It was that touch that did it. A whole flood of emotion spilled forth from Frances, translating itself into words as it came.

“I have met Viscount Sinclair before,” she said in a rush, “and would far rather not have met him again.” The rawness of the distress she had been forced to hold deep within herself for the past hour and a half lodged itself in her throat and chest.

“Oh, poor Frances,” Anne said. “He is someone from your past? How unfortunate that he should come to Bath. I suppose he did not know you were here.”

“It was not very long ago,” Frances said. “Do you remember the snowfall after Christmas that delayed my return to school? I did not remain with my great-aunts as I let you all believe at the time. I had already started back here when the snow began. My carriage ended up buried in a snowbank when Viscount Sinclair overtook it and then stopped suddenly because there was a snowdrift ahead of him. He took me on to the closest inn, and we spent the following day in company with each other. He brought me back here as soon as the road was clear. He knew that I lived in Bath, you see.”

But he had come back here anyway. He had not called on her here, though—of course he had not. This evening’s meeting had been quite by chance. His manner, both when she first saw him standing in the drawing room doorway—ghastly moment!—and when he had approached her with the earl, had been stiff and unsmiling. He had been quite displeased, in fact.

He had no business being displeased. He knew she lived in Bath.

“I am sorry,” she said again. “Both for not telling you all then and for telling you now. It was a slight incident at the time, so slight that it did not seem worthy of mention. I was just a little shaken to see him again tonight so unexpectedly, that is all. I am sorry. Did you all have a pleasant evening?”

But they were all looking at her quite solemnly, and she knew that she had not deceived them for a moment. What a foolish thing to say, after all, that about the incident’s having been so slight that she had not even thought it worth mentioning.

“It would have been very quiet,” Anne said, “except that Miriam Fitch and Annabelle Hancock got into a fight again just before bedtime and Matron was obliged to send for Claudia.”

“But no blood was shed,” Miss Martin added, patting Frances briskly on the arm and removing her hand. “So we must not complain. Now, Frances, do you need me to find some task for you that simply must be performed after school tomorrow? Do you wish me to absolutely refuse to reprieve you in order that you might take tea with the earl and his grandchildren? I can be a marvelous tyrant when I wish to be, as you very well know.”

“No.” Frances sighed. “I said I would go, and it would be unfair of me now to expect you to get me out of it, Claudia. I will go. It is really no big thing at all.”

She got to her feet again and bade them all good night. She really did feel mortally tired, though she doubted she would be able to sleep. And now she felt bad at having unburdened herself—or half unburdened herself anyway—to her friends, who must think her a complete ninnyhammer.

An added irritant to her already troubled mind was the fact that Mr. Blake had misinterpreted her insistence upon sitting with him at supper—as well he might. He had caught hold of her hand in the carriage on the way back to the school and raised it to his lips. He had told her that he was proud and gratified to have been her chosen escort for the evening. Fortunately he had not said—or done!—anything more ardent than that, but even that much had seriously discomposed her.

She had never been a tease, but this evening she had come close to being just that, albeit unwittingly.

Anne caught up to her on the stairs and took her arm and squeezed it.

“Poor Frances,” she said. “I can see that you have had a nasty shock this evening. And of course the very fact that you suppressed the truth after Christmas suggests that Viscount Sinclair meant more to you than you care to admit. You do not have to admit it now either. We are your friends to share your secrets when you need to divulge them, and to leave you in peace with those you would prefer to guard. We all have and need secrets. But perhaps tomorrow will help you put some ghosts to rest.”

“Perhaps,” Frances agreed. “Thank you, Anne. One would think I would have learned my lesson more than three years ago—I have not even told you the full story of what happened before I came here, have I? But it seems I did not learn. Why do women tumble so foolishly into love?”

“Because we have so much love to give,” Anne said. “Because it is our nature to love. How could we nurture children if we were not so prone to tumbling headlong into love with even the scrawniest mites to whom we might give birth? Falling in love with men is only a symptom of our general condition, you know. We are sorry creatures, but I do not believe I would be different even if I could. Would you?”

Had Anne loved David’s father? Frances wondered briefly. Was there some terrible tragedy in Anne’s past that she knew nothing about? She supposed there must be.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “I have never had a son on whom to lavish my affections as you have, Anne. Sometimes life seems—empty. And how ungrateful that sounds when I have this home and this profession and you and Susanna and Claudia.”

“And Mr. Blake,” Anne said.

“And Mr. Blake.”

They both laughed softly and took their leave of each other for the night.

Frances leaned her head back against the closed door when she was finally inside her room. She closed her eyes, but she could not stop a few hot tears from escaping and rolling down her cheeks.

She had actually been feeling happy—not just contented or gratified or pleased, but happy. Mr. Blake had been attentive but not cloyingly so all evening. He had been an amiable, interesting companion. She had considered him quite seriously as a possible beau and had decided that she really would be foolish to discourage him. It felt good to be in company with a man again and to feel herself liked and even admired. Her decision had pleased her. It meant that she had finally put behind her that slight incident after Christmas as well as everything from years ago. It meant that she was looking to a brighter future.

