Chapter 20

True to his word, Anthony led her downstairs to the dining room and seated her himself. Instead of his usual seat, he asked for his plate to be placed beside her.

"You don't have to do that," she said shyly, though inwardly, she was thrilled.

"I want to. I want to converse with you."

"What shall we talk about?" Frances asked, playing along.

"I don't know. I'm not very practiced at this."

Frances laughed at his cringing expression. "Well, you are welcome to all the practice you require. I shall go easy on you, as you are a beginner."

"Thank you, my dear," he answered with a thin smile.

My dear, Frances thought, the warmth of his sentiment spreading inside her.

"Why don't you tell me about your family?" she asked lightly as she plucked up her napkin and unfolded it.

Anthony stiffened. He didn't say anything for several moments, long enough for Frances to look over at him and see that he appeared stricken.

"We don't have to talk about them," she offered quietly, but he shook his head.

"No, it's quite all right." Anthony cleared his throat and took a sip of his water, then said, "As you can surmise, my father was the Duke of Preston before me. He was a very good man, unequalled in fact. He was everything I've ever tried to become."

"He sounds wonderful," Frances said, nodding her thanks to Mr. Vickers, who silently instructed the new footman on how to serve their plates.

"He was. I regret that he perished when I was so young, for I'm certain I could have learned so much more from him."

"And your mother?" Frances asked, happy to listen to Anthony actually divulge these things about himself.

"She was a saint. She loved my father very much, and he adored her. I don't recall much about it, but I know that his first wife died of an illness, and therefore, there was something of an age difference between my parents. But I can still recall the way she grieved over him. She never let me forget what a wonderful man he was and how much he'd cherished us both."

"But you've lost her too?"

"Yes, sadly," Anthony said, clearly growing uncomfortable with the conversation.

"Why don't you tell me about school?" Frances suggested, changing the subject before it became too painful.

"I was taught here at home. My mother seemed to worry that I might be tormented by some of the other students if she sent me away, but secretly, I think she simply couldn't stand the thought of an empty house. But what about you? You mentioned that those ladies who are always about were classmates of yours, I believe."

"They are not always about," Frances corrected with a grin, "but yes. We attended school together up in Marwell. Some girls can be petty or even cruel when forced to reside together, but Agnes and Emma became my dearest friends from the moment we met. It made the reality of living far from home easier to bear."

"That does sound rather nice. I never had any playmates of my own, though I did have cousins on my mother's side who would visit from time to time."

Frances smiled wistfully as Anthony described his childhood in better detail. She began to see the full picture of a man who'd experienced great loss coupled with isolation and loneliness. It was no wonder he wasn't a better conversationalist or more open with his feelings.

It was true, she thought happily as they began to talk about holidays and books and composers. All he needs is some practice, someone to talk to.

By the following day, Frances was starting to feel as though the chaos of her new life might be sorting itself out. She'd sent her messages to inquire about Juliet, and the butcher had begrudgingly agreed to inform her if Juliet returned. Anthony had been a lovely dinner companion the evening before, and they'd stayed up quite late into the night talking. When she'd finally excused herself and gone up to bed, Frances had even wondered what had made her so worried in the first place.

She hurried out of bed and got ready for breakfast, intent on being on time. If every meal could be as pleasant as yesterday evening's dinner, they would all be something to look forward to. Instead, her hopes were dashed when she opened her door and found Mrs. Barrett standing there with a tray.

"What's all this?" Frances asked politely.

"My apologies, Your Grace, but the duke had to hurry off this morning. He sends his deepest regrets for abandoning you first thing in the morning, but he wasn't certain when he'd be back."

So much for this rule about mealtimes, Frances thought, trying not to be bitter.

"I understand," she said, forcing herself to remain cheerful for Mrs. Barrett's sake. "Thank you for bringing that up, but I'd best get in the habit of taking my meals downstairs… and on time."

"Of course, Your Grace," the housekeeper said with a knowing smile.

Frances followed Mrs. Barrett down, thinking all the while about where Anthony could have gone at such an early hour. She hadn't known him to leave the house so early, but then again, she wasn't entirely certain what sort of business he conducted. All he'd said the previous evening was that it had been his father's investments and he'd taken them on.

"Mrs. Barrett, could you tell me what it is His Grace does?" Frances ventured, knowing before she'd even asked that the loyal housekeeper was going to be vague.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, but I don't know. It's not my place to involve myself in his business affairs."

"He's never even mentioned it? Perhaps to Vickers?"

"I should think not. It wouldn't be proper."

"Of course." Frances made a note to bring it up the next time she and Anthony were conversing.

After eating her solitary breakfast, Frances returned to the library to find an interesting volume to read, one that would absorb her attention and keep her from spending too much time alone with her thoughts. Her sewing could wait, for the gowns she'd ordered had still not arrived. Besides, the day was looking as if it might turn foul, and Frances did love to sit with a book while the gloomy sky unleashed rain against the windows.

