CHAPTER SEVEN
FRANCESCA WAS VERY busy during the course of the next week, helping Harriet with her wardrobe and planning for the party. She had decided to throw a small soiree. Nothing too grand, where everyone would get lost in the crowd, nor too elegant, where everyone would feel stiff. The guest list was the major consideration. She must invite women important enough to ease Harriet’s way in Society, but none so rigid that they would disapprove of the girl’s frank and open manner. The party itself, of course, must be both enjoyable and memorable, not only for Harriet’s sake, but also for her own reputation as a hostess. On the other hand, she could not allow it to overshadow Harriet.
As far as Rochford went, at least, little would be required. She had no doubt that anyone she invited would attend, and no eligible young woman would balk at being put in the duke’s company.
The following day Francesca threw off the odd, rather unsettling sense of sadness that had befallen her the evening before. She was in her element planning a party, and it was doubly enjoyable when there was no need to consider the expense. She was soon ensconced at her desk, making lists and menus.
She broke off that afternoon to go shopping with Harriet, another occupation that was among her favorites. Having been given free rein by Sir Alan, she was able to plunge into the search for clothes without any qualms.
They spent much of the afternoon at her favorite modiste’s, and by the time they left, Harriet had acquired three new evening gowns, four day dresses and a walking dress, as well as a charming new pelisse. And since Mlle. du Plessis, her eyes shining with delight at the large order, suggested to Francesca that she might have the sea-green gown she had been considering for an even lower price, Francesca had been unable to resist purchasing the evening gown for herself, as well.
She did, however, refrain from buying a new bonnet when they visited the millinery shop, even though she found a delightful chip straw hat with a blue lining that brought out the dark blue of her eyes. Her maid had re-decorated her bonnet from last year with a different satin ribbon and a clump of bright red cherries, and it would do well enough for this summer. Still, she could not keep from casting a last wistful look back at the hat as they left the store.
However, it was almost as much fun to shop for another as for herself, and Francesca threw herself into acquiring the remainder of the items necessary for Harriet’s transformation. Next stop was the shoemaker’s, for the slippers necessary for two of Harriet’s new evening gowns, as well as a pair of half boots. They followed their shoe purchases with a trip to Grafton’s, where they could acquire a new kerseymere shawl to replace the rather outdated one given Harriet by her grandmother, as well as other such necessary items as handkerchiefs, gloves and accessories for the girl’s hair. Francesca was also pleased to find a satin band precisely the same color as the sea-green gown she had just purchased, which would make a perfect fillet for her hair. She might even, she thought, add a few false pearls to it.
They finished up their expedition with a trip to Gunter’s for a lemon ice before they returned, weary and well-pleased with themselves, to Francesca’s house, the boxes from Grafton’s and the milliner’s piled onto the seats of the carriage. The shoes and dresses, of course, would not be ready for several days, though Mlle. du Plessis had promised that one of Harriet’s evening gowns would be given utmost priority, so she could have it by the day of Francesca’s party the next week.
“I hope your father will not mind the bills when they arrive,” Francesca commented, a trifle worried that perhaps she had been too extravagant on Harriet’s behalf. Sir Alan had seemed quite unconcerned about the cost, but she was not entirely sure that a gentleman accustomed to living in the country was fully aware of the sort of expenses they would be running up.
“Oh, no,” Harriet assured her. “He isn’t at all closefisted. Particularly about the expenses for my Season. He did not turn a hair at what Grandmama spent, even though I must say I thought the dresses were vastly overpriced, considering the way they looked. They seemed dowdy to me, and when I saw the other girls at the parties, I knew that I had the right of it.”
“I am sure your grandmother is accustomed to an older style.”
Harriet nodded. “I don’t mean to speak badly of her, my lady. She is good-hearted. But she tires easily, and she finds shopping and parties exhausting. Also, I fear the mantua-maker she uses is simply not as talented as Mademoiselle du Plessis. And more expensive, as well. I could tell that even Papa was a bit disappointed in how I looked in my wardrobe—though, of course, he is far too good to say anything.”
