my lady,” in a noncommittal tone as she tucked the coin into her pocket and turned to leave the room. At the door, the girl paused and cast a last, considering look at her employer before she went out into the hall.
Francesca saw the glance. She knew the maid was curious, but Maisie was not one to pry, and, in any case, Francesca had no answer for her, really. The bracelet, and Rochford, were topics best left alone.
What she really needed to think about was what she was going to do to get by until the next Season began. It was unlikely that she would come upon a mother or father eager to marry a daughter off until next April, when the new social Season would start and there would be debuts at court and a large number of routs, balls and soirees at which parents could show off their nubile young daughters and see what prospective husbands awaited.
There was what was often termed the Little Season, which took place roughly from September to November, during which some of the sophisticates, bored by their sojourn in the country, returned to London to enjoy its entertainments. However, it was not the prime husband-hunting venue that the full Season was; there were far fewer young girls and, indeed, fewer people in general. Francesca knew that it would be unlikely that she could find a prospect to “help” during this time.
And while the payment she had given him would hold the butcher off for a few weeks, there were a number of other creditors who would soon be importuning her, and she hadn’t enough to hold them all off. Perhaps she could come up with a stray silver tray or some such thing to sell; she would have to go up to the attic and dig through all the trunks. Even so, she did not think that one or two small silver pieces would get her through until April.
Of course, she could shut down the house and go to stay at Redfields, where she had grown up. She knew that her brother Dominic and his new wife would welcome her graciously, but she hated to impose upon the newly married pair. They were scarcely back from their honeymoon. It was bad enough that the couple had his parents living in the manor house just down the lane from them. It would be unfair to saddle them with his sister, too.
No, she would spend a month at Redfields at Christmas, no more. She could, she supposed, follow the example of her good friend Sir Lucien, who, on the frequent occasions when he found himself short of funds, always managed to wangle an invitation to this estate or that for a few weeks. Of course, a handsome, entertaining bachelor was a most sought-after guest to round out the numbers of a house party; it always seemed that there were extra women. Besides, she hated having to maneuver someone into inviting her for a visit.
Perhaps it would be better to visit one of her relatives. There was Aunt Lucinda, with her deadly dull daughter, Maribel. They would be happy to have her join them in their Sussex cottage, and after a time there, she could spend a few weeks with Cousin Adelaide, who lived in a large rambling manor house in Norfolk and always welcomed visitors to help her oversee her enormous brood of children.
On the other hand, Francesca decided, it would not hurt to sit down and write to a few friends and mention how deadly dull it was in town now that everyone had left….
She was distracted from her thoughts by the entrance of the parlor maid. “My lady, you have visitors.” She cast an anxious look over her shoulder and turned back to Francesca, saying quickly, “I asked them to let me see if you were at home—”
“Nonsense!” came a booming woman’s voice. “Lady Francesca is always home to me.”
Francesca’s eyes widened. The voice sounded familiar. She rose to her feet, pulled up by a vague but powerful sense of foreboding. That voice…
A tall, stout woman dressed all in purple swept into the room. The style of her clothes was at least ten years out of date. This oddity was no indication of a lack of funds, for it was quite clear that the velvet from which they were sewn was new and expensive, and the hand at work was that of a master. Rather, it was simply proof that Lady Odelia Pencully had ridden roughshod over the desires of some modiste, as she was wont to do over everyone who came into her path.
“Lady Odelia,” Francesca said faintly, stepping forward on leaden feet. “I—What an unexpected pleasure.”
The older woman let out an inelegant snort. “No need to lie, girl. I know you’re scared of me.” Her tone indicated no regret over this fact.
Francesca’s gaze went past Lady Odelia to the man who had followed her down the hall. Tall, with an aristocratic bearing, he was as elegant as he was handsome, from the top of his raven-black hair to the tips of his polished black boots, made by Weston. Not a hair was out of place, and his countenance was politely expressionless, but Francesca could detect the glimmer of devilish amusement in his dark eyes.
“Lord Rochford,” she acknowledged him, her voice cool, with just an overlay of irritation. “How kind of you to bring your aunt to visit me.”
His mouth twitched a little at her words, but his expression remained imperturbable as he executed a politely perfect bow. “Lady Haughston. A pleasure to see you, as always.”
Francesca nodded toward the maid. “Thank you, Emily. If you would bring us some tea…”
The girl left, looking relieved. Lady Odelia strode past Francesca toward the sofa.
As the duke moved forward, Francesca leaned in a little toward him, whispering, “How could you?”
Rochford’s lips curled into a small smile, quickly gone, and he replied in a low voice, “I assure you, I had no choice.”
“Don’t blame Rochford,” Lady Odelia boomed from her seat on the sofa. “I told him I would come to see you with or without him. I suspect he is here more to try to curtail me than anything else.”
“Dear aunt,” the duke responded. “I would never be so audacious as to curtail you in any way.”
The old lady let out another snort. “You’ll note I said ‘try.’” She cast him a roguish glance.
“Of course.” Rochford inclined his head respectfully toward her.
“Well, sit down, girl,” Lady Odelia commanded Francesca, nodding toward a chair. “Don’t keep the boy on his feet.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Francesca quickly dropped into the nearest chair.
The duke took a place beside his great-aunt on the sofa.
Francesca felt about sixteen again, as she always did in the intimidating Lady Pencully’s presence. She had no doubt that Rochford’s great-aunt had immediately seen her dress for what it was—over four years old and resewn into a more contemporary style—and at the same time had noted that the draperies were faded and that one leg of the table against the wall had a large nick in it.
Francesca forced herself to smile at Odelia. “I must admit, I am rather surprised to see you here. I had heard you no longer traveled into London.”
“Don’t, if I can help it. I’ll be frank with you, girl. Never thought I’d come asking you for help. Flighty thing, I always thought you.”
Francesca’s smile grew even stiffer. “I see.”
The duke stirred a little in his seat. “Aunt—”
“Oh, don’t get your feathers ruffled,” the old lady barked. She cast a glance at Rochford. “Don’t mean I don’t like her. Always had a soft spot for the girl. Not sure why.”
Rochford pressed his lips tightly together to suppress a smile and carefully avoided looking at Francesca’s expression.
“Francesca knows that,” Lady Odelia went on, giving her a nod. “Thing is, I do need your help. I’ve come to beg a favor of you.”
“Of course,” Francesca murmured, her mind skittering anxiously over what no-doubt unpleasant task the woman could have in mind for her.
“The reason I am here…well, I’ll just be plain about it. I am here to find a wife for my great-nephew.”
CHAPTER