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Francesca
Sylvia Andrew


Francesca Shelwood is mortified when Marcus Carne reappears in her life-he stole the most magical, illicit kisses from the young, innocent Francesca!And she swore never to forgive him after being punished for her "wanton" behavior. . . . Now, on her inheritance, Marcus has returned to offer the unimaginable-marriage! An indignant Francesca refuses, but very soon she walks headlong into danger-and the only man ready to sacrifice his life, and reputation, for her sake is Marcus. . . .









“Have you forgotten the circumstances of our previous acquaintance?”


“Why, yes, of course!” Marcus replied.



Francesca, the wind taken somewhat out of her sails, stared at him.



“I thought that would please you. You said you wished me to forget the lot,” he said earnestly.



Francesca pressed her lips together firmly. He would not make her laugh; she would not let him—that was how it had all started last time.



And this man had a talent, it seemed, for reaching that other Francesca of long ago. She must regain control of her emotions. She must!



Francesca

Harlequin


Historical




SYLVIA ANDREW


taught modern languages for a number of years, ultimately becoming vice-principal of a sixth-form college. She lives in Somerset, England, with two cats, a dog and a husband who has a very necessary sense of humor and a stern approach to punctuation. Sylvia has one daughter living in London, and they share a lively interest in the theater. She describes herself as an “unrepentant romantic.”




SYLVIA ANDREW

Francesca










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Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue




Chapter One


Lightning was flickering over the hills ahead, and every now and then came a distant roll of thunder—another storm was on its way. The field workers had given up for the day and were hurrying home before the storm broke, the children clinging to their mothers’ skirts, fathers carrying the littlest ones on their shoulders. But they smiled at the shabbily dressed young woman who passed them on the outskirts of the village, and greeted her with respect.

Miss Fanny was on her own way home to the Manor, where she lived with her aunt, Miss Cassandra Shelwood. Though she was wearing an old dress and a tattered sunbonnet, though all the world knew that her mother had run off with a well-known rake and had never been seen again, all the same, Miss Fanny was the late Sir John Shelwood’s granddaughter. She and her aunt were the last of a long line of Shelwoods who had owned most of the land round about for as long as anyone could remember.

Miss Shelwood had a heart of stone—everyone was afraid of her—but Miss Fanny was usually very friendly. Today she seemed preoccupied. Perhaps what they were saying about her aunt’s health was true after all. There were long faces at the possibility, for what would happen to the estate if—when—Miss Shelwood died? It was well known that Miss Shelwood wouldn’t give her niece the time of day if she could help it. So what was going to happen to the Shelwood estate?

Francesca Shelwood had been so deep in thought that she had barely noticed the lightning and was only faintly aware of the thunder rumbling ominously round the valley. The villagers were upon her before she had noticed them. But she smiled at them as they bobbed and nodded their heads, and turned to watch them as they hurried on, anxious to reach shelter before the rain came. They would have been astonished to learn how much she envied them.

Few would claim they were fortunate. Their days were hard and long, they were under constant threat of disaster—sudden accident or illness, the failure of the harvest, the whims of a landowner, or the caprices of the weather. But they laughed and joked as they went back to their modest dwellings, and the ties of affection, of love and family, were obvious.

She would never know such ties. Nearly twenty-five years old, plain, without any prospect of fortune, and with a shadow over her birth—who would ever think of marrying her?

Now the problem of her future was becoming more urgent with every day that passed. That her aunt was seriously ill could no longer be in doubt, though this was never admitted openly at Shelwood. Miss Shelwood refused to discuss the state of her health with anyone, least of all with her niece. But her attacks had been getting worse and more frequent for months, and yesterday’s had been the worst yet, though no one dared dispute Miss Shelwood’s assertion that it was simply a result of the excessive heat.

Francesca sighed. Years ago, when she had first come to Shelwood as a bewildered child, snatched away from everything she loved, she had looked to her aunt Cassandra, her mother’s sister, for consolation. What a mistake that had been! How often she had been snubbed, chastised, ignored, before she finally realised the harsh truth. Her aunt disliked her, and wanted as little as possible to do with her. Why this was so she had never been able to fathom. As a child she had asked her grandfather, but he had merely said that she was too young to understand. She had even screwed up her courage one day and had asked her aunt directly.

But Miss Shelwood had given Francesca one of her cold stares and replied, “A stupid question, Fanny! How could anyone like such a plain, naughty, impertinent child?’

One of the older servants, who was now dead, had once said cryptically, ‘It’s because you’re your mother’s daughter, Miss Fanny. Miss Cassandra never wanted you here. It was the master who insisted. You can understand it, though.’ And she had then maddeningly refused to say anything more.

It had not been so bad while Grandfather was alive. He had loved her in his fashion, had tried to make up for the lack of affection in his elder daughter. But he had been an old man, and since his death Aunt Cassandra’s animosity had seemed to increase—or at least become more obvious. Francesca knew that only her aunt’s strong sense of duty persuaded her to give her niece a home, for she had been told so soon after her grandfather’s funeral. She had been eleven years old at the time, and had been very surprised to receive a summons to her aunt’s room. The scene was still bitterly vivid, even after all these years…



‘I have something to say to you.’

Francesca was frightened of her aunt. She looked like a great crow, perched behind the desk, hair scraped back under a black lace cap, hooded dark eyes, black dress, black shawl…And, though her aunt was motionless, the child could sense a seething anger behind the still façade. There was a chair in front of the desk, but Francesca knew better than to sit down without an invitation, so she remained standing.

‘Mr Barton has been acquainting me with the terms of your grandfather’s will.’

Francesca shifted uneasily and wondered what was coming. Mr Barton was the Shelwood family lawyer, and Aunt Cassandra had been closeted with him all day after the funeral, and most of the day after. What was her aunt going to do about her? Was she going to send her away—to school, perhaps? She rather hoped so—it could hardly be worse than staying alone at Shelwood with her aunt. Her hopes were soon dashed, however.

‘Your grandfather has left you a sum of money, the interest on which will provide you with a small allowance—enough to pay for clothes and so on. It is not intended for school fees, since he wished you to remain at Shelwood for the time being. I have been asked to give you a roof over your head during my lifetime, and will obey my father’s wish. You have, after all, nowhere else to go.’ Her tone made it clear how much she regretted the fact.

‘Perhaps I could go back to St Marthe?’

‘That is out of the question. There is no place for you there. You will remain here.’

The young Francesca had looked with despair on the prospect of the future stretching out in front of her, alone at Shelwood with Aunt Cassandra. She offered another solution. ‘I might marry someone, Aunt—as soon as I am old enough.’

‘You might, though that is rather unlikely…’



Francesca’s lips twisted in a bitter little smile at the memory of what had followed. Her aunt had gone on to make it clear just why marriage for Francesca was practically out of the question.



‘Very unlikely, I should say, in view of your history.’

‘My history?’ Francesca cast her mind over her various small misdemeanors and found nothing in them to discourage a suitor. ‘What have I done, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘It is not what you have done.’ She paused, and there was a significant silence. Francesca felt something was required of her, but what?

‘Is there something I should have done and haven’t?’ she asked. She knew that this, too, was frequently a source of dissatisfaction.

Miss Shelwood’s expression did not change, but Francesca shivered as she waited for her aunt to speak. Finally, she said, ‘It has nothing to do with your activities. The damage was done before you were even born. Did your grandfather not tell you about it in all those cosy little chats you had with him? When he talked to you about your mother?’

‘I…I don’t think so. He was often sad when he talked about her. He said he was sorry he never saw her again before she died.’

‘He was always very fond of her.’

‘He said she was beautiful—’

‘She was quite pretty, it is true.’

‘Everyone who met her loved her—’

‘She knew how to please, certainly.’

‘He used to tell me stories about when she was a little girl. She used to laugh a lot, he said. And she did.’ Francesca was so nervous that the words came tumbling out. Normally she would have been silent in her aunt’s presence. ‘I remember her laughing, too. She used to laugh a lot when we all lived together on St Marthe. She and Maddy used to laugh all the time.’

‘Maddy?’

‘My…my nurse. The one who brought me here. The one you sent away.’

‘The native woman.’

‘Maddy was a Creole, Aunt Cassandra. She and Mama were friends. I loved them both. Very much.’

‘A most unsuitable woman to have charge of you. Your grandfather was right to get rid of her. So your mama laughed on St Marthe, did she? I am surprised. But then she always found something to amuse her. I daresay it amused her to run off with your father. Whether she was quite so amused when you were born, I do not know. You see, Fanny…’ Miss Shelwood paused here as if she was wondering whether to go on. Then her lips tightened and she said slowly, ‘Tell me your name.’

Francesca wondered why her aunt should make such a strange request, but she took a deep breath and answered quietly, ‘Francesca Shelwood.’

This time the pause was even longer. ‘Fanny Shelwood,’ said Miss Shelwood in a voice which boded no good for Francesca. ‘Fanny. Not…Francesca. Francesca is a ridiculously pretentious name. An absurd name for such a plain child.’

Francesca remained silent. This was an old battle, but, though everyone else now called her Fanny, she would remain Francesca in her own mind. Her mother—the mother she only dimly remembered—had called her Francesca, and she would never give it up. Her aunt waited, then went on, ‘Where did the name, Fanny Shelwood, come from?’

‘You said I had to be called Fanny, Aunt Cassandra.’

‘Are you being deliberately obstructive, Fanny, or simply very stupid? I refer to your surname.’

‘Grandfather said I was to be a Shelwood. After I came here.’

‘Quite so. Have you never wondered why?’ The little girl had been pleased that her grandfather wanted to give her his name. It made her feel more wanted, more as if she belonged. She had accepted it, as she had accepted everything else. She had never questioned his reasons. She shook her head.

‘It was because, Fanny, as far as we could tell, you had no other name to call yourself.’

‘I…I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Cassandra. I was called Francesca Beaudon at home on St Marthe.’

‘Francesca…Beaudon.’ Her aunt’s lip curled as she pronounced the name. ‘What right had you to such a name, pray?’

Francesca was completely puzzled. What did her aunt mean? She shook her head. ‘I…I don’t know. Because Papa’s name was Beaudon?’

Miss Shelwood leaned forward. ‘You had no right whatsoever to the name of Beaudon, Fanny Shelwood! None at all! Your father’s name is not for such as you. Richard Beaudon never married your mother!’

‘Of course Papa and Mama were married!’ cried Francesca in instant and scornful repudiation. What did this woman know about life on St Marthe? ‘Of course they were married,’ she repeated more loudly. ‘Everyone called Mama Lady Beaudon.’

