“I know.” Lucia traced the pattern of the bedclothes she’d rumpled with a finger. “I shouldn’t have mentioned him. But you’ve never said why—”
“Perhaps when you’re a bit older.”
Lucia grabbed a pillow and hurled it at her, hitting her armoire but missing Francesca by a good three feet. “I will scream the next time someone tells me I can do something when I’m older. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
Francesca gave her a sympathetic look. She could remember feeling much the same, longing for her presentation at court and her first Season in London. Only none of it had lived up to her expectations.
She crossed to the bed and gave Lucia a quick hug. “I know it’s hard to wait, but you’ll be all grown up and an old maid like me in no time.”
Lucia laughed. “You’re hardly an old maid!”
“Well, that’s a relief to hear!”
“And I’m sure Mamma and Father will give you another Season in London. Meanwhile, I’ll be locked away with a stuffy governess.”
“Well, there you are wrong.” She wrapped the mantle around her shoulders. “I have no intention of returning to London for another Season. Two is enough.” More than enough.
Lucia’s jaw dropped, her blue eyes widening. “You’re hoaxing me.”
Francesca swatted her. “Where did you hear that expression? Oh, never mind. I don’t want to know. Just do not use it in front of Mamma.”
“After she hears you won’t go to London for the Season, she won’t care what I do or say.”
Francesca couldn’t argue with that, but she would argue if her parents tried to force her to go to Town. And perhaps it was time her sister grew up. She scooted back onto the bed, next to Lucia.
“Lucia, you think the Season is all about gowns, balls, and the theater, but that’s only a part of it.”
“An important part!”
Francesca smiled. “Yes, and at first the outings are wonderful. I went to Almack’s and Vauxhall, Covent Garden and Hyde Park.”
Lucia gave her an irritated look. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”
Francesca put a hand on her arm. “No, because what you don’t know is that it’s only wonderful for a little while, then you realize that everything everyone does—everything you do—is dissected and discussed and disparaged. You see the countess who was so polite to you at Hatchard’s watching you and whispering behind her fan about you at Gunther’s.”
“That happened to you? Because of what the Marquess of Winterbourne did to you?”
“Yes, and really it was nothing.” Or should have been to everyone but me, she thought. “But the ton loves gossip. For weeks afterward, every time I entered a room, I knew people were talking about me. I hated it!”
Lucia balled her fists. “Just give me five minutes with Winterbourne. I have a few choice words for that scoundrel.”
Francesca squeezed her sister’s arm. “That’s not my point. I’m not even angry with him anymore.” Well, not very angry, she amended silently.
“Oh, Cesca, you never stay angry at anyone—not that I mind—but you really are too nice! Winterbourne doesn’t deserve it.”
Francesca shrugged. “I doubt he cares what I think of him.”
“My point exactly. The man is a rogue!”
“Maybe he has his reasons. People only gossiped about me for a week or so, and it was the longest week of my life. Each and every time he enters a room, people stop and stare and whisper about him. I can’t imagine what that must be like.”
“I hadn’t considered that,” Lucia said, chewing her lower lip. “Still, he doesn’t have to treat people so rudely, especially you. You didn’t do anything to deserve the way he behaved, which just proves that his bad reputation is not entirely rumors and lies.”
“No doubt he’s made mistakes like the rest of us.”
“Mistakes! You call shooting his best friend—”
“Lucia!” Francesca dug her nails into Lucia’s arm. She wasn’t about to discuss that sordid topic with her innocent little sister.
Lucia shook her head. “You are too good, Francesca. Now be nice to me and let me go with you to see Mr. Skerrit’s horse.”
Lord! She’d forgotten all about Thunder. She had to go to the stables as soon as possible and didn’t need Lucia tagging along. But with half the morning already wasted, Francesca wouldn’t argue the point.
“Fine.”
Lucia clapped her hands in excitement.
“But”—Francesca took hold of the hands, stilling them—“You’ll have to make your own escape. If Mamma sees either one of us, we’ll never get away. If you manage to elude her, I’ll meet you at the stables.”
“I’ll be there,” Lucia promised. With a bounce, she was off the bed and out the door.
Francesca was passing the dining room and almost to the freedom of the front door when her mother’s piercing voice hit her between the shoulder blades.
“And just what do you think you’re doing, mia figlia?”
Francesca skidded to a halt.
“Nothing, Mamma.”
Francesca recognized Lucia’s voice echoing through the open doorway. Poor Lucia. She should never have detoured for breakfast, though Francesca could see why her sister had thought herself safe—Lady Brigham was never about this early. She’d always claimed anyone who rose before ten was utterly unfashionable. And her mother considered it a fault worse than death to be unfashionable, though she herself failed to realize that her frequent use of her beloved Italian phrases had gone out of style a good ten years before.
“I was only fetching a cup of chocolate before I start my lessons.” A good excuse, but Lucia sounded too guilty.
“Oh really? Then why are you wearing your cloak and bonnet?”
Francesca closed her eyes in sympathy. Lucia was caught, but Francesca still had a chance to escape. She inched her way past the dining room, her mother’s voice echoing around her like a soprano singing off key. “Impossibile! We pay a fortune for la professoressa, and you run away from her at every opportunity!”
Francesca crept closer to the doorway, careful to step around each creaky floor board. She gripped the doorknob, turning it soundlessly. After all, escape had been her plan for the day as well. The crisp morning air and vast Hampshire countryside were waiting for her. Taking a deep breath in anticipation of her freedom, Francesca threw open the door and found herself staring straight at her father’s scowling face.
Four
“Good morning, Daddy.” Francesca resisted the impulse to slam the door and run back to her room. Instead she gave her father a falsely bright smile and kissed his smoothly shaved cheek.
“Good morning, yourself, young lady.”
Young lady? His use of that address didn’t bode well. Neither did the vein popping out on his forehead.
“Do you know where I’ve been?” His voice rose sharply, and Francesca reached back and clicked the door shut. If her mother heard his bellowing, Francesca would have to deal with two dragons instead of one.