Page 62 of The Wedding Challenge

Callie, who had eaten little, mostly pushing her food about on her plate, looked at Francesca with an eagerness she could not disguise. “Do you think so? Truly? There will be talk.”

“There is always talk,” Francesca retorted. “But you have shown everyone that you are not hurt, that you scarcely notice or care that one of your admirers has fallen out. It has been two weeks now that you have carried on, and I should think that is adequate to set most of the tongues to rest.”

“But I know that people must be gossiping about how I behaved last night,” Callie said, grimacing. “I wish that I had been better able to control myself.”

“Pray do not worry about that. What happened last night will only add verisimilitude to our story. You were suddenly struck ill. That is why you left the party. For that to be believable, you must continue to be ill for at least a week, I should think. Perhaps even two. Who knows? Perhaps your illness will require a return to the country to recuperate.”

Callie smiled faintly. “That sounds very nice, I must say. But I am not sure I wish to be at death’s door.”

“Well, perhaps not. Everyone will plague you with questions about it. Elaborate lies can be so difficult to maintain. Perhaps just a week or so, then, and after that you may venture out a little. But I shall insist, of course, on your taking care. You must not exhaust yourself and cause a relapse.” Francesca smiled, her cheek dimpling in that way she had that made it almost impossible not to return her smile.

“Very well,” Callie gave in. “You have convinced me. I will not deny that seeing no one will be a vast relief.”

“Then it is done,” Francesca decided with a nod. “I shall fulfill our social obligations alone for the next few days—though I feel that I should reduce them, of course. After all, I must devote myself to taking care of you, or else what sort of friend would I be?”

So that afternoon Callie retired to her bedroom with a book, leaving Francesca downstairs to entertain whoever happened to call. She was, as she had told Francesca, greatly relieved not to have to pretend a calm and good cheer that she most certainly did not feel. Indeed, she was not certain that she would have been able to maintain such a front.

Her eyes were still swollen and red-rimmed from her bout of crying last night, followed by a long night with little sleep, broken more than once by a fresh outpouring of tears. It was a wonder, she had thought this morning, that she had any tears left in her body, yet she had found herself blinking away the moisture in her eyes as she looked at the dress that Belinda had laid out for her—it had been the one she wore the first time Bromwell had come to call on her.

She had missed his presence for the past two weeks, but the exchange between them the night before had left her desolate. She knew now, beyond any doubt, that he would never be part of her life again. She had come so close to love. It made the loss that much keener.

Or perhaps, she thought, it was too late. She was beginning to wonder if perhaps she had, at last, finally fallen in love…with a man who would never marry her.

FRANCESCA WAS SITTING at her desk early the next afternoon, wondering how it was that paying her bills had gone so smoothly for the past month, especially when they had eaten so well and had not scrimped on coal or candles, either. She suspected strongly that it had something to do with the duke’s agent having come to discuss Lady Calandra’s expenses with her butler. She could not decide whether Fenton had managed to squeeze a good deal more money out of the duke’s agent than was deserved or the duke had instructed his man to pay more than was necessary, which left her uncertain with whom she should be cross. Of course, she knew that she would never get the truth out of Fenton, who was the most closemouthed creature ever.

When the butler entered the room, she thought for a fleeting second that her thoughts had conjured him up, but then he announced that Lady Pencully had come to call and was awaiting her in the formal drawing room. This news was enough to drive all thoughts of numbers straight out of Francesca’s head.

No matter how old Francesca was or how long she had been managing her own affairs, Lady Odelia never failed to make her feel as if she were a schoolgirl again. Somehow, when Lady Odelia raised her lorgnette to gaze at her, Francesca was always sure that the woman spotted everything that could possibly be wrong with her.

She wished, in a quite cowardly way, that she had not decided to pretend that Callie was feeling ill. For all her youth, Callie never seemed to feel intimidated by her great-aunt.

Francesca took a peek in the small mirror beside the door to make sure that her hair was in place and there was no errant ink smudge on her face before she left the room, smoothing down her skirts as she went. Lady Odelia was always impossibly early in her calls, Francesca thought, so she could not even hope that other callers might interrupt the visit.

“Lady Odelia,” she said, smiling brightly and offering the older woman a polite curtsey as she entered the drawing room. “How very nice to see you. I am surprised that you have not yet left the city. Do you intend to stay for the Season?”

“Hallo, Francesca.” The older woman gestured toward the seat beside her, as if she were the hostess here rather than Francesca. She was dressed, as usual, in garments at least ten or fifteen years out of date, her graying hair dressed up in a high sweeping hairdo decorated by feathers. “Sit down, girl, don’t make me crane my neck to look at you.”

As Francesca sat down, Lady Odelia continued, “I haven’t decided yet, actually. I was not planning to, but I have felt quite invigorated since my party. Nothing like turning eighty-five to make one wonder if one really should be rotting away in boredom in Sussex.”

“Many people enjoy a visit to Bath, especially in the summer,” Francesca offered.

“Yes, well, I haven’t come here to discuss travel plans,” Lady Odelia said briskly.

“No, of course not,” Francesca agreed, wondering if the old lady had come up with some other scheme for which she sought Francesca’s help. Her last one had involved marrying off one of her great-nephews, Lord Radbourne. Of course, that had turned out well all around, but still, Francesca could not help but feel a little leery; Lady Odelia was quite adept at putting other people to work for her.

“Your man Fenton tells me that my great-niece is ill,” Odelia went on.

“Yes, she is.” Francesca hoped that Lady Odelia could not see that she was lying, another of the things that Francesca was always sure Lady Odelia could do. “She came down ill the day before yesterday at Lady Whittington’s musicale.”

“Ill—or just missing that rapscallion Bromwell?” Lady Odelia asked shrewdly.

“Lady Calandra had no expectations of Lord Bromwell,” Francesca replied smoothly. “Why, she barely knows the man. I believe she first met him at your birthday ball.”

“Yes, well, time isn’t always what matters,” Lady Odelia pronounced. “Damn the boy. I don’t know what got into him. I understand he has gone back to his estates. I had hopes for him and Callie. Ah, well…” The old lady shrugged. “She won’t be wanting for suitors long.”

“No, I am sure not.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Lady Odelia asked abruptly.