Francesca (12 page)

“Are you an old friend of Lady Camden’s?”
Devane asked, to insure that the man knew what he was talking about.

“No, I just met her, but I’ve known Selby Caine for donkey’s years. We were at Harrow and Oxford together. Salt of the earth. He wouldn’t have the imagination to lie, even if he had the inclination, which he don’t. Besides, you’ve only to spend five minutes with Fran—Lady Camden—to know she’s still wet behind the ears.”

Devane had a sharp mental image of a chicken walking up to his table at Puckle’s and Francesca smiling at it. She had mentioned the breed and gone on to talk about her home. He had been sure, that day, that she was what she said she was. “So what is to be done?”
he murmured more to himself than to his companion.

“Maundley’s already doing it, isn’t he? He’s hired a solicitor and charged her with theft.”

“My meaning is, what is to be done to recover the necklace?”

“You have me there. I’ve done what I can, but I meet a stone wall, Devane. The necklace is hidden away in a vault somewhere, or chopped up and the stones sold separately.”

Devane took his decision and rose suddenly. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You bought it.”

“Ah, then, thank you for your delightful company, and the information.”

“Where are you off to, Devane?”

“I have to see a woman about a diamond.”
Guilt and shame warred in Devane’s heart as he went to call his curricle. He had dishonored a respectable lady, a lady in devastating trouble. And he, with all the grace of a wounded elephant, had gone stampeding in, trying to take advantage of her.

Honor demanded that he repay this outrage against womanhood. He could only wonder that Caine and Irwin between them couldn’t accomplish such a trifling objective, yet he was happy they had not. The return of the diamond necklace would be his apology to Lady Camden. Perhaps, one day, she would even forgive him.

“Nonsense!”
Lady Camden declared when Mrs. Denver and Mr. Caine returned with news of a cottage for hire in Crawley, close, but not too close, to her ancestral home. “If I run away, everyone will think I am guilty. I must stay and clear my name.”

“How do you propose to do that?”
Mrs. Denver demanded.

“I have friends. I shall put all my friends on the alert to learn what they can of David’s bit o’
muslin. Someone is bound to know who she is. I have been too backward, until now, trying to spare Lady Maundley. The Maundleys are sparing me nothing, so I shall mount a concerted attack.”

“Even if you discover who she is, Fran, the woman will have the thing hidden away in a vault. You’ll never prove David gave it to her,”
Mr. Caine pointed out.

“I’ll worry about that when I learn who she is,”
she replied mutinously. “I will
not
have horrid people saying I am a thief, and worse. The first friend who calls to offer comfort, I shall enlist his—or her—aid.”

The door knocker remained adamantly silent throughout the morning. Mrs. Denver and Mr. Caine extolled in vain the virtues of a Queen Anne cottage at Crawley, and some peace and quiet.

“We seem to have plenty of both here,”
Francesca scowled. Some part of her did want to escape the awful worries that engulfed her, but she would not allow the likes of Lord Devane to blacken her name without at least trying to clear herself. As soon as she had cleared her name, however, she would retire permanently from London.

“What about a visit to Mary?”
Mr. Caine suggested, hoping the word
visit
might be less despised than
moving away.

“I should enjoy it very much—after I find the necklace.”

Mr. Caine remained to lunch because he did not like to see poor Mrs. Denver left alone with her unmanageable charge. The woman looked on the verge of a breakdown. At two-thirty the long-awaited sound of the knocker was heard, and Francesca gave a smile of triumph. “I told you my friends would not desert me.”
She would not let herself think, for even an instant, that it was Lord Devane come to apologize.

It was Mr. Irwin who was shown in, and her sinking heart told her that hope had risen, despite her better judgment. “I came to see if I could offer any consolation at this trying time,”
he said, as if entering a house of death.

Mr. Caine, willingly assuming the role of chief mourner, replied, “Very kind of you, John. Pray, have a seat.”

“You can offer more than condolences, sir. You can offer to help me,”
Lady Camden said, and indicated a seat by her side.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, ma’am. Only say the word.”

“A drive, that is the word,”
she replied. “Take me for a drive in the park. I want to meet my friends, and try if I can gain a circle of supporters.”