‘Do not raise your voice to me, Fanny. I will not have it!’

There was a silence while Francesca wrestled with her sense of anger and outrage. Finally she muttered, ‘They were married. It’s not true what you say!’

‘Are you daring to doubt my word?’ A slight pause, then, ‘You must accept it, I’m afraid. And, unless you learn to control your feelings better, I shall wash my hands of you, and then where would you be? You might well go the way your unfortunate mother went—with disastrous consequences to herself and you.’

‘It isn’t true,’ said Francesca doggedly. She sounded brave, but deep down she felt a growing sense of panic. She was not sure of the exact significance of what her aunt was saying, but there was nothing good about it. There was a girl in the village who had a baby though she wasn’t married. Everyone was very unkind to her and called her names. They called the baby names, too. It was impossible that her darling mama had been like Tilly Sefton! ‘It’s not! It’s not!’ she said, her voice rising again.

Miss Shelwood said sharply, ‘Do stop contradicting me in that ridiculous way! What does a little girl like you know about such things? People called your mother “Lady”—’ Aunt Cassandra’s voice dripped contempt ‘—“Lady Beaudon”, because they did not wish to offend. It was merely a courtesy title!’

When Francesca remained silent she went on, ‘Deceive yourself if you wish—but tell me this if you can, Fanny. What happened after your mother died? Did your father keep you by him, as any real father would? He did not. He packed you off to England as soon as he could and we, your mother’s family, were more or less forced to give you a home and a name! And what have you heard from your father since you left the West Indies? Nothing! No visits, no letters, no money, no gifts—not even on your birthday. Why is that, Fanny?’

Once again Francesca was silent. She had nothing to say in defence of herself and her father. She had been hurt that she never heard anything from him, had tried to find out why, but her grandfather had always refused to mention the Beaudon name.

Satisfied that she had made her point, Miss Shelwood went on, ‘So you see, Fanny, a marriage is most unlikely for you, do you not agree? What have you to offer a respectable man? A girl without fortune, without name and—you have to admit that you are hardly a beauty. But you may stay here with me as long as I am alive.’



Even fourteen years later, Francesca still resented the cruel manner in which her aunt had told her of her situation. It had been like crushing a butterfly. For months afterwards she had cried herself to sleep or lain awake, thinking of her life with Maddy and her mother in the West Indies, trying to remember anything at all which might contradict what her aunt had said. But she had found nothing.

Her father had always been a dim figure in the background, especially after Mama had fallen ill and most of her time had been spent in the pretty, airy bedroom with fluttering white curtains and draperies. It was Maddy who had been the child’s companion then, Maddy who had sworn never to leave her young charge.

But, of course, Maddy had been forced to go when Aunt Cassandra dismissed her. Aunt Cassandra, not Grandfather. Francesca’s heart still ached at the memory of their parting. She had clung to Maddy’s skirts, as if she could keep her nurse at Shelwood by physical force, had pleaded with her grandfather, even with her aunt. But Maddy had had to go.

As Francesca grew older, she came to accept the hard truth about her birth, if only because she could not see why her aunt should otherwise invent a tale which reflected so badly on the Shelwood name. The rest of it—that she was poor and plain—was more easily accepted. It wasn’t just what her aunt said—everyone seemed to think that she was very like Miss Shelwood, who was tall, thin and pale, with strong features.

Francesca, too, was tall, thin and pale, and though she didn’t have the Shelwood eyes—the Shelwood eyes were dark brown, and hers were a greyish-green—her hair was very much the same colour as her aunt’s, an indeterminate, mousy sort of blonde. How Francesca wished she had taken after her small, vivacious mother, with her rich golden curls and large pansy-brown eyes, who had always been laughing!

A sudden rumble of thunder quite close brought Francesca back with a start to the present. She glanced up at the sky. The clouds were gathering fast—which direction were they travelling? Then a horn blared behind her and she nearly leapt out of her skin. She turned and was horrified to see a chaise and four bearing down on her at speed. She leapt for her life to the side of the road, but lost her balance, skidded into the ditch, and ended up in nettles, goose grass and the muddy water left over from the previous night’s rain.

The chaise thundered past, accompanied by shouts from its driver as he fought to bring his team to a halt. At first she made no attempt to move, but lay there in the ditch, content to recover her breath and listen to crisp orders being issued some way down the road. It had taken a while to stop the chaise. Footsteps approached the ditch where she lay and came to a halt beside her.

‘Are you hurt?’ Betsy’s old sunbonnet had tipped forward and covered her eyes, so that all she could see when she looked up was a pair of long legs encased in buckskins and beautifully polished boots.

‘You were well clear of the coach, so don’t try to pretend. Come, girl, there’s sixpence for you if you get out of that ditch and show me that your fall hasn’t done any harm. Take hold of my cane.’

That voice! It was cooler and more authoritative than she remembered. And the undercurrent of mockery was new. But the rich timbre and deep tones were still familiar. Oh, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t! Fate would not be so unkind. Francesca shut her eyes and fervently hoped that memory was playing her false. Then the end of an ebony cane tapped her hand, and she grasped it reluctantly. One heave and she was out of the ditch and standing on the road. An exquisitely fitted green coat and elegant waistcoat were added to her vision of the gentleman.

‘You see? You’re perfectly unharmed.’

Francesca was not reassured by these words. She listened with growing apprehension as he went on, ‘There’s the sixpence—and there’s another penny if you’ll tell us if this lane leads to Witham Court. We appear to have taken a wrong turning.’

Francesca swallowed, tried to speak and uttered instead a strangled croak. Fate was being every bit as unkind as she had feared! He had not yet recognised her, but if he did…

‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ The gentleman pulled her towards him and, before she could stop him, was running his hands over her arms and legs. ‘Yes, you’re quite sound,’ he said, drawing a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his fingers fastidiously on it. ‘So stop shamming—there are no more sixpences, Mary, or whatever your name is. Nothing more to be got out of me, until you tell me where Witham Court is.’ His movements had been impersonal—rather as if he were feeling the legs of a horse—but Francesca’s face flamed and she was seized with a sudden access of rage.

‘You can keep your money,’ she said, pushing her hat back from her face, and glaring at him. ‘An abject apology would be more in line, though I doubt it will be forthcoming. The last thing any of us expect is decent behaviour from the owner of Witham Court, or his guests.’

His eyes narrowed, then he said slowly, ‘I appear to have made a mistake. I took you for one of the village girls.’ He eyed her shabby dress and bonnet. ‘Understandably, perhaps. But—’ he eyed her uncertainly again ‘—it can’t be. Yet now I look…we’ve met before, haven’t we?’

‘Yes,’ said Francesca stonily, wishing she could lie.

‘Of course! You were wet then, too…we both were. Why, yes! How could I have forgotten that glorious figure…?’

He laughed when Francesca gave an involuntary gasp of indignation and then pulled himself together and looked rueful. ‘I’m deeply sorry—that slipped out. I do beg your pardon, ma’am. Abjectly.’

Francesca was unreconciled. He didn’t sound abject. ‘The details of our previous acquaintance are best forgotten, sir. All of them. And if you offer me an apology, it surely ought to be for knocking me into the ditch.’

‘We did not knock you into the ditch. You jumped and fell. No, I was apologising for not recognising you.’ He regarded the wet and bedraggled creature before him. ‘Not even for a gentlewoman. As for our previous meeting—it shall be erased from my mind, as requested. A pity, though. Some details have been a most pleasant memory.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

How dared he remind her of such an unfortunate and embarrassing interlude! Had he no shame? Of course he hadn’t! He was a rake and a villain, and she was a fool to be affected by him.

‘You surprise me,’ she said acidly. ‘But are you suggesting you would not have practically run me down if you had realised I wasn’t one of the villagers? What a very strange notion of chivalry you have to be sure! As if it mattered who or what I was!’

‘Forgive me, but I did not practically run you down. My nephew, who is a trifle high-spirited, gave us all an uncomfortable time, including my horses, in his efforts to prove himself a notable whip. I shall deal with him presently. But allow me to say that you were standing like a moonling on that road. You must have heard us coming?’

‘I thought it was thunder—You’re doing it again! How rude you are to call me a moonling!’

‘It wasn’t your good sense that attracted me all those years ago, Francesca! And standing in the middle of a highway is hardly the action of a rational being. Nor is it rational now to stand arguing about a trifle when you should be hastening to change out of your wet clothes.’

The justice of this remark did not endear the gentleman to Francesca. She was about to make a scathing reply when they were interrupted.

‘Marcus, darling! Have you taken root, or something? We shall be caught in the storm if you don’t hurry.’

The speaker was picking her way delicately along the road, holding up the skirts of an exquisite gown in green taffeta, her face shaded by a black hat with a huge brim. As a travelling costume it was hardly suitable, the hat a trifle too large, the dress a touch too low cut, but Francesca had never seen anything so stylish in her life. Under the hat were wisps of black hair, dark eyes, red lips, a magnolia skin with a delicate rose in the cheeks—an arrestingly vivid face. But at the moment an expression of dissatisfaction marred its perfection, and the voice was petulant.

‘I’m not coming any further—the road is quite dreadful—but do make haste. What is the delay?’ The dark eyes turned to Francesca. ‘Good Lord! What a filthy mess! What on earth is it?’ She stared for a moment, then turned to the man. ‘Really, Marcus, why are you wasting time on such a wretch? Pay her off and come back to the coach. And do hurry. I shall wait with Nick. No, don’t say another word—I refuse to listen. Don’t forget to get her to tell you the way—if she knows it,’ she added, looking at Francesca again with disdain.

‘You mistake the matter, Charmian. Miss Shelwood’s accident has misled you into thinking she is one of the country folk. In fact, her family own much of the land in the district.’

‘Really?’ The dark eyes looked again at the shabby dress. ‘How very odd! Don’t be long, Marcus.’ Then the vision turned round and picked her way back to the carriage.

Francesca felt her face burn under its streaks of mud. She was well used to snubs from her aunt, but this was different—and from such a woman!

The gentleman tightened his lips, then said gently, ‘You must forgive Lady Forrest. She is hot and tired—Nick’s driving is not a comfortable experience.’

‘So I have observed,’ said Francesca. ‘I am sure the lady has had a quite dreadful time of it. Pray convey my sympathy to her—my abject sympathy.’

He acknowledged this sally with a nod, but said nothing. Then he appeared to come to a decision. ‘You must allow us to take you home. Shelwood Manor, is it not?’

