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Francesca
by
Sylvia Andrew

Sylvia Andrew taught modern languages for years, ending up as
Vice-Principal of a sixth-form college.  She lives in Somerset with two
cats, a dog, and a husband who has a very necessary sense of humour,
and a stern approach to punctuation.  Sylvia has one daughter living in
London, and they share a lively interest in theatre.  She describes
herself as an 'unrepentant romantic'.

FRANCESCA

Sylvia Andrew

Recent titles by the same author:

SERAFINA

MILLS BOON'

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if you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was
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the publisher has received any payment for this book.

4H the characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole o in
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V.

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trademarks of the publisher.

First published in Great Britain 1997

Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

Eton House, 1824 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TFF9 !  SR Sylvia
Andrew

ISBN 0 263 80380 5

Set in Times 10 on !  1 pt.  by

Rowland Phototypesetting Limited

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04-9709-76884

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Chapter One

Lightning was flickering over the hills ahead, and, now and then came a
distant roll of thunder--a storm was on its way.  The field workers had
given the day and were hurrying home before the storm i the children
clinging to their mothers' skirts, fathers ing the littlest ones on
their shoulders.  But they smi the shabbily dressed young woman who
passed the the outskirts of the village, and greeted her with re:

Miss Fanny was on her own way home to the l where she lived with her
aunt, Miss Cassandra Shell Though she was wearing an old dress and a
tattere bonnet, though all the world knew that her mother run off with
a well-known rake and had never be again, all the same, Miss Fanny was
the late Sit Shelwood's granddaughter.  She and her aunt were ti of a
long line of Shelwoods who had owned most and round about for as long
as anyone could rem

Miss Shelwood had a heart of stone---ever yon afraid of her--but Miss
Fanny was usually very fri Today she seemed preoccupied.  Perhaps what
they saying about her aunt's health was true after all.  were long
faces at the possibility, for what would to the estate if--when--Miss
Shelwood died?  It w

Francesca 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
Sbelwood 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 l Ve 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

Francesca 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.
'1 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

Francesca 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 fava de 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 willJ

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 allowancenough 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 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 east 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.  '1 remember her laughing, too.  She used to
laugh

Francesca 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."

Francesca "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

Francesca 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 Tiny 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 ut 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 Sbelwood went on, "So you
see, Fanny, a marriage is most unlikely

Francesca 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 creel manner in
which her aunt had told her of her situation.  It had been like
crashing 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

Francesca 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 where 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

Francesca 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.  A 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--4here 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 ut 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 nan owed 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.  "Understand

Francesca ably, 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.  Tm 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

Francesca presently.  But allow me to say that you were standing like a
moon ling 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 moon ling

"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 mad, 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 fur there road is quite dreadful---but do make
haste.  What is the delay?"  The dark eyes turned to Francesca.  "Good
Lord!  What afilthy 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

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

'l 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 coume--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 homes 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?"

'l think you've done enough!  Now, for heaven's sake, leave me in
peace! " The gentleman looked astonished at the violence in

Francesca

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 exrcised 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 fores tailed 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 1oos 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 suppose dot 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 reigned surprise, he went on, "Come, Charmian.
You don't usually underestimate my intelligence so badly.  You are
quite ruthless in

Francesca 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."

Francesca "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 Came 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, rid died as they were with clever
johnnies--academics, politicians, reformers and the like!  But they
found Came 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', be
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

Francesca 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 Came was
quite disgustingly rich.  Once his cousin Jack fell at Waterloo, it was
inevitable that Marcus would inheit the Came 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 Came 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

Francesca 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 Came's twin elder sons, had both been killed in a coaching
accident, then Jack had fallen at Waterloo.  Lord Came 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

Francesca 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 windoTM 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

Francesca 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, Charm
Jan 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 marvelous, 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

Francesca quite taken with her.  I began to thihk 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?"

"Yeser mother was Verity Shelwood.  Now, ask me who her father was...
No?  I'll tell you.  Richard Beaudon."  There was a siguificant 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 wit bout benefit of.  clergy

Francesca "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.  'l could do with it, I don't mind telling you.  Shoekin'
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 Charm Jan "Come, Charlie.  Tell us the
rest.  It's just the thing for a good after-supper story.  What did
this Fanny do?"

Francesca

"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

She turned to Witham.  "Marcus doesn't think she's

"You may ignore her, Witham.  I made the 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 to tell them to stop their lewd, offensive
gossip about a who had never done any of them any harm.  But second
thoughts had enter the lists on her behalf

Francesca 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 hack, 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.  ghe 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

Francesca 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 light skirt 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 along
the banks of the stream that ran down the two were both shirt

Francesca 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 if us."

"Course you're not, Marcus!  Rich as Croesus, your uncle."

Francesca

"He trusted me, I tell you!  And he's sworn not to pay not her 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'!1 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?"

Francesca "I... 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 1owhe 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 strangers specially 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

Francesca 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 straggled 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 wee pi---a weeping willow!"  he said, outraged.  "You

Francesca 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 lunch 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--Icertainly 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

Francesca 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'hough 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.

Francesca

"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 hand-some--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 VII tell you why I think you
lovely."  This SOunded like a very dangerous idea to Francesca.  So she
was at something of a loss

Francesca 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.9 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.

Francesca

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 youot 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 sketcheswn 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

Francesca blue eyes gazing into hers.  "My grandfather, sometimes."
She swallowed.  "I suppose my father did.  I ... l 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 phi led 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,
channing, 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

Francesca 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
irmninent.  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

Francesca 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.

Francesca

"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!  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 con gem for her,
the thought that someone

Francesca 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 whs 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

Francesca 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

Francesca 49

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.

Francesca

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.

Francesca 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

Francesca 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 Agues 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.
Agues 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

Francesca 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!  Agues will get me anything I need.  But you'd better
see the housekeeper about meals for the rest of you.  Agues 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 bet brave words to Marcus, her claim on her father was
non-existent. 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.
Sbelwood 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

Francesca 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

Francesca 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

Francesca 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
effortsrobably 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--4ell 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."

Francesca "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 we!!.
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 math, 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 We!  ington's army.  At that
time, he had been convinced that Francesca was the love of his life,
and only the

Francesca 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
hert 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

Francesca 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 yesterdayerhaps 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?"

Francesca "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 honey trap 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

Francesca 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'
tis 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

Francesca 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.

Francesca

"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?"

Francesca "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?"

Francesca

"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."

Francesca 'l .  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 She!wood.
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

Francesca

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?

When they got to London, Marcus delivered Lady Forrest to her house in
Chiswick, and went on without further ceremony to see his sister,
depositing Nick on the way.  But Lady Chelford was not at home, and
Marcus found to his annoyance that she would not be able to see him
till the next morning.  He spent the night haunted once again by
Francesca's image, and was relieved when morning came and he could go
round to Duke Street.

But here he was doomed to disappointment.  Lady Chelford, somewhat put
out at having to receive her brother at a ridiculously early hour, was
unhelpful.

"Marcus, when will you direct your considerable talent for helping
others into more suitable channels?  I am sure your family could do
with your counsel, and ... and help."

"My dearest Sarah, you need neither!  Your husband may be a touch
stuffy, but he is perfectly sound financially, and has a great deal of
common sense.  Too much so!"

Francesca "But he does not understand the children as you do!  He is
talking of sending Charlotte to a seminary!  He says she needs the
discipline of school life."

"Since the child has had four governesses in as many months, I am not
sure I disagree with him there, Sally."

"Then there's Nick... He is so often at odds with his father."

"There's nothing wrong with Nick that can't be cured by a little
experience.  He'll soon grow up.  Indeed, he showed surprisingly good
sense at Charlie Witham's."

When his sister looked doubtful, he added impatiently, "Sally, he's no
gambler, I promise you.  In any case, I'll keep an eye on him.  Now,
what can you do for Francesca Shelwood?"

"Why are you so anxious about this girl?  She's nothing to you, is she?
Is she, Marcus?  It would never do!"

"My God, women are all the same!  Your imaginations leap from a slight
comment, a simple desire to help someone who badly needs it, to wedding
bells and the rest.  No, I have no personal interest in Francesca
Shelwood.  I simply wish to preserve her from a fate she does not
deserve!  Now, can you help or not?"

"It's all very well, but you cannot reasonably expect me to come up
with instant ideas for a girl who has no experience and no ...
background!  What would my friends say if I foisted Rake Beaudon's
love-child on them as a governess or whatever?  This is yet another of
your quixotic impulses and I have suffered from these before!  Ever
since you were a child, you have leapt in to help those you regarded,
often mistakenly, as less fortunate than yourself.  Your reformed
pickpocket, whom I placed as a groom with Lady Castle, ran off with a
selection of her best si!  er, and she hasn't forgiven me yet.

"Then there was the widow of a serviceman, a certain Mrs.  Harbottle,
whom I took on myself as an assistant

Francesca housekeeper.  She created havoc in the servants' quarters
before I managed to get rid of her.  I have no doubt there have been
others, if I chose to remember them.  No, I will not help you.  "

"This is different, Sarah!  Miss Shelwood is a lady!"  "She cannot be a
lady if, as you tell me, she is Rake Beaudon's illegitimate daughter.
I'm sorry for the girl--it sounds as if life has treated her most
unfairly---but I cannot help you.  And if you wish the girl no harm,
you will stay away from her.  Tongues will soon wag if you are seen to
be taking an interest, however platonic it is."  "Dammit, of course I
mean her no harm!"

"Then leave her alone."  There was a short silence, then she said
irritably, "I suppose I'll have to find something--if I don't, I can
see you marrying the girl out of a more than usually stupid attack of
conscience.  And I owe you something for looking after Nick.  If you
wish, I will keep an ear open for anyone who seems to be looking for a
companion, and is not likely to ask too many questions about the girl's
breeding.  But I warn you, such a one is most unlikely to be an
agreeable employer."

Marcus left Duke Street in an even gloomier frame of mind.  It was
clear that Francesca was doomed either to penury, or to life as a
drudge, unless something intervened, His sister's words haunted him
throughout the night; by the morning, he had come to a desperate
decision.  He set off for Shelwood later that day.

Francesca was not given much opportunity to consider her situation in
peace.  First, Agues Cotter left Shelwood after a final, mercifully
brief, interview, then Madame Elisabeth called to sympathise and to
renew her offer of help, though she did not stay long, either.
Francesca was glad of this--her old friend would be the first to know
of the change in her circumstances, but not yet.

Francesca But the other servants and people on the estate trailed in
one after the other, anxious to express their concern, both for Miss
Fanny and for their livelihood.  It took all her ingenuity to deal with
them tactfully and reassuringly, without telling them anything of the
changes in store.

The morning after the funeral, Mr.  Chizzle arrived to keep his
appointment.  Francesca was still reluctant to receive him.  She had
never liked him.  He had been unctuously ingratiating with Miss
Shelwood, but had followed his patron's example in dealing with her
niece.  His manner to Francesca had always been either indifferent or
suffocatingly condescending.  And she found it difficult to forgive
those hour-long sermons on the question of her moral welfare after her
escapade with Freddie.  But she made herself welcome him.  He was
probably fulfilling some duty to Aunt Cassandra, who had mentioned him
that last afternoon.  Was it to do with the money she had left him?

"Miss Fanny--'

"Mr.  Chizzle, you have known me since I was a child, so l suppose it
is difficult for you to think of me as Miss Shelwood--as I now am.  But
if you insist on using my Christian name, I should like you to use the
correct one, which is Francesca, not Fanny."

Mr.  Chizzle.  was full of confusion and fulsome apologies.  Then he
took up a position in front of the fireplace and began sonorously, "I
hope you will not condemn me, or think me presumptuous, if I claim a
certain interest in your happiness, Miss Francesca.  I like to think we
have always understood one another very well, and that my efforts
towards providing you with spiritual guidance and comfort over the
years have not been unappreciated."

"Of course," Francesca said, somewhat confused.  This was a different
Mr.  Chizzle from the one she had been used to.  What could account for
it?  She was quite certain

Francesca that no word of yesterday's revelations had reached any other
ears.  What was this about?

After some small talk, in the course of which he expatiated on the
virtues of her aunt--a subject which was hardly likely to make him
popular with his audiences-he said gravely, "Your dear aunt, your late
and sadly mourned aunt, was much exercised in her mind about what would
become of you after she had passed on to higher things--an
inexperienced girl, lacking any protector, and, dare I say, with
certain unfortunate propensities--' Francesca straightened up at this,
and he said with a kindly smile '--though these seem to have been
somewhat subdued of late.  But your aunt did me the honour of confiding
her anxieties to me, and I have to say that I shared her fears."

"Your concern does you credit.  But I assure you, sir, it is misplaced.
I am in no need of protection or guidance."

Mr.  Chizzle smiled, and he shook his head in tolerant understanding.
"My dear Miss Francesca, that is precisely the problem!  You are too
young, too ... headstrong to see it.  You need someone--someone with
maturer wisdom--to save you from the many pitfalls that life presents.
Someone such as my humble self, perhaps."

"Well, if I should ever feel the need for a friend-' Francesca began
doubtfully.

"Ah, I shall not allow your modesty to cause you to misunderstand.  Nor
should you let the thought of your shameful birth----or any incident in
the past--give you pause, either.  Let him who is without sin... I do
not regard it, I assure you.  I am here, Miss Fanny, to tell you that
my dearest wish--and that of your aunt as expressed to me on her
deathbed--is to share your life, to give you' companionship where there
is loneliness, guidance where there is confusion, wisdom where
there--'

'1 am not sure what you mean, sir.  Can you be more plain?  Are you .
can you be asking me to marry you?  "

Francesca Mr.  Chizzle, put somewhat off his stride with this blunt
question, mopped his brow and said that he was.

"I see."  Francesca turned away to hide her expression.  Then she
turned back and asked calmly, "Did my aunt discuss with you the terms
of my grandfather's will before she died, Mr.  Chizzle?"

"As it happens, she did mention it, yes.  We both saw the inheritance
as a source of danger to you and a temptation to unscrupulous men,
attracted by your riches, rather than your ... lovely self."

"I see," said Francesca flatly.  "So you knew about the money."

"But I flatter myself that you would not dream of ascribing a mercenary
motive to my efforts to secure YOur hand and heart, Miss Fanny--'

"Francesca, if you please."

Mr.  Chizzle got somewhat awkwardly on to one knee.  The effort made
his face red, and he mopped it once again before saying, "My heart is
all yours, believe me, dearest Francesca, without any taint of
venality. Even had it not been your aunt's dying wish that we two
should carry the burden of the great Shelwood inheritance together, had
you been the merest pauper, as bereft of fortune as you are bereft of
name--I should still have offered you all I have--my admiration, my
heart and my life."

"I ... I am flattered, of course.  That you should be prepared to
overlook the stain on my birth means a great deal to me.  And what it
pleases you to call my ... propensities.  But I cannot permit you to
compromise your own good name, dear sir.  Why, what would less worthy
people say?  That you are prepared to marry a has--love-child as long
as she is rich enough?  That sin can be washed out in a stream of
investments?  That the Shelwood gold can persuade you to overlook the
Shelwood shame?  It is unthinkable!  No, much as I am touched by
your... Francesca disinterested offer, I'm afraid I must decline it."

"But your aunt assured me---she said you would be fortunate to find a
man willing to marry you--'

"My aunt is dead, Mr.  Chizzlc.  My fortune was never hers to give
away.  And though I am sure that you have a noble indifference to the
personal possession of wealth, I should tell you that any future
husband of mine will have no control of the Sbelwood inheritance. Under
the terms of the trust set up by my grandfather, the income remains
mine and later that of my children, even after I marry."  Her suitor's
jaw dropped.  He looked rather like a stranded fish, thought Francesca,
somewhat unkindly.  She said, "Do please get up."

Mr.  Chizzle recovered himself and rose with commendable dignity.
"Your aunt warned me," he said sadly.  "You do not have that nobility
of character a man should seek in his wife.  I had hoped that with
precept and discipline we should succeed in subduing the baser aspects
of your nature.  But it is not to be.  To impute mercenary motives to a
man who wishes merely to protect you, to save you from the dangers that
surround a young girl left alone..."

He gave a great sigh, then turned to go.  "Mr.  Chizzle!"  Yes?  "

"My aunt, as patron of the living of Shelwood, had full confidence in
your discretion.  I trust that I may repose equal confidence?"

The chaplain drew himself up, then said coldly, "Your threats are
unnecessary, Miss Shelwood.  I wish to forget an episode which has been
painful in the extreme.  I will not mention this matter-or you-4o
anyone.  Anyone at all.  Goodbye."

Francesca could hardly wait for him to leave.  She straggled with a
wild desire to laugh at the ridiculous picture Mr.  Chizzle had
presented, bending his spindly,

Francesca black legs in a travesty of a suitor's supplication, his face
scarlet with his exertions.  But then she was overcome with a feeling
of sadness.  So much for romance!  Was Mr.  Chizzle merely the first in
a succession of such suitors?

It was clear that the Shelwood estate and seventy thousand pounds were
attractions which would more than compensate for any shortcomings in
herself.  Well, let the suitors come!  And in her own time and at her
own choosing, she would take a husband--but she doubted very much that
she would be in love with him, whoever he was.

The sound of a carriage coming up the drive sent her to the window.
Another visitor come to commiserate!  She was in no mood for yet more
verbal fencing.  What she needed was time to herself--time in which she
could come to terms with her new situation.  It looked as if she was
soon going to have to learn to deal with fortune seekers, if the last
half hour was anything to go by.  She would escape through the kitchen,
while the visitor was waiting at the front of the house.

But here she miscalculated.  The visitor had taken his carriage round
to the stables; as Francesca came out through the gate to the kitchen
garden, she was confronted with a tall, handsome, self-assured figure.
She stopped dead.

"Good afternoon, Miss Shelwood."

"What are you doing here, sir?"  she asked, ungraciously.

"I heard of your aunt's death.  I want to talk to you, Francesca."

There was a silence.  "Well?"  said Francesca.  "I'm listening."

Marcus hesitated, then said, "It ... it is a somewhat private matter.
May we go inside?"

Chapter Five

Francesca led the way in silence to the small pa dour where the
ridiculous scene with Mr.  Chizzle had so recently taken place.  But
the tall, elegant figure that followed her in presented a very
different picture from that gentleman.  She was puzzled.  What was
Marcus doing here?  What did he want of her?  She stole a glance at
him.  He looked calm enough, but there was an air of reluctance about
him--as if he was being driven down a road he was not quite sure he
wanted to travel.

"And now?"

"Francesca, I want you to marry me."

Francesca sat down suddenly.  Whatever she had been expecting, it had
not been another proposal.  A feeling of apprehension chilled her
bones. Perhaps Mr.  Chizzle and Marcus were not so very different after
all?

He went on.  "Forgive me if I express myself a little abruptly--I know
this must come as a surprise to you.

Though our acquaintance is longstanding--'

"Nine years," she said expressionlessly.

"Nine years--it has been short in terms of hours and minutes we have
spent with one another."

"Very short."

"But I have always felt a ... a communion of spirit with

Francesca you, and believe we could make as good a marriage as any
other I have seen.  " " Always?  " " Always what?  "

"Always felt this communion of spirit, as you call it?"

"Damn it, you know we share it!"

"I thought we did, certainly.  Nine years ago.  But you said that you
were poor, that you had nothing to offer me, that we each had our own
way to make.  I remember what you said, you see.  I was ... quite
distressed at the time."

"I know.  I behaved badly, Francesca.  I never intended to hurt you,
but I know I did.  Please forgive me."

Francesca carried on as if he had not spoken.  "Then you disappeared
for nine years.  We met by chance in the lane the other day--you hadn't
come to seek me out.

Indeed, at first you didn't even recognise me.  "

"You will allow that that was unsurprising.  Your dearest friends might
not have recognised you in all that mud."

"You are right, of course.  In spite of the " communion of spirit", as
you called it.  Er ... I still don't quite under stand this proposal of
marriage, however.  Are you now trying to say that you have loved me
all this time unknown even to yourself?."

"Of course not!  Look, nine years ago you were very young, without a
penny to your name, and I was an ill-paid soldier.  Marriage was out of
the question."

"And now?"  asked Francesca.  Try as she might, she could not keep the
cynicism out of her voice.

Marcus was too intent on what he was saying to notice.

"But things are different now!  And I feel I could give you the
protection, the support that you lack in your present circumstances.
You need a man to take care of you, give you the things you never
had--'

A sudden vision of Mr.  Chizzle saying very much the

Francesca same thing, not an hour before, flashed through Francesca's
mind.  "Thank you, but I really don't need anyone," she said.  "I have
plenty of money---enough for everything I need.  I see you've heard the
news."

"Yes."

"I wonder how?  Did you know that I have seventy thousand pounds,
too?"

He smiled, the old quizzical, deceitfully tender smile.  "That much?"
Then he came over to her, took her hand and kissed it.  "My dearest
girl!  Still the same, gallant spirit!"  She waited in stony silence.

He eyed her closely, then said with an air of admiration, "Well, I
admit, that puts icing on the cake.  It does indeed.  Seventy thousand
pounds, ay?  A great deal of money."

When she still said nothing, he put his arm round her and drew her to
him.  "But you know.in your heart that I'd want to marry you, whatever
your dowry, Francesca.  I'd marry you even if you had nothing, if you
were a pauper.  Come, stop prevaricating.  Say you'll let me look after
you for the rest of your life.  I swear you won't regret it."  His
manner was tender, but somewhat complacent.  There was no suggestion
that he was uncertain of the outcome.

Francesca badly wanted to stay calm, to deal with him as she had dealt
with Mr.  Chizzle, but, as always seemed to be the case with this man,
her emotions were getting the better of her.  It was obvious that he
expected her to fall into his arms as easily as she had done all those
years ago.  That she would be so dazzled by his blue-eyed charm, so
blinded by the powerful attraction he knew he could exercise, that she
wouldn't see the greedy self-interest' behind it, the desire to better
himself at her expense.  She must have given him a pretty poor opinion
of her wits during their brief affair, indeed she must!

Her efforts to hide her rage and humiliation were

Francesca choking her.  Mr.  Chizzle had been bad enough, but this was
ten--4twenty times worse.  She suddenly lost the battle with herself,
and gave vent to her feelings.  "I won't pretend to feel grateful or
flattered," she said, thrusting him violently away.  "I don't need
looking after; to be honest, I think you'd marry me if I had a squint
and a wooden leg, as long as I had the rest."

"What the devil are you talking about?  I'm offering you the protection
of my name and all that is mine."

"Really?  Well, I wouldn't marry you if you had five hundred thousand
pounds and half of England for your heritage!  My father was a charmer
and a scoundrel, a rake and a fortune hunter, who didn't give a damn
for the hurt he caused.  The last thing I want is a husband just like
him!"  "Now, listen to me, young lady--'

"No, I will not listen to you!"  Years of distress and resentment rose
up inside Francesca as she stormed on.  "I listened nine years ago,
when you charmed me off my feet and then told me you had nothing to
offer me.  At the time I was fool enough to believe you sincere.  I
soon learned differently, and it's a lesson I am very unlikely to
forget.

"So, allow me to tell you, sir, that nothing is now what I have to
offer you!  Take yourself and your professions of concern, your offers
of protection, back to Witham Court, or wherever your other ladies are
hiding.  They might listen to you, but I never will---my only wish is
never to see you again!"

He stood, staring at her as if she had gone mad.

"Have I not made myself plain, sir?"  she said passionately.  "Why do
you not go?"

"You have made your opinion of me perfectly plain," he said, rigid with
rage.  "If you really think of me in such terms--though God knows why
you do--then I understand your refusal to marry me.  But I question
the

Francesca need to express yourself quite so offensively, with such
remarkable lack of moderation.  A simple refusal would have sufficed.
We have obviously each been mistaken in each other.  Good day, ma'am.
I wish you well in your future life, and will do my best to comply with
your wish that we should not meet again.  " He bowed and left the
room.

Francesca sat down and buried her face in her hands.  She sat there a
long time, listening to the sounds of his carriage dying away down the
drive.  It was strange how painful the final disillusionment was.  They
had been so close, and so far apart.  They had fought, and made love,
all in the space of one day.  They had met after years of separation,
and now they had quarrelled for the last time.  And the strange thing
was that, during all of this, she had only ever known half his name.

"Marcus!"  she whispered, "Oh, Marcus!"  and then at last the bitter
tears fell.

Marcus drove back to London in a worse temper than he had ever known
before.  He was furious with himself and with Francesca Shelwood.
After all these years, after all the women he could have asked to marry
him and who would have been more than eager to receive his proposal
with delight, he had exposed himself to a refusal from a penniless
nobody! He must have been mad!  His sister had already told him he was
too quixotic---she would think he was out of his mind, if she learned
that he had actually offered to marry Francesca Shelwood to save her
from life as a drudge---or even worse!

His sense of injustice grew.  His motives had been of the purest.  Many
would say he had acted nobly in asking Francesca to be his wife--to
choose a nameless pauper when he might have chosen from any number of
London's most eligible debutantes.  Whatever she said, he didn't for

Francesca one minute believe her claim to have seventy thousand pounds.
She was merely putting on a front, as she had done at least twice
before.  Seventy thousand pounds, indeed!  What a story!  She might
have seventy guineas, but not much more.  The depth of her ingratitude
was immeasurable .  immeasurable!

But why had she refused him so angrily?  Her father's neglect had done
much to sour her view of life---that was obvious.  And his own
behaviour in the past had not been the sort to reassure her.  But to be
so excessively vituperative.  The woman was a neurotic, and did not
deserve his sympathy or his regard.  From this day on he would forget
her.  She could find her own way through life, without any further help
or interest from him!

Unaware of her catastrophic misunderstanding of Marcus's motives,
Francesca did her best during the next few weeks to conquer her
personal unhappiness and concentrate on a seemingly unending series of
tasks and duties.  She accomplished these with grim determination, for
she had formulated a plan and was now working to it.

Thanks to her aunt's behaviour, she had very little experience of
estate business, but Mr.  Barton was an invaluable ally.  He found a
very well-qualified agent to look after Shelwood and, by accompanying
him round the estate, Francesca made sure that it would be looked after
with understanding as well as efficiency.  Sbelwood Manor was partially
shut down for the time being, and again with Mr.  Barton's help she
found new places for one or two servants who were no longer needed.
Betsy was put in charge of the rest.

Francesca intended to visit the Manor occasionally, if only to keep an
eye on its welfare, but she would soon be busy elsewhere.  One piece of
business she was glad to perform.  A deed of gift was drawn up, and
Madame

Francesca

Elisabeth was presented with the cottage she had ten anted for so many
years, and given an increased annuity.

Mr.  Barton had performed one other service for Francesca.  She had
told him that she would like to meet her father, if it could be
arranged.

"Miss Shelwood, I shall do my utmost to find him.  He has been abroad
for many years, of course.  It may take some time.  Leave it to me."

But only a week or two later, he came back to ShelWood.  "I cannot
believe our good fortune, Miss Shelwood!  As you know, I have been
trying to trace your father for you for some weeks without success.  I
had sent a letter to him at Packards, the family home in Hertfordshire,
telling him that your aunt had died, and that I was anxious to get in
touch with him.  Not with a great deal of hope--the house has been
unoccupied these many years.

"But see!  I have here a letter from your father.  It arrived this
morning; I have come post haste to tell you of its contents.  Lord
Beaudon arrived in England only a few days ago, called at Packards, saw
the letter and replied immediately.  He writes that he no longer feels
bound by the promise he made to your grandfather, and would like to see
you again.  He wonders if you would care to visit him in Hertfordshire,
Is that not strange?"

Francesca agreed that it was strange, and asked him to make suitable
arrangements.  She would do as her father had asked.  Mr.  Barton left
happily prepared to do everything necessary to re-unite father and
daughter, and Francesca was left with a curious feeling of apprehension
and excitement.  She decided to ask Madame Elisabeth to go with her to
give her support.

So it was that, in the middle of October, Francesca found herself
gazing curiously around her as her carriage

Francesca her up the long, winding drive to Packards, the Beaudon
family seat.  Madame Elisabeth and Carter, her new maid, sat opposite
her, two grooms were outside, and her new carriage was both comfortable
and stylish.  Her aunt's death was still very recent, so Francesca was
dressed modishly, but quietly, in black.  She was aware that it did not
suit her.

"You are very quiet, Francesca," said Madame Elisabeth.  "Are you weary
from the journey?"

"It hasn't been such a long one, madame.  But I have not been sleeping
very well."  She gave her companion a little smile.  "Meeting my father
after all these years is... a little nerve-racking."

"You will have so much to say to one another."  "You think so?  We
shall see."

Francesca drew a deep breath as she stepped out of the carriage in
front of a wide, shallow flight of steps.  She was ridiculously
nervous. The steps led to a handsome doorway and in front of the
doorway stood a tall figure.  Her heart gave a thump, and for a moment
she thought she was seeing things.  But then the figure moved towards
them; she saw that this man was white-haired and used a stick.  He was
older than she had expected--he must have been well into his forties
when she was born. And, though he had once been as handsome as that
other, his face was pale and lined, and he was very thin.

"Francesca!  My dear child!"  He descended the steps, took her hand in
his and surveyed her.  "I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am to
see you again."

For years, Francesca had resented the way in which her father had
abandoned her, but the chill round her heart was melted a little by the
sincerity of his voice and by the warmth of the expression in his eyes.
She swallowed and said politely, "And I am glad to see you, Papa. May

Francesca

I present Madame de Romain to you?  My friend and companion.  "

Lord Beaudon took Madame Elisabeth's hand and held it to his lips.  In
perfect French he said, "Madame de Romain, what can I say?  It enchants
me to meet you."

Madame Elisabeth smiled and assured Lord Beaudon that he was too kind,
and the little procession moved up the steps into the house.  This took
some time, for Lord Beaudon moved slowly, and the steps themselves were
uneven.

"Packards is not what it once was, I am afraid, Francesca.  I have
lived so long abroad that it has fallen into some disrepair.  But I
have managed to engage some people from the village, and hope to have
it put back into a better state before long."

"You've been in the West Indies?  I often wondered."

"No:--I've lived in Paris for the last few years.  Ever since the
monarchy was restored, in fact."

Francesca wondered what her father's establishment in Paris might
be--was he married?  Did he have a family?  It was not the sort of
thing she felt she could ask.  So she smiled and asked if she and
Madame Elisabeth might refresh themselves after the journey.  They were
given into the care of a housekeeper who took them upstairs to two very
handsome bedrooms.

A short while later, refreshed and tidy once again, Francesca collected
Madame Elisabeth and went downstairs to seek out her father.  She found
him in the library, sitting in front of the fire, but he put down his
book as soon as he saw them.  There was a small silence, a silence
which Francesca found difficult to break.  At last she said, "You must
have been working your servants hard, Papa.  Our rooms look
beautiful."

"I'm glad you like them," he said simply.  Then, as he

Francesca saw that Madame Elisabeth was standing by the door, he added,
"Come, Madame de Romain--you must join us."

"You are very kind, Lord Beaudon but, if you don't mind, I should like
to have some fresh air before it gets dark.  And I am sure that you and
your daughter have much to say to one another.  Will you excuse me?"

Francesca did not want to be left alone so abruptly with a father she
had not seen for nearly twenty years, but Madame Elisabeth smiled
reassuringly and disappeared.

Lord Beaudon seemed to find the situation just as difficult.  He
started by making the usual kind enquiries about her journey, such as
any host might of any guest.  But his mind seemed to be elsewhere
during these exchanges, and he seemed to be observing his daughter's
movements and gestures rather than listening to her replies.  His eyes
seldom left her face.

After a while, however, they both felt easier in one another's company
and he began to talk of old Sir John and the Shelwoods, about the
district and people he had known there.  He even made her smile at his
description of Sir John's battles with the owners of Witham Court.

"And now they're all dead," he said suddenly.  "You are all that is
left of the Shelwoods.  Sir John, Cassie and Verity--they were the last
of the line.  It was tragic that Verity should have been the first to
go. She was younger than Cassie by a good ten years."

"So much?"

"Cassie was the eldest child, then there were two boys who died in
infancy, then lastly your mother.  Everyone wanted me to marry
Cassandra Shelwood, you know and I very nearly did.  It seemed a fair
exchange."

"A fair exchange?"

He smiled kindly at her.  "I expect your head is full of romantic
notions about marrying for love-but in the world I was brought up in,
we married for advantage,

Francesca and sought pleasure elsewhere.  And that is what I fully
intended to do.  You wouldn't have liked me in those days, Francesca--I
was even more cynical than most of my contemporaries.

"I met Cassandra Shelwood just at the point when my fortunes were at
their lowest, and I was beginning to feel that I ought to settle down,
but was without the resources to do so.  In my youth I had indulged in
every folly known to man, and my reputation was such that no parents in
their right mind would entrust a young girl to my care."

"They told me you were a rake.  Rake Beaudon, they called you."

"I deserved the name.  But then someone introduced me to Sir John
Shelwood.  Sir John didn't approve of me, but he was quite content to
see me marry his elder daughter.  Cassie was past thirty when I first
got to know her, and he wanted to see her married.  They both thought
she was perfectly capable of keeping me in line."

"You ... you didn't ever pretend you loved her?"

"Oh, no.  There was never any question of love between us.  An
establishment was what she wanted, and preferably a title.  But then I
met your mother... Against all the odds, I fell in love.  I could never
have married anyone else after that."

Francesca kept very still.  This was a very different tale from that of
the heartless rake who seduced his fiancee's sister!  She felt she was
hearing the real story for the first time.

"Cassie was very bitter.  Although I had not actually committed myself,
she expected me to marry her.  Nothing I said could pacify her.  Sir
John stormed and ranted.  He was prepared to accept me as a husband for
Cassie, but would not contemplate entrusting his precious little girl,
his lovely Verity, to a rake and adventurer!  But Verity..."

Francesca he gave a laugh "Verity said we should have to run away.

"Up to that point I hadn't even realised that she was in love with me!
I told her it was impossible, that I had nothing, and that her family
would almost certainly cut her off without a penny if we eloped.  She
didn't care.  I was twice her age and twice her weight--but she
outclassed me and everyone else I knew for courage.  Gaiety, too.  She
was always laughing."

'l don't remember her very well, but I remember her laughter.  And her
bedroom--it was pretty.  "

"Yes, she liked pretty things.  I had a rundown estate in the West
Indies.  We ran off to Gretna, were married and went out to St. Marthe.
Then, soon after you were born, she became ill ... and eventually she
died..."

There was a pause while Francesca composed herself to ask the question
that had tormented her for so many years.  She carefully suppressed any
feeling of resentment and her voice was neutral as she said, "Why' did
you send me away, Papa?"

"I was no fit company for a child after I had lost your mother.  What
else could I have done?  Your grandfather sent word to say he was
prepared to give you a home--' " But I already had a home with you on
St.  Marthe!  " " It wasn't ahome without your mother.  I couldn't bear
to stay there, but I didn't know where to go or what I wanted to do.  I
certainly didn't want to return to England.  I thought I was doing the
right thing for you by sending you to your grandfather.  But it was a
pity that they wouldn't keep Maddy.  "

"Papa, what happened to Maddy?  Did she go back to St.  Marthe?"

Lord Beaudon hesitated, then said, "Yes..."

"I missed her so much.  I'd like to think she is well and happy.  Is
she, do you know?"

Francesca

"I think so, yes."  The was a touch of restraint in Lord Beaudon's
voice, but before Francesca could pursue the question of Maddy he went
on, "My dear, I hope you will believe me when I say it simply didn't
occur to me that Cassie would be so vindictive."

"I ... I think you were mistaken about her feelings for you, Papa.  I
think she really loved you.  She kept your last letter to her, even ...
even showed it to me when she was dying."  Francesca's voice trembled
as she remembered that dreadful scene.  "It's possible that you mined
her life, Papa."

"Oh, no!  I shan't allow you to say that.  Cassandra Shelwood's life
was spoiled before I ever met her and, if we had married, it would have
been hell for both of us.  I have no regrets on that score.  The thing
I do regret most bitterly was that I let Sir John impose the ban on
writing to you.  I should never have agreed to that."

Francesca remained silent.  What a great deal of misery could have been
avoided if she had been able to communicate with him!

"And now, my dear?  What are you going to do?  And how can I help you?
Do you wish to make your home with me--in Paris?"

"Thank you, but I would rather stay in England for the moment.  I ... I
should like to marry.  Like my aunt Cassandra, I should like to have an
establishment of my own.  But I recognise that this will not be easy,
for, like her, I suffer from certain disadvantages."

Her father looked sceptical, but asked, "And they are?"  "I am plain,
and I am past the age of your average debutante."

"My dear girl, forgive me, but you are talking rubbish!  How old are
you?  Twenty-one, twenty-two?  And you are far from plain."

"Please, Papa!  You are trying to be kind, and I am ii

Francesca touched.  But you really need not pretend.  I am
five-and-twenty and perfectly accustomed to the notion of being plain.
But my newfound wealth--'

"No, no, no!  I must stop you.  You are so wrong, Francesca!  I will
allow that you have not learned to dress to advantage.  Nor have you
acquired the arts women customarily employ to make the most of their
looks.  But these are superficialities--easily changed.  A well-trained
maidservant would soon deal with them.  You must not believe
otherwise."

"You are very kind," Francesca said politely, but in a tone which
dismissed the possibility.  "But to return to our original topic---the
time-honoured way to find a husband is to become part of polite
society--London society.  And that is what I would like to do.  Can you
help me?"

"Of course I will help you all I can, but ... I have been away from
London for too long to help you directly.  You would need a
chaperon--'

"I thought Madame de Romain could act as my chaperon?"

"Very well.  But in that case you would need a sponsor someone who is
familiar with London ways," he said thoughtfully.  "She would need to
be part of the great world, of course.  A dowd won't do.  And it would
need to be someone who would teach you how to make the most of your
appearance.  Give you a little town polish... Let me sleep on it,
Francesca.  I'm sure I can find someone."

Lord Beaudon slept on it to good effect.  The next morning he suggested
that his daughter might like to make the acquaintance of a lady who
would make an ideal sponsor.

'l think she would do it.  Her father-in-law was a good friend of mine.
The Canfields are related to half of the top families in England, one
way and another, but they are

Francesca no longer as wealthy as they once were.  Maria Canfield's
husband was killed at Waterloo, leaving her with three children to
bring up, and a limited income with which to do it.  Her two sons are
at Eton still, but she has a daughter she would like to bring out this
next season.  She might be pleased to share the expenses of a London
season with me.  "

"You, Papa?  You are kind, but I have no intention of being a burden on
you," Francesca said firmly.  '1 have more than enough to meet any
expenses.  " " My dear' No Papa.  I would be grateful for any help you
can give me in finding my way through London society.  But the expense
must be mine.  "

Lord Beaudon regarded her with a frown.  He seemed prepared to argue,
but she stared back at him with cool determination.  Finally, his
expression of displeasure gave way to one of great sadness, and he
shrugged his shoulders, merely saying, "Shall I arrange a meeting with
Mrs.  Canfield?"

"Please do."

Francesca liked the Canfields immediately.  Lydia Canfield was a small,
dark, lively girl with a great deal of self-confidence, and a wicked
sense of humour.  Her' mother was still a beautiful woman, but she
dressed quietly, and her manner was reserved.  Lydia was her only
daughter, and it was obvious that Mrs.  Canfieid's dearest wish was to
see her safely established.  For this reason she was prepared to take
on the task of introducing Francesca to Society in return for
assistance with costs.

But she was taking no risks.  Though her manners were exquisite, Mrs.
Canfield subjected Francesca to careful inspection, and some close
questioning.  Far from being offended by this, Francesca understood
perfectly,

Francesca and answered all enquiries as frankly as she could.

"I am somewhat older than most young ladies who seek to enter London
Society, I know, and I am not looking for a debutante's " come-out",
such as Miss Canfield will have.  I will be open with you--my aim is to
find a respectable man of moderate birth and fortune who is prepared to
marry me.  I do not seek a brilliant match, but it is important that.
the person I marry is honourable and considerate."

"That may be more difficult than you think, Miss Beaudon!  London is
full nowadays of men who are rich, powerful, dashing, elegant--what you
will.  Honour and consideration for others do not play an important
role in their ambitions."

