Francie took another bite of the perfectly baked meat pie and nearly groaned with pleasure. "You are spoiling me, Mr. Burnham. I should be cooking for you!"

He shrugged. "You have far too much work to be cooking for us as well. I'm sure you three split the chores when the Grenard cousins are here."

"Indeed, we do." That led Francie to thinking for a moment that it might no longer be true. What if Phoebe and Lydie never returned? Would she be able to balance all the chores on her own? It was a terribly bleak thought. With no one to grouse with, laugh with, depend on?

"What's wrong?" His voice was a gentle rumble.

Her thoughts must have been writ on her face, something she typically didn't do. She shook her head. "I'm just still worried about Phoebe and Lydie. Lord knows what they are doing in London. London! I can scarce imagine. And it makes me sad to think that they may never return." She scowled. "That I might simply receive a letter telling me their plans. And that would be a far better outcome than anything nefarious befalling them, of course. But, well, it would be a change."

"You may be surprised, but I don't ascribe to borrowing troubles by worrying. I've already seen more than enough of what can go wrong. Why make it that much worse by experiencing the hundreds of things that might go wrong?"

She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. Did he have something of a point. "You mean I should just assume they are happy and safe until proven otherwise? Assume they will come home and we will go on as we have before?"

"If it gives you comfort, then yes. We have no way of knowing what tomorrow will bring to us." He smiled and quoted. "Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble."

She thought for a moment. "Matthew?"

He nodded. "It's one of the few verses that sustains me."

If he, who had been through so much, could set aside worries then how could she not? She grinned impishly. "Yes, I remember you quoting it when I shot you."

"You bloody minx." He chuckled.

"Swearing at a lady!" she scoffed. "Why, your mother and I will never run out of things to discuss."

She tried to imagine what his mother must be like but did not find herself equal to the task. Although he had the rough swagger of a seaman, there was also something fine about him. Had that been his mother's influence? He referred to her as though she were a lady of delicate constitution, but Francie found that impossible to believe. She was undoubtedly just as stubborn and tough as her wayward son. It was rare for the child to be substantially different than the parent.

He nearly choked on his bite of pie at her threat and had to down a swallow of wine. "Yes, I'm quite sure you would keep my mother entertained for hours."

"What else would we talk about aside from you?" she asked. If she were to set aside her worries then she might as well have an imaginary friendship with his mum.

"Fashion, clearly," he said. He stroked his chin, thinking. "Relatives. I've never seen a gaggle of women more likely to talk about anyone not in the room."

"Gaggle?" she asked. "Who else is there?"

"I have scads of sisters. Most are wives of my brothers, but they are all thick as thieves when at Dun-" he stopped himself and smoothly said, "my mother's house."

So it was a named house. Had he stopped himself because he realized she wouldn't recognize the name, therefore it could be confusing? Or for some other reason? She didn't know any named houses outside of their county, but it was typically a rather nice manor house if it was named, she knew that much. In some ways he betrayed himself by his smoothness more than anything else. She'd thought him incapable of deceit, but just then she'd realized it wasn't entirely true. He was well versed in the social falsehood. The sort of polite lie that is meant to protect another's feelings but quite often did the opposite.

She cut a tiny bite of her pie and considered what to do. She was tempted to press him, but her mother's voice haunted her. 'Francie, love, you were being too forward.' What was wrong with being forward, precisely? It was better than belaboring under a misunderstanding because no one wanted to be impolite. 

She smiled sweetly. "It must be quite a nice house if it has a name."

His long blink as he considered what to say told her that her initial perception had been correct. He didn't particularly care for falsehoods. "I've always liked it."

Drat the man, but he wasn't going to make it easy. She swirled the wine in her mug. "Does it have scads of bedrooms for your scads of sisters?"

 

***

 

He'd rather started to like Francine Walters, but this just went to prove what Jeremy always warned him about. A woman who scented your funds or family would set all else aside to gain those things for herself. He couldn't entirely blame her as she had so little of her own. But he had to admit that he was sharply disappointed that it so quickly came to this. It did have the effect of substantially cooling his earlier attraction.

He shrugged. "They don't all sleep in the same bed, if that's what you're asking."

She tossed back the remainder of her wine. "No need to get testy," she said. "It just confirms what I already thought. You come from a good family, wherein good means things like money. Who else would eat from a pub nearly every night? You stand every time I leave or enter a room, you know. I've never seen such perfect manners. And this after years at sea?"

"I was just at home before we came to Cleadon." He didn't know quite how she made him feel so defensive.

"Ah, so mum drilled those manners back into your head?" Miss Walters peered into her mug as though more wine might appear in it. Clearly she'd had more than enough already. When she looked up at him again her expression was mulish. "I have manners, too, you know. I've met a duchess. Well, she wasn't a duchess at the time, but she had aspirations."

"Would you like to retire, Miss Walters?"

"She was a good shot, too. If she'd shot you she would have aimed for the heart."

"Then I will steer clear of duchesses," he assured her.

"Jack says she lives at Belle Fleur now. I've never been there but Jack has been there."

Perhaps he'd been incorrect in thinking she'd been fishing for his family fortune, because she seemed far more interested in proving she had connections of her own. And he'd damn well like to know who Jack was, because Miss Walters was throwing the name around like they were all old friends.

"I'll wager that Belle Fleur has scads of bedrooms," she said, snagging the wine bottle from the table. He intercepted it and they had a moment of tug of war, her with her hand on the neck, and he with his hand tight on the lower part of the bottle. She released it with the pronouncement, "Rude."

Miss Walters was a handful. She stood and drew herself up with exaggerated primness. He stood as well.

"Good evening, Mr. Burnham," she said, executing a quite credible curtsy considering that she was wobbly from drink.

"Miss Walters," he said with a nod and slight bow.

She tottered off to her bedroom, leaving him with the banked fire and half a bottle of wine. This morning he'd thought time with her wouldn't be boring, but it could still be infuriating. It almost seemed she wanted to throw his breeding in his face, while also trying to prove it didn't put him above her. What a complicated creature she was.

He took a swill straight from the claret bottle.

Furthermore, who in the hell was Jack?