CHAPTER EIGHT
FRANCESCA AWAKENED THE next morning with a heavy sense of dread. She had cried herself to sleep the night before, thinking about her situation, and her night had been filled with vague, frightening dreams about which she could remember nothing but her fear.
A little shakily, she sat down to the tea and toast that Maisie had brought her, and as she nibbled halfheartedly at the bit of breakfast, her mind raced. If only there were someone whose advice she could ask, but she could think of no one. Her brother was the closest person to her and would be the most understanding of her problem, but she knew that if she brought the matter up with him, he would try to help her buy her way out of the note, even if it meant ruining his own finances. Therefore, she could not tell him.
Sir Lucien had always been her good friend, and though they did not actually discuss it, he was aware of her money problems. However, he had money problems of his own, equal in severity to hers, and she knew there would be no help from that quarter. Moreover, Lucien was not one who understood money matters; he would be as stumped for a solution as she.
She had grown quite close to Irene, who was an intelligent woman, and suspected that Irene had at least an inkling of the sort of financial straits in which she lived. She would be the person most likely to have an idea, as well as the one most likely to be able to help, given that her husband, Gideon, was one of the wealthiest men in London. But everything inside Francesca recoiled at the thought of asking Irene for help.
She could not impose on a friend in that way. There was no one, really, to whom she felt close enough, except her family. Or…
Sinclair.
Unbidden, the duke’s name came to her, but Francesca closed her mind to the thought, crossing her arms over her chest as though to further bar the idea.
She could not go running to the duke. She would not presume on their past relationship or impose on his kindness. She was nothing to him now, and she refused to try to put some sort of obligation on him. She could not deny that it would be a great relief to turn her problem over to him, but it would also be far too humiliating. And, anyway, the man owed her nothing.
No. She had to solve this herself.
Putting aside her breakfast tray, Francesca rose and went to her jewelry box. Opening it, she went through her baubles, separating the paste from those things that had some value. The pile of valuables was, she thought with a sigh, pitifully small: the necklace of pearls her parents had given her on her eighteenth birthday, the cameo given her by Callie, the sapphire earrings from the duke upon the occasion of their engagement and the sapphire bracelet she had won last summer in a wager with him. Her wedding ring and whatever jewels she had gotten from her husband were long since gone to pay for her daily living. What was left was what was too dear to her to give up.
She was not sure she could give them up even now. But did she have any choice?
When Maisie returned to take her tray, Francesca told her, “I have some items to sell to the jeweler.”
Maisie faced her in some surprise. “You do? I did not realize.” She frowned, obviously thinking about the usual signs of impending financial disaster, which were not present at the moment.
“I need to sell everything I possibly can. As soon as I am dressed, I shall inspect the silver in the butler’s pantry. I think we must get rid of all of it.”
Maisie’s jaw dropped. “All, my lady?”
Francesca nodded. “How much will it fetch, do you think? Can we sell the crystal glasses, as well? And what about furniture? How much of that do you think we could get money for?”
Maisie shook her head. “But, my lady, what will you use? You cannot get rid of all your silverware and dishes.”
“Most of it,” Francesca said inexorably. “I shall—I shall simply have to hold small dinners from now on, that is all. And I am sure that we could sell most of the silver candelabras, as well. After we go through the butler’s pantry, I must scour the attic. And I should speak to the coachman about selling the brougham and the horses.”
“Sell your carriage! My lady, what has happened?” Maisie cried. “You will have nothing! What will you do?”
“I have to do this.” Francesca thought of the future before her, and her resolution wavered. What use would it be to her to save the house if she had to give up her entire way of life in order to do so?
She steeled herself and went on. “I am sending for my man of business.”
“You’re not going to sell out the Funds, are you?” Maisie asked, even more alarmed, if that was possible.
Francesca shook her head. “No. I cannot leave myself with absolutely nothing. But I need to see about selling the house.”
