A Love Laid Bare (19 page)

“It is a wonderful room, isn’t it?” She laughed and
lifted a shoulder. “I can say it without danger of being considered
a boastful Betty, since with the exception of a good cleaning, it
was already like this when I married Halcombe.”

Surprise crossed Jensen’s face so rapidly that
Frances doubted her eyes. Why would the man exhibit such at the
state of the library?

“The family must be bookish to have assembled and
read so large a collection,” he said, his tone so casual as to
indicate nothing but a polite interest.

Deciding she must have imagined his startled
expression, Frances shook her head. “I do not believe more than a
few were scholars, if that is what you mean. Many of the books have
to do with mundane subjects such as livestock and planting,” she
said lightly. “Lord Halcombe’s father was a more serious collector
and acquired some first editions and other unique volumes.” She
looked questioningly at him. “Do you share such an interest, Mr.
Jensen?”

“I have a small collection of my own,” Jensen said
with a modest smile. “I hope to add to it as my fortune allows.
Books can be costly.”

This was said with a rueful smile and Frances warmed
to him. Even if he
was
a guest of Lady Merton’s, the man had
a charming manner. “Yes, it can be an expensive undertaking.”

A short, not uncomfortable silence followed, while
Frances sipped at her tea and Jensen at his lemonade. An interlude
like this, taking tea with an almost stranger, and a man at that,
was not something Frances had experienced before. Her enjoyment of
so simple a thing was unexpected. It was rather nice to converse
with a gentleman and not be at odds. But after a glance at the tall
case clock, she realized the proscribed time for a call was at an
end. In any case, she had other things to do.

Frances set her cup down. “Do you make a long stay at
Lady Merton’s, Mr. Jensen?” She waited until he had followed her
lead. Once he had put his glass on the table, Frances rose.

“Not long. Lady Merton is giving a small dinner next
week. I will stay for that. I understand you have received an
invitation,” Jensen said, and stood. “One you have accepted, I
hope.”

His amiable smile held an obvious interest in her
answer that could not help but flatter. Frances’ answering smile
was warmer than she had intended, or was wise, she recognized at
once. She would not have flirting with a strange man added to her
sins.

“Yes, we expect to attend. I shall see you then, sir.
Now you must excuse me.” Frances held out her hand.

“Of course. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Jensen held Frances’ hand just a shade longer than
propriety allowed and she smoothly disengaged. “It was kind of you
to call.”

He made no effort to prolong the visit. Perhaps she
had misjudged him. No doubt it was a habit of his native
country—and where he originated from she still did not know.

Dismissing Joan, Frances lingered, idly rotating the
huge globe. The book she had sent out yesterday was destined for
Brussels, one of the more accessible cities where some of her
customers lived. In fact, she had directed Thomas Blount to send
most of the correspondence and packages through Brussels. She was
fortunate that one of her father’s oldest and closest friends lived
there. He was willing to help her in arrange courier services,
route letters, and generally expedite her business affairs.
Including and not the least of it, handling her banking matters on
the continent. While there had seldom been problems with lost
shipments, it was much safer to transfer funds by letters of credit
than actual currency. Delays in delivery? Now
that
was
another story!

Frances had Aunt Olivia to thank for putting her on
this path. In settling his affairs, her father had sent his sister
a number of valuable books as a gift. Olivia was no bibliophile,
however. Once Frances had recovered from the journey to Portugal,
Olivia had asked her niece for help in disposing of the majority of
the books.

Although tentative at first, Frances had, with
Olivia’s encouragement and support, taken up the widespread
correspondence her father had maintained with collectors all across
Europe. Scholars, curators, wealthy titled dilatants and even a
prince or two, all with similar interests—the acquisition of rare
books and antique maps. When she realized many of the
correspondents also enjoyed exchanging information, opinions, and
just plain gossip about the events of the day, she had encouraged
them to provide her with any political, and in some cases, military
news that came their way. Frances then passed it on to London, when
she thought it worthwhile.

