“Yes, we met when I was still Lady Francesca Cranwell. During my Season.”
She walked away, toward the back of the house, Bevel trotting along beside her.
“Have anything to warm up a fellow?” Dagenham rubbed his hands together and strode into the library.
Mutely, Kittredge followed. Dagenham went over to a decanter on top of a pile of books.
“I don’t understand,” Kittredge finally got out.
“That must be very discomfiting for you. I don’t understand what she’s doing in your house, so we both don’t understand something.” Dagenham chuckled and sat in front of the fire with his glass.
“Why was she Lady Francesca before and now she’s not?”
Dagenham crossed his legs and balanced his hat on one knee. “You don’t remember the scandal when the Marquess of Merrifield died last year?”
Kittredge had no interest intonscandals. And he couldn’t remember what he had never known.
“The marquess was her father. His marchioness was the daughter of some Italian count. She died giving birth to the son, I think. Then, after the marquess died, it came out they had never been married by a Church of England clergyman. Only by a Catholic priest in Italy. Lady Francesca and her brother were declared illegitimate. The brother lost the title.”
Kittredge was overwhelmed by his own profound loss.
His grief.
For a few seconds, he’d had a possible wife within his grasp. A daughter of even the lowliest baron could be potentially polished up into a duchess. And Franny was a woman who tolerated him. A woman he wanted to touch and to bed and to . . . oh, all kinds of things that didn’t even have to do with a bed. He wanted to make her laugh. Make her raw toast. Tickle her. Absurd.
And now his wife was gone.
Franny was a by-blow, and he could never marry her. Dukes didn’t marry bastards. Nobody with a title did. No wonder Franny said she’d never marry.
Dagenham shot Kittredge a quizzical look. “And you were going to the Christmas rout of the current Marquess of Merrifield?”
Kittredge grunted.
Dagenham laughed. “Oh, this is rich. The marquess is Lady Francesca’s former betrothed. Used to be the ordinary baronet, Sir Michael Sempleton.”
“Really?”
“Yes. His estate adjoined the Merrifield march. And he was engaged to Lady Francesca for years and years. Broke it off when her father died and then went and petitioned his pal Prinny to have the title transferred to him since otherwise it would go extinct.”
“What?”
“Yes. Rumor has it he somehow knew the children weren’t legitimate and he got engaged to Lady Francesca just to get close to the family and make sure the father didn’t remarry and produce a legitimate heir. The Semp never intended to marry her, at all. He was just waiting for the father to die so he could grab the title. And he spread it all around she’d granted him unmentionable liberties. Now you do some explaining. Why’s she here?”
“She’s friends with my cook,” Kittredge mumbled and went over to the decanter. He needed whisky. A large amount. He poured himself a tumbler full and drank half of it in one enormous gulp. Then he was coughing and Dagenham was at his side, thumping on his back.
“Easy there. Looks like she’s friends with Bevel, too.”
Kittredge finally recovered himself. “Stop hitting me. Yes. He likes her.”
“And you?” Dagenham grinned. “She’s very pretty, Kittredge. A lively little chit. I always thought she was far too good for the Semp. She might be . . .”
“What? What might she be?”
“She might be a nice woman for you to get to know.”
Kittredge took a threatening step toward Dagenham. “What do you mean by that?”
“Easy, easy, easy. I don’t mean anything. I just . . . it’s nice she’s in your house, that’s all. It’s nice for you to have the chance to converse with a woman.”