Despite her maid’s shocked protests, Francesca was adamant, and she spent the rest of the day going through the house and taking note of everything that she would try to sell. The agent who handled her business matters, minor as they were, called on her late in the day, and they remained closeted in her sitting room for close to an hour.
By the time he left, she was spent, and she sat for a long time simply staring out at the dying afternoon. Everything she had done was useless, she thought, utterly pointless.
Even if she sold all her personal possessions, they would not bring anywhere near the sum that she needed. If she sold out of her Funds, she would be close, but it still would not be enough, and she would not have anything left to live on except what she could scrape up by helping girls find husbands.
Only selling the house would provide adequate money, but as she had known last night when she had asked Mr. Perkins for more time, it would take a good while to find a purchaser, certainly more than the three weeks he had given her. Her agent had agreed to try to sell it, but he had been quite set against the idea. Better to lease it out during the Season if she needed to raise money, he had told her. But, of course, that would not answer her needs at all. And she could not bring herself to explain to him why she needed the money so desperately and so quickly.
Still, she thought, she must set Maisie to selling off whatever she could. She would, after all, need money to pay a solicitor if she decided to fight Perkins in court.
She went back to the jewelry box and took out the earrings and bracelet again. Everything else, she thought, but not these.
All through the week, as she prepared for Harriet’s party, Francesca’s worries gnawed at the back of her mind. But no matter how much she thought about the matter or how many tears she shed at night in the privacy of her bedroom, she could not come up with any solution.
She tried to put the matter of Perkins and the house out of her mind, going on about the business of creating a successful soiree. To her gratification, replies to her invitation were quickly returned, all but a very few happy to attend. The assembly room, one of the rooms in the east wing that she kept permanently closed off and now largely unfurnished, was opened up and received a thorough cleaning, requiring the hiring of two extra maids and a footman. Once that was accomplished, the task of decorating that room and the front hallway began. Wines were selected, and the final menu for the food and beverage tables chosen.
There were, moreover, the sessions she had set herself with Harriet, instructing the girl in the niceties of conversation, strategic flirting and other skills that would help her navigate her way through the Season. Harriet knew how to dance, at least, and she was amenable to applying the daily lotions Francesca recommended to lighten her sun-kissed complexion. But getting her to restrain her tongue was another matter. It was not that she was rebellious; she simply did not understand why the straightforward way she spoke was too blunt, or why some of the topics she brought up would cause many a matron to look at her askance.
Still, no matter how busily Francesca flung herself into her tasks, she could not keep Perkins and his threats out of her head. Even if she managed to outrun them during the day, every night, when she lay down to bed, they were there again, tormenting her: What was she going to do? How was she to live?
She could think of no answer, but neither could she find ease. Her thoughts ran round and round, covering the same ground with the same lack of success. She tossed and turned in her bed, often getting up to wrap her dressing gown about her and sit at the bow window of her bedroom, staring down at the empty street below.
In the mornings, she deeply regretted her nighttime vigils. Her head ached, and there were blue circles growing beneath her eyes. If she did not get more sleep, she would look like a hag, she told herself. But there seemed nothing she could do to stop her worrying.
In only a little over a week, she would have to decide. Would she stay in her home and make Perkins fight her in court, facing the scandal that would ensue? Or would she give up her house and take refuge at Redfields? Neither option seemed bearable.
The night of the party finally came. It was a soft summer evening, with no prospect of rain to keep anyone away. Francesca, dressed in her new light green silk, a silver tissue wrap about her bare arms, greeted her guests with a merry smile. For tonight, at least, she was determined to keep all worrisome thoughts at bay. It was the only party she had given this Season, and she meant to enjoy it.
In fact, as it turned out, she had little time to enjoy it. She was far too busy making sure that Harriet—who was quite pretty in her new white ball gown and with her hair done up in charming ringlets by Francesca’s maid—was introduced to each of the young men Francesca had invited, as well as to the women who could ease the girl’s path through the ton. An invitation to Almack’s might be too much to hope for, Francesca knew, but she thought that she could get Harriet invited to a number of entertaining parties.
