Her lithe figure stretched beneath the sleek fabric of her gown, and Henry again thought what a wonderful subject she would make for a portraitist. Other than an artist’s admiration, her beauty roused him not at all.

She subsided onto the sofa again and shook her fan from the ribbon around her wrist. Turning it between her hands, she said, “This is Frannie’s fan.” She flipped it open and displayed the painted surface.

Henry recognized it at once as a fair copy of Primaticcio’s Odysseus and Penelope. The old soldier, bearded and gruff, caressed the chin of his pale and proud wife as they sat entwined in postcoital sheets, recounting their adventures to one another—passionate, like-minded.

Without thinking, he tried to reach out for the painting, but his shoulder only flexed, his right arm immobile in the grasp of his left.

Caroline flipped the fan closed, then open again, and turned the painted face toward her own countenance. “Frannie admired this painting very much. She always wanted to think that some soldiers came home and found happiness again.”

With a quick snap, she closed the fan a final time. “She gave this to me after I carelessly broke my own fan. I’ve forgotten to give it back to her, or maybe I just didn’t want to.” Her forefinger traced the ivory guard. “That is as good a summary of Frannie’s character, and mine, as any I could imagine. And that is why you are much better off choosing her.”

Henry made himself smile, knowing that she expected him to feel relief and certainty. But doubt shadowed his thoughts: Even if I choose her, she might not choose me.

As a younger son rather than an heir, Henry had never commanded the money or influence that Jem held in an effortless grip. He had little enough responsibility either, until he went into the army. Even there, for too long, he’d made his way on charm and his brother’s connections. Now he must make his way on his own, just as he was. No secrets; no hiding.

The thought terrified him, perhaps even more than pity did.

“Don’t you agree?” Caro prodded. “I assume you do, or you wouldn’t have come here today.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t follow.” Henry frowned, distracted by his own confusion.

A carefully arched brow lifted. “I wondered if you agreed that Frannie was eminently worth the pursuit. I considered it merely a rhetorical question, but then you worried me with your lack of response.”

“Again, then, I must apologize.” Henry rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the tension that yanked at them. “Your cousin’s appeal could never be in doubt. I’m only wondering about my own.”

“That’s for her to decide, isn’t it?” She smiled, superior and sly as the Mona Lisa. Then a thought seemed to strike her, and her expression turned sharp. “You’re not asking for my blessing, are you?”

Henry considered. “Not exactly. I’m asking for your understanding. And for a bit of solitude with the lady. There’s rather a lot that I need to explain.”

This was, apparently, the right thing to say, for Caro beamed at him. “That, you may have. I don’t have the right to give you my blessing. But if you’re ready to speak with Frannie now, we can see what she has to say.”

“Yes,” Henry said. He nodded to underscore his words. To give the appearance of a courage that was lacking.

Oh, he was certain of Frances, of her worthiness of his trust. But was he ready to repose it? To reveal his secrets, his shame, his weaknesses old and new?

He must, or he could never be sure of her. He would not court under false pretenses again.

“Yes,” he said again. “Thank you, Caro.”

“You are very welcome.” She rose to her feet, and he stood too. “Let us go find her. She’ll probably be in the morning room.”

***

After Caroline left Henry at the doorway of the morning room, she mounted the steps to her bedchamber. This was her haven, quiet and luxurious in its dark woods, delicate plasterwork, green damask.

She invited men to share her bed sometimes, but just now, she was happy to be alone.

If a month ago, someone had told her she would be delighted to hear that a man had no interest in her, she would have been surprised.

If a month ago, though, someone had revealed that Caroline would soon engage in an elaborate plot to marry off her cousin, that would have surprised her less.

The man who could choose Frances over Caroline was a man who could see all the way to their hearts. The ton was quite sure that Caroline had none; perhaps that was why it had taken to her so well this season. She was blithe and careless and amusing, and as long as she was very amusing, very blithe, and very, very expensive—that was all most men in London were looking for.

It was enough for Caroline for now. She had nine years of marriage, of quiet patience and solitary nursemaiding, to put behind her. The chaotic, empty amusements of London were exactly what she wanted.

But they were not enough for Frances. They were not enough for Henry. Thus the secret letters.

The letters had been hazardous to begin with; secret correspondences simply weren’t done by ladies of quality. They’d become still more dangerous once Frances confided that Henry thought they were from Caro.

It had seemed ridiculous to Caroline at first, because she knew quite well she could never ensnare anyone with words on a page. Her weapons were flicking fans and practiced smiles. Eventually, Caro was sure, Henry would figure out the truth: that it was Frances’s vivid soul to which he responded.

Caro had always muted her own reactions to Henry; she made sure to give him as many hints as she could without spoiling her cousin’s secret. Talked with him alone only when he wanted to fashion a gift for Frannie, and even then only within a room full of people. Hoped that the deception would be at an end, and Frances would find her way to happiness as Caro had not.

Maybe Frances would; maybe even today. Maybe even now happiness had marched into the morning room, all abashed pride, and laid itself at her feet.

The idea of such devotion was as bewitching and unlikely as borrowing the Crown jewels for a breakfast at home.

As Caroline stretched out on her bed and let the cool solitude soothe her, she could almost feel that she really was happy for her cousin and not envious at all.

