Page 87 of The Devil in Her Bed
“Were you careful, Francesca?” Serana’s Eastern European accent had never quite faded, even after all this time in England. Her blazing gold eyes skewered her from the mirror as she pinned her pasted hair tightly to her head with ruthless jabs.
“I’m not certain to what you’re referring, but the answer is more than likely no.” Francesca busied herself brewing her own concoction of sodium bismuth, vanilla, coconut, and a few other exotic oils that would strip her hair of the smell once the henna dye was washed away.
“I’m asking if you took measures to make certain you and the tiger did not make a child last night.” Ever since learning of Declan Chandler’s survival, Serana had taken to calling him “the tiger,” as she did not like to keep track of his innumerable names.
She’d insisted none of them belonged to him, anyhow.
The woman seemed pleased, though, to hear that she’d been wrong about his death.
Francesca didn’t look up as the woman nearly finished toiling behind her, reaching for a scarf to wrap around the muck as it set in the color over a few hours.
“No,” Francesca admitted with a rueful twist of her lips. “We were not careful.”
“Ah, I see.” Though Serana rarely ever made her thoughts known, she was a woman Francesca had always found easy to read. Not that she needed to guess now, as the woman made her judgments perfectly clear by the brutal knots she pulled in the scarf, jerking her head this way and that.
“I will make you tonic,” she said crisply. “There will be no child.”
“Wait.” The word escaped Francesca’s lips before she could stop herself. She and Serana stared at each other in the mirror, holding silent court.
Serana reminded her that she’d never wanted a child. That her life was strictly inconducive to motherhood. That every day she lived as Francesca Cavendish was borrowed from a lie, and if the council didn’t get her someday, the Crown might.
“I know,” Francesca said aloud. “But just… wait.”
“Where is your tiger, by the by?” The brackets of age around the woman’s mouth deepened as she frowned. “You could be called away at any moment by your enemy, and he has left you without a word all because your father once desired to be kind to him? To offer him a home?”
Francesca itched a place where the paste dripped against her scalp, puffing out a beleaguered breath. “It’s more than that…” It didn’t take a genius to realize why he’d escaped her company a few hours ago. He’d learned not only that his entire hypothesis had been incorrect about the Mont Claire Massacre, but that he’d gained and lost a father before he even knew about it.
For a man who’d survived such a litany of such tragedies alone… she couldn’t imagine what that had meant to him. Of course he would need to sort it all out in his thoughts and his heart. It was a lot to contend with. “It’s… complicated,” she finished lamely.
Serana made an affirmative grunt, giving the scarf a final yank to secure it.
Francesca looked at her reflection. She might have been a maharaja with such a fine turban, save for the fact that she was neither male, a king, nor Indian.
“He’ll be there when I need him,” Francesca assured, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded.
Serana slid her a sideways look. “I do not think the gods would ever have allowed your father to adopt him,” she declared. “He never was meant to be your brother, but your fate.”
Francesca opened her mouth to ask her to clarify when a metallic jangle pealed from her bedroom. Holding up a finger to signal that this conversation was not over, she went to the receiver box of her telephone and lifted the earpiece.
“Lady Francesca?” Even through the tinny wires, Lord Ramsay’s brogue was unmistakable.
“This is.”
“I am calling on behalf of my wife to give ye a firm talking-to,” he said without a trace of firmness.
“Stern!” She heard Cecelia call from somewhere in his vicinity. “I said stern, not firm.”
His breath was a long-suffering gush against the mouthpiece, and it carried his regret over the miles between them.
“Ye lied,” he accused in a matter-of-fact tone.
“You’ll have to be specific,” Francesca remonstrated, trying to cull the strange compelling urge she had to yell her words into the receiver. Not because she was irritated, but because they really did have to travel a great distance, and she wondered if they needed an extra push.
“The Kenway ritual,” he clarified. “It isna at the estate tonight, as ye informed us.”
Drat. She’d been caught.“Oh?” she feigned innocence. “Have they moved it? I haven’t received the invitation for it as of yet. I think it will come later and we’ll have to leave immediately.”
“That surprises me, because everyone else has one, including yer lover.”