“I think he will be pleased when he sees these dresses on you.”
Harriet smiled. “Good. I should enjoy not feeling like such a wallflower. Do you think it is possible that I will get asked to dance next time when we go to a ball? Will we go to a ball?”
“Of course. A number of them. There are several weeks left in the Season. And once my friends Sir Lucien and the Duke of Rochford have asked you to dance, I do not think that you will remain a wallflower.”
“The duke!” Harriet exclaimed, paling, her eyes opening wide. “You think the duke will dance with me?”
“I shall make sure that he does.”
“Oh, no, my lady, I daren’t dance with someone like him. I shall be sure to trip or step on his foot, and then I shall just drop from embarrassment.”
“Nonsense. The duke is an excellent dancer. He will make certain you do not.”
“It is not him I am worried about,” the girl told her earnestly. “What If I make a fool of myself? I haven’t the least idea how to speak to a duke. I would be in jitters, I am sure.”
“You will have a chance to converse with him at my party, and after that he will not seem so fearsome.”
Harriet looked unconvinced. “He is so well-bred. I’ve never seen any man who looked half as elegant, no matter what he wore.”
“That is true,” Francesca allowed. Even in a jacket of blue superfine and fawn trousers, Rochford would outshine any man in a formal black coat and breeches. There was simply something about the way he carried himself.
“And he’s dreadfully handsome,” Harriet went on. “Like Lucifer himself, I thought, with that black hair and those black eyes. Don’t you think so, Lady Haughston?”
“Yes. He is a very attractive man.”
“And a duke… I am sure he is not accustomed to listening to someone like me.”
“But he isn’t at all high in the instep,” Francesca assured her. “He treats everyone with respect. I have seen him talk to his tenants and servants with great civility. He is not arrogant or unkind. Ask your father.”
“Papa thinks him an admirable gentleman. He told me so when he came back from Tattersall’s that day. It was the duke who recommended to Papa that he come see you.”
“Really?” Francesca turned, startled. “He did not mention that to me.”
“Oh, yes. Papa could not believe how generous he was, especially given that he had only just met him.”
“The duke is quite generous—and he is an excellent judge of character. I am sure he took your father’s measure instantly and decided that he was worthy of his friendship.”
Despite her words of assurance to Harriet, Francesca could not help but be taken aback by the duke’s directing Sir Alan her way. She supposed Sir Alan must have brought up the matter of his daughter’s lack of success, although it seemed a rather peculiar topic for two gentlemen at Tattersall’s. But even if they were discussing the matter, she was surprised that the duke would even think to tell the man to ask her for her help.
She was glad he had, of course—but she could not rid herself of the notion that it almost seemed as though Rochford had been going out of his way to help her in her endeavors.
But no, surely not. He did not know about her financial straits. No one did. She had done her utmost to hide her struggles with money all these years. Besides, even if Rochford had somehow guessed that she was skirting the edge of poverty and had also realized that she was using her skills to stave off that threat, there was no reason for him to try to help her.
No. The idea was absurd. It must be that Sir Alan had raised the subject in some manner, and Rochford had simply mentioned her because of what she had done for his cousin Gideon. No more than that.
To change the subject from the vaguely disquieting one of Rochford, Francesca asked, “What do you hope to achieve this Season?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Harriet frowned. “I would like to enjoy it. And I would like for Papa to be happy. He so wants me to have a good Season.”
“Are you hoping to find a husband?” Sir Alan had told her that marriage was not the goal of their efforts, but Francesca was not sure that the father knew the extent of his daughter’s wishes in the matter.
