Francesca turned back slowly. “Do you believe these salons will hasten that change?”
“I believe conversations influence decisions,” he said.
She studied him for another long moment, wondering if conversations would be enough. Perhaps there was a simple explanation for everything. Perhaps the discrepancies were nothing more than clerical misalignment or the overzealous adjustments of a bank clerk who had misunderstood a date. She very much wanted that to be true. “Very well,” she said at last. “Tell me about this gathering tomorrow.”
Kendall’s faint smile returned, calm and confident, and he proceeded to expound on the corruption of the new King George and fume about the recent Six Acts to suppress reform which had been passed in Parliament. Somewhere in the back of Francesca’s mind, despite her best efforts, Major Manners’ warning refused to fade. The way Kendall spoke against the new King was dangerously close to treason, and she wondered justhow far her friend would go to achieve his ideals. She had never seen him in such a passion.
“I must consult my diary for the morrow, but be assured I shall apprise you if I am not otherwise engaged.”
Kendall inclined his head, accepting the rebuff as though it were nothing more than sensible caution, yet the energy that had animated him did not wholly subside. It remained in the set of his shoulders, in the brightness of his gaze and in the very stillness with which he held himself—as if, in speaking of Parliament and suppression, he had touched something personal, some old grievance that had been waiting for permission to be named aloud. Francesca had never seen him thus.
“Of course,” he said lightly. “I would not have you commit yourself without due consideration. Only—” and here he softened his tone with practised care, the same care he used when writing to her of tenants and repairs, “—we need more who are in a position to act, Francesca. There are men who count upon the gentle inertia of caution.”
She felt the word ‘men’ settle upon her also, adding further weight.
“And there are gentlemen,” she returned, keeping her voice composed, “who would have me believe that every step must be taken at a run, simply because they are impatient with walking.”
A flicker of emotion—approval, amusement or perhaps something warmer—passed over his face.
“You did always prefer to think before you acted,” he said. “It is one of your more irritating virtues.”
She nearly smiled, and hated herself for how she doubted him. It would have been simpler had he been coarse, or grasping, or obviously unworthy; but Kendall was none of these. He had always been reasonable. He had always been comforting—until this morning.
“I am not refusing,” she said, because she wished him to understand that she was still herself, still mistress of her own judgement. “I am merely… cautious… and I do have engagements.”
He nodded once, as if he had expected no less. “Then permit me to be useful in a manner that will not offend your caution—or your social round.”
“How, pray, is that to be accomplished?” Francesca asked, for she could not resist the question.
Kendall’s glance moved—so briefly she might have imagined it—towards the cabinet where the ledgers were kept.
“You have concerns,” he said quietly, and she stiffened in spite of herself. “It is plain in your manner. You are not so easily disguised as you believe.”
“I have come to Town,” she replied, choosing her words with care, “and found that everyone believes himself entitled to notice my manner.”
“That is because you are worth noticing,” Kendall said promptly, then corrected himself with a faint clearing of his throat, as though he had spoken too warmly. “You are important, Francesca, you must not forget it. Your position—your name—your fortune—these are not ornaments. They are instruments—and instruments, in the wrong hands, can become weapons.”
It was a startling thing to hear from him, and more startling still because it echoed, in its way, what Major Manners had implied. Francesca folded her hands, forcing them to stillness. “If you have come to warn me,” she said, “I have already been warned.”
His brows rose. “By whom?”
She hesitated. Before she could answer, there came a discreet knock at the door, followed by Nelly’s face.
“Lady Upton has arrived, miss.”
Francesca closed her eyes for a heartbeat.
It was precisely the sort of timing at which Lady Upton excelled: not so abrupt as to be rude, not so convenient as to appear accidental. What could be more unexceptional than a visit in the morning—paid early enough to imply intimacy and late enough to be respectable? Lady Upton did nothing without arranging the effect of it.
“Show her in,” Francesca told the maid, rising.
Kendall moved at once, as though to withdraw. “I shall not intrude.”
“It is hardly an intrusion,” Francesca began automatically—and then stopped, because she felt the danger of saying too much.
His expression softened. “You need not reassure me,” he said. “I understand what she represents.”
Do you?Francesca thought, watching him.
