Francesca

Lady Camden, known as Frankie Devlin to her
intimes
, made a final turn in front of the mirror before leaving for her evening’s pleasure. The deep blue of her gown, tinged with violet, just matched her eyes. The gown was cut daringly low, revealing the incipient curve of creamy bosoms. Her raven tresses were arranged in the careless-looking
victime
do, in a tousle of curls around her pale face. Too pale! She returned to her toilette and carefully spread rouge over her cheeks. God, only twenty-five, and already she was resorting to the rouge pot to enhance her complexion! It was all these late nights—but one had to have some pleasure from life after all, and at least she slept after a late night.

A shadow appeared at the door, and an elderly lady entered. She was tall and lean, with her graying hair bound in a white cap. Her eyes went to the mirror, settling with a frown on her niece’s low-cut gown. “Who are you going out with tonight, Fran?”
she inquired.

“Major Stanby,”
Frankie replied over her shoulder.

Mrs. Denver essayed a tense smile. “Major Stanby again, eh? This is beginning to look serious,”
she said hopefully.

Lady Camden carefully avoided looking at her companion. “He is just a friend, Auntie. Pray don’t go imagining any romance in it. One marriage was enough.”
Her thin voice suggested one had been more than enough. “Major Stanby will be returning to the Peninsula any day now.”

“Where are you going this evening?”

Lady Camden hunched her insouciant shoulders, revealing more of the creamy bosoms than Mrs. Denver liked. “Out. I don’t know. Stanby said to bring a domino, so perhaps we’ll stop in at the Pantheon.”

A hand flew to Mrs. Denver’s lips. “The Pantheon! That is not quite the thing, my dear. One hears gentlemen take—er—lightskirts there.”

“They also take ladies, carefully masked. Don’t worry. And please don’t wait up for me, Auntie. I may be home late.”

Mrs. Denver shook her head at the reflection in the mirror. How had sweet little Fran turned into this—well, perhaps “hussy”
was too strong a word, but “fast”
was not. “These late nights are beginning to tell, Fran. You’ve lost weight—though I must say your color is still good.”

Lady Camden carefully palmed the rouge pot and slid it into her reticule. No point shocking poor Auntie. “Why, thank you, ma’am. Late nights agree with me, you see. And now I am off.”

With a wave of her fingers and a flutter of blue silk, Francesca flew out the door. Mrs. Denver looked after her sadly. The poor girl was running as hard as she could, but there was no escaping the past. When word was first received from the Peninsula that Lord Camden had been killed, Francesca turned into a ghost. The death was so unexpected as to seem incredible. Camden wasn’t even an officer, but a civil servant sent over in a liaison position between the military and government. It had seemed a safe appointment, though Francesca had begged him not to go.

Married only six months. It was an odd thing for Camden to take the post, but then, he was a fly-by-night sort of fellow, never satisfied with anything for long, including his marriage. It was a dark day when Camden went into Surrey and captured the heart of Francesca Wilson, a simple country girl who had never been six inches off the leash. She hadn’t a chance against his charm, good looks, and title.

The couple were married within two months, against the better judgment of both families. Camden whisked her off to London for the gaiety of her first Season. Her letters home had been full of joy and wonder. David had arranged to have her presented at court; she had met the Prince of Wales and attended balls and parties and the theater. It must have seemed like a dream to simple Francesca.

And then as suddenly as he had married her, Lord Camden had sailed off to Spain and been killed. If Fran had only had a child, she might have borne up better under her trials. She was made of stern stuff, and even the death she would eventually have mastered, but the other ... That was when she turned into this hellion who cared no more for propriety than she cared for a flea.

“If it is lightskirts gentlemen prefer to their wives, then so be it. I shall have a dozen flirts, and enjoy myself as David enjoyed himself,”
she proclaimed when she had assimilated her husband’s infidelity.

