this out-of-the-way neighborhood. He supposed he would pay now for sparing his horses a cold wait.
Nothing about the visit had gone as he expected. His uncle’s wife—he could hardly think of the girl in those terms—had turned out to be the antithesis of his pug-faced vision. Quite pretty, with her gold-copper hair and deep hazel eyes, her trim figure evident even in that stuffy black gown. No pretensions to fashion; that, at least, was as anticipated, but appealing despite her dowdiness.
Why in God’s name had she married Henry Wylde? He’d thought first of penury; yet, if she was to be believed, his uncle had coveted her money. Social advancement seemed equally unlikely. She was clearly well bred and hadn’t appeared stupid; she could not have imagined that his uncle moved in exalted social circles. The thought of affection, of his dour uncle courting, was preposterous. There must be something wrong with her that was not immediately apparent.
He spotted a hackney discharging a passenger ahead and waved down the driver. There was clearly something very wrong with her household. The behavior of his uncle’s valet was beyond anything. Even Uncle Henry would have sent the man packing, surely. And the place had felt almost… abandoned, which was ridiculous. What had the fellow said, though? That none of the servants would work for her? That had to be an idle threat, born of his obvious animosity.
He gave his address to the cabby and climbed in. He had done his duty and would continue to do so, though she didn’t seem to want his help. It was a relief, really; he had far too much to do already. Wycliffe would manage bank accounts and all the other necessary arrangements. But, bouncing over the cobblestones, he found that Charlotte Wylde lingered in his mind. Her youth—could she be even twenty?—the impression he had gained of a forlorn yet resolute spirit.
He had expected, been braced for, a weeping female falling on his chest and demanding his attentions and aid. Of course he was delighted that no such thing had happened. Of course he was completely and only relieved.
He felt even more so when Frances pounced on him in his study bare moments after he reached home, saying, “You are not actually going to let Lizzy keep that cat?”
“What has it done now?” Alec sighed.
“That is not the point! If you keep indulging Lizzy, she will never learn to control herself.”
“She’s been worried about Anne…”
“We have all been worried about Anne! But that does not give us license to ride roughshod over others’ sensibilities.”
Alec refrained from saying that it seemed to have given Frances such license. The familiar calm, equable Frances had not been much in evidence lately. As she glared at him, waiting for a reply, he suddenly noticed a resemblance to Lizzy in the lines of her face. Of course Frances had the dark hair and deep blue eyes of his mother’s side of the family, he knew that.
But the contrast between the two had always been more striking than any similarity—Frances thoughtful and reserved; Lizzy in constant motion and high flights.
Frances had the rounded shape of the maternal line, too, though it felt odd to notice. She was indelibly associated with his father in his mind, a parental figure. He’d thought of her as old, but she wasn’t more than, what, early forties? Right now, she looked older, tired and harried and thoroughly irritated. “The cat is on probation,” Alec answered at last. “It is to be confined to the schoolroom and Lizzy’s bedchamber.”
“Oh, very likely.”
Sarcasm, from Frances? This, also, was new. “Lizzy promised me that…”
“Lizzy promised? And how often has she kept a promise?”
“I think you’re being a bit harsh. Lizzy does not break her word.”
“Except when she cannot help it, because, you see, some circumstance forced her to do… whatever it is.”
Frances’s echo of Lizzy’s voice was spot on. Alec almost made the mistake of smiling. “So, as usual, you will give me no support?” Frances added. “You will leave the discipline to me, and disappear into your far more important concerns than your sisters’ conduct or future.”
This was so unfair, and so unlike her, that Alec had to say, “Frances, what is the matter? All winter you have been…” He tried to find a word that would not offend.
“I? You are going to blame me?”
“It’s not a matter of blame. I only wondered if there was something…”
“Oh, why do I bother? No one ever listens to me!” Frances whirled and