Chapter Thirteen

Candidate Number Three

Frederica sat in the parlor at Nineteen Fournier, watching Ester and her husband, Arthur Bex, practice lines of Cleopatra. The two were so stinking cute; Bex, tall and dashing, climbing up on a chair like it was a stage and Ester gazing upon him, a cross between a woman in love and a completely stricken audience.

When Bex as Marc Antony grabbed his Cleopatra, Frederica turned her head to the burgundy-papered walls, the white trim and fleur-de-lis, anything to not be a voyeur to their love.

The sounds of a kiss sent Frederica to the window, hoping for Hartwell’s carriage. There were too many lovey-dovey feelings here. It could be infectious, and then her jaded eyes would see sunshine, and rainbows, and hope, even on this foggy day.

Where was the red-haired cynic when she needed him?

He was with his daughters, as he should be.

“Miss Burghley,” Bex said in his deliciously dreamy voice. “I’ll leave you to my wife. Fitzwilliam-Cecil says you two still plot with his wife upon occasion. I’m not one to stop such rebellious activity.”

He bowed, picked up his laurel leaf headpiece, and left the room.

Ester squealed with delight. She was so cute and happy.

And Frederica had never felt more alone and small and jealous in her life. “Slap me hard, Ester. I need a good one to get my head thinking properly.”

Ester put a hand to her hip, wrinkling the lace of her burgundy gown. “Dear, whatever for?”

“Because you and Bex are so lovely, and I’m intruding. Know that no matter how green my face looks right now, I’m happy that you and Bex are in love.”

“We are.” Ester reached her hands out and clasped Frederica’s. “I wish you were, too.”

“Don’t I look happy?”

“No. No, you don’t. Lord Hartwell looked upset.”

“He’s trying to help, but I doubt he understands.”

“Frederica, he likes you. If you concentrated your charms on him, he’d—”

“What? We’d chase each other around the room quoting Shakespeare? He barely stays awake at plays.”

“Until you have been chased by a professional thespian, don’t scoff. It can be quite liberating.”

Frederica laughed and sank into the comfort of the tapestry-covered couch. “Maybe it will be good and dark before he returns for me. I want to pretend to be asleep and not answer any more of his questions. I don’t want to see his pity or hear him apologize for the ills of the world, like it’s his fault that Lady Thorpe or the others snub me.”

Ester stood and went to the pile where her mother’s newspapers were stacked and retrieved blue stationery letters. “I wish you two could get along better. But these came for you.”

Hand shaking, Frederica reached for the familiar notes. “When did these come?”

“About a week ago.” Putting the letters on the table, Ester turned and put her palm to Frederica’s forehead. “You’re so pale, Frederica. Are you sick? The winter fever has been rampant. My sister Ruth and my mother are just now getting over it. And poor Papa didn’t know how to help.”

“I’m fine… No, I need something to drink. Would you mind getting me some tea?”

“Yes,” Ester rose, smoothed her bodice, and headed to the door. “Our housekeeper, Mrs. Fitterwall has just come back from the market. Chamomile from fresh tea leaves?”

“Maybe some chocolate biscuits?”

“Yes, I will see. You can’t get sick if you are determined to have a Yuletide wedding. Nor bring any sickness to Tradenwood. Mama said she’d help if Fitzwilliam-Cecil didn’t know what to do with that baby.”

Drumming the letters over her shaking knees, Frederica nodded. “I’m sure your mother would. She loves babies and weddings. Looks like you and Bex will soon give her the former.”

“Perhaps.” Ester went to the door. “Perhaps.”

As soon as she left, Frederica broke the seal of the first letter. The scripting was familiar. As was his awful endearment: Sweetest.

Sweetest, where are you? My anger burns. Don’t force my hand again.

Again.

The horrible man knew of her connection to Nineteen Fournier? Bad enough he wouldn’t let her be. Now Ester and her family were in danger because of Frederica!

Ester came back with a tray of tea. “I found some biscuits. Mrs. Fitter—”

Her friend put the silver service down and sat beside her.

How long they sat like that, not moving or speaking, Frederica wasn’t sure. It wasn’t until Ester slid the letter from Frederica’s cold fingers that life returned to the parlor.

Ester read the paper then closed it up.

Waiting for the questions, the dressing down that only the brainy woman could give, Frederica braced, but Ester just put her arms about her.

