Chapter Twelve
Florence’s heart was in her throat as the Weymouth carriage, led by a team of matched bays, wound its way over the two hills separating Gull Hall from Frampton Court the following afternoon.
Of course, one could cut that time in half by walking through the woods between the two properties, as she had done when encountering Trajan the other day.
But she and Hermia were dressed for afternoon tea.
Their silk gowns and dainty slippers were completely impractical if one had to make a run for it.
Never mind that Hermia was not able to run anywhere, since her sprinting gazelle days were long past. For several years now, it had been a task to get her down a flight of stairs.
Or had this been a charade on her part too?
Trajan rode in the carriage with them, having insisted on personally delivering them to the Frampton residence on this rather gray day. The rain had held off, so the roads were conveniently dry.
“You really did not have to accompany us,” Florence muttered. “It might put Lord Frampton even more on edge.”
“More on edge?” he grumbled, for this plan did not sit well with him at all. “I doubt that is possible. The man is so tightly wound, he’s about to pop a spring.”
“As are you,” Florence observed.
“Can you blame me? I must be losing my mind to allow you to do this dangerous thing, not to mention actually abetting you.”
“Because you are caring and wonderful,” she said.
He cast her a stern look. “Gad, Florence. Do not compliment me, for it will only rile me.”
“All right.”
He sighed. “It cannot hurt to remind him I am a duke.”
“You like being the duke, don’t you?” she remarked, noting the way his chest puffed up at the mere mention of his rank.
He shook his head. “It isn’t the title I enjoy but the power one can wield with it. I find it most convenient, especially in this situation. I want Frampton to know that I will kill him if he dares touch a hair on your head.”
Florence smiled. “I love when you make these marvelously apish comments.”
“Because you are mine to protect. By extension, so is your aunt.”
Hermia was seated opposite them in the carriage.
Florence was seated beside Trajan, finding she needed the comfort of his touch to maintain her resolve.
She also simply loved snuggling against him, for his shoulders were broad and muscled, and his scent was divine.
Lather, citrus and sandalwood, and male heat.
“You needn’t worry about us. Aunt Hermia and I are all set in our plan. Right, Auntie?”
Her aunt snuffled and opened her eyes, for she appeared to have nodded off despite their having just undertaken the journey.
Oh dear. This did not inspire confidence. The entire ride would take no more than ten minutes, and they could not have been in the carriage more than two of those minutes.
“What, dear?”
“This is what worries me,” Trajan mumbled. “I wish I could be there with you.”
“You are the one who wanted to give Aunt Hermia a larger role,” Florence said with exasperation. “I fear she was so excited about participating, she did not sleep a wink last night. I should have handled this on my own.”
“Nonsense, child,” her aunt intoned, proving she was not hard of hearing. Yet another thing she feigned from time to time, especially when asked a question she did not wish to answer, or engage in a conversation with a dullard she wished to escape.
Truly, Hermia had honed her dithering and doddering to a fine art.
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “You just worry about yourself.”
Trajan took Florence’s hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “My cousins and I will remain as close as possible. I’ll be watching you through my binoculars from a vantage point in the woods.”
“The tree that I fell out of?”
His lips twitched. “No, but close to it. Let’s hope Frampton leaves the parlor drapes open.”
“Aunt Hermia or I will insist on having them drawn open if they are not. Oh, we’re almost there. Wish us luck.”
He was back to frowning at her again. “I’m wishing for your safe return, Florence. Do not do anything foolish.”
“I won’t.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
“I promise.” She kissed him on the cheek, to which he responded with a soft growl to warn her that he wasn’t happy, and no amount of cajoling on her part would make this undertaking right.
“Just remember to save yourself and Hermia if things go awry. Lady Frampton will have to manage for herself.”
But what if that ogre of a maid tried to hurt her mistress?
Well, Florence would do what she could to save all three of them—and grab the letters, too. Of course, the entire point was to get out of there alive. She would keep her plan flexible and adjust it as necessary.
Lady Frampton was standing on the front steps of the imposing manor house, smiling and waving to them as their carriage drew up under the portico. Her husband was standing beside her, looking quite grim.
