by Joan Smith
“Good gracious, I was not implying I expected an offer.”
Mary got up from the bed. “Weren’t you? Now I see why you were not eager to drive over and visit Ron’s cousin. I must own, Lord Devane quite puts Arthur in the shade. Now I must go. Nurse will be feeding Harry, and I never miss that.”
She danced out the door, her mind full of the assembly and Fran’s romance, and, of course, of Harry. She meant to teach him to say Fran before her friend left.
Chapter Fifteen
The evening at the Elms was quiet to the point of tedium. Francesca’s chief diversion was to write her note to Devane, and when it was done, to sit and chat and sew smocks for the bazaar. It was the sort of evening she had been accustomed to at White Oaks before her marriage, but after the gaiety of London, there was no denying she felt the lack of liveliness.
Mrs. Denver had been informed of Lord Devane’s message, as had Selby, and there was unrestrained joy between those two, though one would not guess it to see them chatting quietly by the grate. “Fran can return to London now if she wishes,” Mrs. Denver said. “Maundley has offered her back the house.”
“She has already hired the cottage. Best to stay away from that Babylon on the Thames. See how much calmer and happier she is here.”
Mrs. Denver, more familiar with Francesca’s moods, thought her calmness held an edge of ennui, but she was too polite to say so. Mrs. Denver was fully alive to the advantages of marriage to such a gentleman as Lord Devane. Having heard nothing of his various outrageous acts, she felt his fast reputation must be false. His behavior in rescuing Fran was not the act of a man of bad character. It had every appearance of a man in love.
“If she had a proper escort and did not hang out with her old set, she could manage well enough in London. I do believe she’s learned her lesson. She’s had her wings trimmed; she would not fly so high a second time.”
“I shouldn’t encourage her if I were you,” Selby cautioned.
Mary had had the card table set up temporarily in the saloon to hold her sewing materials. “Would you like me to send that note to the Swan with a footman, Fran?” she asked as she set a neat stitch in a blue smock.
“There is no hurry. Tomorrow will do well enough. You mentioned Devane is remaining in the area a few days, I think?”
“Yes, that is what he said.”
“You’ll be sending in your eggs tomorrow, Mary,” Ronald reminded her. “No point making two trips.”
Mary was eager to get things moving, but she seldom countered Ronald’s pronouncements. She satisfied herself by discussing toilettes for Mrs. Huddleston’s assembly instead. “What will you wear?”
Fran considered it a moment. “For a country party, there will be no need of a grande toilette. I shall wear my blue crepe and pearls.”
“Oh, but the ladies will all expect to see London fashion, Fran.” And so will Lord Devane, Mary added silently to herself. “Do not hold back for fear of outshining the rest of us. Be as grand as you wish.”
Mrs. Denver, listening in, said, “You could wear your new green silk with the gauze overskirt. Your pretty green slippers will add a touch of London to your outfit.”
“And, of course, long kid gloves,” Mary suggested.
Francesca divined that she was expected to lend cachet to her hostess by being as grand as possible, and acquiesced to it with a resigned smile. It all seemed rather pointless, since there would be no one but farmers to see her.
They retired early and rose early the next morning, to spend another quiet day, enlivened by preparations for the assembly. In the afternoon they drove over to the vicarage to deliver half a dozen smocks for the bazaar. “Ronald has the carriage, so we will have to take the pony cart. You don’t mind, Fran?” Mary asked.
“Why should I mind?” Fran laughed. “I wish you would not treat me like a guest, Mary.”
Lord Devane also spent a quiet day. He received his two notes, one inviting him to Mrs. Huddleston’s assembly, which had to be answered. The other required no reply. It was from Francesca, and it was as polite as she could make it without accusing herself of encouraging Devane. He read it with some satisfaction, though he had rather expected an invitation to call.
