Francesca (17 page)

Francesca looked bewildered. “Maundley has recovered the necklace,”
she said, still wondering how it had happened. “How did Devane come to know of it? What has it to do with
him,
that he is delivering me this letter?”
she demanded as curiosity gave way to annoyance.

“I wager it was Devane who recovered it. You must see him, Fran. He has come all the way from London.”

“How could he have recovered it? He would not even believe it was stolen.”

“Why don’t you ask him? He is waiting downstairs. I think it uncommonly sly of you never to have mentioned his name.”

“I told him I would not see him—ever. How dare he—
oh, he is the most exasperating man. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if he bought the thing back from David’s mistress on purpose to put me in his debt.”

“Is that where he wishes to place you? I wonder why,”
Mary said archly.

“Because he would like to watch me cringe and grovel. He has outfoxed himself if that is what he has done. Pray deliver my thanks to Lord Devane, but I am indisposed. I cannot see him.”
She rose and paced the room, fighting back the urge to run downstairs as fast as her legs could carry her.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What more is necessary for the simple delivery of a letter?”

“Oh, Fran.”
Francesca lifted her chin and looked out the window. There was no misreading her mood. “Very well, but I think you are being unnaturally stubborn.”

Mary returned below, determined to discover the whole course and nature of her friend’s relationship with Lord Devane. The ladies’
group must wait. This was more important, and the ladies had plenty to gossip about in the meanwhile. It was not every day that their meeting was enlivened by such romantic goings-on.

She smiled pleasantly as she entered. Devane was not seated, but pacing impatiently. She noticed his eyes eagerly scanning the empty space behind her in hopes of seeing Fran there. “Lady Camden is very grateful to you for delivering that letter, sir. She asked me to convey her thanks. May I offer you a glass of wine?”

“Thank you.”

Ronald kept but an inferior sort of claret in his office, to aid his nocturnal battle with the bookkeeping, but she poured two glasses and they both sat down. “What did she say?”
he asked at once.

“She was very pleased, as I said. She was curious to learn how it came that
you
were delivering the note from Lord Maundley.”

“I insisted he write it when I took the necklace to him.”

“You took it to him! But how exciting, Lord Devane. I am sure Fran does not know
that.
How did you recover it?”

He was easily tempted into relating the tale of his chivalry, sure that it would all be relayed to Francesca. “It is not a story I can tell without blushing, for Lord Camden was not exactly
...
”

Mary shook her head sadly. “I know. He was a sad trial to her—but posthumously, of course, which made it worse in a way. She could not repay him as he deserved. Fran felt David had given the jewelry to a—a female friend,”
she said, coloring modestly at such licentiousness. Devane noticed, and thought how innocent these country girls were. “She could hardly credit a thing like that, you know, being reared so carefully as she was. Her papa is a byword for puritanism.”

“Yes, Lord Camden did give it to a female. I investigated and discovered the recipient, paid her a visit with a Bow Street Runner and a search warrant, and the thing was done.”

Mary’s eyes were large with admiration. “But how did you discover the woman’s identity? Selby—my brother, Mr. Caine, has been trying to discover that for months.”

“One has to know what palms to grease,”
he said, making little of it.

“So much bother and expense as you have been to. You must think very highly of Lady Camden,”
she said leadingly.

“More highly than she thinks of me, I fear.”

“Perhaps when I tell her what you have told me ... But there is no point in thinking she will cave in without time to change her tune. Fran is most stubborn.”

A small, wan smile tugged at Devane’s lips. “And has the devil’s own temper,”
he added.

“Are you staying in the neighborhood for long?”

“Until she condescends to see me,”
he replied with an air of injury. This won an approving nod from his hostess.

“There is an assembly tomorrow evening. Mrs. Huddleston, the hostess, is in my saloon at this moment. If you would care to attend, I am sure she would be delighted to have you.”

“Fran can hardly throw a book at my head in a polite saloon.”
He smiled. “Would I be imposing too rudely to accept your generous offer?”

