Page 55 of The Devil in Her Bed
“Of course you’re worried,” Francesca replied, reaching into her own quiver. “I’m quite convinced that you’ve taken on fretting over us as your second vocation.”
“It was my first before I became a card sharp.” Cecil smiled that sweet, disarming grin, and laughed off the jibe with her characteristic good humor before she sobered. “But didn’t you mention your Chandler told you that Kenway is more dangerous than your workaday villain?”
“He’s not my Chandler.”
Alexandra, who’d gone to Cecelia to help her, sent a level look from beneath the robin’s-egg blue of her riding hat and veil, but kept her own counsel.
“Whoever’s Chandler he is—and whether it’s his first or last name—I still wonder if it’s not a good idea to heed him in this case.”
Francesca’s lips tightened. “You have no idea how much it would gall me to heed any word out of that man’s mouth.”
This time, it was Alexandra and Cecelia who shared a look.
Francesca pretended not to notice, testing the tension on her bow.
“He was the most important person in the world to you at one point,” Cecelia persisted. “Surely one conversation couldn’t have changed that.”
“It didn’t. Twenty years changed it. Changed us.” Francesca leaned her bow against a railing and peeled her riding jacket down her shoulders, shucking it before the sun cooked her in it. “He’s not the boy I knew, nor is he the man I thought he’d grow into.” She yanked at her necktie and popped open the first buttons of her chin-high blouse.
The same was true for them both, she supposed. So maybe it was better this way. Perhaps he was wise to never have come for her, because he’d been right all along. She wasn’t who she claimed to be.
And telling him could ruin them both. “Before I knew about Chandler’s survival, Kenway was always my aim. I mustn’t be distracted from that,” she said, pulling the bowstring back and letting her arrow fly. It landed the third right out, an even worse shot than before. “I still have a job to do. That hasn’t changed.”
“No, of course not,” Cecelia placated her, pulling her veil above her hat rim and blowing at some errant fringe. “But to attend a function, a strictly Crimson Council function, alone. It seems rather… reckless, that’s all. Perhaps you should at least tell Chandler that you’ll be there, for safety’s sake.”
“I will dance a naked Irish jig on Prince Albert’s grave before I ask that man for help.” Francesca knewshe should chew on the practicality of Cecelia’s gentle suggestion, but her pride rejected it as violently as bad oysters. She’d not really hurt Chandler that night in his room when she’d discharged her weapon. He’d let her escape. He could have easily caught her, found her in the subsequent days.
He could have apologized for being an ass.
She might have even offered an apology of her own.
Emphasis on the wordmight.
Alexandra handed the bow with the nocked arrow to Cecelia and patiently helped her with her form as she drew a bead. Cecelia, who was almost never unladylike, whooped in victory as the arrow actually hit the side of the target rather than glancing off the grey stone walls as it had all afternoon. It landed nowhere close to the markers, but Cecelia was the sort to celebrate personal victories rather than ones over other people. She always felt guilty for winning competitions, and generally made certain she never did.
“It does appear that your and Chandler’s current paths are aligned,” the duchess finally weighed in as she adjusted her glove. “Perhaps, now that cooler heads prevail, you can at least discuss it with him, maybe plot some contingencies should aught go awry.”
“Do you not remember what he said to me?” Francesca snatched up her weapon again. “I refuse to align myself with someone who wouldmalignmy parents, condescend to me, and then proceed to shame me for my reputation before even asking if his assumptions were valid in the first place!” She grabbed an arrow so violently from her quiver, it snapped.
Alexandra’s lips twisted into a wry grimace that wrinkled her freckled nose, making her appear ten years younger. “That was rather poorly done of him.”
“Though there aren’t many men alive who wouldn’t have done the same,” Cecelia chimed in.
“Do not tell me you’re defending him, Cecil,” Francesca snapped. “You wouldn’t abide that sort of thing from Ramsay, and Redmayne wouldn’t dare.”
“Touché,” Alexandra conceded.
“I wouldn’t think of defending him.” Cecelia puffed out a defeated breath. “It’s only that, well, people say rather awful things sometimes when they’re jealous. Things they don’t mean.”
“He meant it,” Francesca grumped.
“I suppose I just felt that you two finding each other after all this time… Well, it was all rather romantic. Something like fate.” Cecelia sighed the last word with dramatic nostalgia.
“We don’t believe in fate,” Francesca muttered.
“But we do believe in second chances.” Cecelia reached for her waterskin, which was filled with a lovely Viognier, and took delicate sips before handing it to Francesca. “And you two have such a history.”
“I’ve always hated history.” Francesca enjoyed the wine that tasted of exotic pears and summers in the south of France before passing it along to Alexandra, who waited to have the alcohol safely in her grasp before she retorted.