When she was not busy with Harriet, of course, there was her other goal to be attended to: introducing Rochford to the young women she had chosen for him. She was gratified to see that every one of the four candidates had come to the party, and she skillfully maneuvered each of them into a conversation with the duke at some point in the evening.
Throughout the party, whatever she was doing, Francesca kept an eye on the duke. She was pleased to see that he made an effort to talk for some time to each of the women.
Once, when she looked over, she saw him conversing with Lady Damaris, and as she watched, Rochford smiled, then laughed, his face lighting up in that way it did. Something pierced her chest, sharp and painful, and for an instant Francesca wanted to cry.
Silly, of course, she told herself. Of course Sinclair would enjoy talking to Lady Damaris. She was intelligent and sophisticated, adept at conversation. Nor was she unattractive, with a short but pleasingly rounded form, and soft brown curls and lively hazel eyes. She was, in Francesca’s opinion, the most likely of the young women to appeal to the duke.
Lady Edwina de Morgan, on the other hand, was the prettiest of the women, with black hair and vivid green eyes, though her features were a bit too sharp, Francesca thought.
She feared that Lady Mary would prove too shy to talk to him, given her retiring, bookish nature. She was gratified to see him talking to the girl, for she imagined that it took some effort to get Mary to say anything. Somewhat surprisingly, when she glanced over a few minutes later, she saw that the two of them were still in conversation, and Lady Mary was even talking rather animatedly.
Francesca smiled to herself. Trust Rochford to manage that feat. He was nothing if not patient. And kind. And charming. He was, in short, the quintessential gentleman—or, at least, what a gentleman should be. She had to wonder if any of the women she had chosen were actually good enough for him.
But that, too, was foolish—almost as much as the pang of loss she had felt earlier when she watched him with Damaris Burke. Of course he would be happy with any of these women. She had researched them carefully, and while none were perfect, she was not likely to find one who was. Neither was the duke, for that matter.
Indeed, he could be impossibly stubborn. He was maddeningly sure of himself. And there was that way he had of quirking his eyebrow at one sardonically, a most irritating habit—all the more so because when he did it, the recipient of the quirked brow was usually in the wrong.
The evening was not entirely given over to work. Francesca managed to spend a few minutes chatting with Sir Alan, whose pleasant, affable nature she found calming. Sir Lucien was there, as well, of course, as were Lord and Lady Radbourne.
Irene set Francesca laughing with an account of her recent visit to her brother and sister-in-law. “Impending motherhood has brought not the slightest improvement to Lady Maura’s temperament. Thank heavens it is Mother staying with her and not I. I would doubtless wring her neck before she delivers. One moment she is too hot, the next she is too cold. Pillows have to be adjusted behind her back, then taken away. And someone has to help her up from her chair, because she has grown so terribly fat.”
Irene paused, looking thoughtful. “I suppose it’s wrong of me to find that fact amusing, but I do. Maura claims that it is because Humphrey’s heir is such a large, strong boy, but my opinion is that it has more to do with the plentiful servings of roast and potatoes she eats at supper—not to mention the box of chocolates that is always by her side.”
Francesca chuckled. “You are unkind.”
“Yes, I am,” Irene admitted unrepentently. “I suppose I shall be as large as she is before long.”
Francesca stared at her friend. “Irene! Are you—? Do you mean—?”
Irene smiled a little secretively. “Yes. I am. No one knows besides you and Mother. I am not three months along yet, and Mother says that is the most dangerous time. We don’t want to let Gideon’s family know about it until we are more assured that I will carry the child to full term. You can imagine how Lady Odelia will seize upon it.”
“Goodness, yes. Oh, Irene.” Francesca beamed at her friend, and reached out to take her hand and squeeze it. “I am so happy for you. I am sure that Gideon must be up in the boughs about it.”
