Francesca was gratified to hear she had drawn the attention of such a wealthy gentleman, and let the matter drop.
“Who is he with this evening, I wonder?”
Mr. Irwin asked. Francesca directed him to the proper box but was careful not to look within a right angle of it herself for the remainder of the evening. She suspected Lord Devane might be casting an occasional glance at her, however, and began flirting discreetly with Mr. Irwin.
Lord Devane did indeed take an occasional glance, no more. He was too clever, and too proud, to make a cake of himself. He divined her trick, and knew he had caught her interest. When the play was over, their two parties went to separate hotels to dine, and they did not see each other again that evening. Mrs. Denver had retired by the time Francesca got home, so she went directly to bed.
The evening had been a dead loss so far as finding the necklace was concerned, but Lady Camden was by no means in the mopes. She was young enough to be elated at having caught the interest of the Season’s most eligible bachelor. Her first fear of not being able to handle him diminished when Mr. Irwin assured her his reputation was good. Perhaps she would flirt with him a little next time they met. But she would never marry someone like him. One David in a lifetime was more than enough.
Mrs. Denver was happy to see her charge in good spirits the next morning. “Any luck at the theater?”
she asked eagerly.
“No sign of the necklace, but the play was very interesting. They had a live elephant onstage, Mrs. Denver. You really must go to see it.”
“It sounds dangerous. What if it got loose?”
“It didn’t. Mr. Irwin is visiting the jewelers’
shops this morning to try to get a lead on the necklace.”
“How kind of him.”
Mr. Irwin appeared to be gaining favor. She must learn more about him from Mr. Caine before the thing became serious. “Are you driving out with him later?”
she asked.
“No. I shall stay home today. Truth to tell, I am tired of racketing around town.”
“You have been trotting pretty hard,”
Mrs. Denver agreed, and hid her astonishment as well as she could. This didn’t look like infatuation. Mrs. Denver felt no invitation had been extended, but when—if—it was, Fran would no doubt accept. To her surprise, Francesca did nothing of the sort. Mr. Irwin did stop by and invite her out, but she refused two or three times, till at last he accepted her decision.
“You ought not to have refused just because he failed to find out anything from the jewelers, Fran,”
Mrs. Denver admonished Frankie. “The man is doing his best. He spent his entire morning working for you.”
“Oh, was I rude?”
she asked. “I shall drive out the next time he calls.”
“Why did you not go today?”
“I don’t feel like going out, with this necklace business hanging over my head,”
Francesca replied, and hoped her aunt would not inquire further. To herself she admitted that what kept her home was the possibility that Lord Devane might call. He had not asked for permission to do so, but then, he was of that class that hardly required permission. A call from Lord Devane was considered an honor.
The hour from two to three dragged by, and Francesca was obliged to pretend satisfaction with her dull day. She leafed desultorily through fashion magazines but could not settle down to anything more demanding. At three on the dot the knocker sounded, and she leapt in her chair. “Who can that be?”
“Probably Mr. Caine,”
Mrs. Denver said. She did not recognize Lord Devane’s deep voice, but Francesca did, and assumed a bored expression, but with a telltale glitter in her eyes.
Francesca overcame all her reluctance to leave the house, and sent off for her bonnet and pelisse as soon as Devane mentioned a drive in the park. Mrs. Denver could only stare in surprised dismay. He was hardly the sort Fran usually had her harmless little flings with. An acknowledged man-about-town—what could he want with Fran? He was not shoddy enough to be planning anything disreputable, and she was not high enough for it to have the air of a serious courting. It troubled Mrs. Denver, especially Fran’s air of excitement. That was why she had refused to drive out with Mr. Irwin! How contrary the girl was.
“Hyde Park is in the other direction, Lord Devane,”
Francesca pointed out when Devane headed his horses west on Oxford Street toward Tiburn Road.
“I planned a spin in the country, if that meets with your approval, ma’am,”
he answered blandly. “Last night I displeased you, carrying on in public. Let my reputation recover before we are seen together.”
“Curiously enough, the gentleman’s reputation never
does
seem to suffer, does it?”
she replied,
“No, it doesn’t. There is certainly an inequity in there somewhere.”
