the call wasn't about the letter to Henry. Probably.

Whatever the mysterious reason, Frances knew how to deal with the whims of the aristocracy. One waited them out. Calmly and as comfortably as possible.

She found a gold velvet chair that looked promising. The bronze-green gown's heavy skirt rustled as she sat.

Hmm. That was rather a pleasing sound. She stood again, then sat with more force.
Shussshh
went the dress against the nubby golden upholstery of her chair.

Good advice; she probably ought to
shush
and behave with dignity. At least she had a pleasant space to mull over her social mystery. Frances loved the morning room in Caroline's house, and this space was just as sunny. Three of the walls were stenciled, white filigree over buttery yellow, and the wall opposite the door was covered with a lush mural of the goddess Athena soothing the Ithacans and their long-lost warrior king Odysseus to peace with one another.

The old soldier returning home to such unrest and ingratitude. Poor man. Still, he had been able to return home to his family. It was more than many were able to do.

“Thank you for your call,” said a low voice behind Frances.

She had not heard the door open behind her. She would have startled at the sound of the voice had she not been so pleased to hear it.

“Henry-not-Hal.” She turned, a smile tugging at her lips. “How are you?”

He need not even answer; she could see he looked well. More than well. His eyes were crinkled from a grin; his hair was the rich shade of old gold in the coal-smudged daylight filtering through the tall windows. Surprisingly, he wore no coat, and the fine linen of his shirt and silk of his waistcoat lay lightly over the lean planes of his shoulders and chest.

She felt a little warmer within the swaddle of her borrowed gown. She'd been summoned here the day after sending a letter… he wore no coat… they were alone…

She knew the parts of a logical argument: premises, inference, conclusion. Given those premises, there was only one inference she could make… and one way to carry this encounter to its conclusion. He had read the letter; he had liked the letter; he wanted more. More what?

She felt
very
warm.

“I'm quite well, Frances,” he said, “though I'm also greedy and presumptuous.”

Humor rather than heat? This did not follow the same fluid line as the other premises. She tilted her head. “How delightful?”

“Well, maybe. You see, I have to ask a favor of you.” His grin slipped sideways, rueful and crooked. “I need to write a letter.”

“To me?”

When he stared at her in surprise, she knew she'd blundered somehow. A new heat of embarrassment colored her cheeks. “Of course not to me. Here I sit, so there's no need for a letter. To whom, then?”

A secret smile brightened his face. “Caro. She sent me a letter last night, and I wish to answer it. The sooner the better, before she forgets about me.”

Frances was suddenly very glad for the punishingly tight lacing of her stays. Their stiffness was the only thing that held her upright. “You got a letter… from Caro?”

He dropped into a chair across from her, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “It came under her seal. Quite a lovely note. I hadn't realized she cared so much for my friendship.”

“Oh.” Frances's head seemed stuffed with cotton. “Yes, she's very kind.” She drew in a breath as deep as her lacing would permit. “But the letter—”

“In truth,” Henry broke in, left hand gripping the arm of the chair, “I'd rather lost confidence after the call at her house. The letter was just what I needed, at just the right time.”

“A letter from Caroline was just what you needed?” She was ransacking the conversation now, looking for some small shard of hope that she'd misunderstood.

He nodded, and his expression softened. “She has a gift for kindness without pity.”

Frances sank against the back of her gold-velvet chair.
Shushhhhh
went the dress.

Yes, what else could she do but
shush
? If she told him the truth—that
she
was the one who had reached out to him—she didn't know whose embarrassment would be greater: hers or his.

Probably hers. And she had too much pride to watch his delight turn disappointed. If he needed a letter from Caroline so badly, it was better to let him think he'd gotten one.

She swallowed that pride, the thwarted hope, the flush of humiliation. It was a lot to choke down all at once, and it caught in her throat. She coughed, cleared her throat, and took several seconds to reply again. “I'm glad you liked the letter.”

That, at least, was true. There was no need to lie to him at all. His own enthusiasm set the tone of the conversation, and all she need do was play along.

She slipped on her companion's mask, capable and cheerful. “So, you want to write her a letter. Or rather—oh, blast, your right arm. Do you want me to write the letter for you?”

He looked a little taken aback. “No, indeed. I must maintain
some
pride. I might ask for secret insights and hints about gifts, and I
might
inflict my first name on you, but I would
never
ask you to write a letter of courtship for me.” That rueful grin again. He was more at ease with it than other men were in all their puffery.

“Of course not.” Frances returned his wry tone. “I beg your pardon. I'd quite forgot the rules of assisted courtship.” Her nervous hands smoothed her bronze-green skirt again.
Shhhhhhh
.

