When he glanced back up, he caught Emily looking at him with a bemused expression, a trace of mischief still in her eyes. She had seen him let down his guard and show that he was capable of something other than a stern glare. And yet, the very fact that she now appeared to see right through him set his forehead in deep furrows. She looked away, but not before he noticed that the glimmer behind her eyes had dulled. Only a hopeless sadness remained.
“So?” He heard a voice ask. It was Claire. “What’s the big secret?”
“What big secret?” Francis asked with a grin.
Claire rolled her eyes as she sighed with exasperation. “Do I need to tickle you again, Francis? Or is it enough if I remind you that you lost. I think I’ve earned the right to know.”
“Let the poor girl out of her misery, Francis,” Beatrice declared. “Unless of course you want me to tell her.”
“I suppose you’re right. Go ahead then, tell her.”
“Very well,” Beatrice said as she straightened her back. “Francis has graciously given us the opportunity to attend the most important balls of the season.” Claire let out a squeal of delight, which Beatrice silenced by raising her hand. “In order for us to do so, however, we must dress appropriately. Francis has generously offered to cover all costs, and I have accepted. So, both you, Claire, and you, Emily, will be making your debuts this season amongst the very elite that society has to offer. It’s a gift that mustn’t be passed up.”
Her last words were stern, taking on a demanding tone. She held Emily’s gaze as she spoke them, for she knew that her sister would protest with every fiber of her being. Emily was suffering and she wanted space and time in which to do so. She didn’t want to accept what she would surely term “charity” from anyone, least of all from Francis.
Beatrice understood her sister’s reasoning, of course. But Francis was right. Beatrice had no idea why he was being so helpful and so kind, but she knew that the chance was unlikely to present itself twice. She would have to be firm, she realized, but she was confident that Emily would eventually do as she was asked. She would simply have to tell her younger sister how much this might affect all of them and that she mustn’t say no—if not for her own sake, then for Claire’s.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Attempting to hide his surprise to the best of his abilities, Jonathan regarded his friend and employer hesitantly. “Do you have any idea how much time and effort will be involved? Not to mention the expense . . .” He let out a sigh as he shook his head in bewilderment. “What were you thinking, Francis? Taking three grown women under your wing like that . . . it’s completely out of character.”
Francis eyed Jonathan suspiciously. “What are you saying? That I’m not capable of being charitable and kind?”
“I merely . . .”
“I know what everyone thinks of me, Jonathan,” Francis said, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare try and sugar it over for me. Not you, of all people. It’s what I value most about your friendship—your unfailing honesty and your loyalty. You’re never afraid of saying it as it is . . . I wish more people would be that way.”
“Very well then,” Jonathan told him firmly. “No, I don’t think you’re capable of being that charitable or kind, unless there’s some reason behind it that I’m unaware of. So . . . what’s your angle, old friend?”
Slumping down into a brown leather armchair, Francis’s hand caught his chin as he rested his elbow against one of the fat side arms. He let out an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know,” he muttered, glancing across at Jonathan as he spoke.
Jonathan echoed his sigh and rubbed the brim of his nose between his thumb and his index finger. “Have you had any thoughts as to who might be able, and, more importantly, willing to sponsor them for the duration of the season? Your aunt won’t do—she’s much too old to take on such a strenuous task.”
“I didn’t think . . .”
“Clearly!” Jonathan remarked as he let out another exasperated sigh, shaking his head in frustration. It was fortuitous that he and Francis had known each other for as long as they had, or he might have been looking for a new job that very instant. But that wasn’t the case. They were like brothers, so when Jonathan occasionally happened to give Francis hell, it never amounted to anything more than friendly banter.
“Just for the sake of asking,” Jonathan continued with a sudden look of hope upon his face, “is there any chance at all that you might be tempted to tell these women that you’ve had a change of heart?”
Francis’s expression grew dark. He was a man of his word and he intended to keep it. “None,” he said flatly.
“I didn’t think so.” Jonathan paused for a moment. Resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair, he arched his fingers below his chin. “So who could sponsor them? Doing it yourself is completely out of the question—I hope I don’t have to explain that much to you.”
Francis frowned as he ran his fingers over the brim of his glass. Jonathan was right. It would be most unseemly for a gentleman to escort unmarried women about town when he wasn’t even related to them. And while Genevieve would ensure that nobody would frown at the fact that they were his houseguests, Jonathan did make a valid point—he couldn’t expect her to stay out until the early hours of the morning, when even he considered this to be somewhat grueling. But if not her, then who? For Claire and Emily, it would be their coming-out balls. They would need a woman of some degree of social standing to take them under her wing. He had given it some serious thought, and had decided that he had just the right person in mind. He turned his eyes on Jonathan. “Baroness Giddington,” he said.
