Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

A s the sound of gunfire grew louder and then waned again as Frances and Lord Hounton approached Winchester Manor, Frances found herself increasingly weary of the polite mask that had been second nature for so long.

It had been, she acknowledged to herself, a very confounding week.

"Hounton!"

She felt a rush of relief when the Earl of Southgate—a man whom Frances likely would have found perfectly amiable, were he not married to a woman who had accosted Frances in the conservatory—called the viscount aside. She wanted to collapse somewhere that nobody would expect her to talk—her bedchamber would be ideal, though Lady Mary's little tent would no doubt suffice. Mary seemed cognizant that sometimes a person just needed to be left alone.

"Hounton, come see this!" The earl was waving an eager arm, and the viscount seemed torn between two conflicting demands; was he to be polite and remain with Frances or be polite and come when called?

She gave him a gentle smile—the last in her repertoire for the afternoon, she feared—and gave him an easy response. "Do feel free to go, my lord," she encouraged. "The house is just ahead. I shall be just fine."

He looked briefly uncertain, but nodded in agreement when Frances shooed him off gently. He jogged toward the earl, who began to gesture emphatically at something Frances could not see.

Nor did she care. If she was lucky, she could sneak in the back of the house unobserved. She rather thought she might enjoy another nap. The madness of this party was turning her into a proper layabout. Instead of heading toward the place in the garden where the ladies gathered to await the hunters' triumphant return, she veered off to the side, planning to enter through the terrace off the morning room. From there, she could head upstairs with nobody the wiser.

She had nearly reached the last turn before her destination and was enjoying a vivid fantasy of sitting quietly on her bed with some biscuits and perhaps a novel when the sound of Evan's voice halted her steps.

"But that doesn't make any goddamned sense!"

She wasn't sure if it was the swearing or the tone that stopped her in her tracks. But the hushed tone of Evan's voice suggested he was trying not to be overheard, while the anger in his words made it clear that his emotions were making that quest challenging.

"Aye, I readily admit to being confused as well, my lord." The other speaker had a faint burr to his voice, so mild that Frances couldn't tell if he was Scottish but had spent a long time in England, or merely from the North. "But that's her name on there, sure enough, so when it came across my desk by way of a merchant, I wrote to Inspector Drummond, and he said it was interesting enough for me to bring it out here to you myself. So here I am."

Frances pressed herself against the wall of the house and crept closer to the bend in the wall that obscured her from Evan and the other man. For the second time that day, she felt grateful for the ease of movement afforded by her riding garb, which let her move silently.

"No, no, Drummond was right. I'm glad you came." Evan muttered the words like his mind was elsewhere.

The name, Drummond, pricked at Frances' memory, though it took her a moment to remember where she'd heard the name. When she did, she had to stifle a gasp. Inspector Drummond was the man who had helped Diana and Andrew secure Theodore Dowling's confession.

Why on earth would Evan be corresponding with a senior inspector with the Bow Street Runners?

The answer to this question, however, leapt quickly to the front of her mind. Grace. This had to do with Grace.

When Evan spoke again, Frances listened even more intently, determined to hear every word. She had learned, in the aftermath of Grace's murder, that unmarried ladies were considered too delicate to hear information about the search for their abducted friend. She, Emily, and Diana had been questioned at length, then summarily ignored, their pleas for information unanswered as Grace's absence stretched on and on until the grim truth could not be denied.

"You said a merchant found this?" Evan demanded. "Who was he? What was his story?"

"Not much to say there, I'm afraid, my lord," said the Runner. "He was just traveling through—I checked, and it's true enough. He found the thing by the side of the road and took it in to the local inn. Innkeeper there knew it hadn't been a guest, so he mentioned it to me. I brought in the merchant, talked to him a bit. The fellow admitted he thought he might get a reward if he gave a grand lady back her beloved token, and I'm inclined to believe him. Usually happens when somebody's fessing to being a tad mercenary, it's the truth."

"Just so," Evan murmured, voice absent once more. "And he told you precisely where he found it?"

"Oh, aye," agreed the Runner. "We went out to the spot ourselves. I wanted to check if there was aught else to see. Found nothing, I'm afraid. I've written it all down in yon report. Followed protocol to the letter on this one, we did," he added, a touch of pride in his voice that suggested he was pleased to work with such a grand person as the Marquess of Oackley.

"Of course," Evan said. He sounded as shocked as Frances had ever heard him. She felt the same, truth be told. She was missing some of the details, to be certain, but she had gathered that something of Grace's had been discovered by the side of some road somewhere. How was that possible, after all this time?

"Right." Evan's voice had grown sharp and no-nonsense again, his shock fading as he moved to the next step in his plan. "I'll need to go out there to see things myself."

