She glanced back at him. His amber eyes were sober and direct. She shook her head, and he leaned closer, making it even more impossible for her to ignore him.
“Wait for the doctor to finish. You can visit Nat this afternoon. He’ll have rested and be feeling better.”
She wanted to continue arguing, but something about Ethan’s words rang true. If she went now, she’d only be in Dr. Dawson’s way, and Nat would be uncomfortable lying in bed with his mistress present. Whose interest she had at heart—hers or Nat’s?
“Fine,” she said.
He released his hold on the door, and she was suddenly aware of how close Ethan was standing. If she moved so much as an inch, she’d brush against him. He seemed to become aware of their closeness as well and took a step back. She felt the absence of the heat from his body immediately, but thankfully she was no longer paralyzed by the cold fear of her attacker.
She turned to the door and pulled it open. “I’d better visit the hospital. The bunny has been alone all night.”
“Good,” she heard him say behind her. “I have business with the house servants, so take the footman with you.” She heard the edge in his voice and turned back to him. “Don’t go anywhere but the hospital or back to the house.”
Francesca shivered at the warning in his voice and eyes and at the image that came to her mind. She saw the shadow of a man, standing behind the crumbling ruins of the wall. His face a mask of hatred, icy eyes glittering with malice in the dark.
She nodded her acquiescence to Ethan and stepped into the hall, where the line of busts stared with their sightless eyes.
She shuddered.
Nineteen
“If Winterbourne givesyour mother one morebrilliantsuggestion, I’ll strangle him.” Lord Brigham cupped Francesca’s elbow and drew her into the hallway later that day. She glanced back as the drawing room door shut behind them and glimpsed her mother furiously scribbling notes. Francesca felt trapped in a dream. She’d almost laughed when her parents announced they’d decided to host a betrothal ball. Except that a ball with Winterbourne as her betrothed meant she would dance with him, stand beside him, perhaps even be kissed by him.
Her father angled for his library. “I do not want to contemplate how much this ball will cost me.” He kept his voice low and an eye on the drawing room behind them.
Francesca gripped her father’s forearm. “Daddy, why did you agree to this betrothal ball? And in only one week? What will we tell everyone when Winterbourne and I call it off?” Her reputation could hardly stand another broken engagement.
Her father’s eyebrows drew together, and he tugged at his skewed cravat. “I don’t know what else to do, Franny. We have to catch this man. First you.” He gave her an uncharacteristically tender glance. “Now that groom.” His forehead furrowed again. “We need to lure the man into the open.”
“And you think a betrothal ball will do so?”
Her father closed his eyes for a moment, and he looked sunken and suddenly old. Defeated. Francesca clasped her hands together to stop herself from putting her arms around him and hugging him to her. He was a proud man, and she knew he detested this deception and the necessity of having Winterbourne come to their aid as much as she.
“I don’t know, Franny.” He opened his eyes. “I honestly don’t know, but at this point I’m willing to do whatever is required.” He gave her arm a less than
reassuring squeeze, and Francesca watched him shuffle to his library. Only a few days before, he’d been vital and alive. Now he appeared tired and beaten.
