Alexandra considered it, then shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like Francesca. Of all of us, she’s the one least likely to hold her tongue.”
“True, but we’ve all become rather deft at keeping secrets.”
My fault. The weight under which Alexandra constantly lived compounded with a new heavy stone of guilt. It buckled her knees, collapsing her into the chair opposite Cecelia.
Because their secret was in danger of being a secret no longer, and soon she would have to relay that to her accomplices. She’d been keeping the wolves at bay for ten long years, and now …
Cecelia continued, blissfully unaware of her thoughts. “If Francesca doesn’t want to marry this Redmayne, why not simply call off the betrothal instead of throwing a masquerade and only then imploring our help? She’s trapped somehow. I can feel it.”
Guilt needled Alexandra once more; she had been too lost in her own difficulties of late. She clung to Cecelia’s hand like it was a mooring line in a sea storm. “If she’s in danger, we’ll do whatever it takes to get her out of it, won’t we?” she said with a forced confidence she didn’t exactly feel.
“Always. We’ve conquered bigger demons than that of the Duke of Redmayne.” Ever the shrewd examiner, Cecelia studied her through her spectacles “Alexander, are you all right?”
Are you all right?
It was a question people asked of women who’d survived what she had. Even after all these years. Are you all right?
The answer was categorically … No.
She’d not been all right for longer than a decade. She’d been recovered. Repurposed. She’d been content, if not happy. And accomplished, if not all right.
In truth, ten years had softened the edges of the pain. Had allowed for more sleep and fewer nightmares. Had lessened the trembling and shame and had increased the number of days between the flashes of memory that left her sobbing and scouring her skin in scalding water. Along with a million other allowances and distractions and efforts she made to cultivate a life of purpose and passion, she’d still tended to her loneliness as fervently as she had her friendship with the two extraordinary women she loved most in this world.
Because loneliness was safer than love.
In all, ten years had made her less of a liar every time she smiled and replied to the question with, “Yes, I’m quite all right.”
But tonight, she couldn’t give that answer. Because she wasn’t even approaching all right. And when her friends heard what she had to disclose, they wouldn’t be either. Perhaps now was the time to tell her.
“Cecelia, I’m—”
The door burst open and a streak of red and black fluttered in before it slammed again.
Francesca had never been one for knocking.
“Sweet Christ, am I glad to see you two.” She panted as though she’d run a league.
The burst of energy had driven both Alexandra and Cecelia to their feet, and they rushed to embrace her as she held her arms wide in silent supplication of their support.
“What’s happened, Frank?” they asked in tandem.
Francesca’s emerald eyes glinted with solemnity not at all typical of her character. “I need you to help me find proof that the Duke of Redmayne’s family murdered my parents,” she revealed in a clandestine whisper. “Because if any of them find out who I really am, I might be next.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Alexandra gaped at Francesca in dumbfounded silence.
The Countess of Mont Claire had always been a stranger to gravitas, so to see her porcelain skin stretched so tightly over her tense expression was alarming. She’d been possessed of a lean build since girlhood, but her strong cheekbones cut an even more dramatic angle and the cleft in her chin was more pronounced. Alexandra worried she’d not been eating.
As she clutched at the collar of her black silk robe, Francesca’s countenance whitened to iridescent, setting her russet hair ablaze. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We should sit down for this.” Cecelia took one of her hands, and Alexandra the other, pulling the distressed woman to the gold velvet settee across from the fire. “Would you like tea?”
“I tell you my life may be in danger, and you offer me tea?” Francesca regarded them as though they’d lost their minds.
Unperturbed, Cecelia made certain they were settled before gliding back toward the sideboard and preparing three cups. “Am I to take it that you decline?” She delicately poured the liquid over the tea strainer in each, before reaching for the sugar cubes.
Francesca huffed, then muttered, “Three cubes.”
Cecelia had already plopped three into the first cup, two into Alexandra’s and one into hers. The preparation had been the same for almost fifteen years, now.
She returned to distribute the saucers before settling herself in a graceful flourish, arranging her spectacles just so. “All right. Now let’s do hear what calamity you’ve found yourself embroiled in.”
Once Francesca found herself on the settee in the company of her trusted friends, she lost the bluster in her sails. She curled around her cup of tea like a vagrant would a fire on a winter’s night.
“I’m not even certain where to start.” She exhaled wearily. “I haven’t allowed myself a moment’s sleep the entire three days I’ve been at Castle Redmayne.”
“Why are we here, Frank?” Alexandra asked over a careful sip of the amber liquid. “How is it possible you’re getting married? And to someone you suspect of murder?”
Francesca’s hand began to tremble, and she set her saucer down, untouched. “I didn’t know of the betrothal contract until Redmayne summoned me.”
“Summoned you?” Alexandra couldn’t imagine strong-willed Francesca ever answering anything close to a summons.
“I would have declined,” she admitted. “But I needed a reason to find a way into the castle. How else am I to ascertain if his family was responsible?”
“What makes you think they were?” Cecelia gulped down her cup of tea and poured another.
“Because, when I read the betrothal contract, I found something I couldn’t ignore…”
“Which is?” Alexandra tucked her slippers beneath her, worrying the inside of her lip with her teeth.
“The date the contract was signed, was the very day prior to the massacre at Mont Claire,” Francesca revealed.
Ever skeptical, Alexandra asked, “Have you any other evidence against them? The timing is suspicious but wouldn’t bear water in court.”
Francesca shook her head and let out a heavy, exhausted breath. “Every night, I’ve been scouring the castle, poring over various documents and historical texts, even the diaries and ledgers of the late Duke of Redmayne, and I’d found very little. But then I realized I’d been investigating the wrong Redmayne.”
“Your betrothed, you mean?” Cecelia puzzled, conducting some hasty maths in her head. “He would have been all of … twelve when your family was killed.”
Francesca became more animated, leaning forward to declare, “The mother, Gwyneth. She has a son from a previous marriage, one who was adopted by Redmayne, but could never be his ducal heir. Gwyneth’s first husband was a Scotsman and, as it turns out, in line to inherit the Mont Claire title. I need to not only find out how close he was to inherit, but I’d also need to ascertain malicious intent on her part.”