Frances had been reading for only a short while when the butler appeared at the doorway to summon her. He knocked softly and waited for her to look up.

"Your Grace, forgive me. But there is a gentleman here to see the duke. Sir Perry Smyth, Baronet of Bellingsworth," Vickers said.

"The duke isn't here though, is he?" she asked, wondering why she should involve herself.

"No, Your Grace. But this gentleman is… persistent. He claims to have come for something that is owed to him, and he is not fond of the idea of returning later when His Grace is at home."

"How odd," Frances said, closing her book and standing up. "I'm not sure what I should do to help matters, though."

"I thought perhaps if you spoke to him and informed him that the duke is not at home, and that you would be sure to tell him about the visit, he might then believe that I'm telling the truth."

"I see," Frances said, a sense of importance coming over her. This was her house to defend, after all. "I shall meet him, but please be prepared to call for the footman and even the constable if he still refuses to leave."

"Certainly, Your Grace," Mr. Vickers said, hurrying out ahead of her to speak to the visitor.

Perhaps this man is a clue as to Anthony's business affairs, Frances thought as she smoothed out her gown and held her head high. Aloof. Proud and aloof, as a duchess would be.

"Sir Perry," Frances said as she entered the drawing room and the butler announced her to the guest.

A weaselly-faced man who barely came to Frances' shoulder turned around to greet her. He looked her up and down, then bowed slightly.

"Yes, Your Grace. I have come to speak with your husband about an important matter, but your butler will not allow it. I see the coward has sent you in his stead, though."

"I beg your pardon," Frances said coldly, looking down at him.

"Your husband. He apparently must hide behind your skirts like a naughty child rather than face me."

"You will remember yourself when addressing me, or you will vacate this property at once," she snapped. Sara came up behind her just then and stood sentry just behind her shoulder, while Vickers remained planted by the drawing room door.

"I see you have rallied your troops, my queen," Sir Perry said with a sneer. "Do make sure you inform your husband that he can no longer deny my requests. I will have what's mine, one way or another."

"And what do you think it is that you are entitled to?" Frances demanded, hoping this could give her some insight into what was happening.

"Oh, he hasn't told you? He hasn't made you aware that we have a contract in good standing, and he's been going back on it?"

"I can assure you that my husband would never do such a thing. He is an honorable man, and if he has rejected any contract, then there is a flaw with it. You do yourself a great disservice by slandering him, believe me."

Sir Perry seemed to shrink back in fear slightly, his white hair quivering as he looked up at Frances' imposing height. He clearly hadn't been expecting a challenge in this interaction, but now he had no choice but to accept it or back down.

"I will not waste my time discussing men's matters with a mere woman," he said, the words obviously distasteful to him. "Tell that husband of yours that I shall return shortly. He'd best have the terms of our contract sorted out by then."

"I shall do no such thing. If you wish to give my husband a message, you will make an appointment to see him and face him like a man yourself. If you cannot, then you are not worth his time. I, for one, shall have no part in your cowardice."

Frances thought to turn and leave, effectively dismissing this sniveling intruder, but a movement at her elbow stopped her. Anthony came up behind her and strode past until he stood face to face with Sir Perry.

"You have some nerve coming to my home uninvited," he said, practically growling.

"I wouldn't have to resort to such things if you kept your word concerning your contracts," the baronet replied lazily.

"I have kept my word. It is you who have no business coming here. You've gotten your payment, now be on your way."

"You know my price, Preston. You will pay it in full or I shall move forward with my plans."

For someone so small, the baronet certainly did not back down, even from Anthony's strong presence. Frances almost pitied him, though, after seeing the murderous expression on the duke's face.

"Get out of my house, Bellingsworth, else I shall have to remove you myself," Anthony snarled, balling his fists in a way that made Frances nervous.

"I'm going. But never fear, I shall be returning for what's mine," the baronet drawled before taking his leave.

After the intruder had left, everyone slipped out of the room one by one, save for Frances and Anthony. She hesitated, wishing to offer Anthony some words of comfort but stricken by what had just happened. Instead, she waited silently for his breaths to come more naturally. Only then did he turn to look at her, that rage-filled expression still there.

"Why did you receive him?" he demanded coldly.

"What do you mean? What choice did I have?" Frances asked, perplexed by Anthony's anger.

"He is a scoundrel of the worst sort!"

"How was I to know that? Vickers merely told me there was a visitor and that he would not leave without speaking to you!"

"And you sought to discuss it with him yourself?"

Frances was stunned. She'd had no part in this, yet Anthony was venting his fury on her. She thought to say something unkind in return but decided against it. Soon, it was Anthony whose mood had shifted.

"My apologies," he finally mumbled, still not looking at her. "You couldn't have known what sort of villain this man is."

Frances had no reply. Words failed her, though she wished to vent her own irate feelings herself.

"I shall be upstairs if you wish to beg for my forgiveness… or at the very least explain what is going on," she said simply, storming out of the room without another word.