To please her mother Frances had accepted the Earl of Corringham. His wife had died the previous year, leaving him with a son of seven and a half and a daughter of six to bring up, and he was looking for a new mother for them. The wedding had taken place quietly just two weeks before Marcus Stanmore had married Margaret Connaught.
There had been no love, nor even any pretence of it, but she had been comfortable with him and had learned to please him and love his children, especially when it became apparent that she would have none of her own. He had been philosophical about that. I have my heir, he had said. And we deal well together, do we not? What do we want more brats for?
She had been married ten years when a heart seizure had carried George off and since then she had made a secure life for herself. She did exactly as she pleased, went out and about, drove her carriage, rode in the park, attended concerts and the theatre, kept abreast of the times by reading newspapers and the latest books, and gambled in moderation but never more than she could afford to lose. She used the talents she had been given and taught young ladies to draw and paint, and was gratified when they did well. And, most important of all, she had her charitable work, the extent of which only John Harker and her banker were privy to. All in all it was a satisfying kind of life and she did not welcome anything that threatened to disturb it.
While George had been alive, she had spent most of her time at Twelvetrees, the family estate in Essex, and, on those rare occasions when she had visited the capital for a few days, she had not come across Marcus. He had rarely come to London, preferring to divide his time between his country estate and his Scottish castle. Since his wifes death two years before, so rumour had it, he had been something of a recluse. And now he was in Town. Thank goodness she had more sense than to fall in a quake about that!
She finished her meal, then went up to her studio and completed the portrait of Lady Willoughby before retiring. She was going riding with Sir Percival Ponsonby the following morning and they planned to make an early start.
Percy was a lifelong bachelor who rubbed along doing nothing in particular, but managed to be an amusing and undemanding companion and, in spite of the ennui he affected, was also wise and discreet. They had long ago come to an amicable arrangement to be friends and to ignore the matchmaking tattlers who did not see why they should be allowed to enjoy their lives unencumbered when everyone knows that a man with no wife and a widow with a small fortune must surely be looking for partners.
The April morning was blustery but mild. The buds were showing on the chestnut trees and there were daffodils and gillyflowers nodding their heads in the gardens, though these would soon be replaced by the flowers of summer, the roses and delphiniums, and by then the Season would be at its height. Frances wore a blue grosgrain habit with silver frogging and had secured her riding hat with a spider-gauze scarf tied under her chin. According to Percy, she looked very fetching.
They had been riding for perhaps an hour when she spotted the man she had known as Marcus Stanmore, Marquis of Risley, driving a park phaeton down the carriageway. Sitting beside him was a young lady with gleaming copper curls and a proud carriage.
Bless me, if it aint Loscoe, Percy said, putting up his quizzing glass. And looking quite the thing too. I aint seen him these many moons. And whos the filly, I wonder?
I believe it is his daughter, Frances murmured.
Daughter. My life, the years have flown. Wonder what hes doing in Town?
According to the latest on dit, looking for a second wife. In spite of herself, she was curious. Would he recognise her? After all, she was no longer the gauche girl of seventeen he had known. Nor was he the stripling of twenty-three he had been.
Although he was naturally heavier and his good looks had matured, the years had dealt very kindly with him. The faint lines around his eyes and mouth gave his face character which had not been there before. His jaw was stronger than she remembered it and jutted out a little belligerently as if he did not suffer fools gladly, but he was still excessively handsome.
Percy looked sideways at her. Would you prefer to avoid him? It aint too late to turn off the ride.
Goodness, no, she laughed. Too many summers had passed, too many winters following one upon the other, for her still to bear a grudge. That would look too much like the cut direct. And I have no reason to cut him.
Water under bridges, eh?
Yes. They were almost abreast of the phaeton and she knew etiquette dictated it was up to her to acknowledge him first. She reined in and favoured him with one of her famous smiles, a smile which lit up her whole face and had most of the male population of London in thrall. Your Grace. She gave him a small bow from the waist.
My lady. He pulled his phaeton to a stop and doffed his tall hat. His extraordinary hair was as thick and vibrant as ever, she noticed. She also noticed his smile did not seem to reach his amber eyes and his mouth had a slightly cynical twist, which she was sure had not been there when he was young. How do you do?