Trajan hopped out as soon as the carriage drew to a halt. A Frampton footman hurried forward to assist him in helping Hermia down, because she gave a masterful performance of an old lady struggling to maintain her footing.
Trajan insisted on attending to Florence himself. “Be careful,” he whispered, as though she required yet another warning.
“I love you,” she answered back, surprising him and herself.
“Gad, what a time to tell me this.”
“I know, but I do. Truly and sincerely. With all my heart.”
She wanted him to know her feelings on the chance that things went horribly wrong and she would never see him again. Perhaps this was not the best time to dump this confession on him, but was it not worse to say nothing at all and leave him uncertain?
Not that he ought to have any doubt when she gushed and turned moon-eyed whenever she was with him.
“Weymouth!” Frampton strode forward, putting an end to their whispered conversation, which was untimely anyway.
She probably should not have said anything, because Trajan now looked even more riled.
“Frampton,” he replied with curt politeness.
“I did not expect to see you with the ladies.”
Goodness, Frampton sounded so oily.
“I rode along to assist Florence with her Aunt Hermia,” Trajan smoothly explained.
“She is old and rather frail, as you may have noticed. Make certain she does not walk unattended, because she is not all that steady on her feet. Yet she is stubborn and refuses to use a pushchair. But I see your wife has offered her arm and is being most careful with her.”
Frampton glanced at Hermia and his wife, his expression turning even more dour.
“If you do not mind, I shall push off now and leave the ladies to their party.” Trajan turned to Florence and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I will see you shortly.”
“And I shall count the minutes,” she said, slightly breathless.
He arched an eyebrow, warning her not to overdo it.
Florence wanted to linger nearby to hear more of Trajan’s conversation with Frampton, but she dared not be too obvious. “I’ll hurry along and catch up to the ladies.” She batted her eyelashes at Trajan for good measure.
He shot her another warning look.
She started up the stairs, but paused just inside the front door.
Since the head butler and several footmen were close by, she pretended to dig through her reticule as though searching for something.
“Did I leave it in the carriage?” she muttered to herself as Frampton’s footmen and butler looked on.
This allowed her to linger by the door and hear the brief exchange between Trajan and Frampton.
“As soon as our marriage plans are settled,” Trajan said, surprisingly cordial, “Florence and I will host a dinner party for our friends and neighbors. We hope you and your lovely wife will attend.”
“We shall try, of course. You’ve caught me at a very busy time.”
“Government matters, Frampton? Rumor has it you are in line for an important Home Office post—or is it the Foreign Office?”
“Among other possibilities,” Frampton said, being purposely evasive. “But my wife is one for parties. She will be pleased to receive the invitation. By the way, have you and Lady Florence set a wedding date?”
“Tentatively,” Trajan said, equally evasive. “Waiting on confirmation, family schedules and all that. But I am quite keen on marrying her soon. It is my hope that Florence will be my duchess before the end of the month.”
Having given Frampton the not-so-subtle reminder that he was dealing with a duke, Trajan climbed back in his carriage and rapped on the roof, commanding his driver to take him home.
“Ah, yes. I do have it,” Florence now said, and hurried along before Frampton walked back inside the house and found her lurking.
She had noticed the malice in his expression in an unguarded moment before he entered the house. The man was indeed a coiled spring ready to unwind at the slightest provocation.
She scampered into the parlor and joined the ladies. Sylvia was wringing her hands as she stood beside the sofa where Hermia was now seated. She smiled as Florence approached. “It is so nice to see you again.”
She took both of Florence’s hands in hers and gave them a light squeeze.
Florence thought for a moment she meant to slip a key or a note into her hand, but it seemed Sylvia simply wished to give her a warm greeting.
“Same here, Sylvia.” She leaned forward and bussed her cheek, hoping Frampton’s wife might have something to whisper in her ear.
But she said nothing. Perhaps her husband was too close. He had walked in immediately after her and now stood frowning in the doorway.
“Well, I see that you are eager for your hen party. I shall not get in your way.” He walked out.
Sylvia let out a breath. “Come sit next to me. We have much to catch up on since the last time we met.”
The ogrish maid, whose name was Rutledge, was also present, perched like a predatory night owl on her stool in the corner.