Regency Masquerade, page 4
“Who will go first?”
“One after the other? A shot at a time?”
The two rivals agreed rather dazedly to their sponsors’ arrangements. Carleton noticed the serious look on Peter’s face and said cheerfully, “Don’t worry lad, it’s not your money!” Frances scarcely glanced at him, that’s what was making her nervous.
Harry grinned across at her and fired his first shot into the black of the top left spade. Frances aimed carefully but nerves got the better of her and the resulting hole was at least half into the white. The other man relaxed a fraction and hit the next spade but not quite as neatly as before. Frances shook her head, took two deep breaths to relax her concentration, and shot straight into the centre of her target. Harry followed up with another three good shots but Frances interspersed each with a perfect centre. The attendant went down to the end of the room to collect the cards while Frances and Harry waited anxiously.
Lambert and Carleton studied the two records closely. “What do you think? This one is a bit out but all the others are dead on target. These are close, though not completely in the middle – bad luck Harry,” Lambert concluded eventually, “but I think Francis has beaten you. Here, see for yourself.”
Belmont glanced at the cards then said generously, “Yes indeed. The first shot was obviously a slip. Damned fine shooting Francis.” He held out his hand and Frances shook it firmly, flushing a little with self consciousness.
“Good of you,” she murmured. She offered her pistol for his inspection. “Like to try?”
He took it with interest and for the next few minutes they exchanged avid information and ideas on what made the best weapon, Harry agreeing that hers certainly seemed to have a true line.
Carleton looked at the two heads close together with an odd twinge of jealousy. Nonsense, he told himself, the lad’s got a right to more friends than just you. He took the money Lambert was cheerfully paying out with some satisfaction – it was a while since he had got the better of Jack in a sporting venture. “Here you are Peter, half of this should be yours,” he handed him fifty guineas and smilingly ignored his half-hearted protest. The four of them spent a further half hour at the pistol range practising and trying to persuade Francis to show them some trick shots. Eventually Lambert remembered that he was engaged for dinner that night on the other side of town and had to leave. Belmont also made his farewells after extracting a promise from Frances to meet him at the gallery again the next day.
“Are you free this evening?” queried Carleton. “I’d thought of attending the opera. I haven’t arranged a box so it would be just in the pit. Are you at all interested in accompanying me?”
Frances considered the idea and thought that should be safe enough. She smiled at him, “Thank you very much, I was just thinking the other day that I should attend at least once while I am in London. What time should I meet you there?”
They arranged to meet at the theatre, then went their separate ways, Frances heading to the Pelican for an early dinner and Carleton to his house to finish some business letters. Frances found she was looking forward to the evening and thought she could very easily grow accustomed to this way of life. The money she had won today would allow her to stay comfortably at the Pelican for some time longer. It was all very well, she chastised herself, but should be attending more seriously to her future. What would she do if Lady Murray could not be found, or more likely, refused to have anything to do with her? Peter Francis could hardly live at the Pelican indefinitely. Perhaps I could set up my own pistol gallery she joked, tucking in to a large plate of roast beef and potatoes.
She took extra pains with her dress that evening, putting on her best cream pantaloons and dark blue coat. Shiny black boots completed her ensemble and she brushed her hair carefully into the fashionable Brutus style. She stared at herself in the small mirror. A pretty enough boy b’Gad, perhaps she would not put Carleton quite to shame. She collected her gloves and cane and took a hackney to the theatre. There was a great crowd milling around out the front and it took her some minutes to locate Carleton, standing against the wall in his black evening dress.
“Evening my Lord,” she greeted him, pushing through the crowd. “What are we seeing tonight?”
“Ah there you are. It’s by Mozart, The Marriage of Figaro.”
“Wonderful, I saw that performed in Salzburg several years ago,” she enthused.