‘Are you mad?’

‘I fail to see why Lady Forrest’s manners, or the condition of your clothes, should prevent me from doing my clear duty. No, I am not mad.’

‘My concern is neither for Lady Forrest nor for the state of your carriage! I can perfectly well walk home—indeed, I insist on doing so. To be frank, sir, I would not go with you in your carriage to Shelwood, nor to Witham, nor anywhere else, not even to the end of the lane! I am surprised you should suggest it. Have you forgotten the circumstances of our previous acquaintance?’

‘Why, yes, of course!’

Francesca, the wind taken somewhat out of her sails, stared at him.

‘I thought that would please you. You said you wished me to forget the lot,’ he said earnestly.

Francesca pressed her lips together firmly. He would not make her laugh, she would not let him—that was how it had all started last time. She said coldly, ‘I suggest you rejoin your friends—they will not wish to miss any of the…pleasures Witham Court has to offer.’

‘Of course—you know about those, don’t you?’ he asked with a mocking smile.

‘Only by hearsay, sir. And a brief and unwelcome acquaintance with one of its visiting rakes some years ago.’

‘You didn’t seem to find the acquaintance so unwelcome then, my dear.’

Francesca’s face flamed again. She said curtly, ‘I was very young and very foolish. I knew no better.’ She started to walk along the road. ‘I suggest you turn the carriage in the large drive about a hundred yards ahead and go back to the village. The road you should have taken is the first on the left. This one does lead to Witham Court, but it is narrow and uneven and would need expert driving.’

‘You don’t think I can do it?’ he asked, falling into step beside her.

‘Nothing I have seen so far would lead me to think so. Good day, sir.’

‘Very well. I shall take your advice—my horses have suffered enough today, and this road surface is appalling.’ He took a step, halted and turned to her. ‘You are sure there’s nothing I can do for you?’

‘I think you’ve done enough! Now, for heaven’s sake, leave me in peace!’

The gentleman looked astonished at the violence in Francesca’s voice. And in truth she had surprised herself. Such outbursts were rare. The child’s impulsively passionate nature had over the years been subdued under her aunt’s repressive influence. Nowadays, she exercised a great deal of self-discipline, and Miss Fanny’s air of calm dignity, of lack of emotion—a defence against the constant slights she was subjected to at the Manor—was no longer totally assumed.

But this man had a talent, it seemed, for reaching that other Francesca of long ago. She must regain control of her emotions—she must! The little interlude years before had meant very little to him, that was obvious, or he would not now be able to refer to it in such a light-hearted manner. She must not let him even suspect the profound effect it had had on her. She would apologise for her outburst in a civilised manner, then bid him farewell.

But he forestalled her. The teasing look had quite vanished from his eyes as he said, ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to offend you.’

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back to the chaise. Francesca found herself hoping he would trip on one of the stones that had been washed loose by the previous night’s storm. She would enjoy seeing that confident dignity measure its length in the dust. But, of course, it didn’t happen. Instead, he got into the chaise and exchanged some words with the young man who had remained with the horses.

There was a slight altercation which ended when the young man—his nephew, she supposed—got down and strode on up the lane. A few minutes later, the chaise passed on its way back to the village, the driver giving her exaggerated clearance and an ironical salute of the whip as he went.




Chapter Two


Lady Forrest saw the incident and felt a little spurt of irritation. Marcus was impossible—acknowledging a wretch like the girl on the road! Of course, he was just doing it to annoy her. He hadn’t wanted to come to Charlie Witham’s—it was not the sort of gathering he enjoyed and all her wiles had at first failed to persuade him to accept the invitation. But she had won in the end! And now he was showing his displeasure by teasing her.

‘Are you so very displeased, Marcus?’ she asked, looking at him sideways as the carriage turned into the village street.

He negotiated the tight left turn before replying. ‘About Nick’s driving? Not any more. Nor do you need to suffer any disquiet about him, either. By the time he’s found his way to the Court, he’ll have got over his fit of temper.’

Lady Forrest had forgotten Nick. ‘That’s not what I meant. You didn’t want to come to Charlie’s, when I first mentioned it. Are you regretting having changed your mind?’

‘Not at all. You produced a master card and played it.’ When she raised her eyebrows, and feigned surprise, he went on, ‘Come, Charmian. You don’t usually underestimate my intelligence so badly. You are quite ruthless in pursuing your wishes. When it became obvious I had no intention of escorting you to Witham Court, you beguiled Nick into performing the office. You counted on the fact that, although my nephew’s capacity for getting into trouble seems to be infinite, I am fond of him. You knew that I was most unlikely to abandon him to the mercies of Charlie Witham’s rapacious cronies.’

He looked at her with the quizzical smile she always found irresistible. ‘But tell me, what would you have done if I had called your bluff? It would hardly have enhanced your reputation to arrive at Witham Court in the company of a lad half your age.’

The smile, then the rapier. He could be a cruel devil when he chose! Lady Forrest coloured angrily. ‘You exaggerate, Marcus. In any case, the question did not arise. You have come—as I knew you would.’ She changed her tone. ‘Now, be kind. You have had your fun pretending to be concerned over that creature on the road, and attempting to introduce her—’

‘You were quite ruthless there, too. Did you have to give the girl such a snub?’

‘Why are you so concerned? If she were pretty I could understand it, but she is quite remarkably plain!’

‘Plain? How can you say so?’

‘Stop making fun of me, Marcus. Of course she is plain. Too tall, too bony, too sallow, a hard mouth—Really!’

‘Her mouth is not hard, it is disciplined. And I suppose the streaks of dirt on her face disguised from you the loveliest line of cheekbone and jaw I think I have ever seen.’ When Lady Forrest regarded him with astonishment, he added, ‘Oh, she is not your conventional Society beauty, I agree. She lacks the rosebud mouth, the empty blue eyes, the dimpled cheeks. Her conversation is less vapid, too. But plain she will never be—not even when she is old. The exquisite bone structure will still be there.’

‘Good Lord! This is news, indeed! What a sly fellow you are after all, my dear! When are we to congratulate you?’ He gave her an ironic look, but refused to rise to her bait. She went on, ‘Perhaps you will allow me to lend the girl a dress for the wedding? I can hardly think she owns anything suitable—nor, from the look of her, any dowry, either. Still, you hardly need that, now.’

There was a short silence and she wondered whether she had gone too far. Then he said calmly, ‘Don’t talk nonsense, my dear. I can admire beauty wherever I find it—I don’t necessarily wish to possess it! Thank God—here are the gates. I suppose it is too much to hope that Charlie Witham has learned moderation since I was last here. So I warn you, you will have me to reckon with if you lead Nick into trouble, or make him miserable. My nephew is the apple of my sister’s eye, God knows why!’

They were received warmly by their host, who could hardly believe his good fortune in snaring one of London’s most elusive bachelors as a guest. Marcus Carne tended to move in circles of Society that Lord Witham and his friends, who would never have been admitted to them, apostrophised as devilish dull, riddled as they were with clever johnnies—academics, politicians, reformers and the like! But they found Carne himself perfectly sound. In fact, they termed him a Nonpareil.

He belonged to all the right clubs, was a first-class, if rather ruthless, cardplayer, and could hold his wine with the best of them. His skill with horses was legendary, and his life as an officer under Wellington had provided him with a fund of good stories, though he never bored his company with talk of the battles.

And, though he was what was generally called ‘a proper man’s man’, he was equally popular with the ladies—not only with the frail beauties such as Charmian Forrest, who lived on the fringes of society, but with perfectly respectable dowagers and debutantes, too. His good looks and lazy smile, his air of knowing what he was about—such things appealed to the ladies, of course.

And he had another virtue that even outclassed his looks, his charm, his manliness, his straight dealing and all the rest. Marcus Carne was quite disgustingly rich. Once his cousin Jack fell at Waterloo, it was inevitable that Marcus would inherit the Carne title—his uncle had, after all, been in his seventies when his only remaining son was killed. But who would have thought that old Lord Carne would have amassed such a fortune to leave to his nephew—especially as Jack and his brothers had, in the short time allotted to them, done their best to disperse it!

However, Marcus was a different kettle of fish altogether from his wayward cousins. Though frequently invited, he was seldom seen at the sort of gathering Lord Witham enjoyed. And though he was not afraid to wager large sums at the gambling table, he had a regrettable tendency to win. In spite of this, however, his reputation was such that he was welcomed wherever he went.

So Lord Witham paid Marcus the compliment of conducting him personally to one of the best bedchambers, indicating with a wink that Charmian was lodged close by. Marcus waited patiently till his host had finished listing the delights in store and had gone to see to his other guests, then he summoned his valet, who had arrived with the valises some time before, and changed.

Suter busied himself discreetly about the room, obviously expecting his master to go down to join the company. But Marcus was in no hurry to meet the ramshackle bunch Charlie Witham had undoubtedly assembled for several days of cards and drinking. Instead, he went over to the window, which overlooked the park behind the Court.

It was nine years since he had last been at Witham. At that time there had still been three cousins available to inherit their father’s title. He himself had been an impecunious junior officer on leave, with no expectations except through promotion on the battlefield. His room then had been much less imposing—what else would he have expected? The view from its window had been the same, though. And the signs of neglect and decay, which even then had been evident, were now greater than ever. He wondered if that bridge had ever been repaired…Probably not. Nine years…

Nine years ago Francesca Shelwood had, for a brief while, filled his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. Curious how one could forget something which had been so important at the time. Seeing the girl again had brought the memories back, memories which had been swamped under the horrors of the campaigns he had fought, and the turmoil and sea-change in his fortunes which had followed.

He had never expected to succeed his uncle. But first Maurice and Ralph, Lord Carne’s twin elder sons, had both been killed in a coaching accident, then Jack had fallen at Waterloo. Lord Carne himself had followed them soon afterwards, and Marcus had, against all the odds, succeeded to the title.

Francesca had changed surprisingly little. How well he now remembered that intriguing surface air of discipline, the tight control of her mouth and face, which might lead the uninitiated to believe her dull—hard, even. He knew better. The real Francesca’s feelings could suddenly blow up in rage, or melt in passion…His blood quickened even now at the memory of her total response to his kisses.

How absurd! Nine years of living in the world, three of them as a very rich man, had provided many more sophisticated affairs. None had been permanent, but few had lasted for as short a time as one day—yet he remembered none of them with half as much pleasure. How could he have forgotten?

