Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

Francesca laughed weakly. “I don’t know; I wish I did. I don’t seem to know what I’m doing from one moment to the next.”

“My love,” he murmured, and tucked her wild hair behind her ear.

She looked up at him, as if unable to do otherwise, and tears filled her eyes. “I knew you were a danger to me from the moment I first met you,” she said. “I tried to drive you away, but you refused to listen. I only stayed with you at the inn because you promised you were leaving. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“You saved my life, Francesca. I don’t want you to go away. I want to make love to you forever.”

“I can’t allow that,” she said in a brittle voice. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Damn and blast it, every second day then!”

She pulled away. “I blame Aphrodite for this,” she said bitterly.

He seemed taken aback. “Why?”

Dramatically, Francesca paused at the door. “Because I am her daughter,” she said.

Chapter 17

“Miss Francesca,” Lil began, her eyes suspicious. She’d been waiting downstairs with Martin.

“Don’t, Lil.”

But Lil couldn’t be stopped, and she followed Francesca out into the street. It was later than she had thought, the long summer evening beginning to fade. “You be careful, that’s all I want to say,” Lil said.

“Be careful?” Francesca repeated, feeling slightly hysterical. “I thought I was being careful, Lil, but somehow it went wrong.”

“Well, sometimes things happen. Men have a way of making them happen,” she added darkly.

“As much as it would make me feel better, Lil, I can’t allow Mr. Thorne to take all the blame for his actions. It was my fault, too.”

Lil shrugged. “Have it your own way. Mar—Mr. O’Donnelly says that Mr. Thorne isn’t what he seems, but I don’t believe a word either of them says. Peas in a pod, those two.”

Francesca frowned. “What did you and Martin get up to, Lil? Perhaps it’s you who should be careful.”

“Nothing, miss. We walked around about and he bought me an ice. Very nice it was. But I’m not fooled by him. He’s Irish, isn’t he, and he’s kissed the Blarney Stone.” But there was a little smile playing at her mouth, the sort of smile Francesca hadn’t seen on Lil in a very long time.

Mrs. March waylaid Francesca in the hall to tell her Mrs. Jardine had retired with a headache. “Will you be dining as usual?” Her cold gaze was taking note of the rumpled skirt and the untidy hair beneath the bonnet.

Self-consciously Francesca cleared her throat. Mrs. March could not possibly know what she’d been up to, but at that moment it seemed as if she did.

“Mr. Tremaine is dining at his club,” the housekeeper added with a hint of impatience.

“Oh yes, of course. No, Mrs. March, I’ll have something in my room. I am tired and I’ll retire early.”

“Very well.”

Wearily, Francesca made her way to her room, but decided to check on Amy first. Her mother was pale but her headache was fading. She asked if Francesca could get her some sweet tea, because the beverage often helped.

“Of course.” She reached out to ring for a servant, but Amy stopped her.

“Please, my dear, would you mind terribly going down to the kitchen to fetch it? The cook is a kindly sort of woman, and Mrs. March made such a fuss the last time I rang. The girls, she said, had enough to do with all the extra work I was causing.”

Francesca was furious. The woman was insufferable! “She’d better not say anything to me,” she declared, but for Amy’s sake, she went back down the stairs to fetch the tea herself.

The cook was as kind as Amy said, and Francesca was soon on her way back with the tea and some sweet biscuits to tempt Amy’s appetite. She was thinking of Sebastian. She admitted to being surprised by the unexpected luxury of his rooms in Half Moon Street—the carpets and hangings in deep rich colors. And the portrait that hung over the fireplace of the eighteenth-century woman in the white wig, with dark eyes so very like Sebastian’s.

He must be her grandson or great-grandson, she realized, but the painting had been that of a gentlewoman, perhaps even a great lady. Was Sebastian the product of a liaison between an heir and a maid? Or had his branch of the family fallen low for one reason or another? Whatever the truth, the portrait meant something to him.