He paused. ‘Y’know, it’s damned odd—she was a beauty, Rake Beaudon was a devilishly good-looking fellow, but Fanny, their daughter, is as plain as they come. And when Auntie kicks the bucket, which, from what I’ve heard, could happen any minute, the poor girl will be looking for a roof over her head. Shame she don’t take after her ma—a pretty face might have helped to find one, eh, Rufus? But she must be well into her twenties; she don’t even know how to begin to please. Never been taught, d’y’see?’
‘I thought we were here to play cards,’ said Marcus coldly. ‘Or is it your intention to gossip all night?’
‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Marcus,’ said Charmian. She turned to Witham. ‘Marcus doesn’t think she’s plain.’
‘You may ignore her, Witham. I made the mistake of saying something complimentary about one woman to another. It is always fatal, even to someone as beautiful as Lady Forrest. Are we to play?’
Marcus was angry, but taking care to conceal it. His first impulse had been to rush to Francesca’s defence, to tell them to stop their lewd, offensive gossip about a girl who had never done any of them any harm. But second thoughts had prevailed. To enter the lists on her behalf would do more harm than good—it would merely give them more food for speculation. Better to keep calm and distract their tawdry minds. They would soon lose interest now they had got to the bottom of Francesca’s story, as they thought. Cards would soon occupy their thoughts, once they were back at the tables.
But he himself found concentration difficult that evening. From all accounts, Francesca’s life was no happier now than it had been nine years before—and there was every reason to fear that it might get worse. He had been angry at her rudeness on the road, and with some justice, but looking back, surely there had been desperation in her tone? She had looked…ridiculous, standing there covered in mud as he drove past. Ridiculous, but gallant. Endearingly so.
Francesca had refused to gaze after the chaise as it disappeared in the direction of the village. Instead, she had turned to walk briskly back to the Manor, for as the mud dried her clothes were becoming stiff and uncomfortable. She had no wish to compound her discomfort by getting caught in the storm. But she was in a state of quite uncharacteristic agitation.
She was normally a philosophical girl. She had learned over the years to endure what she could not change, to find pleasure in small things instead of pining for what she could not have. She had gradually taught herself to be content with her friendship with Madame Elisabeth, her old governess, who lived in the village, to find pleasure in her drawing and sketching, and to abandon childish dreams of encountering love and affection from anyone else and of having a home and family of her own.
But just this once, she found herself wishing passionately that she was powerful, rich and beautiful enough to give this oaf the set-down he deserved! The awareness that she still felt a strange attraction to the oaf was impatiently dismissed. Her conduct during their earlier acquaintance was a dreadful warning to any girl—especially one in her precarious situation. Twenty-four hours only, but from beginning to end she had behaved like a lunatic, like a…like a lightskirt! She pressed her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them. If only she could treat it as casually as he had! If only she could forget it as easily as he seemed to!
She reminded herself angrily that she had been not yet sixteen at the time, still hoping vaguely that one day someone would rescue her from life with Aunt Cassandra. There had been some excuse for her. But for him? It was true that she had lied to him about her age…Nevertheless! He had been old enough to know the effect his kisses would have on her. And all to relieve a morning’s boredom—or perhaps to revenge himself for the loss of dignity she had caused him? Though he hadn’t seemed angry after the first few minutes.
It all started because of that stupid conversation. It hadn’t been meant for her ears, and now she wished passionately that she had never listened to it. But what else could she have done? She had been so engrossed in her sketching that the gentlemen had been within earshot before she noticed them. And then, aware that she was trespassing on Witham land, she had deliberately concealed herself…Francesca walked on towards the Manor, but she was no longer aware of her dirty clothes, nor of the threatening storm. She saw herself as she had been nine years before—half child, half woman—peering nervously through the bushes…
Francesca peeped through the bushes at the two figures walking along the banks of the stream that ran down between the two estates—they were both in shirt sleeves, but were quite clearly gentlemen. However, they were decidedly the worse for wear—cravats loose, hair all over the place, and the older, shorter one had half his shirt hanging out. The other…She caught her breath. The other was the most beautiful man she had ever seen in all her life. He even eclipsed her dimly remembered father. Tall, dark-haired, with a powerful, athletic build, he moved with natural grace, though he was carrying himself a trifle carefully, as if his head hurt. They came to the bridge just below her and stopped.
She knew instantly that they were from Witham Court. Lord Witham must be holding another of his wild parties. The parties had been notorious for years, even as far back as her grandfather’s time. He had fulminated about them, but had never been able to stop them. It was universally known that they were attended by rakes and gamblers, a scandal and danger to every decent, God-fearing neighbour! The village girls would never accept a position at the Court if they valued their virtue, for these lecherous villains found innocence a challenge, not a barrier.
So, in spite of the fascination the young man had for her, she withdrew a little further into the bushes to avoid being seen. But she was unable to avoid overhearing their conversation.
‘Freddie,’ the tall, handsome one solemnly said. He sounded as if he was experiencing difficulty in speaking clearly, but the timbre of his voice was very attractive—rich and warm and deep. ‘I’m in despair! What th’ devil am I goin’ to say to m’ uncle? He trusted me, y’ see, and I’ve failed him.’ He paused, gave a deep sigh, then added, ‘Failed him c’mpletely. Absolutely. Devil’s own luck with th’ cards last night. Never known an’thing like it! Ruined, both ’f us.’
‘Course you’re not, Marcus! Rich as Croesus, your uncle.’
‘He trusted me, I tell you! And he’s sworn not to pay ’nother penny for any more gambling debts! Said he’d die first. Ruined. I’d be much better dead myself, I swear.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Marcus. It will be all right, you’ll see. Look, hate to interrupt—don’t want to sound unsympathetic—but we ought to turn back, old fellow. Been out long enough—ought to get back to poor old Jack. Coming?’
‘No,’ Marcus said moodily. ‘I’ll stay here. Think things out before I see’m again. How ’m I goin’ to tell m’ uncle?’
From her bushes, she saw Freddie walking uncertainly away up the hill on the other side, and then her curiosity got the better of her. She crept forward to see what ‘Marcus’ was doing.
He was standing on the bridge, leaning on the thin plank of wood that served as a balustrade and gazing moodily down into the waters. He banged his hand down on the plank and, with a groan, repeated his words of a minute before. ‘I’d be better dead myself! Drowned! Oh, my head!’
Francesca gazed in horror as he put one leg over the plank. Convinced that this beautiful young man was about to drown himself even while she watched, she jumped to her feet and launched herself down the hill. A second later, unable to stop, she crashed into the unsuspecting young man on the bridge and sent him flying into the water. She only just managed to stop herself from following him.
Francesca gazed, horrified, while he picked himself up, shook himself like a dog and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The shock of the water seemed to have sobered him up.
There