“No, silly!” she said. “Grandpapa has just had an invitation to dine at Mrs. Melford’s tomorrow evening, and I am invited too. Mama will not say no, will she? You simply must speak up for me—you and Grandpapa both.”

“I don’t suppose she will,” he said guardedly, “provided it is a private dinner.”

“Oh, and you are invited too,” she said.

That was what he had been afraid of. One visit had been amusing, but . . .

“Miss Allard has come up from Bath,” she said.

Ah!

Well!

“She has, has she?” he asked briskly. “And I am expected to give up an evening to dine with Mrs. Melford and her sister merely because Miss Allard is there too?”

Merely!

“It would be the courteous thing to do, Lucius,” his grandfather said, “since you are the one who suggested she be summoned.”

“And so I did,” Lucius admitted. “I hope her arrival has had the desired effect.”

“Mrs. Melford declares that Miss Driscoll made something of a miraculous recovery within an hour of the arrival of their great-niece,” his grandfather told him. “It was an inspired suggestion of yours, Lucius. May I send back an acceptance for you as well as for Amy and myself?”

Lucius stood with a still-empty plate in his hand and an appetite that seemed somehow to have fled. When he had watched Frances run away from the pavilion in Sydney Gardens after refusing to marry him or give him a thoroughly satisfying reason for doing so, he had thought that if he never saw her again it would be rather too soon.

Yet he had undeniably maneuvered matters so that she would come to London to see her great-aunts.

And was he now going to stay away from her?

“Yes, please do, sir,” he said with as much carelessness as he could summon.

“I shall look forward to it of all things,” Amy said, turning her attention back to her own breakfast. “Will not you, Luce?”

“Of all things,” he said dryly as he scooped fried potatoes onto his plate and moved on to the sausages.

He would probably do something asinine like count down the hours until he would see her again. Like a love-struck mooncalf.

But would Frances? Look forward to it of all things, that was?

Frances was beginning to think—and hope—that her great-aunts had forgotten about their plan to invite the Earl of Edgecombe to come to dinner with Viscount Sinclair and Amy Marshall. Two days passed and nothing more was said about it.

She enjoyed those days. Her aunts—not only Great-Aunt Gertrude, but Great-Aunt Martha too—visibly improved in both health and spirits during that time. And so did she, she felt. It was good to be with them again, to be fussed over, to be the apple of their eye, to have the feeling of being part of a family. She really had been very depressed during the last month, and indeed she had not been in the best of spirits since Christmas.

She would stay for a week, she had decided. And she would not worry about being back in London. She was not planning to go out anywhere, after all, and the world was unlikely to come calling.

She was mistaken about the plan for dinner, though, as she discovered late in the afternoon of that second day, only a few hours before the guests were due to arrive. Her aunts had kept it a secret until the last moment, they explained, thinking to delight her with the surprise when they finally informed her.

They also begged her, with identical beams of sheer delight, to put on her prettiest gown and to allow Hattie, their own personal maid, to dress her hair suitably for evening.

It was bad enough to know that Lucius was going to be here within a couple of hours, Frances thought as she scurried upstairs to get ready. But far worse was the fact that her great-aunts seemed determined to play matchmaker. How excruciatingly embarrassing if he or any of the others should notice!

She had brought her cream silk to London with her. Not that she had expected to have occasion to wear it. But any lady must go prepared for a variety of circumstances when she traveled. She wore it for dinner, and she did not have the heart to send Hattie away and disappoint her aunts. And so by the time she descended to the sitting room a mere ten minutes before the guests were due to arrive, she was wearing her hair in a mass of soft curls at the back, with an elaborate arrangement of fine braids crisscrossing the smoothly brushed hair over the crown of her head.

She looked very fine, she had admitted to Hattie when the coiffure was complete. But that very fact embarrassed her. What if he thought she had done it for him? What if his grandfather and Amy thought it?

They came one minute early—Frances had, of course, been watching the clock on the mantel in the sitting room.

Amy came into the room first, all youthful high spirits as she curtsied first to Aunt Martha and then to Aunt Gertrude and smiled warmly at each of them. She stretched out both hands to Frances and looked as delighted to see her as if they were long-lost sisters—alarming thought.

