Chapter Twelve
It was three full days before Frankie was allowed downstairs for meals and back to her regular routine. Even then, Elizabeth watched her carefully and cossetted her like a rich old relative. The arrival of several bouquets of flowers with a note of apology from the duke picked up Elizabeth’s spirits. The game, she was heard to say, was still on.
Frankie, unimpressed by the grand floral deluge, muttered that the entire main floor of the house smelled like a funeral parlor. The dogs sniffed and sneezed and Sarah’s pet ferret wreaked havoc on several blooms. Red winced at the pervasive smell of romance and took to his study, when he wasn’t out finalizing a deal to buy an imported pretty-boy horse from a fellow with shady leanings. Sarah had a way with uncles as well as other animals.
Claire was the only one of the household who didn’t complain about the inconveniences of having a sickbed in the house. Frankie was relieved at first that she was spared Claire’s irritation at missing her “music lessons.” Then as she spent her first afternoon in the downstairs parlor she noted a sway in Claire’s step and a certain glow in her heart-shaped face. She waited until Elizabeth was occupied belowstairs, laying plans for the week’s dinners, to approach Claire on her alarmingly fine mood.
“Oh, I’ve just mastered a new piece,” Claire explained it away. “I feel such a sense of accomplishment whenever I do.”
“Cece . . .” Frankie’s suspicion was clear. “What have you been doing while I was indisposed? And don’t you dare say ‘practicing.’ It’s as plain as the nose on Red’s face. Sooner or later, Mama will notice too.”
Cece pulled her to the window seat and swore her to secrecy.
“I promise,” Frankie gritted out. “Now tell me.”
“I’ve seen him twice more.” Cece squeezed her hands. “Once at the concert hall for practice and again at the tearoom in the Promenade.”
“The Prom—Sweet Lord, Cece, why don’t you just climb St. Paul’s dome and shout to all of London that you’re seeing a man without Mama’s permission? Everybody in that place is looking for a juicy tidbit to trade over after-dinner coffee.”
Cece looked a little taken aback at Frankie’s reaction. “But we were there early, two thirty. And everybody knows the smart set doesn’t go to tea until half past four.” She looked concerned and appeared to recall the conditions of the rendezvous. “At least I didn’t see anyone I knew.”
That was a small comfort. Frankie’s shoulders sagged.
“What’s done is done. But from now on you don’t go a step outside this house without me,” Frankie insisted. “Especially if you’re going to meet him
.” The pall her disapproval cast over Cece’s mood gave her a pang of guilt. She wasn’t above sneaking and meeting a man in secret herself. “Okay, tell me about it. What is he like?”
Cece perked up and became a veritable stream of biographical information on Julian Fontaine. He was bright and witty and amusing in a boyish sort of way. He was from Paris, learned the piano and violin from the age of five years, and studied under maestros in Vienna, which accounted for his love of the Three B’s. When Frankie gave no sign of recognition, Cece tsked and said, “Bach, Brahms, and Beethoven.”
Frankie nodded. She had heard of a couple of them.
“What about his family? Who are they? Where are they?”
“He doesn’t speak much of his family. I gather they are estranged. They were not thrilled by his choice of profession, despite their early encouragement of his talent.”
“And does he have a wife or fiancée tucked away somewhere?”
Cece drew back. “Certainly not.” Then her indignation softened. “I don’t think so.” She frowned, uneasy at the only answer she had to give. “Surely he would have said something.”
Frankie snorted. “Of course he would tell the girl he’s romancing all about his wife and children across the channel.”
“He’s not like that, Frankie.” She was more adamant than Frankie had ever seen her. “He’s fine and good-hearted and a gentleman in every respect. He hasn’t even tried to kiss me—well, except for my hand.” She looked down at that hand with such fondness that Frankie groaned.
“Fine. He’s a saint.” Frankie couldn’t help letting her lingering disbelief show through. “But I’m still chaperoning you with him until he presents himself to Mama and Uncle Red and does right by you. No more of this sneaking around to see him by yourself. Okay?”
Cece nodded and the color returned to her face.
“He’s wonderful, Frankie. You’ll see.”
* * *
The duke called two days later to present Elizabeth and Frankie with a box of oranges, a ballotin of chocolates, and yet another armful of expensive flowers. He was invited for coffee and seemed every bit the restrained and gentlemanly suitor. His conversation was light and peppered with amusing anecdotes. At the end of the visit, he once again apologized for the disastrous turn of their previous ride. He said he had decided to have nothing to do with the wretched beast that had caused her fall from her horse. He gave no indication that he knew or cared about the horse’s fate.
Frankie tried to be gracious without being too welcoming, and if the duke took no notice of her coolness, her mother did. The minute the front door closed behind the duke she turned on Frankie with fire in her eyes.
“The duke was obviously trying to make amends—though Heaven knows what for. It is my understanding that you took it upon yourself to go after that crazy beast and got your horse injured and yourself thrown.” Elizabeth rose and clasped her hands before her as if she were trying to keep them from doing something she might regret. “He is a man of rank and stature. I will see a change in your attitude, young lady”—she shook a finger—“or there will be consequences.”