Francesca was slightly taken aback at hearing herself addressed as Miss
Beaudon, but said nothing.  It was her name, though only a month ago
she would have denied it.  She would soon have to make up her mind how
she wished to be known in London.

"Mama, do you not think that Lord Came would be the very man for Miss
Beaudon?"

"Lydia--I had forgotten you were there.  You should not be listening to
this."  Mrs.  Canfield shook her head at her daughter, then turned to
Francesca.  "I am sorry, Miss Beaudon.  Lydia has been such a comfort
to me since her father died, that I have perhaps indulged her too much.
She is a dear girl, but ... over-enthusiastic, shall we say?  I am
hoping she will acquire some discretion before next year."

Francesca smiled and said she was quite certain of Miss Canfield's
discretion.

'1 wish I were half so confident," said Mrs.  Canfield.  " She should
not have interrupted us, however.  "

"But, Mama--I had to!  Lord Came is a very kind man--you have said so a
hundred times.  And you have

Francesca said more than once that he should think of finding a wife.
"

"Lydia is right to reproach me, Miss Beaudon.  Lord Carne was in my
late husband's regiment, and we owe him a great deal.  APter Peter was
killed, he helped us in all sorts of ways, and he still continues to
take an interest in Lydia and my sons, even though he is a very busy
man."

"We haven't seen him in an age, Mama.  Will he be in London for my
debut?"

"I hope so.  He said he would see to it that he was."  Mrs.  Canfield
turned to Francesca with an apologetic smile.  "You must forgive my
importunate daughter, Miss Beaudon.  Lord Came is a great favourite of
hers.  But recently he has been away in Paris a great deal of the
time."  "I wonder if my father knows him."

"He will know of him, of that I'm sure.  But unless Lord Beaudon mixes
in diplomatic circles, he might not know him personally Lord Carne's
work in Paris is chiefly concerned with the envoys of other nations."

"He is a diplomat?"

"Not quite.  The ambassador uses his skills occasionally, shall we
say?"

The irrepressible Lydia broke in.  "He's a very important man, Miss
Beaudon.  But you would never guess it from his manner.  Oh, he would
be a perfect match for you!  And he's quite old, too."

A vision of a distinguished, grey-haired diplomat, a couple of years
younger than her father, floated before Francesca's eyes.  "WelL.."
she said hesitantly.

Mrs.  Canfield shook her head at her daughter again.  "Please, do not
listen to Lydia's nonsense, Miss Beaudon.  Lord Came is in the prime of
life and a very rich man.  He must be considered one of the most
eligible partis in London."

"In that case, he's qmte beyond my touc, said Francesca, smiling.  " I
must restrain my ambition.  "

Francesca "No!  Oh, forgive me.  I do not mean to be rude.  It's just
that he has been a target for matchmakers for so long, and no one has
yet succeeded in engaging his attention."

"And I am not attempting to be one of the season's sensations---I must
leave that to Miss Canfield.  But there's something I have to
confess..."

Mrs.  Canfield looked anxious, and Francesca hastened to reassure
her.

"It is not very serious, and I hope can be easily remedied.  You see,
Mrs.  Canfield, my life till now has been very restricted.  I'm afraid
to say that I have managed to reach the age of twenty-five without
having had the smallest instruction on behaviour in polite society, and
lessons in deportment and dancing.  Your daughter probably has no need
of such things, but I must find someone to help me."

"My daughter has every need of lessons in behaviour,

Miss Beaudon.  "

"Mama!"

"And she is in dire need of a few accomplishments.  I am sorry to say
that Lydia has never had instruction in painting, nor any foreign
language.  A fact I much regret."

"There I may be able to help you!  I can soon find someone to teach
your daughter.  In fact, I was hoping you would accept my own dear
former governess as a member of our household, and Madame de Romain
would, I am sure, love to instruct Miss Canfield.  We shall both have
time to improve ourselves, I hope, before next May."

"Excellent!  I think we may deal with each other very well, Miss
Beaudon.  And Lydia will have the sort of come-out I have always wanted
for her."

"Is it settled, Mama?"

"Miss Beaudon?"  asked Mrs.  Canfield with a smile.  Francesca
nodded.

Francesca

"Then, if you agree, we should put the business of finding a suitable
house and servants in hand.  These things take longer than one thinks.
Your aunt's death is of such recent date that it would not be suitable
for you to mix widely in Society.  But perhaps we could plan one or two
modest social events before Christmas?  It would give both of you an
opportunity to experience London before the Season starts.  We shall be
able to visit dressmakers and modistes, too."

"A delightful prospect--I can hardly wait!"

Francesca reported this conversation to her father, not without some
humour at Lydia's enthusiasm, and thanked him for arranging it.

"I might pay a visit to town myself, my dear.  To see you in all your
glory."

"I leave glory to others, Papa.  Talking of which---have you heard of a
man called Came?  Lord Came?  Do you know him at all?"

"Came?  I haven't met him, but of course I've heard of him.  Everyone
talks of Came.  You'd sometimes think he was the only Englishman the
French regime can bring themselves to trust.  His role in the Allies'
campaign against Bonaparte may be small, but it's vital."

"Napoleon?  But surely that campaign was won long since!  At
Waterloo!"

"This is the postwar campaign.  The Bourbons are not at all popular in
France.  There are a good few perfectly honest Frenchmen who would be
glad to see the back of King Louis and his hangers-on.  Some of them
would fetch Napoleon back from St.  Helena, if they could.  It's mess,
Francesca!"

"I had no idea... But what does Lord Came do?"

"It's not so much what he does ... the career diplomats do th real But
to have

Francesca confidence of the French as well as the Prussians and the
rest--and the English, of course.  You might call him a link.  They all
trust him, you see.  Why are you so curious about Came?  "

"Mrs.  Canfield was singing his praises.  And Lydia said he was the
sort of man I was looking for."

"Came!  My dear girl ... my dear Francesca--he's a Nonpareil!  The
present top of the tree--you'd have a better chance of marrying the man
in the moon!  Every female in London would give her eye teeth just to
be noticed by him!  Dowagers, debutantes, heiresses--beauties all of
them.  And he ignores them all.  It would be a triumph, of course...
But, no.  You must lower your sights a little.  I'm aft' aid Came would
never think of asking you to marry him."

Chapter Six

Francesca's life now changed radically.  Her days were still as busy as
ever, but she spent them, mostly in the company of the Canfields, in an
orgy of shopping for silks, muslins and other delightful fripperies,
looking at a selection of elegant houses in the best part of town with
her father's man of business, and approving the staff which he had
engaged for her.

Then she returned to Hertfordshire and spent hours learning from Mrs.
Canfield, or her father, the social skills that had been so lacking in
her life.  It was not easy.  She had to learn in a few short weeks what
most girls had time to absorb over years of normal family life and
training, but the self-control she had learned in her earlier life now
stood her in good stead.  The results were astonishing.  Fanny
Shelwood, no one's child shabby, dull, stiff and awkward in
society--was replaced by Francesca, the accomplished daughter of Lord
Beaudon.

This transformation did not happen overnight, nor was it without some
difficulties.  Francesca quickly found the company of the Canfields
easy to enjoy--Lydia's vivacity and humour, her loving relationship
with her mother and her willingness to regard the world, including
Francesca, as her friend, warmed Francesca's lonely heart, and aer

Francesca a while she slowly began to join in the laughter and
conversation which resounded through the rooms in Mrs.  Canfield's
house.

But the relationship between father and daughter was a different
matter.  She still found it difficult to absolve him from all blame for
her unhappy years at Shelwood.  And, for his part, Lord Beaudon found
it hard not to be disappointed in his newly discovered daughter.  He
looked in vain for a trace of his impulsive, laughing, loving wife in
her.  He was grieved by the formidable wall of reserve with which
Francesca surrounded herself, and he regarded with some disapproval her
lack of romance, her coolly cynical assessment of how to set about
finding a husband.

But then he began to see that years of rejection lay behind Francesca's
refusal to depend on others.  He had not suspected, not for one moment,
that Cassandra Shelwood would hate her sister's child, that Francesca
would be the innocent victim of her desire for revenge, and was shocked
to hear, chiefly through conversations with Madame Elisabeth, of
Francesca's unhappiness and deprivation at Shelwood Manor after her
grandfather's death.  Though it helped him to understand her better, he
blamed himself too bitterly to try to force her confidence, sadly
accepting that the only contribution required of him before he returned
to Paris was to find her a sponsor.

This he had done with great success.  Maria Canfield proved to be the
perfect choice.  As well as learning to take her part in Society,
Francesca was able to enjoy a loving, uncomplicated family life such as
she had never known.  And, as time went on, Lord Beaudon's patience was
rewarded.  He was delighted to hear her laughter with Lydia Canfield,
to see her pleasure in mastering the intricacies of the dance steps he
taught her, her enthusiasm for improving her skills in riding and
driving.

Through these minor activities he began to see behind

Francesca his child's de fences to catch glimpses of the real
Francesca.  He saw that her self-possession was only surface deep, that
Francesca was, in fact, deeply uncertain of herself.  Time and time
again he cursed the Shelwoods for their part in destroying Francesca's
self-esteem, for his sister-in-law's efforts to break the child's
spirit.  Madame Elisabeth answered his questions about Francesca's life
at Sbelwood as discreetly as she could, but it was clear that her own
sense of loyalty to her employers had been sadly stretched.

"Was there no one else for her to talk to, Madame Elisabeth?  No friend
of her own age?"  he asked one day.

"No, milord.  Miss Shelwood paid no visits herself in the
neighbourhood, and received no one except her chaplain.

Besides.  "

"Well?"

Madame Elisabeth looked uncomfortable.  "The neighbours were as
deceived about your daughter's birth as she was herself.  It was
unfortunate, I think, that Sir John, no doubt with the best of
intentions, changed the child's name to Shelwood.  It gave rise to
rumours after he was dead, which the late Miss Shelwood did nothing to
dispel."

"From what I hear, she probably fostered them.  Damn the Shelwoods!  He
was an arrogant old man and she was a cold-hearted witch.  How on earth
Verity came to be a member of such a family, I shall never know.  And
to think I abandoned her daughter to their un tender mercies..."

"Sir John was very fond of Francesca, Lord Beaudon, but he was old.  He
died five years after you left her with him.  It was a pity, perhaps,
that he did not see fit to trust me with all the facts when he engaged
me.  Though I am not sure what !  could have done..."

"He wouldn't have imagined it necessary.  No one, no one at all, could
have suspected the depths to which Cassie

Francesca would descend.  Not even I, who thought I knew her.  It is a
miracle that Francesca survived her treatment.  With the exception of
yourself, no friends at all, you say?  "

"There was once talk of a man... He was not a desirable acquaintance,
but I always thought Miss Shelwood treated

Francesca with undue severity in the matter.  "

"A man?  From the village?"

"No," said Madame Elisabeth reluctantly.  "He was staying at Witham
Court."

"Oh, my God!  That, too?"

"Francesca always swore that he was harmless, that she had only met him
once.  I believe her.  She was always a truthful child.  But..."

"But what?"

"Something had made her deeply unhappy at that time.  If it was not
this " Freddie", then something else had caused her great distress.  It
took her a long time to recover her spirits.  I do not know who or what
it was."

"That might explain her cool approach to marriage--I thought there must
be something!  Madame Elisabeth, Francesca owes you a great deal, and I
too would like to tell you how grateful I am for the friendship you
have shown her.  I hope you will stay with her during this coming
season.  She needs a friend to support her."

"Of course I will stay!  But ... may I say something?"  He nodded.

"It is you she needs, Lord Beaudon.  It is your approval she seeks."

Lord Beaudon shook his head.  "I wish I could believe that.  But I fear
she still blames me for what she sees as my neglect of her."

"Perhaps a little at first," said Madame Elisabeth, ever the diplomat.
"But no longer, I think.  Her view of you has been changing, and now,
for the first time in years, Francesca has someone of her own to love.
Someone who

Francesca belongs to her.  I assure you, mil or your presence at her
debut would give her all the assurance she needed.  "

Lord Beaudon thought long and hard about this conversation.  Madame
Elisabeth seemed to think that he had some influence with Francesca,
after all.  And if it was indeed important to his daughter that he
should be present during her Season in London, then he would be there,
at whatever cost!  He began to look at her with new eyes, to listen to
her laughter with new pleasure and pride.  And as he looked, he began
to catch reminders of his beloved Verity in his daughter, though there
was no physical resemblance.

Francesca was tall, but she moved with her mother's grace, and the
timbre of her voice, which had tended to be stiff and cold, now had her
mother's warmth and flexibility.  Her laughter was slow to come in his
presence, but when it came it was an exact echo of Verity's expression
of delight with the world.  Some of Francesca's former reserve was
still there, but this merely gave her an air of distinction which
entranced him.

"My dear child, you will be a sensation!  You may have my looks, but
you have all your mother's spirit!  And when I hear your laughter, I
can imagine she is in the room with me again."

"Your looks, Papa?  People always said I was like my aunt."

"Like Cassie?  Don't be absurd!  They must have been blind.  Look at
yourself, Francesca!"  He led her to the large mirror at the side of
the fireplace.  "Look!"

They stood side by side in front of the mirror, a tall, distinguished
man, dressed for the evening in sombre colours, and a slender gift in a
dress of palest green peau de sole.  As she stared at their reflection,
Francesca could see that she was, in truth, the feminine counterpart of
her

Francesca father, that any resemblance to her aunt Cassandra had been
pure chance.  Aunt and niece had both been tall, but any possible
likeness ended there.

Lord Beaudon was tall, too, and his daughter's bone structure and
features, though more delicate, were those of her father.  Her hair, no
longer scraped back as her aunt had required, had proved to be thick
and lustrous, and, dressed.  by an expert maid, it was coiled on top of
her head in a loose knot.  A few curls had been allowed to escape to
frame her face, softening, but not disguising, the pure line of cheek
and jaw.  Her hair was still not the honey-blond she had so longed for,
but its pale gilt brought out the sparkle in her gray-green eyes, and
flattered the delicate colour in her cheeks.

"Papa!"  Francesca turned in astonishment to her father.  "I hadn't
realised... They all said ... I thought... But I'm not an antidote,
after all!"

Her father burst out laughing.  "No, you're not an antidote, my dear.
Far from it."

"And all because of a few fine feathers!  How absurd!  Aunt Cassandra
should have tried them!"

Her father sobered instantly.  "Clothes and the attentions of a good
maid enhance the picture--it would be stupid to say otherwise.  But you
are a delight to look at, Francesca, because something now shows in
your face that your aunt never had, and never wanted.  I'm not sure I
can put a name to it ... a generosity of spirit?  A love of life?
That's your mother's gift to you, and it's more valuable than anything
the world can do for you, People call it charm."

Francesca looked uncertainly in the mirror again.  She was not sure
what her father meant.  "I think you're being over-partial, Papa.  But
thank you."

"Well, we'll see what your effect on Society will be.  You and Lydia
Canfield together will take the ton by storm, mark my words."

Francesca

"Now I know you're being absurd, Papa!  Lydia, perhaps, but not I."

Her father paused, then went on, "And though I ought to be back in
Paris, I have decided to spend the Season in London after all.  I ... I
wish to be with you."

"With me?"  Francesca turned to look at him.  What she saw in his face
moved her as she had not been moved for a long time.  Her own face lit
up and she said joyfully, "Oh Papa!  Oh, thank you!  I didn't dare to
hope you would be there.  Oh, this makes all the difference!"  She
threw her arms round her father and hugged him.  It was the first
spontaneous gesture she had ever made towards him.

Lord Beaudon cleared his throat and said, "I must be there to see your
tritunph, Francesca.  And so ... this seems to be the moment to ask you
how you intend to be known in London.  You have had the name of
Shelwood for so many years--and I expect you still think of yourself as
one.  But you are my daughter, my only child..."  He stopped.

Francesca, faced with a decision she had been postponing for too long,
realised that it was in fact very simple.  She smiled at her father and
swept him a magnificent curtsey.  "The Honorable Francesca Beaudon
presents herself to you, my lord.  She can't promise you a triumph...
but she will do her best not to let the Beaudon name down."  She looked
up at him, her expression, had she but known it, exactly like one of
her mother's--an enchanting mixture of mischief and anxiety.

"My dearest girl!"  Lord Beaudon took her hand and then pulled her to
him and held her close.

The wall of reserve which lay between father and daughter had at last
been breached by this decision of Lord Beaudon' sto stay in London.  It
had only needed Madame Elisabeth's encouragement for him to do so, for
he was

Francesca already beginning to feel protective of this girl, this
precious inheritance Verity had left him.  But from the moment
Francesca had spontaneously embraced her father, there was nothing and
no one who could have prevented him from doing all he could to make her
happy.

One result was that he showered her with presents--a fur tippet to keep
her nose warm in the January frosts, an exquisitely painted fan to keep
her cool in overheated rooms, books and flowers by the dozen to keep
her amused and happy, When he produced a necklace of beautifully
matched Pearls on the evening of her first introduction to Society, she
was overcome.

"Indeed, you are too good, Papa!  You should not spend so much money on
me!"

"My darling child, the pearls were your mother's.  Who else should I
give them to?  And for the rest..."  With a look of wry amusement, he
went on, "The Beaudon fortune falls short of the Sheldwood riches, I
admit, but it is far from negligible.  I am not the pauper your aunt
undoubtedly led you to believe."

"But ... but they said you wanted to marry Aunt Cassandra for her
money!"

"I did!  And it's true that life would have been more comfortable if
your mother had been given a dowry.  But that is many years ago now.  I
have lived a fairly quiet life since your mother died, Francesca, and
the Beaudon assets have increased.  If you had permitted me, I would
have been able to give you a London Season without the help of your
Sheldwood inheritance."

"Then I shall have no more qualms and will accept your gifts with great
pleasure.  You see, apart from Madame Elisabeth, no one has wanted to
give me anything before."

"Well, that situation will be remedied the minute you make your bow in
Society!  I prophesy that you will be showered with flowers and the
rest."

Francesca

"Papa, you are a tease!  I leave that sort of thing to Lydia.  She is
of an age to enjoy it."

"You talk as if you were a hundred, Francesca.  Twenty-five is not such
a great age."

"It is too old to look for romance.  In any case I do not seek it, as
you very well know."

"My child, I was forty, and a rake past redemption, I thought, when I
fell in love with your mother!  But tell me..."  Lord Beaudon paused.
He was treading on delicate ground, he knew, but the temptation to gain
Francesea's confidence was very strong.  "Have you never been in
love?"

The response was too swift and too emphatic to be convincing.  "In
love? No!"

"Not even with Freddie?"

Francesca's face was blank.  "Freddie who?  Oh ... that Freddie!  Of
course not.  Who told you about him?  Madame Elisabeth?"

"Don't blame her.  I asked her if you had had any other friends, and
she mentioned the episode with Freddie.  She seemed to think your aunt
had been unjust."

"Well, I think so, too.  I told Aunt Cassandra that I hadn't wanted to
talk to him and, what's more, he hadn't spent more than five minutes in
my Company before she found us, but she wouldn't listen.  She probably
wanted to believe me wicked."

Lord Beaudon gave an angry exclamation, but Francesca went on, "You
needn't worry, Papa.  It's all in the past now; anyway, even at the
time, I didn't care very much what she did-4he worst part was having to
listen to Mr.  Chizzle's sermons."

"Why didn't you care?"  He spoke so softly that Francesca found herself
speaking without guarding her tongue.

"Nothing mattered very much at that time..."

Francesca "Were you so unhappy?"

"Yes."

"Why, my child?"

Francesca walked away from him and stared out of the window.  Her
father held his breath as he watched her.  If only she would confide in
him!

When she finally spoke, her voice was flat and stiff, as if the words
were being forced out against her will.  "I was not telling you the
truth before.  I did love someone once--or thought I did.  A friend of
Freddie's--also from Witham Court.  Aunt Cassandra never knew about
him.  No one did."  Her mouth twisted in a bitter little smile.
"Except Freddie.  Nothing of any consequence happened between us, but I
thought my heart was broken.  Silly, wasn't it?  To break your heart
over a rake--for that is what I discovered he was."

She turned round and gave a wry smile, "It's very rare to find a rake
who really falls in love--Mama was luckier than she knew."

Lord Beaudon smiled back at her.  "Your mama, Francesca, had her own
anti-rake brand of magic.  From the moment I saw her, my days of
rakishness were over!  And, in my opinion, you have the same magic--or
could have, if you chose to exercise it.  But ... this man--how are you
so sure that he was a rake?"

"He was staying, at Witham Court.  He gambled and drank:.."

"He cannot be condemned on those grounds--they are not exactly unusual
pursuits for a young man!"

"No, but... He made me believe he loved me ... that I was beautiful, of
value to him.  Have you any idea what that meant to me, Papa?  To be
loved?  After years of living without it?"  Her father drew in his
breath and shook his head in self-disgust.  Francesca came over and put
her hand on his arm.  "I understand now, Papa, really I do.

Francesca

You mustn't blame yourself.  You did what you thought was best.  "

"But I should never have agreed to lose all contact with you,
Francesca!  However grieved I was at your mother's death, I should
never have abandoned.  you so completely.  I should have been there to
help you when this man... What happened, my dear?  Did you ... did he
seduce you?"

Francesca flushed and looked away.  She said painfully, "No, Papa.  I
was spared that folly.  But not because... because I refused him.  I
was besotted enough to have given him anything he asked of me.  No, I
was saved from that last betrayal by his friend, who had come up the
hill in search of him.  We had to part before Freddie found us."
"Freddie!"

"Yes, Freddie, Papa."

Lord Beaudon decided to leave the question of Freddie for the moment.
His daughter was talking of someone who had been much more important to
her.  "This other man...?"  He paused, hoping she would put a name to
him.  Francesca was silent, so he went on, "You saw him just once?"

"No, we met the day after, too.  But by then he had decided he ... no
longer wished to continue the acquaintance.  Oh, he was plausible
enough.  He played the part of the romantic hero to perfection,
pretending concern for me, telling me that he could offer me nothing,
that he was poor, I was too young, that he had to go away... He was
very plausible.  He seemed as unhappy to leave me as I was to see him
go."

She stopped for a moment, then went on, "And poor fool that I was, I
was completely taken in.  I believed him, Papa!  I was unhappy, of
course, but I was used to disappointment.  And the thought that someone
had loved me, really loved me, even if Fate and Fortune were against
us, gave me courage to bear it.  A latter-day Romeo and

Francesca Juliet .  I was really very young--and very naive," she added
bitterly.  There was a pause.  " Then a few days later I found out how
he really regarded me.  Freddie told me.  "

She turned and lifted her head, gazing defiantly at her father.  "When
my aunt found me with Freddie, I had just learned that my " Romeo" had
boasted of his conquest to the others at Witham Court.  I expect they
repeated all the gossip to him, about my lack of fortune and ... and
all the rest.  They had probably laughed about me.  And after my "
hero" had made his escape, Freddie came to see if he could be equally
lucky."

Lord Beaudon could restrain himself no longer.  He swore
comprehensively, then took his daughter in his arms and held her
closely.  "My poor child!  May Cassandra Shelwood rot in hell!  Why the
devil did I ever let her keep you?"

"She couldn't have stopped me falling in love, Papa.  I did that all by
myself."

"But you wouldn't have been so vulnerable.  Did you... did you never
see him again?  Not Freddie--the other man."

"Oh, yes!  As soon as he heard I had inherited the Shelwood fortune! He
couldn't wait to come to see me again.  I understand why--I knew he was
poor, he had told me himself.  But, on that occasion, even he couldn't
bring himself to pretend he loved me.  He talked of a " communion of
spirit", was kind enough to offer me marriage as a form of protection
from fortune hunters!  He appeared to have no doubt that I would accept
his offer.  I was ... humiliated by his assumption that I was stupid
enough, still besotted enough to marry him!"  Francesca's voice
trembled.  "I am ashamed to remember what happened next, Papa."

"Go On."

"I have always tried to keep my feelings under control,

Francesca whatever the provocation.  I take pride in the fact.  "

"I had noticed," said Lord Beaudon drily.

"It was the only way to survive with Aunt Cassandra.  But he ... it was
strange---it was as if I had no barrier to put up with him, whatever I
felt.  So when he tried to deceive me yet again ... I tried to stay
calm, to dismiss him with d-dignity, but... He stood there, Papa, so
complacent, with such confidence!  And I lost my temper.  I can't
remember exactly what I shouted at him, but I was unforgivably rude.  I
don't think he'll come back.  Icer tainly never wish to see him
again."

"My child!"

"It's all right, Papa.  It hurt at the time--it even hurt when he came
back, though I knew him for what he was.  I'm over it now.  But that is
why I want to marry someone ... kind.  Safe.  Someone I can respect,
but not anyone who will make me so stupidly fond ... not ever again."

But Francesca's wish never to see Marcus again was not to be granted.
And once again, even after all the lessons on deportment and correct
behaviour, she discovered that Marcus possessed the power to strip away
her calm veneer, to reveal the tempestuously impulsive creature
beneath.  It was not a comfortable sensation.

On the few occasions she was left to her own devices, Francesca took to
riding or driving in the woods and lanes round Packards.  She was
interested to visit the various farms on her father's estate and
compare them with Shelwood.  This was one interest that her father did
not share with her, so, after an initial introduction to his agent, he
left her to her own devices.  Since she was always accompanied by her
groom who knew the district well, Lord Beaudon's mind was easy.

On one such occasion she drove over to Brightwells',

Francesca a large farm on the farther side of the estate, and was
surprised to find that Samuel, her groom, was the younger son of the
house.  The family were delighted to welcome them both, especially as
it was Mrs.  Brightwell's birthday.

When the time came for them to leave, Francesca could see that Sam's
mother was disappointed not to have her son at the feast that was due
to take pace that afternoon, and insisted that Sam should stay.  She
could quite well find her way back to Packards without him.  Thus it
was that Francesca started off for home on her own-something she had
been well used to at Shelwood.

The road was deserted, for the day was cold, though the sun was
shining, but Francesca revelled in the fresh air, and the unexpected
sense of freedom.  In the enjoyment of her new life, she had not
realised how much she missed some pleas anter aspects of her old one,
when no one had been in the slightest concerned what she did.  The road
ran alongside the forest, and she slowed down to admire the huge trees
that lined the way.  She could see a small clearing off the road a
little way ahead and decided to risk pulling in for a short while.  But
as she drew nearer, she saw that someone was there before her.

A carriage was standing on the edge of the forest, with a groom in
livery in attendance.  He had his hands too full to notice her--the
horses were restless, and it was taking all his skill to keep them
under control.  Francesca was puzzled.  What was such a splendid
equipage--for the cartage was a handsome one, and the horses a
magnificent pair of matched bays--doing here in this remote spot?  She
drew up behind the trunk of a large oak tree and watched.

Now she became aware that the noise of the groom's efforts to pacify
his horses had been drowning oLher, more menacing, sounds.  An
altercation was taking place in the forest, and she could hear a girl's
voice raised in distress.

Francesca

They were coming nearer, and Francesca heard the girl cry out.

"Leave me alone!  You're hurting me!  Leave me alone, I say!"

Francesca started up in her seat.  What was happening?

Then a man's voice exclaimed in pain, "Ouch!  You little vixen!  By
God, I'll make you sorry for that, Charlotte!"

Two figures came out of the trees, a tall man, half-carrying,
half-dragging a young girl towards the carriage.  The girl was kicking
and shouting, and the man's face was black with fury, his voice
trembling with rage, but even so Francesca recognised him.  With horror
she realised that the abductor was Marcus!  It couldn't be!  Oh, dear
heaven, surely it couldn't be!  Even he could not stoop so low!

"Please don't make me go with you!  I don't want to go with you!"  The
girl was sobbing with fear.

"Don't be such a fool, Charlotte!  You know I'm stronger than you, so
why keep on fighting me?  It won't be half as bad as you fear!"

"It will, it will!"

"Oh get in, girl, and spare me these histrionics!"  Francesca hardly
knew Marcus's voice, it was so harsh.  But what was she to do?  She
must do something to save the girl, but what?  Marcus and the groom
between them could easily foil any attempt at rescue.

But at the very moment when Francesca had decided to drive forward and
risk the consequences, fate intervened.  Some birds, which had been
roosting in the trees above the carriage, suddenly flew up in a swirl
of fluttering wings.  One of the bays took strong exception to this and
reared up, knocking the groom to the ground.  Marcus let the girl.  go
and ran to his servant's aid, ducking under dangerously flailing hooves
to drag the man clear.  The girl, left unchecked for a moment, looked
wildly

Francesca round, obviously wondering which way to go.

"Quickly, girl!  Here!"  Francesca cried.  With a sob of relief, the
girl ran to the phaeton, and with Francesca's aid scrambled into it.
Francesca gave her horses a crack of the whip and they careered off
along the the high road, leaving Marcus still wrestling with his
homes.

The girl sank back into the seat and burst into team.  Francesca
glanced down sympathetically, but was too busy to comfort her.  She was
encouraging her homes to go faster than ever before, for she had seen
the groom getting to his feet as they had passed the carriage.  It was
some miles to the next village and she must make every effort to get
there before they were overtaken.  It would not be long before the two
men would set off after them, and her horses were no match for those
bays!  But as she whipped her horses to ever greater effort, her
thoughts were in turmoil.

She had known that Marcus was a rogue and a fortune hunter, but this
latest exploit was villainous!  She could still hardly believe it.  The
girl was no more than sixteen--if that!  But then, she reminded
herself, she had been less than sixteen when he would have seduced her,
a more willing victim than the girl beside her.  Oh, Marcus!  How could
you, how could you be so wicked!  And why am I foolish enough to be
made so miserable by it?

She drove on, immersed in her own unhappy thoughts, till a small voice
beside her said, "I must thank you, ma'am."  The girl had recovered and
was now looking at Francesca in grateful, if surprised, admiration.
Francesca pulled hem elf together.

"I was glad to help you... Charlotte, is it?  It was fortunate that I
happened to be passing.  But we are not clear yet, I am afraid.  I
shan't be happy till we have reached civilisation."

Charlotte turned round and looked fearfully back down

Francesca the road.  "I can't see anyone yet," she said.  "Oh, please
drive faster, ma'am!  He mustn't catch me again."

"I'll.  do my best.  What is your name, child?"

There was a slight pause.  "Charlotte... Johnson, ma'am."

Francesca glanced down.  The dark blue eyes were guileless, but the
girl was lying.  She decided to let it pass for the moment.  No doubt
the child was shaken by her experience--her hands were trembling.  What
a fiend Marcus was!  "I think you may relax a little now, Charlotte,"
she said calmly.  "My home is not far away.  I shall take you there and
then we shall decide what to do with you.  Where do you live?"

Another pause.  "In London.  I was waiting to take the stage coach to
London.  But he took all my money away from me and now I can't pay the
fare."

"You were travelling stage to London?"  Francesca's hands tightened on
the reins, but she spoke calmly.  "Forgive me, but I find that hard to
credit.  You mustn't be frightened of me, my dear.  I shall help you
all I can, but I must know the truth.  Now tell me where you really
live."

"But if I do, you'll send me back!  I can't go home again, I can't!  I
won't!"  The childish voice rose in panic.

"Will your family not be worried about you?"  asked -Francesca.

"They won't care!  They want to send me away, anyway."

"Send you away?  Where?"

"Back to the seminary.  That's why I ran away."  Francesca began to
fear that this affair was not quite as simple as she had thought.  Had
Marcus encouraged the girl to run off with him?  Or had she asked him
to help her and then changed her mind when faced with the consequence
sing which case Marcus might not be quite as villainous as she had
thought? She shook her head

Francesca impatiently--what was wrong with her?  She was mad to try to
fnd excuses for him!  Whichever way it was, that scene in the forest
had been very ugly.  But .  there was something odd about the affair.
She drew up and turned to face her protegee.

"Charlotte--'

"Why have you stopped?"  the girl cried, her voice shrill with fear.
"They'll catch up with us!"  She reached over to take the reins, but
Francesca took them frmly into her own hands again.

"Before we go on, I should like some answers, Charlotte.  I would like
to know your real name.  I would like to know why you were on your way
to London on a stage coach.  And I would like to know the part played
in all this by the man back there."

"But he's coming!  I can hear the carriage!"

"I have been thinking-he can't harm you while I am here.  I know him,
you see.  He won't dare try to take you away again."

"He will!  Mama asked him.  Oh, you don't understand--'

"You are quite right.  I don't," said Francesca, and watched with
foreboding as the bays swept to a halt alongside the phaeton.  Marcus
handed the reins to the groom with a word, and strode over.

Chapter Seven

"Get down, Charlotte," Marcus said grimly.  "Or, by God, I'll give you
the hiding you deserve."

Francesca rallied at these threatening words.  "One moment, sir!"

Marcus turned his attention to her.  "Good God!"  he exclaimed.
"Francesca!  Francesca Shelwood!  What the devil are you doing here?
And what the hell do you mean by racing off with this brat?  Are you
mad?"

Francesca did not allow herself to be intimidated by the outrage in his
voice.  She said coldly, "I understand your annoyance at having your
plans frustrated, sir, but surely your language is immoderate?  Is this
the manner in which you usually address ladies of your acquaintance?"

"Ladies of my acquaintance do not usually romp about the countryside
unattended, interfering in matters which do not concern them.  Now, I
have better things to do than to bandy words with a madwoman, so if you
will kindly remain quiet while Charlotte transfers to my carriage..."

Francesca was rapidly losing her temper.  He was so dismissive, so
coolly confident that she would do just what he asked!  A madwoman
indeed!  She strove to keep calm as she said, 'l shall do nothing of
the kind!  The matter concerns me deeply, indeed it does.  You forget

Francesca !  that I know you for what you are, sir!  How could l stand
by and listen to this child's screams, watch while you dragged her to
your carriage, and do nothing about it?  I will most certainly not
remain quiet .  nor am I a mad-woman!  " In spite of herself, her voice
rose on this last sentence.

She took a deep breath and went on, "In fact, I fully intend to take
her to my home and, after she has recovered from the fright she has
suffered at your hands, I shall restore her to her family.  You will
now allow us to drive on, if you please."

Marcus looked at her incredulously.  He seemed ready to give her a
blistering response, then his face suddenly softened and he burst out
laughing.  "I see now what you think... Oh, Francesca, Francesca!
Still leaping in where angels fear to tread?  How refreshing to
discover that the years have not changed you, after all!"

Puzzled by this extraordinary response, Francesca stared at him.  The
warmth of his tone, the memory evoked by these words transported her
back to the day on the hill above Shelwood, to a world of sunshine and
hope, of love and laughter.  She gazed in fascination at Marcus, his
face transformed into that of the young man of long ago.  She began to
smile in return, but then she remembered his betrayal so soon after, of
her misery and disillusion in the weeks and years that followed,
culminating in that cynical proposal at Shelwood.

"Nor have they changed you, Marcus," she said bitterly.  "If I remember
correctly, I was about this girl's age when I was unfortunate enough to
meet you.  But, unlike her, I had no one to protect me."

He reddened, but said, "Charlotte needs no protection from me."

"That is a matter of opinion, sir!  But I have no wish to waste any
more time on a villain such as you.  Make

Francesca way, if you please!  " And Francesca raised her whip.

Marcus leapt forward and took a firm hold of her wrist.  They stared at
one another in silence.  Then he said softly, "Charlotte, tell Miss
Shelwood who you are."

Charlotte had been gazing at them in wonderment, too interested in what
was being said to attempt to run away.  She said accusingly, "She said
her name was Beaudon!"

Francesca looked down at her.  "And you said your name was Johnson."
Charlotte was silenced.

"Are you going to tell Miss... Beaudon who you are, or shall I?"

Subdued, the girl said, "Charlotte Chelford, ma'am."  Marcus, still
clasping Francesca's wrist, looked at her with scorn.  "Are you ashamed
of your name, Charlotte Chelford?  You have no reason to be.  And, my
girl, unless you mend your ways, it will be the Chelfords who won't
wish to acknowledge you!"  He turned his attention to Francesca.  "As
for you, ma'am, I suggest you return to Packards--for that is where you
must be staying if you're claiming the name of Beaudon--and be content
that I don't pursue the matter further."  He dropped her wrist and
turned back to Charlotte.

Francesca was bewildered.  Marcus was certainly not behaving as a man
discovered in a criminal act might be expected to behave.  Had she
indeed made a terrible mistake?

She looked at Charlotte, who suddenly clasped her hands together and
exclaimed, "Please, Uncle Marcus, please don't take me back to the
seminary."  The expression in her eyes would have melted a heart of
stone, but Francesca was too shocked to notice.

' Uncle!  " she exclaimed.  Uncle Marcus?"

"Yes, madam busybody, I have the misfortune to be Charlotte's uncle."

"Her uncle!  Oh, heavens, I thought..."

Francesca !  "You thought...?"

"I was under the impression that you were..."  Francesca paused, then
she said miserably, "It looked as if you were abducting her."

"I thought as much."  He looked at her with a wry smile.  "You must
tell me some time, Francesca, what I did to give you such a very low
opinion of my character.  Nine years is a long time to carry such a
grudge, wouldn't you say?"

Francesca bit her lip and said nothing.

Marcus sighed, then looked at Charlotte, who was regarding them both
with' fascination He went on, "I would like to pursue the matter with
you, but this isn't the time.  My first concern must be to deliver
Charlotte to her long-suffering mother--'

"To Mama?  Not back to the seminary?"

"I shall see if I can persuade your mama to keep you at home---perhaps
with yet another governess.  You must promise to treat this one better
than the others."

"I can really go home again to stay?  You're not sending me back to the
seminary?"

"A ladies' seminary, however famous, is obviously even less able to
deal with you than your family, you wretched child," said Marcus
severely.  Then he spoilt the effect by adding, "And I am sure your
mama doesn't wish you to be unhappy.  But you must promise me that
there will be no more escapades, Carrie.  Your mother has had enough to
bear."  He waited until Charlotte nodded, and then he smiled.  "Now,
get into the carriage and I'll take you home.  Er ... are you going to
take your leave of Miss Beaudon?"

Charlotte took Francesca's hand and said earnestly, "I do thank you,
Miss Beaudon.  Even though my uncle laughed at you, I think you were a
heroine!"

Marcus laughed again.  "Things that might have been better put!  Now
get into the carriage, you minx!"  Charlotte

Francesca got down and went quietly enough across to her uncle's
carriage.  Marcus looked up at Francesca.  "Will you give me your hand,
Francesca?"  Almost without volition she extended her hand.  He took it
and held it while he went on, "I apologise for my harsh words.  You
thought something was wrong, and you, being you, had to do something
about it.  Will you forgive me?"

She nodded, unable to say a word.  He took a breath, hesitated, then
said, "Can't we be friends, Francesca?  You are at Packards, I take it?
May I call on you there?"

Francesca snatched her hand away.  "No!"  she said violently.  His face
darkened, and she strove to speak more calmly.  "That is to say ... I
think it is better if we do not meet again.  I have nothing to say to
you.  I may have been mistaken on this occasion, but my opinion of you
remains the same."

"This is ridiculous!"

"Good day, sir."

He took hold of her wrist again, so tightly that it hurt.  "Take care
you do not become like your aunt, Miss Beaudon!  This obstinate
prejudice against me is absurd, and when you are accepted into society
you will discover just how absurd it is!"

"I do not expect to mix in the same circles as you, sir.  Lady Forrest
need expect no competition from me!"

He looked at her inscmtably, then he released her and shrugged his
shoulders.  He moved towards his carriage, saying, "I do not intend to
argue with you, but I must insist on one thing.  We will go with you to
the edge of the forest.  You are not yet as familiar with this area as
I am, and I assure you it is unwise for you to travel here alone.  You
should engage someone to accompany you if you intend to drive out
much."

Francesca did not bother to tell him that she already had a groom, nor
that her father had already given her

Francesca the same warning.  She was desperate to escape from him.  His
presence was working the same old magic and she wanted none of it.  She
said curtly, "Thank you.  Good day, sir," and whipped up her horses.
The carriage followed her till they came to the village near Packards,
then it swept past and went on its way.

Francesca found it impossible to put this encounter with Marcus out of
her mind in the weeks that followed.  Furthering her acquaintance with
Marcus had never seemed so desirable, nor so dangerous.  One moment she
congratulated herself on having turned him away, and the next found her
passionately regretting having done so.