"I thought you might, my lord," the Runner said. "I've put in there information about the inn where the handkerchief was turned in. Fine enough place to stay, and besides I thought you might want to question the innkeeper yourself. Merchant's traveled on, I'm afraid; it took us a bit to discover you weren't at your London residence."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Evan said, though he didn't sound happy about it. "I'll leave in the morning, first thing."

"I need to head on to London myself, to report to the inspector, so I'm afraid I can't come with you," the Runner said apologetically. "But I've a local boy who helps me sometimes if you need showing around or any advice about who is who. He's young, but a good lad."

"That's fine," Evan said dismissively. "Drummond needs to be informed; he's best poised to make sense of all this, and God knows his network is extensive."

Frances could hear the smile in the Runner's voice, even as her own mind reeled. "Happy to be of service, your lordship. I'm at the inn in the village for tonight, if you should have need of me. Otherwise, I'll head off to see the inspector at first light, same as you."

"Thank you very much for all your hard work on this," Evan said. The men's voices were beginning to fade; they were walking away. "I'll accompany you as far as the stables. You—and Drummond—will be well compensated for aiding me in this endeavor. You can't know how much it means…"

And then they were too far off, their voices fading into murmurs Frances could not parse before disappearing entirely.

She stood for a long while, back pressed against the cool stone walls of Winchester Manor. Something of Grace's had been found—a handkerchief, it seemed. It was strange, so very strange.

Evan's first statement had been correct; it didn't make any goddamned sense.

Frances stood straighter as resolve gripped her, all previous thoughts of a nap forgotten. Perhaps it didn't make any sense now , but she wasn't going to be left in the dark to fret without answers or insight—not this time.

No, if Evan planned to seek answers, she would seek them too. She would uncover the truth, come hell or high water. She'd do it for herself and for her friends.

And she would do it for Grace, who would never, ever be forgotten, not so long as Frances had breath in her body.

The sun was just beginning to turn the sky a predawn gray when Evan slipped out the front door of Winchester Manor to wait for his carriage in the courtyard. He would have found the hour unpleasantly early if he'd managed to sleep at all. He'd spent the night plagued by restlessness, however, giving up on sleep before midnight and spending the rest of the seemingly endless hours pacing his bedchamber, waiting for it to be light enough to travel.

He'd gone over the information over and over all night long, but he hadn't been able to stop fretting over the details, as if he'd put it all together if he only thought everything through just one more time.

A merchant had found Grace's handkerchief on the side of a road in the North, between Durham and Newcastle. That much was fact. The handkerchief was in Evan's pocket even now.

Everything else, however, was supposition.

The scrap of embroidered linen was dirty, as if it had been washed many times, but not dirty enough to have been languishing roadside for the years since Grace's death. Grace had never been that far North, at least not prior to her abduction—did that mean Dowling had taken her all the way up to Durham? Or had he been connected to someone villainous enough to take a dead lady's handkerchief as a twisted sort of trophy?

And then there was the last ‘what if,' the one Evan dared not even think.

He was saved from that line of thought by the soft squeak of hinges as the door next to him opened again.

"No," he said immediately.

Frances didn't even look at him. She just stood, stiff backed, eyes straight ahead, hands clutching a small carpetbag. He didn't even know where an earl's daughter got such a hideous bag, but that was entirely beside the point.

"No," he said again.

"I don't have to listen to you," she said pertly, eyes still fixed on the empty courtyard.

Evan considered all the ways he could impress upon Frances that she did have to listen to him, at least half of which the glorious feeling of her clenching around his fingers as he'd driven her to a relentless climax. But there was no time for that sort of thing now—would be no time or opportunity for that sort of thing ever again, he reminded himself. Her parents were determined to see her married off, and he had to learn the full truth behind his sister's murder before it drove him to madness.

"Frances," he growled, using his most authoritative tone. "Go back inside."

Really, he should have been asking how she even knew where to find him, but he'd given up questioning the ways of Frances Johnson. She was some sort of divine termagant put on earth to plague him, clearly.

"No," she said primly.

He growled harder. She remained visibly unaffected.

This was outrageous for a number of reasons, not the least of which was how profoundly she affected him . If he hadn't been plagued with the new mystery of the handkerchief, he had no doubt he would have suffered a sleepless night anyway, as he'd have been consumed with the thoughts of her pretty cries as he pleasured her.

Even now, even with everything troubling him, he stiffened inside his trousers, his body keen to recall the feel of her, the way she'd trembled in his arms. She had clearly liked the kinds of games he preferred to play, and the very idea made Evan practically lightheaded with lust.