Frankie sat for a while, turning the visit over in her mind and coming to the realization that she didn’t trust what she saw in the duke today. Every instinct she possessed told her that the anger and arrogance she had seen on Rotten Row were the truth of his nature, that engaging parlor manners and bestowing thoughtful gifts were exceptions, not the rule.
Deep in thought, she wound her way to the music room at the rear of the house, where Cece practiced. She sat awhile, thinking of the difference between the duke and Reynard and of the way she felt in each’s company. Cece’s music always seemed to clear her thoughts and bring her to surer conclusions. As she listened and watched her sister play, she could almost see what Cece was thinking.
Him. She wanted to see and be with Fontaine. The slow, dolorous passages expressed eloquently her longing for him. Frankie thought of the duke and couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be with him so passionately. Reynard, on the other hand . . . she could certainly imagine . . . and dear Lord, that was so much worse.
One of the upstairs maids arrived with a note that had been delivered to the kitchen door for Claire. Frankie shot to her feet and insisted on reading over Cece’s shoulder. It was an invitation to Cece to meet Julian again at the tearoom, and afterward go for a stroll.
Cece gave her a soulful, plaintive look that vibrated every one of Frankie’s heartstrings.
“All right,” she said with reluctance, but without heat. “Get your hat and gloves. It’s time I met this fellow and judged for myself.”
* * *
The tearoom in the Promenade was less than half full, mostly pairs or small groups of ladies having refreshments between intervals of shopping. The room was decorated with lovely gilded patterns on the ceiling and walls. Potted palms and medleys of blooming hothouse flowers framed the mirrors and windows, giving the room a garden-like feeling. The tables were draped with layers of pristine white linen, and the chairs had carved rococo backs accented with gold. Large glass cases displayed the cakes, profiteroles, scones, and tarts that could be ordered, and each table bore a small vase of fresh flowers.
Julian was waiting for them at one of the tables and rose to give Claire a chaste Continental kiss on each cheek. He murmured, “Enchanted,” when introduced to Frankie and gave a courtly bow over her hand. At close range, he was as handsome as he was from a distance. Black hair, big, warm brown eyes, and an easy grace to his movement—it would be difficult indeed for a girl to resist such a combination, especially when it came with wonderful music and a stream of romantic-sounding French.
They ordered tea and Frankie noticed that he touched Cece’s hand on the tabletop several times. She asked about his orchestra, his plans to stay in London, his favorite restaurants, and whether he rode.
His answers were quick and engaging, though he did stumble later when asked about his family. Once again, the word “estranged” came up and the subject slipped away as the food and tea arrived.
It was subtle things that gave away his financial condition. His suit, though nicely cut and well-tailored, showed signs of wear at the sleeves and elbows. His shirt, though immaculate, was starting to fray around the collar, and his tie was limp from enduring so many stylish knots. This was a man who took pride in his appearance and knew how to use limited resources to live better than his income might suggest. He ate eagerly, savoring every bite and glowing with gratitude when they encouraged him to finish the tea sandwiches and tarts on the tiered server.
He had been eyeing the violin Claire brought as part of her excuse for the afternoon, and he excused himself to speak with the manager briefly. When he came back he asked if he might borrow Cece’s instrument for a few moments. She gladly handed it over, and the next few minutes, there was hardly a breath taken in the tearoom.
Everyone present could feel the warmth and light and vibrancy of his talent blending with emotion to produce rich and nuanced sound. He played, Frankie thought, like a man in love. But was it Cece he loved or the passion for music she brought into his life? Did it matter?
By the time he paid the bill and they walked out on the street, Frankie had made up her mind. It did matter, very much, that he loved Cece for herself . . . for her talent and sweetness and hope and stubbornness . . . for all that she was and all that she could be.
That was a question no meeting in a tearoom, a concert hall, or even in a church on a wedding day could answer. That would only be proved by time and trial. And she prayed, in that moment, that he would be a man who valued honesty, faithfulness, and love above all else.
By the time she reached home and changed for dinner, she knew what she had to do. After dinner, she went to her room and penned a note to Reynard asking him to meet her the following afternoon at the tearoom in the Promenade. Granted, it had barely been five days, but she had to know what he had learned.
Red was stepping out for a drink at a nearby club, and she pulled him aside.
“Can you please drop by the Athenaeum Club for me, and give this to Reynard Boulton?” She thrust the envelope bearing Reynard’s initials into his hand and he scowled and drew back his chin.
“What’s goin’ on between you two?”
“He promised to help me with something,” she said. “Simple as that.”
“Uh-huh.” Red put on his top hat, stuffed the note into an inner pocket, and then looked her over. “Somethin’s going on, Frankie. I got a nose for this stuff. When yer ma finds out, she’ll throw a conniption.”
“It’s nothing, Uncle Red, I swear. He’s just doing me a favor.”
As he stepped out the front door she heard him mutter, “I hope it ain’t like the one that actress, Vesta Tilley, did fer the Earl of Sapping.”
