It Takes Two to Tangle (14 page)

Probably. She was
probably
too proud for that.

“Is that all, then?” Her voice sounded brisk, as if she were truly the teacher she'd once pretended to be. And why not? If he thought to buy her off with violets, he must not know how glad she was for even this sign of his regard. Which was really a dismissal.

“For now.” And with that brilliant grin that wiped her mind blank and muddled her thoughts into a froth of longing, he inclined his head to Frances and strode back to Caroline.

Only a few feet away, yet far enough that she had no idea where she stood with him.

Caroline had piled up cushions next to her to save a spot on the sofa for Henry.
All
the
better
to
scheme
with
you, my dear
. Wadsworth tried in vain to shoulder his way into their conversation, but every time he interjected something, Caroline found another small task for him to perform—a vase to relocate, a tray of dainties to pass among the guests.

Caroline was using him as a footman. It made a welcome distraction from Frances's own uncertainty.

The viscount grew distinctly sour as Caroline's indifference persisted through minute after minute. His courtly veneer thinned, then dissolved entirely as the other men ignored him, chatting about horses and boots and the cut of their coats, plucking sandwiches from the tray he held, granting him as little attention as they'd give a servant.

Finally, Wadsworth stalked over to Frances's chair, tray still in hand, and leaned against the blue-plastered wall.

“So you've learned one of the cardinal rules of good society,” she said. “With the simple addition of a tray or a duster to one's hand, anyone can become invisible.”

“You underestimate me, Mrs. Whittier,” he said with a lazy smile, leaning so close that she could smell the floral-citrus of the bergamot with which he evidently anointed his hair.

“I'm sure I don't,” Frances muttered, clutching her violets more tightly.

Wadsworth pretended he hadn't heard. “You know I am scrupulously conscious of manners. For example, I'm aware that I ought more properly to allow you to hold this tray. Since you are a servant.”

He held out the platter of tiny sandwiches at arm's length. Before Frances could decide whether or not to take it from him, he released it.

Thump
. The silver tray fell to the floor, sandwiches rolling every which way.

His expression was all solicitous concern; all except for the eyes. Those were cool and gray and sharp, like dirty icicles. “Dear me, Mrs. Whittier. What a state you're in. Well, we all have our little accidents sometimes; no need to berate yourself. Do you require help clearing those? I'm sure another servant could come to your aid.”

Frances spared a quick second to glare at him before glancing around the room. Caroline and Henry were oblivious, talking head to head on the sofa. Caroline was grinning and nodding.

Bah. They didn't even need the letters anymore.

She swallowed a sick little heave of her stomach, then caught the eye of Bart Crosby. The good-hearted young baronet was hovering behind Caroline and Henry, but he noticed the food scattered over the carpet and made a convulsive movement, as though ready to come to Frances's aid.

With a quick shake of the head, she warned him back. Whatever Wadsworth meant by this game, there was room for only two to play.

“Since I'm Lady Stratton's companion,” she said in her sweetest voice, “it is my responsibility to help her callers, even if their behavior is asinine and rude.”

She gave Wadsworth a bright, innocent smile, an expression she'd learned from Caroline. “Not that I refer to
you
, of course. I am sure in your mind, it's perfectly normal to throw sandwiches onto the floor. Shall we leave them right there, or would you prefer to arrange them into a pattern? Do you mean to eat all of them? Shall I get you a cup of tea for you to wash down your floor sandwiches?”

Wadsworth's eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits. “I pity Caro the companionship of such a jade.”

Frances narrowed her eyes right back. “If you mean to compare me to a precious stone, I thank you. And if there is anything else I can do to ensure your comfort, do let me know. I'll be standing across the room, next to Caroline, in whose house you have made such chaos.”

She stood, savoring the luxuriant
shushhhhh
of the stiff silk skirts. She trod on the platter Wadsworth had dropped, then swanned across the room to stand by Bart Crosby.

It was a rather decisive exit, if she did say so herself. And just in time, because she could feel her face growing hot as if it had been slapped. Soon her throat would have closed, choking her, and she would have been unable to defend herself.

“Sir Bartlett,” she murmured by way of greeting.

“You did excellently,” he replied. His brown eyes squinted with suppressed laughter. “I'd never have thought of all that sympathetic tosh.”

