Simply Unforgettable

“Lucius,” his mother said, “this is hardly the time for levity.”

“Did someone say it was, then?” he asked, turning his eyes on her and noticing that Emily beyond her was regarding him with dancing eyes and her dimple in full view.

“I like the French pronunciation of her name,” Caroline said, “and wonder that she changed it.”

“The truth is, Lucius,” Portia said, “that Lady Lyle was compelled to turn Miss Allard out of her home because she was consorting with the wrong people and singing at private parties no respectable lady should even know about, let alone attend, and building a scandalous reputation. Who knows what else she was involved in.”

“Portia, my love,” her mother said, “it is better not to talk of such things.”

“It is painful to do so, Mama,” Portia admitted. “But it is necessary that Lucius know how perilously close he brought Lady Sinclair and his sisters to scandal last evening. The truth must be broken very gently to Lord Edgecombe, who is resting in his bed this afternoon. We will rely upon the discretion of Lady Lyle to tell no one else what she told us. And we will certainly not spread the word. She swore us to secrecy, but we would not dream of saying anything to anyone anyway.”

“She swore you to secrecy.” Lucius’s eyes had narrowed again.

“She would not wish anyone to know how she was once deceived by her charge, would she?” Portia asked. “But she felt that Mama and Papa should know. And that I should know.”

“Why?” Lucius asked.

For once Portia looked almost nonplussed. But she recovered quickly.

“She knows, I suppose,” she said, “of the close connection between our families, Lucius.”

“I wonder,” he said, “that she did not simply speak to me.”

“What I believe,” Margaret said, “is that Lady Lyle was chagrined that she could not claim any of the glory for Miss Allard’s performance last evening and contrived a way of introducing some spiteful gossip into our family circle so that we would drop our acquaintance with her. I believe it is all a pile of nonsense.”

“So do I, Marg,” Emily said. “Who cares what Miss Allard once did?”

“I would be honored to accompany her again anytime,” Caroline said. “I wonder that you would want to repeat such silliness, Portia.”

“Oh, but we must thank Lady Balderston and Portia for bringing what they heard to our attention,” Lady Sinclair said, ever the diplomat. “Better that than discover it was being whispered behind our backs. Miss Allard appears to have corrected any faults there were in her nature when she stayed with Lady Lyle, though, and that does her credit. And I will be forever glad that I did not miss the opportunity of hearing her glorious voice last evening. Perhaps, Emily, someone would like another cup of tea.”

Lucius got abruptly to his feet.

“You are leaving, Lucius?” his mother asked.

“I am,” he said curtly. “I have just remembered that I must call upon Miss Allard.”

“To thank her in person for last evening?” his mother asked. “I do think that is a good idea, Lucius. Perhaps your grandfather will wish to accompany you if he is up from his afternoon rest. Even Amy—”

“I will go alone,” Lucius said. “I thanked her last evening. I have another mission today.”

He did pause, but it was too late not to complete what he had begun to say—they were all, without exception, looking expectantly at him.

“I am going to ask her to marry me,” he said.

Although the drawing room floor was covered from wall to wall with a thick carpet, a pin might nevertheless have been heard to drop as he strode from the room.

And now what the devil had he gone and done? he asked himself as he took the stairs two at a time up to his room.

He had opened his mouth and rammed his foot in it, boot and all, that was what.

But the thing was, he was not even sorry.

Frances spent a busy morning. She had not expected to do so after the excitement and upsets and general turmoil of the evening before. And she had had an almost sleepless night to boot.

But her great-aunts remained in bed late, and so she was alone in the breakfast room when the letter from Charles was delivered into her hand.

He begged to see her again. He had never understood why she had run away without a word. It was true that they had quarreled during their final meeting, but they had always made up their disagreements before that. He was no longer angry with her, if that was what she feared. He could see that she had redeemed herself since leaving. He understood that she had been teaching quietly and respectably in Bath ever since she left London.

She folded the letter and set it beside her plate. But her appetite was gone.

She had met the Earl of Fontbridge early in her come-out Season, and they had quickly fallen in love. He had wanted to marry her—but it would take some time to bring his mother around to accepting the daughter of a French emigre as his wife. And then her father had died. And then his mother would have to be reconciled to the fact that she had no fortune. And then he did not think that his future wife ought to be known as a singer who actually sang for her living. As Frances had wondered if he would ever consider the time and circumstances just right for them to marry, she had also started to fall out of love with him. And then they had had a bitter quarrel after he had heard of one particular party at which she had sung. She had defended her right to do as she wished since they were not even officially betrothed, and then she had told him that that was the end, that she never wanted to see him again.

And indeed she had not done so—not until last evening. And in the meantime she had