“Upon my word, she’s mad,”
Mr. Caine said aside to Mrs. Denver.

Mr. Irwin looked aghast. “You want to go into public! I cannot think that is a good idea, Lady Camden. There are rumors swirling on every side. It would be very uncomfortable for you—people staring and whispering.”

“I have not done anything wrong. I won’t be driven into a hole by vicious gossip-mongers. Will you take me, or must I go alone?”
Her bold, haughty look indicated that she would tackle even that.

Mr. Irwin looked to the others, who were too weary to continue the argument. “Go ahead,”
Mrs. Denver said. “Let her see for herself what she is facing.”

“But I am driving my open carriage.”

“Good,”
Francesca said.

When she went to her room to tidy her hair, she hardly recognized the pale, ravaged face in the mirror. The rouge pot restored her color, and her most dashing chipped-straw bonnet shadowed her eyes, to partially conceal their haunted stare. But her lips drooped wearily. She couldn’t take much more of this.

Perhaps she should retire. It was only Devane’s sneering, hateful face that gave her the strength to carry on. She would have an apology from that creature if she had to personally tour every stew and brothel in London to find the necklace.

With her chin high she went belowstairs, wearing a brightly feverish smile. “All set!”

She realized from the first block that the drive was going to be an ordeal. Her very neighbors averted their heads to avoid nodding, and in this less than choice neighborhood she was one of very few noble ladies. Her neighbors used to lower their windows and crane their necks, hoping she would stop for a word.

“Commoners!”
Mr. Irwin said in derision.

“Let us drive along Piccadilly and down to St. James’s Park. We will meet half of London there.”

Before they had gone far they met a carriage holding Sir Edmund and Lady Greer, old friends from Francesca’s first Season in town. They pointedly averted their eyes and looked the other way.

“They are more David’s friends than mine,”
Lady Camden explained. “Maundley has gotten to them.”

The next carriage held newer friends, met since David’s death. Mrs. Siskins nodded her head a quarter of an inch, but with such a frosty expression that she might as well not have bothered. Her husband looked right through them. The story was repeated, with slight variations, at every carriage they met.

When they reached the Mall, Mr. Irwin said, “Have you had enough? Shall we go home?”

It was a strong temptation, but desperation lent Francesca courage. “No, I might as well go all the way. If this is how it is going to be, I must know. Do you mind?”

“In for a penny,”
Mr. Irwin said resignedly, and jiggled the reins. He felt sorry for Lady Camden, but he was also worried about his own reputation. Still, there was some gallantry in standing by a lady in distress. The worst that could be said was that he was a gullible fool taken in by an Incomparable. There was some romance in that.

Things seemed to be improving once they entered the park. Traffic was heavy, and they did not feel they were standing out so noticeably. None of the carriages stopped, but Miss Perkins had her driver slow down, and said through the window, “I am so sorry, Frankie. Truly I am.”
Her words trailed behind her as the carriage trotted by.

Mr. Irwin heard a sniffle, and felt his heart would break. “This is enough. I’m taking you home, I won’t have you patronized by snips like Miss Perkins and insulted by everyone else.”

“Yes, please,”
she said in a dying voice.

“Damme, there is Devane!”

Francesca’s head jerked up, and she espied in the distance, advancing toward them, Devane’s gleaming yellow curricle and dashing team of grays. She schooled her features to composure, and took a glance at his companion.

What she saw caused her blood to freeze. It was a redhead of outstanding beauty. Not Maria Mondale, but Mrs. Ritchie, David’s old flirt. One would think Devane had done it on purpose. He had caught her eye, and was staring. He could not fail to see the carriage in front of him, whose passengers cut her dead. She felt her shame was complete.

Devane did not stop his carriage or even slow his pace, but as he passed, he nodded and said in a loud, friendly voice, “Good afternoon, Lady Camden. Lovely day.”

She gave him the cut direct. It was the ultimate humiliation that he should see her in her disgrace. “Turn at the next corner and take me home, please.”

“Why, things are picking up! That was Devane, and he spoke in quite a civil way. If he hadn’t been with that woman, I daresay he would have stopped a moment.”

“Is that his new flirt?”