“You'd never have needed to.” She could have sighed.

She was among the vulnerable now, the questionable fringe of society whose reputations hung upon the kindness—or unkindness—of others. After a single Season in London, she was accustomed to being seen only as an accessory to Caroline. But when she was singled out… well, that she was
not
accustomed to.

She realized she was still holding her violets in a tight grip, crushing the slim stems together and bruising the blooms. No, she hadn't expected to be singled out by either Henry or Wadsworth. Perhaps the one had inspired the other.

After all, they both wanted Caroline. She was a means to an end for them both. For good or ill.

“Are you quite well? Mrs. Whittier?”

Frances blinked and pulled her thoughts back into the drawing room. Sir Bartlett was watching her with the type of solicitude a man might bestow upon an older sister. “You look rather pale, if you'll permit me to say so.”

“I'm fine, thank you. You needn't worry about me.” She made herself smile. “Do you wish to sit?”

The baronet looked sheepish. “I was hoping to speak with Caro.”

“Ah. Yes, well, she's scheming. I'm not certain about what.” Another smile, this one a little tighter. Henry and Caroline still spoke low, their golden heads visible over the back of the sofa.

At the other end of the room, Wadsworth was jawing out a footman and gesturing at the fallen sandwiches in the corner of the room. This was unfortunate for Caroline's footman, but at least Wadsworth's spleen had turned impersonal. It could now be quickly vented, quickly forgotten.

“She does enjoy her schemes,” Sir Bartlett was saying, his quiet voice warm with amusement. “She's the one who got Hambleton and Crisp to dress identically. Did you know that?”

Frances discarded the thought of Wadsworth and gave a much more genuine smile. “That sly woman. I did
not
know that; I thought they'd always been in the habit. How ever did she do it?”

The baronet shrugged. “Some compliment on the clothing of one, then the other. And then I believe she said if
one
was so handsome,
two
such would be nigh irresistible.”

With a quick hand to her mouth, Frances covered a laugh. “She seems to be resisting them quite well. Have they not noticed?”

Sir Bartlett grinned, looking more boyish than ever. “Maybe not. I'm guessing they get great enjoyment out of the effect. And now they have an excuse to talk about their clothing all the time with one another.”

“A match made in heaven,” Frances murmured.

“Something of the sort. I'll never complain, because the more she distracts her other suitors, the more time she has for—”

He cut himself off abruptly as Henry gave a final nod and stood from the sofa at last.

“Have Millie help you,” Caroline said in a louder voice. “Now, if the moment suits you.”

Henry nodded again, and his eyes met Frances's over the back of the sofa. He gave her a wink.

She instantly turned into a Christmas pudding, all soft and overheated.

Stupid of her. It wasn't even remotely the right time of year for pudding.

“Thank you, Caro,” Henry said, again focusing on the countess. “The evidence of one's own eyes is always the best sort of proof. Surely you agree with me.” He grinned down at Caroline, a conspiratorial sort of expression.

You
like
proof, facts, evidence.

So Frances had written in her first letter, before she knew it would be credited to another. Caroline had never read that one.

From behind, Frances could see Caroline's shoulders lift. “If one is a doubting sort. Actually, I…”

Frances gave a very unladylike cough.

“I am just that sort,” Caroline finished smoothly. “Full of doubts. Very reliant on evidence. Yes, I've said something to that effect, but I suppose I forgot I'd mentioned it to you.” She gave a shimmery laugh. “My memory is a sieve, you know. My head is too full of frills and fribbles. I am completely without Frannie's gifts of recall.”

Now Frances rolled her eyes elaborately.

But Henry didn't notice, he only took his leave. As soon as he'd exited the drawing room, Caroline turned on the sofa. “Dear Frannie, what a terrible cough you have. Come and pour out a little tea, won't you? And, Bart, you must come and sit by me.”

Thus summoned, the two moved around the sofa and seated themselves to either side of Caroline. As Frances smoothed her skirts into place, she hissed, “You'll ruin the whole secret if you're so obvious about every little bobble you make.”

Caroline smiled. “Yes, Frannie, I'd adore some tea. Thank you.” Much lower, she murmured, “I can't be expected to know when he's referring to something I'm meant to have written. I
didn't write it
, you know.”