A blush stained the girl’s cheekbones. “Oh, no, Lady Haughston. I do not care—That is…well, I do not think I am the sort to marry a lord or anyone like that. I have no desire to live in London or to—to participate in the social whirl of the ton. I am a country girl at heart. I enjoy the Assemblies and calling on the people I know there. Taking baskets to Papa’s tenants when they are sick. Asking after people’s children and grandchildren. That is the sort of life I like. It is what I am suited for. I have little desire to leave Papa. And…” She hesitated, her blush deepening. “There is a boy—the squire’s son. They live not far away. I know Papa likes him, although he tells me I could look higher.”
“Ah, I see.” Francesca nodded. “But you don’t wish to look higher.”
Harriet nodded, grateful for the sophisticated woman’s understanding. “That is it, exactly. His name is Tom, and I have known him all my life. He used to be—oh, such a nuisance, teasing me and telling ghost stories to frighten me. But last year, the first time I went to the Assembly, we danced—and it was entirely different. He is ever so much nicer, and when he comes to call, we talk about all sorts of things, and I cannot wait until the next time he comes. It is so odd. I know him well, and yet he is like someone I’ve just met. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” Francesca told her, and her smile was bittersweet. “I know just what you mean.”
FRANCESCA WAS AT her desk in the morning room the next day, planning the decorations for her soiree, when her butler stepped into the room. He carried a small silver tray, and on it rested a white calling card.
“There is a…person to see you, my lady,” he began, and Francesca knew immediately from his carefully blank face and the choice of his words that the visitor was not someone of whom the butler approved. “Mr. Galen Perkins.”
“Perkins!” Whatever was he doing here? “Tell him I am not receiving.”
“What? You would treat an old friend like that?” Perkins stepped into view behind the butler.
Francesca rose to her feet, her back straight. “I do not believe that we were ever friends, Mr. Perkins.”
Fenton cast a look of dislike at the man and turned back to Francesca, his tone frosty as he asked, “Shall I escort Mr. Perkins to the door, my lady?”
Perkins flashed a wicked grin of amusement. “I should like to see you try.”
“No, it’s all right, Fenton.” Francesca had little doubt that Perkins would not go willingly, and she feared he might hurt the old man. “I will talk to Mr. Perkins.”
“Very well.” Fenton executed a little bow, adding, “I shall be right outside, if you need me.”
The butler stepped around Perkins and ostentatiously took up a position in the hallway opposite the door.
Perkins sauntered into the room, remarking, “What a faithful knight you have, dear lady. No doubt he protects you from all dangers.”
“Why are you here, Mr. Perkins?” Francesca asked crisply. “What do you hope to accomplish by forcing your way in to see me?”
“Why, surely it is appropriate to offer my respects to the widow of my old friend,” Perkins commented, the amused smirk lingering on his face.
“You offered your condolences the other night at the theater,” Francesca reminded him. “So I scarcely think a visit is necessary.”
He came around the side of the desk. He was closer than Francesca would have liked, but she refused to back up, for she knew that he would take the gesture as fear. He ran his pale eyes insolently down her.
“A man can hardly be blamed for wanting to renew his acquaintance with so lovely as woman as yourself,” he told her.
Francesca’s fingers curled into her palm. She would have liked very much to slap him, so insolent and insinuating was his tone.
“It must get very lonely,” he went on, “being a widow. Living alone as you do.”
“I would never be lonely enough to seek your company,” she assured him.
He shrugged. “Very well, then. Let us get down to business.”
“Business?” Francesca looked at him in surprise. “What business? I have no business with you.”
“I am afraid that I must differ.” He smiled in the same annoyingly amused way, the lines of dissipation crinkling around his eyes.
Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a piece of paper, which he unfolded. “Andrew and I played cards a short while before I had to leave for the Continent—”
“You mean before you killed a man.”
He shrugged, his flat gaze showing no remorse. “A man must defend his honor.”
“If he has any.”
“Your husband lost heavily,” Perkins continued, ignoring her remark. “As he so often did, I’m afraid. He ran out of funds, and he’d already thrown in his cuff links and stickpin. I could hardly take a voucher from him, as he so rarely paid them. So, on the final hand, he threw in his house. Sad to say, but not unexpectedly, he lost.”