In the afternoon Devane took his grays out for a spin. His drive took him, not quite by chance, in the direction of the Elms. When he saw a pony cart in the distance, he assumed it was carrying some country girls, and paid little heed except to draw his curricle toward the edge of the road to leave them room to pass.
Francesca had recognized him. There was no mistaking that proud head, and his team of bloods. Her heart raced, but other than a slight heightening of color, she revealed no alarm. “I believe that is Devane,” she mentioned to Mary. “Pray do not stop the rig. Keep going.”
“But this is your chance to—”
“Keep going!” Fran ordered in a thin voice.
It was not till they were actually passing that Devane discerned the identity of the occupants. It was too late to halt his team, but he slowed them down as much as he could, lifted his hat, and said, “Good afternoon, ladies” in a loud, friendly voice.
Fran would not allow herself to turn around, and forbade Mary from doing so, yet she knew as surely as she knew her name that Devane was looking back to see if they were stopping. His team’s pace had slowed nearly to a halt.
“Why would you not stop?” Mary asked when all danger of a roadside chat had passed.
“He did not stop. Why should we?”
“He slowed down. He would have stopped if you had let me. He didn’t recognize us at first.”
“I said what I had to say in my note.”
Mary had a fear for the success of their meeting at the evening assembly, and said, “I hope you would not be so brusque if you happened to meet Lord Devane at some public place.”
“That would depend on how he behaved,” Fran replied nonchalantly. She rushed on to speak of other things, and Mary consoled herself that Devane would undoubtedly behave as he ought that evening.
Mrs. Huddleston’s assembly began at eight o’clock, to allow her guests to arrive before the sun set, even if they had to drive home in the dark. The party from the Elms arrived shortly after eight. With a total of forty guests, forty-one including Lord Devane, it was one of the neighborhood’s larger private parties. The house was lit from top to bottom, and flares burned in the driveway to welcome the callers. Within, tall vases of flowers in the hallway where the Huddlestons greeted their guests lent a festive air. The new arrivals were not announced, but just shook hands with the host and hostess, and went in to hand their coats and pelisses to the footman before proceeding into the small ballroom.
The four corners of the ballroom bristled with potted palms, and on a makeshift platform the musicians sat tuning their instruments. The ear-splitting sound of tuning fiddles pierced the air. The room was already well filled when the Traverses and their guests entered. Mary was gratified at the attention her guests caused. Fran looked lovely in a misty sea-green gown with a spangled overskirt. Mrs. Denver had arranged Fran’s coiffure in a sophisticated do, pulled straight back from her face and swirled up behind, held in place with pearl-tipped pins. Matching pearls at her throat were her only jewelry. The ladies were ogling her as hard as the men were, to see what new styles they could pick up.
A quick glance around showed Mary that Devane had not arrived yet. She introduced her guests to the neighbors, and as the first set began, Ronald’s cousin, Arthur, came forward and asked Francesca to stand up with him. Francesca had been trying to imagine being married to Arthur, or someone like him. She could not prevent herself from comparing his country bow, his country barbering and tailoring, to Devane’s sleek style. She knew it was foolish to place much weight on such trivialities, and tried to look beyond them.
His conversation was sensible, but after a brief compliment on her toilette, he spoke of his cattle and farm, of the weather and local doings in a way that lacked any aura of romance. Th
e best she could think of him was that he would make a wonderful husband—for someone else.
As the set ended she began to peer around the room in hopes of discovering some more interesting partner. She found none, but as Arthur Travers led her to the side of the room, Ronald approached. She must have a set with Ronald, might as well get it over with. It was a country dance. Any meaningful conversation was impossible as the dancers rollicked up and down the line. Francesca glanced around to see who Mary was with, and stopped dead in her tracks. She was with Lord Devane! What was he doing here?
