Renforth regarded him with quiet approval. “How do you propose to gain access without raising her suspicion?”
Arch held his gaze evenly. “By asking.”
Stuart laughed softly. “When she demands to know why, what will you tell her?”
“I will tell her,” Arch said, “that I distrust incompetence and that Sir Percival asked me to.”
Stuart smiled faintly. “A bold strategy, indeed.”
“It is the only one that preserves her trust,” Arch replied.
Renforth studied him for a long moment. “Very well. Proceed carefully. If Kendall senses inquiry, we do not know how he will react.”
Arch nodded once. As the discussion dispersed, the unease in his chest settled into something more defined. This was no longer theoretical politics or distant agitation. This wasproximity. This was tampering with a woman who believed herself in command of her estate.
If Kendall had altered even one figure without her knowledge, the injury would not merely be financial, it would be personal, and Arch, for reasons he preferred not to examine too closely, found that possibility intolerable.
Upstairs, in the quiet of his chamber, he removed his coat and stood for a long moment at the window overlooking the square. London lay hushed beneath a thin veil of mist, its streets holding secrets as naturally as a man breathed.
He had followed her because it was his assignment. Nevertheless, beneath all of that, there remained the image of her standing in lamplight, auburn hair disciplined but luminous and eyes bright green, as she spoke of responsibility and reform as though the words themselves carried weight.
She was a composed woman now, sharpened by grief and ownership and the knowledge that men would either patronize or pursue her.
He had not been prepared for the possibility that she might not require protection from herself at all—but from the far subtler currents moving beneath London’s polished surface.
He exhaled slowly and extinguished the lamp.
Tomorrow, he would call upon her properly as the man assigned to stand between her and whatever might mistake her vulnerability for opportunity.
CHAPTER 6
Francesca had risen early with the determined intention of mastering her daily correspondence before London could intrude upon her thoughts. The morning light in her sitting room was pale but illuminating the small escritoire where she kept the most recent estate summaries. Her fashionable morning gown of rose lawn did not keep the chill at bay, so she pulled one of her mother’s old shawls about her shoulders. She had just broken the seal on a letter from Warwickshire, regarding loom repairs, when the butler announced Major Manners. Francesca did not immediately look up. She finished the paragraph she was reading, placed the sheet neatly aside, and only then permitted herself to meet his gaze. He stood precisely where propriety dictated, his expression polite but unyielding.
“Miss Vale,” he said with a slight inclination of the head.
“Major Manners,” she replied coolly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She had resolved not to show irritation at his presence, yet the word pleasure required deliberate effort. He seemed to recognize that fact and did not pretend otherwise. She became aware, despite herself, of the care in his appearance. His darkcoat, impeccably cut, lent a quiet authority to his already composed manner, while the stark whiteness of his cravat drew the eye upward to a face that betrayed little but attention. There was nothing careless in him—not in the fall of his sleeve, nor the set of his shoulders—and she found, with some irritation, that even his restraint carried a kind of distinction.
Before she could say more, the footman appeared—and held out a small silver tray. Upon it lay two calling cards.
Francesca did not touch them. “Who has called?” she asked, with a weariness that was far older than one-and-twenty.
“Mr. Harcourt, miss,” the footman said, and then, after a fractional pause that betrayed respect, “and Lord Ashbourne.”
Nelly, hovering at the door with ill-disguised interest, made a small sound—half amusement, half alarm.
Major Manners’ gaze flicked, very briefly, to the cards. His expression did not change; it merely shifted in a way Francesca recognized as the polite face of displeasure.
“Tell them,” Major Manners said, “that Miss Vale is not receiving callers today.”
The footman withdrew, clearly relieved to be spared further particulars.
“You dare to answer for me? I had not the choice of refusing you.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“No.”