* * *
At two o’clock the next afternoon she entered the tearoom on the Promenade that she had visited only the day before. It was almost deserted and she drew a breath of relief. The fewer the people who saw them together, the better. Unfortunately, she’d had to bring Sarah with her and stow her at the milliner’s, two doors down, with permission to choose a new hat. This could turn out to be a rather expensive outing.
She ordered tea for two.
Half an hour passed and she requested a second brewing and more of those lovely berry tarts and cucumber sandwiches. Sarah would arrive in a few minutes to join her. And though she had told her little sister whom she was meeting and a version of why, she wasn’t thrilled at the notion of engaging Reynard the Fox in front of Sarah.
Just as she was ready to collect her gloves and parasol, a shadow appeared at the door and resolved a moment later into a tall, elegant form that made her catch her breath. He sat down beside her, took in the ruins of an elegant high tea littering the tablecloth, and gave her an arch look.
“I see you started without me,” he said, dangling a crust that had a curl of cucumber still attached and then dropping it with a rueful expression.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming.” She felt her cheeks redden as he surveyed the remnants of her repast. “I did say two o’clock.”
“I didn’t get the note until a short while ago. Apparently, it was left with the night porter who went off duty this morning without finding me.” He waved a waiter over, ordered “more of the same, please,” and then cleared space for his elbows on the table. “Now what is so urgent that I had to cancel a fencing bout?”
“Fencing?” She looked confused, imaging him riding a fence line, then recalled, “Oh, the sword kind.” She drew a heavy breath. “It’s Cece—Claire. Things are moving faster than expected and I have to know what you’ve learned about Julian.”
“It’s only been a few days.” He seemed taken aback. “If it’s that urgent, why not just invite the poor wretch over for dinner and interrogate him yourself? I imagine your mother has a store of devious methods for extracting information from reluctant victims.”
“Does she ever.” She grimaced. “Unfortunately, I don’t want her to know anything about this infatuation of Cece’s. Not yet, anyway. But I can’t go on helping them without knowing he is sincere.” She paused to sip her cooling tea as the waiter came to clear the table. The aproned fellow intruded again moments later with a fresh pot of Darjeeling and a plate of savory sandwiches.
“So?” she prodded as he creamed his tea and added sugar lumps. “What did you learn?”
“He’s French.”
Her face fell. “Of course he’s French. And?”
“And he’s been here for over three years, at first as a violinist, and later as first violinist with the London Symphony. When the conductor of the Soliel—that’s the name of his orchestra—retired, he was recruited to fill that post and managed to bring a number of fine musicians with him from the symphony. As you might imagine, that didn’t make him very popular with the lords of London music. They’ve been critical of his performances, but that doesn’t seem to dampen the enthusiasm of the patrons. He’s been barred from several larger halls, but finds plenty of work in smaller venues and at private do’s like the one at Tutty’s.”
“So, he’s not rich,” she said, looking thoughtful.
“Not by a mile. But he pays his musicians first and regularly, which is itself an accomplishment, and they seem to hold him in high esteem. He’s earning his spurs, so to speak.”
“Spurs? But he said he seldom rides.”
“Spurs, as in knights of old had to earn their spurs in battle; spurs were an honor. Meaning, he is earning his success, showing his worth, and claiming his rightful place in the music world.”
“All of which means he’s a good musician and has some grit and the determination to make something of himself. But what about the man himself? Is he a good and honorable man? Lord above, is he married?”
“As for honorable, I think paying his musicians before he pays himself says quite a lot. As to marriage, I’ll have to do more digging. But I’ve not heard that he’s been seen about with anyone. I don’t think he’s ever mentioned a wife. His family is in Paris—”
The door opened and a discreet tinkle announced the arrival of another patron . . . tall, dark, and elegantly dressed.
“I thought that must be you, fräulein. I saw you through the window.” The duke came straight to their table and stood looking down at her expectantly.
“Your Grace.” She almost stuttered. “What a surprise to see you here.” Then after an awkward moment in which the two men locked gazes, she added with forced geniality, “Won’t you join us?”
“Gladly, dearest fräulein.” He caught the waiter’s eye and waved to a nearby chair. He waited for the fellow to hurry over and pull a chair from another table to seat him with Frankie and Reynard. Then he surveyed the table. “Well, well, what have we here? A lovely little English tea party, yes? But where are the children?” He chuckled and glanced up to gauge Reynard’s reaction.
To his credit, Reynard did not respond. He sat straight and reserved, concentrating on his cup, with only the occasional glance Frankie’s way. She prayed it would stay civil between them.
“What are you doing in the Promenade, Your Grace?” she asked.
“I was told there is a fine watchmaker in these shops. And I have lost some minutes on my favorite watch.” He pulled out a gold pocket watch that was set with diamonds and rubies in a family crest. “It was my grandfather’s. And my father’s after him. I would have it keep perfect time.” He smiled and Frankie felt a chill as if from a draft. “I seek perfection in things I hold dear.”
“Perfection is a worthy goal,” she said, seeking to fill the silence, “but a hard standard to meet.” She glanced at the tiered server. “Today, however, you are in luck. These raspberry tarts are perfect . . . in fact, divine.”