From the first moment, he and Francesca had felt no constraint in one other’s company. Their initial encounter had effectively done away with the barrier she customarily put up to protect herself from the rest of the world. It was difficult to retain an air of cool reserve when you have just sent a perfect stranger flying into the river! But he rather thought that, even without that sensational beginning, he would have found the real Francesca. From the first he had had a strange feeling of kinship with her that he was sure she had felt, too.

He pulled a chair up to the window and sat down, his eyes fixed on the untended lawns of Witham Court without seeing them. The years faded away and what he saw was the sun, glinting through the leafy branches of the trees down on to the stream which formed the boundary between the Witham and Shelwood lands. He had come with his cousin Jack—he would never in those days have been invited for himself. Jack’s father had begged Marcus to go with his son, for the play there was deep, and Jack a compulsive gambler. It hadn’t worked.

Heedless of Marcus’s attempts to restrain him, Jack had wagered vast sums, more than he possessed, and had lost to everyone, even including his cousin. After a disastrous night of yet more hard drinking and gambling Jack, quite unable to honour his debts, and mindful of his father’s words the last time he had asked for more money, had attempted to shoot himself—a dramatic gesture, which his cousin and friends had fortunately frustrated.

Marcus smiled wryly. Jack had survived the attempt to take his own life, but it hadn’t done him much good. Just a few years later he had fallen at Waterloo along with so many other, better men. Marcus blanked out the thought of Waterloo—the memory of that carnage was best forgotten. He got up and went to the door.

‘There you are, Marcus! I was just about to send someone to look for you. Charlie’s waiting for us.’

Marcus suppressed a sigh, then smiled. ‘How charmingly you look, Charmian. That dress is particularly becoming. Do you know where Nick is?’



Later that night, when the company was relaxing over an excellent supper, he was reminded again of Francesca. Charmian brought up the incident on the road that afternoon.

‘And then we met this scarecrow of a girl! Nick pushed her into the ditch, and I swear it seemed the best place for her!’

She looked magnificent in a wine-red silk dress, her black hair piled high and caught with a diamond aigrette given to her by Marcus in the heyday of their relationship. An impressive array of other jewels—trophies from her many admirers—flashed about her person, but they glittered no more brightly than her dark eyes. She was in her element, flirting with Marcus, making the others laugh with her wicked comments on London life, and teasing a besotted Nick about his driving, laughing at him over her fan.

Nick flushed and muttered, ‘The horses were scared of the thunder. And she just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Oh, but, Nick darling, you were marvellous, I swear! Then Marcus got down and went to see what had happened—the wretched girl had vanished. Just the odd boot waving in the air, covered in mud. Pure rustic farce. Marcus insisted on going to see if she was all right, and of course she was, once he’d pulled her out. But what a sight! There she stood, draped in mud and weeds, a quiz of a sunbonnet stuck on her head. But Marcus seemed quite taken with her. I began to think he had fallen in love at first sight with this farmyard beauty.’ She paused dramatically. ‘I was almost jealous!’

There were shouts of disbelief and laughter and Charmian smiled like a satisfied cat. ‘But I haven’t finished yet—you must hear this—it beats all the rest. She wasn’t a village girl at all, it seems. Marcus said she owned most of the land round about. A positive heiress in disguise, looking for a prince. So which of you is going to rescue her, muddy boots and all?’

Marcus walked over to the side and helped himself to more wine. He said nothing.

‘I wager it was Fanny Shelwood,’ said Lord Witham.

‘Shelwood?’ said one of the others. ‘Of Shelwood Manor?’

‘Yes—her mother was Verity Shelwood. Now, ask me who her father was…No? I’ll tell you. Richard Beaudon.’ There was a significant pause. ‘D’you see? The girl was sired by Richard Beaudon, but her name is Shelwood. Not Beaudon. Adopted by her grandfather. You follow me?’

Having ensured by sundry nods and winks that his guests had indeed followed, Lord Witham went on in malicious enjoyment, ‘I don’t suppose many of you know about the Shelwoods. They keep quieter now than they used. But when the old fellow was alive, he was always boring on about the company I invited down here. As if it was any of his business! A bunch of killjoys, the Shelwoods. I told him more than once—a chap can have a few friends in his own house if he wants, can’t he? Have a bit of fun?

‘But Sir John never liked me—a real holier-than-thou johnny, he was. And then—’he started to grin ‘—and then old Sir Piety’s daughter kicks over the traces with Rake Beaudon, and runs off to the West Indies with him. All without benefit of clergy.’

‘You mean that girl is a…a love-child?’ breathed Charmian. ‘The poor thing! So very plain, too. It hardly seems fair. But who was Rake Beaudon?’

‘You never met him? A great gun, he was. Played hard, rode hard, had more mistresses than any other man in London. Didn’t give a damn for anyone.’

‘I don’t think I’d have liked him,’ said Charmian.

Lord Witham smiled cynically. ‘Oh yes, you would, my dear. The ladies found him irresistible. That’s how he managed to seduce the daughter of old Straight-lace Shelwood himself. Didn’t profit from it, though. Sir John disinherited her. Refused to see her again. That’s probably why Beaudon never married her.’

‘Then why is this Fanny girl here now?’

‘Father packed her off when her mother died. Didn’t want to be saddled with a bastard, did he? Cramped his style a bit.’

‘If she’s coming in to the Shelwood estate, I wouldn’t object to making an offer and giving her a name myself. Tidy bit of land there,’ someone said. ‘I could do with it, I don’t mind telling you. Shockin’ load of debts to clear.’

‘Don’t think of it, Rufus, old dear. Waste of time. Charmian’s wrong to say the girl owns the land. She don’t own anything, and, what’s more, she never will. The estate belongs to her aunt, and she wouldn’t leave her niece her last year’s bonnet. Hates little Fanny.’

‘I find this all quite remarkably tedious,’ said Marcus, yawning. ‘I don’t mind gossip—Lady Forrest’s latest Society on-dits are always worth hearing—but…what one’s neighbours in the country get up to…really! The last word in boredom.’

‘Don’t stop him, Marcus! I’ve finished my fund of stories, and I find this quite fascinating!’ said Charmian. ‘Come, Charlie. Tell us the rest. It’s just the thing for a good after-supper story. What did this Fanny do?’

‘Oh, it wasn’t Fanny who dished Cassandra Shelwood. It was her mother. Verity Shelwood stole her sister’s beau—the only one the poor woman ever had.’

‘Rake Beaudon was going to marry Cassandra Shelwood? I don’t believe it,’ said the man called Rufus.

‘It hadn’t got as far as that. But he was making a push to fix his interest with her. He wanted the Shelwood money, y’see, and Cassandra was the elder sister. But when he saw Verity, he lost his head, and ended up running off with her. Not surprised. The elder Miss Shelwood was always a hag, and Verity was a little beauty. Tiny, she was, with golden curls, brown eyes—a real little stunner.’

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 was an ominous silence. Then, ‘What the devil did you do that for?’ he roared. ‘Are you mad?’

‘…I…’ Francesca had a cowardly impulse to run away, but she suppressed it. ‘I wanted to save you.’

‘Wanted to save me? From what?’

‘From drowning.’

‘I don’t think much of your methods—’He stopped suddenly and looked down. The stream was unusually low—the water barely came up to his knees. ‘In this?’ he asked. The irony in his voice was gall to Francesca. She blushed and hung her head.

‘I…I didn’t think,’ she confessed. ‘I just ran down the hill without pausing to consider—then I couldn’t stop, so I…I…er…I pushed you in. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? I should think you might be, indeed!’ He took a step towards the bridge, then said irritably, ‘Damn it, my boots are full of water, I can hardly move. Help me out, will you? I need a pull up.’

‘But I’ll get wet myself!’

‘So you will. Now give me your hand—just to give me a start, so I can get a hold on the post there. It won’t take much once I’m moving.’ He looked up and said impatiently, ‘Come on, girl—stir yourself! What are you waiting for?’

She extended a reluctant hand. It wasn’t just that she was afraid of getting wet. To get too close to a perfect stranger—especially one who was staying at Witham Court—was a touch foolhardy. And anyone so handsome was almost certainly a rake!

‘For God’s sake, girl, give me your hand properly! What are you? The village idiot?’

Francesca was noted in the neighbourhood for her withdrawn manner, and most people found her almost unnaturally reserved. But at these words, she forgot years of self-restraint, and flamed into anger. Handsome or not, this oaf’s rudeness had gone too far! He needed a lesson. So, without a thought for the consequences, she let go of his hand and shoved him back into the water. ‘I don’t think I want to help you after all,’ she said coolly, and walked away across the bridge.




Chapter Three


With a roar of fury, Marcus struggled to his feet, waded clumsily to the side, scrambled up the bank and caught up with her halfway up the hill.

Francesca gave a cry of fright as he grabbed her by the arm and swung her round. ‘Now, you little wretch, you’d better explain yourself before I give you what you deserve.’

‘Let go of me!’

‘Not till I have an explanation. And you’d better make it a good one. Or are you the sort of Bedlamite who does this as a regular sport?’

‘I’m not the lunatic!’ Francesca cried. ‘I tell you, I was trying to stop you from drowning—you said you wanted to.’

‘But I didn’t mean it, you…ninny!’ he said, giving her a shake.

Francesca lost her temper yet again. She pulled herself free, but though she took a step back, she made no attempt to escape. ‘How was I to know that?’ she blazed at him. ‘You stood on that bridge, draped over the water like a…like a weeping willow, and said you were going to drown yourself! How was I to know you were playacting?’

‘A weepi—a weeping willow!’ he said, outraged. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about! I wasn’t feeling quite the thing—I had a headache! A hangover, if you must know. But I wouldn’t be such a clunch as to do away with myself. Why on earth should I?’ He had glared at her. ‘And if I did, I’d find a better way than to try to drown myself in two feet of water! What rubbish!’

‘Then why did you say you would?’

‘I didn’t, I tell you.’ She opened her mouth to contradict him, but he held up a hand and said slowly and distinctly, in the tones of one talking to an idiot, ‘I was expressing unhappiness. I was just unhappy.’

‘Well, you deserve to be! People who are rakes and who gamble all their money away deserve to be unhappy!’

‘Gamble all my money aw—You are a lunatic! An impertinent, lunatic child! What on earth do you mean? I’m not rich enough to gamble any money away! Anyway, I won last night, damn it!’

‘A fine story! If that’s the case, why are you so worried about facing your uncle?’

The young man’s eyes narrowed and he said slowly, ‘You little sneak! You were eavesdropping—that conversation was private!’