For the first time that day, she crumpled and leaned on a friend, someone who understood her, the anguish and exhaustion of being strong so the world wouldn’t know how her insides kept shattering. She didn’t have to explain this to Ester, and she didn’t have to exchange her peace for pity.

“You’re not alone, Frederica Burghley. We will figure out who wrote these notes. We’ll figure everything out.”

If Theodosia and Ester’s love alone could fight this villain, the man would have no chance, but she wouldn’t risk their families or the careful worlds they’d built.

Once Frederica had her own husband, a place of her own, her friends would be safe. This cretin would know she was gone to him forever.

Her plan to wed by Christmas was the best for everyone, despite what the errand-running viscount said.

…

Jasper’s carriage stopped at his father’s townhome. He didn’t like leaving Frederica, even if she was in the safety of the Bexeleys’ home in the remote area of Fournier Street. He wanted to be at her side but had to spare her the horrible things his father would imply. Crisdon was Crisdon. Jasper had learned that a lifetime ago.

But didn’t silence spawn more Lady Thorpes and fewer angels?

He hit one palm against the other. He should’ve persisted and made sure his friend was fine. She was more withdrawn and skittish than ever.

Jasper climbed out and looked at the slushy streets of London. The sun would be setting in an hour. The night air would drop, but not so much as to freeze and make the streets impassable. He’d be able to take Miss Burghley to Tradenwood, where Jasper could be assured she’d be safe, even if she wouldn’t talk with him.

The Duke of Simone’s house was two streets away. If the man were home, he’d give him a piece of his mind and warn him about his friend Thorpe.

He’d been at the duke’s celebration, hadn’t he?

Yes, he had.

That brooch had to be Burghley’s. Frederica was excellent with details. It was her special gift. But as much as he hated to admit it, only the duke could make such an accusation and be taken seriously. But Simone wasn’t here.

Bundled up in his scarf and coat, he tamped his hat over his ears to keep the wind from giving him a chill as he marched up the steps and into the townhome.

Lydia, his middle girl, sat at the top of the grand stairs snuggling a doll.

“You’re staying healthy, moppet.” The girl bounced up and started to run, but then must have thought better of it. She slowed, lifted her head, and eased down the steps. Such a burgeoning young lady. Modelling Lady Crisdon and his oldest, Anne. When Anne wasn’t leading them astray.

“Papa,” Lydia said, “Are you alone?”

“Yes, your uncle is at Tradenwood with your aunt.”

“No Miss Burghley?”

“Why would you expect her, moppet?

“Grandfather. He was telling the countess that she should get more used to seeing her.”

“He was, was he?” Crisdon must be feeling better and up to mischief.

Lydia poked on a brass button of his waistcoat. “You’ll be coming for us before Christmas. We’ll be spending the whole Yuletide together.”

“Of course. Christmas season is with my girls. November is…is almost over.”

Lydia lunged at him, and he picked her up and swung her about.

She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a good squeeze. “I’ll hold you to that. We won’t even play any tricks. So glad you haven’t changed your mind. And we are sorry. We wanted to be with you this month to cheer you up.”

Frederica had kept him so occupied he had not even been miserable grieving Maria. He hadn’t made himself silly drunk, either. He gazed into Lydia’s light blue eyes. “You promising no tricks definitely brings me cheer. But why would you think I wouldn’t come back for you for Christmas?”

“Grandfather said you would busy eating oats. I know how much you like horses, but why would you eat their food? Won’t Cook make us a goose?”

“Yes. There will be goose and plum pudding” He set his daughter down. “Is the earl in the parlor down the hall?”

Lydia nodded.

“Get Lucy and Anne. I have exactly enough time to play each one of you in checkers. Prepare to lose, Miss Fitzwilliam. Scoot, while I talk to your grandfather.”

As his moppet went up the stairs, Jasper marched down the hall to the room which his father had commandeered and turned into a study.

Once inside, he saw the earl sitting by the fireplace. The man’s face looked rosy. His thin frame was covered in a deep blue robe with matching slippers on his feet.

“Father, we need to talk.”

“What is it, Hartwell? You need us to keep the girls through the holidays?” The man snickered then coughed. And it wasn’t his usual dry cough. This one was wet and rattled.

“You’re still not feeling better, Father?”