For some time she had been ashamed of her extraordinary outburst at
their last meeting at Sbelwood.  It had been unworthy of her.  Hurt and
angry herself, she had been unpardonably rude, had insulted and enraged
him.  And in the forest she had given him further reason to be angry
with her.  But he had seemed willing to overlook it all, to be prepared
to begin again, had offered her friendship.  Had she misjudged him?

Then Francesca would scornfully revile herself for being so spineless.
Of course she hadn't!  It was all perfectly simple.  She had a fortune.
Marcus had not.  It wasn't at all difficult to see why he had been
willing to overlook her mistake, had smiled instead of frowning, had
offered her friendship instead of expressing justifiable anger at her
interference.  Not at all difficult.  He was still hoping to marry the
Shelwood fortune.

But, under any circumstances, friendship was the last thing she wanted
from him.  She could hate him for what he had done.  She could, if the
circumstances had been different, have loved him with all her heart.
But friendship?  Never!  She must obliterate the little scene in the
forest from her mind, and forget him.  And sometimes, in

Francesca got down and went quietly enough across to her uncle's
carriage.  Marcus looked up at Francesca.  "Will you give me your hand,
Francesca?"  Almost without volition she extended her hand.  He took it
and held it while he went on, "I apologise for my harsh words.  You
thought something was wrong, and you, being you, had to do something
about it.  Will you forgive me?"

She nodded, unable to say a word.  He took a breath, hesitated, then
said, "Can't we be friends, Francesca?  You arc at Packards, I take it?
May I call on you there?"

Francesca snatched her hand away.  "No!"  she said violently.  His face
darkened, and she strove to speak more calmly.  "That is to say ... I
think it is better if we do not meet again.  I have nothing to say to
you.  I may have been mistaken on this occasion, but my opinion of you
remains the same."

"This is ridiculous!"

"Good day, sir."

He took hold of her wrist again, so tightly that it hurt.  "Take care
you do not become like your aunt, Miss Beaudon!  This obstinate
prejudice against me is absurd, and when you are accepted into society
you will discover just how absurd it is!"

"I do not expect to mix in the same circles as you, sir.  Lady Forrest
need expect no competition from me!"

He looked at her inscrutably, then he released her and shrugged his
shoulders.  He moved towards his carriage, saying, "I do not intend to
argue with you, but I must insist on one thing.  We will go with you to
the edge of.  the forest.  You are not yet as familiar with this area
as I am, and I assure you it is unwise for you to travel here alone.
You should engage someone to accompany you if you intend to drive out
much."

Francesca did not bother to tell him that she already had a groom, nor
that her father had already given her

Francesca the same warning.  She was desperate to escape from him.  His
presence was working the same old magic and she wanted none of it.  She
said curtly, "Thank you.  Good day, sir," and whipped up her horses.
The carriage followed her till they came to the village near Packards,
then it swept past and went on its way.

Francesca found it impossible to put this encounter with Marcus out of
her mind in the weeks that followed.  Furthering her acquaintance with
Marcus had never seemed so desirable, nor so dangerous.  One moment she
congratulated herself on having turned him away, and the next found her
passionately regretting having done so.

For some time she had been ashamed of her extraordinary outburst at
their last meeting at Sbelwood.  It had been unworthy of her.  Hurt and
angry herself, she had been unpardonably rude, had insulted and enraged
him.  And in the forest she had given him further reason to be angry
with her.  But he had seemed willing to overlook it all, to be prepared
to begin again, had offered her friendship.  Had she misjudged him?

Then Francesca would scornfully revile herself for being so spineless.
Of course she hadn't!  It was all perfectly simple.  She had a fortune.
Marcus had not.  It wasn't at all difficult to see why he had been
willing to overlook her mistake, had smiled instead of frowning, had
offered her friendship instead of expressing justifiable anger at her
interference.  Not at all difficult.  He was still hoping to marry the
Shelwood fortune.

But, under any circumstances, friendship was the last thing she wanted
from him.  She could hate him for what he had done.  She could, if the
circumstances had been different, have loved him with all her heart.
But friendship?  Never!  She must obliterate the little scene in the
forest from her mind, and forget him.  And sometimes, in

Francesca the bustle of preparations for her introduction to the great
world, she even occasionally succeeded.

If Francesca's introduction to Society was not quite as sensational as
her fond father had prophesied, it was certainly very satisfactory.
Mrs.  Canfield, true to her word, arranged several small gatherings
during the early months of the year to give the girls some experience,
and Society's approval of Miss Beaudon and Miss Canfield was immediate.
Some less charitable souls wondered aloud if Mrs.  Canfield had offered
to sponsor tall, blonde, elegant Miss Beaudon because she knew what an
effective contrast the girl provided for her own lively, dark-haired
daughter, but Mrs.  Canfield was generally so respected that these
remarks were ignored.

They were invited everywhere.  Mrs.  Canfield had the entree to even
the highest circles, and, in addition, Society was highly intrigued
that Richard Beaudon should reappear after so many years with a
daughter in whom he clearly took so much pride.  London's hostesses
were eager to learn all they could about the legendary Rake Beaudon,
and Mrs. Canfield was subjected to many an inquisition.  She was her
usual discreet self, merely saying enough to establish that Lord
Beaudon was a reformed character, interested only in seeing his
daughter take her rightful place in society.

"I never thought I should live to see Rake Beaudon doing the pretty at
an occasion like this," said an elderly dowager to Mrs.  Canfield one
evening at Almack's.  "He would have died of boredom in the old days.
And how he persuaded the patronesses to receive him, I cannot
imagine."

"Come, Lady Clayton, you should show more said Mrs.  Canfield with a
teasing smile.  " I can the fact that he has reformed.  It must be a
good twenty-five

Francesca years since Lord Beaudon scandalised London society.  "

"And what has he be doing since then, I'd like to know?

I suppose the chit really is his daughter?  "

"Most certainly she is, ma'am!"

"Well, there's no need to get on your high horse.  You're too young to
remember Rake Beaudon in his prime.  There's nothing he wouldn't have
dared.  But I suppose you wouldn't be sponsoring the girl if there was
anything amiss--and she is remarkably like him.  Where's her mother?
And who was she?"

"Lady Beaudon died some time ago, but she was a Shelwood before she
married."

"Shelwood?  I've not heard of them."

"They're quite a respectable Buckinghamshire family, but they always
lived very quietly.  I don't think they ever came to London."

"Hmm.  I expect the Shelwood girl was an heiress--Rake Beaudon wouldn't
have married her otherwise."

"On the contrary, I Understand that Sir John Shelwood cut his daughter
off without a penny when she married Lord Beaudon.  He approved of his
son-in-law even less than you."

"Oh, I didn't disapprove of Beaudon, my dear.  Like all the rest of us,
I fell in love with him, but my mother had more sense than to let him
near me.  And it looks as if he hasn't lost the art of pleasing even
after all these years--just look at Sally Jersey, she's positively
flirting with him!  He is still very handsome, of course.  So is the
girl---pity the Beaudon fortune is so small."

Mrs.  Canfield smiled but did not contradict Lady Clayton.  The world
would eventually learn that Francesca's fortune was not limited to what
her father could give her, but meanwhile she should be given time to
find the man of consideration and honour she desired to marry.  Once
the extent of her fortune was known, she

Francesca would be pursued by other, less noble characters.

This conversation was one of many similar ones, but since Mrs.
Canfield kept her counsel, Francesca and Lydia were free to enjoy the
popularity which their own charm brought them, and susceptible
gentlemen in Society were soon debating which lady was more worthy of
their devotion---the divinely fair Miss Beaudon or the vivaciously dark
Miss Canfield.

They were invited everywhere and met everyone of note.  Everyone, that
is, except Lord Came.  He was apparently away, for Society saw nothing
of him, and it was mmoured that he was employed on some Foreign Office
business in France.  Lydia and Mrs.  Canfield were disappointed, but
the name meant nothing to Francesca and, though she sympathised with
Lydia, she was personally unaffected by his absence.

"I know you wish me to meet this paragon, Lydia, but surely, if he is
as eligible as you say, he would regard me with indifference?"

"But Lord Came is not like that at all, Francesca!  He is the kindest
of men--is he not, Mama?  And whatever Mama may say, I think you would
be an ideal match for him.  Oh, why doesn't he come?  I do so wish he
were here!  He promised to dance with me at my debut!"

"I'm sure he will keep his promise to you, Lydia," said Mrs.  Canfield
with a sympathetic smile.  "But you must try for a little patience, my
dear--the season has hardly started yet.  And it does not become you to
be gazing round every five minutes, as you were last night at Lady

Carteret's, to see if Lord Came is present.  "

"No, Mama."

Francesca took this conversation to heart, for she too had been guilty
of such behaviour, though it had not been to seek out Lord Came, nor
had it been with Lydia's eager anticipation.  Wherever she went, she
was unable to

Francesca prevent her eye from wandering through the crowds, looking in
apprehension for a tall lithe figure, to stop herself from listening
for the deep, warm tones of the man she had dismissed so summarily from
her life.  Marcus.

She smiled ruefully.  Once, she remembered, she had passionately wished
to be powerful, rich and beautiful enough to give him a set-down.
Well, she was now rich enough, and though she would never consider
herself beautiful, others admired her.  But did she have the power?
Could she give Marcus the set-down he deserved?  She doubted it.  She
was not certain how to deal with him at all when they met in
Society--as they surely would.  But her training in difficult social
situations was not put to the test.  To her great relief, she told
herself, she never saw him, however diligently she watched and
listened.

Apart from this, Francesca found that she was enjoying London life,
though after a while she began to wonder whether she would ever find
the husband she sought.  Mrs.  Canfield saw to it that she was
introduced to a number of respectable gentlemen, and one or two of them
seemed more than ready to regard Miss Beaudon as a future wife.

But though Francesca acknowledged their worth, she found it impossible
to take any of them seriously.  Mr.  Caughton was both respectable and
reasonably rich, but the poor man was very dull!  Lord Banford was more
amusing, but he brayed like a horse-she couldn't possibly live with
that.  Sir Jeremy Sharp was handsome enough if you liked blond men, but
she found his uncritical admiration definitely cloying.  Though she had
no intention of falling in love again, the prospect of living in
intimacy with anyone she had met so far appalled her--she was
apparently more difficult to please than she had thought!

Meanwhile, the approval of the world around her was balm after all the
years spent as an outcast, and it was

Francesca very pleasant to go to balls and routs, to walk, drive and
ride in the Park, to visit the shops whenever she wished, and, above
all, to be accepted for her own sake.  So she decided to put aside the
question of her future, and enjoy for the moment all that life in
London had to offer.

This state of affairs was not to last much longer.  One evening at the
theatre with her father, Francesca became aware that she was being
stared at by a lady and gentleman a short distance away, and when she
turned to see who it was she recognised Lady Forrest and Freddie.
Though it was a shock, Francesca looked away again as indifferently as
she could.  But apparently it was not enough to put them off.

"Forgive me, but have we not met before?"  Lady Forrest had come over,
followed by a reluctant Freddie.  She was smiling, but her eyes were
appraising Francesca, as if she could not quite believe what she saw.
Then her look shifted to Lord Beaudon and the smile became more
practised.  This, her admiring gaze told him, was someone worthy of her
attention.  Lord Beaudon remained unaffected.  He had taken in Lady
Forrest's opulent charms and Freddie's slightly seedy air, and lost no
time in removing his daughter from both.

"I rather think not," he said coldly, and, taking Francesca's arm, led
her firmly away.  Francesca gasped at this snub, but was quite content
to go with him.

"You didn't know them, did you?"  he asked after they were safely back
in their box.  "They're certainly not the sort you ought to know.
Raffish, both of them."

"We were never introduced, if that's what you mean, Papa," said
Francesca.  "I ... have come across them when they visited Witham
Court."  He gave her a sharp look, and she nodded.  "The gentleman was
Freddie.  Lady Forrest I met more recently when she was on her way
there.  I have

Francesca no desire to know either of them any better.  Thank you for
rescuing me--I had no idea you could be so .  so.  "

"Ruthless?  Oh, I know all the ways of dealing with undesirables, my
dear.  I was one of them myself in the old days!  But if I'd known who
that fellow was, I might have been considerably less courteous."

"Courteous?  Is that what you call it?"  asked Francesca with a laugh
that caused her father to smile in return.  "Then I'm glad you didn't
know who he was.  And I'd far rather forget all about both of them."
And in her enjoyment of the play afterwards, she did indeed forget the
encounter.

But the damage had been done.  Charlie Witham was told of the incident
when Lady Forrest next saw him.

"I could hardly believe it, Charlie.  It was Lord Beaudon with her--I
asked Freddie.  What a rude man he is, for all he's so handsome!  But
it must be Fanny Shelwood, it must.  What a transformation!"

"A little beauty, give you my word," said Freddie.  "Good mind to take
up where I left off, money or no money."  This enthusiasm did not
please Lady Forrest.

"She's still as skinny as a rake, of course," she said coldly.  "And
basically as plain as ever, I suppose.  But her clothes!  Where did she
get the means to dress herself at Fanchon?  And the pearls she was
wearing were worth a small fortune.  I am dying to know, Charlie.
Didn't you say that Lord Beaudon was her father?  Is he really foisting
his love-child on the ton?"

"He's capable of it.  But it don't sound like his sort of caper.  I
wonder whether we've been wrong all these years ... I'll see what I can
find out, Charm Jan I'll put Withers on to it right away."

Withers worked to good effect, and such details as were not available
through official documents he ferreted out elsewhere.  Charlie Witham
could hardly wait to spread

Francesca the news.  An heiress loose in London, with such a colourful
story behind the scenes!  A long-lost father, a vengeful aunt, poverty,
deprivation and the sudden acquisition of enormous wealth.  In no time,
the whole of London was humming with the details of Francesca Beaudon's
past history.  And, what was more to the point for some of them, her
present riches.

Poor Francesca became an object of universal sympathy, curiosity, and
ambition, inundated with invitations on every side, pursued
relentlessly by every gazetted fortune-hunter in London.  Her father
was furious, and he, Mrs.  Canfield, Lydia and a small circle of true
friends rallied round to protect her.  But their powers were limited.
Short of remaining indoors, there was no way Francesca could avoid the
unwelcome attentions of gentlemen who had ignored her when they thought
that the Beaudon fortune was all she could look forward to.

The self-control she had learned as a child helped her to remain calm,
in public at least, but her simple pleasure in London life was now at
an end.  It was almost the last straw when Marcus reappeared in London,
and she found that all her brave resolutions had not diminished in the
slightest her confusion of feelings about him.  And it seemed
inevitable that their meeting should be just as unexpected, every bit
as unconventional as their former encounters.

Francesca had had enough!  It was too bad!  Evenings that had been so
delightful just a few weeks before were turning into nightmares.  She
had looked forward to visiting Carlton House ever since Mrs.  Canfield
had described its splendours.  Besides, whatever they said about the
Prince Regent, he was the leader of London Society, and it was an
honour to be invited to one of his balls.  But she had been sadly
disappointed.  The atmosphere was stifling in

Francesca the crowded rooms, and though the furnishings were every bit
as magnificent as Mrs.  Canfield had said, Francesca found them
slightly overdone.

The Prince himself was not at all as she had imagined him--handsome,
witty, and regal.  Instead she was faced with a corpulent gentleman,
whose clothes were too tight and too elaborate, and who was so heavily
complimentary to her that she blushed in spite of her famous cool
reserve.  He insisted on holding her hand for far too long, and then
introduced her to a tall, saturnine gentleman who was standing near by,
whose cold eyes were appraising her in a manner which caused her to
feel rather like a horse complete with a price tag stuck to her
forehead.

"Lord Coker has been asking who the beautiful young lady in the blue
dress is, Miss Beaudon.  He's a great friend of mine so--may I tell
him?"  the Prince asked with a roguish look.

"Of course, sir.  I am honoured," was Francesca's dutiful reply.

"Miss ... Beaudon?  Charmed t'meet you," drawled Lord Coker with marked
lack of interest.  There was a slight pause then, somewhat puzzled,
Francesca curtsied and moved away.  She joined Mrs.  Canfield and
Lydia, and together they went through to the ballroom.

"You look serious, Francesca.  Was the Prince Regent not as you
imagined?"

"It is always strange to meet someone so famous in the flesh, ma'am,"
was Francesca's diplomatic reply.  "But tell me about Lord."  Coker,
was it?  "

Mrs.  Canfield looked disapproving.  "He is a great friend of the
Prince, of course.  But I would regard him as an undesirable
acquaintance for my daughter.  He can be charming..."

"I did not find him so."

"No, he did not set himself to please you, did he?"

Francesca

Francesca laughed.  "Why on earth should he?"

"It is said he is in search of a wife.  And Lord Coker's wives are
always rich."

"Mrs.  Canfield!  How many has the poor man had?"  "Save your sympathy
for the two first Lady Cokers.  Neither of them was a happy woman.
Francesca, I am very content that Lord Coker appeared to ignore you. Do
not seek his acquaintance.  He is a dangerous man to cross.  The Prince
Regent is capricious, but at the moment Lord Coker is undoubtedly
enjoying his favour, and it gives him a great deal of undeserved
power."

Francesca could hardly believe that her friend, normally so moderate,
so restrained in her judgements, could be so harsh.  But she soon
forgot Lord Coker in her enjoyment of the conversation and dancing that
followed.  Later on, however, when she was sitting quietly, half-hidden
in one of the many alcoves, his indifference to her was accounted
for.

Lord Coker and a companion came strolling through the room, observing
the dancers.  They did not notice Francesca behind them, and through
some trick of the acoustics in the room their conversation was
perfectly audible to her.  Wine had perhaps made them less cautious
than they might have been.

"Why on earth you've dragged me away from the best run of luck I've had
in weeks, just to watch all this cavorting, I cannot imagine, Coker!
What the devil are you at?"

"I need to find the demned Shelwood filly.  I've been looking for her
all night, but I haven't seen a trace!  How can I fix my confounded
interest with her if I don't even meet her?"

"Of course you've met her!  Prinny introduced you not an hour ago.
Damned civil of him, if you ask me."  "When?  Which one was she?"  "The
tall blonde girl in blue."

Francesca "That's Beaudon's daughter."

"She may be Beaudon's daughter, but she's the Shelwood heiress all the
same.  Shelwood was her grandfather."

"The devil he was?  So she is an heiress, after all.  Damn it!  I was
looking for someone called Shelwood, and when the Prince introduced us,
I thought he was amusing himself at my expense with the Beaudon filly.
You know his way.  Confound it!  I may have made a slight error
there."

The other chuckled.  "You were more than a touch uncivil to the lady.
You'll have to exercise all your famed address to reinstate yourself
when you do find her."  "You think I can't?"

"Miss Beaudon doesn't look like your usual empty-headed debutante.  You
might find it harder than you think."

"A wager, Felton?"

"On what?  That you'll marry her?"

"I intend to do so, of course.  But at the moment, my aim is to get her
to dance with me."

"Oh, I shan't bet on that.  All you'd have to do is to ask Prinny to
present you to her as a partner--and he'd do it for you, too!  You're
very much in favour at the moment."

"I won't ask him to present me, and I shall dance with the girl before
the supper interval.  Will you take me on?"

"That's only half an hour away... You won't do it, Coker!  Five guineas
that you can't."

"Fifteen minutes would be enough, but we will leave it at the
half-hour.  And we'll make it ten guineas."

"You won't do it, y'know.  Miss Beaudon is well known to be difficult
to please, and you started off very badly."

"I'll do it with ease, and enjoy it.  The ten guineas are as good as
mine.  But first we must find the chit.  Getting

Francesca her away from Maria Canfield will be the hardest part.  You
seem to know something about the heiress, Felton.

Tell me about her.  "

Chapter Eight

They wandered away and Francesca was left to fume alone in her alcove.
To be the subject of such a conversation, to hear men making a wager on
her future behaviour disgusted her, and she spent some minutes
recovering her temper.  Her first impulse was to find Mrs.  Canfield
and then leave Carlton House, but cooler reflection persuaded her that
this was impossible.  What reason could she possibly give for such
discourtesy to her royal host?  That one of his closest friends had
insulted her?  Impossible!

Besides, it was said that Lord Carne was coming to Carlton House on his
return from Paris and Lydia had been in high spirits all day because of
it.  She could not deprive the girl of her chance to meet her hero
again.  No, flight was not possible, so she must simply find Mrs.
Canfield and stay close to her for the rest of the evening--that might
be protection enough.

Unfortunately, her plan was foiled from the outset.  She saw Mrs.
Canfield at the far end of the room and got up to join her.  But she
had gone little more than a few paces when she was confronted with the
very man she hoped to avoid.

"Miss Beaudon!"

Francesca

Francesca looked coldly at him and nodded.

He smiled.  "I have looked for you everywhere.  I wish to explain..."

"You must excuse me, Lord Coker.  I am on my way to join Mrs.
Canfield."  Francesca made to walk past him.

"Then I will accompany you.  It is hardly fitting that such an
exquisitely elegant young lady should walk unprotected through these
crowds."  He put up his glass and surveyed the scene with a look of
contempt.  "One wonders how some of them got past the run keys

"It really isn't necessary..."

Taking Francesca firmly by the arm, he said, "Come, Miss Beaudon.  I
see your friend only a few yards away."

As they threaded their way through the throng, Lord COker said, "You
are right, of course.  Explanations are tedious.  We will dispense with
them.  Ah, Mrs.  Canfield!  I have your lovely protrgre here, but I am
in something of a dilemma."

"A dilemma, Lord Coker?"

"You see, the Prince Regent, in his infinite wisdom and kindness, has
asked me to look after one of your charges during the supper interval.
But I hardly dare take Miss Beaudon away from you without first asking
your per mission.  She is too modest to agree without it."

"I assure you, Lord Coker--'

Ignoring Francesca's protest, he went on, smiling all the while with
great charm at Mrs.  Canfield, "Or should I offer to look after your
lovely daughter, instead?  The Prince would not wish me to ignore his
orders entirely, you see."  He raised one eyebrow.

"But I... I... It is too much honour, Lord Coker.  The Prince is very
kind, but--'

"He likes his own way, too."  Lord Coker's smile grew a little
steelier. Mrs.  Canfield threw a desperate look at Francesca as he went
on, "Pon my soul, ma'am, the choice

Francesca 13 3

is a difficult one.  A golden goddess like Miss Beaudon here, or.  " he
turned to Lydia, who was standing by her mother looking awed at being
addressed by the great Lord Coker " Miss Canfield--a bewitching naiad
in green.  And so delightfully young.  "

Lydia blushed and looked down but she was smiling at his flattery.

Mrs.  Canfield stiffened and Francesca said hastily, "I believe Lydia
is already engaged for the supper interval, sir."  She looked at Lord
Coker with delicate disbelief.  "But if the Prince has commanded--'

"I assure you on my honour he has, Miss Beaudon."  He looked at her,
daring her to challenge his words.  "Do you wish me to take you to
him?"

Francesca gave him a level look.  "I would not put you to so much
trouble.  I am sure the Prince is a loyal friend."

"Then shall we go?"  He offered her his ann; after a moment's
hesitation, she curtsied to Mrs.  Canfield and took it.

Francesca was thinking hard as she walked away.  She found it galling
that Lord Coker was about to win his wager so easily.  The minute they
joined the throng on the ballroom floor he would be ten guineas the
richer, and she would have helped him to it.  Was there a way in which
she could prevent his leading her on to that floor in the next half
hour?  She would certainly try.

"But, sir," she said, smiling as charmingly as she could, 'did you not
say that the Prince wanted you to take me to supper?  "

He stopped and looked down at her.  "I did."

"Then should we not go to the supper room rather than the ballroom?"

'l think not," he said calmly.  " I am very self-indulgent, Miss
Beaudon.  I cannot deny myself the pleasure of a dance with
you--indeed, a waltz with you.  Come.  " He

Francesca would have walked on with her, but she removed her arm and
stood where she was.

"Please, Lord Coker," she said with another delightful smile.  "Do not
indulge yourself at my expense.  I am an indifferent dancer, but I love
to talk--you have been described to me as one of the best
conversationalists in London.  And in addition, I am really very
thirsty."  She looked at him under lowered lashes in what she hoped was
a beguiling manner.

His thin lips twisted in a complacent smile at her pleading tones and
he took firm hold of her arm.  "My dear," he said, 'we shall talk all
you wish.  We have much to say to one another, I am sure.  "

"Then--'

"But we shall dance first."

Francesca felt her control slipping.  "I don't wish to dance, sir!"

His grip on her arm was cruelly tight.  "Nonsense, of course you do."
When she still pulled against his grip, he said softly, "I can't
believe you wish to make a scene here, my dear.  Think what damage it
would do you and your friends..."  and without waiting any longer, he
swept her into the circling throng.

Francesca endured, rather than enjoyed, the dance that followed.  Lord
Coker was expert enough, but, without holding her too obviously close,
his grip on her waist, and in the twists and turns of the waltz, was
both intimate and cruel.  Nor did he release her afterwards.  Before
she realised it, he was leading her out of the ballroom.

"Lord Coker!  Stop!  Where are we going?"  she cried, as they went
through long doors into an apparently empty passage.

"You wished for refreshment?  This is a less Crowded route to the
supper room.  We shan't lose ourselves--I know Carlton House like the
back of my hand."

Francesca Suspicious, but unable to argue, Francesca allowed him to
lead her down the passage.  It was lined with furniture and objects
dart, but she was not allowed to linger.

They went through a hall, then along another passage and finally
arrived at an entrance guarded by two flunkeys.  At a nod from Lord
Coker, they opened the doors and Francesca was led into one of the
loveliest rooms she had ever seen.  Furnished in blue velvet with
touches of gold, the room was dominated by a magnificent chandelier.
Forgetting her suspicions, she walked into the room, gazing at the
pictures and ornaments, all in exquisite taste, which filled it.  She
was speechless with admiration.

"I see you like it."  Lord Coker had come up behind her and put his
hands on her shoulders.  Startled, she moved away and turned to face
him.

"Thank you for showing me such a beautiful room, sir.  Now, if you
please, I should like to join the others in the supper room."

"In a while," he said.

"Now!"

"Come, Miss Beaudon.  You surely don't imagine that I would take all
this trouble to be alone with you just to show you a room!  You
expressed a very flattering wish for my ... conversation.  I thought we
should manage better if we were private."  He took her hand and kissed
it.  "The admiration you demonstrated for me before we danced has
encouraged me to hope for even more."  He smiled with arrogant
confidence.

Francesca moved towards the entrance.  The doors were shut.  Refusing
to panic, she said coldly, "Lord Coker, I think you mistake me.  I am
not in the habit of listening to anyone who tries to coeme me.  I
insist that these doors are opened immediately!"

"Admirably said!  Well, I will let you go--'

With a sigh of relief, Francesca put her hand on the

Francesca ornate handle of the door.  She was pulled back ungently and
held in his arms.

"After you have heard me out."

"Let me go!"  she cried, struggling in vain to free herself.  "You must
be mad, sir!"

"Not mad---merely in love."

If Francesca had not been so frightened and angry, she would have
laughed at the lack of any real feeling in these words.  He could not
have made his motive plainer.  But the situation was none the less
serious.  Fear of this man, fear of the scandal should she be
discovered in this private room with him, anger at his arrogance and
conceit--all were fighting for supremacy.  Anger won.  She leaned back
as far as she could and said coldly, "If you do not release me this
instant, Lord Coker, the world shall know you for the villain you are.
I am not entirely without protectors."

"My intentions are honorable, Miss Beaudon.  I wish to marry you.  And,
if you were to spread tales about me, then you overestimate your
influence in Society.  The world saw you laughing and flirting with me
in the ballroom.  You came willingly enough.  No, my dear.  Telling the
world would not harm me, and it would rain you.  Come, you shall listen
to what I have to say--how much I admire you, and how ardently I wish
you to be my wife.  We shall forget your harsh words," He pulled her
head towards him and kissed her.

Outraged, she snatched up an ornament from the console table nearby and
hit him with it.  The vase shattered and he staggered with the blow.
For a moment she was free.  She fled to the far corner of the room,
praying that the door she had seen there was not locked.  It opened at
her touch and she raced through and locked it from the other side, just
as Lord Coker, snarling with rage, reached it.  He was cursing her
comprehensively and threatening her with rain and destruction.

Francesca Francesca did not wait to hear.  She fled through a second
door and a third, forced herself to walk swiftly but calmly down a
staircase thronged with people.  But though their presence offered some
protection, she doubted she could control the trembling in her limbs
much longer.  She must seek out some quiet place where she could
recover.  The doors at the far end of the conservatory opened into the
garden, and Francesca made for these, desperate for fresh air and
solitude.  She snatched a glance behind her.

Lord Coker was at the far end, by the staircase.  He was consulting a
footman, who shook his head and pointed in the other direction.  She
must escape before he turned and saw her.

Abandoning decorum, Francesca slipped out and fled in a panic down the
garden.  A bank of bushes lay to her right.  She stopped, gave another
rapid glance behind to make sure that she was unobserved, then darted
to the side--and ran straight into the tall figure of a gentleman, who
had apparently been enjoying the air, and indulging in a cigar.  The
unexpected force of the collision caused him to stagger, but he threw
his cigar away and held her firmly in his arms until they had both
regained their balance.

With no surprise at all, Francesca heard the deep, warm, familiar tones
say, "Why!  What a pleasant surprise!  I thought you never wished to
see me again, Miss Beaudon."

It was too much.  Francesca gazed up at Marcus in horror.  It was
humiliating enough that there had been a witness to her unseemly
behaviour and headlong flight, but although she was somewhat
overwrought by her scene with Lord Coker, she could have controlled her
feelings with anyone else.  But that she should meet Marcus again in
such circumstances .  it was too much!  She burst into tears.

Francesca

After an initial stiffening of surprise, Marcus gathered her more
firmly to him and held her until gradually her sobs subsided and she
was able to speak.

"You shouldn't ... I must ask you... Please let me go.  I'm sorry to
make such an exhibition of myself."

He released her instantly.  "What happened?"  he said curtly.

For one moment Francesca was tempted to tell him.  The feeling of
security, of comfort she had experienced in his arms, was very
seductive.  But another moment's thought stopped her.  If she told
Marcus what had occurred in the Blue Velvet Room, he might involve
himself on her behalf.  Lord Coker was a powerful man.  He would take
it very badly if Marcus, whom he would regard as a nobody, questioned
his behaviour. She had no wish to see Marcus hurt.

Even worse, Marcus himself might look embarrassed and make some excuse
to leave her.  That would mortify her beyond bearing.  So she said,
somewhat lamely, "It... it was so hot in there.  I was overcome."

"Francesca, I'm not a fool.  It must have been more than that.
Considerably more to have so discomposed you.  I have never seen you in
tears before."

The proximity of this man, and the events of the night, loosened her
tongue.  Her reply was almost involuntary.

"Haven't you?"  she asked wryly.  "I assure you I have shed many in the
past.  But then, you were not there to see."

They stared at one another, and as they looked the old magic took hold
of her.  When Marcus grasped her arms and drew her to him, she did not
resist.  And when he held her even more closely, she did not pull
array, but buried her head in his shoulder.  The sense of being where
she belonged was immediate.

Oh, Marcus, she thought in despair, why do I feel this closeness with
no other man?  Is this why I have refused

Francesca all the others?  Why I regard them as second-best, though I
know them to be good, kind men, so much more worthy of my regard than
you could ever be.  They would never hurt me as you have hurt me, yet I
can feel nothing for any of them.  What have you done to my life,
Marcus?  Why did we ever meet?

"Let me look at you, Francesca."

She lifted her head.  He was as handsome as ever, but in the dim light
reflected from the windows of Carlton House he looked sombre,
threatening even.  The dark blue eyes were shadowed, the beautiful
mouth set in harsh lines.  A chill went down her spine and she
shivered.  His hold tightened.

"Tell me what happened to put you in such a panic."  "I ... I can't.
And I must not stay here like this.  Please let me go, Marcus."  He did
not immediately release her and with a sudden flare of spirit she
wrenched herself out of his arms and said angrily, "This won't do!  I
must be mad!  I don't intend to escape from one seducer, merely to fall
into the arms of another!"

"Damn you, I'm no seducer!"  he said fiercely, "Of all the pig-headed,
obstinate women--'

Francesca interrupted what promised to be a notable loss of temper by
turning away to start back to the house, but she stopped short when she
saw the tall figure of Lord Coker in the middle of the lawn.  It was
impossible to avoid discovery.  Her pale blue dress was luminous in the
darkness.

"Well now, what have we here?  The lovely Miss Beaudon, no less."  The
words were harmless enough but the tone was malevolent.  "Running away
was very foolish, my dear.  It only arouses the hunter in every male.
Or did you know that already, you witch?  Did you expect me, perhaps?
You have certainly chosen a delightfully secluded spot."

Francesca

Lord Coker advanced towards her, and Francesca felt caught in a snare,
unable to move.  "Shall we continue our highly interesting
conversation, Miss Beaudon?  Or shall we move on to other delights?
Payment, let us say, for my injuries."  His white teeth gleamed in the
darkness as he smiled.  "I promise you, I shan't let you get away so
easily this time."

Marcus took a step forward, though he was still in shadow.  The
movement caught Lord Coker's eye, and he said softly, "The devil!  So
it wasn't modesty alone which caused you to flee my arms with such
drastic determination, but an assignation in the garden.  Well, well,
well! The virtuous Miss Beaudon has more of her father in her than I
thought!"

"Coker!"  said Marcus curtly.  Francesca put her hands to her cheeks.
The confrontation she had feared was about to take place, and it was
bound to prove disastrous for Marcus.  Physically he was more than a
match for his lordship, but he had nothing like Coker's political power
and influence.

"What the devil?"  -- Lord Coker stopped in his tracks and stared in
surprise, not unmixed with annoyance, at the tall figure before him.
His eye turned to Francesca, then back to Marcus.  "I see!  Not without
protectors, you said.  With some justification.  No wonder you appeared
so indifferent to my charms, my dear.  This is a conquest any young
lady would be pleased to flaunt."  Turning to Marcus, he drawled, "I
congratulate you on your turn of speed, my dear fellow.  When was it
you got back from Paris?"

"A few hours ago," said Marcus curtly.

"One wonders when you've found the time to fix your interest with Miss
Beaudon here.  But one quite sees why.  She has little idea how to
behave but she's reasonably handsome--and so is her fortune..."

Francesca Marcus said softly, "I don't think I understand what you
mean, sir."

Francesca was chilled by the menace in his voice.  The two men stared
at each other for what seemed an eternity, then Lord Coker gave a
laugh. "I meant no harm.  You must forgive my very natural chagrin at
being denied a chance of furthering my acquaintance with one of the
most desirable young ladies in London.  Especially at being cut out by
a man who hardly needs Miss Beaudon's ... assets.  You're as rich as a
Nabob yourself.  But what a stir this will create!  The Nonpareil
indulging in secret meetings in the gardens of Carlton House!"

"If I hear anything said linking Miss Beaudon's name with mine, you
will hear from me, Coker.  So guard your tongue."  This was said so
peremptorily and so coldly that Francesca gasped and looked anxiously
at Lord Coker.  Had Marcus no sense?  To address one of the the
Regent's favourites in such a manner was to court disaster.  But to her
complete bewilderment, instead of threatening Marcus, as she would have
expected, Lord Coker remained silent.  What was going on?

Marcus offered her his arm and continued, "Now I will finish what I was
doing, which was to find Miss Beaudon and escort her back to her
chaperon, before her absence from the ballroom is remarked on.  As a
close friend of her host, you will no doubt be shocked to hear that the
behaviour of some villain or other forced her to seek refuge in the
garden... Certainly the Prince would be furious at such an insult to a
guest of his.  Indeed, if knew who the culprit was, he might even
withdraw his fay our from the fellow.  Silence all round is called for,
I believe."

"Quite!"  snapped Lord Coker.

"Good.  Now, you will excuse us, I am sure, Coker."  "I shan't forget
this, Came!"  Then, with a lowering

Francesca glance at Francesca, Lord Coker gave a cursory bow, turned on
his heel and strode up towards the house.

Marcus watched him go.  Then he looked at Francesca, who had withdrawn
her arm from his and now stood staring at him, a frown on her face.

"Did you wish me to challenge the fellow, Francesca?  I'm sorry if I
disappointed you, but I thought you would prefer to avoid the
inevitable scandal if I did.  Coker won't harm you again."

"No, no!  The matter is best forgotten.  But..."

"But what?"

"Lord Coker called you Carne!"

"Yes, he did.  Why are you surprised?  It is my title."  "B-but... That
is impossible!  Lydia talks of Lord Came all the time!  She cannot sing
his praises loudly enough."  The incredulity in Francesca's voice was
too much for Marcus.

He laughed out loud, then said solemnly, "You must make allowance for
Lydia's partiality.  She adored her father and I was his friend.  She
will learn the truth in time."

"But it's not only Lydia!  Mrs.  Canfield ... my father... all the
rest.  They all speak well of you!  Indeed, they all admire you!"

"Mrs.  Can'eld cannot think more highly of me than I do of her.  Your
father ... I haven't yet met him, I believe.  And as for the rest..."
He shrugged his shoulders, and looked at Francesca with one eyebrow
quirked.  She was still shaking her head in disbelief.

His lips twitched and he went on gravely, "I assure you that I am Came.
I inherited the title somewhat unexpectedly a few years after we first
met."

"But Lord Came is rich, and you ... you--'

"I was poor.  Quite right.  I inherited wealth together with the title.
One doesn't normally mention such things, Francesca but, since we are
talking so very openly, I will

Francesca admit it--I am an extremely rich man.  Rich as a Nabob, as
Coker said.  "

"I ... see.  That would account for some of it, I suppose..."

Marcus sighed and said roe fully "My popularity, you mean?  I am sure
you are right, though I know of no one else who would point that out
with such brutal frankness.  You don't mince matters, do you?"

Francesca did not hear him.  She was still struggling to come to terms
with this startlingly new situation.  "But it doesn't account for the
admiration of the rest.  I have heard good people--people I
respect--talking well of you, describing you as a man of character."
She shook her head again in bewilderment.  "I cannot understand it."

Marcus found that he was enjoying himself immensely.  His voice was
unsteady as he replied gravely, "I can't account for it myself.  It is
gratifying to hear of it, of course.  But don't worry, Francesca.  I
shan't suffer from conceit-not while you are there to redress the
balance."

At this Francesca stiffened and' said accusingly, "You are laughing at
me, Lord Carne!"

He smiled and said, "Only a little.  It is quite refreshing, believe
me, to find a lady in London who does not hang on my every word,
whether it makes sense or not.  But it is time to take you back to Mrs.
Canfield.  Coker won't talk, at least not for a while, but others may
notice you have been out of sight for too long.  Shall we go back?"  He
offered his arm again and, with some reluctance, Francesca took it.

As they walked slowly up the lawns to the house, Marcus said, "There
must have been some considerable change in your fortunes, Francesca. Am
I to understand that you and Lord Beaudon are now reconciled?  He
acknowledges you as his daughter?"

"He never denied it.  It was my aunt who ... refused to

Francesca believe that he had married her sister, and the
neighbour-hood, including the Witham Court set, took its lead from
her.

But she was .  mistaken.  "

"Mistaken?  I doubt that."  Marcus flashed her a sceptical look, but
she didn't see.  Her mind was in turmoil.  She had to ask, even though
the subject was painfully embarrassing.  "Lord Came, when you came to
Shelwood... after my aunt had died ... and ... and offered for me..."

"Yes?"  His tone was not encouraging, but she struggled on.

"Were you as rich then?"

"I told you.  I inherited everything about four years ago.  Why do you
ask?"

Colour rose in Francesca's cheeks.  How could she explain, when she
didn't even know herself why it was so important?

He waited a moment, then drawled, "I am not asking whether you have
changed your mind, Francesca.  The moment for that is past.  But would
your answer have been kinder, if you had known I was rich?  Would you
have treated me differently?"

"Of course I would!"

The look of cynicism on Marcus' face increased, but Francesca did not
see it.  She was not only totally unaware of the effect her words had
on him, she hardly noticed indeed what she was saying, absorbed as she
was in her own thoughts.  Her resentment, her anger, the manner in
which she had rejected him, had all been based on the belief that he
would be marrying her for her money.  Now she had just discovered that
she had made another mistake about him--a more disastrous mistake than
any of the rest.  Whatever his motives in coming to seek her out at
Shelwood, acquiring her fortune had not been one of them.