“You
can
be expected to be subtle, though.”

Caroline waved a hand. “Subtlety is utter bosh. Confidence is what one needs.”

“Hmmm.” Frances couldn't quite bring herself to say what she thought—namely, that those sounded like Henry's words.

“If you're only going to sit there and hum, you might as well pour out at once.” Caroline gestured toward the tea tray. “You can serenade us all quite as well while you tip that teapot on end.”

She sat up and extended her cup, and the commotion across the room finally caught her eye. “Good lord, what has Wadsworth done with all the sandwiches? Did he stumble?”

“It
was
a stumble of sorts.” Frances sat herself primly on the sofa next to Caroline. As she filled teacups and measured out careful slivers of lemon and lumps of sugar, she felt her poise return.

Perhaps her life would always be portioned out by teaspoons and hours for callers and the occasional bunch of violets. It was not much to be proud of, but she was useful in her way.

And life could hold its tiny triumphs nonetheless.

Across the room, she caught Wadsworth's eye, and she raised her teacup to him for the sheer pleasure of watching him glare.

The callers had all gone at last; the sandwiches had been tidied from the floor by a maid. The carpet and Wadsworth's dignity had been restored to order with equal skill—one with a few well-placed whisks of a rag, the other with a few well-chosen words from Caroline.

“Why bother appeasing him?” Frances said when she and Caroline were finally alone in the drawing room. “I know you don't care for him.”

Caroline shrugged. “Not particularly. But why antagonize him? He might have his uses one day.”

“He could be good for sharpening your claws on, I suppose.”

Caroline laughed and agreed. “Now go have a rest. You look dreadful, and I mean that in the kindest way possible.”

So Frances went to her bedchamber as bid. It was usually a quiet haven, a long, narrow room with walls the color of a new leaf and light pinstriped curtains.

With the help of Millie, Caroline's lady's maid, she shed the rustling bronze-green silk, which had won entirely the wrong kind of notice today. Instead, she donned a soft blue linen day dress that made her feel much more like herself.

Not precisely at ease, though. The peaceful surroundings had little effect on her turbulent thoughts today. As soon as Millie had left, Frances folded herself onto the wide-planked wooden floor, leaning against the side of her bed.

She did feel tired, just as Caroline had suggested—tired of lying, even through omission. Maybe it was time she came face-to-face with a few truths. Namely this: if Caroline was everything Henry wanted, Frances had only herself to blame.

That was the case with her whole life, wasn't it? Every turning was of her own choosing, every pursuit, every inevitable fall.

She lifted the white swagged bedding that draped nearly to the floor, then reached under the high bed. Her fingers found the sturdy square of a rosewood box, pulled it forward, and hefted it into her lap.

It was a fair size, a foot square, but it felt as light in Frances's hands as if it held nothing of consequence. It seemed as though it ought to feel heavy with portent.
Here
lies
everything
left
of
the
first
twenty-three years of your life.

She ran her fingers over the lid and rubbed its ornamental brass plate. Elegant and cold, engraved with the ornate capitals
IMW
. Irene Malverne Ward. This had once been her mother's jewel case. Lady Ward had been gone for a long time, and Frances had only this legacy with which to remember her mother.

Frances had given up everything else for Charles Whittier, but she'd never regretted it. Not when her family's anger separated her from her childhood home, not even when Charles's disappointment separated her from himself. She had always assumed their separation would be only temporary, but war had made it permanent. When he died, she had been even more glad for her deception and disobedience, for their brief marriage.

She had given herself away too cheaply, she now thought. Now she was left with only this box, a compact reminder of what she'd tossed away for love.

A reminder not to be an idiot, really.

She was beginning to think she needed that reminder again. For the second time in her life, she was allowing herself to become fascinated with a man who was too young and too good-looking. She was losing track of what was right, tricking him to keep him close. That had not ended well the first time; there was no reason to think the second would be different.

She lifted the lid of the box, and the papers within it whispered faintly. A faint floral scent wafted from the dark wood.