“The blasted thing is going around, and this place is drafty. Not like Grandbole.” He sipped from his mug. “As I was saying, if you want more weeks of indulgence, just ask. You’ve increased profits by twenty percent this year. You’ve earned a reward in the off season.”

“The profits are up because I’ve taken my sister-in-law’s advice. The hothouses have made our selling season more durable.”

“They are good for something. Your brother’s woman has a head for business.”

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil, his wife, is an asset to the family.”

With an arched brow, the man reared back his head, showing a hairline given to receding. “Hartwell, you’ve pushed me aside, but I am still entitled to my opinions.”

Jasper stalked a little farther inside and put his back against a bookcase—one simple set of shelves, so different from Grandbole’s library, the one that now served as Jasper’s study and a place to entice Frederica with chocolates. “I suppose you own your opinions, even if they are wrongheaded.”

“But that’s the difference between you and your brother. You accept me. And you’ve done your best to be respectable and upright. So if you need an extra week of bedding your mistress, take it. The countess enjoys the girls about.”

Backhanded compliments. Ah, Crisdon’s special talent. “Could you tell me who this mistress is? I think I am missing out on some much-needed enjoyment.”

“Simone’s girl.”

“Frederica Burghley is no mistress. She’s getting married.”

“To whom?”

“At the moment, she’s choosing between a vicar and a barrister.”

“That’s rich, son. The illicit daughter of a duke marrying a vicar or someone of the legal profession? Rich.”

“Miss Burghley is a sweet young lady. I’m thinking she shouldn’t marry, either, but not for your reasons.”

“Now, don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re deliberate. And you certainly shouldn’t keep a cow of your own, when you could have a quart of milk for a penny.”

“A Bunyan reference, Father? And you tease Ewan for his love of literature. But please understand, Miss Burghley is no cow. I don’t believe she has ever sold or given away milk.” Jasper moved to the window. The fog had lifted a little, and the puddles glistened with the rays of the setting sun. If the weather stayed just so or there was a light dusting of snow, Christmas would be beautiful. “But, Father, I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous, my boy.” Crisdon made a long slurp. “Nothing good comes from that.”

“I’m beginning to think I don’t want her milk to be available to anyone, but maybe an heir. Or maybe no one, with childbirth being so dangerous.”

Crisdon groused loud, then coughed harder. “You can’t get an heir from a mistress. You know that. Good gracious, you’re not thinking of marrying Simone’s bastard? Think of your girls, their reputations.”

Jasper gripped Crisdon by the lapel and jerked him up. “Father, don’t ever call her that again. Never. Not in my presence, or in your beady little cranium.”

Laughing and coughing, Crisdon guffawed. “So she has you.”

Unclenching his fingers, Jasper dropped his father back into the chair.

“I’m not thinking of remarrying any time soon, but if I were, and I chose Frederica Burghley, I would be honored to have her hand.” And the rest of her for that matter. “Even your jaded perspective must acknowledge Miss Burghley’s connections are high. Her father is the Duke of Simone. The new Duchess of Simone is a duke’s daughter, too.”

Crisdon’s face remained unmoved, untwisted by some new revelation of seeing Frederica Burghley as a whole person, a worthy person. “Why are you telling me this, Hartwell? You want my blessing?”

“No, I’m not stupid enough to expect a miracle. I’m just thinking aloud.”

“Hartwell, you’re a good son. You are entitled to your thinking. You are.”

It wasn’t an endorsement, but it was more than Jasper had expected. He nodded. “I’m going to beat all my girls at checkers. If you feel up to it, you could come to try to beat me. You were pretty good once.”

“I was. I taught you everything.” The earl sipped on his tea. “Everything, and maybe you learned some things I didn’t teach you.”

Jasper turned and closed the door. The problem was, he was thinking, thinking about the best way to protect his friend, give her the kindnesses she deserved, and selfishly keep access to all of her for himself. No vicar’s or barrister’s pastures for her. He had a lot of thinking to do about his friend who was determined to marry by Christmas.

As he stepped back into the hall, slushy cold snow dumped onto his head. Looking up to the second floor, he saw Lucy and Anne falling over laughing. They’d emptied a big bucket upon him. “Towel, someone.”

Wiping his face, he shook his head. “At least it wasn’t paint.”

He dried his head as fast as he could. He needed to stay healthy. Catching a cold now wouldn’t be the best. He needed a clear head to think about his predicament with the lovely Butterfly.