“Miss Allard!” she exclaimed. “I am so glad to see you again. And you have made Miss Driscoll all better, as Luce predicted you would.”

The Earl of Edgecombe came next, all bent frailty and twinkling eyes as he made his bow to the older ladies and then reached out his right hand to Frances.

“By fair means or foul, ma’am,” he said, beaming genially at her, “I mean to hear you sing again before I die.”

“I hope, my lord,” she said, setting her hand in his and watching him carry it to his lips, “you are not planning to do that anytime soon.”

He chuckled and patted her hand before releasing it.

And then came Lucius, bringing up the rear, looking quite impossibly handsome in his black evening clothes with dull gold embroidered waistcoat and white linen and lace. He was smiling charmingly at the aunts and then turning to make a formal bow to Frances.

She curtsied.

The aunts smirked and looked charmed.

“Miss Allard?” he said.

“Lord Sinclair.”

Drawing air into her lungs was taking a conscious effort.

Everyone seemed remarkably pleased with everyone else despite the fact that they were an ill-assorted group. They proceeded in to dinner almost immediately, the earl with a great-aunt on each arm and Viscount Sinclair with Frances on his right arm and Amy on his left. And the conversation remained lively throughout the meal and in the sitting room afterward.

Soon, Frances thought, the evening would be over and her ordeal at an end. The courtesies would have been observed and in five days’ time she could retreat to Bath and her normal life.

It was a strangely dreary prospect, considering the fact that she really did like teaching—and that she loved all her pupils and had genuine friends at the school.

“I daresay Miss Marshall could entertain us at the pianoforte if only there were one in this house,” Great-Aunt Martha said. “And I know that Frances could with her voice. But I will not suggest that she sing unaccompanied, much as I know she would acquit herself well if she did.”

“She has always had perfect pitch,” Great-Aunt Gertrude explained.

“I am very thankful there is no instrument,” Amy said, laughing merrily. “And I daresay Grandpapa and Luce are glad of it too. Anyone who ever says I play competently is being excessively kind to me.”

“I will not pretend that I am not disappointed to be unable to hear Miss Allard sing again,” the earl said, “but all things happen for a purpose, I firmly believe. There is a pianoforte at Marshall House, you see, and a superior one too. It will be my greatest pleasure to entertain you three ladies to dinner one evening later in the week. And afterward, Miss Allard, you may sing for your supper.” His eyes twinkled kindly at her from beneath his white eyebrows. “If you will, that is. It will not be a condition of your coming to dine. But will you sing for me there?”

As had happened in Bath, then, this encounter was to be prolonged, was it? She was to see them all yet again?

Frances glanced at her great-aunts. They were beaming back at her, both of them looking utterly happy. How could she say no and deny them a little more pleasure? And really, deep down, did she even want to say no?

“Very well, then,” she said. “I will come and sing, my lord, just for you and my aunts. Thank you. It will be my pleasure.”

“Splendid!” He rubbed his hands together. “Caroline will accompany you. I shall ask her tomorrow morning. You must come one afternoon and discuss your choice of music with her and practice a little.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That would be a good idea.”

“Will you grant one more request?” he asked. “Whatever else you choose to sing, will you also sing what you did in Bath? I have longed to hear it again.”

“And I love to sing it, my lord.” She smiled warmly at him.

She was sitting at some remove from the fireplace, since Great-Aunt Gertrude always liked to keep the fire built high. The earl turned his attention to Great-Aunt Martha, who sat close to him, and Great-Aunt Gertrude invited Amy to sit on the stool by her feet and tell her all about her exciting experiences in Bath and what she had done in London since then. Viscount Sinclair, who had been standing behind his grandfather’s chair, one arm leaning on the back of it, came to sit on the sofa beside Frances.

“You are in good looks tonight,” he said.

“Thank you.” She had tried her best all evening to ignore him—rather akin, she thought ruefully, to trying to ignore the incoming tide when one was seated on the beach in its direct path.

“I trust,” he said, “Miss Martin’s school was not left in a state of chaos and incipient collapse when you came here.”