There were a few letters from Charles, delivered to her with titillating secrecy while they were courting by moonlight. Charles was not well educated, though he had been bright and witty, with the finest mind for figures Frances had ever encountered. As an innkeeper's son, he had little call to practice a flowing hand, and the letters were scrawled untidily. She had never seen a worse hand from an adult, now that she thought it over—except from Henry.

Two soldiers, two casualties of war. Two, two, two. Yet they were nothing alike, except that she cared for them both.

Though even that was not the same. Charles had been the love of her youth, her feelings so ferocious that they withstood even the certainty of his waning regard. Her love might have burned out in time, but it had been snuffed by his death before that could happen. And so it lingered like smoke, pervading the very air of her world. The loss had choked her, until after long months and years, it began to dissipate, and she could breathe again.

What she felt for Henry was different. She
knew
him from the first time she saw him—his hidden wounds, concealed under a role. She wanted to tease out his every secret, to gain the right to bring down his guard.

Through the letters, she had come to understand Henry's mind; now she hungered for his body. She was beginning to think she would not be satisfied until she had captured his heart, though she had no stratagem for doing so.

She was always out of step. She had grown up in wealth but married a workingman. Now she served as a companion, yet she raised her eyes to the son of an earl. She did not know for which world she was better suited. At times, both lives chafed, as though she lived in a garment cut wrongly and fitted for another's body.

She sifted through the papers in her rosewood box, looking for her drawing of Charles. Though she wasn't much of an artist, the likeness had been passable. No still image could have captured the things she loved best about him: the quirk of his brow when he was surprised, the slight pout of his lips when he tried to suppress a smile. He had been roguish and fun, and he had been proud of Frances, his highborn lover, once upon a time.

Of course, it was easier to be proud when one had enough to live on. It was easier to be in love too. In the end, Frances had managed it, but Charles had not.

Her fingers touched the bottom of the box. She had turned all the papers, and the drawing was not here.

She set the box on the floor and bent down again to peer under the bed. No, it had not fluttered out.

Strange. Very strange.

She straightened up and looked around her bedchamber. The only thing out of place was the box itself, where she had just set it down. She sat on the floor, leaning her head against the bed.

It was not as if she could not bring his face to mind without the picture. He had arched brows, warm eyes. His nose had been… straight, she supposed. His mouth…

She could not recall it, not right now. She could recall only the mouth that had kissed hers in the Blue Room.

She closed her eyes and pressed at them with the heels of her hands, wondering if shutting them would help her mind's eye to open. Her fine memory was failing her. The lineaments of Charles's face were blurring into those of Henry.

The faint old sketch was nothing but lines of carbon on paper, but she needed them. Now that she could not trust her memory to hold him safe, she had to find her drawing. It reminded her of more than Charles; it reminded her of the choices she'd made and how they'd transformed her.

Possibly one of the maids had taken the drawing for some reason, though she could not imagine what. “Millie,” she called, not caring that her voice rang at a very unladylike volume.

The lady's maid peeped into Frances's room within seconds, bobbing her head, her eyes wide at the sight of her mistress's companion sitting on the floor. “Mum? Is everything all right?”

No.
“Yes, Millie. I didn't mean to alarm you. I just need to know if you've seen a picture in here. A sketch.”

“A sketch, mum? No, I haven't. I could check with Pollitt. He'd know if one of the other maids had found something. Ah… what sketch would it be, mum?”

Frances hauled herself into a chair. “It was a drawing of Mr. Whittier. You understand why I wish to locate it.”

“Yes, mum. Right away, mum.” Millie looked sympathetic as she dipped into her curtsy and went to question Caroline's butler.

So, even the servants pitied her. Millie had a young man who always took her out on her half day off. The butler, Pollitt, who seemed never to feel emotion at all, had won a woman's lifelong devotion at some point in the unimaginable past, for he was married to Caroline's cook.

Feeling no emotion at all. That sounded wonderful.

Frances made herself stand, twisting to remove stiffness from her back. Her body felt tired and overfull of old secrets she would have gladly discarded.

She might as well see if there was some way to distract herself. Maybe Caroline needed some letters—some
real
letters—written. If not, she could find herself a book to read.

She'd tried to face the truth, but it was too much, now that Charles's face was turning into Henry's.

On her way to the morning room, she padded down the corridor past the drawing room and heard a low voice inside. A man's voice. Caroline was not alone.