Sixteen

“Come in,” Frances said in response to Henry’s knock at the half-open morning room door. “I can’t think what I did with your mistress’s bill. Do you have a copy with you?”

Her back was to Henry as she shuffled through a stack of papers atop a small saber-legged mahogany writing desk. Against the background of the rich orpiment-yellow walls, her coiled hair shone with the dark luster of Van Dyke brown pigment.

The sight of her heartened him, banishing a little of his apprehension. “Yes, mum. Seven hundred yards of silk and five thousand buttons,” he said in a nasal impression of a clerk.

Frances froze, then turned slowly to face him. “Good lord,” she said. “You’ve billed me for goods enough to dress every maiden making her come-out this year.”

“I take it you were expecting someone else?”

Her cheeks bled warm, and she hastily turned and shoved her papers beneath a blotter before facing him again. “Well, yes. Caroline’s modiste made her a very special gown for Lady Applewood’s next ball. I know it’s unfashionable to pay one’s bills promptly, but I think it the right thing to do. Only you are clearly not a modiste’s assistant.”

“Clearly not.”

She looked rather at a loss. “Ah… did you come to see Caro?”

“I’ve seen her already.”

Now she looked still more confused. “Do you need something from me, then? Tea or secret advice or… something I’m apparently not thinking of?” She trailed off, then crossed her arms as though warding off a chill.

Her gown was an unadorned Prussian blue, spare and dark. It reminded him of the Blue Room, of the quiet freedom therein. Maybe he could recapture that feeling with her.

Of course, no capture was ever easy or without casualty.

“I only need a listening ear,” he answered. “If you’ve the time.”

Lips parted, she stared at him for several seconds. “Yes. Certainly. Do come in.”

Frances spun the chair at the writing desk to face him and perched upon the end, watching him warily. And why shouldn’t she be wary of him? He walked through the doorway only to prowl around the furniture with the nervous energy of weeks of pent-up secrets, years away from intimacy with a woman.

Finally he sat on a sofa, a green scroll-armed affair that Bart would probably deem all the crack. “Look.” He stood, then sat down at the other end so he’d be closer to Frances. “Look, there’s something very particular I need to tell you, and I’m anxious that I not be interrupted. Would you be willing to lock the door?”

Her brows knit, but she nodded. Retrieving the key from a compartment in her littered desk, she went to do as he’d asked.

“You sound rather dire, Henry.” She reseated herself on the sofa with him rather than her chair, a small gesture of closeness that heartened him. “Is everything all right?”

“As much as it was the last time we saw one another.”

“That’s cryptic and not especially comforting,” she said.

He managed a smile. “I’m not here to comfort you. Nor to be cryptic. I need to tell you the truth about me.”

She blanched, the sickly pale of bismuth white pigment when exposed to sulfur. “The truth.”

This was not a good beginning; he hadn’t even told her anything yet and she looked horrified. “Yes, the truth. Perhaps you’ve heard of it,” he said a little more sharply than he’d meant to.

“Yes.” Her chin lifted, her shoulders pulled stiffly back. “Of course. I’m just surprised by the need for secrecy.”

“Ah.” His left hand found the cuff of his right sleeve and picked at the hem. “Well, I actually mean to do away with secrecy, at least with you.”

He pulled in a deep breath, feeling his chest expand within the binding layers of shirt, waistcoat, coat. “You once asked me if I wished to discuss the injury to my right arm. I think it’s time I do. You see, if you don’t know the truth about me, we’ll always be separated by it.”

This was rather a bold statement, which he amended when her eyes widened. “Everyone, I mean. I’ll be separated from everyone. Secrets separate everyone.” He pressed his lips together so he’d stop blurting things out.

She watched him with her Bossu-Wood eyes, all green and brown and still so wary. Her spine was straight as a tree, and her fingers were as tightly laced together as twigs in a nest. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said at last. “If you feel you must tell me something, I’ll be honored by the confidence.”

“You’re very kind,” he murmured.

“Not really.” She managed the first real grin he’d seen since he entered the room, and her poker-stiff shoulders relaxed a bit. “Just dreadfully curious. Ah… did you already tell… whatever you’re going to tell… to Caroline?”

“No.” His head snapped back. “No.” There was no place for Caroline in this room; he’d locked the door against her. Against the rest of the world. “I want to tell you. You have a gift for taking me as I am. That’s more important than anything Caro could write in a letter.”

Her cheeks flushed rosy, her lips parted. “You—choose me? Not the letters?”

“Not the letters,” he confirmed. “I’ve already explained things to Caro.”

Frances’s eyes widened; she looked as flushed and glowing as though she’d just been tumbled. A shaft of desire speared through the coils of tension, of worry, of lasting shame that kept Henry tightly wound. In the Blue Room, he’d touched her; he’d brought her close. Thus alone, maybe he could do that again.

Of course, that all depended on what she thought of him when he was done. But he knew it was time to tell her. It was a certainty in his gut, like knowing the right instant to pull the trigger on a pistol.

“And now I need to explain things to you.” He took a deep breath. “At Quatre Bras. That’s where my arm was hurt.” No, no sense in cloaking the truth in smooth words. “That’s where I lost the use of my arm. I won’t ever get it back.”

He studied the back of his left hand, still sun-browned from months campaigning across the Continent. Frances’s pale fingers reached for his and interlaced with them. “I know,” she said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”