Chapter 21

"Your Grace," Sara said methodically, still barely concealing her giggle of excitement at addressing Frances in such a way, "you have some things that have been delivered to the house."

Frances smiled. Though she'd insisted that Sara did not need to prove anything to others, least of all the people in the house, the maid had insisted on practicing her diction and altering her manner of speaking. It had made her speak more deliberately, with much more attention to her enunciation, and it still amused both of them.

"I'm a lady's maid now, and to a duchess at that," Sara had explained in a solemn tone. "You cannot have a companion going around with you who sounds as though they've just arrived on shore from a fishing village."

"Sara, I care not! I like you as you are. But if that's what you wish to do, then I applaud your effort and hard work," Frances had promised her.

Now, Frances looked up from her sewing and gently placed the pins she'd been working with on the table. She straightened up and stretched the hunched over twinges out of her aching back.

"Thank you, Sara. Tell me, has there been any word from Miss Walford?"

"No, Your Grace. I did carry the rest of your letters to the right and proper people, though. I'm sure you'll know something from them straight away. Should I bring the parcels up?"

Frances frowned. "No, thank you, I'll come down. I've been avoiding His Grace for two days, only pretending to work on these pieces in all that time. It's the only thing that's keeping my thoughts from running like a loosed fox. I just cannot stop worrying about Juliet. I thought surely she would send word to me, of all people."

"Could it be that she's just afraid to drag you into her matters? She could be keeping quiet out of respect so that you're not part of her ruin," Sara said, trying to sound hopeful.

"I hardly think she needs to be concerned about ruining herself," Frances said defensively.

"My apologies, Your Grace! I didn't mean anything by it!" Sara cried, her diction slipping with her emotions.

"I know that, silly. I'm not put out with you at all," Frances assured her with a laugh. "I only meant that should she have truly gone off to marry this young man of hers, their life together will be… different… than that of the young ladies of the ton. They won't have to concern themselves with the sort of ridiculous rules that we force ourselves to adhere to. I should rather think that their friends and acquaintances would even find their elopement romantic."

"But how can you be sure that's what happened? Juliet hasn't sent word to anyone. She could be in very big danger."

"I did worry about that myself, but one of the first inquiries Lady Agnes made was to the butcher's shop, and we've visited as well. The owner's son Thomas is gone, as we well know. It's the only thing giving me hope and easing my rattled mind right now. Well, that and this blasted sewing!"

"I do wish you'd let me take on doing it. I've learned quite a bit, you know," Sara said, looking proud.

"Oh, I'm only complaining. Besides, with nothing to occupy my thoughts and my hands, I'll go mad for sure. Come on, let's go see to those parcels and see what's inside."

Downstairs, Frances was greeted by a small mountain of packages. Sara stopped short at the sight of it, while Frances stared at them, perplexed. She looked over them and counted the number in her mind, knowing at once that something wasn't right.

"These cannot all be mine. The shops must have made an error once again and sent someone else's things. But now that I'm thinking of it, Lady Emma did place an order that day as well. I wonder if some of these could be hers."

Frances carried them into the drawing room with Sara and Mr. Vickers' help, then she began to open them carefully. Sara admired each garment as Frances held it aloft, turning it this way and that. Everything seemed to be in order at first, but soon enough, she realized the error.

"Now I know for certain that these cannot be mine, for I wouldn't have selected such costly fabrics. And in such colors as these? Never for a newly married lady. These are more suited for a—"

Just then, Miss O'Reilly hurried into the drawing room. She smiled politely, though her expression was nearly frantic.

"My apologies, Your Grace, but some of these… these are my things," she stammered, looking askance.

"Your things?" Frances returned, trying to keep her tone friendly. Where on earth would a nurse ever wear such things? And how would she even afford fabrics such as these when I wouldn't even spend Anthony's money on them for myself? she thought.

"That's right, Your Grace. I'm sorry that they were mixed in with your parcels. I'll inform the shop to be more careful next time," she said brightly before bending down and scooping the errant garments into her arms.

Frances watched as Miss O'Reilly scurried out of the room with her bundle of gowns. Sara glared at her fiercely.

"Shall I follow her and see what she's up to?" the maid asked.

