Chapter 22

"What have I done?" Frances asked frantically, pacing back and forth in her room. "The duke hates me!"

"Awww, it cannot be so bad as that, Your Grace," Sara argued, trying to comfort her.

"You did not see the lethal look in his eye, Sara. He was quite clear about that ridiculous staircase, and yet I couldn't help myself! I was overcome with jealousy, and I let it take hold of me. I've ruined everything," Frances said, shaking her head and pressing her fists to her eyes.

"Then tell him so. You have a right to know what goes on in your own house, after all. Just tell him the truth. You had reason to think there was another woman here… and there was! If anything, you are the one who should be angry."

"What I simply cannot understand," Frances continued, striding throughout the room like a guard standing sentry, "is what was the purpose of all this? There was another woman. Her lady's maid—for that's clearly Miss O'Reilly's purpose—her lady's maid referred to her as ‘my lady.' She was young and very pretty and sounded as though she had a pleasant temperament… so why did he have to marry me? Why keep this eligible young lady shut up in his house and pursue me instead if he was in such a desperate state to marry?"

"Could it be…" Sara began, but she stopped and began biting her nail. Frances looked at her expectantly, and she finally gave in. "Could it be something like your cousin's issue?"

"Juliet?"

"That's right. Perhaps His Grace and this lady were in love, but her parents said no, and she ran off. They're only biding their time ‘til her parents have passed and they can be married."

"That would be plausible if not for the fact that he cannot marry her now, for he has married me," Frances reminded her. Sara looked embarrassed at her own foolishness, so Frances quickly added, "But it's a very good idea you've come up with, for that could be Juliet's circumstance. We'll think more on that later."

I just want to know what's happening, Frances thought, fuming as she continued to stalk the confines of her room. What should I even do now? Do I leave and rush to the sanctuary that is Agnes' house? Will I be banished to Anthony's estate in the west? Good heavens, if this is the state of the house he resides in, I'm fully terrified of what the state of his other house must be.

"Sara, I fear we shall need to pack our things soon," Frances said sorrowfully.

"Where will we go, Your Grace? Back to your uncle's house?"

"Most certainly not. Even if they would have me, which I cannot begin to imagine, it would be the worst sort of torture. No, Lady Agnes will be glad to take me in, at least for now. Our bigger fear is that her father will call my husband out for a duel when he learns of this."

Sara nodded thoughtfully, and Frances could tell that she had more to say on the matter. Thankfully, she kept those notions to herself, for Frances was certain they would involve something treacherous. Plotting to bind up the Duke of Preston and throw him on a merchant vessel headed for the Far East was not helpful at the moment, even if talk of it might make her laugh a little.

As the afternoon wore on and Frances tried to occupy her idle, frantic thoughts with some sewing, her mood began to shift. Sara had been right, after all. She did have a right to know when an entire person was residing in her house! It was only made worse by the fact that this person was certainly her husband's mistress and quite possibly his prisoner. Her simmering anger was dangerously close to becoming a bout of rage by the time the dinner hour arrived.

"Sara, I've made up my mind. I'll be dressing for dinner and going down, regardless of what the duke may be thinking. I am the Duchess of Preston, and unless he intends to change that, this is my house. I will have my say, whether or not he deigns to answer for what he's done."

"Very good, Your Grace!" Sara acknowledged with a proud smirk, already retrieving Frances' dinner attire.

Frances was ready well before the usual dinner hour, but she decided to go down early. After all, it would hardly make up for the times she'd been late, and she certainly didn't want to give the impression that she had hidden herself away upstairs. While she waited downstairs, she rehearsed what she would say to Anthony when he came in.

"Anthony," she mumbled to herself, "I wish to speak to you about earlier today." That was a solid beginning, she decided. "I did go against your wishes and venture upstairs after several curious things happened, and I'm sorry for that. But I require an explanation as to the woman who is clearly residing in the top floor."

Frances muttered the words to herself over and over as she stood by the front windows and looked out. The street beyond the front gate was almost serene in comparison to the storm that was at work in her heart. Part of her wanted to dismiss Anthony entirely and carry on about her life without him. A bigger part of her, though, was desperate to understand why.

"Your Grace?" Mr. Vickers inquired as he passed the front room.

"Oh. Yes, Vickers?" Frances asked, startled by someone calling out to her.

"Will you take your dinner in the dining room? Or would you prefer to have Mrs. Barrett bring it upstairs?" he asked softly, coming closer.

"I should think the duke wishes for dinner to be served in the dining room," she answered, measuring her words and trying to sound cheerful.

"I see. Of course. But Your Grace, the duke is not at home, I'm afraid. He has gone out."

"Oh? Did he say where he might have gone?"

"No, Your Grace. He left earlier today when you two—when you last spoke," the butler said, looking sheepish. As Frances stood and watched him in silence, Mr. Vickers bowed slightly and took his leave.

So, he's fled from the house, she thought, feeling more amused than upset. Interesting to know that I have the sort of power over him that will cause him to escape rather than remain here.

Frances' amusement was in short supply. As she decided between staying downstairs and having her dinner alone in the dining room or creeping back to her room, the door to the servants' stairs opening behind her caused her to turn.

"Oh. It's you," Frances said with a pinched smile as Miss O'Reilly emerged with a tray.

For only a flash, the nurse looked frightened, as though she couldn't fathom what Frances might do or say. Soon enough, though, she recovered and put on a haughty sort of look.

