Dishonourable Intent. Anne Mather
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‘Goodnight, Watkins. I’ll make sure the doors are locked.’
Watkins nodded, offered Francesca a somewhat awkward farewell, and ambled off towards the leather-studded door that gave access to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. He walked slowly and Will had to stifle his impatience, but once the heavy door had swung to behind him he allowed Francesca the full weight of his frustration. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he snapped. ‘The Abbey is not a private hotel. You can’t just turn up here when it suits you. You walked out, Francesca. Lingard is no longer your home.’
‘I know that.’ Francesca crossed her arms at her waist and wrapped them about herself, almost as if she was cold. She looked beyond him, into the lamplit room, where the fire was glowing so invitingly. ‘Can’t we sit down, at least?’
Will glanced over his shoulder. As Watkins had said, Mrs Harvey had prepared a tray of tea and sandwiches, and it was presently waiting on the carved chest beside the sofa. It had apparently been placed there while Francesca was—where? Being shown to her room? Settling in? His jaw hardened. It irritated him that she should have come here. She had no rights where he, or this house, was concerned.
But something, some latent spark of humanity, perhaps, prevented him from asking her to leave at once. One night, he thought, but in the morning she was out of here. He had no desire to renew their acquaintance, whatever she might think.
Nevertheless, he stepped aside to allow her to enter the parlour, and she brushed past him with evident relief. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have said she was on the edge of hysteria. But Francesca didn’t have nerves; she was always in control of her emotions.
He hesitated before joining her. It was obvious he was going to have to speak to her at some time, but he objected to being forced to accommodate her tonight. Yet if he left it until the morning who knew how soon he would get rid of her? And with the Merritts expecting him at eleven he didn’t have a lot of time to spare.
So, despite his unwillingness, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and followed her into the room. But he deliberately left the door open. He had nothing to hide, and if she did it was just hard luck.
Francesca had seated herself on the sofa, at the end nearest the fire, and Will was surprised. Although it was a warm night outside, the parlour was cool, but as she was wearing a suit he wouldn’t have expected her to be cold. Yet it seemed as if she was. Every line of her hunched form pointed to it. And, although she helped herself to a cup of tea, she made no attempt to touch the sandwiches.
The parlour was not a large room by the Abbey’s standards, and the heat from the grate caused Will to loosen the collar of his shirt and pull the knot of his tie an inch or two away. He would have taken off his jacket, but he didn’t want her to get the impression that he was comfortable with the situation, so he remained where he was, behind the sofa opposite, with the width of the hearth between them.
‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ she asked, glancing up at him, her elbows resting on her silk-clad knees, the teacup cradled between her palms. Her drawn features mirrored the anxiety that was evident in her eyes, and although he chided himself for feeling any sympathy for her he came around the sofa and straddled its hide-covered arm.
‘Okay,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m sitting down. So, what is this all about? I should warn you, Francesca, I’m not in the mood to play games. If you’ve got something to say, then for God’s sake get on with it.’
Her nostrils flared at his insensitivity, and once again Will felt a reluctant sense of compassion. It seemed that, whatever had brought her back to the Abbey she was either too ashamed—or too apprehensive of his reaction—to tell him, and she was looking for his support, not his sarcasm.
‘I drove up from London this evening,’ she ventured, and twin creases bracketed his mouth.
‘Yes. I gathered that,’ he said, wondering what this was leading to. ‘I assume that is your car parked on the forecourt.’
‘Well, it’s a friend’s car, actually,’ she offered, and his mouth flattened as he wondered which particular friend that was. Male, he assumed; Francesca had always had plenty of men friends. Though there were a couple of girls she had shared rooms with at college whom she’d used to keep in touch with. ‘I thought it was less likely to be noticed,’ she added. ‘He—er—he knows my registration, you see.’
Will’s brows drew together. ‘Who are we talking about now?’ be asked tersely. ‘This—friend?’
‘What friend? Oh—you mean the car!’ Francesca sipped her tea. ‘No, that belongs to Clare—one of the women I work with.’
Will tried not to get impatient. ‘What’s wrong with your own car? Has it broken down?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If that’s what this is about—’
‘As if!’ Francesca stared at him disgustedly. ‘Do you honestly think I’d have come to you if all I wanted to do was change my car?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ Will’s eyes hardened. ‘Perhaps the problem is I can’t imagine anything that I might be willing to do for you,’ be retorted sharply. ‘And if some man is giving you grief, think again!’
The china teacup clattered into its saucer, and spots of brown liquid dotted the white cloth. For a moment, he thought she must have burned her mouth, but then he realised she was crying. Huge, shuddering sobs were shaking her thin shoulders, and she’d wrapped her arms about her knees and was rocking back and forth, like a child in pain.
Will stared at her, aghast. In all the years he had known her, he had never known Francesca to cry—not like this, at least. Even when they’d split up, she had maintained a mask of indifference when she was with him, and if her eyelids had sometimes looked puffy he’d put it down to lack of sleep.
But this—this was different. Whatever was wrong with her it was something she obviously couldn’t handle herself. The thought that she might have discovered she had some terminal disease caused a shaft of pain inside him.
But something had to be done now. He bad to say something, do something, to bring her out of this paroxysm of grief. She’d regret giving in and letting him see her this way, once she was over it, he thought cynically. But he didn’t think it was an act. Playing for sympathy wasn’t Francesca’s style.
Or it hadn’t been. He scowled. Dammit, it was more than five years since he’d seen her, and anything could have happened to her in that time. But he didn’t think she could have changed her personality. She’d lost weight, sure, but she didn’t strike him as having lost her self-respect.
‘Fran,’ he said persuasively, the name he had had for her sliding automatically off his tongue. ‘Hey,’ he added, his spread fingers curling impotently over his thighs, ‘it can’t be that serious. Come on. Lighten up. I didn’t mean what I said.’
‘Didn’t you?’
Her head had been buried in her hands, but now her fingers parted to reveal drowned amber eyes. She still shook, but the aching sobs had eased somewhat, and he wondered if he was in danger of being treated as a fool all over again.
‘Perhaps not,’ he muttered, in two minds as to how to deal with this, and she fumbled in the purse at her feet for a tissue to dry her face. ‘Fran—Francesca—what is going on? Are you going to tell me?’ He balled one fist inside the other. ‘I gather the problem is some man.’
She nodded then, scrubbing at her eyes with the tissue as Will felt a rekindling of his anger. Dammit, he thought, what did she think he was? Some kind of agony husband? Ex-husband, he amended harshly. Any problems she had, she should deal with herself.
‘It’s not what you think,’ she said at last, when she had herself in control again, and Will arched a sceptical brow.
‘No?’ he queried flatly. And then he said, ‘You’ve admitted it’s a man, haven’t you? How many distinctions are there?’
‘Quite a