“No more than I,” Irene admitted a little shamefacedly. “You know that I was never one of those women to gush about babies and motherhood. But these past few weeks—oh, Francesca, I have never been so filled with hope and happiness, even though I spend half the morning being sick. I am scarce like myself. I hardly ever argue with Gideon. I think he believes it is because of how ill I feel—and he is so careful around me, so solicitous, that I actually cried, I was so touched by his behavior. Which, of course, convinced him even more that I am exceedingly ill. But the truth is I am just so happy that I cannot bring myself to disagree with anyone. Well, anyone but Maura.”
“And I am so happy for you,” Francesca said honestly. “First Constance, and now you—soon there will be infants crawling all over.”
“You must promise to be his godmother—or hers,” Irene said. “I am sure that Constance has already claimed you for the honor, but I insist that you stand for my baby, as well.”
Tears came unbidden to Francesca’s eyes. She hoped that her friend believed that they were simply tears of joy. She was enormously happy for Irene and Gideon, just as she had been for her brother and his wife when Constance had written with the news of her impending pregnancy. But Francesca also knew that deep down inside, her happiness was laced with pain and grief for her own lost child. Part of her cried not for joy, but for the knowledge that she would never herself know motherhood.
“Of course I will. I shall be the most doting godmother you have ever known,” she promised.
“There you are!” A familiar voice came from a few feet to their left, and both women whirled around to see a black-haired beauty in a stunning peacock-blue dress walking toward them, her hand on the arm of a tall, handsome man.
“Callie!” Francesca cried, jumping to her feet and hurrying over to her friend. “Oh, my goodness! I am so surprised to see you! I did not know you were in town yet. Your brother did not say a word about it.”
Francesca reached out and pulled Rochford’s sister into a hug. Callie squeezed her tightly, laughing. “I made him swear not to. I wanted to surprise you. Brom and I arrived just before Sinclair left for your soiree, and I told him that I had to come see you, even if we were not invited. Since we first had to clean up and dress, I made him promise not to tell you before I got here.”
“You are always invited,” Francesca assured her, stepping back to gaze at her friend. “You know that. You look beautiful.”
“’Tis the gown.” Callie’s dark eyes danced merrily. “I bought it in Paris.”
“It is not the gown,” Francesca told her firmly.
“Then perhaps it is married life.” Callie cast a fond look over at her husband.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with a leanly muscled build, Bromwell was one of the best-looking men in the ton. Indeed, only the duke could be said to be more handsome than he. His thick hair was the color of mahogany, and his eyes were a vivid blue. In looks, one could see the resemblance to his striking sister Daphne, but fortunately his character was a far cry from that woman’s.
Because of his sister’s lies, Bromwell had hated the duke for many years, and when he had begun courting Callie, he had acted more out of a desire to upset Rochford than anything else. In the end, though, he had come to realize that nothing else mattered but Callie and the way he felt about her. Even he and the duke had become reconciled to one another after Bromwell learned of his sister’s lies. Of course, that had not happened until after a dustup between the two men, but somehow, in that peculiar way men had, the incident had actually seemed to increase their regard for one another.
The Earl of Bromwell bowed to them in greeting. “Lady Haughston. Lady Radbourne. ’Tis good to see you both looking well.”
“And you, sir,” Francesca greeted the earl warmly. Early in the pair’s relationship, she had feared that Bromwell meant to harm her friend, and she had watched him like a hawk. But clearly the two of them were meant for each other, and Callie was a very happy woman.
“I am pleased to see you again,” Irene added. “I hope that you enjoyed your trip.”
“I think I have seen every cathedral in France and Italy,” Bromwell told them in mock complaint. “I had not realized my wife was so fond of churches.”
“It isn’t the churches, although they are lovely. It is the art,” Callie explained.
The four of them chatted for a few minutes about the sights the couple had seen on their honeymoon. Then Irene led the earl away to say hello to Gideon, and Francesca pulled Callie over to the chairs where she and Irene had been talking earlier.
“You are happy, aren’t you?” Francesca asked, her eyes searching her friend’s face.
“Incredibly, wonderfully happy,” Callie replied. “If I had known how very much I would enjoy married life, I would have wed years ago.”
