by Joan Smith
His friends had told him Lady Camden was trouble, and they were right. He was somewhat relieved at not having to marry behind his parents’ back. What on earth would they have made of Frankie Devlin? But she would be something to remember, and tell the chaps about when he was back in the Peninsula.
Chapter Two
“Shall I go after the whelp and teach him some manners?” Lord Devane inquired in a voice of silken menace.
“No, let him go.”
Francesca lifted her eyes to observe her rescuer. She saw a well-shaped head with carefully barbered, crow-black hair. His upper face was concealed by a black mask, revealing only a glitter of dark eyes, but his thin lips left an impression of arrogance. He wasn’t a young man; there were incipient lines in his swarthy cheeks. She recognized the work of Weston in his elegant black jacket and a taste for finery in his intricate cravat, a cabochon ruby nestled in its folds. He was tall and athletic in build, with broad shoulders. “I am obliged to you, sir,” she said, and turned to leave.
The hand that shot out to detain her wore a carved emerald ring on its small finger. Its grip was firm to the point of severity. “Give him a minute to clear away. He may be waiting.”
His voice, though quiet, was deep and full of authority. It was the sort of voice that did not have to be raised to gain attention. Who could he be? He was right about Arnold’s possibly lingering outside. It was exactly the childish sort of thing he would do. She really must graduate to more urbane flirts, she told herself. These boys were becoming a bore. “May I offer you a glass of champagne, sir?” she suggested, indicating the table, where a half bottle still remained.
Champagne, indeed wine of any sort, was not the reward Lord Devane had in mind. In any case, he would never drink another man’s leavings. But he was in no hurry. He enjoyed the preliminaries of love as well as the main event. He lifted his hand, ordered a fresh glass and a new bottle of wine. “I prefer port. You finish the champagne,” he said, holding her chair.
As soon as he was seated, he pulled aside his mask. “I have nothing to hide, have you?” he said, hinting for her to follow his lead.
Francesca felt herself being subjected to a frank, searching gaze from a pair of eagle eyes that lifted the hair on her arms. A slash of black brows lent her rescuer a menacing aspect. She touched her mask but didn’t remove it.
Devane glanced at her left hand, and saw her naked third finger. She had cast the ring aside when she learned of David’s infidelity. Single ladies of quality did not come to such dens as this. She was therefore a lightskirt, and a demmed pretty one, to judge by those cherry lips. Her chin was small and somewhat pointed. He was eager to win a smile, to judge her teeth. He always took an interest in a filly’s teeth. He had noticed her lithe form and dashing gown some minutes before, while she was dancing. “Well?”
“I really shouldn’t be here,” she said nervously. His raking gaze set her on edge.
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. What is your name?”
After Arnold’s somewhat scandalous exit she had no intention of revealing her true identity. “Biddie,” she said, reaching into the distant past for her baby name.
“Biddie what?”
“Wilson.” Her maiden name could mean nothing to him. “And whom am I to thank for rescuing me?”
He noticed her accent was good, though somewhat countrified. Perhaps an actress, hoping to play a lady at Covent Garden? “Devane.”
A little gasp caught in her throat. So this was the great Devane! She recognized the name from the journals and conversations overheard here and there. Devane was not in the government—she had some vague thought that he was a prominent Whig. She knew that a title attached to him, but couldn’t recall whether he was a duke or marquess, or perhaps an earl. “My—friend was somewhat impetuous,” she said apologetically.
“A woman must be a little careful of her friends.”
“Yes.”
The port and glass came, and they drank without speaking for a moment. “The major leaves for the Peninsula in a few days,” she said to fill the stretching silence,
“And he wanted some pleasant memories to take back with him,” Devane said insinuatingly.
She disliked his tone, and the direction of the conversation. “He wanted me to marry him,” she said.
Devane’s lips moved in silent derision. “And who shall blame him? The Dragoons are known for their excellent taste in ladies,” After how many bottles of wine had the fool suggested marriage—if he had suggested it?
