She was honor bound, then, not to answer the letter.
She was developing a nasty history, she thought, of not offering the explanations that ought to be made. And besides that, the two years following her father’s death had been fraught with errors and misjudgments on her part—the result of having been the pampered, adored daughter of a man who had sheltered her and guided her and made most of her decisions for her.
She closed her eyes and pushed her plate away. She had made it a practice not to think of those two years. She had done well since. She had taken charge of her own life, and she was proud of what she had made of it. But of course it was impossible to put something entirely from mind simply by the power of one’s will—especially when that something was as prominent as two misspent years of one’s life. She had often wished she could go back and do things differently at the end. She still wished it.
Well, she thought, opening her eyes and staring down at the white tablecloth, she
If it was too late to creep away unseen, then perhaps she should stop even stepping lightly.
Perhaps she could do things differently after all, even if her actions were belated.
An hour later she was on her way alone and on foot to call upon the Countess of Fontbridge. It was not the fashionable time to make social calls, but then this was no social occasion.
When she was admitted to the earl’s house on Grosvenor Square, she asked if the countess was at home and entrusted to the butler’s care a short letter she had written to Charles, with the instructions that it was to be placed into his own hands. She was left standing in the tiled hall, but she did not really expect that the countess would refuse to admit her. A few minutes later she was shown into a small sitting room on the floor above.
No greetings were exchanged. The countess was standing before a small desk, her head at an arrogant tilt, her hands clasped at her waist. She did not offer her visitor a chair.
“So you have seen fit to break your word, Mademoiselle Halard,” she said. “I suppose you have come here this morning with some explanation. None is acceptable. It is to be hoped that when you decided to return to London, you also came prepared to take the consequences.”
“I came because one of my great-aunts was ill, ma’am,” Frances said. “When I agreed to sing at Marshall House last evening at the request of the Earl of Edgecombe, I was quite unaware that other guests were being invited to listen to me. My great-aunt is better and the concert is over. I will be returning to Bath without further delay. But I did not come here to offer an excuse. I ought not to have made the agreement I did with you more than three years ago. I did so because I was angry on Charles’s behalf that you controlled his life so ruthlessly that you thought you could buy off the woman he wished to marry. I did so with bitter cynicism. By that time I had no intention of marrying him. I had even told him so.”
“There were to be consequences of your breaking our agreement,” the countess reminded her.
“Yes, there were.” They still greatly troubled Frances, but she would not be ruled by fear any longer. Perhaps Lord Sinclair had done her a favor after all in bringing her here under false pretenses. Perhaps all this had needed to happen. “And you may proceed to implement them if you choose, ma’am. I am in no position to stop you, am I? But I do wonder why you would bother. I made a promise to you three years ago that I fully intended to keep. But forever is too long a time for any agreement. Your purpose was to separate me from your son. That it was accomplished even before you paid me such a handsome sum is neither here nor there. My purpose was to pay off some troublesome debts. It was done and is forgotten about. I will be returning to Bath soon and remaining there to teach. But I will not promise never to come back here. I will no longer give you or anyone else that hold over me.”
The Countess of Fontbridge bent a hard, narrow-eyed gaze on her, but before she could say more—if she intended doing so—Frances turned and left the room.
She felt slightly dizzy as she descended the stairs and stepped out onto the pavement and into the fresh air— and vastly relieved that Charles had not made an appearance. He must be from home.
For a moment she was tempted to turn her steps homeward. She had lived through more emotional turmoil during the past twenty-four hours—less!—than she had experienced in the three years before this past Christmas, she was sure. But there was no point in stopping now.
A short while later she was being ushered into a far more opulent sitting room than the one she had just left. And Lady Lyle was not standing with an unwelcoming pose to receive her. Rather, she was reclining on a sofa, petting a small dog in her lap with one hand and looking somewhat amused.
“Well, Francoise,” she said by way of greeting, in the low, velvet voice that sounded so familiar, “you find yourself unable to ignore me after all, do you? Am I to feel honored, child? You are in reasonable good looks, though those clothes are shockingly provincial and your gown last evening was no better. And your hair! It is enough to make one weep.”
“I am a schoolteacher, ma’am,” Frances reminded her.
Lady Lyle shushed the lapdog, which had been yapping at the advent of a stranger into its territory.
“So it is said, Francoise,” Lady Lyle said. “How amusing that you have been in Bath all this time and as a
“I enjoy teaching,” Frances said. “I like everything about it.”
Lady Lyle laughed again and made a dismissive gesture with one hand.
“George Ralston will be interested to know that you are back,” she said. “He will forgive you and restore you to favor, Francoise, though it was very naughty of you to disappear without a word. I have already written to him and interceded on your behalf.”
“I am going back to Bath,” Frances told her.
“Nonsense, child,” Lady Lyle said. “Oh, do sit down. It gives me a stiff neck to have to look up at you. You have no intention whatsoever of leaving. You have been doing some careful scheming and have won the favor of the Earl of Edgecombe and Viscount Sinclair, who were in Bath recently, I understand.
