Where the Heart Chooses

Chapter 1-2

Lady Portia introduced me to the people I needed to know, keeping up the façade that I was simply in London to make my belated come-out. I wrote letter after letter to Mother, describing the whirlwind of gaiety that comprised my days and nights. I knew she would pass the letters on to Father, who would pass them on to someone adept enough at cryptography to discover the hidden meaning of page after page of gushing, girlish prose.

I became friendly with the men and women who dwelt in society, as well as those who had, or would one day have, sensitive positions in the government.

I expected to see these people in the normal course of my day, and I did. However, there was another newcomer to the scene, whom I seemed to keep missing.

Folana Fournaise.

Town was abuzz when Sir Joseph Bowne, senior official of a rather obscure section of the Foreign Office, had suddenly appeared with the young woman on his arm, introducing her as his ward. That had raised eyebrows, but no one said anything. Too many middle-aged men had a tendency to acquire young wards.

Oddly enough, each time a photographer tried to snap their picture, her face always seemed to be obscured.

What was even stranger was the way she apparently brought every conversation around to me. It became the most amusing topic of conversation of the Season, although I didn’t think so.

“Portia, my dear! You just missed Miss Fournaise! Pity, she seems so interested in meeting you. Always regrets your absence. We really must arrange something!”

Or I would pick up The Sun and read, “Miss F.F. attended Lady C.’s do with her guardian, Sir J.B. Everyone was breathless to see the long-anticipated meeting between her and Miss P. S., but alas, it was not to be.” And I’d realize she’d put in an appearance after I had left.

It made no sense. The odds that we should keep missing each other were too great.

In addition to that, I began to feel myself being watched. While sightseeing, while paying calls, while making the contacts my father desired. I was too much a daughter of my family not to be aware of covert surveillance, but I could never pinpoint the source.

I mentioned this, as well as the elusive Miss Fournaise, in one of my carefully coded letters home.

Bryan was the one who responded. Anyone reading it would think it simply dealt with family news: how serious Anthony seemed to be about the young lady he was seeing, how Bryan himself was still waiting to meet his “one,” the charities Mother sponsored, Father’s extended visits to Boston, Manhattan, San Francisco.

Whoever had opened the letter and read it—oh, yes, it had been opened, although only someone who knew what to look for would be able to tell. It had been resealed very cleverly, but not cleverly enough to fool a Sebring—must have been bored to tears.

What it actually said was, We couldn’t learn much about F.F.’s early years; they seem to be shrouded in mystery. J’s gone undercover and will look into it more closely. What we do know is that when she isn’t doing occasional “jobs” for Sir J., she runs The Complex, an organization that flirts extensively with the illegal. It might be interesting to find out why Sir J. is having her pose as his ward. The fact that you haven’t run into her yet may mean nothing. “The world is a small place, but London is a very large one.” You always did enjoy Coleridge’s Rime, little sister.

He had paraphrased the line from Now, Voyager, Mother’s favorite movie, which might or might not mean anything. However…

I read the final line again. Bryan knew that of all Coleridge’s works, I disliked The Rime of the Ancient Mariner the most:

“Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.”

It always gave me the shivers, and I worried my lip. What was going on that I would need to beware what walked behind me?

* * * *

The first time I actually saw the leggy brunette, the group of young people I was with was just leaving the Victoria and Albert Museum, and she was entering it with her male companion, a craggy-faced, blue-eyed blond. They made an interesting contrast. Her blue-black hair was severely restrained in a French pleat that swung down to the middle of her back, and her eyes were shielded by the wide-framed sunglasses that were currently the rage. Her breasts…I flushed. It had been some time since I’d been distracted by thoughts of s*x, and I was surprised to find myself considering her very female curves. I wanted to test their weight in my palm, and my panties dampened at the thought of taking a taut n****e between my lips.

I dreamed of her that night, and I awoke with my own n*****s tight with need, an ache between my thighs, and the sheets sweaty and tangled around my legs.

The second time, a couple of days later, they were leaving Madame Tussaud’s while we were about to climb the stairs.

The third time, early the following week, she was strolling through Hyde Park while I trotted past her, accompanied by Jack, my godmother’s son. He was just leaning toward me to say something, when I was distracted by the sight of her. She met my raised eyebrow with a raised eyebrow of her own, and then lowered her sunglasses, gazed at me over the rims, and smiled. My breath stopped in my throat.

The big blond touched her arm, and they vanished into the crowd.

Our paths continued to cross, my dreams became increasingly more erotic, and I wondered if I should engineer a way to meet her.

And then I received a wide, thin envelope from Jefferson. Within was a black and white photograph, taken with a telephoto lens. The subject was gazing pensively into the distance, unaware, but even the grainy quality of the picture couldn’t diminish the beauty in her face. On the back, my middle brother had written, From what I could learn, they see you as a new player, and they want to determine if you’ll prove to be a threat. Keep them guessing, little sister!

Jefferson never did give me credit for being able to take care of myself, but he was my brother, and I loved him for his concern.

The woman in the photo was the raven-haired beauty who had been turning up at the oddest times. Folana Fournaise.

* * * *

The ball Lady Portia sponsored for me was to be preceded by a dinner party. I was pursuing my acquaintance with Ludovic Rivenhall, a pretty young man who was being groomed for a position in his government.

“Oh, I-I s-s-say!” he stuttered. “If it isn’t Miss Fournaise! Isn’t she a smasher? N-not to say that you aren’t a-attractive also, Miss Sebring.”

The general consensus was that I was “attractive.” I had the fair looks of my father’s side of the family, and the cool temperament of my mother’s. More than once I’d overheard myself being referred to as an ice princess.

I smiled at him absently—odd how his stutter came and went, but of course I was too polite to mention anything about that—and turned to examine the woman who had just entered the room.

Folana Fournaise wore a gown whose elegant lines proclaimed it to be a Dior. It was a deep blue velvet that matched her eyes. Her long hair was in a chignon. In spite of what I had learned about her, I was drawn to her.

For once, she was not accompanied by her blond escort.

“That’s Sir Joseph Bowne with her. One would think he could find a woman closer to his own age. The bloody blighter! Oh! I b-beg your pardon, Miss Sebring!”

I murmured something noncommittal.

I studied the gentleman who was beside her, and I wondered if anyone else noticed the small distance she kept from him.

He inclined his head toward her and whispered a few words, and she inclined her head in turn.

From across the room, Folana Fournaise’s eyes skimmed my figure, and my n*****s tightened. She didn’t smile, but I sensed her interest, and I thought she would join us.

Just then, however, dinner was announced.