"What's that? No, of course not. I'm sure everything is perfectly…" But Frances' words trailed off unfinished. In truth, she wasn't sure about anything, nor did any of it seem perfect.

"Now that I think of it, I shall go after her myself," Frances said, a renewed determination coming over her.

She followed after the nurse on silent footfalls, tiptoeing behind her and hoping to catch up to her without being seen. As they approached the door to the staircase together, the most amazing act of divine work occurred—the door to the staircase swung shut but stopped only a hair's breadth from closing. Frances waited breathlessly for Miss O'Reilly to realize it and return to lock it, but she never did.

Do I dare?Frances thought, quickly glancing over her shoulder to ensure that no one was nearby. Anthony was quite adamant that no one is to ever venture into this part of the house… but that was before Agnes and Emma were right! I've now learned of his mistress being kept under the same roof as his wife, and therefore, all ‘rules' mean nothing.

Frances couldn't hesitate any longer. She took a deep breath and walked over to the door, then grasped the latch and pushed on it. She was surprised to find that it swung open easily. Instead of being thrilled, she almost wished it had fallen shut and locked. Then she would have an excuse to abandon this foolish hunt.

Instead, Frances took the first few steps up the wooden staircase, testing each one before placing her full weight on it, ensuring that it didn't squeak and give her away. She was certain this was the way Miss O'Reilly had come, but how could it be? What sort of man kept his mistress in a drafty set of attic apartments with a sad excuse for a staircase to guide her up?

What will I even say when I see her?Frances suddenly thought as she continued to climb. Do I call her out? Let her know that I'm aware of their ongoing tryst and order her out of this house?

She knew not what she would do or say, but one thing was for certain: Frances could not live with the unknown any longer. Soon, she would have answers, whether they put her mind at ease or not.

As the staircase wound forward and backward, turning at every small landing, Frances feared she might grow dizzy. The tiny corridor was narrower than any servants' stairs, and the summer air was growing oppressively thick in the close passage. Finally, she looked up to the last set of stairs and saw a closed door at the top.

Surely, the nurse will have remembered to lock this one, she thought was a fleeting burn of disappointment.

Instead, Frances was delighted to find that it, too, was unlocked. She opened it only a crack, half-expecting to see Miss O'Reilly's eye staring back at her through the sliver of doorway. Seeing no one, she moved the door even wider and wider again until she was standing framed in the open doorway. Her breath seemed to leave her as she took in the sight of the room.

The first room was immense, decorated more opulently than any salon at Versailles. Gold chandeliers overhead held a dozen or more candles each, while mirrored sconces on the walls could throw glowing light around with a mere brush of a flame to their oil lamps. These were extinguished at the moment due to the glorious sunshine drifting in through a wall of enormous windows. The sunlight shimmered against rich golden wallpapers such as Frances had never seen. A thick rug of woven silk filled the floor, practically beckoning her to stand on it and feel its touch.

In this room, the furnishings were as fine as those in the rest of the house, or perhaps even finer. A pianoforte was positioned against the far wall, and there were chairs on either side where guests might sit to be entertained. A large table and chairs could comfortably sit four people or more for tea or even a cozy dinner, and a cabinet at one end held a golden tea chest, its doors opened to reveal small jars of expensive tea. Two sofas were positioned in the center of the room to face each other, and a low table for tea ran between them.

So, Miss O'Reilly can entertain guests, I see, Frances thought somewhat bitterly. The thought of strangers coming and going through the house undetected suddenly caused her to shudder.

At the end of the room closest to her, Frances saw a closed door. She turned the latch and was taken aback to find a well-appointed toilet closet. On the other wall at the far end of the room, a door that appeared to match this one was situated, only it was slightly ajar. Frances crept across the large sitting room and came closer to the door.

There were voices within, not one, but two. Frances clutched her chest in surprise. Had she just stumbled on Anthony upstairs paying a visit to his ladybird? The thought was appalling, and she felt a flood of embarrassment that sent the blood rushing to her cheeks and pounding in her ears. As she turned to go and escape downstairs where she belonged, Frances heard that it was actually two women's voices.

She stopped and came back, leaning closer to the opening in the doorway and trying to listen. This is wrong! I shouldn't be here! she thought, but the presence of a stranger in the house, and a woman at that, intrigued her.