Francesca was instantly abashed. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help hearing it—I certainly didn’t do it intentionally. I really am very sorry. Please, please forgive me. I meant well, really I did.’ She looked up at him beseechingly. ‘I promise I shall forget all about that conversation, now that I know you don’t really mean to…to—you know.’

He was staring down into her eyes, seemingly fascinated. Francesca’s heart thumped, but she didn’t—couldn’t move. He muttered, ‘A lunatic child, with witch’s eyes…I’ve seen you in paintings…’ and he slowly drew his finger over her cheekbone and down her jaw. He held her chin and lowered his head towards her…Then he jerked back, and said in astonishment, ‘I’m going mad. It must be the hangover.’

Francesca was not sure what he meant, but said nervously, ‘And…and now I shall go home.’

‘No, don’t!’ He took her by the arm once again and marched her into a patch of sunshine. ‘I still want my explanation…You’re shivering!’

Francesca thought it wiser not to explain that this was due to nerves and reaction to his hand on her arm, rather than to feeling cold. She said nothing.

‘Sit in the sun here—you’ll soon be warmer. Now, where were we?’

‘I was telling you I’d heard you say you wanted to drown yourself because you’d gambled away all your money. And I was trying to stop you. But I forgot how steep the bank was, and I got carried down the slope and…and I pushed you in.’ Francesca was gabbling, as she often did when nervous.

‘I suppose it makes some sort of inverted sense,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful that you meant well—though I still think I’d have been better off without your help.’ He looked down thoughtfully at his sodden clothes…

Francesca tried, and failed, to suppress a giggle. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘Much better off. You squelch when you walk, too!’ and, after another vain struggle with herself, she went off into a gale of laughter.

For a moment he looked affronted, but as she laughed again at his face he smiled, then he, too, was laughing. The atmosphere lightened considerably.

‘Look, let’s sit down here for a moment, and you can help me with my boots while you tell me the story of your life.’

‘Well, that’s a “blank, my lord”,’ she said, as he sat down on a fallen tree trunk and had stuck his foot out.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Down there, at Shelwood. With my aunt.’ Francesca tugged hard and the boot came off, releasing a gush of water over her dress. She gave a cry. ‘Oh, no!’

‘It will dry. Now, the other one.’ She cast him a reproachful look, but gingerly took hold of the second boot. She took more care with this one but, when it came away with unexpected ease, she lost her balance, tripped over a root and fell flat on her back. The second boot poured its contents over her. She got to her feet hastily. ‘Just look at that!’ she cried.

‘I am,’ he said. Francesca was puzzled at the sudden constraint in his voice. ‘I…I seem to have made a mistake. I thought you a child.’ He swallowed. ‘But it’s clear you’re not. You may be a lunatic, but you’re all woman—and a lovely one, too!’

She looked down. The water had drenched the thin lawn of her dress and petticoat, and they were clinging to her like a second skin. The lines of her figure were clearly visible.

‘Oh, no!’ Desperately she shook out her dress, holding it away from her body. ‘I must go!’

‘No! Please don’t. Your dress will dry very soon, and I won’t stare any more. Look, if you sit down beside me on this log I won’t be able to. We could…we could have a peaceful little chat till your dress dries. I’d like to explain what I meant when I was speaking to Freddie.’

She looked at him uncertainly. He was really very handsome—and he seemed to be sincere. Perhaps not everyone at Witham Court was a rake. But…‘Why did you call me lovely,’ she asked suspiciously, ‘when everyone else says I’m plain?’

‘Plain? They must be blind. Sit down and I’ll tell you why I think you lovely.’ This sounded like a very dangerous idea to Francesca. So she was at something of a loss to understand when she found herself doing as he asked. She kept her distance, however—she was not quite mad.

‘Is Freddie the man you were with?’

‘Yes—we were talking about my c—about someone we both know. He lost a great deal of money last night. He…he wasn’t feeling well this morning, and we’re worried about him. But you don’t really want to talk about this, do you? It’s a miserable subject for a lovely morning. Tell me about yourself. What were you doing when you saw us? On your way to a tryst?’

‘Oh, no! I…I don’t know anyone. I was drawing—oh, I must fetch my book and satchel! I dropped them when I ran down the hill. Excuse me.’

She jumped up, glad to escape from the spell the deep voice and dark blue eyes were weaving round her.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘But you haven’t anything on your feet!’

‘So? I’ve suffered worse things than that in the army. And I want to make sure you don’t disappear. You’re my hostage, you know, until we are both dry.’ She looked at him nervously, but he was laughing, as he got up and took firm hold of her hand. ‘Where is this book?’

They soon found the orchid plant she had been drawing, and her sketch pad and satchel were not far away. He picked the pad up, still holding her with one hand, and studied it. ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Who is your teacher?’

‘Madame Elisabeth.’ She blushed in confusion. ‘I mean Madame de Romain. My governess.’

‘Let’s get back into the sun. My feet are cold.’ They collected the satchel, then went back to their tree trunk and sat down. This time it seemed quite natural to sit next to him, especially as he still held her hand in his. ‘Will you show me some more of your work?’

Francesca coloured with pleasure. ‘Of course!’ she said shyly.

From then on, he directed his considerable charm towards drawing her out, and Francesca found herself talking to him more freely than she had with anyone for years. Sometimes, she would falter as she found his eyes intent on her, looking at her with such warmth and understanding. But then he would ask a question about some detail in one of the pictures and she would talk on, reassured.

There came a moment when she stopped. ‘I…I haven’t anything more to show you—not here,’ she said. When he didn’t immediately answer, she looked up, a question in her eyes.

‘Why did you say you were plain?’ he said slowly.

‘Because I am! Everyone says so.’

‘No, you’re not, Francesca. You’re like your sketches—drawn with a fine, delicate grace.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ she said, nervous once again.

‘I’m not flattering you!’

‘No, I’m sure you mean to be kind. But it isn’t necessary. I’m really quite used to my looks. Please—if you carry on talking like this, I shall have to go. My dress is dry now. Your things are dry, too.’

‘How old are you?’ he asked abruptly.

She hesitated. Then, ‘Seventeen,’ she lied. When he looked sceptical, she had added, still lying, ‘Almost.’

‘It’s young. But not too young. Have you ever been in love?’

‘Me?’ she asked, astounded.

He laughed at her then, and let go of her, but only to put both of his hands on her shoulders. ‘Yes, you,’ he said.

‘Certainly not!’

‘There’s always a first time,’ he murmured. He drew her closer. ‘What about kisses? Have you ever been kissed?’

‘Not…not often,’ she whispered, hypnotised by the blue eyes gazing into hers. ‘My grandfather, sometimes.’ She swallowed. ‘I suppose my father did. I…I can’t remember.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant. I meant…this.’ He lowered his head and kissed her gently. Francesca felt as if she had just had been hit by lightning. The strangest feeling overcame her, a feeling compounded of fear and pleasure, chills and warmth, a feeling that she ought not to be doing this—and an urgent wish for more.

‘That was nice,’ she breathed, bemused and hardly knowing what she said.

They were now standing up, face to face. ‘Put your arms round my neck,’ he said softly. She took a step forward and slowly lifted her arms. ‘That’s right. Then I can put mine round you—like this.’ He pulled her closer and kissed her again, not gently this time. Francesca gave a little cry and he relaxed his grip immediately. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘No. I…I didn’t expect…I didn’t know…’ She tightened her arms and pulled his face down to hers. ‘Kiss me again,’ she said.

A world of unimaginable delight opened now for Francesca. Absurd though it was, she felt safer than ever before in this man’s arms, and more alive than ever before. He was in turn gentle, then passionate, charming, then demanding. He called her his idiot, his love, his witch, but she didn’t hear the names—only the warmth and feeling in the deep voice. He laughed at her lack of guile, but tenderly, as if her vulnerability had disarmed him.

And, just occasionally, he sounded uncertain, as if he, too, was unable to understand what was happening to them. They were both lost in a world of brilliant sunshine and glinting shadows, of whirling green and gold and blue…

Perhaps it was as well that they were recalled to their senses before the situation went beyond recall. Shouts in the distance proved to be those of Freddie, looking for Marcus. Marcus swore, then whispered, ‘Tomorrow? In the morning? Here?’ Then he kissed her once more, got up and turned down the hill. ‘Here I am,’ he had shouted. ‘What do you want?’

Once again, Francesca listened to their conversation from her hiding place.

‘It’s Jack. He’s asking for you. And your uncle’s coming down to Witham. Thought you’d like to know. What the devil have you been doin’ all this time, Marcus old fellow?’

‘Er…nothing much,’ Marcus said…



Francesca was startled out of her memories and brought back to the present day by a brilliant flash, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder. The storm was now imminent. She quickened her pace. But her thoughts were still on the girl she had been nine years before.

‘Nothing much’—she ought to have taken warning. But at the time she had been totally dazzled, bewitched. It had been so easy, she thought, for a man of his experience and charm. And she had been so gullible. She had met him the next day, of course, pleading to Madame Elisabeth that she was ill, so that she was excused her morning lessons. And this had not been so far from the truth—she had been ill, gripped by a fever, a delirium which suppressed all her critical faculties, all thought of self-preservation. She winced now as she remembered how eagerly she had run up the hill to meet him again all those years ago.



She had to wait some time before Marcus appeared; when he arrived, he seemed preoccupied. She felt a chill round her heart—did he despise her for being so open about her feelings the day before? They walked in silence for some time, she waiting for him to say something—anything to break the constraint between them.

‘You’re very quiet, Francesca,’ he said finally.

Francesca was astonished. He was the one who had not spoken! And now he was accusing her, in such a serious voice…he did despise her! ‘I…I’m not sure I should have come,’ she said.

‘Why?’

Francesca hesitated. She didn’t know the rules of this game, and accustomed though she was to rejection, she was afraid to invite rejection from this man. It would hurt too much.

‘I didn’t behave well yesterday.’

‘When you pushed me into the stream? I’ve forgiven you for that.’

‘No—afterwards.’

He stopped, turned and took her hands. ‘You were…wonderful. But I was wrong to kiss you.’ He fell silent again.

After a while, she asked timidly, ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re far too young. Because you’re innocent. Because Jack’s father arrived this morning to take him home, and…and, Francesca, I have to leave with them. I was only here in the first place to look after my cousin. And I failed.’

For the life of her, Francesca could not hold back a small cry. He swore under his breath, and said, ‘I ought to be whipped. I failed him and I’ve hurt you, and that was the last thing I wanted. Believe me.’