Jonathan gave Francis an immediate smile of approval, though it was tinged with a mischievous smirk. “You don’t think she’ll plow them into obscurity? The woman has a lot of presence.”
“I know what you’re getting at, Jon, and I must admit that I did think about that possibility quite a bit myself.”
“And?”
“And I’ve decided that she’s still the best option. She’s a close friend of mine—with no children of her own—who loves to shop. She would jump at the opportunity, turning this into her very own pet project, I can assure you.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you for a minute, old friend. The woman takes great pride in being one of the most talked-about socialites in London. She attends every ball there is, never wearing the same gown more than once. One is truly inclined to pity her poor husband.”
“Why? Lord Giddington is quite content with having a wife as lovely and charming as Veronica. And besides, she does her part, too, in order to finance all of those lovely gowns of hers. If it weren’t for her and her natural ability to connect with people, I’m quite certain that Giddington’s ventures wouldn’t thrive as well as they do.”
Jonathan tilted his head to the side as he scrunched up his mouth, raising an eyebrow as if attempting to visualize Baroness Giddington escorting Beatrice, Emily, and Claire about town. “All right. Baroness Giddington it is,” he said firmly. “You ought to call on her as soon as possible to discuss the situation with her. What if she refuses?”
Francis ignored the question as he picked up a random leather-bound book from the bookshelf and began leafing through it. “Why don’t you stop by her house tomorrow and invite her to join us for tea? The sooner we get started on this, the better.”
“You look nervous,” Francis said as he took in the scene. He had just come into the parlor to find the three sisters sitting stiffly, side by side on a scarlet chaise longue. “She doesn’t bite, you know.”
“It’s Baroness Giddington,” Beatrice barely managed to get out. “Everyone has heard of her, even we who have been secluded in the countryside for the past six years. Of course we’re nervous.”
“Don’t be,” he told them. “She’s a lovely lady and I’m sure she’ll be quite fond of you. However, you do conjure up the image of disobedient schoolgirls unhappily waiting to be scolded.” His attempt at lighthearted humor wasn’t lost on Emily, as she looked up at him with growing curiosity.
Pretending not to notice, he rested his hand gently against the back of a cream dupioni silk chair. “Beatrice. Would you please come and sit over here? And Claire, why don’t you pick up your needlework from the basket over there. It will give your hands something to do besides twisting at the fabric of your dress.”
As they rearranged themselves in an attempt not to appear affected by the Baroness’s visit, the sound of the doorbell chiming suddenly froze them all in place. “It appears her ladyship has arrived,” Francis remarked, breaking the strained silence. He cast a quick glance about the room. “Take a deep breath, ladies, and just relax. Oh, and Emily, do try to smile a little. You look positively glum.”
The remark had no other effect than to aggravate Emily even further. Following her conversation with Beatrice, she had finally agreed to join her sisters at least once during the upcoming season. Not for her own sake, but for that of Beatrice and Claire, who had stubbornly refused to go without her. She had very rationally concluded that, since she had no intention of securing a husband for herself, all the money spent on gowns for her would be a ridiculous waste.
Now, Emily suddenly had the urge to leap from her seat, run upstairs, and lock herself in her room. Her eyes were already navigating around the furniture in search of the fastest escape route when a shrill voice interrupted her train of thought.
“Francis!” Veronica made her appearance with outstretched arms in a dress and bonnet that Emily wasn’t likely to forget, ever. It was bright blue in color, trimmed with scarlet ribbons. Over it she wore a Spencer jacket in a deep shade of green. Her bonnet was dressed with matching ribbons and feathers so fluffy that Emily immediately likened her to a peacock. Even her cheerful greeting sounded like a squawk, now that she thought about it.
“Let me introduce you to the three Rutherford sisters,” Emily heard Francis say.
A pained expression passed over Veronica’s face as she held out her hand toward Beatrice. “I knew your parents quite well . . . quite well, indeed,” she said. “What a tragedy.”
“You are most kind, my lady,” Beatrice replied as she gave her a polite nod.
Stillness followed as a heavy blanket of silence settled over them, each of them thinking—with the appropriate amount of respect—just how tragic the loss of Lord and Lady Hillsbury had been. But something about Lady Giddington’s attire and voice—coupled with her solemn demeanor—just looked too much like a parody for Emily to take seriously. She couldn’t help but find herself biting down on her lower lip in an attempt not to laugh.
But then suddenly it happened all the same, in spite of her efforts.
It began with the twitch of her lower lip as it took on a life of its own, rippling outward to the corners of her mouth and forcing them upward into a helpless smile. She instantly clasped one hand over her mouth in a frantic attempt to silence the sound that was coming from her throat. The result was that she half-spluttered, half-coughed, her eyes painfully wide as she desperately wished a hole would emerge in the oriental carpet and mercifully swallow her up.