“An iniquity, I would say.”
“You begrudge us our social latitude, do you?”
he joked, but listened closely for her reply.
“It has always struck me as very unfair.”
“There is an easy way around the injustice for you. Ladies in your position must just be a little more careful. So long as they are married or widowed, they are allowed a fair amount of freedom. It is flaunting their affairs in the face of the world that finishes them.”
“I was not talking about myself in particular. I merely think that if gentlemen can misbehave without censure, ladies ought to have the same privilege.”
He turned a clever eye on her. “That would be your solution? Some people think gentlemen ought to be forced to behave more properly.”
“No one has taught a dog to fly yet, so far as I know.”
She shrugged.
“You are remarkably lenient, ma’am. You remove the burden of guilt from us. We are doing only as Nature ordained; birds fly, fish swim, and man—alas!—”
Francesca spoke up rapidly to prevent his finishing that questionable speech, “I was not speaking of
all
gentlemen, Lord Devane, but only of rakes—of which I am sure you are not one,”
she added, blushing, for the conversation was taking a turn she had not anticipated and did not like.
“And men admire beautiful women is what I was going to say,”
he finished, mockingly demure.
Francesca looked around for a new subject and made do with the weather. “What a lovely day it is.”
A coven of witch-black birds hovered in the blue sky over a spreading elm, and disappeared into its leafy branches. As they proceeded beyond London, the traffic lessened and greenery stretched on both sides, smiling in the sunlight. Farms and cottages dotted the roadside. Men and horses worked peacefully in the fields. “It reminds me of White Oaks, my home in Surrey,”
she mentioned. “Where is your home, Lord Devane?”
“In Kent,”
he answered briefly.
“I think Mr. Irwin mentioned you have another estate as well?”
“Yes, also a hunting box in the Cotswold Hills and a mansion in London. There, it is all on the line,”
he said, studying her closely.
Lord Devane was aware that there were two ways of carrying on affairs. Members of the muslin company expected more in the way of cash. Ladies of quality, unless they were purse-pinched, were allowed the luxury of pretending indifference to money and taking their payment in jewelry. He expected Francesca would fall into the latter category. Her wishing to discuss his assets sounded like fishing to learn what she might get out of him. It displeased him, and when Devane was displeased, his eyebrows pulled into a frown over his eyes.
“You don’t seem very pleased about being so wealthy,”
she charged.
“It does please me. I appreciate money as much as the next one. It allows one the finer things in life.”
“This is a very fine carriage,”
she said. “It hardly jostles at all.”
“It is the team that make it seem smoother than it is. And of course the driver,”
he added with a grin. “Do you drive, Lady Camden?”
“Only the jig, back on Papa’s farm. I’ve never had my own phaeton. My late husband was not so very well off. His father has a good deal of money, I believe, but Lord Maundley is a shocking skint.”
He drew off the side of the road, under a tall oak, and turned to her, his expression suddenly serious. Sunlight dappled her face through the moving branches, lending her a restless quality. “It must have been very difficult for you, losing your husband when you were practically newlyweds.”
Any mention of David set Francesca’s hackles up. She disliked posing as a heartbroken widow, but of course she did not parade his perfidy in front of any but her dearest friends. Even her own family had no idea of it. “It was a trying time,”
she said in a cool voice.
Devane assumed she was still not totally recovered, and immediately rushed on to speak of other things. “The reason I stopped the carriage, I thought you might like to try the ribbons.”
“No, thank you. When I make a fool of myself, I prefer to do it in private.”
“I am here to help you.”
“Your team is too lively for a beginner.”
“I did not expect such reluctance to take a chance from the dashing Frankie Devlin,”
he jeered.
“I take a chance only when it is myself, or my possessions, that are at stake. The team is yours. If I crippled them, I would be in your debt. I have debts enough without incurring new ones,”
she added, thinking of the necklace.
I
will expect you to make retribution.
David had told her the diamonds were worth five thousand guineas.
So the lady had tumbled into debt! Was that the cause of her straying? “Gambling?”
he asked bluntly. His voice was harsh, and his dark eyes stared hard into hers.