Mary was so bowled over by Devane that he could have imposed on her for anything but her son. “You’ll be the making of her do. We don’t get many fine lords. Lady Camden
and
Lord Devane—this one will go down in history.”

“Let us hope it is not recorded as a battle. Perhaps we should keep it a secret that I will attend.”

“Yes, an excellent notion. We don’t want Fran digging in her heels and staying at home. Where are you putting up, Lord Devane? I would invite you to stay with us, but under the circumstances ...”

“No, no, it is not to be thought of. I am at the Swan, in Reigate. I can be reached there if Lady Camden wishes to see me before the assembly,”

“Yes, if I can talk her out of her sulks.”
She felt easy enough with Devane to add, “What did you do to get in her black books? Fran is mulish, but she usually requires a good cause to set her off.”

He rose and bowed. “I must leave you ladies some subject for gossip, ma’am. Ask your friend. The secret is hers to tell or not, as she wishes. But I might as well admit, she had good cause to distrust me. If she reveals my disgrace, you might deliver my heartfelt apologies. I was wrong, and I deeply regret any pain I have caused her.”

Mary thought that was very prettily said and smiled her own forgiveness without hearing the crime. She gave him directions to Mrs. Huddleston’s house and said he would undoubtedly be receiving an invitation at the Swan that same day.

Very little church bazaar work got done that afternoon. Mary caused as much sensation as a simple country matron could wish when she returned to her saloon. The precise nature of Devane’s call was not revealed, of course, but when she asked Mrs. Huddleston if she would mind very much sending Lord Devane an invitation to her assembly, no one cared why he was there. They assumed, and were not discouraged in the assumption by Mrs. Travers, that it was an affair of the heart involving Lady Camden.

From there, the subject turned to quick additions to the assembly to make it worthy of two noble guests. The two fiddlers and a pianoforte must be augmented by a cello, and the orgeat with champagne. Every lady in the room wished to dart over to Redhill for new feathers or gloves or silk stockings so the meeting broke up quickly, and Mary was free to go upstairs as she had been longing to do.

Francesca had been studying that letter from Maundley and trying to conjure Devane’s part in it. He had bought the necklace from Rita, thinking to force her into becoming his mistress. And to go chasing her into the country, barging into her friend’s house—the more she thought of it, the more she feared it might actually come to a duel.

She was ready to do battle with someone when Mary came tapping at her door. “I finally got rid of the ladies,”
Mary said, dropping onto the bed.

“What did Devane say?”
Fran asked in a quiet voice, but a voice laden with mistrust.

“I got the whole story from him. He was eager to tell it.”
She relayed Devane’s part in the affair, diminishing nothing of his concern and efficacy.

“He didn’t
buy
the necklace back? You’re sure he didn’t pay for it?”

“Indeed he did not. Lord Devane is no Johnny Raw. He is up to all the rigs. He got a search warrant and a Bow Street officer to go with him. And he made Maundley write that apology, too.”

“That was certainly well done of him,”
Fran admitted, somewhat mollified. “I expect I should write a note, thanking him.”

“He is putting up at the Swan in Reigate for a few days. We could drop around
...
”

“No! No, but I must write a note.”

“Why do you not wish to see him, Fran?”

“We do not get along. We would be sure to come to cuffs before the meeting was over.”

“What do you usually come to cuffs about? I thought him charming, and very conversable.”

“He can be charming and conversable; he can also be impossible.”

Mary gave an impatient
tsk.
“I wish you would tell me the truth. Whatever it is, Lord Devane admitted he was wrong, and he told me he is very sorry.”

Fran smiled softly. “Did he say so? Well, perhaps I shall write a very nice note.”

Mary jumped up from the bed. “We have time to get to the Swan before dinner.”

“Oh, no. I mean to write. If Devane wishes to pursue the matter further, he must tuck his tail between his legs and come to me.”

“He did not strike me as a gent who would be much good at truckling, Fran. Don’t let this stubbornness of yours go too far. I expect there are plenty of ladies on the catch for Devane in London. Well-dowered debs,”
she added, to remind her friend she was a widow. Widows were not held in such high esteem as maidens.

“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.

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.”