For the hundredth time in as many days, Frances silently cursed her father. The man couldn’t leave a gaming table alone. She’d heard the late night conversations her mother and father had in the bedchamber when their voices were raised. Her mother begged her father to stop gambling, while her father insisted he’d win the next time and all would be put to rights. Her mother was wasting her breath. Father had no intention of stopping. Their lives had changed little by little as they’d sold off household goods and let go of staff. Frances had come to realize that her mother’s displeasure and their reduced style of living weren’t the only two consequences of her father’s choices.
More and more men had begun coming to the door of their London town house at all hours. Mama and Abigail hadn’t noticed. The men usually arrived after they’d all retired for the evening, but Frances’s bedchamber window was directly above her father’s study. She’d been privy to the sound of raised voices and angry-sounding threats on more than one occasion. She’d never mentioned any of the episodes to mother or Abigail. She didn’t want to worry them. What sense was there in that? But she guessed Father’s situation was even more dire than Mother seemed to believe.
“What do ye plan ta do today, Miss Frances?” Albina asked, shaking her from her thoughts. The maid had finished curling her hair and was busy pinning the curls into place.
Frances sighed and did her best to sound nonchalant. “Oh, I thought I’d go to Lord Clayton’s library again today.”
Albina shook her head and grimaced as if she smelled curdled milk. “I don’t see how ye can stand all that readin’.”
Frances chuckled. “Reading is one of my favorite things to do.”
“I know, Miss,” Albina replied, setting yet another curl with a hairpin. “But it just seems so borin’.”
Frances smiled at the maid in the looking glass. “You should try it more, Albina. I’d be happy to work with you on reading just as I’ve helped you learn to write.” In fact, Albina had come to her late last summer and asked Frances to teach her how to write. No one had been more surprised than Frances, but she’d spent three hours a day, morning, noon, and night with the maid and the young woman had made considerable progress quickly. Albina was a quick learner and a diligent student.
Albina kept her gaze focused on her task. “I know. I know, Miss. So ye’ve said many times. Maybe someday I’ll take ye up on it. Fer now, I’ll just stick to writin’ though.”
Frances concentrated on keeping her head steady to make the maid’s job easier for her. “How are the other servants treating you, Albina? Downstairs, I mean. Lord Clayton’s servants.” Frances had to admit, she wondered if Albina knew anything about Mr. Lucas. For instance, did he have a wife? She’d never even contemplated that possibility before this morning.
“It’s the regular lot,” Albina replied with a sigh. “Can’t say they’ve been particularly nice ta me, but I also can’t say they ain’t been helpful neither.”
Frances nodded. Not exactly useful gossip, but at least her maid was being treated well.
Albina finished with the last pin and pressed her hands against Frances’s head to tamp down the entire coiffure. A sly smile crept across the maid’s face. “There is one chap, though.”
Frances leaned toward the looking glass, suddenly quite interested. “Yes?”
“I must say I’ve taken a fancy to ‘im,” Albina said, still smiling.
Frances smiled too. “Really? Albina, I’ve never heard you say such a thing before.”
“He’s a right fine sight ta look at, ‘e is. Works fer Lord Clayton as a footman.”
Frances’s stomach dropped. She forced herself to ask the question even though she feared she already knew the answer. “What’s his name?”
Albina stepped back, clamping her hands together in front of her, a dreamy expression on her face. “His name’s Lucas. Mr. Lucas.”
Chapter Twelve
As expected, Lucas found Frances in the library later that morning. She was sitting at the table near the windows with a large book spread out in front of her.
“Good morning, Mr. Lucas,” she called, the moment he walked through the door.
“Good morning, my lady,” he replied. Blast. He’d meant to bring her shawl. He’d taken it upstairs with him last night, intent upon bringing it with him this morning so he wouldn’t forget to give it to her. But he’d been distracted earlier, firing off a note to Sir Reginald, asking the knight to meet him in one of the drawing rooms tomorrow afternoon. He’d sent the note along with one of the other footmen to deliver to Sir Reginald and left Frances’s shawl lying on the desk in his bedchamber. Lucas would just have to bring it tomorrow.
He quickly completed his normal chore of loading up the fire before sauntering over to the table where Frances sat. He peered over her shoulder. “What are you reading?”
“Today, it’s Shakespeare,” she replied, closing the book so he could see the title. “Did you know I got the idea to act like a shrew in front of Sir Reginald by reading Shakespeare?” she finished with a laugh.
“The Taming of the Shrew?” he asked, then immediately wanted to kick himself for making a literary reference. Would Frances wonder how a footman knew Shakespeare?
She didn’t seem to think anything about it, however, when she replied, “The very one.”
He glanced at her. A small red welt had formed on her cheek near her ear. “What happened to you?”
She self-consciously rubbed at the welt. “Oh, it’s nothing. A mishap with a curling utensil.”
“I see,” Lucas replied. “Well, your hair style looks lovely despite the mishap.”
She blushed as he lowered himself into the chair next to her and asked, “How was your conversation at