She had not only been shamefully insulting, she had been grossly unjust
to him.  Though she could still hardly

Francesca believe it, this man beside her, whom she had called a rake
and fortune-hunter, a seducer and abductor, was in fact a polished
leader of society, universally spoken of as a man of integrity and
wealth.  An offer of marriage from him must be regarded as a signal
honour.  Mrs.  Canfield had called him a target for all the matchmakers
in London.  "You have a better chance of marrying the man in the moon!"
her father had said.

But, in that case, why had he come to Shelwood?  Had she been wrong
about his feelings?  Had he genuinely been in love with her all those
years ago?  And had his love been re-awakened when he saw her again on
the road to Witham?  Her eyes softened as she stole a glance at him, a
tentative smile on her lips.  But he did not respond.  If anything, his
face grew colder.

She took herself to task for idly dreaming the impossible.  How could
he possibly have fallen in love with her again?  In her old clothes
covered in mud and weeds after clambering out of that ditch, she had
hardly represented any man's ideal.  He hadn't behaved as if he admired
her, and he certainly hadn't spoken like a man in love when he had
asked her to marry him.  Indeed, she had had the impression that she
had hurt his dignity, not his feelings, in refusing him.

But, if it was not to gain a fortune, why had he come at all?  She had
to know.  She turned to ask him, but was astonished to see that he was,
in fact, regarding her with an expression of tired cynicism.

"Why ... what are you...?  Why are you looking at me like that, Lord
Carne?"  she stammered.

"I suppose I had hoped for something better."  "Better?  What do you
mean?"

"You made your opinion of me perfectly plain when you refused me at
Shelwood.  I was surprised at your vehemence, but I accepted that you
did not like me enough

Francesca to marry me.  I was disappointed to hear you say just now
that, if you had known I was rich.  But it's of no consequence.  I had
thought you would be different, that's all.  Come, let me escort you to
Mrs.  Canfield.  "

The colour rose in Francesca's cheeks, but, restraining her impulse to
answer him angrily, she said in her coolest tones, "You think I would
have accepted you had I known you were rich, whatever my opinion of
your character?"  "Have you not just said so?"

"Indeed, no!  You asked me if I would have treated you differently, had
I known you were rich, Lord Carne, not whether my answer would have
been different."  "Aren't you splitting hairs?"

Francesca was losing the battle to stay calm.  She said with a snap,
"Do you find it so impossible to believe that any woman could refuse an
offer from the great Lord Carne?  Allow me to tell you, my lord, that I
find you impossibly conceited!"

"You have found me so many things in the past, Francesca, none of them
flattering, that your insults now have very little power to offend
me."

His words reminded her that she owed him some apology.  She took a deep
breath and said formally, "I have behaved very badly on several
occasions, I know, and I have been at fault in jumping to conclusions
about you.  I now regret many of the things I have said, especially in
the library at Shelwood, and I hope you will forgive me."

He looked at her impassively, then nodded.  "Let it all be
forgotten."

"Not ... not quite yet.  There is something 1 still do not understand.
I now know that your motives for coming to Shelwood were not what I
thought.  But ... I am still puzzled.  Why ... why did you ask me to
marry you after my aunt died?"  Francesca held her breath, as she
waited for his reply.  It was not immediately forthcoming, so she

Francesca went on, "You did not appear to be in love with me--indeed,
you said as much at the time."

Marcus hesitated.  He had broached this conversation impulsively,
cynically almost.  His pride had been badly hurt by her scornful
refusal of him, and he wanted to hear her admit that she had been wrong
to refuse such a splendid offer.  So far she had not obliged him, and
he now regretted opening the subject at all.  His innate honesty
compelled him to answer truthfully.  "Your situation seemed so
hopeless.  I cannot say that I was in love with you, but I was not in
love with anyone else, either.  I remembered our past association and
thought we could build on that--'

"You were sorry for me," said Francesca, cutting him short.  She had
known in her heart that he was not in love with her, but his words
nevertheless had given her a pang.  But no sign of this appeared as she
said, "Pray say no more, sir.  Whatever the misunderstandings were--on
either side--it was fortunate that they prevented us from entering into
a marriage which could only have led to misery for both of us."

She took a deep breath.  It was all too painfully embarrassing.  This
conversation should never have started in the first place.  He had been
sorry for her!  Sorry!  The great Lord Carne willing to perform another
of his charitable acts, to make a lovesick, idiot of a girl happy at
last!  Oh, no!  There was no going back.  She had been a fool to think
otherwise.  And if she wished to have any self-respect, any peace of
mind, she must avoid him in the future, as far as that was possible.

"You still haven't told me what your answer would have been,
Francesca."

"You can hardly expect me to do so."  They had nearly reached the
garden doors.  "I can't--I don't--' She was stammering like a
schoolgirl! Francesca took a deep

Francesca breath and began again.  She said coolly, "Lord Came, pray
let us forget what has been said tonight.  I hope you will excuse my
behaviour in the past.  I have clearly misjudged you.  In future..."
She stopped, unable to continue.

Marcus regarded her with another slightly cynical smile.  "You will be
kinder?  Would like us to meet in order to explain how you have
changed?  Perhaps often?"  "What do you mean?"

"You are quite right, of course.  " Marcus" was not good enough for
you.  But it cannot do you any harm at all to be seen in the company of
Lord Came, an eminently eligible member of the ton, the object of every
match-making mama in Society!"

Francesca felt another surge of rage, but her training stood her in
good stead.  They were now in sight of other people.  Her expression
was calm and her voice low as she said, "You were wrong, Lord Came.  It
seems that even I cannot redress the balance of your conceit, nor, sad
though it is to see it, have I any wish to do so.

"I was about to thank you for your protection tonight, and to say that
I am ashamed of the things I said to you on that memorable day in the
library.  And, though your enormous self-esteem makes it unlikely you
will believe me, I was also about to say that having made our peace, we
should avoid each other as far as possible in the future.  Because of
the past I could never be easy in your company."

They were now at the foot of the stairs.  She raised her voice and said
politely, "Thank you for fetching me from the garden, Lord Came, but
pray do not let me keep you from your friends any longer.  I am sure I
can find Mrs.  Canfield for myself."  Then she gave a small curtsy and
made her way up the stairs.

Chapter Nine

Marcus watched her go with a slight smile on his lips.  Francesca
wished to avoid his company, did she?  He was not all convinced that he
wished to avoid hers.  You could say what you liked about Francesca
Shelwood---or Beaudon, as she now was--conversation with her was never
dull.  Stimulating, appealing, infuriating--but never a bore.  From
what she had said, there was no danger that she regarded him as a
prospective husband.

That was as well, for though he had sometimes been tempted to take a
bride for the sake of the Came name, the thought of marriage bored him
beyond measure.  The closest he had ever come to being in loveeeply in
love-had been with Francesca herself all those years ago.  But he had
forgotten her in the tune that followed, and he was now a very
different man from the callow youth who would have thrown everything
away for love.

His rash and quixotic gesture in offering for Francesca when her aunt
died had resulted from a remnant of feeling for her, a sense of
responsibility for her welfare.  It had been very ill-judged.  Thank
God she had refused him!  As she had said, they would both have
regretted it.

But perhaps, for old times' sake, it would amuse him now to cultivate
her a little, introduce her to his friends Francesca she might well
find a reasonable match among them.  The Beaudon fortune could not be
very great, but not all the members of his circle were on the hunt for
an heiress.  One of them was sure to find her suitable ut who?

Marcus frowned.  Some of them were sticklers--would they be put off by
Francesca's behaviour?  She could be very impulsive.  But how could she
know how to behave?  Her training at Shelwood had not prepared her for
life in Society.  She was intelligent, she would learn.  And she had
been upset tonight by Coker's treatment of her.  Marcus's frown
deepened. Coker might be one of the Prince Regent's gambling cronies,
but he was a scoundrel all the same.  What had he been up to with
Francesca?  It was out of the question, even for Coker, to think of
making her his mistress, but the Beaudon fortune was hardly large
enough to tempt him into marriage.  His two previous wives had both
been considerable heiresses.

Marcus shook his head decisively.  Whatever lay behind Coker's interest
in Francesca, he was certainly no fit companion for her; if no one else
would stop the connection, then it was up to him to do so.  " she was
much too good for Coker!  The frown on Marcus's face gave way to a
smile as he thought of Francesca.  How lovely she had looked, even in
her agitated state!  Yes, he owed it to the past to keep an eye on her
interests in London.  She might yet make a reasonable match.

But when Marcus began to review his circle of acquaintance, he was
surprised to find that the thought of any of them marrying Francesca
repelled him.  They made excellent friends, but each one of them lacked
some quality or other which he considered essential for her happiness.
Richard Caughton was a steady, kind fellow and he certainly wasn't
hanging out for a rich wife.  But

Francesca it had to be said that he sometimes was rather a dull
dog--Francesca would be bored with him in a month.

Vincent Tatham was much more the type for her--amusing, witty, polished
but would he cherish her when she was ill or unhappy?  It was
doubtful----he could be a bit of an unfeeling brute.

Monty Banford?  Never!  His taste was for a full-blown, obvious sort of
beauty, and his mental processes were equally unsubtle.  He would never
appreciate Francesca's elusive charm.

What about George Denver?  Now he was a distinct possibility.  Plenty
of address, nice little property in Kent, a very good fellow all round
but no, it wouldn't do!  George simply wasn't up to her weight--she
would walk all over him, and despise him for allowing it.  He couldn't
submit poor George to that.  Who else was there?  More names occurred
to him, but each had something amiss.  Devil take it!  There wasn't one
of them fit to marry her!  Not one!

Irritated with his lack of success, Marcus decided to consult his'
sister.  He had asked her once before to help him with Francesca
without much success, but the present situation was very different.
Francesca was now perfectly respectable.  Her fortune might be only
moderate, but she was worthy of any man's consideration as a wife.
Lady Chelford was bound to think of someone---her circle of
acquaintance was wide and comprised some of the most respectable
families in England.  But when he broached the subject, his sister's
reaction was not what he had expected.

"My dear Marcus!"  she exclaimed.  "Where have you been all these
weeks?"

"In Paris--as you very well know.  Why is that to the purpose?"  "Why
should you imagine that Miss Beaudon needs

Francesca any help from me to find a husband?  The idea is absurd!  "

"Come, Sarah!  You can surely help me this time!  Miss Beaudon is no
longer a penniless nobody.  She is perfectly respectable now, with the
Beaudon name and fortune behind her.  It shouldn't be that difficult to
think of someone who would be prepared to marry her."

Lady Chelford's eyes narrowed.  "I am positive I can find at least a
dozen, if not more!  But ... before I go any further, Marcus, tell me
why you regard Miss Beaudon's future as your concern?"

"Damn it, I feel responsible for the gift!"

"I know you do, Marcus.  But what puzzles me is why!  You said you were
sorry for her in the past, but Miss Beaudon no longer has the slightest
need for your pity.

She is a very fortunate young woman.  "

"Sarah '

Lady Chelford swept on.  "And unless you are about to declare a
directly personal interest in her, Marcus--'

"You know I don't think of marrying anyone at the moment."

"Then I suggest that you leave Miss Beaudon, together with her father
and Maria Canfield, to sort out her future for herself.  Good heavens,
man, Francesca Beaudon could take her pick of London society!"

"That is surely a trifle exaggerated?  She is beautiful enough, but the
BeaU don fortune is modest--'

"Modest!  Marcus, you have been out of London too long!  Did you not
know?  The gift was her grandfather's heir.  She has a personal fortune
of seventy thousand pounds, and a large estate in Buckinghamshire.
There isn't an eligible man in London who wouldn't give his eyebrows to
capture the Shelwood heiress!"

"Her grandfather's heir..."  Marcus was stunned.  "The devil she is!"
There was a pause, then he said slowly, "She said something about it
that time in the library, but

Francesca I ignored it .  I thought she was telling me a tale.  " He
fell silent again.  " An heiress.  "

"A considerable one.  She is, of course, courted and flattered wherever
she goes.  In fact, it is perhaps as well that you are not considering
her for yourself, Marcus.  You might find it difficult to get near
her!"  This was said with a touch of malicious amusement.

Marcus felt unaccountably irritated.  "I had no idem..  Well, you're
right for once.  She certainly doesn't need my help to find a husband.
What a ridiculous idea!  Quite mad.  I'm glad I spoke to you, Sarah--I
was close to making a fool of myself."  He went to the door, then
stopped.  "I don't know why it is," he said angrily, 'but that gift has
the knack of causing trouble wherever she goes!  " " What on earth do
you mean?  "

"She rushes about knocking me into streams, falls into ditches, reviles
me for trying to help her, romps through the forest interfering in my
concerns, and now--'

"We cannot be talking of the same person, Marcus!  Miss Beaudon has
channing manners!  What is more, she is known for her detachment and
poise.  As far as I know,

she has never put a foot wrong in matters of propriety.  " " Ha!  You
don't know her, Sarah!  "

"No, I obviously don't.  Nor, if what you say is true, does the rest of
society!  Tell me more about this creature."

But Marcus recollected himself.  Charlotte had willingly agreed to say
nothing about what had happened in the forest, and now he had very
nearly revealed the ridiculous story himself!  "No, no!  It's of no
consequence.  It all took place in the very distant past, when ... when
she was still a child.  Though I ear mot believe she has changed as
much as you say."

"You will see for yourself.  But if you have no wish to marry her, then
you must leave her alone!"

"You need not say anything more, Sarah.  I will certainly

Francesca leave her alone!  I wash my hands of her.  Completely The
rich Miss Beaudon can choose a husband whenever she will without my
aid!  "

He left at that point in what seemed remarkably like a fit of temper.
Lady Chelford stared at his departing figure in astonishment.  Marcus
was the soul of patience and calm.  She could not remember when he had
last slammed a door like that.  What had got into him?

Then she raised an eyebrow, and started to smile.  Perhaps .  just
perhaps, her brother might be deceiving himself.  How delightful that
would be!  Marcus was a very dear brother, always ready to help in any
difficulty, and she was truly grateful to him.  But there was no
denying that, since he had come in to the title, he had been
disgracefully spoilt.  He had had his choice of Society's beauties for
far too long. It would do him no harm at all if he was attracted to
someone who did not fall over herself to win him.

Marcus may have washed his hands of Francesca, but he could not help
observing her as she danced and conversed, as she took part in all the
many events which made up the London Season.  And, to his surprise, he
soon saw that his sister's account of Francesca's conduct in society
was perfectly correct.  Francesca knew how to behave rather better than
most her contemporaries, in fact.  In spite of the persistent attention
of so many members of the ton, she bore herself with dignity and grace.
And in the face of their flattery and obvious admiration, she remained
detached, even politely amused.

He could never find anything in her manner to fault.  He was amazed.
Her collapse into tears, her agitation and loss of temper in the garden
at Carlton Househese had been completely out of character for the
Honorable Francesca Beaudon as Society knew her.  He had never

Francesca liked Coker, but now he found it difficult to address the man
with any degree of civility, for he was sure Coker was to blame.

In this he was wrong.  Lord Coker's behaviour had merely set the scene.
Marcus remained unaware that he himself had been the real cause for
Francesca's distress.  It did not occur to him that few people would
ever be permitted to see her as he had seen her that night, that he was
one of only two people in the world who could break through the wall of
reserve to the vulnerable, passionate girl behind.  London society
approved of Miss Beaudon, but would have laughed to scorn the idea that
her heart was not always ruled by her head.

The longer Marcus studied Francesca, the more puzzled he became.  She
was an enigma.  It was not that she was beautiful in her fine dresses
and fashionable hairstyles--that came as no surprise to him.  He had
always seen beyond the shabby clothes and the wilful refusal to attempt
any personal adornment.  The fineness of her bone structure, the
clarity of her gray-green eyes, even the gleam of dark gilt hair--he
had noted all these on their first acquaintance.

Her beauty was less obvious than those of vivacious charmers such as
Lydia Canfield---or in her different sphere, Charmian Forrest.
Francesca Beaudon's attractions were for a connoisseur's eye, someone
who appreciated a more subtle play of colour and line.  Her beauty was
wasted on the general herd, yet he had seen it from the first.

But he had always been aware of a mysterious line of communication
between them.  It was there whether they wished it or not, something
quite out of their control.  He had known when she was worried and
distressed, whatever she actually said to him--it had produced an

Francesca irrational desire to help her.  But now this ability to read
her mind, to know her true feelings, had vanished without trace.
Francesca had closed him off, and Miss Beaudon was as proper, as
reserved with him as she was with everyone else--a pattern of decorum,
grace and charm.

He had not been aware how much he valued the warmth, the freedom that
had previously existed between them, until they were no more.  Damn it,
she could be what she liked with others---they did not know what she
was truly like.  But he--he missed the laughing, impetuous .  real girl
he had fallen in love with on the hill above Shelwood!

Then there was the question of her fortune.  At first, Marcus was
strongly irritated by the thought that Francesca was rich.  He had made
a fool of himself that day at Shelwood with his offer of marriage.
Mistress of a large fortune and with her own father to look after her,
Francesca could well manage without Lord Carne's solicitude then--and
now.  She was far from needing his help.

But, as Marcus watched Francesca dancing, walking, driving with some of
the most eligible bachelors in the town, he began to change his mind
again.  However little Francesca realised it, she did need him!  Her
fortune was a very real source of danger to her, putting her at risk
with all the sharks and self-seekers at loose in the polite world.
Lord Beaudon, much as he loved his daughter, had been away from London
too long to recognise all the pitfalls, and he was quite clearly not in
the best of health.

The obvious fortune-seekers were soon chased away, it was true, but one
or two more apparently respectable characters, friends of the Prince
Regent such as Lord Coker, or charmers, such as Sir Anthony Perrott,
whose engaging manners hid their cold-hearted ambition---men

Francesca such as these were cultivating Francesca.  She even seemed to
be enjoying their company!

It became obvious to Marcus that something more was needed.  And who
better was there than Marcus himself?  He had the entree to all levels
of society, from the Prince Regent down.  He knew Francesca and he knew
both the world she had moved in in the past, and the world she moved in
now.  However little she would thank him for it, protecting her from
her own folly, until she found the right sort of man, was the least he
could do.  Marcus was filled with a sense of satisfaction at this clear
call to duty.  Perhaps on the way he would find that missing girl.

It was not long before Francesca realised that avoiding Marcus was
impossible.  His close friendship with Mrs.  Canfield and Lydia made
meetings between them inevitable; to her annoyance, she soon saw that
Marcus was making no attempt to avoid her---on the contrary, he seemed
to regard her as part of the Canfield family, to extend to her his
patronage and protection.  He did nothing to single her out, made no
special effort to engage her in other than general conversation, but
she was conscious all the time of his presence, and frequently of his
eye on her.

The Canfields were delighted when he accompanied them to balls and
concerts.  They accepted with pleasure his invitations to rides in the
park, excursions into the country, expeditions to places of interest,
and Francesca was always included.  However reluctant she was, she
found herself forced to accept more often than she wished.

"But why will you not come, Francesca?"  cried Lydia on one occasion.
"Hampton Court is delightful.  You will enjoy it much more than staying
in town!"

"Lydia, do not press Miss Beaudon.  Perhaps she has the headache and
wishes for a little peace and quiet.  Your chatter can be very tiring."
Mrs.  Canfield's voice was

Francesca calm, but she was looking anxiously at Francesca.

"Oh, no, ma'am.  I like to hear Lydia talking."

"Then do come!"  Lydia put a pleading hand on Francesca's arm.  "Lord
Carhe's carriage is extremely well sprung, and I shall see to it that
you have all the cushions and parasols necessary to keep you
comfortable.  And I shall not say a word more than you wish to hear, I
promise.  Please, Francesca!  It isn't the same without you."

"But Lord Came is an old friend of yours.  He cannot wish to see me
making a fourth on every excursion you make!"

"Nonsense!  He likes you."

"Lydia!"  Mrs.  Canfield's voice held a warning and Lydia said no
more.

But later, when they were alone, Mrs.  Canfield said quietly,
"Francesca, forgive me for what I am about to say.  I only wish to
spare you difficulty or embarrassment.  Though you have not
acknowledged it, I ... I have the impression that you and Lord Carne
knew each other in the past.  Am I right?"

Francesca hesitated.  She owed her friend the truth, but was reluctant
to reveal the extent of her previous acquaintance with Marcus.

"Believe me, I do not wish to pry, but if it distresses you to be in
his company, you have only to mention it.  I shall perform the
impossible and find a way of silencing Lydia."

Francesca smiled.  "You are very kind, ma'am, but I truly enjoy Lydia's
conversation.  She is so ... so artless, and so loving.  How could I
not enjoy her company?  But you are right--I have met Lord Came before.
Briefly.  In Buckinghamshire."  She paused.  "It was many years ago,
before he succeeded to the title, so his name meant nothing to me when
Lydia spoke of him.  I only recognised him

Francesca when he came back from Pads.  I hope you don't think that I
deliberately deceived you?  "

"Of course not!  And you are not disturbed to meet him now?  I
sometimes have the impression..."

Francesca had confided as much as she was prepared to.  "It is kind of
you to be concerned.  But I was a mere child when we first met, so our
acquaintance was ... was not important."  Her tone was so casual that
Mrs.  Canfield was satisfied.  No one could have guessed from
Francesca's demeanor then or later how much she resented Lord Carne's
constant attendance.

His presence agitated her, roused feelings which she preferred to
forget---how could she conquer this stupid weakness for him, when he
was always there, his dark blue eyes watching her, his voice a constant
reminder of those hours on the hill?  But once again, she had cause to
be grateful to the hard school of her earlier life, which enabled her
now to reveal nothing of this as she walked and talked, listened and
smiled with every appearance of serene enjoyment, though her famous
reserve was a trifle more apparent.

The presence of Marcus was not the only cause for unease.  Francesca
was becoming increasingly concerned about her father.  His decision to
support her during her London Season had delighted her and, since the
news of her wealth had spread, she had been grateful for his protection
from the worst of the fortune hunters.  But he was not robust, and his
exertions were having an effect on his health.

However, he dismissed her concern with a laugh.  "Nonsense, child!
Watching your success has taken years off me!  And though there are not
as many old friends left in London as I would have wished, I manage to
have a very pleasant time of it.  I like that fellow Came, by the way.
Not at all the dull sort of stick I expected from Maria

Francesca

Canfield's eulogies.  You could do a lot worse for a husband.  "

It said much for Francesea's control that though the rose in her cheeks
increased a fraction, she reminded her father calmly that, as he
himself had once said, Lord Came was out of her reach.

"I'm no longer so sure of that.  He's forever in your company."

"He is a close friend of the Canfields, as you very well know, Papa."

"But it's my impression that his eyes are on you a good deal of the
time, not the Canfields.  Perhaps you've caught his fancy---should I
sound him out, d'you think?"

"No, Papa!  Believe me, that is the last thing I want you to do."  The
vehemence in her voice caused Lord Beaudon to raise an eyebrow.

"Protesting too much, Francesca?"

Francesca pulled herself together.  "The truth is, Papa, that Lord Came
and I do not ... are not... The fact is, we have little in common.  I
have too much regard for Mrs.  Canfield to express this openly.  It
would hurt her, I know.  And I am also aware that his ... patronage is
valuable to all of us.  But I have to confess that my feeling towards
him is best described as indifferent."

Lord Beaudon regarded her in silence for a moment.  There was more to
this than met the eye.  Once he would have taken her words at face
value, as deceived by her cool control as the rest of the world had
been.  But now his instinct told him that, whatever she felt for Lord
Came, it was not indifference.  Could Came possibly be the man she had
been in love with?  Surely not!  Came was no rake, and he was a most
unlikely crony of Charlie Witham.  But there was something.  Lord
Beaudon resolved not to pursue the matter with Francesca, but to wait
and observe.

Francesca "Is Came to be at Lady Huntingdon's tonight?"  he asked.

"I believe so.  Why do you ask?"

"She usually sets up some card tables for those who don't wish to
dance--I thought I'd invite him to a game, that's all.  Nothing like a
hand of cards to get to know a man."

"Papa-'

"Oh, I Won't mention your name, girl.  Why should I, if, as you say,
you have no particular interest in him?  No, Came seems to me to be a
sound fellow--I'd enjoy making his better acquaintance.  You surely
don't wish for my company in the ballroom, do you?  You'll be safe
enough at Bella Huntingdon's--and Maria will be with you."

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to rest this evening?  I have no
particular wish to go out--we could have a peaceful time together..."

"Francesca, it is my dearest wish to see you happily settled with a man
you can respect.  You won't find a husband if you sit at home keeping
company with your papa!"

"I'm no longer so sure that ... that I want to marry anyone.  I seem to
have met most of the eligible men in London, and there isn't one with
whom I could spend the rest of my life ... except you, Papa," she added
with a twinkle.

"Nonsense, girl.  You must just keep on trying!  Now off you go-put on
the new dress I saw arriving today.  Another from Fanchon, wasn't it?
What colour is it this time?"

"White and green--I think you'll like it.  Lydia was in raptures over
it.  Papa, I cannot begin to tell you how well your choice of sponsor
has suited me.  Maria is so very kind, she and I seem to agree on
practically everything.

Francesca

And Lydia is a darling.  It is my dearest wish to see her safely
established!  "

"Young Tom Endcombe seems very attentive."

"He does!"  She paused.  "He's pleasant enough, I suppose ... though in
my opinion, Lydia needs someone more mature, someone who would look
after her.  Still, Maria seems to approve of him.  If I could see Lydia
happily settled, I wouldn't care about the rest of the Season.  You and
I could return to Packards and enjoy some country air--and some country
hours.  You may not need a rest, but I'm certain that I do!"

"Rubbish, Francesca!  In any case, I must return to Paris some time
soon."

"To Paris?  I had rather forgotten Paris.  You ... have
responsibilities there?"

"I must talk to you about Paris.  We'll have a chat tomorrow--there's
something I've been meaning to tell you."

"What is it?"

"Tomorrow," said Lord Beaudon firmly.  "Tonight we both have to change
for Lady Huntingdon's ball.  I am expecting to be stunned along with
the rest of London by my daughter's new dress."

Francesca's appearance in the doors to Lady Huntingdon's reception room
caused many a man's heart to beat faster.  Tall and slender in a simple
slip of white silk, with an overdress of delicate green gauze draped
with all the cunning of London's foremost dressmaker, she was a vision
to take one's breath away.  Her hair was wound with pearls and pale
green ribbon, its dark gilt coils echoing the gold and pearl embroidery
of her dress.  Her eyes were silver-green in the candlelight, and she
was smiling at Lydia as they entered the room a little way behind Lord
Beaudon and Mrs.  Canfield.

Francesca She was quite unconscious of the impression she was making.
Her attention was on Lydia, and her smile was full of affectionate
warmth, very different from the polite mask with which she fended off
her suitors.  And at least one man found himself suddenly,
disconcertingly, so stunned that he forgot everything else--much to the
irritation of his companion.

"I say, Came, old fellow--you might answer when a friend asks a
perfectly civil question!"

"What was it, Monty?"

"I asked you if you was thinkin' of dancin' tonight.  Lady Huntingdon
usually sets up a damn good card room.  Care for a game later?"

"I ... don't know.  Ask me later.  I have to give the Canfields some of
my time tonight.  I promised Lydia a dance."

"Nice little girl.  A bit young for you, though."  "There's nothing to
it.  You know that, Monty.  Her father was a friend of mine, and I like
to please Lydia and her mother for his sake."

"He was a friend of mine, too, but that don't mean I have to dance
attendance on his widow.  Not at a ball!  Anyway, Beaudon was asking if
you'd be in the card room tonight.  He wants a game."

He had his friend's full attention.  "Beaudon?  I wonder why?"

'l expect he likes picquet.  I see the divine Miss Beaudon has arrived.
By Jove, she's in looks tonight--it's almost enough to make me change
my mind about blondes.  I've always thought her a touch insipid.  "

"Insipid!"

"Yes--Lydia Canfield is usually far better looking than the Beaudon
girl.  But tonight... Let me know about the cards, won't you?"

"Yes, yes.  Excuse me, Monty."

Francesca

Not without difficulty, Marcus made his way over to the

Canfields, who were surrounded by a crowd of admirers.  "Lord Carne!
There you are!  You remember your promise?"

"Lydia!"  Mrs.  Canfield shook her head as she greeted him.  "You must
forgive her, Marcus.  She is a little excited tonight."

"Her high spirits do her no harm in my eyes, Maria.  She looks
delightful.  A new dress?"

"Yes!  And I think it is the prettiest I have ever possessed. Francesca
helped me to choose it."

Marcus looked at the white dress with its coquelicot ribbons.  "Miss
Beaudon chose well."  Then he turned to Francesca and bowed.  "Miss
Beaudon."

The smile which had so enchanted him from across the other side of the
room had disappeared.  Francesca's face expressed polite interest,
nothing more.  She looked beautiful, but remote.  Marcus felt a sudden
surge of impatience.  He wanted to pick up the woman and shake her
until her eyes sparkled with feeling again, until she smiled at him
with the same affectionate warmth, until her lips parted to laugh with
him, talk to him, revile him even, with her old passionate involvement.
Damn it, he wanted her to show some feeling towards him, some
acknowledgment of their old bonds!  This.  statue was not the real
Francesca.  What had happened to her?  But his own face revealed none
of these thoughts.

He said calmly enough, "Lydia, I have been looking forward all week to
the dance you promised me.  May I?"

He possessed himself of all three ladies' cards and filled in his name.
Lydia was delighted, Mrs.  Canfield protested but was overridden, and
Francesca found herself unable to object without appearing rude.  That
would show her--she couldn't escape waltzing with him tonight!  And
he'd written his name down twice.  Satisfied, he offered Lydia

Francesca his arm and took her in the direction of the music.  As they
went along, he noticed that Francesca was already surrounded with eager
partners.

"Do you really like my dress, Lord Carne?  It's from Fanehon."

Marcus suppressed a smile at the awe in Lydia's voice, and assured her
that he thought it very charming.

"It's a present from Francesca.  She is so good.  I love her dearly.
People often say she's cold, you know.  But I have never found her so,
and nor has Mama.  You don't find her cold, do you?"

"I think Miss Beaudon is very fond of you, Lydia.  And who would not
be?"

Miss Canfield laughed and blushed and for a while their conversation
turned to other things.  But just as they were leaving the floor, Lydia
said suddenly, "I wish she was happier--I sometimes wonder if she is in
love."  Marcus was startled.  "In love?  Who?"

"Francesca, of course.  Well, people often seem to be unhappy when
they're in love, don't they?  But I've watched her very closely, and
have never had the slightest hint as to who he might be.  I suppose she
spends more time talking to Lord Denver than to anyone else.  He's very
kind, of course, and certainly very handsome.  Mama likes him a lot, I
know.  But Francesca ... I don't know.  She certainly doesn't seem to
encourage him-nor anyone else, which is strange when everyone knows
that the object of the Season is to meet and marry someone you like."

"It isn't always that easy, Lydia."

"I suppose not.  You haven't found anyone yet have you?  You know, I
once hoped that you and she would become attracted.  But it would never
have done.  I've given that idea up."

"I'm relieved to hear it.  But what makes you say so?"

Francesca

"Well, most ladies of our acquaintance fall over themselves to attract
your attention, Lord Came.  No, don't smile at me, you know it's true.
But Francesca seems so reluctant to talk of you that I sometimes wonder
if she doesn't like you.  She's always very ... quiet when I mention
your name.  I suppose she could hardly admit to me that she doesn't
like you.  And yet..."

"Yet what?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Tell me, do you know Lord Endcombe's son, Tom?"

Marcus had been more intrigued by that 'yet' than he could show, but he
had to drop the subject of Francesca, and exert himself to show
interest in the present object of Miss Canfield's volatile affections.
He did this to such good effect that Lydia returned to Mrs.  Canfield,
very well pleased with her distinguished parmer.

Marcus then turned to Francesca, who was just joining them.  Ruthlessly
stepping in front of a gentleman who was about to claim her hand, he
said with a charming smile, "I think you promised this one to me, Miss
Beaudon.  It will be the first time we have enjoyed a waltz together, I
believe."

Chapter Ten

They walked towards the ballroom together, and many who saw them
thought how well-matched they looked--Lord Came, tall and
distinguished, and the elegant Miss Beaudon.  No one could have guessed
from their air that Marcus was far from feeling as assured as he
looked, nor that Francesca was bracing herself to put other, less
conventional, occasions in Marcus's arms out of her mind.  She had
always known it would be difficult and for this reason had always
avoided dancing the waltz with him.  But now she had to face it.

The music began, the couples swept on to the floor.  Francesca
concentrated with determination on the steps of the dance and stepped
into Marcus's arms.  They circled once, twice, with utmost decorum, the
correct distance set and scrupulously maintained between them.

Marcus eventually said in a carefully polite tone, "The orchestra is, I
believe, excellent."

"And the floor not excessively crowded," responded Francesca, with
equal care.

There was another silence while they negotiated the corner of the room.
Then, "Lydia looks well, I think."  "It is a very pretty dress."  "Very
pretty."

Francesca

Another silence, while they each searched for something unexceptionable
to say.  Marcus could bear this artificiality no longer.  He said
abruptly, "Do you dislike me so much, Francesca?"

Francesca missed a step.  "What did you say?"  she asked in
astonishment.

"I asked if you disliked me so much that you cannot bear to talk to me
even as much as ordinary courtesy would demand!"

"How can you say that?  I have talked as much to you as I would to
anyone else!"

"Then I can only pity your partners.  Perhaps they are so dazzled that
they find nothing to criticise."

"By my wealth, you would say.  They are at least civil, Lord Carne."
Francesca's voice was cool but perfectly calm.  In the old days she
would have flared up to challenge him.

"But I claim the privilege of an old friend to speak the truth."

"Truth is a double-edged weapon, Lord Carne.  It is better not
unsheathed without good cause.  Tell me, is it your opinion that Lydia
and Lord Endcombe's son will make a match of it?"

"Lydia is still very young.  It's early days yet for her to be making
her choice, but I find nothing to object to in young Endcombe.  He's
harmless enough.  You, on the other hand, seem to be very reluctant to
make any man happy---or am I behind the times?"

She stiffened, but still remained perfectly calm as she said, "Mrs.
Canfield has told me much of your generosity to her family since her
husband was killed.  This must give you some right to take an interest
in their future..."

"Let us say nothing of that!  Peter Canfield was a very good friend to
me."  "But you have no privilege as far as I am concerned.

Francesca Nor do I propose to discuss my future with anyone who has so
little claim to an interest in it, Lord Carne!  "

"For God's sake, Francesca, stop this Lord Carne business!  You called
me Marcus once.  Let me ask you again.  Do you dislike me so much that
you refuse to recognise any bond between us at all?"

"There isn't one.  Not any longer."

"Then I am simply another member of the crowd to you?  Look at me,
Francesca, and tell me it is so, if you can."

Francesca's hand trembled in his.  She was pale, but her calm air did
not desert her, and she looked at him fearlessly as she said, "You ask
too much.  It would be uncivil to tell you that I dislike you, and I
have already been too uncivil in the past.  In any case, how could I...
dislike you, when you have been so attentive to all of us?  But I will
not feed your vanity by confessing to anything but a memory."

"Of what?"

"Of ... of someone in another life, a man called Marcus, who once said
he loved me.  I am not sure he even existed, except in a girlish
fantasy.  Now I would prefer either to talk of something else, or to go
back to Mrs.  Canfield."

The waltz had come to an end, but neither of them was aware that the
music had stopped.  They stood staring at one another, each challenging
the other, unheeding of the curious looks they were attracting.

"This will not do!"  said Marcus with determination.  He took
Francesca's arm and led her off the floor.  But at the doors of the
ballroom he turned away from where Mrs.  Canfield and Lydia were
waiting, and marched her in the direction of the garden.  Francesca
pulled herself free.  She was pale, but still calm.

"I do not wish to go into the garden, Lord Came.  Please take me back
to my friends!"

Francesca

"But I want to talk to you, Francesca."

"I can imagine what you wish to say and have no desire to hear it.  In
any case, Lady Huntingdon's ball is not a fit place for such
conversations."  Her tone was still measured, her air still remote.

It was the last straw.  Marcus took her arm and walked her willy-nilly
further into the garden.  They would not be overheard here.  Then he
took both her hands in his.  He said angrily, "Francesca, I cannot bear
to see you like this.  I have seen statues who have more animation!
You may deceive Society with your touch-me-not airs, but you cannot
deceive me.  I know you too well.  What has happened to you?"

"When will I manage to convince you that you do not know me any
longer?.  You take too much on yourself.  I am not, and never was, your
responsibility, Marcus."  Her voice rose as she spoke, and he could see
that she was breathing less steadily.

"Ah, a touch of emotion at last!  And you called me Marcus!"

Francesca bit her lip, and turned away from him.  He was absurdly
pleased to see it--the first round was his.  There was a long way to go
before she would smile at him with the same unguarded, affectionate
warmth which Lydia had evoked, but he would not rest until she did.
And he had at least cracked her unnatural composure.  He exulted in the
thought.  He, of all the men in London, still had the key to that other
Francesca-one which the polite world had never seen or even suspected,
but a girl he had once loved.

"Francesca," he said softly, seductively.

She tore herself out of his grasp.  "No!  I won't listen to you!"  she
cried.  "I don't know why you are doing this--amusement, curiosity,
pique--but whatever it is, it is not kind!  You broke my heart ten long
years ago, Marcus Francesca you see, I am not afraid to confess it.  I
understand your reasons--better now than I did then.  But you left a
lonely and unhappy girl behind you, and there were times when I was not
certain I would survive the treatment.  But I managed.

"It has taken me all that time since to learn common sense, but I have
done it, too.  I will not now throw all those lessons aside!  I will
not go back to what I was, not for you, not for any man in the world! I
tell you, I will not listen to you!"  Francesca dashed a hand across
her eyes, turned abruptly away from him and head bent, went back into
the house.

He would have followed her, but was stopped at the door by a familiar
figure.

"Marcus, old fellow!  Well, upon my word---still pursuin' the fair
Francesca, eh?  More worth the effort now, ain't she?  My word, what a
difference a few years can make."

"Freddie!  What are you doing here?"

"M'cousin brought me.  Respectable chap, and devilish dull, but he got
me an invitation, so I suppose I have to be grateful.  The wine's not
at all bad.  Have you had some?"

It was clear that Freddie had indeed enjoyed the wine.  His face glowed
with good humour.

"Freddie, you must excuse me.  I have to--'

"I'll come with you, Marcus.  Truth to tell, there aren't many familiar
faces in the crowd.  I'm not sure I'm all that grata to most of
them."

The last thing Marcus wanted was Freddie Chantry's company, especially
at this moment, but it was like trying to get rid of a puppy who wants
to play.  The years, he thought grimly, had done nothing for Freddie's
sense.

"As a matter of fact, I was a touch surprised to see you with Miss
Beaudon, Marcus.  Especially coming in from the garden," he added with
a knowing look.

Francesca

"I had something to say to her in private."

"Of course you had!  Talking all the way through that waltz, too.  We
all wondered what was going on.  If you don't mind my saying so, old
chap, the ballroom ain't the sort of place to try that sort of thing.
Bound to set the tabbies miaowing.  I shouldn't be a bit surprised if
the odds on Denver didn't lengthen even more after tonight..."

"Odds on Denver?  What do you mean?  What has George to do with
anything?"

Marcus spoke so brusquely that Freddie took a step back.  "Sorry,
Marcus.  Thought you'd have known.  They were saying in the clubs that
Denver's the most likely man to succeed with our heiress."

' Denver!  '

"Oh, it was never by any means a sure thing.  The lovely Miss Beaudon
don't show much by way of feeling, do she?  But there's no one else she
showed any preference for at all.  Till tonight, that is."

"Denver!  She'd never have him!"

"Why not?  Denver's very presentable.  Plenty of address with the
ladies, knows how to please, easygoin'...not short of the dibs-nice
little estate and an income to go with it.  She could have done a lot
worse.  What's wrong?  A friend of yours, ain't he?  But of course, if
you and the charmin' Francesca have decided to take up where you left
off at Shelwood, that's a different matter..."