Ronald grabbed her arm and pulled her along the line. “Are you tired out already, Fran?” He laughed. She gave a weak smile in return. For the rest of the set she scarcely knew what she was doing. The steps were automatic to her; she performed them mechanically while her mind raced back to Devane. Who had invited him? Did he know the Huddlestons? Had Mary arranged this? Why had she not been warned? What would she say when he came to her? There was no doubt in her mind that he would come to her.
But when the next set began, it was Selby Caine who advanced. Devane was standing up with a pretty young blonde. There was no necessity for reticence with Selby. “What is Devane doing here?” she asked.
“As he is in the neighborhood for a few days, Mrs. Huddleston invited him to her do. I believe she met him at Mary’s place yesterday. You’ll have to thank him for recovering the necklace, Fran. He has pulled your chestnuts from the fire, so you cannot go on glaring at him.”
“I am not glaring at him! I wrote and thanked him.”
“You must thank him in person as well, since he is here. You need not fear he’ll hound you. Don’t tell him where you’ll be living. I told Mary not to mention it. He’ll be back in London by next week, so you can be civil for one evening.”
When the set was over, Selby led Fran toward Devane. Whatever Devane’s feelings, he concealed them like a diplomat, and said, “Good evening, Lady Camden. A pleasure to see you again.” He bowed gracefully.
Francesca performed a small curtsy and returned the greeting.
“The musicians take a break after the third set. The refreshment parlor is across the hall, if you are thirsty,” Mr. Caine said, and took a discreet departure, leaving Devane and Francesca alone.
Devane drew her aside as the crowd surged in an amorphous body toward the doorway. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked.
“A little later, after the crowd has thinned.” She summoned up her courage to say what had to be said. “I want to thank you for your help, Lord Devane. I cannot imagine why you went to so much bother on my behalf.”
“Can’t you?” She felt as if those dark eyes were looking right through her. The breath stopped in her lungs, and she could think of nothing to say. “I behaved abominably. I hoped that by recovering the necklace I would recover your esteem as well. Recover is hardly the correct word, as I don’t believe I ever actually had it. Win your esteem, shall we say?” There was a playful air about him that eased the strain of the meeting.
Francesca was relieved. This was the sort of conversation she was accustomed to now, and a reply came easily. “Not only my esteem, but my undying gratitude, sir. You cannot know what a strain the whole business has been.”
“I have some idea. I can see, at least, that you are looking much better than the last time I saw you. Is a comparison less odious when we compare someone to herself?”
“So long as you imply an improvement, then I for one shan’t cavil with it. Mary told me a little about how you recovered the necklace, but I would like to hear all the horrid details sometime.”
“I am eager to boast of my prowess—but perhaps this is not the time and place.”
“You’re right. I was surprised to see you here, Lord Devane.”
He waggled a shapely finger and laughed. “No, Lady Camden. You were shocked. I feared you would reduce your square to a shambles when you spotted me. You looked as if you had seen a ghost.”
“I was shocked, I confess.”
“It was shockingly forward of me to cadge an invitation to the party of a stranger, but how else was I to have a word with you, when you refused to see me?” There was a shadow of accusation in his expression, and Francesca felt the weight of it. “I thought, when you received my explanation, that you would grant me a short meeting.”
“I didn’t realize when I read Maundley’s letter that you were instrumental in the matter. I thought you were just delivering his note.”
“And you were not curious enough to inquire?” The face gazing at him was the face of an uncertain child. He felt an urge to pat her head and say, “There, there. It’s all right, Fran.”
“Actually, I feared you might have bought the thing back from Rita,” she said hesitantly.
His quick frown of confusion soon cleared to comprehension. “I have no right to be angry, since I brought that on myself. My intention, however, was to rectify the wrong, not add to it.”
“You did offer to pay for it, when—”
He grasped her hands and squeezed them. “Don’t remind me. Let us bury the past and see if we cannot be friends.”
“Yes, let us drink to that—if we can fight our way to the refreshment parlor.” She peered out the door and across the hall. “The crowd seems to be thinning.”
