Francesca (2 page)

“Don’t say anything serious, Arnold,”
she said gently. “Let us just enjoy our last few evenings together.”

“But I shall be leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“I know. And I shall miss you. It’s been fun, hasn’t it? I hope you’ve enjoyed our little friendship.”

“Friendship!”
he exclaimed in astonishment.

“Let’s dance,”
she repeated, and rose.

Stanby hoped the waltz might accomplish that softening in his companion that champagne had not. He held her close, their posture duplicated by other couples under the anonymity of masks and dominoes. She felt his warm lips on her forehead, and something in her congealed to annoyance. She pulled back, but he soon held her tightly again.

Before any further maneuvers were accomplished on either side, the music stopped and they returned to their table. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Selby Caine, her guardian angel, and breathed a sigh of relief. If worst came to worst, she was at least sure of a safe escort home. She nodded at him. He nodded back gravely but did not approach her. Strange, how he always brought the air of a funeral with him. Even at this rowdy place he looked to be in mourning.

Lady Camden did not notice the tall man standing in the shadows beside Selby observing her performance and would not have recognized Lord Devane if she had seen him. Devane did not move in her late husband’s raffish circle. In society, he resided at the very tip of the ton, which did not prevent him from visiting such haunts as the Pantheon. He wore a sardonic, anticipatory smile. He had been on the point of departure, but hesitated. The lady in the blue domino looked interesting. A new lightskirt this Season. He quietly moved closer to the table where the major and Francesca had been sitting.

Once they were seated, the major would no longer be put off. “Darling, I must speak,”
he said in loverlike accents.

“I won’t hear it, Arnold.”

“After all we have been to each other? You let me kiss you—ardently.”
His voice was high with disbelief.

“A few kisses don’t mean I want to
marry
you. I am too old for you. I have been married once already. Your family would despise me.”

“There is no reason they need know till the thing is done,”
he said eagerly. “We could get a special license and be married before I sail.”

Francesca made the error of trying to persuade an infatuated man by logic. “What would be the point, for just one day? You could be gone for years, and where would I live while you are away, Arnold?”

“Why—with Mama and Papa, in Yorkshire. Once we are married, they would have to accept you. It will only be for a few years.”

She adopted a world-weary tone, to let him know this line of talk was hopeless. “In Yorkshire? But, my dear, what sort of social life do people have there, so far away from London?”

“Why, we visit a dozen families.”

“A dozen families! My, my. You are active.”

Stanby felt a flush rise up his neck. “Not what you are accustomed to, I daresay, but—”

“Not at all what I am accustomed to, and not what I intend to become accustomed to. If you cared for me, you would not ask me to give up all my friends and pleasures and rusticate for years, alone, with your disapproving family.”

“Then why have you been leading me on?”
he demanded, becoming sulky.

She looked away and saw that Selby was still hovering near the door. It would be best to cut this friendship off now. A quick cut was less painful in the long run. “Because you used to be amusing. You are rapidly becoming a dead bore, however, so I shall leave.”
On this curt speech, she rose, picked up her reticule, and left.

Major Stanby was not two steps behind her. Between drink and frustration, he scarcely knew what he was saying. He only knew that the most wonderful woman in the world was turning him down after encouraging him wantonly for three weeks. He grabbed her elbow and whirled her around. “Frankie, don’t leave like this.”

She read the hurt in his voice, and though her heart was heavy, to encourage him would only prolong his pain. He was a man; he wouldn’t hurt for long. “Let go of my arm,”
she said coldly, and twitched away. He grabbed both wrists.

A dark form detached itself from the shadows. Before the major knew what was happening, his arm was pulled from Francesca’s elbow and twisted cruelly. “The lady said no,”
Lord Devane pointed out coolly. “Are you a gentleman, sir, or only an officer?”

Francesca turned to her helper. “Oh, do be careful! The major has a wounded shoulder.”

Devane’s fingers fell at once. He leveled a menacing eye on Stanby and said, “Let us not make it necessary to wound the other one.”

“Do run along, Arnold,”
she said. “It is no good, you know. I’m sorry if you misunderstood.”

Major Stanby’s youthful lips curled into a sneer. “Just as you say, madame, but I must offer a word of advice. Further misunderstandings are bound to occur if you are so free with your favors.”
He made a very stiff bow and left, hot tears stinging his eyes.

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.

“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 never 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.