“He’s very young,” she said, and gave her characteristic shrug. Devane’s eyes lowered to her partially revealed bosoms.
“Not younger than you, surely? You don’t look more than—” He hesitated. With her eyes hidden, it was difficult to judge, but certainly she wasn’t hagged. Her jaw was firm and smooth.
“Oh, I am very old,” she said, and laughed. A silver tinkle echoed on the air. She felt a hundred, but as her companion’s lips moved unsteadily, she realized that she was not so old as he. He must be well into his thirties. Some feminine vanity urged her to point this out. “Perhaps not compared to you, but I am no longer a deb. I am a widow, in fact.”
He discarded this boast without even considering it, since she wore no ring. It was odd she admitted to being older. Devane said, “Take off your mask.” It was a politely worded command, and such was the force of his personality that her hand actually moved to do as he bid.
She checked herself, however. “A lady in my position shouldn’t be here, in a place like this. It was foolish of me to come.”
“We all act the fool from time to time. I am feeling foolish tonight myself. Shall we have a dance?”
“I really should be going.”
“You can’t go home alone.”
“I have a friend here.” She looked around the room and spotted Selby at his post, watching her with glum foreboding. She waved to him. Devane looked, and caught a glimpse of two women at the doorway near Selby.
Her bland mention of being with a friend was all the confirmation he needed that she was a lightskirt. They traveled to such places as this in pairs or groups if they were not escorted by a patron. “You see now why I refused your offer of wine. I wished to keep you in my debt. Come now, a lady always repays her debts. I have rescued you. You owe me one dance.”
“Well, just one,” she said, and rose, eager to have it over with. It had been a dreadful evening. Mrs. Denver would be happy to see her home early, for once.
They were playing a waltz. Waltzes featured prominently at the Pantheon, to allow the patrons greater freedom. In fact, so many of the couples were inebriated that the formality of a minuet or cotillion would be beyond them. Devane led her to the floor, where jostling and rowdy customers elbowed them mercilessly. It seemed like a sort of gentlemanly protection when Devane held her closely in his arms.
But as the dance neared its end, the idea that he was any sort of protector at all was banished. “Why don’t we get out of here and go someplace where we can be alone?” he said bluntly.
She stiffened in his arms. “I really must go!” she said, and darted from the floor. She ran back to their table to grab her reticule. He was hot at her heels. “Are you feeling ill?” He had noticed her drinking her wine too quickly, unless she was a confirmed drinker so early in her career.
“I must go!” she repeated.
“What’s the matter? Do you already have a patron?” he asked baldly.
Although she was familiar with the word, it was confusing to hear it used in connection with herself. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you already spoken for?”
“No—that is, I told you I am a widow.”
“Then, what is the problem, Mrs. Wilson? We’ll go to a quiet, private inn. I know of a place on the Chelsea Road.”
There was no longer any possibility of misunderstanding his meaning. He had mistaken her for a lightskirt. Selby had often warned her of that possibility, but she nev
er paid him any heed. She felt thoroughly ashamed, and was too modest to be angry. Her only wish was to escape before he learned her identity. This Devane was persistent, however, and highly effectual. She would have to use guile to be rid of him.
“Well then, why don’t you have your carriage brought around while I powder my nose,” she said with an enticing smile.
She received an answering smile of triumph. “Five minutes, at the front door.” He left, and Francesca beckoned to Selby, who immediately joined her.
“Get me out of here! Devane is having his carriage sent around. He thinks I am going with him.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“No.”
“Good! Come with me.”
Mr. Caine took her hand and they skirted the room till they found a corridor leading to the rear of the building. They left by a side door, and walked along till they met a hansom cab. As they drove home, he took the opportunity to give her a stern lecture. He was doubly miffed that he would have to come back later and recover his chaise.
“What happened with the major?”
“He took the stupid idea he wanted to marry me, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Devane sent him packing, and then I had to try to get rid of him. But he can’t possibly know who I am.”
