Page 35 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

London – Kensington

It took almost a month for them to return to London and September became October with the leaves turning red and gold. With the chill in the wind deepening by the time they arrived, the little season was underway.

“I’m astonished at the amount of work done,” Frances said to Jemie as they walked around the new Prince’s Gate house. All the upper rooms were complete and furnished in a very elaborate style. The mess had disappeared from the hallway. It was more or less ready to move into.

“It’s shaping up very nicely,” Jemie agreed.

Frances glanced at him, surprised. “‘Nice’ is not a word I would normally associate with you.”

Jemie grinned. “I’m seeing your husband’s hand in the decor?” he said.

Frances nodded, trying to suppress a snort. “He won’t let me have anything to do with it. He loves designing the interior of houses. I suspect, should he have not gone into shipping, he could have been someone who… creates the inside of houses.”

Jemie laughed. “He certainly has an eye for the ostentatious.”

Frances chuckled. He was right.

“I’m keen to start on the panels. I have them all planned out and ready to paint,” Jemie explained as they walked downstairs. “Your husband is very proud of this staircase.”

Frances ran a hand down the balustrade. It was true.

Frederick couldn’t quite contain his excitement about having something that had once graced the home of a duke of the realm, now in his own home.

It seemed to please him inordinately. Sometimes she wished she could care more about the houses and the things that he put into them, but she couldn’t.

Nothing was to her taste, and she had to admit that she was becoming increasingly concerned about Frederick’s constant purchasing.

He must have spent a small fortune filling the houses with art, furniture, fabrics.

His taste was becoming… questionable. He seemed to feel that if it was expensive; he wanted it.

Not only that, but his drive to possess things seemed to be getting worse.

It had always been there, but he seemed to be tipping into something more concerning.

She wondered if it was frustration at the position with Bibby and being denied something he sought.

She watched as Jemie scrutinised the panels he was to paint. It was an awful lot of work to undertake, but he seemed to be confident about it.

“Will you still have time to paint me?” she asked.

“Always.” He turned to her, appearing transfixed, and she couldn’t look away. He seemed to consider speaking more but turned his attention back to the staircase and the panels.

Something had shifted between them since the girls’ illness. Something quite profound. She suspected Jemie felt it and kept it hidden too, which was for the best, but it surfaced from time to time when they were alone.

“Come, why don’t we see how things are faring in the dining room?” she injected a note of jollity into her voice. It wouldn’t do to become maudlin.

Jemie peered inside with Frances at his shoulder when they found the room.

“What is it like?” she whispered.

He pushed the door fully open, and they walked in. “Well, he’s got some work to do, that’s for sure.”

It was true. Much of the wood was in place for Frederick’s cabinetry, and it was possible to see now where all the porcelain would go in the displays, but it was devoid of colour.

“I’m not sure we will ever be allowed to dine in here,” Frances murmured, peering up at the ceiling as they took in the room. “It’s going to be so elaborate, it will almost exist as a work of art in its own right. I suspect we will simply be invited to marvel at it occasionally.”

Jemie chuckled. “It needs some colour. Something to bring it to life.”

“I heard Mr Jeckyll is going to paint it dark blue.”

Jemie grimaced, and Frances was inclined to agree.

“Has he secured the painting?” Jemie was referring to his painting of the Porcelain Princess that was to hang over the fireplace.

“I’m not sure. He found the owner, but I think they are negotiating on a price.”

“He could always select another. I did wonder if he might put his own portrait there. Or yours.”

Frances smiled at him. “I wondered that too, but no. He was quite categoric about not having family in here. The only thing he seems certain about is that it must be a Whistler.”

“Do you like the one he’s chosen?”

“I do.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t sound convinced. Which did you want to see there?”

She hesitated, not sure what his reaction would be if she were to be truthful. She hadn’t dared venture an opinion with her husband, but Jemie was different. She knew that she could speak her mind. Knew that he wouldn’t react badly.

“What?” he said, tilting his head. “Tell me.”

She sighed. “Would you think me utterly beyond the pale, if I said I rather hoped he might put one of Mr Turner’s paintings up? He owns several.”