“Must be. He doesn’t have a mistress at the moment. He is seen about with various females. That one is not a lightskirt precisely, though she behaves like one. I have seen her about here and there at quite respectable parties.”

“I know who she is. I just didn’t know if she is Devane’s mistress. Her name is Mrs. Ritchie.”

“He always chooses the prettiest ladies—er, women.”

The only possible reply was to laugh, but as the laughter rose higher, and assumed a tinge of hysteria, Mr. Irwin feared his companion was about to go into a swoon. He pulled under the shelter of a spreading elm till she had settled down, then drove her home. She sat, listless, in the carriage, not even looking to see whether passersby nodded or spoke. She might as well have been asleep for all she noticed or cared.

Her mind was busy with other things. It hadn’t taken Devane long to find a new mistress. Francesca had found it strange that he cared for herself in that way, but now she saw that he shared David’s unaccountably catholic tastes in women. Bad as David was, he knew the difference between a lady and a woman like Mrs. Ritchie, who could be bought, if the price was right. David had offered marriage at least.

When she was delivered back to Half Moon Street, she went directly to her room, like one in a trance. Mr. Irwin remained behind to explain to Mrs. Denver and Selby. “How did it go?”
Mrs. Denver asked fearfully.

“As bad as it possibly could. An unmitigated disaster.”

“I’ve seen it coming. Fran brought it on herself, when all’s said and done,”
Mr. Caine added, and swayed with a slow, measured rhythm, while staring into the grate.

“There may be one advantage to it,”
Mr. Irwin pointed out. “I doubt she will want to remain in town now.”

“I’ll go up to her,”
Mrs. Denver said.

“Let her be. I think she wants to be alone. Perhaps you could send up some brandy.”

“Oh, dear! As bad as that?”

“She was holding together till we met Devane and Mrs. Ritchie, and then—”

“Mrs. Ritchie!”
Caine exclaimed. “Good God, that is what did the mischief. She was David’s woman.”

“Not the one who snaffled the diamonds?”
Mr. Irwin asked.

“No, the one before that.”

“Ah.”

Mr. Irwin left, feeling he had done all that friendship demanded, and a good deal more. He thought he might meet Devane at his club, and encourage him in his support of Lady Camden. Devane was not there, however.

He was much more usefully employed in quizzing Mrs. Ritchie to learn who her successor in Lord Camden’s favor had been. Mrs. Ritchie was vague, except in establishing who had given whom his congé. “After I dropped Camden, he ran around with half a dozen girls, but he finally took up with a blond female.”

“He liked variety.”

“Anything but brunettes, in his friends. His wife is a brunette, you must know. Perhaps he wanted to forget her,”
she laughed.

Devane swallowed his ire and said, “You don’t remember the girl’s name, or anything about her?”

She gave him a flirtatious glance from the corner of her infamous green eyes. “Why, milord, one would think you are already wearied of redheads.”

“Never. But about the blonde
...
”

“I associate very little with such common garden-variety females as the one you are interested in. She was from the Lake District, I think someone mentioned.”

Devane saw that Mrs. Ritchie resented being put into the same category as acknowledged mistresses. She still clung to a shred of respectability. Nor would she tell him anything, so long as she feared competition from the blonde. No doubt it had galled her when Camden dropped her for the other woman, and she would enjoy her petty revenge. He knew that if there was one person who might be happy to do the blond Rita a disservice, it was Mrs. Ritchie, and he set out to charm her.

“Naturally you would not have much to do with the muslin company, but when a lady is so much in society as you are, she cannot help overhearing all the
on-dits.
My interest in the lady is not amorous, I promise you,”
he added.

The clever green eyes looked a question at him.

“What is it, then? Has it to do with that necklace everyone is talking about?”

“Precisely.”

“I’d be sent to Coventry if I said anything.”

“I already know she has it. I could learn her name from any number of sources. No one need know who told me. You won’t be involved.”

“Well
...
”

“A hundred guineas,”
he said.

Pride warred with greed, and lost, Mrs. Ritchie gave up being a fine lady and said, “One fifty.”

“Clap hands on a bargain.”

“And remember, you didn’t hear it from me. It was Marguerita Sullivan. She’s under Sir Percy Kruger’s protection now.”