Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

" W ell," Laura said, propping her hands on her hips as she looked at her youngest child. "I cannot say I expected this of you, Frances. You are either a genius or the greatest fool in Christendom. I suppose we shall have to wait and see."

Frances blinked, certain she'd misheard.

"I'm sorry?" she asked.

"Oh, you will be indeed, if you've miscalculated this whole thing," her mother said, leaving Frances more confounded than ever. She paused. "Unless you're being a quiet little church mouse for some reason that I truly cannot fathom, and he's already married you?"

She peered at Frances' hands as if she hoped a ring would materialize if only she stared hard enough. Frances fought the urge to sit on her hands.

"I'm…sorry?" Frances said again.

Cordelia, who was seated at Frances' side and rubbing her protruding stomach, sighed.

"Mother," she said patiently—because Cordelia was always the picture of perfect, ladylike patience. "Perhaps it would be best to simply ask Frances what has happened instead of making predictions?"

Cordelia gave Frances an encouraging nod. This, alas, really only meant that there were two people confusing Frances.

"Well," she said carefully, because she had a long history of always managing to somehow say the wrong thing to her family. "As you saw, we found Grace…"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Peter. He was wearing normal clothes; Frances couldn't recall the last time she'd seen him not wearing his cassock. Peter was very devoted to his congregation, which again begged the question—what were they all doing here?

"That's who that girl was?" he continued. "Grace as in Lady Grace Miller?"

"Yes," France said, surprised. "Who did you think it was?"

"A maid?" he asked, shrugging a shoulder. "She was dressed for it."

This was, Frances felt, a touch unkind to the vicar's wife who had kindly sold her spare dress on such short notice—particularly coming from Peter, a clergyman himself, even if his wife, Liliana, did dress a bit more finely.

Cordelia seemed to be following this tale a bit more quickly than any of their brothers or parents. "You found Lady Grace alive ?" she asked, her shock, at least, containing a note of happiness. "Why, Frances, that's marvelous."

"Thank you," Frances said, a touch defensively. It was rather impressive, wasn't it? And yes, Evan and his hired detectives had done much of the work, but Frances had hit a woman with a log! That was very impressive of her, if she did say so herself.

"Who cares about that?" her father blustered, apparently unable to contain himself any longer. Frances saw Harry roll his eyes, a significant show of dissent from the perfect heir. "Are we going to ignore that the girl is ruined?"

George looked like he was doing some complex equation in his head. Frances might have brushed this off—George nearly always looked like that—but then he spoke.

"She might not be," he allowed.

Their father looked at George like he was an idiot. Their mother looked at George like she wanted to strangle him.

George saw these looks and shrugged. "She's only ruined if people know," he elaborated. "You wrote to the four of us to tell us Frances was missing, but did you tell anyone else? For all the rest of London knows, she was at the house party and then returned. You said the partygoers thought she went to tend to a sick friend?" He shrugged again. "Unorthodox, perhaps, but not ruinous."

The Marquess of Reed looked potentially swayed by this argument until his wife cleared her throat pointedly and shook her head sharply, clearly aiming to remind him that they'd been working to get rid of Frances before she'd gotten rid of herself (however temporarily).

Frances was rather impressed at this show of marital communication, no matter how poorly it boded for her. She'd never thought her parents were good enough at understanding one another to manage such a thing.

The marquess opened his mouth to speak, but his heir beat him to it.

"That's not the point," Harry interjected firmly. "The point isn't whether Frances is ruined , or whatever other petty gossip the ton bandies about."

And then he rolled his eyes again . Curiously, it was this, and not suddenly discovering her presumed-dead friend alive and well, that led Frances to wonder if she hadn't actually died in that muddy hole and was currently experiencing some very bizarre version of the afterlife. Perhaps that was why Peter wasn't wearing his cassock; no doubt this was a theologically sound assumption.

Harry continued speaking, however, and his self-assured tone reminded Frances that she continued to live and breathe, no matter how strangely her siblings were acting.

"The point," he said firmly, "is whether or not Oackley acted dishonorably. The question isn't whether he appeared to hurt Frances; the question is whether he actually hurt Frances."

And then, perhaps predictably, he looked pointedly at Frances.

The problem Frances faced was manifold. First, and perhaps most salient, was that she was a terrible liar. Her siblings did not know her well, but she suspected Harry would nevertheless see through an attempt at dishonesty.

The second problem was that Frances knew what Harry was really asking. He was asking if Evan had taken liberties with her person, which he had . Those liberties had been highly encouraged, was all. Frances was almost entirely certain that detail would not soothe Harry, should she reveal them, which she would not be doing .

The only glimmer of hope was that he hadn't technically asked that. He'd asked if Evan had hurt her.

"No," she said, figuring that the less she said, the less her brother could object to what she said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. Frances tried to look innocent. He narrowed his eyes even more.

Drat.

Laura, apparently impatient that her wayward children seemed determined to stymie her plans to see them all wed and dispatched, threw up her hands.

"You are all making this far more complicated than it needs to be. Frances left alone with a man. We all know what happens next."

"We do?" asked Frances, somewhat relieved to look away from her brother's probing gaze.

"We do," Laura pronounced. And then, with a gleam of satisfaction in her eye that boded poorly, she added, "We wait."

"Oackley's honorable, I'll grant him that," Harry muttered under his breath.

"And if he decides to suddenly not be honorable," George said, a hint of wickedness in his tone, "we shall be happy to convince him otherwise, right, Harry?"

Harry's hum was a dark agreement.

And suddenly, like a bowstring snapping upon release, Frances decided she'd had enough of this. She'd spent several long days in carriages, was in dire need of a bath, and needed some blessed peace and quiet—not to listen to her family squabble over her future without so much as asking what Frances wanted.

She got abruptly to her feet. The assembled Johnsons looked at her in surprise.

"I'm done listening to this," Frances said, surprising even herself with her words. "I'm going to bathe and rest. Goodbye."

And then she walked out of the room and began striding up the stairs. Cordelia's voice stopped her.

"Frances!"

Frances turned to see her sister hurrying after her, despite the apparent difficulty Cordelia was currently experiencing when it came to moving with any sort of speed. She looked intensely relieved when Frances halted.

"It will be well, Frances," Cordelia said, sounding as though she felt a bit awkward offering sisterly advice. This was, Frances, allowed, reasonable; she didn't think Cordelia had ever done so before.

But her elder sister was trying now, it seemed, so Frances merely nodded.

"Mother and Father… They have their expectations," Cordelia said, the wry twist to her mouth making Frances wonder if it hadn't been entirely wonderful for Cordelia, either, growing up with her parents' eye constantly upon her. "But we'll help you, the boys and me. I know we haven't always…" She paused. "But we'll do our best."

It wasn't much. It wasn't amends for years of ignoring her, and it wasn't a true explanation of why they'd done it.

But Frances recognized an olive branch when she saw one, even one as crooked and fragile as the one her sister currently extended.

So she smiled down at her sister.

"Thank you, Cordy," she said.

Cordelia's apologetic look disappeared, replaced by a flat, sardonic look. "Goodness, not you, too. For the last time, you all need to stop calling me Cordy!"

And as her sister stomped off, Frances laughed and laughed and took herself up to enjoy her bath and the quiet of her own bedchamber.