Marcus' face darkened.  "Forget about that time, Freddie!  You don't
know what you're talking about."

"Silent as the grave, old chap.  But if you don't want gossip now, you
shouldn't appear so dead to the rest of the world when you're dancin'
with her.  And you shouldn't make off into the garden and upset the
famously self-possessed Miss Beaudon!"

There was no difference in Marcus's manner as he made his escape, but
he was disturbed.  He did not really

Francesca believe that Francesca was attracted to Lord Denver.  Of
course she wasn't!  He had been frequently in her company in the past
weeks, with and without George.  There had been nothing to indicate any
special affection between them.  It had been an unwelcome surprise to
hear what the clubs were saying, though.  And the new Francesca did not
wear her heart on her sleeve .  but George Denver?  Impossible!

He made his way slowly through the ballroom, where he was less than
delighted to see Francesca, apparently quite recovered, dancing with
the same George Denver.  He watched them, somewhat sourly, for a few
moments, then went on into the library, where card tables had been set
up.  Here he found Lord Beaudon in an otherwise empty room.

"Came!  You couldn't have come at a better moment.  I've just won
handsomely from Standish, and am ready for another victim.  Care for a
hand of piquet?"

Marcus agreed readily enough but, as they played, the mind of neither
man was totally on the game in hand.  They talked, casually, about the
West Indies, the politics of Europe, and Paris, but each was interested
in learning more about his companion than the state of the world.  They
had an enjoyable game, which Lord Beaudon won by a narrow margin, then
by common consent they wandered on to the small balcony that overlooked
the ballroom.  Francesca was dancing again with Lord Denver.

"Your daughter appears to be enjoying life in London, sir," said
Marcus.

"What?  Oh, Francesca!  Yes, yes, I believe she is.  Though she
sometimes finds the fuss and attention a touch tedious."

"Tell me, Lord Beaudon, do you find London much changed after your long
absence?"  "Society never changes, Came.  The mixture is very

Francesca much as before.  " There was a slight pause, then he added,
somewhat deliberately, " I am surprised to see Chantry here tonight,
though.  I'd have thought our hostess more discriminating.  "

"Oh, Freddie's harmless enough."

"Friend of yours, is he?  In that case I apologise, of course.  He's
generally seen with the Witham crowd.  You a friend of Charlie
Witham's, too?"

"II know him, let us say."

"Ever been to Witham Court?"  Lord Beaudon asked idly.

"Yes."

"Lovely place---at least, it was in my day.  Is it still?"

"The place itself is lovely, but it has deteriorated a lot in recent
years.  It badly needs some attention."

"Is that so?  You know it well, then?"

"Hardly," said Marcus.  "I've only stayed there twice."  He looked at
his companion with a slight frown.  "It's next door to Shelwood, of
course. I expect that's why you take such an interest in it?  Surely
your daughter could tell you more about it than I?"

Lord Beaudon looked back at him blandly.  "She seldom talks about her
life at Shelwood, and I haven't questioned her, Came.  But it's never a
good thing to have a neglected estate on one's doorstep.  I am quite
certain that Shelwood itself is in perfect condition.  My late
sister-in-law would not have permitted otherwise."

"I am certain she wouldn't.  I hear it is in the hands of a manager at
the moment.  Does ... does Miss Beaudon intend to return there at the
end of the Season?"

"I suppose that depends... She might decide to live with me--or she
might take a husband."

"Yes, of course."

The eyes of the two men followed the graceful twists and turns of the
throng below.

Francesca "She seems to be difficult to please, my Francesca.  She
doesn't say much, but I rather think she's had any number of offers."

"She's a beautiful woman."

"I agree, though we needn't beat about the bush, Came.  She wouldn't be
half as beautiful to some eyes if the Shelwood estate wasn't in the
frame, too."

"That's inevitable, I suppose.  But she need not concern herself about
them.  There are many other, more honorable men," said Marcus, adding
casually, "George Denver for one."

"Yes, Denver.  He seems quite taken.  And she certainly seems to spend
more time with him than with most of the others.  Except yourself."

"Me?  I enjoy Miss Beaudon's company, of course, but it would be more
true to say that I spend time with the Canfields.  And since they share
a house with her, it is natural..."

"Of course, of course.  Quite natural.  Another hand of piquet?"

"I am promised to Mrs.  Canfield for the supper interval.  Perhaps
later?"

"I'll come with you, Came.  Perhaps Francesca will be free to accompany
her father."

"I doubt it."  The two men watched as Lord Denver escorted Miss Beaudon
off the ballroom floor.  She was smiling as they disappeared through
the doors and Marcus suddenly frowned and turned back to the library.
Lord Beaudon was standing in the doorway, and Marcus was surprised to
see him looking rather stern.  He looked as if he was debating
something in his own mind, but in the end he smiled and said, "Shall we
go?"

Though he badly wanted to speak privately to Francesca again, Marcus
was given little opportunity that evening.

Francesca

During the supper interval she kept close to her father, or talked to
Lord Denver.  And when he returned to claim the second set of dances he
had written in to her programme at the beginning of the evening, she
was not to be found.  When he finally tracked her down, she was talking
to Lady Clayton, who was regaling her with tales of her father's
exploits in London twenty-five years before.

"Lord Carne!  You must forgive me," Francesca exclaimed brightly.  "I
had to repair my dress, and by the time I had finished the dances had
started.  I am afraid I assumed you must have found another partner.
You will think me very uncivil, but I assure you the repair was
necessary."

"In that case, how can I not forgive?"  He bowed.  "Lady Clayton."

"I suppose you've come to take this charming young woman away from me,
Carne?"

"I am sure Lord Came will excuse me if I do not go," said Francesca.
She turned to Marcus.  "Lady Clayton has been telling me such stories
about my father."

"My attractions apparently outweigh yours, Came!"  said the dowager
with a malicious smile.  "What will you do?"

"Give in gracefully, I hope, ma'am," said Marcus.  "Your stories are
renowned.  May I hear some, too?"  He sat down on the chair at
Francesca's side.

Lady Clayton's black button eyes took note of the colour rising in
Francesca's cheek, then switched to Marcus, whose countenance was
impassive.  "Of course you may, Carne," she said.  "Though what the
younger generation is coming to I cannot imagine.  A ball is an
occasion for dancing, not listening to an old woman's tales!"

"But since my present dancing partner is at your side, I shall be
forced to spend the next half hour alone Francesca unless you take pity
on me.  Or are your tales unfit for my unsullied ears?"

Lady Clayton cackled with pleasure.  "I could tell you tales that would
make your hair stand on end, Came... but I won't.  Indeed, I've just
about come to the end of my repertoire."  She turned to Francesca.
"I'm a touch tired.  I hope you won't mind, my dear--you must ask your
father for the rest.  Take her for some refreshment, Came.  The child
looks flushed."

"I... I... What about you, Lady Clayton?"

"I shall be perfectly happy here, Miss Beaudon.  Look, here comes my
son--he'll take care of me.  Thank you for listening to my tales."

"I enjoyed them.  May I hear more another time?"

"Of course, of course.  Call on me whenever you have the time.  Bring
your father!  I wasn't allowed to have much to do with him in the old
days."

As they walked away, Francesca said, "I do not need refreshment, Lord
Came.  I should like to find my father, if you please."

Marcus looked at her determined face.  "Very well.  It seems I shall
have to wait for a more suitable opportunity to continue our
discussion."

"I have told you!  I do not wish to discuss anything with you.  Why
will you not leave me alone?"

"I cannot, I cannot let matters rest as they are at the moment.  I will
not let you shut me out, Francesca.  But there's no tune now to pursue
the matter--I will call on you tomorrow or the next day."

There was no time for more.  Lord Beaudon was just a few yards away.
Marcus bowed and left her.

Francesca spent a sleepless night.  For some mysterious reason of his
own, Marcus was determined to reawaken feelings in her that she thought
she had conquered.  And,

Francesca in the small hours of the morning, she faced the come truth
that, if Marcus chose to exert the inexplicabl power he had over her,
she would be powerless to stop him.  The thought filled her with dread.
She had sworn' that she would never again be as impulsive, never
subject to her emotions, that no man would ever hurt her again!  Never!
She had made herself invulnerable.  But to Marcus, seemingly.

What should she do?  Was flight the answer?  Madam Elisabeth had
returned to her cottage in Shelwood after Francesca and the Canfields
had come to haps she should do the same?  The idea was She could occupy
herself running the Shelwood there was much she would like to try.
Marcus hardly pursue her there.

But .  what would her father say if she fled Shelwood?  They had
learned to love each other during these months at Packards and in
London. sacrificed his comfort, his life in Parris to be with What
would he think if she abandoned all their

In the end she decided to go back to her original of finding a husband
and an establishment of her was undoubtedly what would most please her
father.  marriage was a solemn step---one she lightly, and for all the
offers she had not one which had tempted her.

Francesca threw up her hands impatiently and herself to task.  This was
absurd!  At least three or four of the men who had offered for her
honour and consideration.  And now there was Denver .  more than
moderately well off, quite amusing.  Why was she being so difficult to
She was a fool!  She shivered.  Unless she did soon, Marcus would make
an even greater

Francesca On this frightening thought, Francesca lay down and finally
fell asleep.

The next day, Francesca's desperate desire to find a way out of the
trap that was closing round her, assumed even greater urgency.  In the
aRernoon, Lord Beaudon arrived, demanding to have a talk with her.  But
he had not come, as she thought, to talk of Paris.

"I've been thinking about Came," he began abruptly.  "He's Freddie's
friend, isn't he?  The one you fell in love with years ago.  The
rake."

Francesca was too startled to put up much of a defence.  "How ... how
can you say so?"  she stammered.  "Everyone knows that Lord Carne is
the pattern of honour and decency.  No rake."

"Don't prevaricate, Francesca.  I am right, aren't I?  Aren't I?"

"Yes, but--'

"Then he shall marry you!"

"No!"

"He won't need much prsuading.  I had a word with him last night at the
ball.  He's very intrigued with you.  He could hardly take his eyes off
you.  He'll marry you after I've had a word with him.  You still love
him, don't you?"

"Papa, you mustn't!  You don't know what you're saying.  No, I don't
love him!"

"It's my belief you do.  And you obviously haven't anyone else in mind
for a husband.  Came would be an excellent choice."

"I could not possibly marry Lord Came, Papa.  The idea is absurd.  I
won't let you approach him."

"Couldn't stop me if I've made up my mind."

"Please, Papa, please do not say anything to Lord Carne!"

Francesca

"Why not, Francesca?  Are you afraid he will refuse?"

"Yes.  But I would be even more afraid if he agreed."  The words had
slipped out before she could stop them:

Lord Beaudon regarded her for a moment.  "I find that very curious,
Francesca.  I can't believe he's a monster.  He seems a very civilised
sort of fellow ... why should you say a thing like that?  Unless... My
child, I want to help you all I can, but I must know the truth.  What
is it about Carne that frightens you?"

Francesca gave a little shrug of resignation.  Then she took a deep
breath and said stiffly, "Lord Carne has already asked me to marry
him."

"Well, then...?"

"Last year.  At the time I thought he was hoping to make his fortune by
marrying me, and I refused him.  I told you about it."

"But that's ridiculous.  He's a very wealthy man himself."

"I ... I didn't know that at the time."

"But now you do know."  Lord Beaudon frowned.  "But I don't
understand---if he was rich, why did he want to marry you?  He must
have been in love with you, Francesca!"

"No.  He was sorry for me.  He felt some lingering sense of
responsibility because he had abandoned me all those years before."

"Rubbish!  No man chooses a wife because he is sorry for her!"

"You're wrong, Papa.  It's just the sort of thing Lord Came would do.
He is very involved in charitable works of every kind."  Francesca's
tone was bitter.

"Well ... it's just possible, I suppose."  Lord Beaudon sounded far
from convinced.  He went on briskly, "But even so, that is no reason to
reject him now.  He's no fortune hunter, and you no longer need his
pity or his

Francesca money.  Your pride wouldn't be hurt.  It's perfect!  "

"I will not marry Lord Came, even if you managed to persuade him to
make me the offer," said Francesca fiercely.

"He would make a kind, considerate husband, Francesca.  Isn't that what
you were looking for?"

"Papa, don't you understand?  I once loved Marcus to distraction.  I
could not now marry him for less.  Kindness, consideration, friendship
even--these are what I might seek in any other man.  But not Marcus!
Never Marcus ... I

could not be content with so little from him!  "

"I see."

"If it will make you happy, Papa, I will marry someone else---of your
choosing, if that is what you wish."

Lord Beaudon shook his head.  "I think you would be making a grave
mistake, my dear.  I must consider..."

"But I have your promise that you will not approach Lord Carne?"

"Oh, yes.  That wouldn't answer.  Not at the moment."  He was still
looking preoccupied when he left a few minutes later.  Neither of them
had thought of mentioning Paris.

Francesca's next visitor was Lord Denver.  When he came in to the
saloon, she was standing at the window, staring down into the street.

"Miss Beaudon!  I hope you are well?"  His voice, cultivated, resonant,
with a pleasant timbre, expressed concern.

Francesca pulled herself together and turned to welcome him.  "Lord
Denver---how pleasant to see you.  I am quite well, thank you."

"You look a little pale..."

"That is because I was too idle to go out for my walk this morning. And
you?"

"Oh, I'm always perfectly fit.  I rather hoped you would

Francesca come for a drive with me.  I have the carriage outside.  "

Francesca was about to refuse, but then changed her mind.  "I'll get my
bonnet," she said.

Lord Denver handled the horses with considerable skill through the
crowded streets, then they drove out to pleasantly green parts of the
town that Francesa had not seen before.  His conversation was
undemanding, but revealed facets of his personality she had not
previously noticed.

He made her laugh with his account of the difficulties in running a
family home that had its origins in a Norman castle, and had hardly
been improved since, and she was impressed by his love of the
countryside and his considerable knowledge of its flora and fauna.  He
was attentive without being obvious, and they returned to Mount Street
perfectly in charity with one another.  Francesca's spirits were
considerably improved, as she thanked him.

"You ... you mentioned that you had sketched some orchids near
Shelwood," Lord Denver said.  "May I see the sketches some time?"

"Would you like to see them now?  I have them in my room here.  You
must not expect too much of them, Lord Denver--they have no great
aistic merit.  But I tried to capture the main characteristics of the
plant."

He made some complimentary response and she left him in the saloon
while she fetched her drawings.  When she returned he was speaking to
Lydia, who had just come in from her ride.  Her hat and veil had been
discarded, revealing dark curls and glowing cheeks.  Her eyes sparkled
with laughter as she described some event at the previous night's ball.
She was a picture of life and animation.

"Francesca!  Lord Denver here swears that I must be teasing him.  Tell
him, if you please, what happened to

Francesca Lady Portman's wig!  Did it or did it not catch in Sir Rodney
Forrester's coat button?  "

"I assure you it did, Lord Denver."

"You see?"

"I was wrong to doubt you, Miss Canfield.  I wish I had been there to
see it."

"Francesca had to take me away before I disgraced her by laughing out
loud.  But I think she was just as hard-pressed.  And now you must
excuse me.  I have to change my clothes.  Mr.  Endcombe is taking me to
Somerset House, and I hardly think these will do."  Lydia curtsied and
left them.

"A charming girl," said Lord Denver, still smiling.  "She's a
darling."

Lord Denver looked at Francesca quizzically.  "You speak with rare
warmth, Miss Beaudon.  Miss Canfield is fortunate to have aroused such
affection."

"She deserves it."

"And I?  Could I hope in time to deserve a little of your affection?"

Francesca was unprepared for such a direct approach.  She was still
holding her sketchbooks and fingered them nervously as she replied,
"You have been very kind to me, Lord Denver.  But I... I..."

He smiled.  "I spoke out of turn.  Forgive me.  Dare I hope you will
come to the Lady Marchant's with me tonight?  You did say you would."

"Of course.  I shall be pleased to."  She spoke warmly, relieved at
avoiding a tender scene.

"I will call for you.  Till tonight."  He took his leave without any
further attempt to approach her.

And that evening he was once again the charming, considerate man she
was growing to like.  They left Lady Marchant's early.  When they
arrived at Mount Street,

Francesca

Francesca was so much in charity with him that she invited him in.

"You left the sketches behind when you went this afternoon.  They are
still on the table--I told the servants to leave them."  They went into
the salon.  "Here they are!"  As she held the book out to him, the
cover, worn with age, gave way and the contents fell to the floor.
They both bent to gather them up, but Francesca froze as she recognised
one of the sketches---a small orchid that had been flowering just ten
years ago up on the hill above Shelwood.  Sunlight on water, leaves
against a blue sky, happiness such as she had never known before or
since.  "Miss Beaudon!  Francesca!  You are not well!  Let me help
you!"

Francesca did not hear.  She was staring at the sketch, overcome by a
feeling of such pain and loss that she could not move.  Then she became
aware that someone was gently raising her and helping her over to the
sofa by the window.

"Shall I ring for a maid?"

She looked up.  Lord Denver was at her side.  "No.  No, thank you.  It
was only a moment's weakness."

"You were pale when I first called this morning.  I have overtired
you---the drive was too long."

Francesca forced herself to speak normally.  "No, it was not that.  I
probably over-exerted myself at Lady Huntingdon's ball.  I am perfectly
well again now.  Thank you for your concern, Lord Denver.  You are very
kind."

"I should like to be much kinder to you, Francesca.  Indeed, it is my
very ardent wish that you would give me the right to cherish you for
the rest of your life."

The pain in Francesca's heart eased a little at the sincerity of his
tone.  "Cherish' was a comforting word.  She even managed to smile.

Francesca "Francesca?  Would you ... could you ever consi marrying
me?"

She looked into the brown eyes so close to her ov True, faithful, kind,
considerate, honourable .  the ten tat ion was very strong.  If she
married Lord Denver, would be safe forever from Marcus, and the tormem
could cause, safe from herself.  Why did she find it difficult to take
the final step?

"You are very kind.  I am honoured, Lord Denver.  1 I ... I'm not
sure..."

"Say yes, Francesca!  I know I could make you happ "

I .

I would need time to think.  "

"But you will at least give me leave to hope?"

"I ... yes, I will."  He snatched her hand and kissed fervently.

"You have made me the happiest of men, my darling " But---'

Neither of them had noticed that the door was op nor that a tall tgure
was coming through it.

"Forgive me for interrupting you like this.  The matter is urgent, or I
would not have intruded on what is evide a private moment."  Marcus was
very pale, and he spin clipped tones.  "Your father is ill, Francesca.
I h come to take you to him."

Chapter Eleven

Francesca put her sewing down and looked over to the bed.  Her father
was restless.  She went over, and gave him a sip of water, speaking to
him softly.  But he did not respond, and eventually she sighed and laid
him back against the pillows, which were piled high behind him.  She
went back slowly to her chair by the window and picked up her sewing
again.  Dr.  Glover had assured her that his patient was making good
progress, but it was difficult to believe him.  For three days now,
ever since he had been taken ill at White's, Lord Beaudon had been
lying helpless, unable to talk or move without assistance.

"But he hears you, Miss Beaudon!"  Dr.  Glover had said.  "He may not
always understand the words, but a familiar voice is a lifeline to
hiTM.  You must talk to him, let him know you are there."

This Francesca had done.  She had spent most of each day in her
father's room and at night she had the room next to his, ready to be
fetched at a moment's notice.  The outside world had not existed for
her.  All her attention and energies had been directed towards the
figure on the bed, willing him to recover.  She had talked to him
often, dredging her memory for details of their life on St.  Marthe and
the people there--her mother, Maddy and the rest.

Francesca Talk of London had seemed to distress him, and Francesca had
avoided mentioning it, though she had wondered what the cause was--her
father had always seemed so content with his life in the capital.  Mrs.
Canfield, when asked, had seemed to think it might have something to do
with the events at White's immediately before Lord Beaudon's collapse,
but had not been able to tell her more precisely.  Francesca had not
pursued the matter--there would be time for that later.  For the
moment, she was content to concentrate on ensuring her father's
recovery.

There was a gentle tap at the door and Mrs.  Canfield came quietly into
the room.  "You have a visitor,

Francesca.  I'll sit with your father while you see him.  " " Who is
it? "

Mrs.  Canfield shook her head and put a finger to her lips.  "I think
you should go down and see for yourself."

Puzzled, Francesca got up and after a quick glance at her father she
went downstairs.  Marcus was waiting for her in the salon.  Shocked,
Francesca turned to go back upstairs.

"No!  Francesca, wait!  I have to know how your father is."

"You could have asked Mrs.  Canfield."

"She thought I ought to see you."

Francesca looked at him in astonishment.  "Maria wanted me to see you?
Why?"

Marcus did not immediately reply.  He strode about the room, looking
most unusually ill at ease.  "Damn it, I don't like this," he said
savagely.  "I don't like it at all.  Why the devil couldn't Maria have
dealt with this?"

"What are you talking about?  I don't under st--' Francesca drew in her
breath and gripped the chair in front of her.  " It's about my father,
isn't it?  You were with him at White's.  You know what happened.  Were
you the cause of his attack--is that it?  "

Francesca

"No, on my honour!  But ... but I was involved."  'mat happened,
Marcus? "

"Your father was very angry at something he heard.  He was about to
challenge someone when he ... when he fell ill."

"Go on," said Francesca.  "I want to hear everything,

Marcus.  Was it you he challenged?  " " No.  It was Coker.  " " Coker!
"

"We were all there at White's--your father, myself, Monty Banford, some
others, and... Coker.  And the Witham crowd.  You don't want to hear
this, Francesca."

"Yes, I do!"  she said fiercely.  "My father is lying upstairs
helpless. He might even die.  I want to know it all!"

"We'd all been drinking, but Witham and Freddie Chantry more than most.
They hadn't seen your father--he was at a corner table.  They started
talking about the old days, about the parties at Witham, and how your
grandfather had tried to stop them.  One thing led to another and
Freddie mentioned you ... and me."

"What ... what did he say?"  Marcus looked uncomfortable, and she added
bitterly, "No, you needn't tell me--I can guess.  I know what he
thought of me---he made it plain enough at the time."

"But how could Freddie have said anything to you?  He never saw you."

Francesca looked at h'hn derisively.  "Oh, but you're wrong, Marcus!
He sought me out a few days after you left.  On the bridge where I
first met you.  I think you must have given him a false impression of
my ... availability."  What?  "

"Freddie and the others were very impressed with your account of my
charms.  The night after we met.  I suppose you had to tell them?
Anyway, he thought he could console me for your defection."

Francesca "Good God--I never knew!  Francesca, I swear it wasn't like
that at all!"

"I deserved it.  I had behaved like a w-wanton."  Her voice revealed
self-condemnation.  "I deserved it all.  But now my father has suffered
because of it."

"How could you possibly have deserved anything like that?  What
happened?"

"With Freddie?  I was shocked and frightened, of course.  Whatever
impression I may have given you, I was ... very innocent.  My life had
been rather isolated.  He tried to kiss me, and I couldn't get away
from him.  That was when my aunt found us.  She thought the worst, of
course.  I was in disgrace for a considerable time."  She gave him a
twisted little smile.  "Wasn't that an ironic turn of Fate?  The right
punishment for the wrong man."

"By God, if I'd known that I'd have throttled him!  You have to believe
me, Francesca, I had no idea of all this!  Not till this moment."

"No," she agreed.  "How should you?  You were away fighting for your
country, weren't you?  I expect you had already forgotten me.  But why
are we talking of this?  It all took place a long time ago.  Are you
going to tell me what happened at White's?  Was that when my father
came into it, when Freddie told his tale?"

"Not then, no.  I lost my temper and knocked Freddie down.  I realised
afterwards it was the wrong thing to have done.  It only made the whole
affair more public--it would have been better to take him outside
quietly and deal with him there.  But ... I was in a rage.  Freddie
apologised when he came to, and withdrew what he'd said.  Even then, if
it had been left there, it would have been forgotten.  No one takes
much notice of anything Freddie Chantry says."  "But Lord Coker was
listening."

"Yes.  He sneered at Freddie for apologising.  He never forgets an
injury.  He said he had seen us in the garden

Francesca at Carlton House, and that anything Freddie had said was
perfectly true.  You can imagine the rest.  "

"And?"

"I turned on him, but your father just swept me aside.  He went up to
Coker and demanded he withdraw his words.  By God, Francesca, your
father was impressive!  I've never heard Coker so spoken to before."

"But getting in a rage is bad for him!  He shouldn't have done so.  Why
didn't you stop him?"

"I couldn't.  No one could.  And he didn't seem to be in a rage.  He
was cool.  Icy.  Very much in the grand manner.  Coker couldn't bear
it.  He lost his head and went for your father."

"Good God!"

"I hauled Coker back, but your father had already fallen.  When I got
to him he was unconscious.  I thought ... I thought at first he was
dead."  He paused.  "You know the rest.  Tell me, how is he now?  I
hear Dr.  Glover gives some hope?"

"I believe he is improving.  There are more signs of consciousness than
there were.  What happened to Lord Coker?"

"He ... er ... nothing."

"Tell me, Marcus!  I shall ask someone else if you do not."

"He objected to the way I had handled him.  He was right.  I hadn't
been gentle.  He challenged me."

"To ... to a duel?  But they're no longer allowed!"

"I said I'd meet him wherever and whenever he wished.  And I'd have
been glad to.  But the Prince got to hear of it, and Coker's now in
disgrace.  I hear he's talking of going abroad for a while."

Francesca got up and walked about the room.  Marcus's eyes followed
her.

Francesca "And now?"  she said finally.  "What are they saying now?
About us?"

"It's forgotten, Francesca.  And you needn't worry about Denver.  I've
seen him and made it clear that there's nothing in it.  He ... he was
with you when it all happened, of course.  I'm sorry I had to interrupt
you."  He paused.  "I must wish you happy.  I suppose this business
with your father has delayed any official announcement?"  Francesca
looked blank.  "Of an engagement."

Francesca hesitated.  Then she said, "Yes.  Nothing can be settled
until I am sure Papa ia on the mend.  What did you tell Lord Denver?"

"That he was a lucky man.  Their eyes met.  Then Marcus looked away and
walked to the window.  " A very lucky man.  "

There was silence in the room.  Francesca broke it.

"I must get back to Papa," she said nervously.  "I'm sure he misses me
when I am not there."

"I should like to see him when he is fit to receive visitors.  I'd like
to reassure him that all is well."

"Of course.  I'll send you a message.  And ... thank you for telling
me.  Maria was right to insist."  She went to the door, but stopped,
the handle in her hand as he said, "Francesca!  '

She turned slowly but stayed where she was, her back to the door.
"Marcus?"

"Do you love him?"

Francesca flushed painfully.  "He is a good, kind man--'

"Good God, I know that!  But it wasn't what I asked.  Are you in love
with him?"

"There are different kinds of love, Marcus--' Marcus muttered something
incomprehensible and strode over to her.  He looked at her for a
moment, then swept her into his arms and kissed her hard, a passionate,
deep kiss which made no concession to propriety or

Francesca feminine weakness.  Her response was instinctive--immediate
and overwhelming.  He grunted with satisfaction and kissed her again,
more deeply than before.  When he finally released her, she would have
fallen if he had not supported her.  He said with grim satisfaction,
"Is that the kind of love you feel for Denver?"

Francesca's eyes filled with tears.  She lifted her arm and hit him as
hard as she could.  Then she opened the door and ran up the stairs as
if all the demons in hell were after her.

As Marcus left the house and strode down the street, his cheek was
burning from Francesca's blow.  But he was unaware of it.  His feelings
were in turmoil.  He felt anger--with himself, with Francesca, with his
long-dead uncle, with the world at large.  He felt regret---bitter
regret for the pain and humiliation he had caused Francesca all those
years ago.  It had been all so much worse than he had ever suspected.
Even more bitterly did he regret his carelessness in throwing away
something he should have cherished beyond everything else.

But above all, his overmastering feeling was desire--a passionate
desire to return to Mount Street, to take Francesca in his arms once
more, to feel again her total response to his kiss.  Why had he never
before realised that Francesca was the one woman in the world for him?
The one woman in the world with whom he felt complete?  Why had he
deceived himself for so long--complacently seeking suitable husbands
for her, smugly protect' rag her from fortune hunters, when he should
have been claiming her triumphantly for his own?  He had been stupid
beyond belief.

But recognition had come too late.  Because of his own wiifui,
incomprehensible blindness, Francesca now belonged to someone else.  To
one of his best friends, in

Francesca fact.  It was too much to bear.  He shouted for a bottle of
brandy when he arrived home, and spent the rest of the day in his room,
completely failing to drown his sorrows.  However, Marcus was made of
stern stuff.

The next day, in spite of a bad hangover, he recovered a measure of
reason.  Though Francesca appeared to be lost to him, he could still be
of service to her.  His position in Society gave him power to protect
her, to stifle any remarks which foolish gossips might venture.  His
friendship with the Canfields gave him every excuse to visit Mount
Street, and once Lord Beaudon was well enough, he could visit him, keep
him entertained during his convalescence.  There might well be business
that needed attention, matters which could not be entrusted to an
unmarried female.

He grew happier at the thought that he could still help Francesca in
all sorts of ways.  It did not occur to him that these services might
be better performed by her betrothed.  When the thought did occur to
him, he dismissed it.  Denver was a good fellow, but simply not up to
it.

The next time Marcus visited Mount Street he was told that Miss Beaudon
was unable to receive him.  And the next.  When he asked Mrs.  Canfield
to help him, she looked extremely uncertain.

"I don't know what was said the last time you were here, Marcus.  But
Francesca was very upset.  I think you cannot have presented the affair
at White's as tactfully as you should."

"I know she was distressed.  That's why I must see her---to put matters
right."

"She's with her father.  I'!1 go up and ask her.  But don't place too
much confidence in my efforts.  She is very determined."

Francesca

"How is Lord Beaudon today?  Is he well enough to receive visitors?"

"He will be very soon.  He still cannot speak, but he understands what
we say, and can now nod or close his eyes in reply.  It is a great
improvement."

She went away, but returned a few minutes later, shaking her head.  "I
cannot prevail upon Francesca to see you.  I have never known her so
obstinate.  I am sorry, Marcus.  Perhaps in a little while...?"

Marcus set his jaw.  "Will you let me know when Lord Beaudon is ready
to see people?  I might at least be permitted to visit her father.
Does Denver come often?"

"He is very attentive.  But Francesca really does not have a great deal
of time, you know.  She is with her father most of the day, and rarely
sees anyone other than myself and Lydia."

"Is she getting fresh air?"

"I do my best to persuade her.  She occasionally consents to go for a
drive with Lord Denver, but it is not enough."

Marcus looked at her curiously.  She seemed unaware of any official
link between Francesca and Denver.  And though he had spoken to Denver
himself several times, there had been no further mention of a
betrothal.  Damn it, he thought irritably, what was wrong with the man?
He ought to have been here all the time, shouldering Francesca's
burdens, making sure she had enough rest, exercise, fresh air and
generally exerting his right to take care of her!  What was the man
made of?

Or---his heart gave a great leap at the thought--was it possible that
he had been mistaken in what he had heard that fateful evening?  Was
there still a chance of winning Francesca, after all?  Somehow or
other, he must, he would find out.  But to do that, he would have to
see her, and at the moment that was apparently impossible.  He would
wait.  She couldn't refuse forever.

Francesca None of these thoughts showed, however, as he said in his
usual calm manner, "I see.  Well, I place my confidence in you, Maria.
You have said you will let me know when Lord Beaudon is well enough to
see me.  Francesca need not be there if she does not wish.  Is she ...
is she well?"

"She looks pale and tired, I'm afraid.  It's natural--her nights are
frequently interrupted.  Once or twice I have found her sitting in her
father's room wide awake, even in the small hours.  It isn't at all
necessary for her to do so--he sleeps quite well now, and, in any ease,
the nurse is always present.  I think she herself finds it difficult to
sleep."

Marcus nodded.  The sooner he sorted out this business of Francesca's
engagement, the better.  It was clear that she was urgently in need of
someone to look after her.

The summons to Lord Beaudon's bedchamber came a few days later.  Marcus
set off for Mount Street in a frame of mind that was a good deal
happier than on his previous visit.  He had used the time to good
effect.  A convivial evening with Denver had established that the
engagement was a tenuous one---Inore an agreement on the lady's part to
consider an offer, rather than a commitment to accept.

Lord Denver was sanguine about the outcome.  Francesca had treated him
with more kindness than any of her other suitors, and, what was more,
she had assured him that no one else, not even Marcus with whom her
name had been linked, had a right to greater hope.

Marcus listened, filled up Denver's glass, and pitied him from the
bottom of his heart.  If his friend had succeeded in winning from
Francesca a firm committment to marry him, then Marcus would have been
forced to step aside.  But as it was.  Denver had no idea of
Francesca's true nature.  Her passion, her laughter, even the strength
of her character were unknown to him.  If he

Francesca ever did manage to discover them, they might even come as an
unwelcome surprise.  No, there was no doubt whatsoever-Francesca would
be wasted on this kind, conventional .  ordinary man.

So Marcus went back to Mount Street, determined to set about persuading
Francesca that she was his and his alone.  His plans suffered a setback
when he was told once again that Francesca would not meet him.
Undaunted, he asked to see Lord BeaU don and was conducted up the
stairs to a large bedchamber on the second floor.  Francesca was
nowhere to be seen, but Lord Beaudon was awake and watching with a
fierce eye. Marcus greeted him fearlessly, then sat down and proceeded
to give him a clear account of what had happened since the evening at
White's.  Lord Beaudon nodded once or twice, but still seemed
unhappy.

"What is it, sir?"

The pale lips mouthed, "Madeleine.  P-Paris."  "I don't understand.
Can you repeat it?"  "Mad-M-Madeleine.  Want you to go."  He moved
restlessly when he saw that Marcus was still looking puzzled.
"Francesca.  Fetch Fran... Francesca."

Marcus went to the door and told the servant to bring Miss Beaudon.
She came a few minutes later.  When she saw Marcus, her step faltered,
but her eyes went to her father.  Marcus was shocked at her appearance.
She looked as if she had not slept for a week.

"He was asking for you," Marcus said.  "I'll leave you with him."

There was a grunt from the bed.  Francesca hurried over.

"What is it, Papa?"  she asked urgently.  "Are you in pain?"  "Ca ...
ame. Stay."

Marcus came back to stand on the other side of the bed.  "I'm here,
sir. What can I do?"

"Pa ... aris."  Lord Beandon's eyes went to Francesca.

Francesca "Mmm-cant to tell."  He frowned and said suddenly,
"Madeleine."

"That's what he was saying before," Marcus said soflly.  "Do you know
what it means?"

"Madeleine... I don't--Papa!  Do you mean Maddy?"

Lord Beaudon nodded, a smile of relief on his worn face.

"Do you know where she is?"

"Paa ... ris."  Exhausted with his efforts to speak, Lord Beaudon
closed his eyes.

"Papa!  Papa!"  There was no response.  The eyelids did not even
flicker.

"Leave him, Francesca.  Let him rest."

"But you don't understand!  It's Maddy!  He wants to tell me about
Maddy."

"He can't tell you anything more for the moment.  Look at him."

Lord Beaudon was lying perfectly still, eyes shut, his face pale and
sunken.  He was sound asleep.

"He'll tell you more when he wakes up.  You'll have to be patient.  Who
is Maddy?"

"My nurse.  On St.  Marthe.  She came with me to England, but my aunt
sent her away.  I have always wondered what became of her."  A tear
rolled down her cheek.  "He's known all the time, and never told me."

"Come and sit down.  Your father won't wake for a while.  He's
exhausted."  He led her to her chair by the window and sat her down.
He looked at her white face, the dark shadows under her eyes, saw that
her hands were trembling, and had some difficulty in stopping himself
from taking her in his arms to give her comfort.  He would almost
certainly be rejected.  Instead, he called the servant and ordered some
wine to be sent up.  When it came, he persuaded her to drink some.  A
little colour came into

Francesca her cheeks.  Then he drew another chair up and set himself to
soothe her shattered nerves.

"Now tell me about Maddy.  Her real name is Madeleine?  It's a pretty
name.  My nurse was called Mrs.

Rolls.  My sister and I called her Roly-Poly.  And she was.  " " Maddy
wasn't fat.  She was a beautiful woman.  " " Tell me about her.  "

Francesca seemed to have forgotten their last devastating meeting.  She
sat passively while he held her hand and encouraged her to talk about
her life on St.  Marthe.

"Mama was ill after I was born.  I don't know what she had, but it
meant she had to rest a lot.  Maddy was engaged to look after me, when
I was just a few weeks old."  "She took the place of your mo the

"Oh, no!  I spent a great deal of time with Mama--and Maddy was there,
too.  Mama had a huge bedroom with a veranda overlooking the sea.  It
was full of white draperies.  I remember thinking how pretty they
looked fluttering in the breezee Trade Winds, I suppose.  No,

Maddy and Mama were friends.  They laughed a lot.  " " Who was Maddy?
Where had she come from?  "

"I'm not sure.  I think she had lost her own family in a hurricane. She
was a Creole.  They were both so beautiful, Mama and Maddy.  Mama was
blonde and little, with dark brown eyes, but Maddy was quite tall. She
had black hair and a skin that looked like the petals of the magnolias
that grew at the side of the house."

Marcus blinked.  Privately he wondered how Lord Beaudon had dealt with
the problem of an invalid wife and a raven-haired beauty as his
daughter's nurse.  It was as if Francesca could read his mind.

"I expect you're wondering about Maddy's position in our household. She
was my nurse, of course.  But later, when I got older and used to think
about the time on St.  Marthe, I often wondered how my father viewed
her.  At

Francesca the time I had no high opinion of him, so I assumed the
worst.  But one thing I was always sure of, even as a child.  My mother
and Maddy loved one another.  Whatever happened, they were friends.
And Maddy was as unhappy as I was when my mother died.  "

"Whatever the truth of it, your father must have placed your comfort
above his own.  He sent this Maddy to England with you."

"Yes, he did, didn't he?"  She sat for a moment in thought.  "I didn't
see a lot of him on St.  Marthe--or at least, I don't remember seeing
him much.  But since he came back, I have talked to him a great deal. I
am quite sure now he was devoted to my mother."

"When did your mother die?"

"When I was five.  More than twenty years ago."

"And you have never seen or heard of Maddy since she left Shelwood."

"Not till today."

"Then we must find out where she is.  Your father clearly knows."

"I think ... I think she might have gone back to stay with him.  Which
would mean that she was in Paris now."

"We shall see."  He took her other hand in his and bent forward.  "I'll
help you all I can."

Francesca looked up at him, then seemed suddenly to realise who he was.
She snatched her hands away from him and jumped up.  "Thank you, but I
don't need your help.  I can send for Maddy myself as soon as I know
for sure where she can be found."

"Your father seems to regard me as necessary."

"He is sick."

"And therefore not to be listened to?"  "I told you, I don't need
anyone!"  "What about Denver?"

"Oh.  Oh, yes.  He'll help me.  If I need him.  I must

Francesca ask you to go now.  My father will soon wake.  "

"In that case I must stay--4o take my leave Of him."  Francesca said
nothing, but moved away to the side of the bed.  Once again Marcus
stood on the other side.  Their eyes met.

"Can't you forgive me?"  he said.

"I ... find it hard.  I find it hard to forgive myself."  "Don't say
that!  You have nothing, nothing at all, to forgive yourself for!  Let'
me start again, Francesca.  I've been all kinds of a fool, but you must
believe me when

I say that I've come to my senses at last.  "

"I ... I owe something to Lord Denver."

"George Denver isn't the issue between us.  You know that.  Can you
compare what you feel for him with your feeling for me?  Can you forget
what happened the last time we met?"

Francesca shut her eyes.  When she opened them again, they were full of
pain.

"Yes," she whispered.  "Yes, I can.  I will.  I won't let myself
remember.  I don't want any part of it.  Please go, Marcus!"

"I know I hurt you in the past, and I cannot say how much I regret it.
But can't you bring yourself to trust me now?  Please, Francesca!"

She started to shake her head, then looked at him uncertainly,
confusion in her eyes.  The sincerity in his voice had had an effect.
"I ... II ... I don't know," she said at last.  "I don't know.  I can't
think at the moment.  It's all been too much.  You'll have to excuse
me."