“I think this particular husband might have had something to do with it.”
Callie beamed. “I love him, Francesca. More than I even realized. Or maybe it is just that it grows every day. I did not think it possible to love him any more than I did the day we married, but I do, somehow.”
“I am so happy for you, my dear.”
She had always been fond of Calandra, whom she had known since the girl was in leading strings, but over the last few months, the two of them had grown very close. Callie had once said that she felt almost as if Francesca were her sister, and Francesca knew that her own feelings about Callie were much the same.
“Tell me the latest news,” Callie urged. “I feel as though I have been gone forever—although it also seems as if the time simply rushed by.”
Francesca began by recounting the latest bits of gossip. There seemed oddly few of them, and she added a little apologetically, “I fear that I have not been to as many parties as usual. I am probably not up on a great deal of the news.”
“Have you been feeling ill?” Callie turned concerned eyes on her.
Francesca’s gaze fell before Callie’s searching one. She was suddenly afraid that Callie would realize how troubled she had been lately. “No, of course not. I am a little tired—I have been so busy with this party.”
“It’s lovely.” Callie glanced around. “Of course, that goes without saying. You have such an elegant touch. Sinclair said your party was for Harriet Sherbourne. Do I know her?”
“No, she is recently up from the country. She is over there, talking to Oscar Coventry.”
“Oh, yes. Pretty girl. Another one you are polishing up?”
“A little.”
Callie’s roving gaze stopped. “Who is the girl to whom my brother is talking?”
Francesca turned to where Callie’s gaze was directed. Rochford was standing beside a pretty young blonde, who was gazing at him raptly.
“That is Lady Caroline Wyatt. She just made her come-out this year. She is Sir Averill Wyatt’s daughter.”
“Sir Averill…” Callie frowned, then her face cleared. “Oh, she is Lady Beatrice’s daughter?”
“Exactly. Bellingham’s granddaughter.”
“Goodness, I can scarce believe that Sinclair is talking to her as long as he is. Usually young girls bore him to tears. Do you think he is interested in her?”
“Perhaps. She is quite pretty,” Francesca pointed out. Rochford did seem to be talking to the girl for a long time. The girl was saying very little, just nodding, and now and then smiling prettily or wafting her fan to cool her face.
They continued to watch the couple. Rochford continued to talk; Lady Caroline continued to smile.
“I must say,” Francesca commented with some asperity, “she does not seem to talk much. I should not think Rochford would find her very entertaining.”
It occurred to her as soon as the words came out of her mouth that they sounded harsh. She glanced over at Callie, wondering if her friend had noticed.
Trying for a pleasanter tone, she added, “Of course, I suppose many men prefer that sort of woman.”
She found herself hoping that Rochford was not one of them. Why had she even included the girl? She was not sure, but suddenly it seemed almost unbearable to think that Rochford might fall in love with the dewy-faced young woman.
That, of course, was utterly absurd. It should not matter to her which of the women he chose. She had tried to find ladies who would appeal to him. The whole point was for him to fall in love, wasn’t it? Why should it be worse if he chose a blond girl almost young enough to be his daughter? After all, Francesca herself had been a fresh-faced blond girl once.
“I would not think my brother is of that opinion,”
Callie commented, which warmed Francesca’s heart.
There was the sound of masculine voices raised in the hallway, and Francesca pulled her gaze away from Rochford and Lady Caroline to look. As she watched, Galen Perkins strolled into sight, Francesca’s butler at his side, remonstrating.
“Oh, dear.” Francesca’s stomach twisted into knots.
Was Perkins going to ruin her party, as well? She could easily imagine him declaring to one and all that this house was not really hers. “Excuse me,” she murmured to Callie, as she stood up and made her way to the open double doors.
“Ah, Lady Haughston.” Perkins smiled at her in an obnoxiously smug way. “I am glad to see you. Pray tell your servant that I am welcome at your little party.”