Henry's eyes flicked over the garment. “That's an excellent color on you, if you don't mind my saying so. It's the precise shade of your eyes.”

There was no need for Frances to feel a squirm of warmth again. Certainly no need for it to shoot through her body from scalp to toes. It was, after all, merely an observation from an artist, who could be expected to notice color. “Thank you. It's Caroline's. She insisted it would be acceptable with my complexion.”

There was no way she was going to repeat the word
ravishing
to Henry. Not when his face had just softened a little, as though he had only required this evidence of Caroline's thoughtfulness to fall completely in her thrall.

“So.” Frances spoke up before he could begin rhapsodizing about Caroline. “If you don't want me to write your letter, why
have
you summoned me?”

He drew himself up straighter, and his withered arm sank into the cradle of his left. “My handwriting is atrocious. Infernal, really. I hoped you could help me assemble an acceptable reply with a minimum of misshapen words.”

He cleared his throat, shrugged, and looked faintly mortified. “You were right about not bringing roses, after all. So I thought you'd know what to—ah, now that I've said this aloud, it sounds rather… well. You know, maybe we'd better forget the whole thing.”

“No, indeed.” Perhaps it was unworthy of her to want him to fidget a little. “I understand you perfectly. You want me to write you a love letter to Caroline, and then you'll transcribe it. And it must be very short.”

She put a hand on her chest and intoned dramatically, “‘
Bed
me, my sweet.
' There, we're done. Shall I ring for tea?”

Henry's lips bent in an expression of wicked humor. “If that's your idea of a love letter, perhaps you
had
better ring for tea, and I'll write it myself.” He shook his head. “What am I saying? I'm not even writing a love letter. It's a reply, that's all. It's a possibility letter.”

Frances permitted herself another jibe. “Still, Henry. This is one of the oddest things I've ever been asked to do, and I once helped Hambleton and Crisp tie their cravats together.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don't want you to compose it, only to advise. And you needn't do anything with my cravat.”

So of course, she had to look at his cravat when he said that. The starch-white points against his tanned skin, his blue eyes, the sun-golden of his hair. He was a bright palette, all stark colors and clean lines, and his faint scent of soap and evergreen woke something eager within her. She wanted to draw closer to him, breathe deeply, and remember how it felt to be near a man.

He began tapping his knuckles against the arm of his chair, a pillowed pat that pulled her attention back to his words. “I've never written with my left hand before, and I hoped you could help me learn how. My first foray was not a success. I didn't manage a single legible letter, though I did spoil a very nice desk and cuff with ink.”

Frances chuckled, and he added, “Ah… that's why I've taken the liberty of removing my coat. I hope you are not offended.”

“No, certainly not.”
Not
at
all.
Her eyes wanted to rove over his form again, but she fastened them to his face with admirable tact. “It wouldn't do for formal company, of course, but we're in your home and we're quite alone.”

He seemed to become aware of that fact as well. “I apologize if this is not an appropriate request. I thought since you help Caro in so many ways, that this would not be wrong. To help her receive her reply.”

She relented at last. It wasn't his fault he had misinterpreted the letter. It wasn't his fault that he wanted Caroline. As Frances truly did like him, she ought to give him the friendship he seemed to want so keenly.

Even if she would rather be selfish.

“No, no. I was only teasing. I always deal with Caroline's correspondence, so there's nothing wrong with this, Henry.” Frances savored the taste of his name, of the intimacy he had granted her.

But that wasn't why she'd been summoned here. Apparently.

She drew two chairs over to a graceful tambour writing desk positioned near a window to catch daylight. It held pens, ink, paper, and sand for blotting. Everything they needed.

“Do sit,” she said, sinking into a chair. “Take this pen in your hand and see how it feels.”

He hefted it sharply in a clenched fist. “It feels wrong.”

Frances pressed her lips together to hide a smile. “It's not a riding crop, you know. Just wrap your fingers around it the same way you always did with your right.”

She slid the quill between his second and third fingers. He looked surprised at the contact, and Frances drew her fingers back. “It would be easier if we had a quill from the right wing of the goose, for those fit the left hand better. But these will work well enough until you can lay in a supply. Try forming some letters—very large, at first, just to get accustomed to the movement.”

He didn't move; he only stared at his left arm.

“What is it?” Frances asked.

A sideways flick of his eyes. “I'm sorry to ask this, but would you roll back the left sleeve? This is my brother's shirt, and…” He trailed off, ruddy from chagrin under his tan.