They went in and found seats in front of the private boxes, along with the more wealthy tradespeople and gentlemen with less than respectable female companions. Unattached young bucks sauntered back and forth eyeing the audience until the opera started and they could ogle the dancers. Carleton gazed at them with resignation, “One of these days everyone will be made to keep quiet and listen to the singing,” he joked. Despite the constant chatter around them Frances enjoyed the first act immensely. The Countess was particularly good though the Count could have been a bit stronger.
At interval Carleton announced that he was going to stretch his legs and Frances accompanied him wondering if they would ever find their seats again. From up in the second row of boxes, a man glanced idly down. He had sleek dark hair, olive skin and a certain feline grace which defeated his attempts to look English. He caught sight of the pair below and froze into immobility. His companion looked curiously at him. “Anything the matter Comte?”
With a start the other man recollected himself, “Nothing. I just ... thought I saw someone I knew.”
“A friend of yours?”
“No,” the Comte realised he had been more adamant than he wanted and smiled without humour, “Can you tell me the name of the man in black? And his companion?”
“Who..? Oh I see. That’s Lord Carleton in the black but I don’t know the name of the boy with him – a nephew perhaps?”
“Oh well it is of no consequence,” the Comte dismissed the matter with a flick of his fingers and settled back in his chair. “Can you tell me the name of that delightful young lady over there?” He changed the subject smoothly and his companion was happy to oblige finding it much more interesting. He hadn’t liked the look in the Comte’s eyes a few moments ago and he half thought he might drop Carleton a word of warning.
Meanwhile Carleton was saying casually to Frances, “There is a young lady I wish to pay my respects to, do you care to accompany me?”
She nodded and followed him up the stairs and along the corridors full of chattering patrons to whom this was the prime purpose of the evening, and eventually to the curtained entrance of the box he sought. She paused outside a moment to ascertain that Sammy Fairfax was not inside, then entered discreetly on seeing that the party was made up of strangers apart from Rosamond Lyle and her friend from the ball.
She was secretly amused by the appraising look Rosamond gave her and even more so when the judgement appeared to be favourable. Carleton introduced her to a matronly lady in puce satin who proved to be Rosamond’s Aunt Louisa, and to her stout husband. With a tender smile he continued, “And this is Miss Rosamond Lyle and her cousin Miss Amanda Marlowe.” Frances bowed politely to each of them.
While Carleton was obliged to exchange courtesies with the older Lyles, Frances addressed herself to the two cousins. “And how do you find the opera?” she asked innocuously.
Amanda confessed that it was very pretty and Rosamond said with an air of assumed sophistication that it was all very well but that she preferred a play. When pressed as to her favourite play she chose Hamlet but could offer no reason other than it was vastly tragic. Wickedly, Frances commented that the death of Othello must soften the hardest of hearts. Rosamond’s agreement to this piece of fiction confirmed her opinion that she really knew very little about it.
At that point Carleton entered the conversation and Frances found herself fending off exploratory questions from Mrs Lyle about her circumstances. Fortunately a chance reference to Italy brought Mr Lyle into the conversation with a heated diatribe against all foreigners and Italians in particular. Mrs Lyle and Frances were soon reduced to muttering noncommittal noises as Mr Lyle got into full stride of what was obviously a favourite hobby horse. Her eyes attentively on the reddening face before her, Frances let her ears concentrate on what Carleton was saying to Amanda and Rosamond. From the odd words she could make out they seemed to be talking about the ball to be held soon in Rosamond’s honour and the gown she was planning to wear. Not too soon as far as Frances was concerned, the interval ended and the visitors had to return to their seats.
On their way down Carleton asked offhandedly, “May I ask what was your opinion of the young ladies?”
“I thought them both pleasant enough”, returned Frances, seizing the opportunity to cast a few stones, “perhaps a little empty headed as very young ladies often are.”
“Empty headed?” queried his companion stiffly.
Feigning ignorance of Carleton’s special interest, she continued blithely, “Yes Miss Lyle prefers plays to opera and her favourite is Hamlet because it is so tragic and Othello dies so sadly.”