“What are you doing here?” Francesca asked in a low voice, ignoring his request. “I did not invite you.”
“I am sure you merely overlooked it,” he told her. “You would not have wanted to exclude an old friend of your husband’s.”
“Please leave.” What would she do if he made a scene? “You told me it would be three weeks—”
He leered at her, his grin growing broader. “Three weeks ’til what, my lady?” As always, the title sounded like an insult on his lips.
“Mr. Perkins, please…”
“Lady Haughston.” The duke’s cool, modulated tones sounded behind her.
Francesca turned to him in relief. “Rochford…”
“May I be of some assistance?” His gaze went to Perkins, and there was a flat, hard look in his eyes that took Francesca aback. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, I am a guest of the lady’s. The late Lord Haughston and I were good friends.” His eyes cut toward Francesca. “I shall be happy to tell people about our friendship, should anyone question my being here.”
“Shall I toss him out for you?” the duke asked, his gaze never leaving Perkins.
Perkins sneered. “As if you could.”
The duke said nothing, simply gave him a long, level look. Perkins was the first to turn his eyes away. Then Rochford looked at Francesca questioningly.
“No,” Francesca said hastily, reaching out to put her hand on the duke’s arm. The last thing she wanted was for Rochford to haul Perkins out of the room, with the man screaming out imprecations, shouting that her house actually belonged to him now. “Pray don’t. I—I do not want a scene to ruin Lady Harriet’s party. It would be much too bad.”
Rochford frowned. It was obvious that he did not approve of her letting the man stay. She sent him a pleading look. “Rochford, please…”
“Of course.” He gave in gracefully. “As you wish. Have a care, Perkins. I shall keep my eye on you.”
“It’s a wonder I shan’t die of fright,” Perkins retorted.
“Come in. Why don’t you partake of something to eat?” Francesca gestured vaguely toward the refreshments table.
She could only hope that the man would not reveal anything damaging if she allowed him to stay. At least the party was nearing its end. She would not have to endure his presence for more than another hour or so. Unfortunately, where Perkins was concerned, that time could seem like an eternity.
Callie came up beside Francesca, linking her arm through hers. “Come, introduce me to Miss Sherbourne. I should so like to meet her.”
“Of course.” Francesca turned gratefully to her friend, and they walked away from Perkins.
“Who is that man?” Callie asked. “Sinclair looked like thunder when he saw him.”
“No one. He—he was an acquaintance of my late husband. A low sort of man. But I could not ruin Harriet’s party by letting Rochford throw him out.”
“Of course not,” Callie agreed. “But don’t worry, Sinclair will take care of him if he does grow unruly. And Brom, too, I should imagine. Do you know that the two of them have become almost friendly? Men are the oddest creatures.”
Francesca chuckled. It was hard not to relax around Callie. “Very true.”
The rest of the evening passed well enough. Francesca circulated among her guests, now and then glancing around the room for Perkins. She spotted him by the refreshments table and later just strolling around the room, nodding to this or that man. The men invariably appeared a trifle nervous at the sight of him, and Francesca wondered if they knew him from the gaming tables. Perhaps they, too, were wary of what he might reveal.
It was sometime later when she looked around for Perkins again and noticed that he was gone. She made another slow circuit of the room with her eyes and still did not see him. It seemed odd to her. He was not the sort of person to slip quietly out into the night.
She began to wend her way through the crowd, searching for him. By the time she returned to her starting place, she was certain that he was not in the room. She had also noticed that another person was missing: Rochford.
Her stomach clenched. Had Rochford somehow managed to quietly maneuver Perkins out of the house? She could not help but be glad for that, but she dreaded to think what might have happened after they left. Rochford was the sort of man who could take care of himself, of course. Lean and athletic, he was one of the aristocrats who followed the “fancy,” as the sport of pugilism was known. She had even heard that he had been seen sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s club with Jackson himself, an honor not given to just anyone. She did not doubt his abilities, having witnessed him brawling with Lord Bromwell three months earlier.