Francesca stared at him blankly. Her stomach felt as if it had dropped to the floor, and for a moment she could not move, could not speak. Finally she said, her voice rasping a little, “What do you mean? What house?
Haughston Hall? It is entailed.”
“I am aware of that,” he replied, watching her. “I’m not a fool, whatever the company I kept. That is why I told him that it must be this house that he wagered.”
Her insides turned to ice, but she struggled to keep her face from dissolving into fear. “You are lying.”
“Am I?” He extended the paper, holding it out to her so that she could read it. “Do you really think Andrew was not capable of such a thing?”
Francesca’s eyes flew over the words, taking in the formal terms of sale and, at the bottom, the faded but dreadfully familiar handwriting: Andrew, Lord Haughston. Her lungs felt squeezed together, and for a moment she feared that she might faint. This couldn’t be true. It simply could not. Surely Andrew, even Andrew, had not done this to her! But, of course, she knew that he certainly could have. Andrew rarely thought of con sequences, especially in terms of what might happen to her.
She swallowed hard and raised her eyes to meet his, a saving anger boiling up in her. “Get out of my house.”
Again that faintly amused, taunting smile curved his lips. “My house, I am afraid, my lady.”
“Did you think that I would meekly turn it over to you?” Francesca asked. “Let me assure you that I will not. I am not some weak reed who will break at the slightest blow. I am not without friends. People of influence and power. For all I know, you have forged that document. I saw no witnesses upon it.”
He took a step forward so that he loomed over her, his pale eyes gleaming with a cold light. “Nor am I a weak reed, my lady.” He made the formal address a sneer of contempt. “There were witnesses. Two other men playing cards with us, not to mention the whores and the madam of the brothel. I will take you to court if you do not turn over this house to me. And they will all come forward as witnesses to the deed.” He raised his eyebrows, adding silkily, “If that is what you want.”
His words struck her like a blow, as he had intended.
If she fought him for the house, he would expose her late husband’s scandalous behavior to the world. She would be dragged through the mud of gossip; everyone would whisper avidly about Andrew and his profligate ways, his drunkenness and gambling, his lightskirts.
But she kept her back straight and looked him in the eye as she repeated grimly, “I will not leave this house.”
He studied her for a moment longer, then stepped back, saying easily, “Of course, I could make you the same offer I gave to Andrew at that time. I told him if he came up with the money in lieu of which he put up the house, I would tear up the deed.”
Francesca relaxed fractionally. Perhaps there was a way out of this, after all. The man just wanted money. “What was the sum?”
“Five thousand pounds.”
She felt the blood drain out of her face, and she grasped the edge of her desk to steady herself. He might as well have said the moon. There was no way that she could come by £5000.
“I gave him two weeks to come up with the sum, but then, unfortunately, I had to leave the country because of the…incident with Bagshaw.”
“Incident? Is that what you term murder?”
As if she had not spoken, he said smoothly, “Oddly enough, though, Haughston never saw fit to send me the money he owed me.” He shook his head, as though despairing over the lack of loyalty among friends. “Still, I am willing to extend the same courtesy to you. In two weeks, you can pay me the money and we will tear up the note.”
She knew that she could not come up with that sum if he had given her a lifetime to redeem the note, but still she exclaimed, “Two weeks! You cannot possibly expect me to gather so much together in that length of time. Haughston had far more resources than I. I must…write my parents and…and others. I have to speak to my man of business. Surely you can see that it is not enough time. Give me a few months.”
“A few months!” he scoffed. “I have been waiting to take possession of this house for nigh seven years. Why would I wait still longer to obtain it?”
“It will be far easier, surely, if I were to give you the money,” Francesca argued desperately. “What does a single gentleman need with a house? And I cannot obtain that much money so quickly. Please. Just two months.”