Francesca pressed her lips tightly together. She would not plead, she would not beg. This was the very worst rejection she had ever suffered, but she had hidden her distress before, and she would not show it now. But it was taking all the resolution she had.

‘You needn’t feel too badly,’ she said finally. ‘I knew you were staying at Witham Court, after all, but I still let you kiss me. That’s only what rakes are expected to do, isn’t it?’

‘Rakes!’

Francesca hardly heard the interruption. She continued, ‘You needn’t feel sorry for me—I enjoyed it. And they were only kisses. I daresay I shall have many more before I am too old to enjoy them. When…when I make my come-out and go to London.’ She had even managed a brilliant smile. ‘My father will fetch me quite soon, I expect. He said so just the other day in one of his letters.’

‘Francesca.’ He said her name with such tenderness that she was almost undone.

‘So you can kiss me again, if you like. Just to show that it doesn’t mean very much.’

‘Oh, Francesca, my lovely, courageous girl! I know just how much it meant to you. God help me, but how could I not know? Come here!’

He kissed her, at first gently, as he had the first time. But then he held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe, kissing her again and again, murmuring her name over and over again. But gradually the fit of passion died and he thrust her away from him.

‘It’s no use,’ he said, and there was finality in his voice. ‘My uncle is right—I have nothing to offer you. And even if I had, you are too young. We both have our way to make. It’s no use!’

Then he kissed her hand. ‘Goodbye, Francesca. Think of me sometimes.’ He strode off down the hill, but Francesca could not see him. Her eyes were burning with tears she would not allow to fall.

But that was not the end. Hard though it was, she could have borne that much, could have cherished the memory of his care and concern for her, the thought that someone had once found her beautiful enough to love. But this consolation had not been for her.

Some days later she was standing on the bridge, looking down at the stream, when Freddie’s voice interrupted her unhappy thoughts. ‘You must be the little goddess Marcus spent the morning with the other day,’ he said. ‘He was very taken with you, give you my word! Wished I’d seen you first. Missing him, are you?’

Something inside Francesca curled up. She hated the thought of being a subject of conversation at Witham Court. Surely Marcus couldn’t have done such a thing?

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ she said coldly, not looking at him.

‘Don’t you? Marcus seemed to know what he was talking about. Never seen him so much on the go, and he’s known a few girls in his time, I can tell you. Very good-looking fellow. But he did seem taken with you. We were all no end intrigued, but he wouldn’t tell us who you were. It was Charlie who said you must be the Shelwood girl. Are you? Marcus was right about the figure, though I can’t see your face. Why don’t you turn round, sweetheart?’

Francesca shut her eyes, bowed her head and prayed he would go away.

‘Don’t be sad, my dear! Ain’t worth it! It wouldn’t have lasted long, you know, even if he hadn’t had to leave with Jack and his father. It never does with these army chaps. Off and away before you can wink your eye. And if you cast an eye around you, there’s plenty more where he came from.’

She would have left the bridge, but he was blocking the way.

‘Cheer up, sweetheart! It’s always the same with the army. Rave about one woman, make you green with envy, and then before you know it they’re over the hill and far away, making love to another! Seen it m’self time and again. Mind you, I’m surprised at Marcus—leaving Jack lying there in misery while he pursues his own little game. And a very nice little bit of game, too, from what I can see. Come on, sweetheart, let’s see your face.’

When Francesca shook her head and turned to run back to the Manor, he ran after her, caught her hand and pulled her to him. ‘You shan’t escape without giving me a kiss. You were free enough with them the other day, from all accounts. One kiss, that’s all, then I’ll let you go, give you my word. Give me a kiss, there’s a good girl.’

‘Fanny!’ For the first time in her life, Francesca was glad to hear her aunt’s voice. Miss Shelwood was standing a few yards away, with Silas, her groom, close behind. Her face was a mask of fury. Francesca’s tormentor let her go with a start, and took a step back.

‘Come here this instant, you…trollop!’ With relief, Francesca complied. Her aunt turned to Freddie. ‘I assume you are from Witham Court, sir. How dare you trespass on my land! Silas!’ The groom came forward, fingering his whip.

Freddie grew pale and stammered, ‘There’s no need for any violence, ma’am. No need at all. I was just passing the time of day with the little lady. No harm done.’ And, within a trice, he disappeared in the direction of Witham Court.

‘Take my niece’s arm, Silas, and bring her to the Manor.’ Miss Shelwood strode off without looking in Francesca’s direction. Silas looked uncomfortable but obeyed.

Francesca hardly noticed or cared what was happening to her. All her energies were concentrated in a desperate effort to endure her feelings of anguish and betrayal. She had believed Marcus! She had been taken in by his air of sincere regret, had thought he had been truly distressed to be leaving her! And while she had lain awake, holding the thought of his love and concern close to her like some precious jewel in a dark world, a talisman against a bleak future, he had been joking and laughing at Witham Court, boasting about her, making her an object of interest to men like Freddie. It was clear what they all thought of her.

Oh, what a fool she had been! What an unsuspecting dupe! She had fallen into his hands like a…like a ripe plum! Her aunt could not despise her more than she already despised herself. She had been ready to give Marcus everything of herself, holding nothing back. Only Freddie’s timely interruption had prevented it. She had indeed behaved like the trollop her aunt had called her. Occupied with these and other bitter thoughts Francesca hardly noticed that they were back at the Manor.

Miss Shelwood swept into the library, then turned and said coldly, ‘How often have you met that man before?’

Never. Francesca said the word, but no sound came.

‘Answer me at once, you wicked girl!’

‘I…’ Francesca swallowed to clear the constriction in her throat. ‘I have never seen him before.’

‘A liar as well as a wanton. Truly your mother’s daughter!’

‘That’s not true! You must not say such things of my mother!’

‘Like mother, like daughter!’ Miss Shelwood continued implacably, ignoring Francesca’s impassioned cry. ‘Richard Beaudon was at Witham Court when he first met your mother. Now her daughter goes looking for her entertainment there. Where is the difference? No, I will hear no more! Go to your room, and do not leave it until I give you permission.’

Exhausted with her effort to control her feelings, Francesca ran to her room and threw herself on her bed. She did not cry. The bitter tears were locked up inside, choking her, but she could not release them.



In the weeks that followed, she castigated herself time and again for her weakness and stupidity. She, who had taught herself over the years not to let slights and injuries affect her, to keep up her guard against the hurt that others could inflict, had allowed the first personable man she met to make a fool of her, to destroy her peace of mind for many weary months. It would not happen again. It would never happen again.

Her aunt remained convinced that Francesca had been conducting an affair with Freddie. Francesca was punished severely for her sins. She was confined to her room on starvation rations for days, then kept within the limits of the house and garden for some weeks. It was months before she was allowed outside the gates of the garden, unaccompanied by her governess or a groom. She was made to sit for long periods while Mr Chizzle, her aunt’s chaplain, expatiated on the dreadful fate awaiting those who indulged in the sins of the flesh.

This last Francesca endured by developing the art of remaining apparently attentive while her mind ranged freely over other matters. Since she felt in her own mind that she deserved punishment, though not for her escapade with Freddie, she found patience to endure most of the rest.

But the worst of the affair was that Miss Shelwood took every opportunity it offered to remind Francesca of her mother’s sins. That was very hard to endure. And, in her mind, the distress this caused her was added to the mountain of distress caused by one man. Not Freddie—she forgot him almost immediately. No, Marcus Whatever-his-name-was was to blame. She would never forgive him.



The first few drops of rain were falling as Francesca found, to her surprise, that she had reached the Manor. She slipped in through the servants’ door—it would never do for Aunt Cassandra or Agnes Cotter, her maid, to see her in her present state. Betsy was in the kitchen.

‘Miss Fanny! Oh, miss! Whatever have you been doing?’

Francesca looked down. The mud from the ditch had now dried and the dress was no longer plastered to her body. But she was a sorry sight all the same.

‘I fell,’ she said briefly. ‘Help me to change before my aunt sees me, Betsy. I’ll need some water.’

‘The kettle’s just about to boil again. But you needn’t fret—your aunt won’t bother with you at the moment, Miss Fanny. She’s had another of her attacks. It’s a bad one.’

Suddenly apprehensive, Francesca stopped what she was doing and stared at Betsy. ‘When?’

‘Just after you went out. And…’ Betsy grew big with the news ‘…Doctor Woodruff has been. Didn’t you see him on your way to the village?’

‘I went through the fields. Did my aunt finally send for him, then? What did he say?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me, Miss Fanny. You’d better ask that maid of hers. Miss Cotter, that is,’ said Betsy with a sniff.

Worried as she was, Francesca failed to respond to this challenge. Agnes Cotter had been Miss Shelwood’s maid for more than twenty years and jealously guarded her position as her mistress’s chief confidante, but Francesca knew better than to quiz her. If Miss Shelwood did not wish her niece to know what was wrong, then Agnes Cotter would not tell her, however desperate it was. So, after washing, changing her clothes and brushing her hair back into its rigid knot, she presented herself outside her aunt’s bedroom.

‘Miss Shelwood is resting, Miss Fanny.’

‘Is she asleep?’

‘Not exactly—’

‘Then pray tell my aunt that I am here, if you please.’

With a dour look Agnes disappeared into the bedroom; there was a sound of muted voices, which could hardly be heard for the drumming of the rain on the windows. The storm had broken. The maid reappeared at the door and held it open. ‘Miss Shelwood is very tired, miss. But she will see you.’

Ignoring Agnes, Francesca stepped into the room. The curtains were half-drawn and the room was dim and airless. Her aunt lay on the huge bed, her face the colour of the pillows that were heaped up behind her. But her eyes were as sharply disapproving as usual, and her voice was the same.

‘I expected you to come as soon as you got in. What have you been doing?’

‘I had to change my dress, Aunt,’ said Francesca calmly.

‘You were here before the rain started, so your dress was not wet. There’s no need to lie, Fanny.’

‘My dress was muddy. How are you, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Well enough. Agnes has a list of visits for you to make tomorrow. I’ve postponed what I can, but these are urgent. See that you do them properly, and don’t listen to any excuses. I’ve made a note where you must pay particular attention.’

Miss Shelwood believed in visiting her employees and tenants regularly once a month, and woe betide any of them who were not ready for her questions on their activities. During the past few weeks, Francesca, much to her surprise, had been required to act as an occasional stand-in, so she knew what to do. Since both she and her aunt knew that she would perform adequately, if not as ruthlessly as Miss Shelwood, she wasted no time in questions or comments. Instead she asked, ‘What did Dr Woodruff say? Does he know what is wrong?’