In a normal situation, she would not worry about him. But Perkins was a different matter. Francesca felt sure that he was not the kind who followed any gentlemanly rules when it came to fighting. If Rochford took him on, there was no telling what Perkins might do. Frowning a little, she glanced around again, wondering if she should approach Gideon, or perhaps even Lord Bromwell, for help.
It was then that it struck her that she had not seen the other two men, either. Had the three of them taken it upon themselves to usher Perkins out? For a moment, she relaxed. Rochford would be in no danger if that was the case.
However, her relief did not last long. Perkins would be furious if they had done so. She hated to think what he might do if he was enraged enough. What if he blurted out his story to them? Francesca’s cheeks burned. She hated to think of Rochford knowing the full depths of Haughston’s behavior.
She set out to find Callie, and was somewhat surprised when she located her talking to Lady Wyatt and her daughter Caroline. When Francesca walked up, however, Callie excused herself with a smile and came up to Francesca’s side.
“I am so glad to see you,” Callie murmured. “I felt as if we were on an island. No one had come close to us in fifteen minutes at least. I thought I would be marooned there, listening to Lady Wyatt go on about her youngest sister’s lying-in for the rest of the evening. Just because I am now a married woman does not mean that I want to hear terrifying stories of childbirth.”
“I should think not,” Francesca agreed. “I would have come sooner if I had but known. I was looking for your husband.”
Callie smiled. “Forgive me. I fear it still makes me a trifle giddy, hearing him called that. I am not sure where he is.” She glanced around. “The last time I saw him, he had gone off with Lord Radbourne to chat with Sinclair. I think perhaps they were conspiring to sneak off and enjoy a cigar out in the garden.”
“I see.” So they were all together. But perhaps it was true that they were only enjoying a smoke and some masculine companionship.
“There they are,” Callie said, looking toward the doors.
Francesca turned to see Lord Radbourne and Lord Bromwell stroll into the room. Of Rochford, however, there was no sign. Had she been wrong, then? Was Rochford dealing with Perkins by himself? Or had Rochford simply left and Perkins had done the same, and she was making up worries for no reason?
“Shall we join him?” Callie asked. “Did you wish to talk to him about something?”
“What? Oh. No. That is, well, it wasn’t important, really.” Francesca knew her friend must think she was acting peculiarly, and indeed, she felt rather foolish. But she could think of no easy way to ask Bromwell what she wanted to know. If he had helped get rid of Perkins, he was not likely to tell her, and if he had not, it would only raise questions in him and Callie.
Fortunately, at that moment she noticed a couple making their way toward her and Callie, so she was able to say truthfully, “Oh, there are Lord and Lady Hampton. No doubt they are ready to make their goodbyes. Have you ever noticed how they are invariably the first to leave?”
She slipped away from her friend to meet the others. After that, other guests began to leave gradually. Francesca took up a station nearer the doors into the hallway so that she might more easily say farewell to her guests.
Before long, everyone had left, and the servants came in to begin cleaning up. Francesca climbed the stairs to her bedroom, and since Maisie was busy downstairs with the others, she struggled to unhook her dress without her maid’s help and took down her own hair. Then, wrapping herself in her dressing gown, she sat down on the window seat and began to brush out her hair. One window stood open a little to let in the night breeze, and it felt good after the heat of the crowded party.
She had just finished brushing out her hair when a man’s figure appeared at the end of the block. She leaned forward, squinting. It was too dark to make out his features, but she was certain, looking at his form, his walk, that it was Rochford.
He stopped in front of her house and looked up. Her room was dark, for she had set her candle down just inside the door, on the other side of the room from the windows. He hesitated, glancing at her front door.
Quickly Francesca leaned forward and rapped on one of the panes. His head snapped up, his eyes searching the upper floor. She bent down to the open window.
“Rochford,” she whispered loudly.
When he saw her, he whipped off his hat and sent her an elegant bow. She pointed down at the front door, then slipped off the window seat and, grabbing her candle, hurried out of her room.