Lady Upton entered with the same effortless radiance she brought to drawing rooms and dining tables, as if she carried her own candlelight. She wore a gown of pale blue, trimmed with the sort of lace that advertised expense without vulgarity, and she smiled upon Francesca with a benevolence that required no invitation.
“My dear Miss Vale,” she said, taking both of Francesca’s hands as if they were already family. “How are you this morning? I feared you must be overwhelmed—so many calls, so many engagements, so many eager faces. I thought you might be in want of an experienced duenna to advise you.”
Francesca managed the proper expression of gratitude. “You are very kind, Lady Upton.”
Lady Upton’s gaze fell upon Kendall. “I see you have company already,” she added, still smiling. “How delightful.”
Kendall bowed with professional ease. “Lady Upton. Allow me to introduce myself: Thomas Kendall.”
Lady Upton’s smile did not change, but something in her eyes did. Francesca saw assessment, calculation, and an interest sharpened by the fact that he was not a gentleman of her ladyship’s circle; and yet he stood in Francesca’s sitting-room as though he belonged there.
“Mr. Kendall,” she repeated in a manner that suggested she was tasting the name.
“I have the honour of assisting with Miss Vale’s estate affairs,” Kendall replied, precisely modest.
“A young lady alone must find it a comfort to have such… assistance,” Lady Upton murmured.
Francesca felt Kendall’s attention shift—not to Lady Upton, but to her, as if he sought her cue. It was a small thing, almost nothing; yet in that instant she understood that Kendall had been practising this relationship for years: waiting upon her signals, taking his direction from her, placing himself where she required him. It had once felt like devotion. Now—after Major Manners’ warning—it felt like something more complicated: the intimacy of access.
“Miss Vale and I were discussing a possible engagement for tomorrow, but she must consult her diary,” Kendall said smoothly.
“Ah,” Lady Upton said. “How wise. These diaries grow tyrannical in Town; and yet one must be tyrannical in return, otherwise Society devours one.”
Francesca wondered, not for the first time, whether Lady Upton devoured Society instead.
Lady Upton turned her full attention upon Francesca. “I have come with something of a plan,” she announced, in the tone of a woman offering rescue. “An at-home—not large or overwhelming. Only a small weekly gathering, to allow you to receive a few select people in a manner that is entirely proper and entirely within your control.”
“My control?” Francesca repeated, with a faint dryness she could not entirely conceal.
Lady Upton laughed as though Francesca had made a charming jest. “Yes, yes—your control. You must have some place in which to allow a few gentlemen of consequence to make your acquaintance in a less chaotic setting than a ballroom.” Her smile remained serenely maternal. “I know you are still in mourning in spirit, if not in dress, but one cannot avoid being looked at, and it is better to be looked at by the right people.”
Kendall, standing near the door, remained perfectly still. If he resented being excluded from the category of ‘the right people,’ he did not show it. If he approved of Lady Upton’s strategy, he did not show that either. His expression was calm—too calm, Francesca thought, for a man who had just finished speaking of reform with near-treasonous heat.
Lady Upton’s gaze warmed. “Mr. Fergus Harcourt has asked after you.”
“Mr. Harcourt?” she repeated cautiously.
“Yes,” Lady Upton said, as though she had just offered Francesca a particularly handsome ribbon. “A most intelligent man, if somewhat of a mind for reform—” she said as though it were a mark against him. “He speaks beautifully in the Commons. He has even made himself odious to certain gentlemen by expressing sympathy for—” she lowered her voice a fraction, “—female inheritance rights.”
“That is… uncommon,” Francesca said, because it was the only safe thing to say.
“Uncommon,” Lady Upton agreed, delighted, “and therefore notable. He is precisely the sort of gentleman you might enjoy speaking to. He does not merely praise a lady’s hair and sigh; he asks questions. He listens. I have even heard him say—quite seriously—that women ought to have more say in how their estates are managed.”
Francesca could not help the flare of interest that rose against her will. To be understood—to be treated as someone with a mind rather than a commodity—was a temptation more dangerous than any flirtation.
“Is he,” Francesca asked softly, “‘sincere’, however?”
Lady Upton’s smile deepened, as if she had been waiting for that question. “He is ambitious,” she said lightly, as though ambition were a virtue, “but ambition can be directed. It can be made useful. And, my dear, we are all obliged to be useful.”
Francesca felt her own thoughts fracture into uneasy paths. Mr. Harcourt sounded… appealing. He sounded like the sort of gentleman she might once have admired from afar—safe enough to speak with, clever enough to understand her, and progressive enough to support her principles instead of dismissing them.
Lady Upton watched her with practised precision. “Lord Ashbourne has asked after you as well.”
Francesca’s head lifted. “I danced with him once.”
Lady Upton’s tone became ever so slightly more solemn, as though she were speaking of a responsibility rather than a gentleman. “He comes from old blood, has a considerable fortune and is perfectly respectable. He is the sort of gentleman of whom Sir Percival approves.”
Of course he was, Francesca thought crossly.