‘How did you know he’d been? Betsy, I suppose.’

‘She told me, yes. I am sorry you were so unwell.’

‘I’m not unwell! Dr Woodruff is an old woman, and I shan’t let him come again. I don’t need him to tell me what I am to do or not do. Don’t waste any time before seeing those people, Fanny. I shall want an account when I am up. You may go.’

Against her better judgement Francesca said, ‘Can I get you anything? Some books?’

‘Don’t be absurd! Agnes will get me anything I need. But you’d better see the housekeeper about meals for the rest of you. Agnes will let her know what I want. Agnes?’

Francesca was given her aunt’s list, then she was escorted out and the door shut firmly behind her. She made a face, then walked wearily down the dark oak staircase. It was not easy to feel sympathy or concern for her aunt—not after all these years. But she was worried. Whether her aunt lived or died, her own future looked bleak indeed. If no post as a governess was forthcoming, where could she look for help? In spite of her brave words to Marcus, her claim on her father was nonexistent. She had not heard a word from him since she had left the West Indies nearly twenty years ago, and had no idea where he might now be.

The world would say that her aunt ought to do something for her, there was no doubt about that. But Francesca had every doubt that she would. Shelwood was not an entailed estate—Miss Shelwood could dispose of it as she wished—and whatever happened to Aunt Cassandra’s money, her sister’s child would see none of it—nothing was more certain. Her duty, such as it was, would end at her death.

Francesca came to a halt, thinking of the cheerless years since her grandfather had died. She had always been required to sit with her aunt at mealtimes, though the meals were consumed in silence. She was adequately clothed, though most of that came out of her allowance. She had a bedroom to herself, though it was the tiny room allotted to her when she had first arrived as a child of six. She had been taken to church twice every Sunday, and forced to join in her aunt’s weekly session of private prayers and readings with the Reverend Mr Chizzle. But there was nothing more.

Was it that Miss Shelwood could not tolerate the evidence of the shame that her sister had brought on the family? But Sir John Shelwood had never shown any sense of shame. Regret at not seeing his daughter again before she died, at not telling her that she had been forgiven, perhaps, but there had been no sense of shame. There had never been anything in his attitude towards his granddaughter that even hinted at the shocking truth. Strange…



The next morning Francesca rose early; by midday, she had completed her round of visits. She had made notes of complaints and requests, and, in order to satisfy her aunt, had written down one or two criticisms—nothing of any consequence—together with some recommendations. She attempted to see her aunt, but was denied access, her civil enquiries about Miss Shelwood’s health being met with a brusquely indifferent reply from Agnes Cotter. Resolving to see Doctor Woodruff for herself when he called that evening, she left the papers and escaped from the house.

At the end of an hour, she found she had walked off her frustration and anger and was enjoying the woods and open ground above Shelwood. The air was still heavy, however, and swallows and martins were swooping low over the swollen expanse of water left by the storm, catching the insects in the humid air. Francesca watched them for a while, marvelling at the speed and skill with which they skimmed the surface.

But even as she watched, one bird’s judgement failed disastrously. It dipped too low and, as it wheeled round, its wing was caught below the water line. Francesca drew in her breath as it dropped, then rose, then dropped again. By now both wings were heavy with water, and the bird’s struggles to fly were only exhausting it further. It would soon drown.

Without a second thought, Francesca hitched up her skirts, took off her shoes and waded in. The water was very shallow—it shouldn’t be difficult to scoop the bird out.

‘I never knew such a girl for water! You must have been a naiad in your previous existence.’

She recognised the voice, of course. But she said nothing until she had captured the bird and released it on dry ground. Then she said calmly, ‘And you seem to be my nemesis. I lead a very dull, dry life in the normal course of events. Excuse me.’ She bent down and put on her shoes. ‘Let me wish you a pleasant walk.’ She wanted to take polite leave of him, but realised that she had no idea what to call him other than ‘Marcus’. That she would never do again. She started off down the hill without saying any more.

‘Wait!’

She pretended not to have heard, but he came striding after her.

‘I was hoping to learn how you fared.’

‘Thank you—very comfortably. But my aunt is not well—I must get back to her. I know you will understand and forgive my haste. Goodbye.’

‘Not so fast! I want to talk to you.’

The pain in her heart was getting worse. He was still as handsome—more so! The years had added one or two lines to his face, one or two silver strands to the dark hair, but this only increased his dignity and authority, and the blue eyes were as alert, as warm and understanding as ever. The villain! The scheming, double-dealing villain! Where was the lady from the carriage?—if ‘lady’ was the right word! He should be using his charm on her, she might reward his efforts—probably had done so long before now. But she, at least, was old enough to see through him. She was well past the age of innocence!

But none of these uncharitable thoughts showed in her expression as she said coolly, ‘That is a pity. I have no wish to talk to you. I doubt that we now have very much in common. You must find someone else to amuse you.’

‘Is your aunt as ill as everyone says?’

He blurted this out with none of the polish she expected of him. What was he thinking of? Had he heard the rumours and was daring to be sorry for her? Francesca fought down a sudden rise in temper, then said in measured tones, ‘I am surprised that Lord Witham’s guests indulge in village gossip. I would have thought they had other, more interesting, pursuits.’

‘Don’t be such a awkward cat, Francesca—tell me how your aunt is.’

He had no right to sound so anxious. It weakened her, made her vulnerable once again to his charm.

‘I don’t know why such a thing should concern you,’ she said, maintaining her usual air of colourless reserve as she lied to him once again. ‘But if you insist on knowing, my aunt is suffering from the heat. I am sure she will be quite well again in a few days.’

‘That isn’t what I have heard.’

They must have been discussing the situation at Witham Court. Once again she had been made the subject of gossip there. It was intolerable! ‘You must think what you choose, sir. However, I am sure my aunt would not welcome speculation by strangers. And nor do I.’

‘Strangers, Francesca?’

Francesca had been avoiding his eye, but now she looked directly at him. She did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘Whatever happened nine years ago, sir, we were, and are, strangers. Of that I am certain. Now please let me go!’ In spite of herself, her voice trembled on these last words.

He took a step forward, hesitated, then bowed gracefully. ‘Very well. Good day to you, my dear.’

She felt his eyes on her as she set off again down the hill. She hoped he could not see how her hands were trembling, or hear how her heart was pounding.




Chapter Four


Marcus was astonished to discover that, even after nine years, the strange line of communication between Francesca and himself was still there. The horrors of war, the problems and anxieties of peace, the totally absorbing task of learning to run a huge and prosperous estate had caused him to put her out of his mind, but no sooner had they met again than he was once more caught in a strange web—a curious feeling of kinship with her. It was as infuriating as it was inexplicable.

He stood watching her as she went down the hill, and knew, though he didn’t know how, that, in spite of her gallant attempt to deceive him, she was lying about her aunt, just as she had lied to him all those years ago about her future with her father. Francesca was desperately worried about the future. And if the gossip last night had any foundation, she was right to be worried. The impulse to run after her, to shake her till she admitted the truth, then to reassure her, swear to protect her from harm, was almost irresistible.

It was absurd! It had been absurd nine years ago, when he had been a penniless and inexperienced officer in Wellington’s army. At that time, he had been convinced that Francesca was the love of his life, and only the intervention of his uncle had stopped him from making what would have been a disastrous mistake. His uncle had been right—he had indeed forgotten the girl once he was back with the army!

But to find, now, that he had the same impulse to protect Francesca nine years later was ridiculous. A man of thirty, rich, sophisticated and, not to put too fine a point on it, extremely eligible…how London would laugh! He must take a grip on himself, before he did something he would later regret. Shrugging impatiently, he strode off down the other side of the hill.



When Francesca got back to Shelwood Manor she found Agnes Cotter waiting for her. The woman was clearly distressed.

‘Miss Shelwood has suddenly got much worse. But she won’t hear of sending for Dr Woodruff. I don’t know what to do, Miss Fanny.’ The situation must be grave indeed—this was the first time ever that Agnes had appealed to anyone for help.

‘We must send Silas for him straight away,’ Francesca said calmly.

‘But Miss Shelwood will—’

‘I will take the blame, Agnes. Go back to my aunt but say nothing to her—it would only cause her unnecessary agitation. Stay with her till the doctor comes, then I shall take over.’

Dr Woodruff came with a speed that showed how grave he thought the situation was. ‘I knew this would happen. It is always the same in cases like these.’

‘Cases like what, Dr Woodruff?’

‘You mean you don’t know that your aunt is dying, Miss Fanny? No, I can see she hasn’t told you.’

‘You mean she knows?’

‘Of course. I warned her some months ago, but she refused to believe me. A very determined woman, your aunt, Miss Fanny. I’m afraid that very little can be done for her, except to ease the pain. I prescribed laudanum yesterday—perhaps she will accept it now. Take me to her, if you please.’

Francesca went up the stairs with a heavy heart; when she entered her aunt’s room, she was shocked at the change she saw in her. Miss Shelwood was a ghastly colour, and gasping for breath. Agnes was bathing her mistress’s forehead, but when the doctor came in she glided away.

‘What are you doing here?’

Francesca was not sure whether her aunt was speaking to the doctor or to her. She went up to the bed and said gently, ‘It’s time you had some medicine, Aunt Cassandra. Dr Woodruff has something to make you feel better.’

‘I don’t want his morphine! If I’m going to die, I want to die in my right senses! But you can stay. I have something to say to you. A-ah!’

‘Drink some of this, Miss Shelwood. You won’t feel less alert, but it will take away the worst of the pain. And if you wish to be able to talk to your niece, you will need it.’

‘Very well.’ The voice was but a faint thread of sound.

Dr Woodruff held a small vial to the sick woman’s lips, and then stood back. He said quietly, ‘That should make her feel better for a while. I’ll be in the next room.’

After a moment, Francesca said tentatively, ‘You wished to tell me something, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Yes. Box on the desk. Fetch it.’ Francesca did as her aunt asked, then on request opened the box. ‘Letter…underneath.’

The letter was dry and yellow. It began, ‘My dear Cassie’…and was signed ‘Richard Beaudon’.

‘Do you wish me to read it?’

‘Later. No time now. It’s from your father. Richard Beaudon. To tell me my sister had stolen him.’ The dark eyes opened, and they were glittering with malice. ‘Why I hated you. Still do.’

‘Aunt Cassandra, don’t! I have never done you any harm, you know that.’