“Didn’t he ask your name?”
“Yes, I told him I was Biddie Wilson. Oh, I wish I were Biddie Wilson again,” she said petulantly.
“But you’re not, my dear. You are a lady, and it’s time you began acting like one instead of inviting such disasters as this by behaving like a hurly-burly girl. That was Lord Devane you were with.”
“He told me his name. What has that to do with anything?”
“He flies too high for you, Fran. A man like that— you couldn’t manage him as you do your younger flirts. Devane means business. It is exactly what I have been warning you about these past weeks.”
Francesca felt a blush suffuse her cheeks. She didn’t tell Selby what Devane had suggested; it would only increase his wrath, and the length of his lecture. A frisson of fear scampered up her spine as she recalled Devane’s cold, dark eyes examining her. “He has no idea who I am. He is not part of my set. I’ll stay well away from him if I see him about anywhere.”
“You would be well advised to do that. Your being a widow would be no protection against a man like Devane. I don’t say he’d go after a maiden, but a widow is as good as a harlot to the likes of him. He flies with the highest, fastest set in town.”
“I wonder why I was never presented to him when David was here,” she answered tartly. “They sound like birds of a feather. The very sort of gentleman I despise.”
“And the very sort you will attract, carrying on as you do. Haven’t you had enough of playing around, leading a life of dissolution, Fran? Nothing but grief will come of it. If you won’t go home, for God’s sake, find a decent husband and marry him.”
“Then I will be bound leg and wing, and he will continue playing around! No, thank you.”
“Well, at least keep out of Devane’s way.”
A lecture was always enough to set Francesca back in fighting mode. “Do you know, Selby, I don’t think I shall go home just yet after all. It is only ten o’clock. Let us go to some rout or other instead.”
“I am taking you home,” he said sternly.
At the corner of Bond Street and Piccadilly, Francesca recognized a friend’s carriage. She pulled the check string and hopped out. “Thank you, my guardian angel. Don’t worry. I shall be with the McCormicks.” She blew him a kiss and ran to the other waiting carriage.
Selby drew a deep, defeated sigh. Well, at least it was the McCormicks. They weren’t as bad as most. He had introduced Fran to them himself. Selby’s own circle of intimate friends knew his concern for Lady Camden, and assisted him in watching over her. Alfred McCormick wouldn’t let her run off with anyone undesirable. He called to the driver to take him back to the Pantheon, where he recovered his carriage and drove to Brooke’s Club to finish the evening with a game of cards, if he could find anyone willing to play for chicken stakes. Mr. Caine was not the man to plunge into unrestrained gambling.
Francesca threw off her domino and mask and attended a small rout party, where she met a circle of her own flirts, and had a noisy evening of dancing and laughing and drinking a little too much wine.
It was not the sort of do to attract Lord Devane. He waited five minutes in front of the Pantheon, and when Mrs. Wilson did not come out, he went in to look for her. He toured the hall once, then returned to his table. He was more curious than offended, yet more angry than curious.
Why had she run off on him? He was the answer to a lightskirt’s prayer. Wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, fairly generous, amusing. He was no Adonis, but no one had ever called him ugly. In return for his manifold assets, he demanded a semblance of breeding from his mistresses, and Mrs. Wilson certainly had that. He demanded constancy, of course. One did not buy a chicken to provide other men omelettes. And in return he provided a residence, a clothing allowance, cash, and a reasonable amount of jewelry.
Perhaps she was ill? A gentleman like Lord Devane was not left alone at such a den as the Pantheon. Within two minutes he was joined by a female acquaintance who had her eye on him. Peg Clancy was very pretty, but she was a common, garden variety harlot who held no interest for Devane. He asked her to see if there was a Mrs. Wilson in the ladies’ room. She skipped off and returned in a minute.
“No, she isn’t there.”
“Have you met Mrs. Wilson? A new woman in town.”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Black hair, a good accent.”