He saw that she was at the end of her tether and grew angry with
himself for pushing her too far, too quickly.  "It's all right, my
dear," he said swiftly.  "I'll wait.  At least you haven't refused to
think about it.  But don't shut me out completely.  I'll leave you to
say my farewells to your father.  I'll come again as soon as he
wishes."

Francesca He took his leave of her and went out.  Francesca watched him
go.  Neither of them had noticed that Lord Beaudon's eyes were wide
open, and that he was studying them both, straining to hear what they
were saying.  By the time Francesca turned back to the bed, his eyes
were shut.

Chapter Twelve

Marcus cancelled most of his engagements and came back at an early hour
the next day, without waiting for a summons.  Lord Beaudon had made it
clear that he was to help Francesca in the business of "Maddy'.  That "
Maddy' was important to both of the Beaudons was reason enough in
Marcus's mind to abandon any obligations to the rest of Society.

When Mrs.  Canfield saw him arrive, she shook her head and intercepted
him before he had set foot on the stairs.  "May I have a word with you,
Marcus?"

He hesitated, then good manners prevailed.  They went into the salon.

"Why are you here?"

"To see Lord Beaudon."

"You are very good, I know that.  Who should know better?  But do you
not think you are being a little... unwise, Marcus?"

"Unwise?"  he asked with a touch of hauteur.

"The gossip has been silenced for the moment.  But do you not think
your frequent visits--your very frequent visits-might provoke more? You
know what London is like.  I am venturing to speak to you like this,
Marcus, because I am very fond of both you and Francesca.  She

Francesca has enough to bear at the moment without becoming the topic
of more speculation.  "

"Lord Beaudon has conveyed that he wants my help in some way, Maria.  I
am here to see if he can make his wishes clearer.  I shall probably not
even see Francesca."  "Is there no one else who can aid Lord
Beaudon?"

"Apparently not.  Not even Denver."  This was said with a certain
degree of satisfaction.

"You realise that your readiness to help may lead others to read more
into your relationship with Lord Beaudon's daughter than you might
wish?"

"That is not possible."  Mrs.  Canfield's eyes widened.  He smiled
ruefully and said, "I had not intended to say as much to anyone yet.
Certainly not to Francesca her-self---but I think I may rely on your
discretion, Maria.  You are the first to know that when all this is
over, I intend to ask Francesca to marry me."

"Marcus!  This is very sudden.  I had no idea--'

"Do you think she will?"

He waited for her answer with more anxiety than he was willing to
reveal.  Maria Canfield must be more in Francesca's confidence than
most.

"II don't know," she said slowly.  He had the impression she was
choosing her words carefully.  "You have a powerful effect on her, of
that I am certain.  I know you two met in the past, but Francesca has
never talked about it to me.  I suspect she has painful memories of
it."  He would have spoken, but she went on, "That must remain between
you.  I do know that she has set her mind on marrying someone ... less
dangerous to her peace of mind than you appear to be."  She paused,
then added, "Lord Denver is devoted to her."

"He would never make her really happy, of that I am sure."

"How can you say so?  It is my opinion that Lord Denver

Francesca is everything a young girl could hope for.  Indeed, I could
have wished.  But no matter.  "

"That's just the point, Maria!  George Denver is the best of fellows--a
man couldn't ask for a better friend.  He would make an excellent
husband for a young girl--someone like Lydia, for example.  But
Francesca is not a young girl!  She is an intelligent, strong-minded
woman.  In a very short time they would each be disappointed in the
other.  Francesca would be stifled, burdened by his concern, his desire
to protect and indulge her.  She could not maintain the image she
presents to Society throughout years of marriage.  Not without doing
violence to her true character.  And, ultimately, Denver would be made
unhappy by her desire for independence, her strong views, her
appreciation of a good argument--her passion, her impulsive ways..."

"Francesca?  Impulsive?"

"You see?  Even you, who have lived with her all these months, do not
know the real woman."

"And you do?"

"I know Francesca as I know myself.  She is part of me, as I am sure I
am part of her."

"These are strong words, Marcus," said Mrs.  Canfield, looking at him
as if she had never seen him before.  "And I think I know you well
enough to know that you do not use them lightly.  But ... have you
considered this?  Francesca may well not wish to be the real woman you
claim to know."

"What do you mean?"

"From the time Francesca Beaudon first came to Packards, she been
single-minded in the pursuit of one ambition."

"To find the sort of husband she thinks she wants.  l know that,
Maria."

"That is not what I meant.  Finding that sort of husband--a man like
Denver, for example--is merely a symptom.  Her real ambition is to
protect herself from the kind of hurt she suffered in her earlier life.
Her aunt's treatment of her was, from all accounts, unbelievably creel.
And, though I cannot imagine you meant to, I suspect you, too, hurt
her---badly.  Now she seeks calmer, kinder waters in her relationships.
She allows herself affection--look how fond she is of Lydia.  And her
love for her father has deepened over the months.  But strong,
passionate feeling?  I doubt if she will ever allow it to rule her."

Marcus frowned and swung away to the window.  He was silent for a
minute.  Then he said harshly, "What you say merely makes me more
determined.  Given time, I know I could make her love me--as she should
love someone.  Anything else would be a denial of her true nature."

Mrs.  Canfield looked at him thoughtfully.  Then she smiled and said,
"In that case, I wish you success.  I am quite sure that, if Francesca
allowed herself to fall in love with you, she could not be in better
hands.  Will you take a little advice?"

"Of course."

"Do not press her at the moment.  She has enough to cope with.  Act as
the good friend I know you can be.  This business with Lord Beaudon
gives you an excellent opportunity."

"So you've changed your mind--you approve of my visits?"

"You are always welcome, you know that, and now that I understand your
real feelings, I will do all I can to promote your interests--we shall
ignore gossip and speculation.  And now I think Lord Beaudon has waited
long enough."

Marcus kissed her hand.  'if you can help me in this

Francesca matter, Mafia, you will have more than repaid any trifling
service I may have done you in the past--ten times over!  "

"I have to say that I never thought to see you in this state, Marcus. I
had quite given up hope that you would ever marry."

"Oh, I shall!  And Francesca Beaudon will be my bride.  You will
see!"

When Marcus entered the bedchamber, Lord Beaudon was once again alert.
He was looking at the door, an expression of anxiety on his face.  When
he saw Marcus he relaxed visibly.

"Good morning, sir."  Lord Beaudon inclined his head and lifted his
hand---shakily, but a movement all the same.  In response to the
gesture, Marcus sat down by the bed.  He wasted no time on
niceties--Lord Beaudon's strength was limited and must be used on more
important matters.  "You were telling me about someone called
Madeleine--Maddy.  Is she in Paris?"  Lord Beaudon nodded, looking at
him anxiously, and Marcus continued, "She was your daughter's nurse?"
Another nod.  "You have been ... looking after her since she was sent
away from Sbelwood?"

A slight grin twisted Lord Beaudon's mouth as he nodded, then the
worried look descended again.

"You wish me to send a message to her.  Should she be sent for?"

This time there was a distinct frown.

"Fetch her myself?."

Another frown.  The wrinkled hand on the cover clenched in a gesture of
frustration, as Lord Beaudon tried to speak.

"Easy, sir, easy.  It will come.  Don't force it."

"Don't understand.  Hu ... hurr-rry.  Age--' Marcus was puzzled again,
but waited patiently.  After a moment, Lord Beaudon tried again.  "
Agent

Francesca "Your agent?  In Paris?"  An impatient shake of the head.
"In London?  You wish me to speak to your agent in London."  Lord
Beaudon sank back with a sigh of satisfaction.  "I'll do it at once.
Does Francesca know who it is, where he is to be found?"  A tired nod.
"I shall find her and ask.  Ah, here she is."

Francesca came in with an older man, obviously a doctor.  She was very
formal as they greeted one another.

"Your father has requested me to visit his agent, Miss Beaudon.  Could
you give me his direction?"

Francesca looked at her father, who nodded slowly.  "Of course.  I have
it downstairs."

"Then I shall wait downstairs.  Do you wish your agent to come to see
you, sir?"

The doctor intervened.  "If I may interrupt?  I think that would be
most unwise.  Lord Beaudon should not exert himself as much as he has
done already.  He should not have any visitors at all."  His look at
Marcus was severe.

Marcus smiled charmingly back.  "I am a family friend, sir.  I venture
to suggest that Lord Beaudon will be easier in his mind if someone he
trusts is looking after his daughter, and his business affairs."
Ignoring a small gasp of indignation from Francesca, he turned to the
figure in the bed.  "May I see the agent on your behalf, sir?  I will
report what he says."

Lord Beaudon nodded.  A close observer would have said that he was
smiling.

Marcus returned later that day, but asked to see Miss Beaudon rather
than her father.  She came into the salon reluctantly.

"Don't look like that, Francesca.  My reason for wishing to see you is
perfectly legitimate.  How is your father?  I thought he looked
brighter this morning."

"He fell asleep again after you left.  But in general he

Francesca seems to be improving by the hour.  His ability to speak is
slowly coming back to him.  Why did you wish to see me?  "

"I sent for Loudon, the agent, and your father's affairs are all in
hand.  There are a few papers for him to put a mark to when he is
ready.  But the news I was initially sent for-the news of Maddyes not
very satisfactory."  Francesca sat down.  "What is wrong?"

"Your father rents a house in a fashionable quarter of Paris.  Maddy
lives with him there."

"What is wrong with that?  I'm sorry he concealed Maddy's presence for
so long from me, but there's no reason to condemn---'

"I have made no such comment.  Your father's affairs are his own. Don't
jump down my throat, Francesca.  I'm trying to help."

"Well, what is wrong, then?"  she asked, less than graciously.

"The house in the rue du Luxembourg has been closed.

Maddy has disappeared.  "

"What?"

"I wasn't able to make a great deal of sense out of what Loudon said.
But it appears that when your father decided to spend the Season here
in London, he sent a large sum of money to Maddy, care of his steward
in Paris.  This was for household expenses, including the rent on the
property, which fell due last month.  It, apparently, wasn't used for
this purpose.  The owners' agent has been trying to get in touch with
your father for the past week."  "But what has happened to Maddy?"
"Loudon doesn't seem to know."

"But this is terrible!  She must be found.  I couldn't bear to lose her
again after all these years.  And my father... what will my father
say?"

"That is precisely why I am consulting you.  He must

Francesca be told, but gently.  You must calm yourself, Francesca.  "

"Yes, yes, of course.  We must not alarm him.  I will be calm."  She
took several breaths, then said, "It would be better if I had a plan of
action to suggest to him.  What can I do?"  She paused again, then said
with decision, "I shall go to Paris."

"You!  Don't be absurd!  What could you do in Paris?  No, I must be the
one to go."

"It is you who is being absurd!  Maddy doesn't know you, you have no
connection with the Beaudons--what would the world think if Lord Came
were to race off to Paris in search of Miss'Beaudon's former nurse?"

"It's better than having them wonder why you were allowed to go in
search of Rake Beaudon's mistress!"  He looked at her with a flicker of
amusement in his eyes, asking her to share the joke.  Her lips trembled
into a reluctant smile, but she soon grew sober again.

"I'm serious, Marcus.  I must be the one to go.  I had already sent for
Madame Elisabeth to help us with Papa.  She should arrive any minute. I
think I could persuade her to come with me, and !  shall find a
reliable courier to look after Us."

"You are still talking rubbish, Francesca.  If you insist on going, I
shall accompany you, of course."

"You will not!  How could I possibly allow it?  What a field day that
would make for the gossips!"

For a moment Marcus was tempted to declare himself.  As Francesca's
acknowledged fan cd he could escort her, suitably chaperoned, on her
father's business without arousing too much censure.  But a moment's
thought put a stOP to the impulse.  If Francesca refused him, as she
well might, there would be an end to all communication between them.
And she needed him at this moment more than ever before.  He must find
a way round the problem, not meet it head on.

Francesca

"Your father will be wondering what has become of you.  And of me.
Francesca, shall we declare a truce for now?  Before we launch into any
schemes, it might make sense to find out exactly what your father
wants."

Francesca looked at him as if her mind were only half on what he was
saying, and he wondered what she was plotting.  But he was pleasantly
surprised when she said, "I agree.  But I think we must tell Papa the
truth.  Evasion or pretence would only worry him more.  His speech may
be impaired, but his wits are as sound as ever."

They went up to Lord Beaudon's bedchamber.

"I'm that glad you've come, ma'am.  His lordship has been fretting this
half-hour!"  The nurse sounded and looked flustered.  It was obvious
that Lord Beaudon had been a difficult patient.

"Papa!  I'm sorry I wasn't here.  I ... I was delayed."  Lord Beaudon
made a dismissive movement with his hand.  His eyes went to Marcus.  As
usual, Marcus wasted no time on formality, going straight to the point,
as he knew Lord Beaudon wished.

"Good evening, sir.  You are looking better.  I've done as you asked.
Loudon and I have sorted out most of your outstanding business, as you
asked--and there are papers for you to sign."

"Madeleine?"  Lord Beaudon's speech was distinctly clearer.

"What is it you wish to do about Maddy, Papa?"

"Want her to know ... I haven't forgotten.  Haven't seen her ... three
months ... more."

"Does she know about me?"  He nodded.  "Proud of you."  "Why didn't you
bring her?"

"Gossip.  Didn't want ... to spoil ... your debut."

Francesca "Oh, Papa!  Why didn't you tell me?  How could you leave
her?"

"Francesca."  Marcus had put a warning hand on Francesca's arm.  Lord
Beaudon's eyes followed the gesture.

"Fetch her now.  With his help."

"Whose?"

A smile it the tired face on the pillow.  "Carne's, damn it."

"I cannot do that!"

"Course y'can.  Get engaged.  Time anyway."  He closed his eyes and
slept.

The stormy expression on Francesca's face was confirmation enough that
Marcus had been right to be cautious.  As soon as they were outside the
door of Lord Beaudon's room, she turned on him.

"I know what you are thinking, but I assure you that I have never
encouraged my father to believe that I wished to marry you!  Indeed, it
is the last thing I want!"

He glanced round expressively.  "Shall we discuss this in private,
Francesca?"

"There is nothing to discuss!  I have no intention of becoming engaged
to you, Lord Came!"

"You force me to tell you in something less than privacy that I have at
the moment no intention of asking you to be my wife, Miss Beaudon!"

They were both so absorbed that they were not aware of Mrs.  Canfield
until she said gently, "Francesca, I'm surprised.  What sort of
discussion is this to be having on the staircase?  Take Lord Carne into
the salon."  Unseen by Francesca, she raised an eyebrow at Marcus as
she passed them.

Marcus was fighting for survival.  He said more calmly, "Your father's
interests are surely more important than our

Francesca own for the moment.  We can talk more easily downstairs.  "

Francesca, still looking mutinous, allowed herself to be led into the
salon.  Here she marched past him and sat down defiantly in the window
seat.

Marcus said carefully, "Whatever my feelings, I should not have
indulged in that piece of discourtesy upstairs.  I apologise."

Francesca said stiffly, "I provoked you to it, Lord Came.  You have no
need to apologise."

"Very well.  Now, can we forget it and continue with our efforts to
solve the problem of Maddy?"  His even tone and casual air were
designed to reassure.  Francesca relaxed a little.  "It is now clear
that someone has to go to Paris, and that your father will not be
content unless we go together.  Whatever our own views on the matter,
his are quite clear.  He wishes us to be engaged."

"And that would suit neither of us," said Francesca with
determination.

"Quite.  But may I suggest that we do not tell him that?  I am sure we
could travel to Paris together without arousing comment if I went on
official business and merely acted as your courier.  I do have some
unfinished Foreign Office business in Paris.  Perhaps Mrs.  Canfield
and Lydia would come with you?"

"Mrs.  Canfield has agreed to supervise the care of Papa.  And Lydia
should not be dragged away from London at the moment."

"True.  I had forgotten.  Madame Elisabeth?  I heard you say she was
already on her way here?"

Francesca looked at him.  Once again, he had the impression that he had
only half her attention.  "It might work, I suppose," she said slowly.
"How long would it take to arrange?"

"A few days."

"Good!"  Marcus looked at her in surprise.  He had been

Francesca delighted that she had agreed with so little resistance, but
had thought she would object to the delay-short though it was.  "I
mean," said Francesca carefully, 'that it is good that we have managed
to settle on a solution.  "

"What shall we tell your father?"

"He will be happy to know that we have agreed to go.  We need not go
into great detail."  She smiled wryly.  "He trusts you, I am sure."

"Do you?"

"Trust you?  Why, of course!"

"Do you, Francesca?  Really?"  He moved closer to her, absurdly pleased
at her words.  But she avoided him and went to the door.

"Papa must know what we are doing," she said, and went upstairs.

Marcus followed her in silence.  Very well, my girl, he thought.  We
shall see how we progress when you and I journey to Paris together.
There will be occasions when I shall have you to myself--I'll make
certain of it!  And then .  we shall see.

Marcus visited Mount Street only fleetingly the next day, and not at
all the next.  He and Francesca had seen Lord Beaudon and told him of
their decision.  He had congratulated them both and expressed his
delight, though it was clear that this was shadowed by his anxiety
about Maddy.  Marcus had felt some compunction at deceiving Francesca's
father, but comforted himself with the thought that, if all went well,
he and Francesca would, in truth, be engaged by the time they returned
to London.

What Francesca made of it, he was not sure.  She had recently been more
open with him, but now she retreated once more into reserve, and he
found it difficult to guess what she was thinking.  He was content to
wait.  He would have all the time in the world on their journey to

Francesca

France to find a way back into her confidence.

So though he sent messages to Mount Street, he did not have time to see
the Beaudons himself.  He had been speaking the truth when he said he
had unfinished business in Paris, but there were people in London he
had to consult first.  He spent an energetic two days making
arrangements and gathering papers, making sure that their journey would
be as comfortable as man could make it, and sending couriers ahead to
Prepare their reception in Paris.  It was a demanding time; if he had
not been buoyed up by the hope of finally persuading Francesca to trust
him, he would have found it exhausting.

He was shocked and furiously disappointed when he arrived in Mount
Street and found Francesca already gone.

"Miss Beaudon isn't here?  Of course she is!"  he said sharply to the
hapless fool man who had taken his hat and cane.

Roberts, the butler, came to the rescue.  Dismissing the fool man with
a nod, he said, "Mrs.  Canfield left instructions that your lordship
should be shown into the salon.  Would you come this way, my lord?"

Containing himself with difficulty, Marcus allowed himself to be
ushered into the salon.  He refused an offer of wine somewhat curtly,
and waited impatiently for Mrs.  Canfield to arrive.

"Maria, what's this nonsense about Francesca?"  he demanded as soon as
she came through the door.  Mrs.  Canfield was in an unusual state of
agitation.

"Francesca set off for Paris last night, Marcus."  "You cannot mean
it!" "I'm afraid I do."

"Does her father know?"

"No.  We haven't told him yet."

"Why the devil did you permit such a thing, Maria?"  His tone was
peremptory.

Francesca Mrs.  Canfield stiffened.  She said, "I knew nothing of the
matter.  Francesca took advantage of the fact that Lydia and I were at
the Scarborough rout party to escape."  "Did she go alone?"

"No.  Madame de Romain arrived yesterday and I assume she accompanied
Francesca."

"Two women!  When did you say she went?"

"Last night."

"My God!  Two women travelling through the night along some of the most
dangerous roads in England."  He paced restlessly through the room,
then he stopped and turned.  "You must have suspected something!  Why
didn't you stop such a mad escapade?  Or at least send for me!"

"Marcus, I make every allowance for your sense of shock, but you are
being unnecessarily rude.  I repeat---I had no idea, no idea at all
that Francesca would undertake such a foolhardy enterprise.  Nothing
about her behaviour in the past would have led me to suspect it."

"I told you that Francesca was impulsive and headstrong, and you
refused to believe me.  Oh, this is exactly like her!  I should have
anticipated it.  Past experience should have taught me."

"I can still hardly credit what you say.  But I have come to agree with
you, Marcus, that she needs a stronger man than Denver to control her.
This will be a most unpleasant surprise for him.  I believe him to be
sincerely in love with her, but he will be shocked beyond measure at
her behaviour."

"Denver?  Bah!  He's too gentle a man for Francesca.  Even I couldn't
control her.  No, with Francesca, you merely try to guard her from the
worst of her follies, and love her for them.  And hope that, with time,
she will trust you enough to allow you power over her!"  He had been
talking almost to himself.  But now he went on, "So you see, Maria, I
have to rescue her.  1'!1 leave straight away,

Francesca though it's impossible to catch them up before the packet
sails.  I wish you had sent for me sooner.  "

"I did try to find you, but you were not at home.  I could hardly send
round the clubs for you!"

"I was with Stewart's man in the Foreign Office.  Oh God, I hope she's
safe!"  He made for the door, then stopped.  "What about Lord
Beaudon?"

"There's a note for him.  I wasn't sure what to do, so I waited for you
to come before giving it to him."

"I'll take it.  He's pushed her into this.  If he hadn't been so hasty,
we'd have managed very well.  You'd better warn Glover to be on
hand."

But Lord Beaudon took what the letter had to say with remarkable
fortitude.  It did not mention the name Came, but Francesca's
reluctance to be in his company was clear in every line.  When Marcus
grew pale and clenched his jaw, Lord Beaudon chuckled.  "Don't worry.
She'll have you," he said.  "Patience.  I suppose you're going to
follow her?"

"I must.  Though she does seem at least to have had the sense to supply
herself with plenty of protection."

The letter had been intended to reassure Francesca's father about her
safety.  She told him that she had used a reputable agent and she and
Madame Elisabeth had found companions and guards for their journey.
And they had letters of introduction, together with the addresses of
some of Madame Elisabeth's old friends to help them in Paris.  "This is
ridiculous!"  Marcus burst out.

"Then be off to Paris and tell her so.  And bring Madeleine back with
you!"  was Lord Beaudon's response.

Marcus wasted no more time.  He was forced to take the travelling coach
he had prepared with such care, for it contained all his papers, but it
meant that progress was not as fast as he would have wished.  But it
was too late in any case to catch Francesca's party before they

Francesca embarked for France, and the next packet was not till the
following day.  But, all the same, Marcus chafed at the delay.  In
spite of Francesca's reassurances he wanted to see for himself that she
was safe and sound.  And preferably under his own protection!

As Francesca travelled the long road to Paris, she occasionally allowed
herself to wonder what the journey would have been like in Marcus's
company.  In different circumstances it could have been .  idyllic.
But she did not allow her mind to dwell on this for long, and not once
did she regret her hasty decision to come to France without him.

Lord Came may be everything Society said of him--totally honourable,
completely dependable, absolutely scrupulous.  But the Marcus that was
lodged so unshakeably in her heart was none of these.  The admirable
Lord Carne would never attack a helpless female as she had been
attacked in the salon at Mount Street.  And elegant Miss Beaudon would
never respond to any man at all in the abandoned manner in which she
had responded, returning kiss for kiss, meeting passion with passion.

But Francesca and Marcus .  ah, that was different!  Neither reason nor
respect for propriety, no sense of self-preservation or fear of hurt
seemed to hold back this overwhelming force which could flare into life
between them.  Time had not affected it--at twenty-five she was as
vulnerable to Marcus as she had been when she had given in to his charm
when she was not even sixteen.  She had managed to survive the
experience of a broken heart once.  A second exposure might well
destroy her.  The only way to guard herself was to avoid as much
contact with him as possible .  as she would.

Francesca

They arrived in Paris early in the evening after an uneventful journey
and went to a hotel not far from her father's house, recommended to
them by connections of Madame Elisabeth.  It was too late to pursue the
question of Maddy that evening, so the two ladies retired early to
their rooms and tried to get some rest.

The next morning they set off, armed with a street guide and Lord
Beaudon's address.  Though the rue du Luxembourg took some time to
find, Lord Beaudon's house was soon identified.  It was securely locked
up. They tried knocking, and pulling the bell, but there was no
response. When Francesca looked all round for someone to consult, the
street was deserted.

"We are too early, Francesca.  No one stirs here till midday."

"Surely there must be some servant...?"

"Not in the front half of the houses, not before noon.  Haven't you
noticed that there are no street vendors about, either?  Their cries
are not allowed to disturb the peace of this neighbourhood till later
in the day.  If we return this afternoon, I am sure we shall find
someone."

Francescsa had to agree, and they returned, somewhat tired, to their
hotel, where they went to their rooms to rest.  But when Francesca
called for Madame Elisabeth later in the day, she found that lady
stretched out on her couch looking very frail.

"I am sorry, Francesca.  I cannot walk another step today.  Could we
try again tomorrow?"

"Of course!  You make me ashamed of myself, Madame Elisabeth.  I
dragged you all the way here without pause or rest, and then got you up
early... Of course, you need rest.  I have been unpardonably
selfish."

"Oh, no, my dear!  You are anxious to find your nurse, I understand
that.  I shall be perfectly fit tomorrow, you'll see."

Francesca Francesca sent for a chambermaid to attend to Madame
Elisabeth.  "You must not allow me to stop you, Francesca," said Madame
Elisabeth.  "It is a beautiful after-noon--I am sure you would find
someone to ask if you went back to the rue du Luxembourg."  She spoke
to the maid in rapid French, then turned to Francesca.  "The maid says
the streets are quite safe round here, but you must take care if you go
further afield."

Francesca thought for a moment.  Then she said, "I think I'll take the
carriage, Madame Elisabeth.  It's here in the stables, and the grooms
are in the yard--I saw them as we came in.  I just might want to go
further, if someone tells me where Maddy can be found."

"Of course.  I'm sure you wish to find your nurse as soon as possible.
You must be worried about her."

"Are you sure you'll be all right?  I'll get one of the chambermaids to
stay with you if you wish."

"No, no, that won't be necessary.  A rest today and I shall be quite
well again.  And I am happy that you will be safe with the grooms we
brought from England to guard you.  They seem to have their wits about
them.  Off you go, my dear.  And---bonne chance!"

The street was full of activity when Francesca arrived there for the
second time.  Nursemaids were walking the children, footmen were
delivering notes and parcels, and next door to her father's house an
elegantly dressed lady was just setting foot in her carriage.
Francesca sent one of the grooms to knock at the door of her father's
house and waited, aware of curious glances directed at her from all
sides.  The groom knocked once more, but there was still no response.
Her heart sinking, Francesca left the carriage and went up to the
house.  The groom shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"It's no use trying there.  They've gone."  Francesea's

Francesca

French was far from perfect, but it was adequate enough to understand
these words.  She turned round.  The speaker was about eight years old,
and looking up at her with a child's curiosity.  Tais-toi, Virginie!  "
The nursemaid with the little girl took her hand and hurried her
away.

Francesca looked helplessly round.  The elegantly dressed lady, who had
stopped to stare, got into the carriage and gave an abrupt order.  The
carriage moved off before Francesca could Speak to her.  A small crowd
of footmen, other servants, street vendors and children had gathered at
the bottom of the steps, gabbling rapidly.  Francesca regretted that
Madame Elisabeth was not with her.  Her own French was not equal to
this.

"C'est la mais on de Milord Beaudon?"  she asked hesitantly.

They all stared, then one of the footmen, taking on her, said, "Oui,
mais... the little one is right, mademoiselle.  The English mil or has
not been here for months.  More.  And Madame was taken ill."  Francesca
caught this last wordalade was ill.

"Where is Madame now?"  she asked.  The footman shrugged his shoulders.
There was a discussion.  At one point they eyed her uncertainly, then
shook their heads.  "Please," she cried.  "I must see Madame!"

They only shook their heads again.  One woman---a street vendor from
her looks---obviously disagreed the rest.  She harangued them in
incomprehensible to Francesca's untutored ear.  They replied in kind,
and the footman ended the discussion with a decisive "Non!"  Then he
turned again to Francesca.

"I regret, mademoiselle, we cannot help you.  Perhaps the embassy will
advise you?"

Francesca thanked him, pressed a few sous into his hand and turned away
disconsolately.  She had the impression that they knew what had
happened to Maddy, but

Francesca had decided not to tell her.  The speed with which they
disappeared seemed to confirm this notion.  She started back towards
the carriage, and was just getting in when she heard,

"Psst!  Psst, mademoiselle!"

Francesca turned.  The street vendor was sidling up behind her.  The
groom attempted to push her away, but Francesca stopped him.  The woman
clearly had something to tell her.  She was talking in some kind of
patois, but when she saw that Francesca did not understand a word, she
tried again, more slowly.

Francesca gathered that she was trying to give her an address, and
eventually, after many false starts and failed repetitions, Francesca
managed to say the address to the woman's satisfaction.  She beamed
with pleasure and held out a dirty hand.  Francesca gave her some
money, and they parted on good terms.  As she hurried off down the
street, the woman shouted something in a warning voice, but Francesca
did not heed her.  She was sure that La Maison des 4nges in the rue
Giboureau was where she would find Maddy.  It sounded like a hospital
of some sort.

Francesca

French was far from perfect, but it was adequate enough to understand
these words.  She turned round.  The speaker was about eight years old,
and looking up at her with a child's curiosity.  "Tais-toi, Virginie!"
The nursemaid with the little girl took her hand and hurried her
away.

Francesca looked helplessly round.  The elegantly dressed lady, who had
stopped to stare, got into the carriage and gave an abrupt order.  The
carriage moved off before Francesca could 'speak to her.  A small crowd
of footmen, other servants, street vendors and children had gathered at
the bottom of the steps, gabbling rapidly.  Francesca regretted that
Madame Elisabeth was not with her.  Her own French was not equal to
this.

"C'est la mais on de Milord Beaudon?"  she asked hesitantly.

They all stared, then one of the footmen, taking pity on her, said,
"Oui, reals... the little one is right, mademoiselle.  The English mil
or has not been here for months.  More.  And Madame was taken ill."
Francesca caught this last word-ma lade was ill.

"Where is Madame now?"  she asked.  The footman shrugged his shoulders.
There was a discussion.  At one point they eyed her uncertainly, then
shook their heads.  "Please," she cried.  "I must see Madame!"

They only shook their heads again.  One woman--a street vendor from her
looks--obviously disagreed with the rest.  She harangued them in a
French which was totally incomprehensible to Francesca's untutored ear.
They replied in kind, and the footman ended the discussion with a
decisive "Non!"  Then he turned again to Francesca.

"I regret, mademoiselle, we cannot help you.  Perhaps the embassy will
advise you?"

Francesca thanked him, pressed a few sous into his hand and turned away
disconsolately.  She had the impression that they knew what had
happened to Maddy, but

Francesca had decided not to tell her.  The speed with which they
disappeared seemed to confirm this notion.  She started back towards
the carriage, and was just getting in when she heard,

"Psst!  Psst, mademoiselle!"

Francesca turned.  The street vendor was sidling up behind her.  The
groom attempted to push her away, but Francesca stopped him.  The woman
clearly had something to tell her.  She was talking in some kind of
patois, but when she saw that Francesca did not understand a word, she
tried again, more slowly.

Francesca gathered that she was trying to give her an address, and
eventually, after many false starts and failed repetitions, Francesca
managed to say the address to the woman's satisfaction.  She beamed
with pleasure and held out a dirty hand.  Francesca gave her some
money, and they parted on good terms.  As she hurried off down the
street, the woman shouted something in a warning voice, but Francesca
did not heed her.  She was sure that La Maison des 4nges in the rue
Giboureau was where she would find Maddy.  It sounded like a hospital
of some sort.

Chapter Thirteen

After studying the street map one of the grooms had procured, Francesca
saw that the rue Giboureau was some distance away in what looked like a
prosperous district not far from the Bois de Boulogne.  It should be
easy to find.  It was still early, so Francesca decided that, if she
went straight there, she could see Maddy, find out how she was and
still have time to get back to the hotel before it was too late.  Then
the next day, if Maddy's health permitted, she could set about making
arrangements to convey her to England.  Francesca gave the orders, and
the carriage set off in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne.

The journey took longer than Francesca had anticipated, and it was
almost evening before they reached the rue Giboureau.  The road was
lined with high walls, interrupted occasionally with tall, elaborately
decorated iron gates.  Francesca marvelled at tantalising glimpses of
opulent houses set in lawns and flowerbeds behind them.  If Maddy was
in one of these, she was clearly being comfortably looked after--these
mansions were like no hospital Francesca had ever seen.

"Miss Beaudon!  Look!"  One of the grooms was pointing at an elegantly
discreet board set outside an open gateway which bore the legend Maison
des Anges.

Francesca They drove up a short drive, lined with statues of nymphs in
various graceful poses, to a beautiful house, built in the days before
the Revolution.  Broad steps led up to an imposing portico and
intricately carved doors, and again there was an elegant board at the
side which gave the name of the house.  This time the board was
surmounted by the head of a beautiful girl, her long, curling locks
forming a frame for the whole.

Francesca rang the bell and then studied the board more closely as she
waited.  Flowers and leaves formed a background to the girl's head, all
beautifully carved, and looking very lifelike--there were even a few
insects on the flowers.  Francesca saw that they were mostly bee sing
fact, they were all bees.  How strange!

"Madame?"

An exotic figure in Turkish costume was standing impassively at the
door.  He was at least six and a half feet tall with huge shoulders and
a swarthy face half hidden by an imposing moustache.

Francesca blinked, checked the board, which still said Maison des
Anges, and cleared her throat.  In her coolest manner she said, "I have
come to see Madame Madeleine..."  She stopped.  What name would Maddy
now be using?  "Madame..."

'de regrette.  Madame Madeleine est ma lade The deep voice expressed
nothing but a detached finality.  He started to close the door.

"Yes, I know she is sick," said Francesca, raising her voice and
speaking with all the authority at her command.  "I have come to see
her.  Please tell her that Miss Beaudon, Miss Francesca Beaudon, is
here.  Meanwhile, I should like to see your ... your direct rice

"Pas possible.t'

"Of course it is possible!  Kindly let me in!"

"Qui est-ce, Hassim?"  Hassim's tall figure completely

Francesca blocked the view into the hall, so Francesca did not see the
owner of the voice until she appeared at her servant's side.

The man bowed.  "Une anglaise, Comtesse.  Elle veut voir Madame
Madeleine."

Though the Countess was in her fifties, she was still a beautiful
woman.  Her hair was grey, but fashionably cut, and her dove-grey
dress, though sober in hue, was of heavy silk and trimmed with white
lace.  The figure revealed by the superb cut of her dress was still
elegantly slender.

Francesca was impressed, but did not disguise her annoyance with this
cavalier treatment.  "My name is Beaudon," she said coldly.  "Until
recently, Madame Madeleine was living in the rue du Luxembourg, in my
father's house.  I am one of her oldest friends.  It surely cannot be
that difficult for me to see her.  Even if..."  Francesca hesitated.
"Is she so very ill?"

The Countess looked disconcerted.  "Miss Beaudon?  The daughter of Lord
Beaudon?  But you should not be here, mademoiselle!  Please go at
once!"

Francesca set her jaw.  "I have come from England to see my friend, and
I am not going until I know how she is!"

"But you don't understand... Oh, mon Dieu, you mustn't stand here on
the doorstep where anyone could see you.  It is most unfortunate.
Please go!"

"If you do not take me to see Madame Madeleine, immediately, I shall
return with someone from the British Embassy."

The Countess had been looking distinctly agitated, but at these words
her lips curved into an ironical smile.  "It wouldn't be the first time
one or two of them had visited me, mademoiselle, but they wouldn't
bring you back here, I assure you."

"What do you mean?"  Francesca was growing angrier

Francesca by the minute.  "Surely even in Paris one may visit a sick
friend in hospital?"

"A hospital!  Is that what you think?  Ah!  Now I understand ... a
hospital!  That explains a lot."  The woman turned her head away, but
Francesca could have sworn she was laughing.  It was too much!
Exasperated, she turned on her heel and started down the steps.

"No!  Wait, Mademoiselle Beaudon.  I have changed my mind.  You can see
Madame Madeleine, if you promise not to stay too long.  I think you are
right.  Your visit might do Maddy some good."

Francesca swung round and stared at the Countess.  "Maddy?"

"I, too, am a friend of Maddy's.  An even older friend than you, I
think.  But please come inside.  We can talk more comfortably there. If
you will permit, Hassim will show your groom where to put the carriage.
But you must be away from here before... Please do come in,
Mademoiselle Beaudon."  When Francesca hesitated, the Countess said
with a charming smile, "You shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.
Believe me, my sole object is to protect you.  Let Hassim speak to your
groom. We cannot leave the carriage in the drive for all to see.
Come!"

Somewhat doubtfully Francesca allowed herself to be escorted inside.

Francesca had an impression of velvet and gilt, painting and statues,
ormolu and boulle, as she walked into the grand entrance hall.
Spacious rooms could be glimpsed on each side, and a broad staircase
swept up in a wide curve to the first landing, its balusters supporting
candelabras in the form of nymphs on either side.  The house obviously
belonged to someone of enormous wealth, though the furnishings were too
opulent for Francesca's

Francesca taste.  What sort of hospital was this?  She looked
doubtfully at her hostess.

"I shall take you straight away to Maddy.  I think you will be
reassured when you see her.  She has been ill, but will soon be well
again."

Francesca tore her fascinated gaze from one of the nymphs, on whose
scantily clad bosom rested a small carved bee, and said, "But ... why
is she here, Comtesse?"

The Countess had started up the stairs, but now she stopped.  "Do you
not know?  Your father has sent no money to Maddy for the past three
months-since he last visited her, in fact."

"But, indeed, he has!  His agent in London..."  "Swears he has sent it?
I thought as much," said the Countess, looking satisfied.  She started
up the stairs again.  "I said so to Maddy.  Richard has not forgotten
you, I told her.  And if she had not been ill, I think she would have
had more confidence in him, and pursued the matter.  There has been
some trickery, I think.  I never trusted her steward, I'll swear he's
to blame.  But ... why are you here, mademoiselle?  Why has your father
not come in person?"

As Francesca explained the circumstances which had led to her visit,
they reached the top of the stairs and started walking down a wide
corridor with beautifully carved and painted doors on either side.
Once again the theme was that of nymphs, bees and flowers, though here
some of the nymphs were disporting themselves with more exuberance than
decorum.  Francesca blinked at one spectacularly improper scene and
hastily averted her eyes.  They passed a smaller passage leading off to
the left, which was hung with diaphanous rose and gold draperies.  The
air here was scented with roses and a heavier, more exotic perfume.

Francesca wanted to ask the Countess what it was, but

Francesca her attention was caught by a deep semi-circular alcove a
little way beyond the side passage.  The walls were covered in dark red
damask and in the centre was a small fountain.  A white marble nymph
was bathing herself in abandoned grace in the basin at its foot.
Francesca felt the colour rising in her cheeks.  The statues Lord Elgin
had brought from Greece had been positively chaste compared with this.
She hurried to catch the Countess up.  "I had no idea where Maddy was,
otherwise I would have written to her long before this, Comtesse. Where
where are we?"

"You know where you are, Mademoiselle Beaudon.  You are in La Maison
des Anges."

"Yes, but..."  Francesca looked back doubtfully at the marble statue,
but said no more.  They turned into another side passage to the left,
an altogether simpler affair with no doors, no draperies and only a
faint scent of lavender.

"Maddy talks of you frequently.  She loved you and your mother."

"You have known her long?"

"We were children together."  They had now reached the end of the
passage.  The Countess turned and started to mount a narrow staircase.
The scent of lavender grew stronger.  "We married more or less at the
same tune, had our babies more or less at the same time.  Then the
hurricane came to the island... We both lost everything ... everything.
We left the island after that--we could not bear to stay."

"Maddy came to St.  Marthe.  She was my nurse."

"I know.  And I came to France.  But here is Maddy's room,
mademoiselle.  Wait here one moment."

They had been talking so busily that Francesca had had no time to look
around.  She saw that they were now in a much plainer part of the
house, and the door that faced them was uncarved and unadorned.  The
Countess went in and Francesca could hear her speaking rapidly, then
an

Francesca exclamation of joy in another voice--a well-loved voice from
years ago.  Questions and answers followed.  She could make out none of
the words, though there were echoes of the patois she had learned on
St.  Marthe in her childhood.  Then the Countess came out again.