‘Never should have existed. He’d have married me if she hadn’t told him…told him…’ The voice died away again.

‘Shall I fetch Dr Woodruff?’

‘No! Not finished. It’s the money. Chizzle’s got to look after the money. Told him.’

‘Mr Chizzle? The chaplain?’

‘Don’t be stupid. Who else? Do as he tells you. M’father had no right…A pauper—that’s what you ought to be!’ Miss Shelwood raised herself and stared malevolently at her niece. This time she spoke clearly and with intense feeling. ‘You’d better do what Chizzle tells you—you needn’t think anyone will marry you for love! A plain, dull child, you were. Plain, like me! Not like…’ She sank back against the pillows, and her words were faint. ‘Not like Verity. You’ll never be the hon-eytrap she was.’ The lips worked, then she added, ‘Seen your father in you, though. The eyes.’ A dry sob escaped her. ‘God damn him!’

Francesca was appalled. ‘Please, don’t—I’ll send for Mr Chizzle. He ought to be here—he’ll help you.’

A grim smile appeared on her aunt’s pale lips. ‘I won’t be here myself. Remember what I said, Fanny. Plain and dull, that’s you. She called you Francesca—what a stupid name for such a plain child…Rake Beaudon’s child…’

The voice faded away and Miss Shelwood closed her eyes.

Francesca ran to the door. ‘Dr Woodruff!’

But when the doctor saw his patient, he shook his head. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he said. ‘I doubt she’ll be conscious again.’

‘But…’ Francesca gazed at the figure on the bed. ‘She didn’t have time to think! She didn’t have time to make her peace with the world, to forgive those who had hurt her! And those who hadn’t,’ she added forlornly.

‘Miss Shelwood is dying as she lived. A very unhappy woman,’ said Dr Woodruff, adding drily, ‘But God will forgive her. It’s his job, after all.’

These were the most sympathetic words Francesca was to hear about her aunt. Words of respect, of conventional regret, of admiration for her energy and devotion to duty—all these were paid to her memory. Madame Elisabeth came, but her sympathy was for Francesca. Only Agnes Cotter truly mourned Cassandra Shelwood.



Following her aunt’s death, Francesca underwent a time of confusion and shock. Mr Chizzle was much in evidence, though she wished he wasn’t—his attempts to provide consolation were misplaced, to say the least. The funeral was well attended, and though Francesca was surprised at first, on reflection she decided it was to be expected. Although Miss Shelwood had been something of a recluse, she had, after all, been one of the great landowners of the district. But the biggest shock of all came after the funeral, after her aunt’s will had been read.

The will was very much on traditional lines. Various small sums had been left to the servants, in proportion to their length of service. Mr Chizzle, as the local curate and Miss Shelwood’s chaplain, received a modest sum, Agnes Cotter quite a large one. The rest of Miss Shelwood’s estate was left to a fund for building and maintaining almshouses in a neighbouring town. Francesca’s name was not mentioned in the document.

Gasps of astonishment came from the servants—Betsy even voiced her disapproval out loud. But Francesca herself was not at all surprised. It was a blow, but one for which she had been prepared. The question of a post as a governess had now become urgent, and she decided to consult the family lawyer, Mr Barton, on the best way to set about doing this.

The others finally went. Mr Chizzle took his leave so warmly that Francesca began to wonder whether she had been mistaken in him all these years. He was most pressing that he should come again to see her the next day and, though she was reluctant, she eventually gave in, largely because it was the only way she could be rid of him.

But when she mentioned her intention of seeking a post as governess, Mr Barton was astounded. ‘My dear Miss Shelwood! What on earth for? You now have control of the money left by your grandfather.’

‘It is hardly enough to keep me, sir!’

‘Well, that is a matter of opinion. I should have thought that seventy thousand pounds was enough for anyone! Together with what the Shelwood estate brings in, it is a considerable fortune.’

Francesca sat down rather suddenly on a convenient chair. ‘Seventy…? Do you…do you mean to tell me that my grandfather left his whole estate to me?’

‘Most of it. He left a sum of money outright to the late Miss Shelwood, and the rest was put into trust for you until you reached the age of twenty-five, in November of this year. The arrangement was that, during her lifetime, your aunt would run the estate and receive half of the income from it. The other half was put back into the Shelwood trust, which is why it has now grown to such a handsome fortune.’

‘How much did you say it was?’ asked Francesca faintly.

‘About seventy thousand pounds. The trust was set up for the benefit of you and your children, and has certain safeguards which are in the discretion of the trustees. But you will have more than enough to live on, nevertheless. Shelwood is a thriving concern, and should provide you with an income of about ten thousand pounds per annum. Do you mean to say that Miss Shelwood never told you of this?’

‘No. I had no idea…’

Mr Barton looked uneasy. ‘I have been remiss. I agreed with your aunt that you were too young to be burdened with it at the time of your grandfather’s death, but I ought to have made sure you knew later. But I have to say in my own defence that it simply never occurred to me that she would keep it from you. Why should she?’

‘My aunt…my aunt was a secretive woman, Mr Barton,’ was all Francesca said, however. Aunt Cassandra was dead. No good would be done by raking over the past.

‘Hmm. I knew of course that she was dissatisfied with the arrangement, but still…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I can see that you have had a shock and need time to assimilate the news, Miss Shelwood, so I will not weary you. I should perhaps just add that one, somewhat curious, condition of the trust is that no one else—neither your father, Lord Beaudon, as your legal guardian, nor a future husband could benefit from it. Only you or your children may have use of it.’

‘Since my father has never acknowledged me, he could hardly claim legal guardianship!’

‘You are now of age, of course. But until you were twenty-one, he could always have claimed it, had he wished.’

‘Even though I am illegitimate?’

The lawyer was astounded. ‘Whatever gave you that impression, Miss Shelwood?’

‘I…I was told…that is to say, I…was led to believe that there is no record of my parents’ marriage.’

‘What nonsense! Of course there is! I have all the relevant documents in my safe. Your grandfather gave them into my care just before he died.’

‘But Aunt Cassandra said…Did my aunt know of these documents, Mr Barton?’

‘Why, yes. We discussed them after Sir John’s death.’

So Aunt Cassandra had lied to her, had lied to an eleven-year-old child about her parentage. For so many years Francesca had carried a burden of shame around with her, had worried over her future, had made no effort to be received into society or make friends with the surrounding families, sure that she would be rebuffed. Aunt Cassandra had done her best to ruin her niece’s life in the way that her own had been ruined. How could she?

Perhaps, in her twisted unhappiness, she had convinced herself that her lover had really not married her sister, in spite of incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. Or had she been exacting a terrible revenge on the child of those she felt had wronged her?

‘Miss Shelwood?’

‘Forgive me, I…it has been a shock.’

‘A shock? But why should you think…?’ His face changed. He said sternly, ‘Are you telling me that Miss Cassandra Shelwood, your own aunt, gave you to understand that you were not…not legitimate? I find that very hard to believe, Miss Shelwood. Your aunt was not an easy person to know, but she was generally respected throughout the neighbourhood as a just and upright woman.’

‘I am not telling you anything, Mr Barton,’ said Francesca, forcing herself to speak calmly.

‘But you have obviously been under a misapprehension—for many years. Why did you not consult me?’

‘It never occurred to me to do so. I never thought I had any sort of claim on the Shelwoods, except one of charity.’

‘But this is disgraceful!’

With an effort, Francesca put aside her own feelings of outrage. Her aunt was dead—it would do no one any good to reveal how badly she had treated her niece. ‘Mr Barton, whatever…misunderstandings there may have been in the past, the truth is now clear and we will, if you please, leave it at that. The future is now our concern.’

Mr Barton nodded. ‘You are very wise, Miss Shelwood.’

‘Do you…do you know why my father has remained silent all these years, Mr Barton? Unless…unless he is…dead?’

‘I have no reason to believe he is.’

‘Then…why?’

‘When your parents eloped, Miss Shelwood, Sir John Shelwood refused to have any further contact with his daughter Verity. But when she died, he asked me to write to your father, offering to bring you up in England, and make you his heir. This would be on condition that Lord Beaudon should have no further communication whatsoever with you, once you had arrived at Shelwood Manor.

‘I have to say that I disapproved of the arrangement, and was surprised that Lord Beaudon eventually agreed. Of course, the inducement was a strong one. You were motherless; as the Shelwood heiress your future would be assured, and—I have to say—your father’s previous manner of life was not one in which a young child could flourish.’

Francesca said slowly, ‘I suppose so, but…’

‘However, your grandfather and aunt are now both dead, you are of age, and, in my opinion, it would not be improper for you to meet Lord Beaudon, if you wished.’

‘I…I’m not sure…Mr Barton, you must excuse me. I am…overwhelmed by what you have told me. This change in my circumstances has come as a complete surprise, as you see. But tell me, how many others knew of my grandfather’s will? Why did no one ever indicate something of the matter to me, even if my aunt did not?’

‘You said your aunt was a woman who kept her secrets, Miss Shelwood. She always said she was very anxious that your position as a considerable heiress should not lead others to court and flatter you. She required my silence, and led me to believe it was out of a desire to protect you. As you know, you both led a somewhat reclusive life here at Shelwood. I doubt anyone else knows.’

With this Francesca had to be satisfied. She felt she had had enough for the moment, so asked Mr Barton to come again after she had had some time to reflect on the change in her fortunes. They fixed on the morning of the next day but one.

‘You have been so discreet in the past, I know that you will continue to be so, Mr Barton. I need time to think things out for myself. To decide what I am going to do about Shelwood and my own life.’

The lawyer agreed, then took his leave with a deference that demonstrated, more than any words could have done, Francesca’s new importance as owner of Shelwood and all that went with it.



The fact that Miss Fanny had not even been mentioned in her aunt’s will scandalised the countryside. The news soon reached Witham Court, where there was a certain amount of speculation over her fate, now that she had been left penniless, together with some ribald suggestions. But after a while the company grew bored with this and forgot her in other pursuits. Everyone, that is, except Marcus. Once again he had the urge to seek Francesca out and offer what help he could, but the gossip and lewd suggestions about Francesca’s likely future gave him pause.

What could he possibly offer that would not compromise her further? A girl without money, without friends and without respectable background would have to be more than ordinarily circumspect. She could not afford the risk of scandal. After some thought, he decided that Francesca would be safe at Shelwood for a short while until the lawyers sorted things out. Meanwhile, he would consult his sister about her when he returned to London. Sarah might be able to find something suitable for Francesca—a post as a companion, or governess, perhaps?




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