“But Othello does not even appear in Hamlet!” protested Carleton inadvertently. “I daresay she confused the names, Ophelia is fairly similar sounding,” he defended belatedly.
“Perhaps” agreed Frances cheerfully, obviously more interested in finding if their seats were still empty.
Carleton looked and felt slightly ruffled.
“I am sorry if I offended you,” his companion apologised with a smile, “At least she did not say the opera was pretty as her cousin did!” This made him laugh and they settled down to watch the rest of the opera in harmony with each other.
On their way out at the end of the performance, Carleton was accosted by an elegantly dressed man who stepped out in front of him from the crowd of patrons streaming out of the theatre, “What have you been up to Richard?” he queried jovially, “Have you stolen the Comte’s mistress?”
Taken aback, Carleton exclaimed, “What the devil are you talking about Tony? What Comte?”
“The Comte Duverne. He was sitting with me and looked as if he had bitten into a lemon when he saw you.”
Carleton shook his head, “Never heard of the man in my life – I assure you Tony. Must be mistaken.”
“Well you know best, but he asked me your name. Be on your guard, he is not someone I’d want after me!” Tony clapped him on the shoulder.
Neither man appeared to notice that Frances looked quite ill with shock. She bent down and pretended to adjust the buckle on her boot while she got some colour into her face and grappled with the news. The Comte Duverne was in London! She threw a fearful glance around the room, half fearing that he was even now bearing down on her.
Tony took his leave and Carleton turned back to Frances. “Alright?” he queried, curiously.
She nodded, offering no explanation, and after a second he continued walking.
“Care to come back with me for a drink?” he invited over his shoulder.
She felt she could do with a strong brandy at the moment but it would be beyond rash to go alone to Carleton’s house with him a second time. “That is very kind of you my lord, but -”
“Come now, I’ll brook no refusal!” the older man interrupted smiling, “The night is still young ... unless there is some reason why you no longer want my company?”
Frances stopped in her tracks, her eyes flying to his face. Did he suspect? She had not seen that hard look in his eyes before, she did not think he had guessed her secret but he obviously suspected she was hiding something from him. She stiffened, squaring her shoulders, “I am sorry my lord. It’s rather that you may no longer want my company.” She bowed slightly, “I’ll go.”
Already regretting his sharpness, Carleton put a hand on her shoulder, “Please don’t. I apologise. I would very much appreciate it if you would tell me your full story, or as much of it as you feel comfortable in telling.”
When he smiled at her like that Frances felt that she would have walked on coals rather than lose his regard. What was another risk to her reputation after all? It was already beyond redemption if her secret was discovered. “In that case I accept your kind invitation.”
They took a hackney cab as Carleton had not thought it worthwhile to bring his own carriage. The thought crossed her mind of the absolute impropriety of the action if she had been dressed as a woman. Men had so much more freedom.
In his study, with the coals stirred up into an orange blaze, Carleton poured them both a glass of brandy and asked, “Will you tell me what is between you and the Comte Duverne?”
Frances gaped at him. He smiled wryly at her, “You looked as sick as a dog when Tony asked me about him and I know I have never met the gentleman.”
“I ...er,” she stuttered.
“Tell me to mind my own business if you like,” he offered withdrawing slightly.
“No it is just ... well ... oh the devil! I’ll have to tell you now or you will be imagining the Lord knows what!”
Carleton relaxed at this rather ingenious outburst and sat down.
“I’d rather not have told you,” Frances confessed, “as tis not a pretty tale and you will only have my word for the truth of it. It was a gaming matter. I was in Paris at the time with my ... my father and we visited a rather infamous gaming den. The Comte Duverne was there also.”
Her mind went back to the scene, the smoke filled room, the Comte with a party of friends and hangers on, obviously the leader of the group and equally obviously half primed, and ready for a lark. His eyes searching for diversion, had landed on Frances, a young boy as he thought sitting idly at a table by himself watching the game across the room. He had risen to his feet and approached him. “A game of piquet lad?” he enquired, seating himself without waiting for an invitation. “Just a friendly hand or two while I wait for my friends to finish their game.”