Naturally, Lord Summerton had never replied, since
she remained anonymous. Would he think better of her if he knew it
was she who was his informant? It was so cheering to imagine the
viscount’s surprise at the discovery of her identity that Frances
had to choke back a laugh. Perhaps someday she would tell him.

Not so coincidentally, the subject of the anonymous
informant did come under discussion at Lord Summerton’s London home
late that evening. Halcombe had reached the city at dusk. On this
visit, he did not plan to see his mother unless he heard anything
disparaging about Frances’ reappearance. Since such gossip he would
certainly put at his mother’s door, a visit might become necessary.
Otherwise, he had no inclination to endure any of her inquisitions
or tirades.

As Halcombe had expected, Summerton was not at home.
After requesting that word of his arrival be sent to the viscount’s
club, he took the opportunity to wash and change his clothes. He
was enjoying a cold collation of meats and cheeses with thick,
buttered slices of bread and strong ale when his host walked
in.

“No, don’t get up,” Summerton said, when the earl
started to rise. “You look too comfortable. So much so, that if you
will excuse me for a short time, I will join you.” He disappeared
before the earl could answer.

Not but a quarter hour had passed before Summerton
entered the room, a bottle and glass in one hand and a platter of
food in the other. The viscount was coatless, and bootless,
Halcombe was amused to see.

Summerton set his burdens on the table, sank into a
chair with a grunt of satisfaction, and stretched out his long
legs. “This is the first time I’ve relaxed all day,” he said,
pouring some wine. “
Salut
.” He waved his glass in Halcombe’s
direction and drank. “This is a welcome surprise, old friend. I’d
not expected to see you so soon.” He grinned. “You being otherwise
occupied with the new-found family.” Emptying his glass, he picked
up a wedge of cheese and raised his brows in a rather fatuous
manner. “Trouble in paradise, Richard?”

“Idiot.” Halcombe gave him a sour look, but there was
no rancor in his voice. “Never a chance of paradise, as you know
damn well.”

A tranquil silence followed this exchange, while both
men addressed their food. Halcombe was the first to finish. He
topped off his ale and slouched back in the comfortable folds of
the chair. He had not been at ease since he’d seen Frances turn to
face him at the hotel. Now a shadowy barrier seemed to put his
problems at a distance, easing the emotional turmoil of the past
weeks. Just being apart from Frances was a relief.

The sound of her voice, the graceful sway of her
body, the blasted
scent
of her, made him ache with a desire
that appalled him. He
wanted
to hate her, hurt her, make her
pay for the hell he had endured. Halcombe downed the last of his
drink and pushed the problem of Frances from his mind. Her presence
was a constant burr under his skin and just as unwelcome as
one.

Summerton swallowed his last bit of cheese and let
out a satisfied huff. “Very nice and exactly what I needed. I had
not realized how hungry I was.”

“You did not eat at the club?” Halcombe asked.

The viscount shook his head. “I had been there only a
short time when your message reached me. It gave me a good excuse
to come home. I have had enough of endless speculation, without a
grain of fact behind it, to last me several days—possibly a
week!”

“Oh? Speculation about what?” Halcombe asked, his
curiosity piqued, since he seldom saw Colin riled.

“Anything one can imagine, from who will replace
Portland if his health continues to decline, to the when and where
of Napoleon’s next campaign.”

“And the real story behind it?”

Summerton narrowed his eyes. “That’s just it. There
are a number of contenders in line for the Prime Minister’s
position and no one knows what Napoleon will do. There is little
news coming from the continent right now. Even the latest message
from my anonymous informant was brief—and contained an apology for
the scarcity of information!”

“Are you still receiving those?” Halcombe
straightened, his interest in this oddity rekindled.

“One arrived quite recently, in fact, although after
so long an interval I gave up expecting anything more. The
handwriting had also changed, which worries me somewhat. The style
and content are much the same, but even so, I fear that something
has happened to the original writer and someone else has taken up
the task.”