Mrs. Denver remembered the day Francesca found out the truth, that her darling groom had been carrying on with fast women from the second month of their marriage. Fran hadn’t realized it all the time they were married, nor for six months after they received the death notice from Whitehall. It was a Mrs. Ritchie, acting under the guise of a friend, who had told her.

“Poor Francesca, how we miss that dear boy of yours. He was the life and breath of all our parties. Did he ever tell you about the duel he fought over Cynthia, the pretty little actress at Drury Lane? He used to hang about the green room like a puppy, waiting for her to appear and toss him a bone. Of course the gentlemen didn’t shoot to kill. One does not
die
for a lightskirt, after all, but it was rather a nasty shoulder wound he received.”

Francesca hadn’t said a word. She just stared, as if the sun had fallen from the sky. Mrs. Denver remembered that shoulder wound, ostensibly sustained in a hunting accident. It happened the month she came to stay with her niece and Camden. David was “so busy”
at Whitehall in the evenings that he wanted Francesca to have a woman with her. Now she knew what “work”
he had been up to, and so did Fran.

One could hardly blame the girl for cutting up a little. She had been so madly in love with David. Once her eyes were opened, she soon tumbled to it that the Drury Lane actress was not his only mistress. She had found the key to his locked desk, unlocked it, and gone through his papers with a fine-tooth comb. She found enough in the way of billets-doux and bills for jewelry never received by her that there was no denying the truth. The man was a confirmed rake and libertine.

Francesca went about like a statue for a month, then anger seeped in to replace disbelief and sorrow. She was young. Her life was not over. She would enjoy what was left of it. As soon as the mourning period was over, she had set off on a spree that threatened to ruin her reputation as well as her health. No gown was too daring, no party too déclassée, no spree too wild for Frankie Devlin. She despised her title and encouraged her friends to call her Frankie. What she really wanted, Mrs. Denver thought, was to be a man, with a man’s freedom. She had adopted a hard surface sheen that hid all the hurt inside. This month her flirt was Major Stanby, a war hero.

“But what is he like?”
Mrs. Denver had demanded when the major rose as a favorite.

“Monstrously handsome, Auntie. Everyone stares when he enters in his scarlet regimentals. All the ladies are mad for him, I promise you.”

“I don’t mean his
looks,
Fran. What of his character, his estate?”

Francesca gave that shrug her aunt was coming to loathe. “Men have no character. He is handsome, and amusing—and not demanding.”

This last was tossed as a crumb. Her major did not insist on the full privileges of a lover. So far as Mrs. Denver knew, Francesca had not yet sunk to having adulterous affairs, but it would happen sooner or later if she continued carrying on in this loose fashion. Mrs. Denver’s sole support and consolation in all this troublesome business was Selby Caine. He had known Francesca from the cradle, and kept an eye on her as best he could.

He called that evening at nine, as he usually called every evening, and Mrs. Denver met him in the Blue Saloon. It was not a large chamber, nor a very elegant one. Lord Camden’s father, Lord Maundley, owned the small house on Half Moon Street, and lent it to Camden and his bride when they came to London. Maundley had suggested she remove to his own mansion on Berkeley Square when David left for Spain, but as his appointment was for only three months, she had kept the house instead. She would never go to live with Lord and Lady Maundley now, leading the sort of life she led. They would be scandalized. Indeed, they already were scandalized. The only communication with Lord Maundley was his monthly visit to Half Moon Street. His wife had gone into a decline upon hearing of David’s death, and did not leave her house or receive visitors.

Mr. Caine stepped in and made his bow. He was a modest country gentleman of medium height, brown hair, sepulchral eyes, and an austere face. He was still a bachelor at thirty-seven, but had no romantic interest in Francesca. He was more like a brother than anything else. Francesca and Mary Travers, his sister, had been friends forever, back in Surrey. They had stood bridesmaid to each other, and still corresponded, though Mary’s match had not been so great as her friend’s.

