you tell her who you were?’ Fitzgerald asked.
He shook his head. ‘I planned to...’
‘So what happened?’
Ben shrugged. ‘She probably doesn’t even remember me anyway.’
‘Unlikely,’ Robertson said. ‘Surely she’d remember the man her father had falsely arrested?’
At the end of that last summer before Ben had been arrested there was a robbery at Elmington Manor, Francesca’s childhood home. A large amount of jewellery was stolen, along with some cash and other small valuables. The hue and cry was raised and the magistrate along with other upstanding men in the community began their search.
After a week a small locket had been found in Ben’s possession. It had Francesca’s initials on it and immediately Ben had been arrested. He’d begged his accusers to just go and ask Francesca, to confirm that she’d given him the locket as a gift, as a token of their friendship.
The magistrate refused, no doubt eager to stay in favour with Lord Pottersdown, but one day a week into his incarceration Francesca had turned up anyway. She told anyone who would listen that Ben was speaking the truth—she had given him the locket. Over and over she told the magistrate that her father had set the whole thing up, that he had framed Ben in a desperate attempt to cover his own debts. Of course, no one had listened. She was just a girl, a ten-year-old who was obviously infatuated with a common thief.
Eventually her father had arrived and dragged her away. Ben would never forget the moment the door of the county gaol closed behind her; in that moment, his heart had broken. Three months later he was sent to the hulk ships that lined the Thames and a year after that he was aboard a transportation ship to Australia.
In the eight years of his sentence and the ten years since he’d acquired his freedom he hadn’t ever been able to forget his childhood friend. He’d dreamed of coming back for her, to rescue her from her cruel father. As he’d grown older he’d let go of any thoughts of rescue, knowing that by now Francesca would be living her own life, but he’d never given up the hope that one day he might see her again.
What he hadn’t expected was the attraction he’d felt for her. When he’d last seen her they’d both been children. He had loved her, there was no denying that, but in a way one friend loves another. Now he felt something much more primal, much more pressing. He desired her. Francesca was beautiful now, sleek and elegant and graceful. When they’d danced, he’d felt raw desire for the woman in his arms and it had taken all his self-control not to kiss her there and then on the terrace. Even though once they had been very close he knew it was unlikely a woman of Francesca’s status would allow herself to be seduced by him.
‘So you’re just going to leave it?’ Robertson asked, his voice a touch incredulous.
Ben shook his head. He couldn’t leave it like that. He had just needed to regroup, that was all, decide what he actually wanted from Francesca before he saw her again.
‘She was very pretty,’ Fitzgerald said quietly. Probably the most perceptive of the three friends, George Fitzgerald had a way of seeing past the façade and getting to the heart of a problem.
‘She’s changed a lot,’ Ben said carefully.
‘And she’s a widow...’
‘Not that kind,’ Ben said quickly. She was a respectable woman, he knew that much, and he also knew how reputation mattered to the ladies and gentlemen of society.
‘Fair enough. Isn’t she engaged, though?’ Fitzgerald asked.
‘Not yet,’ he said, thinking of the boorish man he’d met fleetingly the night before. He couldn’t imagine the girl he’d once known married to such an oaf and likely that was the source of sadness in her eyes. She’d said as much, with her desire for a little freedom in her choice, in her life.
‘Then you have a window of opportunity, surely?’ Robertson said.
‘I do,’ he said quietly. First he needed to work out what he wanted from Francesca—only then would he seek her out again.
* * *
Taking a deep breath, Francesca looked up at the building in front of her. It was in a desirable part of London, the street lined with trees and well-dressed men and women strolling along the pavements arm in arm. Really, she shouldn’t be nervous.
Telling herself not to be so silly, she crossed the road and climbed the five steps that led to the front door. There she hesitated, not knowing what the correct etiquette was when visiting a gentleman’s rooms.
Francesca had been an unmarried debutante for two years, unhappily married for seven, and then a widow for almost a year now. That made ten years of adulthood in which she had never visited a gentleman’s rooms. Many of her contemporaries would whisper and giggle about their affairs, taking pleasure in sneaking off behind their husbands’ backs to meet their lovers, but she had never done anything like that. So she lifted the knocker and let it drop a couple of times, all the while feeling completely out of her depth.
‘Good morning, miss,’ a pretty young girl said as she answered the door. She was dressed in a French maid’s uniform that had been popular for a certain set of the ton to instruct their maids to wear a couple of years earlier.
‘I’m here to see Mr Crawford,’ Francesca said quietly, hoping no one would overhear.
‘I’ll see if he’s in, miss, if you’d like to wait here.’
The maid indicated a spot in the hallway where a couple of chairs had been set out for waiting visitors. Francesca perched, ready to flee at the slightest sign of anyone recognising her.
Two minutes later the maid returned, almost skipping down the stairs.
‘Mr Crawford will see you,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
Feeling increasingly nervous with every step, she followed the young maid up two flights of stairs to the top floor of the building. There, lounging against the door frame of an open door, was Ben. Without the mask it was unmistakably him, the boy she’d called her closest friend throughout their childhood. He gave her a half-smile, full of charm, and despite her nerves Francesca felt her heart flip inside her chest.
‘Lady Somersham,’ he said, his voice low, ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ He didn’t look surprised to see her, he didn’t look as if anything in the world could ruffle him, especially not the mere reappearance of an old childhood friend.
‘Mr Crawford,’ she greeted him formally, her upbringing taking over as her mind went completely blank. She wanted to reach out, to touch his face, trace the lines with her fingers and convince herself he was really there and not just a figment of her imagination.
‘I think you can call me Ben, Frannie,’ he said with that roguishly charming smile. ‘It’s not as though we’re strangers.’
He was right. They were far from strangers, but the boy she’d known had grown up into a man she didn’t much recognise. A man her body was reacting to in a most inappropriate way.
‘What brings you to this part of town?’ he asked, still leaning against the doorframe.
With