I do very well, thank you. You are acquainted with Sir Percival, are you not?
Yes, indeed. Good day to you, Ponsonby.
And you, Percy answered. What brings you to the village? It must be years since you were here last.
Indeed, yes. He turned back to Frances. Countess, may I present my daughter, Lavinia? Lavinia, the Countess of Corringham. His tone was cool and impersonal; there was nothing to suggest he remembered that hot summer when they had been everything to each other. Everything or nothing? And this is Sir Percival Ponsonby.
Lady Lavinia, how nice to meet you, Frances said, as Percy bowed in the saddle. I do hope you enjoy your visit to London.
The only answer the girl managed was a mutter and a scowl which spoiled her prettiness and earned her a telling look from her father.
Frances was startled but, having acknowledged her, turned her attention to the Duke. Do you stay long in town, your Grace?
I think I shall be here for the Season. I have business to attend to and Lavinia needs a little town bronze.
Frances certainly agreed with that. The child was extraordinarily beautiful and would have all the young bloods at her feet, if only she could learn to smile and be polite. Instead of attending to the conversation she was watching the horses riding past, as if the last thing she wanted to do was talk to her fathers acquaintances.
Then we shall perhaps see something of you in Society.
Indeed, I plan to take Vinny to some of the less grand occasions, to give her a taste of what is to come when she makes her bow next year. He smiled suddenly and she felt the old tug at her heart and a flutter of nerves somewhere in the region of her lower abdomen and realised she was not as impervious to his charm as she had hoped. Lady Willoughby has already invited us to take tea with her tomorrow afternoon.
Frances cursed under her breath. Trust Emma Willoughby to be first in the fray. And to choose the very day when she had promised to deliver the portrait. She could take the portrait in the morning and cry off the tea party, but that would be tantamount to cowardice and she had never been a coward. Besides, she could not hope to avoid him the whole Season, so she might as well begin as she meant to go on. How nice, she said. I shall look forward to seeing you both there. Good day, Loscoe. Lady Lavinia.
Countess, he answered, with an inclination of his head and picked up the reins to drive on. Frances and Percy turned to continue their ride. As a meeting it had been nothing out of the ordinary; simply a greeting exchanged by acquaintances. Had she expected anything else? Fireworks, perhaps? She smiled at her nonsensical thoughts and turned to her escort who should, after all, have her undivided attention.
It was only then, that she remembered what he had said before the encounter. What did you mean, water under bridges? she asked.
I believe it indicates the passing of time, my dear.
I know that. I meant, what was the context of the remark?
Oh, Fanny, do not play the innocent. I know perfectly well there was almost a whole Season when everyone thought Stanmore was going to offer for you.
So? she demanded, unexpectedly irritated. The tattlers are sometimes wrong, you know.
Yes, but I wondered how disappointed you had been.
Not at all, she lied. I knew we should not suit.
And so you married Corringham.
I was very fond of George, Percy. Now, let us forget this conversation. It is of no import whatever.
I beg your pardon, he said. Unless you wish it, I will never refer to it again.
Thank you. And I would be obliged, if you hear others mentioning water under bridges or anything of that nature, you put them right.
Certainly, I will, though I doubt it will be at the top of the gabble-grinders list; it was all a long time ago.
You remembered it.
To be sure, but I am different.
Why different?
Oh, long memory and nothing else to fill it, he said vaguely. Now, do we go home, or shall we have a canter across the grass?
She laughed. A gallop, I think.
It was not considered the thing for ladies to gallop; indeed, they should do no more than walk or trot along the ride, the whole point of the exercise being to see and be seen, but Frances had never slavishly obeyed the rules and, because she was popular with everyone and considered quite beyond the marriage mart, no one took any notice when she veered off across the grass towards the middle of the park and spurred her horse into a gallop.
Sir Percival followed and half an hour later, exhilarated and free of the cobwebs in her mind which had plagued her overnight, they turned for home.