He gazed at her for a long moment, then said shortly, “Very well. I will give you three weeks.”
It was scarcely any better, but she nodded, glad for any delay. “Very well.”
He smiled, sending a shiver through her, and sketched her a bow. “’Til then, my dear Lady Haughston.”
He walked out of the room. In the hallway, Fenton turned and followed him, intent on showing him the door.
Francesca sank down into her chair as soon as he was out of sight. It was a wonder, she thought, that her legs had held her up this long. Setting her elbows on the desk, she dropped her face to her hands. Terror gripped her.
How could she possibly come up with such an amount of money? She was barely able to get by as it was, and she had very little left to sell. Her carriage was old, and her horses, too; they would bring very little. She had no jewelry that was not paste, except for the bracelet and earrings the duke had given her, and the cameo from his sister Callie. All of those things would not amount to a tenth of what Perkins said she owed him. Indeed, even if she stripped the house of every last piece of furniture and silver plate, it would not be enough.
The only thing she owned that would bring in any amount of money would be the house itself. Of course, if she sold the house and paid Perkins the money, it would still leave her without a place to live. She might be able to sell the place for more than the amount Perkins claimed she owed him and have enough to pay for a smaller home in a less fashionable area. However, selling a house would require a great deal more time than the three weeks Perkins had given her, and she did not think that she would be able to talk him into any extra time. Indeed, if he knew that she was trying to sell the house, she suspected that he would take her to court to block the sale.
Nor could she go to her father. He had already run his estate into the ground and been forced to turn it over to her brother Dominic to manage. Dominic would help her if he could, she knew, but he was struggling to return the estate to solvency. He had even sold his own manor house, an inheritance from their uncle, to pay off some of the estate’s debts and make the improvements necessary to get the place on solid financial footing again. She could not ask him to endanger those efforts by creating a new load of debt to pay for her house. She would never be able to give him back the money.
She could think of nowhere else to turn. She could scarcely ask her friends for such a large sum of money, and she had no other family. Nor was she close to Lord Haughston’s cousin, who had inherited the estate—not that even he had that much available money. Andrew had bled the estate as dry as he could, along with everything else.
She could fight Perkins to the bitter end. She could refuse to leave the house. Perhaps he would not really take her to court—though he had certainly seemed confident in that regard. Even if he did, it was always possible that the document was a forgery. While she did not doubt that Andrew would have thrown away his house on a hand of cards, neither did she doubt that Galen Perkins was capable of forging the document.
If she did force him to go to court to obtain the house, though, she had little doubt that he would make good his threat of dragging her husband’s low acquaintances into court and exposing her to public humiliation. Even if the document was a false one and there had been no witnesses, she felt sure that he could find two men and a few prostitutes who would willingly testify, for a few gold coins, that Lord Haughston had indeed signed away his house in front of them.
Francesca could not bear to think of living through the scandal, of having her name spread through the newspapers, whispered about by all of London, from the highest lord to the lowliest chambermaid. And in the end, she would probably lose the house anyway. The signature on the deed had looked very much like Andrew’s.
What was she to do if she lost this house? Where would she go? To Redfields, where she would have to live out the rest of her life on her brother’s generosity? She had no doubt that Dom and his wife, Constance, would welcome her with never a word of complaint. But she dreaded the thought of being a burden to them just as much as she dreaded the idea of having nothing of her own anymore. And living the entire year away from London seemed like exile.
Perhaps the pittance her jointure provided would allow her to eke out a life in London, renting a room somewhere. But what sort of life would that be? Without a house, without servants or the money to buy clothes, and with everyone in the ton knowing that she was utterly penurious, she could scarcely maintain her position as one of the shining lights of the beau monde. It would be impossible for her to continue to supplement her income by guiding girls through their Seasons.
No, she thought bleakly, fighting back the tears, the truth was, she was facing ruination. If she could not somehow stave off Perkins, it would be virtually the end of her world.