And she had been singing again. That was what had caused the active happiness. She did not care that perhaps she had chosen the wrong song. The point was that she had chosen what she wanted to sing, and though she had been absorbed in the singing of it, as she always was when she performed, she had also been aware that in fact it had not been the wrong song after all. She had sensed the favorable reaction of her listeners, and she had felt that almost-forgotten excitement of forging with them the strong, joyful, invisible bond that could sometimes unite artist and audience. When she had finished singing and heard the momentary hush that followed the final bars of the music, she had known—ah, yes, that was when she had known happiness.

And then she had opened her eyes and smiled about at her audience and . . .

And had found herself gazing at Lucius Marshall.

At first there had been simple, mindless shock. And then the plunge from happiness to wretchedness had been total. And now she felt mortally weary.

He was back in Bath when she no longer wanted him to be there. Only now would she admit to herself that for days, even weeks, after his departure she had hoped and hoped that he would come back.

How foolish and unreasonable of her!

Now he had come back, but he had made no attempt to call upon her. He would no doubt have left again without her ever knowing he had been here if there had not been the accident of tonight’s meeting.

It hurt that he had made no attempt to see her.

There was no such thing as common sense, it seemed, in affairs of the heart.

When Lucius knocked on the door of Miss Martin’s school the following afternoon he was admitted by an elderly, stoop-shouldered porter, who wore a black coat shiny with age, boots that squeaked with every step he took, and a shrewd squint that said as clearly as words that every man who stepped over the threshold was to be considered an enemy to be watched closely.

Lucius cocked an eloquent eyebrow at the man as he was shown into a not-quite-shabby visitors’ parlor and shut firmly inside while the porter went to inform Miss Allard of his lordship’s arrival. But it was not she who was first to come. It was another lady—of medium height and ramrod-straight posture and severe demeanor. Even before she introduced herself, Lucius realized that this must be Miss Martin herself, despite the fact that she was younger than he might have expected, surely no more than a year or two older than himself.

“Miss Allard will be another five minutes yet,” she explained after introducing herself. “She is conducting a practice with the senior choir.”

“Is she indeed, ma’am?” he said briskly. “You are fortunate to have such an accomplished musician as a teacher here.”

It had bothered him—or his pride anyway—for a whole month before he put her from his mind that Frances had chosen to teach at a girls’ school rather than go away with him. But since last evening he had found himself even more bothered that anyone with such a truly glorious voice could have chosen a teaching career when an illustrious career as a singer could have been hers with the mere snap of her fingers. It made no sense to him. She made no sense to him. And the fact that he did not know her, did not understand her, had kept him awake and irritable through much of the night. He scarcely knew her at all, he realized, and yet he was allowing her to haunt him again as no other woman had come close to doing.

“And no one is more sensible of that fact than I, Lord Sinclair,” Miss Martin said, folding her hands at her waist. “It is gratifying to have her talent recognized by no less a person than the earl, your grandfather, and I am pleased that he has seen fit to invite her to take tea with him. However, Miss Allard has duties at this school and will need to be back here by half past five.”

By the time this headmistress grew into an old battle-ax, Lucius thought, she would have had much practice. No doubt her girls—and her teachers—were all terrified of her. Good lord, it was almost a quarter to four now.

“I shall return her here not even one second past the half hour, ma’am,” he said, raising his eyebrows and regarding her with cool hauteur. But if she felt in any way intimidated, she did not show it.

“I wish I could spare a maid to accompany her,” she said, “but I cannot.”

Good Lord!

“You must trust to my gentleman’s honor, then, ma’am,” he told her curtly.

She did not like him—or trust him. That was perfectly clear. The reason was less so. Did she know about that episode after Christmas? Or did she just distrust all men? He would wager that it was the latter.

And this was what Frances had chosen over him? It was enough to make a man turn to some serious drinking. But then this was what she must have chosen over a singing career too.

And then the door opened and Frances herself stepped into the room. She was dressed as she had been up on the

Royal Crescent

, in a fawn-colored dress with a short brown spencer over it and an unadorned brown bonnet. She also wore a tight, set expression on her face, as if she had steeled herself for a dreadful ordeal. She looked, in fact, remarkably like the prunish shrew whom he had hauled out of an overset carriage just after Christmas and dumped on a snowy road—except that her nose was not red-tipped today or her mouth spewing fire and brimstone.

He would have left her there knee deep in snow to fend for herself if he had known half the trouble she was going to cause him.

“Miss Allard?” He swept her his most elegant bow.

“Lord Sinclair.” She curtsied, her eyes as cool and indifferent as if he had been a fly on the wall.

“I have informed Viscount Sinclair,” Miss Martin said, “that he is to have you back here at precisely half past five, Frances.”

Her eyes flickered, perhaps with surprise.

“I will not be late,” she promised, and turned to leave the room without waiting to see if Lucius was ready to follow her.

A minute or two later they were seated side by side in his carriage, and it was turning onto Sutton Street before swinging around in a great arc onto Great Pulteney Street. She was clinging to the leather strap above her head, presumably so that she would not sway sideways and inadvertently brush against his arm.