Frances had a suspicion whom she would find even before she peeked through the doorway.

“Henry.” She slung a sloppy smile across her face. “I thought you had left.”

From his seat next to Caroline on the sofa, he snapped to attention with the speed and grace of a bone-deep soldier. “Only for a short while. Frances, I didn't realize—”

“You were supposed to go to sleep, Frannie,” Caroline interrupted. “Go away at once, and come back in half an hour.”

Frances could not have gone more numb if she'd been plunged into ice water. “Of course,” she said in a toneless voice, and turned her back on the pair. Half an hour, they wanted. She could easily imagine why.

“Wait, please,” Henry called before she could take a step away. Lower, he said, “Caro, I can show her now. It won't harm anything.”

Frances turned slowly on the balls of her feet. “Show me what?” Her eyes hunted jewelry, a hand clasp, some sign that Caroline had succumbed to Henry's scheme for all that he insisted it was
not
at
all
improper
. Henry wanted to spare Frances a half hour of suspense; he must feel he owed her that much after their interlude in the Blue Room. A half-dozen kisses and a bit of illicit groping won her the right to be told in person that he had chosen another.

Caroline shrugged. “Fine, Henry. It's
your
secret plot.” She drew an old-looking piece of paper from behind an embroidered cushion.

Henry began to fidget; he stood, cleared his throat, motioned for Frances to come in and seat herself, then cleared his throat again.

“You're fidgeting,” Frances noted, feeling no less confused as she perched on a low-back Windsor chair. “The last time I saw you so restless, you, ah, asked me for help.” Help composing a reply to a letter he thought he had received from Caroline.

Henry's face turned red under its sun-brown. “And you granted it very kindly. But I'm not asking you for help this time. I've made you a present.”

“You made me a present.”

Caroline blew a breath out between thinned lips. “In case we haven't said it often enough, yes, Frannie, he made you a present. Only it's not really ready yet, but since you wouldn't sleep and you wouldn't leave, now you're going to look at it.” She slapped her hands onto her thighs. “I believe I've summarized the essentials of the situation.”

“Oh.” Frances's mind seemed to have been wiped as blank as the accounting slates Charles and his father used to keep at their inn. “I didn't realize.”

“Obviously not,” Caroline said crisply. “So. This belongs to you.” She held the old paper out to Frances.

Even before Frances had unfolded it along its worn creases, she knew what it was. “Charles.”

“You once mentioned having a sketch of your late husband.” Henry's voice was quiet as he sank back onto the sofa next to Caroline. “Your cousin helped me figure out how to abstract it earlier. I hope you do not mind.”

Frances unfolded the paper. There was her missing drawing: Charles Whittier at the age of twenty-one, as lifelike as a pencil and Frances's limited talent could make him. There was his clean jaw, the cleft in his chin, the twist of his smile. The shape of the mouth she had adored for years, had so often kissed—but had not, only a short while ago, been able to recall.

“Why did you take it?” She sounded peppery as she folded up the paper again, impatient with their teasing little plot. As though she was their pet, to be tricked and played with.

“He made you a present,” Caroline chanted. “Good heavens, Henry, show it to her so she'll quit asking about it.”

Frances watched, still feeling left behind, as Henry retrieved a leather case from behind another cushion.

“I shall have to remember to look under every one of your cushions, Caroline,” Frances said. “You've been hiding things.”

Caroline flapped a hand to shush her. “You're going to love this, I know.”

Henry stood and handed the folded leather to Frances. When she didn't open it right away, he retreated again to the sofa and sat by Caroline. The two of them peered at her, eager for her reaction.

Despite herself, she smiled. They obviously meant well, and it was becoming just as obvious that they really
hadn't
gotten up to anything improper—beyond sneaking Frances's possessions, that is.

She unfolded the butter-soft leather and found within an ivory oval. The outline of a young man was drawn on it, his coat tinted a rich blue not much darker than Henry's eyes. The lines of the man's face were shaky and vague, but recognizably those of Charles.

Henry cleared his throat. “I colored the coat over the last few days, but I have not had time today to do more than copy his face in pencils. Maybe it's for the best that you learn of the portrait now, as I need to know his coloring before I can finish.”