“I tried to decline, but he was insistent,” she continued. She had not tried very hard, she admitted to herself. She had been playing cards ever since she could remember. Her father had taught her originally so that he could have someone to play against and keep up his own skills, and then when she had shown such natural aptitude, so that she could join him in his livelihood. After the first game which she suspected he had let her win, the Comte had insisted on increasing the stakes, no doubt thinking to frighten the lad out of what wits he had for cards and then to have some fun with him when he couldn’t settle the score. Frances, or Louis Caron as he had been at the time, had responded nervously but with some dignity and accepted five francs a point.
She looked at Carleton, “He thought he had found a pigeon reading for his plucking, but I play piquet well enough to know how to minimize a poor hand and make the most of a good one. The Comte became infuriated with my cautious wins and plunged more and more wildly. In addition I was not drunk nor had I sycophants to impress ... anyway the long and the short of it was that by the time he overturned the table in a fit of rage, I was 500 francs ahead! He could not accept that I had beaten him and accused me of cheating. Luckily there was a witness who took my part.”
She remembered the mixture of fear and excitement churning in her stomach as she had calmly faced the Comte and denied his accusations. Her father had been standing nearby to offer her protection if she needed it but not so close for anyone to think they were connected. Suddenly, the Comte had flung the money down on the table in a pretence of unconcern so as to maintain face with his friends and she had left shortly afterwards.
“Unfortunately,” she continued, “the Comte witnessed our departure as my father was getting into our coach and gave chase, swearing that we had cheated him. My father you see was the witness to our game.”
She looked up and met Carleton’s questioning eyes, flushing. “I swear to you we did not cheat! But I admit we were there to make money if we could.” She broke off and sprang to her feet. “It sounds damnable when I put it into words, doesn’t it! How could I expect anyone to believe me? I’ll understand if you wish to drop our acquaintance.”
“But I do believe you and I do not wish to drop our acquaintance,” Carleton’s low, measured voice stopped her at the door.
She turned and faced him, frowning, obviously he had not understood what she had said. “Your pardon but perhaps I was not clear – we were gamesters, ‘twas our profession.”
He nodded gravely, “Yes, I gathered that. May I ask what happened to your father?”
“He took ill in Florence, and died several months ago. I settled our affairs and came to London, although I have lived most of my life in Europe my parents were born in England. I thought it was time to come home,” Frances explained truthfully.
“My sympathy on the loss of your father,” offered Carleton sincerely. “Do you know what part of England he came from? Perhaps you have family here.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Frances. She hesitated to say anything further, she had already trusted him with more of the truth than she probably should have.
Rather to his disappointment, Carleton could see that Peter’s confidences were at an end. He broke the slightly awkward silence.
“Well I don’t mean to interfere but if you need any help, come to me.”
Frances summoned up a shaky smile, “You are too kind my lord, I don’t deserve your friendship.”
“Nonsense, I like to make up my own mind about a man.” He sought for a way to break the tension and added with a smile, “You have warned me quite clearly not to play cards with you, but perhaps we could have a game one day, just for the fun of it?”
“Of course my lord,” Frances smiled and stepped forward to shake his hand, “I should go, good night sir.”
Carleton made his way up to bed mulling over their conversation. There was something engaging about Francis, despite his shady background. He was no green youth himself and was well aware of the different strategies used by men on the edge of society to attach themselves to the wealthy. But if Francis was one of those he had certainly gone about it in an unusual way! He could not believe he had made his acquaintance deliberately. He could not have known Carleton would be attacked that night as he was passing – could he? Thinking back, Francis had tried to withdraw, several times in fact – it had been himself who had pursued the friendship. He felt suddenly a little uncomfortable, he did not normally befriend such a young man, but Francis did not act young, he must surely be older than he looked. He could hardly ask him his age at this point!
