Lady Ravenshaw’s gaze did not waver. “I am sorry.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I wish I were.”
Frances felt her fingers tighten inside her muff. She had expected many things from this meeting: some piece of gossip, some hint, some veiled request or warning. She had not expected this. Or perhaps she had feared it, which was far worse.
Andrew’s silence rose before her. She remembered his evasions whenever the child’s origins were mentioned, the careful arrangements and the haste with which he had offered her his name when scandal attached itself to them both.
No.
She would not allow the pieces to arrange themselves merely because a stranger had placed them before her.
“Such an accusation,” Frances spoke calmly, “requires more than concern.”
“I know.”
“Then why bring it to me?”
Lady Ravenshaw looked away toward the Serpentine, where the grey water lay smooth beneath the weak sun. When she spoke again, her voice trembled faintly, though whether from feeling or artistry Frances could not tell.
“Because I have watched too many women suffer from the selfishness of men who are never made to answer for it. Because society will pity a duke before it protects a wife. Because, if what I have learned is true, then you have been used shamefully.”
Frances’s stomach tightened. “Used?”
“Your defense of him entangled your name with his at the very moment his reputation was in danger. Marriage was the only respectable way to quiet the scandal.” Lady Ravenshaw looked back at her. “You became…convenient.”
The word struck with humiliating precision.
Convenient.
Had Frances not thought something very like it herself? Had she not known, from the first, that their marriage was a remedy, not a romance? A solution offered by a man who believed every difficulty must be managed before it became ruinous?
“You do not know the nature of my marriage,” Frances retorted.
“No. I do not pretend to. But I know what men of rank will do to preserve themselves.” Lady Ravenshaw stepped closer still. “Once gossip fades, once the world accepts the story he has chosen to present, what need will he have of the lie? What need will he have of you?”
Frances’s throat tightened, but she kept her chin lifted.
“Forgive me, Lady Ravenshaw, but concern is easily claimed.”
A slight change passed across the viscountess’s face. It was gone almost instantly, replaced by grave sympathy.
“You are wise not to trust without proof.”
“I am glad you approve.”
“I did not come empty-handed.”
Lady Ravenshaw opened her reticule and withdrew a folded letter. The paper was creased, the edges softened by handling. The seal had already been broken. Frances stared at it.
“What is that?”
“A letter,” Lady Ravenshaw offered. “Written by the maid before her death.”
The air seemed to thin.
Frances did not reach for it at once. “How did it come to you?”
