“Weymouth!” Frampton strode forward, putting an end to their whispered conversation, which was untimely anyway.
She probably should not have said anything, because Trajan now looked even more riled.
“Frampton,” he replied with curt politeness.
“I did not expect to see you with the ladies.”
Goodness, Frampton sounded sooily.
“I rode along to assist Florence with her Aunt Hermia,” Trajan smoothly explained. “She is old and rather frail, as you may have noticed. Make certain she does not walk unattended, because she is not all that steady on her feet. Yet she is stubborn and refuses to use a pushchair. But I see your wife has offered her arm and is being most careful with her.”
Frampton glanced at Hermia and his wife, his expression turning even more dour.
“If you do not mind, I shall push off now and leave the ladies to their party.” Trajan turned to Florence and gave her a kiss on thecheek. “I will see you shortly.”
“And I shall count the minutes,” she said, slightly breathless.
He arched an eyebrow, warning her not to overdo it.
Florence wanted to linger nearby to hear more of Trajan’s conversation with Frampton, but she dared not be too obvious. “I’ll hurry along and catch up to the ladies.” She batted her eyelashes at Trajan for good measure.
He shot her another warning look.
She started up the stairs, but paused just inside the front door. Since the head butler and several footmen were close by, she pretended to dig through her reticule as though searching for something. “Did I leave it in the carriage?” she muttered to herself as Frampton’s footmen and butler looked on. This allowed her to linger by the door and hear the brief exchange between Trajan and Frampton.
“As soon as our marriage plans are settled,” Trajan said, surprisingly cordial, “Florence and I will host a dinner party for our friends and neighbors. We hope you and your lovely wife will attend.”
“We shall try, of course. You’ve caught me at a very busy time.”
“Government matters, Frampton? Rumor has it you are in line for an important Home Office post—or is it the Foreign Office?”
“Among other possibilities,” Frampton said, being purposely evasive. “But my wife is one for parties. She will be pleased to receive the invitation. By the way, have you and Lady Florence set a wedding date?”
“Tentatively,” Trajan said, equally evasive. “Waiting on confirmation, family schedules and all that. But I am quite keen on marrying her soon. It is my hope that Florence will be my duchess before the end of the month.”
Having given Frampton the not-so-subtle reminder that he was dealing with a duke, Trajan climbed back in his carriage and rapped on the roof, commanding his driver to take him home.
“Ah, yes. I do have it,” Florence now said, and hurried alongbefore Frampton walked back inside the house and found her lurking.
She had noticed the malice in his expression in an unguarded moment before he entered the house. The man was indeed a coiled spring ready to unwind at the slightest provocation.
She scampered into the parlor and joined the ladies. Sylvia was wringing her hands as she stood beside the sofa where Hermia was now seated. She smiled as Florence approached. “It is so nice to see you again.”
She took both of Florence’s hands in hers and gave them a light squeeze.
Florence thought for a moment she meant to slip a key or a note into her hand, but it seemed Sylvia simply wished to give her a warm greeting.
“Same here, Sylvia.” She leaned forward and bussed her cheek, hoping Frampton’s wife might have something to whisper in her ear.
But she said nothing. Perhaps her husband was too close. He had walked in immediately after her and now stood frowning in the doorway.
“Well, I see that you are eager for your hen party. I shall not get in your way.” He walked out.
Sylvia let out a breath. “Come sit next to me. We have much to catch up on since the last time we met.”
The ogrish maid, whose name was Rutledge, was also present, perched like a predatory night owl on her stool in the corner.
Sylvia joined Hermia on the sofa while Florence sank into one of a pair of embroidered chairs beside them. The embroidery was particularly intricate, a lovely, pastoral scene that included lambs and a shepherdess under a tree in a meadow. “Did you embroider these, Sylvia?”