"She is overjoyed to be seeing you again, but still weak---do not
overtire her, Mademoiselle Beaudon.  I have much to do, so I hope you
will excuse me now.  But ... I beg of you, do not leave this room until
I come to fetch you."  She led the way into a simply furnished room and
then went out again.  Francesca did not see her go--all her attention
was on the figure in the armchair by the window.  Maddy held out her
arms and Francesca ran to her with a cry of delight.

Marcus arrived in Paris a little less than twenty-four hours after
Francesca.  He drove straight to Francesca's hotel, and found Madame
Elisabeth alone in her room.  From there he went to the rue du
Luxembourg, and discovered that the house was still shut up and
deserted.  There was no sign of Francesca, but one of the boys in the
street told him he had seen an English lady driving off in a big coach
earlier in the day.  He had no idea where they had gone.

Marcus went back to the hotel to find that Francesca had still not
appeared, and that Madame Elisabeth was beginning to grow anxious for
her.  After doing his best to reassure the old lady, Marcus then went
to the British Embassy and spent some time with a certain Mr.  Percy
Gardiner, one of his closest friends there.  What he discovered
appalled him.

"Good God!  Are you sure?  La Maison des Anges?"  "Only too true' said
Mr.  Gardiner, looking at him curiously.  " Why are you so upset?  The
lady mean anything to you?  No, that can't be so--Madeleine Lachasse
is

Francesca nearly old enough to be your mother, Marcus old dear.  "

"She's nothing to me personally.  I ... I'm acting for a friend."

Mr.  Gardiner looked sceptical.  "Well, you'd do better to tell your
friend to leave La Maison well alone.  Good Lord, I don't have to tell
you what goes on there--apart from serving as a high-class brothel with
some very peculiar practices, that is."

"I have to get her out of there."

"You mustn't go near the place, Marcus!"  exclaimed Mr.  Gardiner,
dropping his casual air.  "What the devil can you be thinking of?.
Don't touch it!  Can't someone else fetch the lady?"

A vision of Francesca arriving at La Maison des Anges flashed through
Marcus's mind.  He shuddered.  "That's just what I'm afraid of.  Er ...
has anyone else been asking about Lord Beaudon's petite arnie?  Today,
or yesterday, perhaps."

"No ... I don't think so."

"It's important, Percy.  Could you ask around?"

Mr.  Gardiner came back a few minutes later with the assurance that no
one had even mentioned the lady for the past few months.  Marcus
breathed a sigh of relief.  Francesca had not yet learned Maddy's
address.  But in that case, where was she?

"What is all this about, Marcus?  You can't seriously be considering
visiting that palace of corruption!  Think what it would do, man, if
you were found there!"

"I know.  But l must get Madeleine Lachasse out of the place as soon as
possible--before anyone else goes looking for her."

'l think you'd better explain.  "

Marcus' paused, then gave Mr.  Gardiner an edited version of his
mission.  Francesca's name did not figure in it.

"But damn it all, you cannot--you really cannot---be

Francesca prepared to jeopardise all your work for the past year for
the sake of this .  this paramour!  What is Richard Beaudon to you?
"

"His daughter and I are betrothed," said Marcus, stretching the truth a
little.

"All the same... Wait here!"

Marcus spent the next few minutes arranging his thoughts.  He was
determined to go out to La Maison des Anges as soon as he was free of
the Embassy, but knew that he was about to have a serious disagreement
with people he had worked with in complete harmony over the last twelve
months.

"What's this nonsense, Marcus?  Don't be a fool, man.  Of course you
can't visit La Maison."  Marcus got to his feet and bowed to the
distinguished-looking gentleman who now came in.  Percy had wasted no
time in bringing up the heavy guns.  His friend gave him an apologetic
glance, then went out, shutting the door carefully behind him.

"Good evening, Sir Henry."

"Oh, good evening, good evening!  No!  It won't damn well be any sort
of good evening if what young Percy tells me is true.  Have you gone
mad?"

Marcus gritted his teeth.  "No, but I can't see anything else to do.  I
have to get that woman out of La Maison des Anges as soon as
possible."

"The devil take it!  Can't anyone else go instead?"  "No, sir.  The
matter is one of some delicacy..."

"To hell with that, Marcus!  Look, if you are found anywhere near that
hotbed of Napoleon supporters you'll ... we'll lose all credibility
with the French government--you know that!  Of all of us, you're the
one man they really trust.  An escapade like this would ruin months of
work.  I forbid you to go."

Marcus grew pale.  "You'll have to forgive me, Sir

Francesca Henry.  I am not one of your staff.  And I intend to go, as
soon as I leave you, to fetch Madeleine Lachasse.  " " But why?  "

Marcus was in a dilemma.  The last thing he wanted was to bring
Francesca into the discussion.  She was at present loose in Paris,
searching for her old nurse, and his blood ran cold at what she might
do if she found out where the woman was.  He placed no reliance on her
sense of self-preservation.  Impulsive, headstrong Francesca would once
more rush in where angels would never dare to tread, but this time the
consequences could be disastrous.  For all its name, La Maison des
tnges was no place for any kind of angel!

If that happened, then it would need all the discretion, all the skill
at his command, to save Francesca from a catastrophic scandal.  If it
were once known that the Honourable Miss Beaudon had been found in one
of the most notoriously wicked brothels in Paris, nothing---not a
thing!  --could save her from social extinction.

' Why, Marcus?  "

Marcus was not to be rushed into a reply.  He had no illusions--Sir
Henry was perfectly capable of restraining him b); force from visiting
La Maison des Anges.  That would hardly benefit Francesca.  He must
persuade, not fight.

"First, I should tell you, Sir Henry, that Lord Beaudon's daughter has
agreed to marry me..."

"So London's most eligible bachelor has been caught at last?  My
congratulations, Marcus.  But we'll give this news the attention it
deserves later.  At the moment..."

"That is the point, sir.  Why I have to reach Madeleine
Lachasse--tonight, if possible."  He took a breath.  "Madeleine
Lachasse was Miss Beaudon's nurse, and Miss Beaudon herself is in Paris
in order to take her back to England."

Francesca prepared to jeopardise all your work for the past year for
the sake of this .  this paramour!  What is Richard Beaudon to you?
"

"His daughter and I are betrothed," said Marcus, stretching the truth a
little.

"All the same... Wait here!"

Marcus spent the next few minutes arranging his thoughts.  He was
determined to go out to La Maison des 4nges as soon as he was free of
the Embassy, but knew that he was about to have a serious disagreement
with people he had worked with in complete harmony over the last twelve
months.

"What's this nonsense, Marcus?  Don't be a fool, man.  Of course you
can't visit La Maison."  Marcus got to his feet and bowed to the
distinguished-looking gentleman who now came in.  Percy had wasted no
time in bringing up the heavy guns.  His friend gave him an apologetic
glance, then went out, shutting the door carefully behind him.

"Good evening, Sir Henry."

"Oh, good evening, good evening!  No!  It won't damn well be any sort
of good evening if what young Percy tells me is true.  Have you gone
mad?"

Marcus gritted his teeth.  "No, but I can't see anything else to do.  I
have to get that woman out of La Maison des ,4nges as soon as
possible."

"The devil take it!  Can't anyone else go instead?"  "No, sir.  The
matter is one of some delicacy..."

"To hell with that, Marcus!  Look, if you are found anywhere near that
hotbed of Napoleon supporters you'll ... we'll lose all credibility
with the French government--you know that!  Of all of us, you're the
one man they really trust.  An escapade like this would ruin months of
work.  I forbid you to go."

Marcus grew pale.  "You'll have to forgive me, Sir

Francesca Henry.  I am not one of your staff.  And I intend to go, as
soon as I leave you, to fetch Madeleine Lachasse.  " " But why?  "

Marcus was in a dilemma.  The last thing he wanted was to bring
Francesca into the discussion.  She was at present loose in Paris,
searching for her old nurse, and his blood ran cold at what she might
do if she found out where the woman was.  He placed no reliance on her
sense of self-preservation.  Impulsive, headstrong Francesca would once
more rush in where angels would never dare to tread, but this time the
consequences could be disastrous.  For all its name, La Maison des
,4nges was no place for any kind of angel!

If that happened, then it would need all the discretion, all the skill
at his command, to save Francesca from a catastrophic scandal.  If it
were once known that the Honourable Miss Beaudon had been found in one
of the most notoriously wicked brothels in Paris, nothing--not a thing!
-could save her from social extinction.

' Why, Marcus?  "

Marcus was not to be rushed into a reply.  He had no illusions--Sir
Henry was perfectly capable of restraining him b); force from visiting
La Maison des Anges.  That would hardly benefit Francesca.  He must
persuade, not fight.

"First, I should tell you, Sir Henry, that Lord Beaudon's daughter has
agreed to marry me..."

"So London's most eligible bachelor has been caught at last?  My
congratulations, Marcus.  But we'll give this news the attention it
deserves later.  At the moment..."

"That is the point, sir.  Why I have to reach Madeleine
Lachasse--tonight, if possible."  He took a breath.  "Madeleine
Lachasse was Miss Beaudon's nurse, and Miss Beaudon herself is in Paris
in order to take her back to England."

Francesca

"Good, good.  So why can't we send one of the embassy staff to fetch
the Lachasse woman and deliver her to yourself and Miss Beaudon?  I'd
like to meet her while she's in Paris, by the way.  She must be a real
diamond to have trapped you, Marcus."

"I ... I don't know where she is, sir."

"What the devil do you mean?"

"Miss Beaudon is devoted to her nurse, Sir Henry.  She was in such
haste to meet her again that she left London ahead of me.  However,
Madeleine Lachasse was not at the rue du Luxembourg house, so Miss
Beaudon decided to seek elsewhere.  My worst fear is that she will find
out where the woman actually is, and visit her there.  That is why I
wish to get to La Maison as soon as possible.  Why I will not trust
anyone else with the mission."

"But, good God, man!  Surely no delicately nurtured female would go
near such a place!"

"Miss Beaudon can be a touch ... impulsive, sir."

Sir Henry frowned.  "Are'you sure she's the right girl for you, Marcus?
Travelling alone to Paris, visiting all sorts of queer places she
sounds like a bit of a hoyden."

Marcus stiffened.  "She is everything I could wish for, sir.  She can
be the soul of propriety.  But where her loyalty is concerned, she
simply doesn't heed the cost.  I consider it my duty---and my deepest
pleasure---to protect her from her own impulsive generosity.  But you
are right--her reputation is in some danger, and if it is to survive,
she needs my help tonight.  I know I can rely on your discretion, but
the story is too dangerous to be trusted to anyone else."

Sir Henry sat in thought for a moment.  Then he said, "I suppose most
of the men who go to visit the " Angels" take care not to be
recognised. It wouldn't be too suspicious if you were to muffle
yourself up a little.  Very well!  But ... for God's sake, don't get
caught!  If you do,

Francesca we'll have to disown you, you know that.  It will be the end
of your work here.  "

Marcus called again briefly at Francesca's hotel, only to find no news
of Francesca, and Madame Elisabeth in a state of great anxiety.  He
refused all pleas that she should accompany him on his quest, claiming
that she should remain where she was in case Francesca should return by
herself.  He did not reveal where he feared she might be.

He hired a fiacre to take him to the rue Giboureau--a slow business,
but necessary to preserve his anonymity.  When he finally arrived at
the house it was getting late, though still early in the evening for
its normal clientele.  Hassim received him and asked him to wait in the
hall till the Countess could be found.  Marcus shook his head.

"I wish to speak to Madeleine Lachasse," he said firmly.  "Take me to
her, if you please."

"Madame Madeleine est ma lade

"I know.  Where is her room?  Has she a visitor?"  Hassire glanced up.
It was enough.  Marcus leapt up the stairs two at a time, ignoring
nymphs, candelabras, bees and the rest.  At the first side passage he
hesitated, and Hassim caught up with him.

"Monsieur!"  He took hold of Marcus, but was pushed away so violently
that he lost his footing and fell.  Ignoring him, Marcus strode on past
the alcove to the second passage.  He paused to listen, then found his
way to the small flight of stairs which led to the servants' quarters.
At the top he could see a figure in a wine-red silk evening dress
standing at an open door.  She was speaking with emphasis to someone
inside the room.

"Miss Beaudon, I beg of you, come away now.  You have stayed far longer
than you should.  The evening visitors will be arriving at any moment.
You must not be discovered here.  I shall send Maddy to your hotel as
soon

Francesca as she is well enough, I promise you.  That cannot be more
than a day or two.  Meanwhile, you must wait in patience, and not visit
her here again.  "

Francesca's back emerged from the room.  For a moment Marcus could
hardly breathe, he was so relieved to see her.  Then he was overcome
with sudden fury at her foolhardy, stupid, potentially catastrophic
behaviour.

'l shall see you soon, Maddy.  Very soon, I hope.  " Francesca's voice
was tremulous.  The meeting had obviously been an emotional one.  She
went on, " Then I shall take you back to England.  Goodbye.  "

"Miss Beaudon!  Come!  Quickly!"  Exasperated, the Countess took
Francesca's arm and ushered her out of the room, shutting the door
behind her.  She stopped suddenly at the sight of Marcus.  He took a
step towards her, but Hassim, who had just arrived, seized him from
behind. With a roar Marcus turned on the Turk, glad to have an outlet
for his rage.  "Hassim!  No!"  "Marcus!"

The two voices spoke together.  Hassim stepped back immediately and
Marcus and Francesca faced one another.

"You fool, Francesca!  What the devil do you think you are doing now?
You unutterable fool!"

"Lord Came!"  The Countess took a step forward, then turned to her
servant.  "Hassim, go back to the door.  Don't let anyone up here till
I tell you.  Keep them below.  And, don't say a word of this to anyone,
you understand me?"

Hassire bowed and went in unruffled dignity downstairs.

"Lord Came---this is a most ... unexpected pleasure.  May I ask what
you are doing here?"

"Saving that ... that..."  Marcus could not find a suitable word.
"That idiot girl from her own folly."

Francesca "It is no folly to visit a sick friend in hospital, sir!"
said

Francesca with spirit.

"Hospital!"

"That is what Miss Beaudon believes La Maison des 4nges to be, Lord
Came."

"Oh, God!"  said Marcus.

"Quite," said the Countess, her lips twitching in spite of her obvious
concern.  "We are in rare agreement.  Miss Beaudon'must be removed from
here as soon as possible.  And you must go with her.  It would not
enhance your reputation to be found here, either."

"I should have thought that would suit you very well, Countess Rehan.
We have been enemies for long enough."

"I do not regard you as an enemy, Lord Came.  My partners in this
enterprise are your enemies."

"I don't understand.  What are you talking about?"  Francesca looked
from one to the other with a bewildered air.

"We haven't much time, Miss Beaudon.  Lord Came might explain--later
when you are free of this house."

"Why are you doing this for me, Comtesse?"  asked Marcus abruptly.

"I am not a political creature.  I may owe some loyalty to my partners,
but my older loyalty---to Maddy and those she loves--must take
precedence."

"You have my thanks."

The countess shook her head.  "We are wasting time, and we have none to
waste.  You must go as soon as you can.  There is another exit at the
back of the house, but you cannot reach it from here.  We shall have to
go back to the main corridor.  Pull the collar of your cloak up round
your face.  Miss Beaudon, put this veil over your head."

When Francesca appeared to be ready to argue, Marcus took the heavy
veil and threw it over her.  Then he took her firmly by the arm and
said, "Lead on, Comtesse."

Francesca

Sounds of conviviality could now be heard from some of the rooms, while
others were silent.  But the Countess hurried on, aiming for a small
disguised door set into the wall at the top of the main stairs.  They
had almost reached it when she stopped short and uttered a cry of
vexation.

Three men were slowly coming up the staircase.  It was evident that
they had dined---and wined--well.  They held on to the baluster as they
ascended, examining its decorations with exaggerated care and making
bawdy comments on the nymphs.  Though the Countess had cut off her cry
as soon as she had uttered it, the men had heard her.  They looked
up.

She turned and pushed Francesca and Marcus back along the corridor.
"That idiot Hassim!"  she whispered.  "Go back to the alcove.  You can
hide there.  I'll see that they take the Harem passage."  Francesca and
Marcus ran, soft-footed, back to the alcove, but just as Francesca was
scrambling in behind the fountain, her veil caught in the statue's
upturned fngers.  Marcus swore and laboured frantically to release it.
Then he joined her, pushing her further back into the niche.  They
heard the Countess greeting her visitors at the top of the stairs.
"Good evening,

gentlemen.  How may La Maison des 4nges please you?  " " She's speaking
English!  "

Marcus whispered savagely, "For God's sake hush,

Francesca!  Believe me, it's essential you keep quiet.  " " But---'

Marcus swore under his breath, then seized her and kissed her hard.
Then he put his hand over her mouth and whispered, "There are more of
those if I can't keep you quiet any other way."

"How dar--'

Marcus kissed her again.  Then he said angrily, but still softly, close
to her ear, "This isn't a hospital, Francesca.  It's a ... a bawdy
house!"  Francesca gazed at him in shock.

Francesca He went on relentlessly, "One of the most notorious in Paris.
Now do you understand why you mustn't be found here?"

Francesca wanted to contradict him--wanted to reject the idea with
horror, but she found that she couldn't.  In a flash, she realised how
well everything fitted---the Countess's anxiety to be rid of her, those
nymphs, the rest of the exotic decor, even the name---a horrid irony.
It was true!  She hid her face in her hands in shame.  No wonder Marcus
was so angry.  He put his arm round her.

"We'll come out of it," he breathed into her ear fereely.  "For God's
sake, don't lose heart now."

"I have a number of ... temptations for the jaded palate."  The
Countess was leading the men down the corridor.  "What is it to be?"

"We shall be guided by you, fair lady," drawled a hatefully familiar
voice.

It was as well Marcus had fm hold of Francesca.  She jerked up in
terror and clutched his arm.  He nodded slowly.  "Coker," he mouthed.

"Will it please you to come this way, mi lords

"Hold hard!"  Another familiar voice.  "Am I dreamin' or what?  Wasn't
that Carne I saw just now, Countess?"

"You're drunker than I thought, Freddie," said Lord Witham's voice.
"Carne?  Here?  Carhe's a right enough fellow, but he's above being
seen in a bawdy house--certainly not one with such a spicy
reputation!"

"Well, that's what I would have said, Charlie," said Mr.  Chantry with
alcoholic dignity.  "But all the same..."

Francesca hid her face in Marcus's shoulder.  Her hands clutched the
cloth of his coat in fearful tension as disaster loomed.

The Countess said with the merest suspicion of censure in her voice,
"Is there something wrong, mi lords Perhaps you would like to discuss
the matter elsewhere?  You must

Francesca be disturbing some of my other guests.  If you will follow
me. "

Her effort was wasted.  Freddie said obstinately, "I'm sure I wasn't
mistaken ... there's something about the set of Came's shoulders.  It
was Came, I'll swear."

"Who is this Came, mi lords

"A man of unimpeached virtue, my dear Corntesse-or so we've been led to
believe."

The Countess gave a low, delightfully incredulous, laugh.  "Unimpeached
virtue is a rare commodity in La Maison des .4nges.  I doubt you'll
find your friend here, mi lords But come, I can find you something much
more exciting a rare beauty from Constantinople, three years in the
seraglio of the Sultan, trained in all the arts... The story of her
escape is itself a fantasy.  She lives along this passage to the left
of us.  Come, breathe in the scents of the East, mi lords and succumb
to her enchantments.  If you will follow me..."

But Freddie was not to be distracted.  "Later, Countess, later!  You
didn't know Came in the old days, before he came into the title, Coker.
Not nearly so respectable then, eh, Charlie?  Remember those parties,
what?  I say!  What a lark if it was Came!  I've got to see!  He was'
standin' just down there somewhere... It almost looked as if he was
tryin' to hide..."  He suddenly shouted, "Marcus!  I say, Marcus, old
chap!"

"Milords!  Mr.  Chantry!  You mustn't!  This is an outrage!  That part
of the house is not for guests.  Hassire!  Hassim!"

The Countess' protests went unheeded.  Freddie's curiosity had been
aroused, and he was sufficiently intoxicated not to care for anything
else.  Charlie Witham joined in.

"Down there, you say, Freddie?  Let's go and see.  Excuse me,
Countess."

To Francesca and Marcus, the moment was one of undiluted horror.  In
the next few seconds they would be

Francesca exposed, not only to Coker, who had no cause to love either
of them, but worse, to two of the biggest scandal mongers in London.
Marcus pushed Francesca right back into the alcove.  "Stay here," he
said softly, but fiercely.  Then' he opened his cloak, loosened his
cravat and stepped out into the corridor.

"I heard the noise," he said languidly.  "Is this the way to keep a
house such as yours, Corntesse?  I thought discretion was the
keynote?"

"Milord, forgive me.  I don't know what to say..."  "Carne!  It is you!
Well, I'm blowed!  So this is what they call important diplomatic
affairs?  Affairs!  They're affairs, all right!"  Freddie gave a roar
of laughter.  "Here to negotiate with the Sultan's favourite, are
you?"

"Freddie.  I wish I could say I was charmed to see you, but I really
cannot do it.  Do take yourself ... and your two friends away.  What a
reputation you'll give the English!"

"Reputation!  Well, that's cool!  That's pretty cool!"  said Witham.

"I hope you don't think that yours will survive tonight's revelation,"
Lord Coker said, smiling unpleasantly.  "Even in London, one has heard
of the infamous House of the Angels.  It's a surprising place to find
the noblest peer of them all."  His voice was full of malevolent
satisfaction.

"Oh, come, Coker!  Don't be naive!  We're men of the world, I hope?
What will it gain you to chatter in London about what I get up to in
Paris?  It's not like you to be so childish."

"It's hardly a matter for children.  Or ladies--I wonder what Miss
Beaudon would think of this?"

"You know my views--or you should by now---on hearing Miss Beaudon's
name on your lips, Coker.  I had hoped you learned your lesson.  But
surely not even you would soil any lady's ears with tales of brothels
and the

Francesca like!  I'm sure the Prince wouldn't approve.  Most
ungentlemanly.  "

"These things have a habit of getting around."

"Well, well!  I shall know who to blame if they do, shan't I?  Freddie?
Witham?"

The two gentlemen named responded to the sudden menace in Marcus's
voice with eager assurances of their discretion.

"You can threaten them out of it, but not me."

"You know, I've thought you many things, my dear Coker, but I never
took you for a little-tattle before.  Do your damnedest.  The sticklers
might disapprove of me for a while, but most of London will be
amused---no more than that.  Now," if you'll excuse me.  "

"But why were you tryin' to hide, Marcus?"

"Freddie, you force me to be brutally frank.  I didn't wish to meet
you.  I was on my way to some delightful, but unfinished, business. And
now, if you'll excuse me...?  Madame la Comtesse is no doubt anxious to
provide you with some delights of your own.  Goodnight, gentlemen!"

Marcus watched as the Countess ushered the three men down the Harem
passage, then stepped back into the alcove.  He let out a deep sigh.

"Marcus!  Oh, Marcus!"  Francesca clutched his ann.  "Wait!  We're not
quite out of the wood yet."

"But I didn't know... What ... what would happen if they found me
here?"

Marcus's silence was eloquent.  Then he said grimly, "They won't.  They
mustn't.  Let me help you put that veil on again.  We must get out of
here while we can."

"I'm sorry, Marcus."

He looked as if he was about to say something severe, but thim changed
his mind.  "The veil," was all he said.

Francesca looked up at him and put her cheek against his.  "Thank you,"
she said.  "Oh, Marcus, I do thank you."

Francesca 24 !

His ann tightened round her, but after a moment he put her away from
him, and arranged the veil over her face.

"This is not the place," he said.  "Let's get away from La Maison des
,4nges, and tomorrow I'll arrange for Maddy to come with us to England.
Ready?"

Francesca lifted her head.  "Ready," she said.

Chapter Fourteen

Francesca's carriage was waiting for them in the mews behind the house.
They reached it without further incident, climbed in, closed the blinds
and set off for the hotel.  But just before they got there Marcus told
the coachman to stop.

"I'll get out here," he said.  "You mustn't be seen tonight in my
company.  Indeed, you should not be seen again in Paris.  There's
always the chance that Coker or one of the others might catch sight of
you, and that would never do.  Stay indoors till I get in touch with
you."  He looked at her.  His face was as stern as she had ever seen
it. "I will say nothing about tonight's escapade.  Knowing you, it was
fairly predictable.  But I don't think I need tell you that the
consequences could have been severe indeed."  "I know," Francesca said
miserably.

His expression softened slightly.  "Don't look so cast down, Francesca.
I think we have avoided detection.  But you must now do exactly as I
say until you are safe in England again.  I shall not come to your
hotel myself, but will contrive to send messages daily.  And I will
engage to have Maddy here as soon as she is it to travel.  Meanwhile,
you will keep to the confines of the hotel.  Do I have your promise?"

Francesca She nodded, unable to say a word.

"Good!  Then I will bid you goodnight."

"Goodnight, Marcus," she said.  Her manner was still subdued.

He sighed and said roe fully "You know, I find all this docility very
alarming.  I had expected at least a token resistance."

"No doubt I shall eventually come about," she said bitterly.  "But I
begin to despair that I shall ever behave as I ought in any matter
where you are involved."

"The answer lies in your own hands, Francesca."  "What do you mean?"

"Oh, no!  I am not about to embark on any discussion or argument.  Not
here, not now.  But some time you may like to reflect on our long
acquaintance and perhaps view it in a different light.  As I have.
Goodnight."

He bowed, had a short word with the driver and groom and was gone.  The
carriage started up again.  Francesca pushed the blind aside and stared
out, following the tall, lithe figure with her eyes until it
disappeared into the darkness.  Then she sat back, suddenly
indescribably weary.

What had Marcus meant?  Her behaviour tonight had been enough to give
any decent man a disgust of her.  She felt sick with horror at the
thought of how Coker and the others would have behaved if they had seen
her in that dreadful place.  Thanks to Marcus, that danger had been
averted, but what did he now think of her?  His words had been
enigmatic--in what 'different light' did he view her now?

These thoughts and others, equally tormenting, kept her awake for most
of the night.  Even the knowledge that she had found her beloved Maddy
failed to comfort her.  But the next morning, though her spirits
remained low, she set herself to maintain a brave front before Madame

Francesca

Elisabeth and to behave with all the circumspection that Marcus had
advised.

As Marcus walked back to the Embassy he was equally heavy-hearted.  He
had saved Francesca from disgrace, but only at considerable cost to
himself and his mission.  His work in Paris was now irretrievably
compromised, and only one course remained open to him.  He did not
relish his forthcoming interview with Sir Henry, but was determined to
seek him out and inform him of the night's developments before anyone
else could tell him.

The subsequent interview was every bit as painful as Marcus had
expected.  Sir Henry was famous for his patience and tact in dealing
with representatives of other nations, but he did not waste either on
his subordinates.  Marcus was called every kind of fool in language
that was as forceful as it was picturesque.  He knew better than to
offer any defence.  Though in his own mind there was no question that
he had acted in the only possible way, he could hardly expect Sir Henry
to understand that.

"It's a damnable matter altogether!  You know as well as I do that if
anyone hears of this visit to the Countess Rehan's place, neither the
French, nor any of our Allies, will trust you again."

"I have thought of little else for the past two hours, sir.  And though
I did my best on the spot, it would be foolish to hope that Coker and
the others will not spread the story--the tale of Lord Cam 's lapse
from virtue is too tasty a morsel."

"Your personal reputation is your own affair.  You could have visited
all the bordellos in Paris every night for a month for all I care.  But
one of the most notorious centres for Napoleon's supporters in Paris!
Why the devil did it have to be there?"

"Unfortunately--'

Francesca "Unfortunately!"  roared Sir Henry.  "You ruin some of the
most delicate negotiations we've been involved in for years, and you
call it unfortunate!  It's catastrophic, man!"

Marcus gritted his teeth.  "The consequences for Miss Beaudon could
have been catastrophic, too, Sir Henry.  She had to be rescued.  But I
am not belittling the quandary you and the rest of your staff are now
in as a result.  I deeply regret the necessity for my actions, and hope
you will accept my immediate resignation from the mission.  You shall
have it in writing tomorrow?

"I'll have it in writing tonight, Carne!  Tomorrow the vultures may
well descend on me.  But no resignation is going to save this
situation.  Unless... How would it be if I saw Coker and the others
myself?.  Explained the situation..."  When Marcus hesitated he said
impatiently, "Well?  Don't just stand there, tell me what you think."

"Witham and Chantry are amiable fools.  I think you could persuade them
to say nothing--for the time being at least.  Long enough for the
effect to be diminished.  But Coker..."

"Coker's a gentleman.  I've never heard that he's unpatriotic.  Fought
at Waterloo, didn't he?"

"With some gallantry.  There's nothing wrong with his courage.  But ...
he has a personal animosity towards me, which might impair his
judgement."

"Balderdash!  I'm surprised at your suggesting such a thing, Carne!  No
man of Coker's standing would indulge his own feelings at the expense
of his sovereign's best interests.  D'you doubt my ability to put it
clearly enough?  Is that it?"

"Of course not, sir."

"Well, then.  That's it.  I'll send someone to fetch the gentlemen
concerned as soon as they are ... er ... free.  What the devil are you
looking so doubtful about?"

Francesca

"I wish you every success, Sir Henry.  But ... if Coker won't
cooperate--'

"I'm sure he will!"

"But if not," said Marcus desperately, 'then there's only one thing let
for you to do.  "

"What's that?"

"You'll have to disown me, vilify me.  Say I'm in disgrace."

"Don't be a fool, Marcus!  I can't do that to you!  You may have acted
quixotically, but you're not a double dealer!  Dammit, boy!  I'm not
going to spread lies about you!"

"You won't have to," Marcus said with a grim smile.  "Just say you've
sent me packing, and refuse to discuss the matter.  Rumour will do the
rest."

"I can't do that to you, Marcus."

"If Coker or the others do talk, it's the only way you can save your
own position."

Sir Henry was clearly uncomfortable with the idea, but he, too, could
see the force of Marcus's words.  "Let's hope for the best," he said
gloomily.  "Write out that resignation and go to bed.  I take it you'll
be leaving Paris tomorrow--or today, rather.  It's past midnight."

"I can't guarantee that, but I'll go as soon as I possibly can.  I have
my own reasons for wanting to be away from here."

Sir Henry was a skilful and experienced diplomat.  A cosy chat in the
Embassy library, a few carefully prepared half-truths, with a glass or
two of superb Burgundy, and in no time at all Lord Witham and Mr.
Chantry had been persuaded that it was in their own interest, as well
as that of the country, that they forgot the episode in La Maison des
Anges.  As Sir Henry ushered them out he was well satisfied with his
efforts.  But when he turned Lord

Francesca Coker was regarding him with a cynical eye.

"They're fools," he said, 'to be satisfied with so little.  if I'm to
keep my mouth shut I want to know a good deal more than you told them,
Sir Henry!  How directly is Came involved in these mysterious
negotiations?  Why is he so important?  "

Sir Henry gave him a bland look.  "Why are you so interested?  Most
people would regard the request as reasonable, without any further
detail."

"Ah, but I have never been " most people".  I flatter myself that my
friendship with the Prince Regent gives me greater distinction."

Sir Henry filled Lord Coker's glass.  "This ... friendship.  Am I right
in thinking it is at the moment under a slight cloud?"

Lord Coker smiled.  "His Highness is sometimes forced to act in public
against his private inclination.  I shall return to London in the near
future and you will see--he will receive me as warmly as ever.  I amuse
him.  You may have confidence in me, Sir Henry.  I shall have the
Prince's ear again in a very short time.  Now, tell me why you are so
anxious to protect Lord Came.  I should have thought he was well able
to take care of himself."

"Hmm..."  Sir Henry paused for thought.  It was obvious that Lord Coker
was not to be put off.  His claim that he would return to the Prince
Regent's favour was convincing.  And there had been no sign of the
animosity Marcus had spoken of.  He made up his mind to be frank.

"Confidence is at the heart of Lord Came's recent work for us..."  And
Sir Henry went on to explain the delicate balance of the negotiations,
the importance of Marcus's known integrity, and the significance to the
pro-Napoleon faction of La Maison des ,4nges.

"But if Lord Came knew all this, why was he in the place at all?"

Francesca

Sir Henry was in a quandary.  He could not possibly betray the girl
Marcus had gone to such lengths to protect.  He blustered, "How the
devil should I know?  Some woman, no doubt."

"And you are asking me to remain silent about a man who knowingly put
all these important negotiations in jeopardy for the sake of a woman? A
harlot?  The story gets better and better, Sir Henry.  You've dismissed
him, of course?"

"I didn't have to.  Came resigned that very night.  But if it were
known that he had been seen in the Maison des Anges, the damage to our
position could be enormous."

Lord Coker's interest was not in the government's position.  He said
thoughtfully, "You would have to repudiate him instantly and
publicly."

"Even that might not be enough."

"And people are so uncharitable.  They would be bound to assume that he
was guilty of much worsen double dealing, even."

"I sincerely hope not."

"You are being quite amazingly forbearing, Sir Henry.  I wonder at
you."

"My chief interest is in saving our reputation with the French.  But
Lord Came has done much for us in the past.  He does not deserve the
universal condemnation which would follow if his ... indiscretion were
revealed.  I think you can see the force of my argument?"

"Oh, I can indeed, Sir Henry!  I can indeedV

Sir Henry Creighton was not a devious man.  He accepted these words as
an indication of Lord Coker's good faith.  But he would have been much
less happy if he could have seen the smile of satisfaction on Lord
Coker's face as he left.  He could not have known that he had just
given Lord Coker a long-sought weapon.

Francesca It was two days before the Countess sent word that Maddy
could undertake the journey to England.  Both Marcus and Francesca
greeted the news with relief.  Francesca had grown heartily sick of the
hotel and its small garden, but she had not dared to disobey Marcus's
orders.  As for Marcus himself4e had spent two of the most
uncomfortable days of his life, not excepting his experiences at
Waterloo.  At least during the battle he had been kept too busy to be
aware of anything else.  Here in Paris, he was forced to stand on the
sidelines while others did what they could to save the situation.  His
patience was sorely tried as he suffered sidelong glances,
conversations that stopped suddenly whenever he came into a room and,
worse than the rest, ribald remarks from one or two who had themselves
paid visits to the Countess Rehan, men he had till now held in some
contempt.  Sir Henry was keeping his distance, but Marcus gathered from
the few words they did exchange that the diplomat thought Coker would
keep quiet.  Marcus himself remained doubtful.

It was without regret that Lord Carne's party, consisting of two
travelling coaches and their passengers, left Paris early one morning
before the rest of the city was astir.  No one was awake to remark on
the sight of Lord Carne escorting a sick lady and her friends to
England, though one or two might have wondered at the noble lord's
hasty and discreet departure from the capital.  Later, of course, when
Lord Coker's poison spread, they knew the reason--or so they thought.

The journey was uneventful but not particularly enjoyable.  Marcus
drove his own carriage and, since it was more comfortable than the one
Francesca had hired, the three ladies travelled inside.  The second
coach carried servants and luggage.

Francesca

Francesca spent a good deal of her time with Maddy, talking of the old
days on St.  Marthe, holding her when they travelled over rough patches
of road, and generally exerting herself to make the journey as
comfortable as possible.  She was glad to do it, but it was a
strain--especially as she found she was not sleeping very well at
night.  At the last stop before they reached Calais, Madame Elisabeth
looked at Francesca's pale face and heavy eyes, and had a word with
Marcus.  As a result, Francesca was invited to travel outside for a
while.

The fresh air was welcome after the close confines of the carriage, but
as they travelled the last few miles in France, Francesca grew ever
more dejected.  Though Marcus had been perfectly courteous, and had
taken pains to make sure she was comfortable, he had hardly spoken to
her on their journey, and now when she was sitting right beside him, he
was behaving almost like a stranger.

For the first time in their acquaintance, he appeared to.  find
conversation with her difficult.  He seemed to have something on his
mind that he was not prepared to discuss.  Never before had she felt
shut out of his thoughts in this way, and the feeling was very lowering
to her spirits.

Why on earth had she gone to such lengths to avoid his company on the
journey to France?  If this was the way he would have treated her, her
efforts had been a waste of time!  To think she had been afraid to
travel with him, unsure of her ability to resist his charm, his claims
to the old, closer ties between them, had feared that her feelings
would once again overcome her caution.  But now she perceived that such
concern had been totally unnecessary.  Marcus hardly seemed to notice
she was there!

Perversely, she found herself wanting to be provoked and Challenged in
the old manner .  yes, even flirted with.  But .  she stole a glance at
him.  Far from regarding her with affection, or even interest, he was
frowning at the

Francesca road ahead as if it held all sorts of unknown dangers.

Francesca grew more and more despondent.  It was clear that Marcus now
regretted having followed her to Paris!  She couldn't blame him for
that, though what she would have done without him she hardly ventured
to think.  All the same, she had not invited him to follow her, she
thought resentfully L she had done her best to avoid his company!  And
when her father had pressed them to become engaged, it was she who had
rejected the idea, not Marcus.

But she became gloomy again as she remembered that Marcus had
afterwards stated with some force that he had no wish to marry her!
And now she came to think of it, he had only pursued her and kissed her
after he had witnessed Denver's declaration.  That was it!  He didn't
want to marry her himself, but he didn't want anyone else to, either.
He was a selfish, arrogant dog in the manger!  She stole a glance at
him.  He didn't look like a selfish, arrogant dog in the manger.  He
looked like a man with a load of trouble on his back.

"Marcus?"

He looked at her apologetically.  "Forgive me.  I was woolgathering.
I'm afraid I'm poor company at the moment."

"What is wrong?"

"Wrong?  Why, nothing!  I think we brushed through that business in
Paris pretty well, do you not agree?"

"Are you concerned about Lord Coker and the others?"  "Not in the
slightest.  I doubt they will say anything, you know.  Freddie and
Charlie Witham are featherweights.  They'll have forgotten about me by
the time they get back to England.  And Coker... What has he to gain?
No, you mustn't concern yourself about Coker."

"I think he will talk about ... about La Maison-' Marcus interrupted
her before she could say any more.

Francesca

"Don't ever mention that name again, Francesca!  Not even to me.  You
must forget that you ever heard of the place, and you must make sure
Madame Lachasse doesn't talk of it, either."

Francesca looked at him with scared eyes.  Marcus had sounded .
frighteningly authoritative.  When she nodded, he said more lightly,
"You need not concern yourself on my behalf.  Coker gave his word to
Sir Henry--he won't talk."

"Sir Henry?  Sir Henry Creighton?"

"Yes--apart from its ... somewhat unworthy day-to-day business, the
place you chose to visit is also one of the chief centres of
pro-Napoleonic activities in Paris.  My being found there might have
prejudiced Sir Henry's position vis-h-vis King Louis and his regime.
But I think we have managed to prevent that--Sir Henry saw Coker and
explained."

"And you trust Lord Coker?  He hates you, Marcus.  If he can do you
harm, he will."

"He may hate me, but he will hardly break his word.  And ... if he does
there's nothing wrong, if you'll forgive my mentioning it, in a man
such as myself visiting a ... a place which is not normally spoken of
in the comPanY of the ladies of Society."  "You mean a bawdy house."
"Precisely."

"Have you been in the habit of it, Marcus?"

"What a question to ask!  Really, Francesca!  No, it is not something I
have indulged in, if you must know.  Now, if you would care to change
the subject?"

"If Lord Coker's gossip won't do you any harm, why are you so ... so
abstracted?  You haven't spoken a word since I joined you."

He looked at her with a frown.  Francesca lifted her chin and held his
glance, refusing to back down.  A glint

Francesca of humour appeared in his eyes, the corner of his mouth
twitched in the old, familiar, endearing way.  "You mean you feel
neglected?  Dare I hope that you would welcome my attentions?"

"Of course not!  That is ... I would welcome some attention, perhaps.
More than I have been receiving from you in the past half-hour."

"This is not what I have been accustomed to hear, Francesca.  What has
happened to the young lady who ran away to Paris rather than face my
company on the journey?"

"Yes, well, things have changed."

"Indeed, they have!"  His face grew sombre again.  "I've been thinking.
When we get to England I think you, Madame Elisabeth and Madame
Lachasse should go straight to Packards.  In that way, we might hope to
avoid comment on your return, and any connection at all in the eyes of
Society with me.  I can see to it that your father joins you soon
after.  Both Madame Lachasse and your father need time to recover, and
I am sure Packards is the best place for them.  It would be natural for
you to stay with them."

