Drawing another breath, she set off again. The house stood amid its trees; she made for the front steps.
With every stride she took, her determination welled.
He’d said he would see her at dinner. Reaching the porch, she flung open the front door, strode into the hall and headed for the stairs.
She’d make sure he did.
Frustrated fury bubbled within her; she had to rein it in, had to wait. She swung into the gallery, making for the p
rivate wing.
A figure stepped out and bowed deeply. Ferdinand.
She halted before him. “Yes?”
“My lady.” He straightened. He was only just taller than she was. Despite his olive skin, he looked wan.
When he simply stared at her, looking tortured, Francesca frowned. “What is it?”
Ferdinand swallowed, then blurted out, “I would never have tried to harm you, my lady-you must believe that!” A torrent of Italian, impassioned and more, followed.
Conscious of the two footmen ten yards behind her, Francesca reached out, grasped Ferdinand’s sleeve, and shook hard. “Stop this! No one imagined you’d tried to harm me, or, indeed, done anything wrong.”
Ferdinand looked sceptical. “The master?”
Francesca caught his gaze. “If your master believed you harbored any intention to harm me, you would no longer be at Lambourn.” She could taste the truth in the words. “Now go back to your duties, and stop imagining anyone blames you.”
Ferdinand bowed low. Francesca walked on, her mind whirling. Gyles knew-accepted-that the dressing hadn’t been poisoned. So why had the incident acted as a catalyst for such change?
More questions only her husband could answer. Would answer-tonight.
She picked up her pace. The footmen didn’t follow her into the private wing. They weren’t needed there because there were already two footmen, one stationed at either end of the corridor, keeping watch over her rooms.
Teeth clenched, she flung open her door before either footman could reach it.
“Millie?” Her little maid jumped up from a straight-backed chair. Francesca closed the door. “I…” Haven’t rung for you yet. “What are you doing here?”
Millie bobbed. “Wallace said as how I should wait here, ma’am.”
Francesca stared. “When was this?”
“This afternoon, ma’am. After you went for your walk.” Millie came to take Francesca’s cloak.
“You’ve been up here, waiting, all afternoon?”
Millie shrugged; she shook out the cloak. “I had your things to tidy. Tomorrow, I’ll bring up the mending.”
Francesca watched her hang up the cloak, then turned away. “Call for water. I wish to bathe.”
A long soak in hot water did not improve her temper. It did, however, give her time to plan her strategy, organize her arguments, and rehearse what she would later say.
To her husband, face-to-face.
The sooner such an interview was brought about, the better. Wrapped in a silk robe, her hair curling wildly from the steam, Francesca waved Millie to the two large wardrobes that held her clothes. “Open them both-I wish to select a special gown for this evening.”
Gyles knew what he was facing the instant he set eyes on his wife that evening. He entered the family parlor with Irving on his heels. She looked up from the chair beside the fireplace, and smiled.
He stopped. Watched her while Irving announced that dinner was served.