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“And what did you hear?” A dark, foreboding expression marred his features, and Francesca knew she was treading on dangerous ground. But for that to have garnered such a vicious reaction from him meant she was right on the mark and the conversation between him and Mr. Tremore was indeed as damning as she’d suspected.
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
He closed his eyes with a sigh, looking weary. “Not how you are thinking. I will be fine in every way that matters.”
“Will you not confide in me?” She regretted asking the moment the question left her lips. Francesca wasn’t sure she wanted to know his answer, to know that her importance in his heart was so minuscule. He didn’t speak for several moments, the conflicted look on his face telling her everything she needed to know. Francesca braced herself for his reply and wondered if her heart could take it.
“I will have to eventually,” he intoned.
Simultaneously confused and floored, Francesca could only gape in astonishment as he pushed himself from the wall and approached. “Whatever do you mean?”
He stopped mere inches away and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I,” he began and then shut his mouth, looking uncharacteristically nervous. After a hard swallow, he grasped her arm and steered them into the nearest room, which was the parlor. Her confusion only doubled when he closed the door. After a moment of him awkwardly standing before her, he cleared his throat. “I wish to—”
The door smacked back open, and a small girl marched through the threshold. The child stopped upon noticing their presence, peering at them with keen grey eyes. Familiar grey eyes. “Oh, hello again, Mr. Barrow,” she said, her blonde ringlets bouncing as she titled her head in greeting.
Arthur’s eyes softened on the girl’s form. “Good afternoon, Lady Charlotte.”
“Just Charlotte, please.” Lady Charlotte’s face twisted in a way that reminded Francesca so much of Arthur that her heart caught in her throat. She belatedly remembered that Lady Clifton was set to visit with her daughter today. A pretty countess with a young daughter, one with Arthur’s exact coloring. Mr. Tremore’s heated words concerning Arthur’s lack of care about the happenings at Renwood and the accusations of hiding something echoed in her memory. An obvious conclusion formed, one that nearly made her sway where she stood.
This was his child.
“Charlotte, manners!” The Countess of Clifton glided gracefully into the room, her voice tinged with mild reproach. “One does not simply barge into our host’s parlor unannounced.”
“Yes, mama,” the girl replied with a glum frown.
The countess looked at the two of them with a mildly sheepish expression. “I apologize for interrupting your privacy. Charlotte can be stubborn at the best of times. It runs in the family, I’m afraid.” Indeed it did, Francesca thought with a wild stare in Arthur’s direction. No wonder Jasper and Ashford had been so tight-lipped on the topic. This was a scandal of monumental proportions.
Yet he didn’t seem affected in the slightest by his former lover’s appearance, merely giving her an empty smile. “No need to apologize, My Lady. Children will be children.” Suddenly, Arthur’s odd behavior around Lady Clifton when she’d first visited made complete sense. The woman hadn’t offended him. No, it had merely overwhelmed him to see his former lover again. She recalled the countess’ words of her marriage already being arranged during her come out. Had she and Arthur had been lovers then, forcibly separated by the cruel hands of fate? No doubt Lady Clifton would have been forbidden from a union with such a lowborn man, and a hasty marriage to an aging earl would have covered everything up nicely. Now that her husband was dead, perhaps the true reason Arthur had come was to reclaim the family he had lost. But then, why dally with Francesca herself? Unless… She observed Arthur’s stony expression as he eyed the countess, along with the woman’s guarded gaze. Could Lady Clifton have left him willingly? Perhaps he was still bitter and sought a sort of vengeance, deciding to use her as his means of achieving it.
The other woman looked at her with thinly veiled concern. “Lady Francesca, is everything well? You are growing quite pale.”
“I…” She blinked back tears. The more she thought about it, the more everything made sense. “I don’t…” Francesca grit her teeth against the sob fighting its way up her throat.
Arthur looked at Charlotte and then to her with an audible inhale, finally seeming to catch on that he’d been sniffed out. “Oh, hell,” he muttered before reaching out towards her. “Hold on before you jump to any conclusions.”
Lady Clifton assessed the situation, her lips parting. “Oh, no, wait a moment, dear,” she said to Francesca urgently. “Charlotte is his—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Francesca snapped. A tear rolled down her cheek. She rounded on Arthur. “I should have known never to trust a selfish rat like you. At least with James, I would have gotten a title and some shred of respect in society.” It was low and cruel of her to throw the man’s lack of status in his face, and she knew it the moment Arthur’s entire frame went rigid.
“—aunt,” the countess finished lamely.
“I am?” Charlotte inquired with a raised eyebrow. “But wouldn’t that make him—”
“Clifton, yes,” her mother answered. Lady Clifton put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and gently nudged her to the door. “Why don’t we go see what is holding up Eliza?”
“Ok,” Charlotte said carefully, not fully comprehending the disastrous situation unfolding before her. The two exited the room and the click of the door was deafening in the silence.
Arthur was Lord Clifton? She almost couldn’t believe the outlandish words. But then, wouldn’t that also explain everything? The momentous error Francesca had just made dawned, along with the full weight of those awful words she had uttered. “Arthur, I—”
Arthur was still rooted to his spot, his face cold and unyielding. He held up a hand. “No, I understand.”
Hope bloomed in her chest. “You do?”
But his smile was cruel. “Men of my ilk are good for a tup and little else for ladies of the Ton, I am well aware. Though unbeknownst to you, I am not of that lowly stock any longer. A pity, for I would have been quite the catch for someone in such desperate circumstances as yourself.”
The words hit their mark, though not unjustly. Francesca knew well that the hurt churning in her belly was entirely of her own doing. Her foolish words had wounded him deeply. The front he was presenting was far too contrived for them not to have. What must he think of her for condemning him so quickly? The man she was supposedly in… in love with. That realization settled, warm and expected, within her. The sight of his pain caused her such agony that such feelings were the only explanation. The excitement she felt whenever he entered the room, how her breath caught whenever he smiled at her, or the way he seemed to chase her worries away with ease; mere lust could never account for it, and she’d been a fool to think otherwise. A pity that such a revelation had to come so late and only after she’d done something possibly irreparable. Francesca took a deep breath to keep herself calm enough to attempt an explanation that would salvage the deteriorating situation. “Forgive me. I jumped to conclusions and lashed out with those stupid, empty words.” Her heart pounded as his face remained unchanged.
“Convenient admission after finding out my identity.”
