“Would you like me to fetch His Grace?” Mrs. Betsworth asked from the doorway and Frances’ eyes sprang open again in alarm. “I am sure he would want to know if you are taken ill.”
“No!” she gasped. “I do not want the duke to see me like this, so upset over a silly letter. It would make me ridiculous. I shall be well again presently, I assure you.”
Looking rather doubtful, the housekeeper nodded but departed on her errand to obtain the promised tea. Alone in the parlor, Frances sank her head into her hands.
Chapter Eighteen
“Ithought you should know, Your Grace, although I do not like to break Her Grace’s confidence,” Mrs. Betsworth finished with a sigh after relating the story of burnt letter and France’s subsequent upset. “She was very clear that she wished to be left alone.”
“Did the duchess say who sent this letter?” Ambrose asked with a frown, feeling a protective stirring in his blood. “I shall certainly warn them off any future such attacks if I find out.”
“No, your grace. Only that it was from someone who resented not being invited to the wedding.”
“A former schoolfriend or distant cousin perhaps,” he speculated aloud with a sigh. “How excitable some people get over such occasions. Well, as my wife wishes me not to know, I shall say nothing for now, but I thank you for this intelligence, Mrs. Betsworth.”
The housekeeper nodded and began to retreat.
“Very good, Your Grace. I thought you would want to know.”
“One more thing, Mrs. Betsworth. Ask anyone who deals with the mail to bring everything to the breakfast table for the next few weeks rather than leaving it in the hall. If this person sends further letters, I would like to be present when the duchess opens them. I will not have her harassed on so slight an account.”
After Mrs. Betsworth left his study, Ambrose looked into space as he pondered his next move. It troubled him to think of Frances upset and alone but she was always so clear in asserting her need for independence and fear of intimacy that it felt an intrusion even to seek her out.
Ambrose had hoped that Frances would come to him by now, but it was very possible that she did not know how, regardless of how pleasurable an experience they had shared in the library.
On the currently hesitant basis of their relationship, nor did the Duke of Westall feel able to do as his grandmother advised and clear the air over the terms of his father’s will. That would have to wait. In the meantime, he tried to convince himself that it really didn’t matter.
That night Ambrose stood in the doorway of Winnie’s bedroom as Frances read a bedtime story but very deliberately made no attempt to approach her. Glancing across occasionally ashe listened, he observed the finely drawn lines of her graceful profile and the affection in her smile as she looked at Winifred.
There was some slight air of sadness to Frances today, but that was the only apparent trace of the unpleasant affair with the letter. Ambrose wished that they were in a position where he could simply lay a hand on her shoulder for reassurance, or even ask her what was troubling her, but they were not.
Once the child was asleep, the duke bid his wife a respectful goodnight and went to his rooms alone.
Two days later, it was the Duke of Westall who received an unexpected letter rather than his wife.
As instructed by the duke, the early post was brought to them in the breakfast room where they sat at the round table by the window, discussing the weather and whether Winnie might go out with Frances on her pony later in the afternoon.
Being in the middle of pouring himself another coffee, Ambrose let Frances glance at the tray first and look through its contents, picking out only one letter and smiling as soon as she saw the handwriting.
“I have a letter from Beatrice,” she told him. “The others are all for you, Ambrose, except for the last which feels like aninvitation card and is addressed to both of us. If you wish, I will open that after I have read my sister’s message.”
“As you prefer,” he returned, adding some cream to his coffee and then reaching for his letters. “Do accept the invitation for both of us, if you wish it.”
Two looked to be from his agent and were expected estate business while one came from Edinburgh, presumably from cousins who lived there and were likely planning to visit London again soon. A fourth letter was very light and addressed in Mr. Vennels’ familiar hand, probably only confirmation that the bank had completed transfer of Winifred’s trust.
A fifth letter was addressed to him in an unfamiliar hand, firm but a little more decorative than the average, as though the writer sought to leave a distinct impression. The London address on the back was not known to him. Ambrose sniffed deliberately as his nose detected some slightly exotic, but not entirely unknown, scent. He realized that it was rising from the paper.
Puzzled but not wary, Ambrose broke the seal and unfolded the letter before almost choking on his coffee. It was from Miss Annabelle Sinclair, writing to him at Westall Park on paper liberally sprayed with her scent. Good Lord, this was a liberty too far! He had assumed that his marriage would end his pursuit by all young ladies, even Annabelle Sinclair.
“Is something wrong, Ambrose?” Frances asked him, seeing his reaction and glancing curiously at him.
Your Grace,
Forgive me for taking the liberty of writing to you without invitation. I have decided to forgive you for not inviting me to your rather unexpected wedding…
Recently, I received information that I believe might benefit us both. I therefore beg your leave to call on you at Westall Park at your earliest convenience. You will not regret it.
Yours always