“The lady you was waltzing with?”
“That’s the one.”
“Coo, you never mean she done a flit on you!” Peg laughed uproariously. “She’s a new one to me. She couldn’t’ve known who you are.”
“If you can learn anything about her, write me a note to this address,” he said, and handed her a card, accompanied by a gold coin. “There’ll be another one to match it when I hear from you.”
“Lud, I can’t write. Drop around tomorrow night and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”
“Fair enough.”
He left, and Peg beckoned her friend, Mollie, to come and help her finish a nearly full bottle of port. “Know anything about a girl calling herself Mrs. Wilson?” she asked.
“Harriet Wilson, you mean?”
“Nodcock! As if Devane wouldn’t know her! No, this one is younger, and pretty. Ask around. There’s a bob in it for us if we find her.”
At the end of the evening, however, nothing had been learned of the mysterious Mrs. Wilson.
Chapter Three
The weekend arrived, causing a brief cessation of festivities in the Season. Francesca thought often of Major Stanby, He would be leaving the next day for Spain, perhaps never to return alive, poor boy. She wondered how long he would remember her.
The harsh outlines of Lord Devane’s face obtruded often into her consciousness, too, but she made an effort to forget him. He was precisely the sort of gentleman she despised. The only difference between him and David was that Devane made no effort to conceal his character, but then David had probably not bothered either among his low female friends. She wondered if Devane had a wife; if he had, she pitied the lady.
On Monday afternoon she drove in the park with Mrs. Denver, where she met friends and arranged her evening’s schedule. They would attend the new comedy at Drury Lane and stop off at the Listers’ ball afterward. Francesca had her own theater box, and as there was a seat left over, and as Selby had been so kind to her, she invited him to join them. He would be the ghost at the feast, she feared.
As she prepared for the evening, her thoughts were all on making a grand appearance and attracting a new beau. She wore an emerald-green gown that emphasized her large, wide-spaced eyes. Its rich color contrasted dramatically with her creamy throat and arms. The bodice clung to he
r high bosoms and fell in graceful folds, causing a feminine rustle of silk when she moved.
“I wish David had left my jewelry with me when he went to Spain,” she said to Mrs. Denver as she finished her toilette. “I have only this shabby string of pearls to wear everywhere.”
Mrs. Denver knew she referred to the entailed jewelry and did not bother mentioning David’s wedding gift of diamond earrings, bracelet, and brooch. Fran never wore them. She kept them in her bottom drawer, so she wouldn’t have to see them and remember.
The pearls gleamed luminously against her skin but were hardly visible at a distance. Francesca took up a colored paste brooch and attached it as a pendant to the necklace.
Mrs. Denver shook her head in condemnation of this freakish idea. It looked decidedly odd, yet it would probably start a new fashion. Francesca had a knack of creating fads. She had single-handedly revived the victime coiffure that had come into fashion along with the French Revolution.
That same brooch that now hung from her necklace had appeared on her gloves two weeks before, and the idea had been taken up by a dozen foolish ladies. Another time she had taken to wearing her rings outside her gloves. Mrs. Denver looked askance at a patch box on the dresser, hoping her charge did not intend to start wearing patches.
“The jewelry is entailed,” Mrs. Denver reminded her. “It will be for David’s brother, when he marries.”
“As Horton is only seventeen, I cannot think he will want it for a decade. I would ask his papa for it, if Maundley weren’t such a stick.” As she spoke, Francesca opened the box and extracted a small black patch. She tried it at the outer corner of her left eye.
“Don’t, Fran, you’ll only make a cake of yourself,” Mrs. Denver said. “It is ill-bred to try for attention by these tricks.”
“Have you seen my fan, Auntie?”
Mrs. Denver went to the bed for it, and while her back was turned, Francesca stuck the patch on the inner curve of her bosom, planning to transplant it later. She hastily put on her pelisse, to hide the stunt from her aunt.