As the meeting was going well, Devane wanted to keep her to himself a little longer. “You wait here. I’ll bring you a drink.” He led her to a chair by the wall and went to get wine.
Francesca welcomed the moment alone to recover her equilibrium. She was beginning to acknowledge what she had been trying to conceal from herself for some days now. She found Devane dangerously attractive. If she had much to do with him, she would soon be in love. In love with another man who was the mirror image of David. Devane had mistresses. He was a city buck who would not be faithful to his wife for long. And besides, he probably had no interest in marrying her. “See if we cannot be friends,” he had said.
She drew a troubled sigh. It seemed she was in the impossible position of not being able to love the gentlemen who would make good husbands. She had a perverse taste for rakes and scoundrels. The sane course would be to not marry at all, then. She had her dowry intact again, since Maundley had dropped the case against her. She and Mrs. Denver could be happy in the quiet of the country, performing good deeds, enjoying such simple social outings as this. She would miss the excitement of the Season, but her recent experience had taught her that was not too high a price to pay for peace.
When Devane returned, he found her pensive, aloof. “When will you be returning to London?” he asked a moment later. “The reason I ask is that I hope you will permit me to call on you there.”
“I will not be returning, Lord Devane.”
He turned on his most charming smile. “I think you were unwise to leave. The gossip will have died down by now, however, and if you return, your friends will welcome you.”
“Friends who are so easily lost are not worth regaining. I will not return, ever.”
“Forever is a long time. I enjoy rusticating from time to time, but I find the country palls after a while.”
“I was born and reared in the country. It won’t pall on me.”
“You seemed marvelously at home in the fleshpots of London, ma’am.” His smile held an echo of her flaming past.
“Perhaps ladies like me, who are a trifle susceptible to temptation, are best off at a distance from all that.”
Devane cast a dubious look at her. “Surely we are all susceptible to pleasure.” Sets were beginning to form in the middle of the floor. He took her empty glass and put it aside. “What susceptible ladies require is the proper escort. Shall we join this set?”
Nothing more was said about London, and as Devane did not ask Francesca where she meant to live in the future, she did not either have to tell him or appear coy by withholding the information. When they parted at the end of the set, he asked if he might call on her at the Elms, and she gave her gracious consent.
“How long will you be staying with the Traverses?” he asked.
“For a few weeks. You, I understand, will be returning to London soon?”
“Not for a few days. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
They did not have another dance. Francesca didn’t know whether she was relieved or disappointed that he did not ask her for a waltz, but she knew that her heart was sore to see him having the dance with an attractive redhead. No matter, he would be leaving in a day or two. He could not break her heart in two days.
Chapter Sixteen
Francesca did not delude herself that she was indifferent to Devane, but she had no intention of falling in love with him. And the best way of avoiding that was to make sure that he recovered from any little partiality he felt for her, and removed himself from the neighborhood as soon as possible.
What had attracted him in London was the dashing widow who tried for attention by foolish tricks of toilette and flirtation. All that was put aside. Knowing he was coming to call, she went to the bottom of her trunk and took out a simple blue dimity gown she had had before her marriage. No collar, lace fichu, brooch, or necklace enlivened its severity. She bound her raven tresses in a tight chignon and went belowstairs to breakfast.
Her hostess was too polite to express her astonishment, and soon concluded that Fran meant to make her toilette after luncheon. Fran liked to make herself useful around the house, and would not want to wear her fine silks to the chicken yard, or while sitting on the porch shelling peas for dinner.
As they rose from luncheon, Fran said to Mary, “Shall we take Harry out to the park for some fresh air before his nap?’*
“I’ll do it, Fran. You will want to change before Lord Devane comes.”
“I am not changing. And I do not wish to see him alone. Let us take a blanket out under the trees.”
Mary looked at the severe coiffure and plain dimity and exclaimed, “Oh, Fran, are you trying to give him a disgust of you?”