“If that is the case, there is nothing you can do
about it. Perhaps when this war is over, your secret correspondent
will come forward.”

“Perhaps. I hope so.” Summerton tipped his chin
toward Halcombe. “Glad as I am to see you, I doubt you came all
this way to talk about my problems. Is it very bad, this business
with Frances and your daughter?”

“Flora is a delight,” Halcombe said with a broad
smile, warmed as he always was when he thought of her. “She has
taken to life at Halcombe Manor like she never lived elsewhere. She
loves horses, all animals, and I’ve purchased a pony for her.” He
looked rather sheepishly at his friend. “I never expected to be
bowled over by fatherhood, but I am besotted with her. It is hard
to explain, but I will do anything to keep her safe and
content.”

“I’m glad. You deserve some happiness,” Summerton
said. He looked intently at Halcombe. “And what of Frances? Have
you decided on any course as yet?” The viscount paused, waited for
a rebuff, but when no response was forthcoming, he added, “It’s
none of my business, of course, but has she given you any
explanation or reason for her absence?”

There was no insistence or even expectation in the
viscount’s voice or expression. If Halcombe wanted to talk,
Summerton would listen. If not, that was equally acceptable. It was
the nonjudgmental friendship Halcombe so valued and depended upon.
He leaned forward and braced his hands on his thighs.

“Frances has told me some of it, but not all. She
says she will tell me the rest. Whether she will or not, I don’t
know, and after hearing as much as I have, I am not sure I wish to
hear more.” His voice roughened. “No, that is untrue. I
need
to hear it because I still don’t know why she stayed away so long.
It is eating at me to the point where I am consumed with it.”

Summerton steepled his fingers and tapped them on his
lips. “It may do you good to speak of it,” he said after a brief
silence.

Halcombe took a moment to marshal his thoughts, and
then said simply, “It began with the death of her father. Or even
before, as I’ve begun to wonder if Frances would have been so
foolhardy as to take her boat out in chancy weather if
circumstances had been better between us. Not only had she just
buried her beloved father without my support, she believed my
absence was deliberate. Her state of mind was perhaps not…” He cut
off the supposition and leaned back. “It is no longer important.
Frances did take the boat out and…”

The fire had died down by the time Halcombe fell
silent. Summerton rose, picked up a pair of long-handled tongs, and
laid a few small logs on the grate.

“It
might
have been possible to get a message
to you from France, given the right contacts and circumstances. Do
you feel Frances could have done so if she had tried harder?”
Summerton asked.

“No, I cannot place any blame on her, considering her
situation.” Too restless to sit, Halcombe stood, picked up the
empty platters, and carried them to the sideboard. He uncapped a
decanter and held it up. “Brandy, Colin?”

The viscount nodded. Halcombe half-filled two
fat-bellied glasses and handed one to his host.

“You are serving me my brandy again,” Summerton said,
and grinned. He set the fireplace screen back in place and returned
to his chair.

“You should serve a poorer quality of brandy if you
don’t want your guests to drink it,” the earl said, responding to
the amusement in Summerton’s eyes. He chose to lean on the
fireplace surround, one foot braced on the settle. “I kept waiting
for you to offer, but…”

“That puts me in my place! I shall have to brush up
on my hosting skills.” Summerton swirled the liquid in his glass
several times and then drank. “It is rather nice. I believe I will
order more of it.” He looked up, the laughter fading. “I doubt
Frances was any too happy, trapped in France. And I can see why it
was easier to persuade her fishermen that arranging passage to
Portugal rather than England was less dangerous. The situation in
Portugal was reasonably stable and some trade had continued.”
Summerton frowned, and after a moment’s thought, added, “Nor is
Napoleon’s net work of informers and recruiters any secret.” He
hesitated for a moment and then continued in a voice laced with
quiet sympathy. “But why Frances did not send word to you at once
when she reached Portugal is beyond my understanding. I never
thought of her as being capable of such cruelty. I imagine you were
not the only one who felt her loss.”