And that afternoon, just to prove her independence, she took her sketch pad and crayons and asked John Harker to drive her to the East End, where she positioned her stool and easel on one of the docks and drew a tea schooner being unloaded. Its spars and rigging were something of a challenge and totally absorbed her until it was time to return home. Marcus Stanmore, Duke of Loscoe, was banished from her mind and he did not return to it until the following afternoon.
She had taken the portrait to the Willoughby mansion and watched as her ladyship instructed a footman hold it up in one place after another in the main drawing room, undecided where it would look to best advantage. The obvious place was the wall over the Adam fireplace, but that already held a heavy gilt mirror; the fireplace recess was not light enough and the wall opposite the window too light; the sun shining upon it would spoil its colours.
Perhaps it should go in another room, Frances suggested when the footman had moved it for the fourth time and was looking decidedly bored with the task.
Oh, no, it must be in here. I want all my callers to see it. Perhaps I should have the mirror taken down
I think the heat from the chimney might crack the canvas in time, my lady.
It was at this point Lord Willoughby arrived and, being asked his opinion, stroked his chin contemplatively and pointed to an empty space to one side of the room, well away from the fire. Leave it on its easel and put it there.
Not hang it? her ladyship queried. Will it not look unfinished?
No, why should it? He laughed. You can move it about as the fancy takes you. You might even start a fashion for displaying pictures on easels.
Her ladyship clapped her hands in delight. So I shall. She turned to Frances. Dear Countess, can I prevail upon you to let me borrow your easel until we can procure one?
Oh, you do not need to borrow it, Frances said, thinking about the fat fee she had only a few minutes before put into her reticule. Have it with my compliments.
I think I will cover it until everyone is here, Lady Willoughby said happily. Then I can unveil it with a flourish. It is so good and will enhance your reputation even further, my dear Countess. How you manage to produce something so exactly to life I shall never know, for I was never any good at drawing when I was young.
Frances stifled a chuckle; the picture was undoubtedly of Lady Willoughby, but a much slimmer Lady Willoughby than the one who faced her in the fleshmounds of it. And the good lady could not see the difference. But surely her husband could and so would everyone else. Frances began to wonder, and not for the first time, if she was prostituting her art and ought to have more self-respect, when a footman announced the first of her ladyships guests.
They came in one by one, were greeted, asked to sit and plied with tea and little almond cakes. The easel stood covered by a tablecloth. Frances wished she could make her escape before the unveiling. She had never been happy publicising herself and her work, thinking it smacked of conceit. She was on the point of taking her leave when the Duke of Loscoe and Lady Lavinia were announced. She had been half out of her seat, but now sank back into it, feeling trapped.
He came into the room, entirely at ease even knowing that everyone was looking at him. He was dressed in a dark blue superfine coat with black buttons and a high collar. His cravat, in which glittered a diamond pin, testified to the attentions of a very good valet and his hair had obviously been cut by one of the haut mondes best hairdressers. His long muscular legs were encased in pale blue pantaloons and tasselled Hessians. A concerted sigh escaped all the ladies except Frances, who refused to follow the pack.
He made his bow to his hostess. My lady, your obedient.
We are indeed honoured that you could attend our little gathering, your Grace, her ladyship simpered. And this must be Lady Lavinia.
It is indeed. He turned to his daughter. Make your curtsy, Vinny.
Lavinia did as she was told and even managed a smile as she murmured, My lady.
Now let me introduce you to everyone, Lady Willoughby said, and proceeded to conduct him round the room. He bowed to everyone, murmured polite nothings and moved on, followed by his daughter, whose smile was so fixed, Frances wondered what dire threat Marcus had made to produce it.
The Countess of Corringham, her ladyship said, suddenly looming large in Francess vision. But I believe you are acquainted.
Indeed. He bowed. How do you do, Countess?
She managed a smile, wondering if it looked as fixed as Lavinias. I am very well, your Grace.
The Countess is the reason for our little gathering, Lady Willoughby went on. The guest of honour, you might say, excepting your good self, of course.
Indeed? he said again, lifting a well-arched eyebrow at Frances, a gleam of humour lighting his dark eyes. It totally bewildered her. Had he forgotten? Or was he, like her, pretending nothing had ever happened between them? I am sure it is well deserved.