"Oh Rachel, look! It's simply the most beautiful gown I've ever seen!" the woman said, her voice tinkling melodically like the keys on the delicate pianoforte across the room. "How does Anthony always manage to select such gorgeous things for me?"

Anthony?Frances thought, her heart pounding with jealousy. Now we learn why there is no money ‘wasted' on repairing this house. Every penny must be going to expensive gifts and luxurious apartments!

"I truly don't know how he does it, my lady," the nurse answered, prompting Frances to stand up straighter and take notice. Anthony's kept woman was actually a member of the ton? It was unthinkable!

Frances was fuming, enraged to the point that she couldn't envision her next steps. Thoughts of confronting Anthony with this knowledge swirled in her mind, peppered with visions of barging into the room and demanding to know who this woman was and what business she had with her husband. It would serve them both right if she revealed them to the entire ton! Just as she was beginning to think it might not be such a bad thing, for it would mean her freedom from this house, Frances was jolted from her hazy fury by Miss O'Reilly's next reply.

"Oh dear, I think I might have left one of the items downstairs. I'd best go look for it before that wife of his claims it for herself!" the nurse said, prompting Frances to bristle with anger.

She scanned the large room for a way to make her escape. The stairway door on the other end of the room was too far for her to reach it before the nurse would see her, so Frances ducked behind one of the heavy velvet curtains that hung over the nearest window. She had just managed to drape the fabric in front of her, standing on tiptoe to keep her slippers from sticking out, when the door creaked open wider and Miss O'Reilly hurried through.

Frances held her breath until the stairway door closed behind the nurse. Her heart still raced, leaving her feeling almost light-headed with fear. From her vantage point, Frances could finally see into the closed off room where the woman waited. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. She leaned closer in hopes of getting a glimpse of this noblewoman who had no qualms about bedding other women's husbands.

Inside the bedchamber, a monstrous four-poster bed with ornately carved pillars sat centered against one wall. The bed curtains were drawn near the head of the bed despite the heavy summer heat, casting a shadow over the woman who was still lying abed at this hour of the day.

Frances leaned closer, looking around through the wide-open doorway. This room was somehow even more beautifully appointed than the sitting room, and it was clear that no expense had been spared. She emerged from behind the curtain to peer at the woman, and gasped out loud when she realized that the poor dear had to be even younger than she was.

Why, she should be having her first Season! Not being the plaything to a duke!Frances thought.

The sound of her shock alerted the young woman, who looked up at her with large, wide eyes. For a moment, there was no sound. Too soon, though, a piercing screamed filled the air. Frances stumbled backwards into Miss O'Reilly's arms, only to be righted again rather roughly.

"What are you doing up here? What have you done?" the woman shouted at her.

"I… nothing," Frances said weakly as Miss O'Reilly's expression turned to outrage. In the bedroom, the woman's screams continued, leaving the nurse no choice but to abandon her angry tirade and see to her.

Frances was stunned. What on earth was happening in this house? And how had it come to involve her?

With no other choice, Frances turned and ran through the sitting room to the far doorway. She flew down the old steps, ignoring their ominous creaking as she went.

I must get out of here, she thought, clinging to the walls on her way down to keep herself from toppling forward. I don't care where I go, but I cannot stay here!

The door to the rest of the house was mere feet in front of her. Frances reached for it with longing, grateful when her hand touched the latch at last. She threw it open and hurried out, only to stop short when she struck a solid wall. She stumbled backwards, but no hands caught her. Instead, she fell back against the now-closed door, smacking her head soundly. When she got her bearings once more and looked up, she saw that Anthony was standing there, unmoved by their collision.

"Anthony," she breathed, the word a mixture of fear and disgust.

Instead of answering her, the duke only stared at her with pure revulsion on his face. She had broken the most important rule of his house, and no matter how much she'd told herself it was necessary before, now she felt like a child being called before Miss Chatham and punished for her misdeeds. He continued to glare for nearly a minute, no further words coming forth from either of them. Then, just when Frances thought she might explain herself, he took a wide step around her and pushed his way through the door, hurrying upstairs and leaving France alone.