"But...?"

"Yes?"

Francesca shook her head.  She was disappointed, but could not argue
with such an eminently sensible scheme, particularly as the only
objection that occurred to her was that Marcus would not be there.  It
was plain that he did not desire her company in London.  Pride came to
her rescue.  She sat up straighter and said brightly, "I think you are
right.  And it will give me an opportunity to renew my acquaintance
with Maddy.  With one thing and another, I feel I have hardly spoken to
her.  Thank you, Marcus."

He looked at her quizzically.  "Will you miss me?"  "A little, I
suppose," said Francesca airily.  "But I expect

Francesca

Lord Denver and one or two of the others will visit us.  It isn't far
from London.  "

He took hold of her chin and turned her face to his.  "I have other
plans for Denver.  Leave him alone, Francesca."

This calm order---not even plans for her, but plans for Denver, indeed!
--roused Francesca to challenge him.  "I do not think what occurs
between Lord Denver and myself is any concern of yours," she said
somewhat coldly.  "I shall invite whom I choose to Packards."

He laughed and kissed her briefly.  Then, as she opened her mouth to
speak, his eyes darkened and he kissed her again.  In spite of herself,
her response was as complete and unrestrained as it had always been.
Even as her arms went round his neck, as she clung to him as closely as
he was holding her, she had a fleeting moment of despair.  Why was it
that no caution, no memory of her grief and despair in the past,
however painful, ever stopped her from responding to this man with all
her stupid, unguarded heart?

Then she forgot everything as she abandoned herself to the feelings of
delight, of bubbling joy, of excitement and desire which he could
always evoke.  The kiss went on, the horses dropped to a walk as his
arm went round her, holding her more firmly to him.

He groaned, "Francesca, Francesca!  You've been trouble since the
moment I first met you, but ... kiss me again!"

For one glorious moment they forgot time and place, lost once again in
the enchantment which had always held them in its spell.  But then a
plaintive voice coming from inside the carriage brought them
startlingly back to earth.

"Lord Carne!  Why have we stopped?  Has something happened?"  Madame
Elisabeth's head was poking out of the window.  Fortunately Francesca
was not in her view.  "No, no!  There is no cause for alarm, Madame

Francesca Elisabeth.  Miss Beaudon was interested in the spire of the
church over there.  Er .  shall we go on, Miss Beaudon?  "

Francesca had been hastily tidying her hair and putting her hat back
on.  "Thank you, Lord Came," she said calmly, suppressing a wild desire
to giggle.  "It was most ... interesting."  Marcus lifted an eyebrow
and Francesca went scarlet.  "That is to say..."

"Good, said Madame Elisabeth.  " I am glad to hear that Francesca has
not lost her eye for detail.  One can always learn something.  " She
put her head in again.

"Indeed, one can!"

"Marcus!  Please don't make me laugh.  You are creel."

"I am delighted to see you in a more cheerful frame of mind.
You've'been a little hipped since we left Paris."  "I didn't think you
had noticed."

"Oh, indeed !  had.  It was natural, I suppose.  But to return to our
conversation before that ... delightful interlude--I've more than made
my point, I think."  "Which is?"

"If you marry Denver, you'll spoil more than your own life, Francesca.
Don't let him persuade you differently."  He turned to look at her.
"You must know I'm right."

How could he even think of Denver at such a moment?  Francesca's chief
feeling was one of hurt and bewilderment.  She had thought him as
oblivious to the rest of the world as she had been.  She had clearly
been wrong.  "A delightful interlude'.  Was that how he regarded it?  "
A delightful interlude' sounded uncomfortably like "Nothing much!"
-his words to Freddie all those years ago on the hill at Shelwood.  Had
he had he kissed her merely to prove a point?

With considerable self-discipline, she put her hurt on one side and sat
up more frmly.  Two could play at that game.  "I know nothing of the
kind," she said calmly.

"I

Francesca don't know what particular point you wish to prove, Marcus,
but that kiss--'

"Those kisses," he murmured.

"Those kisses proved nothing at all.  There's more to a good marriage
than gratification of the senses.  Comfort, ease, friendship--these
have an important share, too.  Please stop the carriage again-no!  I
will not listen to any more.  I wish to rejoin Maddy and Madame
Elisabeth inside."

He hesitated a moment.  Then his jaw set, and he did as she asked
without further protest.

It took over a week to reach Packards, by which time Francesca's nerves
were stretched to their limit.  The conversation with Marcus before
Calais was the last she had of any consequence with him.  Once they
reached the port he insisted that she stayed out of sight, and while he
escorted Madame Elisabeth and Maddy on a short walk round the deck,
Francesca was made to stay in the cabin.  In England, too, she stayed
inside the carriage, and when they drove through London he made sure
the blinds were drawn.  His precautions seemed ridiculously elaborate,
but when she protested Madame Elisabeth refused to sympathise.

"For you know, my love, that it would not do for you to be seen in Lord
Came's company on a journey such as this.  It is not as if you were
betrothed to him.  I think Lord Carne is being truly the gentleman in
his concern for your reputation."

"But I have you and Maddy to act a chaperons!  It is ridiculous!"

'it may seem a touch excessive, I agree.  But I have every confidence
in Lord Came's judgement.  "

"Francesca, my honey--you are in love with this Lord Carne?"

Francesca "Oh, no, Maddy!  He ... he is a friend of my father's."

"It don't look as simple as that to me.  And I never heard no mention
of this " friend" before.  Tell Maddy, child."

"I can't!  I don't know!"  Francesca sat back against the cushions.
"Did Lord Came tell you that, Madame Elisabeth?"  she asked morosely.
"That we were not betrothed?"

"Well, not precisely.  I believe his words were that you had to wait
until you had spoken to Lord Beaudon."

"I knew it!"  Maddy cried softly, clapping her hands together.  "He's a
wonderful man--and he'll make just the right husband for my little
Francesca!"

"You don't know, Maddy!  You just don't know..."  "I know enough.  A
man don't sacrifice his whole career for just anyone.  It's proof of
something or other, and if it isn't love, what is it?"

"Sacrifice?  What are you talking about, Maddy?  There's no danger of
that.  Marc--Lord Came says those men have been silenced."

"You reckon they will stay so?  I never met a man yet that don't gossip
with his friends worse than any woman."

"Well, there may be a little talk ... but that won't do Lord Came much
damage.  He said so himself."

"We'll see, child.  We'll see.  Just remember what I said when the time
comes--about his loving you."

Francesca was to remember Maddy's words just a few weeks later.  They
gave her courage at a time when it was badly needed.

When their little party arrived at Packards, they found to their
surprise that Lord Beaudon was already installed there.  He was looking
considerably better, and greeted his daughter and Marcus with delight.
Maddy was conveyed to a comfortable room which had been specially

Francesca prepared for her, and his welcome to her was a private
matter, and took place behind closed doors.  When he came down he found
Marcus ready to leave.

"You're not going, my dear fellow, are you?"

"I'm afraid I must, Lord Beaudon.  There arc matters which must be
attended to in London.  I only came in order to make sure that your
daughter and ... her friends arrived here safely."

"But when shall you come again, then?"

"I..."

Marcus hesitated.  "I am not sure.  Do you plan to stay at Packards for
the rest of the Season?"

"I shall do so, certainly.  Madame Lachasse will need my company during
her convalescence in a strange country.  But I am sure Francesca will
come back to town, eh, my dear?"

"I thought I'd stay here for a while, Papa."  "Nonsense!  You'll return
to London just as soon as you've recovered from your journey, and had a
chance to talk to Madeleine.  There's very little of the Season left,
and you can come down again as soon as it is over.  Now take your leave
of Came, my dear, then you can go and see if Madeleine is rested.  I'il
see you to your carriage, Came."  He walked to the door.

Marcus took Francesca's hand to his lips and bade her farewell.
Francesca said stiffly, "I am conscious that I owe you a great deal,
sir--'

"Say nothing of that.  You owe me nothing, Francesca,

except.  "

"Yes?"

His voice dropped.  "Be very careful what you say about Paris.  To
anyone at all.  Your reputation will be in shreds if--'

"You have no need to warn me!  I shall be careful."

"And ... remember what I said about Denver.  He's not for you."

Francesca She snatched her hand away.  "We have already said enough to
each other on that score, Lord Came.  Your efforts to protect your
friend from ... from my wiles are ridiculous!  If Lord Denver chooses
to visit me here, I shall be delighted to receive him.  You I shall no
doubt see next in London."

His face was grave.  "Perhaps.  We shall have to wait on events.  Till
then, live well and be happy with your beloved Maddy.  That at least is
something good which came out of our Paris adventure.  Goodbye, Miss
Beaudon."  He bowed and she watched him as he joined her father at the
bottom of the steps.  Sudden tears started to her eyes; with an
impatient sigh she turned and hurried upstairs.

Lord Beaudon stared soberly at Marcus.  "Well?"  he demanded.  "Am I to
send an announcement to the Gazette or not?"

"I'm afraid matters are a touch difficult at the moment, sir.  Much as
I honour your daughter, I cannot at the moment ask her to be my
wife."

"I thought you already had, Came!"

"A ruse, merely, to ease your mind.  There's still some way to go."

"What the devil is all this about, Came?  I expected that you at least
would behave as a man of honour!"

"That is precisely what I am doing my damnedest to do, Lord Beaudon!"
Looking grimmer than ever, Marcus got into the carriage and gave a curt
command.  The carriage rolled away, leaving Lord Beaudon staring after
it.

Chapter Fifteen

When Francesca finally came back to London after three weeks at
Packards, the town had a slightly faded air.  It was very close to the
end of the Season--a few less fashionable couples had already left for
their estates, preferring the freshness of the country to the dust and
smells of London in summer.  The Prince Regent was still at Carlton
House, playing cards with his cronies, riding, driving and taking part
in the normal activities his gregarious nature demanded, but his
household was preparing for the move to Brighton.

However, there were changes that could not be ascribed to the end of
the Season.  The Prince was again much to be seen in the company of
Lord Coker, who seemed to have made his way back into royal fay our On
the other hand, Lord Carne, who had previously been held in such
general high esteem, including that of his royal master, now seemed to
have fallen from grace.

There was a change, too, in the atmosphere in the house in Mount
Street.  Before Francesca's departure for Paris the three ladies---Mrs.
Canfield, Lydia and Francesca her-self--had lived in happy harmony.
But now the two Canfields seemed reluctant to indulge in the pleasant
chats and exchanges of gossip which they had all previously

Francesca enjoyed, and Lydia seemed ill at ease, avoiding Francesca's
company whenever possible.

Francesca was hurt.  She had expected a certain amount of coolness from
Maria Canfield--after all, she had deceived her friend about her plans
to go to Paris.  But she would have expected that Lydia, whom she had
come to love, would admire her for undertaking what would seem to her
such an adventure!

However, she owed too much to the Canfields to allow this situation to
continue, so she set herself to coaxing Maria Canfield into a better
mood, and in the interest of regaining her friend's confidence she was
more open than she had ever been about her reasons for leaving for
Paris so suddenly.

"You know, better than most, how hard it was for me to learn to give my
affection--even to someone like you or Lydia.  Lord Carne once broke my
heart, Mafia.  I did not wish to risk another such experience.  A man
like Denver would be so much ... safer."

Even as she said these words, she wondered fleetingly whether George
Denver would ever have risked as much as Marcus had to save her from
her own idiotic actions in Paris.  He was essentially very
conventional. Would he have turned away in shock--disgust even?  She
pushed the thought away and turned to her friend with a smile.  "But I
am truly sorry I had to deceive you.  I hope you will forgive me.
Indeed, I value our friendship more than I can say.  And I regard Lydia
as a sister."

For a moment Francesca thought Mafia was about to refuse this olive
branch, for she coloured up and looked distinctly uncomfortable.  But
then she held out her hand and smiled.  "I am glad you are back,
Francesca.  And I

am sure that Lydia will be, too, when.  "

"When what?"

"When she is feeling better."

Francesca open, so artless in her approach to visitors, gave him the
briefest of curtsies, then picked up her embroidery again and stitched
with unusual concentration.  Maria was as courteous as ever, but was
obviously tense, and her conversation was uncharacteristically
forced.

Francesca grew increasingly confident that her suspicion of an
attachment between Lydia and Denver was correct.  She must act as soon
as possible--Lydia's happiness was far too important to delay putting
matters right.  While she waited for Lord Denver's call to come to an
end, she considered what she would say to him, and it occurred to her
that she might even put some of it to good account.

So, when Lord Denver finally rose to take his leave, she said boldly,
"Lord Denver, if you have a moment, there's something I would like to
discuss with you."

The sudden silence was broken only by the small crash as Lydia's
embroidery fell to the ground.

"Of course, Miss Beaudon."  Lord Denver's tone was gallant, but his
smile was forced.  Maria and Lydia bade him farewell, and if Francesca
had not already had a very clear idea of what had been happening in her
absence, she must have seen and wondered at Lydia's pale face, her
haunted glance into Denver's eyes, her hasty and unusually clumsy
exit.

"Do sit down, Lord Denver," said Francesca affably, when they were
alone.

"Thank you ... I think I prefer to stand.  You ... you had something
you wished to say to me?"

"Yes.  I wonder if you could tell me what it is that they are saying of
Lord Carne?  I hear he is in some trouble."  When he looked surprised,
she explained, "He was kind enough to help me in France.  I want to
know what he is accused of doing there."

His face poke red up, as she had thought it would.

Francesca "There's absolutely no truth in any of it," he said.  "His
friends need not concern themselves with it."

'l should still like to know what it is.  What is he supposed to have
done?  "

"It is nothing fit for a lady's ears, Miss Beaudon," Denver said
dismissively.  "I could not possibly repeat it.  Was there something
else you wished to say to me?"

'l see.  " Francesca saw that, as she had suspected, he was not
prepared to discuss it--nor would anyone else.  She would have to try
other means.  " Well, it will probably soon be forgotten," she said
airily. She saw the look of doubt on Denver's face, but did not pursue
it. Instead, she went to the sofa and sat down.  " If you will forgive
my saying so, Lord Denver, you do not look as pleased to see me as I
had expected.  "

"Of course I amer ... I am delighted, of course, that you are safely
back in England.  I hear that you found your nurse."

"Yes, she is at present resting.  You might meet her some day.  When
you come down to Packards."  Francesca looked with some satisfaction at
Denver's reception of this semi-invitation.  She was sorry for his
discomfort, but it was no part of her plan to make things easy for
him.

"Miss Beaudon, I..."  He stopped.  "Yes, Lord Denver?"  "I ... I ...
nothing."

"Mrs.  Canfield tells me how well you have been looking after them both
while I've been away.  That was kind of you."

"On the contrary, it was my pleasure," he said sincerely, if a touch
uncomfortably.

"I've been thinking a great deal about your proposal, you know."

"Really?"  he asked, apprehension in his tone.  "And what ... what have
you decided?"

Francesca

"Well ... I think we should deal very well together."  "Miss Beaudon,

I.

"

"On the other hand ... I am beginning to suspect that you are no longer
as devoted as you once were.  Am right?"

"How can you say so?  I have asked you to marry me, and am bound in all
honour--'

"But I don't want you to be bound, Lord Denver.  Not to me.  I value
your friendship, I enjoy your company, but I am not in love with you. I
never said I was.  In fact, if you will do me one small favour--which
you will not enjoy--I shall willingly release you from any promises you
may have made me.  Then you will be free to approach Miss Canfield with
an easy conscience."

He looked astounded.  "But,..but... How did you know?"

"No one has said anything, but I have eyes and ears, you know.  And I
am even fonder of Lydia than I am of you.  I will wish you happiness
with all my heart, and think you will find it, too.  Lydia will make
you a much better wife than I ever would."

He came over and kissed her hand.  "Francesca, you are wonderful!
Noble!"

"I'm afraid I am not that.  You did say you would do me this favour,
didn't you?"  "Anything, anything!"  Swear?  "Of course!"

"Then you will tell me exactly what they accuse Marcus of doing.  In
detail.  All of it."

He took a step back, looking horrified.  "I couldn't do that!  You
would be shocked."

"You did promise.  And--' her voice grew serious '--it may help to put
fight a very grave injustice which is being done him.  You are his
friend, Lord Denver.  Trust me.

Francesca This is no mere female whim.  You will not shock me.  You
see, I know most of it already.  "

"Forgive me, but that is impossible.  How could you have heard of such
things?"

"Never mind.  Tell me!"

He was reluctant, but hers had always been the stronger character, and
he eventually told her all he knew.  It was far worse than Francesca
had feared.  Coker had obviously spread his poison far and wide.
Marcus had told her that he might be regarded askance by the more
stiff-necked members of Society if his presence in the Maison des
/inges became known, but she had had no idea that there was a more
serious, political dimension to the affair, one which would ruin
Marcus' career and expose him to the severest possible censure.

She was not shocked, but she was furiously, royally angry.  To think
that Marcus, who had behaved with complete integrity throughout, was
being ostracised, calumnied, on the word of a scoundrel like Coker!
She was speechless with rage.

Lord Denver looked at her white face.  "It has shocked you," he said
miserably.  'l knew it would.  Can you ever forgive me?  "

'l am not shocked," said Francesca carefully, her voice trembling.  "
Not in the slightest.  The only part of it that I did not know already
was that they were accusing Marcus of double dealing.  How dare they?
How could they?  " " But how could you know?  "

'l was there," she said, forgetting all caution in her anger.

"In Paris?  I knew that, but..."

"In the Maison des Anges."

"No, no!  That cannot be!  Miss Beaudon!  Please!  You must not joke
about such a dreadfully serious matter.  If you were believed--'

Francesca

"I am more serious than I ever was in my life before, Lord Denver," she
said, interrupting him without ceremony.  "How do you suppose I know
the name of the place?  You were careful not to mention it."

He sat down and put his head between his hands.  "Oh my God," he said,
appalled.  "What can you have been thinking of?  I regarded you--'

"Oh, it all happened very innocently!  I am not the fallen woman you
obviously think me," -she said bitterly.  "My nurse was ill and had
taken refuge with her friend, Countess Rehan.  She ... she is..."

"Countess Rehan's name is known to us."

"Really?"

"Because of the connection with Bonaparte."

"Of course.  Well, I went to her ... house to find Maddy.  I was
completely unaware of its nature, though I realise that that will not
help me in the world's eyes.  Marcus came there purely to rescue me,
though I gather that a more sinister interpretation is now being put on
his presence there.  He has kept silent to save my good name."

"I see.  I never thought for one moment that Marcus was capable of
dishonorable conduct, but I had wondered why he... This explains it."

Lord Denver came over to her.  He spoke somewhat stiffly, but with
obvious sincerity.  "Marcus is right.  Miss Beaudon, you have been good
enough to release me without reproach from my commitment towards you. I
owe you a great deal.  I will naturally say nothing to anyone of what
you have just told me.  And, believe me, I am speaking as your good
friend when I beg you not to let a hint of it reach the ears of anyone
else at all.  No one.  If the world were to learn of your ...
unfortunate adventure, no excuse, no reason, nothing would be enough to
save you from complete ostracism."

Francesca "And what about the man who risked everything for me?"

There was an appreciable pause.  Then he said, "Marcus will come about.
Things may not be quite the same, but the world will forget ...
eventually.  I expect he will live at Carne for a while."

"But it's so unjust!"  Francesca was getting angry again.  "He's a man
of integrity, of honour.  He enjoyed universal admiration and respect.
And now they are accusing him of treachery, double dealing, hypocrisy
and all the rest!

How can he bear it?  "

"He'll have to."

"This is Coker's doing."

"I think it must be.  Though the rumour has not been ascribed to any
particular source."  He cleared his throat.  "Mrs.  Canfield will be
wondering what has become of us.  May I...?"

"Take your leave?  Of course.  You have been honest with me, Lord
Denver, and I appreciate it.  I do not need to wish you luck, but I
will wish you happy.  May I make a suggestion?"

He looked as if he was wondering what further dreadful request she was
about to make.  "What is that?"

"The decision is yours, of course," she said reassuringly.  "But it
might be a good idea to take Lydia and her mother to Kent on a short
visit to your estates.  They will be looking especially beautiful at
this time of year."

Relieved, he said, "I think it an excellent idea.  But... why do you
suggest it?  I assume you wish them to be out of London.  Why?  What
are you planning to do, Miss Beaudon?  Nothing rash, I hope?"

"That is my affair.  But I will say that I cannot rest until justice
has been done."  She held up her hand.  "No, do not argue.  My mind is
made up."

Lord Denver regarded Francesca with a peculiar mixture of doubt and
awe, as if she had suddenly grown two heads.  Was this the stately,
reserved Miss Beaudon, the woman of elegance and propriety whom he had
admired for so long?  He began to think he had had a lucky escape.  A
certain amount of liveliness could be very attractive, but Francesca
Beaudon was suddenly revealing herself to be headstrong, imperious,
passionate and foolishly scornful of convention-not qualities to be
looked for, in his view, among the gentle sex.

But he softened towards her as she gave him one of her warm, enchanting
smiles, and said, "But my friends would be better out of it.  So take
them to Kent as soon as you can."

"Are you quite sure I cannot persuade you to think again?  I suspect
that you are about to take a catastrophic step."

"Lord Denver, I have to tell you that there is only one man who could
ever have the slightest influence on my actions.  And in this instance,
though I am now certain that he loves me more than I deserve, and
believes he is acting in my best interests, I will not listen even to
him.  I must do what I can to re-establish him in the world's eyes.  Do
not waste your time on me--you would do better to look after Lydia."

"I think I will.  She would be safer out of London for the moment. I'll
see if she and her mother could possibly set off tomorrow!"

Mrs.  Canfield and Lydia were easily persuaded to leave London the next
day.  Lydia was over the moon with happiness--it simply did not occur
to her to refuse Lord Denver's sudden invitation.  Maria was a little
surprised, but saw some reason in Francesca's argument that London
would gossip less about the change in Lord Denver's affections if the
happy couple were already out of town.

Francesca Once the Canfields had departed, Francesca sent a note to
Marcus, requesting him to visit her.  He sent a reply back with her
man. It was unfortunately impossible for him to come to Mount Street in
the near future.  This was a setback, but one which Francesca had
foreseen.

Undeterred, she set about preparing for the last great event of the
season--a rout ball at Northumberland House.  She dressed with unusual
care.  This would probably be her last appearance in Society, and she
intended to bow out looking as lovely, as elegant as she had always
looked.  Her dress of silver-threaded gauze over a white satin slip,
the diamonds in her hair and round her arms, the silver dancing
slippers---all combined to re-create the image with which she had first
impressed London, and to give her the courage she felt she might
need.

Her final task before setting out was to write another note to Marcus
to be delivered later in the evening.  By the time he received it, she
would already be at the ball.

At Northumberland House, she had a word with one of the footmen, who
listened to her request impassively, received with lofty condescension
the generous douceur she slipped into his hand, and only expressed his
amazement much later to his particular crony in the back hall.

London was delighted to see Miss Beaudon in such looks, asked kindly
after her father, and gave not the slightest indication that they knew
anything of her sojourn in Paris.  Everyone had assumed she had gone to
Packards to prepare the place for her father.  Francesca smiled,
parried a few questions about the Canfields and Lord Denver, and danced
a great deal.

The world had till now only seen the image Francesca had so carefully
created for them--the image of an elegant, coolly disciplined cipher.
But now, at long last free of the anxieties and fears of the past, as
certain as

Francesca she could be that Marcus loved her more than she had ever
thought possible, she had decided to take the future into her own
hands.  She felt as truly rich, beautiful and powerful as she had ever
wished to be--free to be more herself than.  ever before.

She glittered like a star, dazzling her partners with her wit and
raillery, and seeming to float on the air, so graceful and carefree
were her steps.  Society was enchanted, and she was surrounded with
eager admirers all competing for her favours.  Francesca smiled at
them, danced with them, bewitched them--and gave them not another
thought.

As the hour advanced, all her attention was on the doors to the
ballroom.  A sigh of satisfaction escaped her as she heard sounds of
slight altercation--Marcus had arrived, without, of course, an
invitation.  However, her footman friend soon intervened and within
minutes Marcus was inside the ballroom, regarding her with a baleful
stare.  It was a quarter past eleven.

No sooner had the set of dances finished than he claimed her and,
ignoring the protests of her partner, swept her off to one side.  He
began without ceremony, forced to keep his voice low, but sounding
fierce, nonetheless.  "What the devil are you thinking of?  I forbid
you to do this!"

Francesca gave him a brilliant smile.  "On the stroke of twelve,
Marcus. A dramatic time for a dramatic revelation.  Appropriate, don't
you think?"

"But it won't do any good.  And it will do you irreparable harm!  For
God's sake, don't do it, Francesca, I beg of you!"

Francesca returned the nod of an acquaintance who was dancing by before
she answered him.  "You didn't tell me everything, did you, Marcus?
That you could be accused of betraying your trust, letting your country
down, all for

Francesca the sake of a night's indulgence at a brothel.  You didn't
tell me that.  "

"Don't use that word in this company, for God's sake!"

"They can't hear us hey think I'm flirting with you.  Why didn't you
warn me what might happen?"

"Sir Henry assumed from what Coker said that he would remain silent. He
was mistaken.  And I did warn you that there might be some
disapproval."

"You didn't mention ostracism, social disgrace."

"What does that matter?  The important thing is that you should be
saved from ruin."

She put her head on one side and looked up at him.  "You keep trying to
save me from ruin, Marcus.  Why, I wonder?"

He hesitated, then said, "We cannot possibly discuss such matters here
in the middle of a ballroom.  Let me take you home."

"Oh, no!  I've taken a great deal of trouble to get you here tonight.
Leaving before I've done what I set out to do is out of the question.
But I will let you take me on to the balcony here.  For a minute or
two."  Oblivious once again to the curious glances being cast in their
direction, they moved out on to the balcony overlooking the gardens.

"Well, Marcus?  Tell me why."  After a pause during which he remained
silent she went on, "Can it be that you love me?  Really love
me--enough to marry me?  Or has my behaviour finally given you a
disgust of me?"

"I love you," he said wretchedly.  "You must know that.  I think I've
loved you ever since I first saw you on the hillside at Shelwood.  But
marry you?  I'm not sure I can."

She lowered her head to hide the amusement in her eyes.  "I have given
you a disgust of me," she said mournfully.  "Impetuous, rash,
foolhardy, found in ... bawdy houses and the like, and worst of all ...
a .a wanton.  I have

Francesca never been able to behave as I ought when you kiss me.  "

"Francesca!  If you only knew what it does to me when we kiss.  How
could anything so wonderful give me a disgust of you?"

He took a step forward, but she turned away, shaking her head.  "You
love me, you kiss me ... but you won't marry me.  Why not, I wonder?
Are you a rake, after all?  Surely not!"

He set his jaw and was silent.  The new Francesca was not to be put
off. She had a very clear idea of the situation between them and the
knowledge gave her confidence to continue.  She gave a sad little sigh.
"I see I shall have to abandon the last vestiges of maidenly behaviour.
But after all, why shouldn't I?  It will be of little consequence
tomorrow.  I have nothing to lose."

"Don't say that!"

"Why ever not?  It is true.  And ... though I cannot like it, Marcus,
you have forced me into a most unconventional situation.  I find myself
having to ask you to marry me.  You see, I'm giving up all pretence at
behaving as Society expects.  The Honourable Francesca Beaudon is about
to disappear forever tonight.  I hope she will be replaced with a
besottedly happy Lady Came.  But if you ... if if you refuse me, then
Miss Shelwood-Beaudon of Shelwood, spinster and recluse, will appear in
her place."

"Francesca, I love you.  There is nothing I would desire more than to
be able to marry you, but how can I?  It is as you say--I am in
disgrace.  I cannot ask you to share that."

"At last!"  Francesca dropped her wistful air and said briskly,
"Marcus, you are being ridiculous.  If that is the only barrier to our
marrying, then the sooner I am in disgrace, too, the better.  Thank
you, that is all I wanted to know."  She started towards the
ballroom.

He caught her arm.  "I will not let you do this!"

Francesca "You cannot stop me!"

"Oh, yes, I can--by force if necessary!"

Francesca wrenched herself free and ran into the huge room full of
people.  It was five minutes before midnight.  Marcus followed and made
his way purposefully through the crowds towards her.  He caught her arm
again.  "Came!"

Francesca and Marcus, absorbed in their struggle, had not noticed the
appearance of a number of personages in the double doorway.  Foremost
among them was the Prince Regent.  At his side was Lord Coker.

"Sir."  Marcus released Francesca and bowed.  The Prince's face was
thunderous.

"What the deuce do you think you're doing here?  Are you all right,
Miss Beaudon?"

Francesca curtsied.  "Thank you, sir.  Yes."  She found it hard to hide
her satisfaction at this turn of events.  Marcus could hardly stop her
now.

"It seems that Came finds it impossible to keep his hands off the
ladies, sir," Lord Coker said, with a sneer.  Francesca turned on him
in a flame.

"Lord Came's attentions, however forceful, are more welcome than yours
were on a similar occasion, Lord Coker!  If I remember correctly, I had
to break a vase over your head before you would leave me alone."

A moment of stunned silence was followed by unmistakeable sounds of
amusement among those present.  Lord Coker turned sallower than ever,
and said viciously, "I can hardly believe that the Prince Regent is
interested in the antics of someone who prefers the advances of a man
such as Came, Miss Beaudon.  I must assume that you do not know the
truth about the gentleman..."

"As it happens, I know the truth better than anyone here--'

"Francesca, I forbid it," said Marcus urgently.  "Sir,

Francesca

I beg you.  Miss Beaudon is not herself.  "

"And whose fault is that, Came?"  asked the Prince in a voice of ice.
"The behaviour we observed as we came in was not the sort to reassure a
lady.  A few weeks ago, we would have sworn you were incapable of such
disgraceful conduct.  As it is ... you would be well advised to make
your apology and go.  Indeed, I am not sure why you are here at all."

Marcus was white.  The Prince's tone had been cutting, and the rebuke
both public and powerful.  It was the worst yet of the consequences of
his Parisian d6bficle.

"Sir, let me explain-' Francesca began.

"It is not at all necessary, Miss Beaudon," said the Prince, smiling at
her.  "You cannot be held to blame in this matter."

"That's not what I meant, sir.  I wish to make it quite clear why Lord
Came is innocent of the charges at present in circulation against
him."

"Francesca!"

"Really, sir, what can this woman know of such matters?  '

Marcus's despairing cry and Lord Coker's contemptuous question came
together.

The Prince looked at them both dispassionately.  Francesca saw for the
first time those qualities in him which made him royal.  "My lords, you
will allow me to deal with this in my own way, if you please!  I agree,
Coker, that Miss Beaudon is probably not aware of the true nature of
Lord Came's ... indiscretions--I am not prepared to call his conduct
worse than that at the moment ut the lady's manner seems to me to carry
conviction.  It intrigues me."

Marcus took a deep breath and approached the Prince.  "Sir, Miss
Beaudon is overwrought.  She does not know what she is saying.  Send
her home, I beg you."

Francesca The Prince looked at him, a frown on his normally amiable
face.  "You know, Came, what intrigues me most of all is why you do not
wish me to listen to the lady."  "Miss Beaudon is impulsive and
quixotic, sir."

"Are you trying to save Miss Beaudon against herself?.  I find that
hard to believe.  And I have small inclination to listen to someone I
should much prefer not to have to meet--at the moment."

"Oh sir, please do not speak so, I beg you!"  cried Francesca.  "You
cannot know it, but you are being truly unjust to Lord Came.  He does
not deserve your disapprobation."

"Now why do you say that, Miss Beaudon?  How can you possibly know why
Came is in disgrace?"

"I was in Paris at the time.  Lord Came escorted me back to England."
An audible sigh went up from the company.

The Prince looked grave as he said, "I am not sure that you would be
wise to go any further, Miss Beaudon."

"I must!  I went at my father's request to deal with some urgent
business.  He was unable to go himself--if you remember, sir, he was
taken ill at White's a little while ago.  I believe he was attacked
there."

With a glance at Lord Coker, the Prince said, "Go on."  "Lord Came
followed me there.  He was of the opinion that I might do something
foolish.  And I did.  I went, in error, to a place where no lady should
ever be found.  I will not mention its name, but Lord Coker apparently
knows it well."

Lord Coker laughed contemptuously.  "This is a farrago of nonsense,
sir! The lady is clearly making this up in a ridiculous attempt to
reinstate Came.  She must be besotted.  Why waste your time with
her?"

"I find myself for once in agreement with Coker, sir.  Miss Beaudon is
ill--let me take her home.  Come, Francesca."  Marcus took her arm
again.

Francesca

Francesca shook him off and took a step forward.  "I will speak!  The
Prince deserves the truth."

The Prince Regent regarded the slender figure in white and silver, who
had just spoken with such passionate conviction.  "The situation is
unusual..  I think I'd like to hear what Miss Beaudon finds so
important, that she risks her own reputation."

Marcus groaned and turned away.

Francesca said, raising her voice a little so that everyone who wished
could hear, "Lord Came came to rescue me from a place in Paris which
was not only morally undesirable, but one which he knew to be
politically dangerous.  I had gone there in all innocence, but if I was
seen there, particularly by anyone who knew me, my reputation would be
soiled beyond repair.  On the other hand, if he was seen there, his own
reputation and his career in politics would be destroyed forever.  He
chose to take that risk.  In the event he was seen.  By Lord Coker, who
has no cause to love him, and who, I assume, has been behind the
campaign to blacken his name."

"I still say this is nonsense!  Came has put her up to this!  No lady
would ever go near--'

"The Maison des Anges?  But I was there, Lord Coker!  I saw you and two
others coming up the stairs, I heard the salacious remarks you made
about the statues there, and I listened as the Comtesse Rehan offered
you the... attentions of a lady who had once been a ... a Sultan's
concubine."  A scandalised gasp from those present, followed by murmurs
of protest, caused her to pause.  But she put up her chin and went on
bravely, "I was hiding in the alcove, trembling with fear of discovery
when Mr.  Chantry and Lord Witham defied the Countess and came to look
for Lord Came.  Is that enough?"

"Good God!"  Lord Coker turned away from her.  "What sort of woman are
you?"

Francesca There were more murmurs and a general withdrawal from
Francesca's vicinity.

Marcus swept the crowd with a glance of scorn.  Then he said, "True,
loyal and fearless.  Strongminded to the point of obstinacy where the
happiness of those she loves is concerned.  Lord Coker would be
fortunate indeed if such a woman ever stooped to do so much for him.
Ask her to tell you why she was in Paris."

"My dear Came, I will do no such thing!"  Lord Coker said loftily.
"The sooner Miss Beaudon realises her presence here is embarrassing us,
the better."

Francesca's public acknowledgement of her catastrophic mistake had
taken more out of her than she had expected, and she was now suffering
from reaction.  She was trembling, but she faced the Prince Regent
proudly and her voice was clear as she said, "Sir, I assure you, it was
always my intention to relieve Society of my presence after tonight--I
have no wish to embarrass anyone."

The Prince frowned, then said, "Lord Coker was over-hasty.  I should
like to hear why you were in Paris, Miss Beaudon, even if Lord Coker
doesn't."

"I had a nurse as a child whom I loved very dearly.  My father sent me
to find her and bring her to England.  But when I went to her house, I
was told she had been taken ill.  She had sought refuge with her only
friend in Paris, a lady who happens to be the direct rice of ... of...
the place where Lord Came found me.  I had no idea of its nature.  I
cannot imagine what would have happened to me if I had been found there
by anyone other than Lord Came.  He behaved throughout with integrity
and honour.  '

Her voice shook with the intensity of her feelings as she went on, "And
it is wrong, cruelly wrong, that he is being made to suffer for my
folly, and another's malice."  She swallowed.  "Forgive me, sir, I ...
l cannot say any

Francesca more.  It has been too much.  Too much.  " She curtsied
hastily and hurried out of the ballroom.

"Follow her, Came.  Look after her."  As Marcus turned to obey, the
Prince Regent added, "And, Came ... I should like you to come and see
me as soon as you can."

Marcus bowed and left the room.

He caught up with Francesca as she hurried down the stairs to the
entrance hall.  "You were magnificent!"  he said.

"Please ... don't say anything.  Now that it's all over, I find I am
not nearly so brave as I thought.  The look on some of those
faces..."

Francesca's carriage was waiting at the doors.  They got in, and
Francesca gave way to her tears.  Marcus took her in his arms.

"Hush, Francesca, my love.  Why are you crying?  You must compose
yourself--we have some unfinished business, if you remember.  You asked
me a question tonight, and I still have an answer to give you."

"Oh, what must you think of me?"  she sobbed.

"If you will stop mining my coat, I will tell you.  Here, let me."  He
tenderly wiped her face with his handkerchief.

"How do I know that you're not just sorry for me?"  Francesca sobbed,
tears breaking out afresh.  "You were once before."

"You're being absurd!  Come, Francesca.  Pull yourself together.  You
must know that I love you beyond words.  More than my career, my
reputation, my life!  If I had realised all those years ago what you
would come to mean to me, I could have saved us both a great deal of
inconvenience and unhappiness.  Do I need to tell you that you're the
only woman in the world for me?  Look at me, Francesca.  Did you mean
it when you asked me to marry you?  Or were you just playing with my
affections?"

Francesca "Oh, Marcus!"  She looked up, laughing through her tears.

"We'll go down to Packards tomorrow.  Then we shall marry as soon as it
can be arranged.  And after that I'll love you, and treasure you, all
my life."  He tilted her face to his and kissed her gently.  Then he
looked at her; in the dark blue depths of his eyes was all the love,
honesty, humour and passion that belonged to this man she loved--had
loved for so long.  She smiled at him.  Then, as he kissed her again,
less gently, she laughed for joy, and threw her arms round his neck,
responding as she always did--and always would.

It was quite some time after the carriage had drawn to a halt in Mount
Street before Lord Came handed Miss Beaudon out and escorted her to her
door.

"Till tomorrow," was all she said as she gave him her hand.  He took it
to his lips.

"And all that it brings."

"Disgrace, ignominy, rejection from Society?"  "Possibly, but why
should that worry us?  If the world does find it impossible to forgive
us--though I suspect that sadly that will not be the case--then we
shall have peace to enjoy each other, and more than enough to occupy us
at Came and at Shelwood.  But you did your work too well tonight--I
think the Prince Regent is disposed to be kind."

'l could think of something else to shock them all, if that is your
wish?  "

Unheeding of the groom patiently waiting by the carriage, and of the
butler standing in the hall, Marcus laughed delightedly and caught her
in his arms again.  "I have no doubt that life with you will always
hold shocks, my love--you seem unable to avoid them--but they should be
confined to your long-suffering husband.  He's used to them.  Leave
Society to shift for itself!"

Epilogue

It had been a beautiful day, and now in the early evening a slight
breeze had got up, bringing a welcome freshness to the warm air.
Shelwood glowed in the mellow autumn sunshine, as the feld workers
returned to their homes.  The crops were in, the barns and granaries
were full.  They could be reasonably certain of a safe, comfortable
winter.  They knew themselves to be fortunate.  Shelwood was not only a
prosperous estate, it was a happy one.

They smiled as they saw the little party approaching them.  On their
way back from Madame Elisabeth's, no doubt.  Miss Fanny was hanging on
her lord's arm like a bride, not a matron of four years!  And Lord
Carne looked as proud as any man could of his growing family--three
bonny young bundles of mischief as they were.  Little Miss Verity was
the worst of the three of them, too, for all her angelic looks!  There
were those in the village who could remember Miss Fanny's mother in the
old days.  From what they said, this one was just such another.

It had been a lucky day for Shelwood when Miss Fanny had returned with
a new and handsome lord for a husband, though they could wish that the
family spent more time at the Manor.  But Lord Carne had his own
estates in Hertfordshire to look after, and it was said they also usu

Francesca ally spent a month or two every year in London, visiting King
George that had been Prince Regent for so long.  But every summer they
spent two or three months at Shelwood, visiting, walking, catching up
with the news in the villages and farms.  A proper lady, Lady Carne
was. And her husband was a very gentlemanly gentleman.

Yes, Shelwood was the happiest place to be in all England.