But he could not succumb to the lure of redheaded sirens with pert pixie pouts. He had to discover the truth. He had to.

And she could not come along.

"Frances," he said sternly.

Now, she did turn to look at him, not that it made things any better.

"Evan," she returned mockingly.

And damn him, because he still liked the way she sounded when she spoke his name.

"You realize this is insane, don't you?" he asked. "You are an unmarried woman. You cannot just gallivant off whenever and wherever you please. People will notice. People will talk ."

The look she gave him was so dry that it could have turned a marsh into a desert. "No," she deadpanned. "You don't say. Are you telling me that young ladies are observed and restricted? How novel. How horrifying."

"Frances," he said again. He had the distinct impression that he was losing this argument, which was absurd, because he was being sensible, and she was acting like a lunatic. "What do you expect will happen when your parents wake and find you gone?"

Now her expression turned pitying, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to turn her over his knee or kiss that look right off her soft, pink lips.

"When my parents wake," she explained with exaggerated patience, "they will find a note informing them that I have gone to help poor Diana, as baby Gracie has fallen ill. They will read my heartfelt regrets at leaving the party so early, which I have only done because I cannot deny the ask of a duchess." She paused dramatically, then pressed a hand to her chest. "And a true friend, of course."

He shook his head at her. He was definitely losing this argument. "You are either a lunatic or a genius."

She tossed her head, which made him realize that she was wearing her hair in a very simple updo, just a braid that was wrapped around and pinned. He knew, logically, that this was likely a practical gesture—one didn't want to alert one's maid before trying to abscond on a harebrained mission. But as he looked at the way an escaped tendril snaked down her back, it felt personal, intimate. Like he was seeing her directly in her bedchamber.

"That is phenomenally rude," she informed him. "But I would expect no less, frankly."

This was a trap. It was a neatly baited trap designed to lure him away from the important work of getting her to go back inside. He knew that, but he took the bait anyway.

"Why would you expect that of me, Frances?" he demanded, the low growl coming out more intrigued than angry. This was what happened when one combined a sleepless night with a beautiful woman. Chaos. Mental chaos.

She bared her teeth at him. "Because, after everything —" His mind flashed back to the way she'd looked pressed against a tree. "—you still don't do me the honor of including me in news about Grace—about my friend ." Her voice broke a little on the last word and so did his resolve.

If he was being honest, part of him did keep forgetting that Frances had been Grace's friend. This originated, in part, from the possessiveness of his grief. Grace was his sister, and he'd spent so long feeling that the rest of his family missed her in the wrong way, somehow, that he'd forgotten that there might be others who felt her absence like an unfillable hole in their lives. Perhaps he would have found more comfort from speaking to Frances—or Diana Young or Emily Hoskins—sooner, but theirs was not a world in which he could have a relationship with an unmarried young lady, not without his sister there to provide a reason for any conversation between them.

But the other part of the reason he kept ignoring the connection between Frances and Grace was that he didn't want to think of them together. He didn't want to look at Frances and see a grown woman and have to recognize that Grace would never get to grow like this, would never change, become more self-possessed, argue with the people that irritated her. And he found, increasingly, that he could not see Frances in any other way than she was now, before him. She was quarrelsome, stubborn. Beautiful. Irresistible.

He sighed and surprised her the only way he knew how. "You're right. I'm sorry."

She blinked then peered at him as if suspecting a trap. "You are?"

"I am," he confirmed. "You loved Grace as much as I did. I should have told you right away that there had been news of her."

She still looked suspicious. "So, I can come with you?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Are you really leaving me a choice?" She smiled at that. "Though," he felt compelled to add, "I do fear that your plan with the Duchess of Hawkins is…a touch thin. You can't have written to her; what if your parents seek her out and she tells them you're not there?"

Her smile broadened. "Nothing to worry about there. Diana was blessed with a suspicious mind. If my parents came to her, she'd likely lie to them just for the fun of it—there's no great love lost between them," she added with relish.

He couldn't imagine there was. Certainly, nobody who loved Frances could like her parents. He certainly didn't.

Not that he—he esteemed Frances, that was all. He admired her. Yes, those were the correct words.

"I see," he managed to choke out as his thoughts stuttered.

She gave him an odd look, but they were fortunately interrupted by the arrival of his carriage, which clattered softly across the cobblestone drive. Evan's driver darted one quick glance at Frances before looking away, his face overtaken by that mask so frequently worn by servants, the one that said, the mad doings of the aristos is not my business; I'm just here for the coin.

He handed Frances up into the carriage with the clear sense that he was making a decision that he could not take back. Before he could dwell overmuch on the repercussions of such a decision, however, they were off, heading North—and toward answers.