"Yes. I was coming to fetch a dinner tray. We can't have anyone going hungry, can we," she said, lifting it slightly as she looked down at it and insinuated who it was for.

"I wish to know who that woman is," Frances said lightly, keeping all maliciousness out of her words.

"You will have to ask His Grace about that. It's not my place to say anything. Though I cannot help but wonder, if he wished for you to know, I would think he'd have told you already."

Frances bristled at the woman's impertinence. She must truly know her position was secure, for some reason. Still, there was no need for it to go unanswered.

"I will ask you to remember yourself when speaking to me," Frances said as politely as she could manage. "I did overhear your cruel words earlier about me keeping someone else's belongings."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised. People are usually unpleasantly surprised when they listen at doors where they don't belong."

Miss O'Reilly gave her a knowing smirk, practically daring her to become angry. Frances fumed.

"I will be speaking to the duke about your manners," she managed to say, pushing down the indignation that made her nearly stumble over her words.

"I should think you'd have to find him first, Your Grace. Best of luck in that," the nurse answered before turning her back and sauntering off with the tray.

Frances was struck speechless by the nurse's impudence. She had half a mind to barge upstairs and demand the answers she sought, especially since Anthony was not at home and unable to prevent her. She sank into a dining chair in defeat when she realized that would not be wise.

Mrs. Barrett brought up Frances' tray and placed it on the table before her. Frances looked down at it and was surprised to find that she had no desire to eat any of it. It looked as wonderful as ever, and if she thought very hard about it, she could tell the aroma should have been enticing. But the thought of eating it weighed on her like a stone in her middle.

"Is something wrong, Your Grace?" Mrs. Barrett asked cautiously. "I can prepare you something else if this is not to your liking."

"Oh no, not at all! Thank you, please tell Cook it looks delicious, Mrs. Barrett. It's only… I just find that I'm not feeling very hungry after all," Frances answered sadly.

Mrs. Barrett clucked sympathetically. "I understand. It's a lot for you to have to think about."

"Can you not tell me anything about what's going on? Anything at all? I beg you, I will keep your confidence if you can but help me understand."

"I am sorry, Your Grace. The duke is above all else my employer and he has instructed his staff to keep this secret. No one is to know about it, and it is not for us to speak of. But I can promise you this much—it is not what you think."

"Oh really? So, there is not a beautiful, young, titled woman residing in the attic of my house? One that the duke supplies with gifts and other luxuries? That is certainly a relief! How silly of me to have fretted about it!" Frances snapped. Almost at once, she remembered herself and mumbled an apology for venting her frustration on the housekeeper.

"Your Grace," Mrs. Barrett said sweetly, "I promise you there is nothing to worry yourself about."

"I wish I could agree, Mrs. Barrett, but as you've surely noticed, my husband has left and appears to not be speaking to me. You'll have to forgive me if I am unable to share your optimism."

"I was referring to the person upstairs," the older woman explained. "When His Grace is of the mind to explain her presence, he will. Until then, I can only urge you to be patient and understanding."

"I will try. I promise," Frances answered, though her heart was still heavy.

By the end of the evening, though, Frances' guilt had gotten the best of her. It had taken great effort and the shedding of many tears, but she had found some measure of peace with the circumstances. In her resolve to not be miserable, she took a bold step. Withdrawing a piece of foolscap from the drawer of her desk, she sat down and penned a letter.

"Dear Lady ______,

I know not who you are nor why you reside in this house, but I wish to say that I'm sorry for intruding on you earlier today. I clearly startled you with my presence, and I promise that I was only curious about why the third floor of my house was locked away, forbidding me entry. I had absolutely no notion that you were there or that you reside here, and it is my fervent hope that I did not cause you any pain or upset with my intrusion.

Sincerely,

Frances Hughes, Duchess of Preston"

She knew that Sara would be too hot tempered to deliver the note to Miss O'Reilly or the housekeeper, so Frances decided to take her letter to Mrs. Barrett personally. She would plead with the housekeeper to see to it that it reached the mysterious woman. Mrs. Barrett, however, was not so convinced.

"I don't know, Your Grace. This feels very much as if it is you going upstairs. I cannot help but think that His Grace would not be pleased."

His Grace is not here!Frances wanted to shout in frustration, but she only smiled agreeably.

"I understand why you might feel that way, but I assure you that I only wish to apologize to her. You may read the letter and see for yourself if you wish."

Frances held out the folded page for Mrs. Barrett to take, but the housekeeper only looked at it warily. At last, her features relaxed.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace. I was only being foolish. Of course I shall be glad to take it up for you."

"Thank you. I do truly wish to ask for her forgiveness. I think I shall go to bed now in hopes that tomorrow is a much less sorrowful day," Frances said, the weight of the day's events pressing on her.

As she sank into bed, Frances' mind was still troubled. There had to have been some reason for Anthony to so adamantly ask for her hand, but what could that reason be? There was simply no logic to it, and if there was anything Frances knew to be true about that man, it was that he seemed to be ruled almost entirely by logic. His feelings, his desires, his very heart seemed incapable of leading him as his every wish was driven by only what was sensible.

But the housekeeper's words kept coming back to her. This isn't what you think… there is nothing to worry yourself about… And yet, there could be no logical reason for Anthony's actions, so Frances had no choice but to think the worst. Worry and heartache were her only recourse until she had reason to believe otherwise.