“How did she seem tonight?”
Mr. Caine asked gravely. He had the unsettling habit of standing throughout his visits, and weaving back and forth as he spoke, like a reed in the wind.

“Do have a seat, Mr. Caine.”
He ignored this. “She seemed the same as usual. Determined to be happy, you know, but not really anticipating much pleasure, I think.”

“Pleasure is not to be found in the sort of society she keeps. Did she say where she is going?”

“Perhaps the Pantheon—she took a domino.”
Mr. Caine gave a heavy sigh and began weaving to and fro. This performance always reminded Mrs. Denver of her one sea voyage, during which she had endured agonies of nausea. She felt the echo of it now.

“With Stanby again?”
The dame nodded. “She could hardly be in worse company. A soldier on leave, out for a good time. I doubt she will escape this encounter unscathed. The Pantheon is the haunt of the most dissolute libertines in all of London—and Fran is there with a soldier on leave.”

“Stanby seems a sound enough fellow. Young, of course, and madly in love with her.”

“I doubt he has marriage in mind. If he hasn’t a dark-eyed wife waiting for him in Spain, it is more than I know.”
His weaving accelerated.

“I cannot believe that of him, but in any case, Fran has no thought of marriage.”

He drew a deep, forlorn sigh. “And why should she, after her experience? The best to be said for her seeing an officer is that he’ll be leaving town soon. God only knows who she
’
ll take up with next. We’ll live to see her abandoned, with a houseful of kiddies and no money to rear them. Any chance of her returning home to White Oaks?”

Mrs. Denver tried to ignore his dark prognostications. “I doubt it. She seems determined to make a name for herself. Just as well she does it here, and not disgrace her family back home.”

“When the Season is over, she might reconsider, though it would be hard for a woman used to the fleshpots of London to go back to a house like White Oaks, and be under her father’s thumb again. They live a simple, retired life there. Fran isn’t used to that now. I don’t know what will ever come of her, Mrs. Denver.”

“Nor do I,”
the lady answered in a dull tone. She watched Mr. Caine weaving and offered him a seat again.

“I must go after her and see if I can ward off utter disaster. The Pantheon, you said?”

“Amongst other places. You would know better than I, Mr. Caine.”

“I know too well,”
he said in a voice of utter doom. He left, and Mrs. Denver took a novel to her room to try to forget for a few hours the awful fate awaiting her charge. Mr. Caine was so kind and helpful that she felt guilty for disliking him.

* * *

Major Stanby’s carriage drew to a stop in front of a classical building on the south side of Oxford Street. Lady Camden adjusted her blue domino and entered the Pantheon proudly on the major’s arm. Whatever the place’s reputation, it certainly struck the eye as the height of opulence. Chandeliers scattered random rainbows of color on the gilt interior and the multicolored dominoes below. Music wafted out from the dance floor. A gratifying number of friends greeted them, and total strangers ogled the handsome couple—the officer in his scarlet regimentals and the elegant lady in blue.

Francesca cast off the lingering misgivings her upbringing plagued her with and told herself she was happy. It would be divine waltzing with Arnold. Everyone would stare at them. As soon as she had a few glasses of wine she’d shake off these blue devils and be fine. The major led her to a table in a sequestered nook and ordered champagne.

Candlelight flickered on his half mask, on his lips, lifted in a smile, on a flash of white teeth. “To us,”
he said, and touched her glass with his. She drank thirstily, emptied the glass, and held it out for a refill.

“Now, don’t get tipsy on me, Frankie,”
he said playfully. “The night is young—and I have something very important I want to ask you before it is over.”
He filled her glass, and she sipped more slowly.

He’s going to ask me to marry him, she thought. Oh, dear! She had feared it might come to that. Arnold was a nice man. She didn’t want to hurt him. “Let us dance,”
she said, trying for an air of merriment.

“Yes, but before we do—”
His hands came across the table and touched hers. She hastily withdrew, seizing her glass as an excuse. She lifted it and drank again.