“No! I don’t gamble beyond a friendly game of whist.”
“How did you fall into debt, then?”
His tone, as much as his words, angered her. “Pray, do not concern yourself about my personal problems,”
she said, holding her head high.
“I hope to make your problems my problems, Lady Camden. I confess, I have an aversion to ladies’
gambling beyond their means.”
“Another vice reserved for gentlemen,’’
she snipped, eyes flashing. To his considerable astonishment, she completely ignored his hint at shouldering her problems. “Well, are we going to continue this drive, or sit here all day arguing?”
A reluctant smile moved his lips and glowed in the depths of his dark eyes. “A temper! Good. I’m inclined that way myself.”
He flicked the whip, and the team resumed their smooth trot. Devane instituted some polite conversation on the countryside and social doings.
“There is a quiet inn just along the road here,”
he said later. “Shall we stop for a drink? Driving in the open air is a thirsty business.”
“I would enjoy a drink,”
she allowed.
The inn, with an ancient brick façade and a thatched roof, looked like a country cottage. Chickens roaming free in the yard added to the impression, and there was no commercial sign at the door to draw in trade. “Are you sure this is an inn?”
she asked.
“It is, but it has only three tables. We few who have discovered it keep it a secret. Jed Puckle brews the best ale in England.”
A boy came out of the yard and took the reins of the curricle. Devane led Lady Camden through a door so low he had to stoop to enter. It seemed very dark inside, after the bright sunlight. By the light from the windows Francesca saw that the parlor of the house had been converted into a minuscule tap room, holding three deal tables, each with four chairs. Hunting prints decorated the walls, and a dull gleam of pewter vessels enlivened the wooden sideboard. One of the tables was occupied by a pair of gentlemen; the other two were empty.
“Are you sure ladies are allowed here?”
she asked, peering all around.
“Quite sure. And even if they weren’t, who would see you?”
“A wrong does not consist of getting caught, Lord Devane,”
she pointed out, but playfully.
“Except in the case of social rules. It cannot be a crime for you to enjoy a drink, even in a men’s room. But the room, as I said, is for the use of the general public.”
Even as he spoke, a country couple of man and wife came in, laden with parcels, and occupied the last table. “Now you can relax.”
He reached across the table and patted her hands.
A fresh-faced country wench came and took their order. “Two of your famous ales,”
Devane said.
“I do not drink ale. May I have tea?”
Francesca said.
“But Puckle’s ale is famous! I often drive out here for the sole pleasure of tasting it. Two ales and a pot of tea.”
The girl left.
“My, you are thirsty! Ordering two ales at a time,”
Francesca said.
“One is for you. I insist you try it.”
“I’ll try it, but I tell you in advance, I shan’t like it.”
He leaned across the table and gazed into her eyes. “You should never make up your mind about a thing until you’ve tried it, Lady Camden.”
She read some challenge in his words.
The ales and tea were delivered. The dark liquid in the glass Devane held out to her looked lethal. “It tastes better than it looks,”
he said.
She sipped and found it tasted as bitter and metallic as other ales she had tried. “Sorry, Lord Devane. It is not my cup of tea. This is,”
she added, reaching for the pot.
He watched, bemused, as she daintily lifted the pot and poured the steaming liquid into the cup. “Well, at least you tried it. It is lacking the fortitude to try new things that is contemptible.”
“Like my not laming your team for you?”
she asked pertly.
“At least you have driven a jig. A jig is like a cup of tea; driving a team of bloods, on the other hand, is fine wine. I think you are a lady who likes the finer things in life?”
His tone made it at least a potential compliment.
Francesca considered it a moment. “I don’t know why you say that when I have just settled for tea and a jig. I liked the country very much when I was there. The assemblies, the local beaux, the occasional journeying group of players. Then, when I first went up to London, I became much too grand for country pleasures. But now I am beginning to think I was too hard on country doings. Society is only ordinary people dressed up in silk and jewelry. Their expenses are higher, and their morals lower. Other than that, there isn’t really much difference between them so far as I can see.”