“You absolute wretch! I sincerely hope you haven’t suggested that to him,” Jemie gasped, his eyebrows almost in his hair.

The laughter shimmering in his eyes behind his supposed outrage encouraged her. She shook her head. “I didn’t dare.”

“Frances Leyland, I thought you were my friend.” The glint in his eyes as he narrowed them at her told her he was still jesting, and she laughed aloud.

“I am your friend. I just like Mr Turner’s paintings an awful lot.” She shrieked and danced out of reach as he made to grab her and when he caught her and wrapped his arms about her waist, twirled her around, she laughed and clung to his shoulders.

“Jemie, put me down!”

“Not until you apologise and tell me I am your favourite artist, not bloody Turner!” he shouted, laughing with her.

“I promise, I promise,” she was barely able to get the words out she was laughing so much.

He let her slide to the ground and kept hold of her.

She stood in the cradle of his arms, pressed against his chest. The thing she liked about Jemie was, she didn’t have to crane her neck to look at him.

He wasn’t that much taller than her. She tilted her head and looked up a little to find him observing her intently and her stomach fluttered as it often did around him.

She had to tear her gaze from those sparkling blue eyes that always bewitched her.

“Will you join us for luncheon?” she said, softly, patting his lapel rather than looking at him when it became too intense.

“We’ve missed you.” She surveyed his cravat and smoothed the edge of his collar, feeling the warmth from his body seep into hers, and his familiar scent which was endlessly inviting and made her want to stay wrapped in his arms.

“I would love to come to lunch,” he murmured and moved to take hold of both her hands in his. “I’ve missed you too.”

She closed her eyes briefly but opened them again when Jemie raised both hands to his lips. He kissed the back of each hand, lingering over them. She wore no gloves, so she felt the warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips.

“Turner…” he rolled his eyes and shook his head, lips twitching.

***

Work appeared to progress well with the new house and the following days settled into a routine whereby Jemie worked in the house all morning, then called to see them at Queen’s Gate in the afternoon to continue painting Frances’ portrait.

When he wasn’t painting, he took it upon himself to squire her, Lizzie, and the girls about town as Frederick was always too busy to take them anywhere.

It was a most pleasant arrangement and meant that Frances was enjoying the stay in London immensely.

Or she was until Frederick arrived home in a flaming temper one chilly late October evening.

He was late. They were expected at the Cordingleys for dinner, and Frances was on the brink of considering if she should send an apology to their hosts when her husband stormed into the drawing room. She and Lizzie were chatting by the fire, both dressed for dinner, when the door burst open.

“What is it?” Frances startled. “Is something wrong?”

“Damned man. Damned, damned man.”

Frances pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh no, not Mr Bibby? Has something awful happened?”

Frederick ran his hands through his hair, agitated. “Not Bibby, damned Jeckyll.”

Frances forbore from mentioning his language.

“Is he unwell?”

“They told me when I commissioned him to take care. Said that he was likely to run mad.”

“Run mad?” Frances glanced at Lizzie, who shrugged, her already strained relations with her brother-in-law had cooled further since the incident at Speke Hall.

“Yes. He hasn’t been able to source some things that he wanted for the work. I knew he was getting upset about it, but he fled the house, went to his own home, and locked himself in the pantry.”

Frances and Lizzie exchanged puzzled glances.

“They’ve got him out and the doctor has seen him, but he’s not fit to carry on the work.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry,” Frances murmured in soothing tones. “Perhaps he can finish it when he’s well again?”

“I want it done now.” He sulked like a petulant child. One hand on his hip, the other thrust into his hair as he glared at nothing in particular.

“Well, have you considered asking Mr Whistler to do it? He’s been working tirelessly on the panels, and I know he’s taken a keen interest in the dining room.”

Frederick looked at her, and for once, didn’t dismiss her suggestion out of hand.

“Whistler?” He contemplated it.

Frances nodded and shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

Frederick thought further.

“Are you going to escort us for dinner? You have time to change, and as I understand it, he will be there. You could perhaps talk to him tonight?”

Frederick scratched the back of his neck, nodded and left.

Frances watched him walk away, frankly stunned that he had listened to her.