Caroline Carrington, the Viscountess of Ravenshaw.
Frances looked down at her unfinished novel, at the sensible aunt, the locked cabinet, the missing letter. Then she looked again at Lady Ravenshaw’s note.
For several days, she had tried to write herself into fiction because life had become too unruly. It seemed life had taken offense and answered in kind.
“You came,” Frances heard the woman address her even before she approached.
She halted upon the gravel path and found Lady Caroline Ravenshaw waiting beneath the thin shade of a plane tree. Hyde Park stretched around them in all its civilized openness: carriages rolling at a decorous pace along the drive, nursemaids steering children away from puddles, gentlemen on horseback pretending not to observe ladies who pretended not to notice them. It was a public place, and therefore proper. It was also, Frances thought, quite private enough for mischief.
Lady Ravenshaw stood a little apart from the usual stream of walkers. Her dark cloak was drawn close about her figure, and the veil of her bonnet softened her features without concealing the gravity upon them. Frances knew her only as one knew many ladies of rank: by sight, by reputation, by the occasional exchanged bow across a crowded room. They had never spoken properly before.
“I received your note,” Frances returned.
“Yes.” Lady Ravenshaw’s gloved hands tightened around the handle of her reticule. “I feared you might not.”
“I nearly did not.”
The viscountess looked at her more closely. “But curiosity prevailed?”
Frances lifted her brows. “Prudence, I hope.”
A faint, sad smile touched Lady Ravenshaw’s mouth and vanished. “Then I shall be grateful for prudence.”
Frances waited for the ordinary civilities: the weather, the pleasure of seeing her, some delicate reference to the season. None came. Lady Ravenshaw glanced once toward the passing carriages, then stepped nearer, lowering her voice.
“I will not waste your time with false pleasantries, Your Grace. I asked you here because I am concerned for you.”
“For me?” Frances repeated.
“Yes.”
It was very prettily said. Concern from strangers was a curious article, often offered with one hand while the other searched for a knife.
Frances inclined her head. “That is generous, considering we are scarcely acquainted.”
“I know.” Lady Ravenshaw’s eyes softened. “And perhaps that is precisely why I may speak where others will not. Those closest to a situation are not always those most willing to tell the truth.”
Something cold and quiet passed through Frances.
“The truth about what?”
Lady Ravenshaw drew in a breath, as though the answer pained her.
“The child in your husband’s household.”
Frances held herself very still. A gust of wind moved through the trees above them, stirring the dry branches until they whispered together.
“What of the child?” she asked.
Lady Ravenshaw’s expression became almost pitying.
“She ishis.”
Frances did not speak.
The viscountess continued, softly and with dreadful care. “There was an affair with a maid in his household. A young woman, unprotected, dependent upon his goodwill. When she found herself with child, His Grace hid her away. After the birth, he refused to acknowledge the truth publicly.”
“No.” The word came at once, instinctive and low.
