The Courtship Dance. Candace Camp
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as an expression of interest, for she spent some time exploring the family tree of the Ashenhams, who had, apparently, ties to most of the major families of England.
Francesca, keeping her face fixed in the courteous expression of listening that had been ingrained in her as a child, mentally began to go through her slippers, trying to find a pair that would suit the sea-green evening gown of voile over silk that she had seen in Mlle. du Plessis’ store last week. The modiste had told her that it was waiting for a buyer, hostage to that woman’s final payment on a bill that had been too long outstanding. Mlle. du Plessis had admitted to grave doubts that the buyer would ever return, and she had agreed to sell it to Francesca at only a third of its original cost if the woman had not paid her bill within a week.
The dress was too long, but that was a trifling matter that Maisie could take care of easily enough, and Francesca knew that she was desperately in need of a new gown. There were only so many times that one could redo a gown to look fresh, and it would not do to appear in the same ball gown too often. Pride was a sin, Francesca knew, but she could not bear for people to know how close she skated to the edge of penury.
The problem, however, was the slippers to go with it. No matter how careful she tried to be with them, the thin soles of dancing slippers wore through incredibly quickly, and they were not the sort of thing on which one could normally work a bargain. Therefore, she did her best to stick to plain colors that would go with many different frocks. What would really look marvelous with the dress, of course, would be a pair of silver sandals, but that would be too extravagant a purchase. But perhaps… There were several other dresses they would suit, after all.
Maybe she could go into the attic and dig about in the trunks again. Some valuable trifle that she could sell might turn up.
“Lady Haughston?”
Francesca glanced up quickly, aware that she had become entirely too lost in her thoughts. “What? I’m sorry. I must have been woolgathering.”
“We are here,” Althea told her somewhat stiffly.
“Ah, yes, so we are.” Francesca glanced out the window to see the familiar form of the Royal Theater.
She suspected that she had put Althea’s nose out of joint a bit by drifting off like that. But, really, the girl should learn that analyzing one’s family tree was scarcely the way to capture anyone’s attention. She would have to think of some way to tutor the girl in the art of conversation if she was to have a chance of winning Rochford’s favor. Of course, that was if she decided Lady Althea was the woman she wanted to win his favor. Francesca was, quite frankly, beginning to have her doubts.
Rochford climbed out with alacrity and reached back up to hand the women down. Francesca managed to hang back a bit as they strolled into the theater so that Rochford was walking beside Althea alone. She must, after all, give him a chance to get to know the woman better. Perhaps Althea had been a trifle nervous about the situation; Rochford’s presence sometimes had that effect. Nerves frequently made people chatter on about the most inconsequential things.
Francesca cast a glance at them, walking slightly ahead of her. Rochford’s dark head was bent a little toward Althea as he listened to her. Perhaps he had not minded Althea’s conversation earlier. She had seen husbands who were quite content with the most ninny-hammered of wives. And Althea was attractive.
It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to drop by someone’s box during intermission; that would give the couple a chance to be alone together without it being improper, given that there was an entire theater of people around them. She would have to look around the place before the play began to see if she could spot an acquaintance.
She turned to glance around at the other people walking into the theater. Startled, she felt a touch beneath her elbow and turned to find Rochford gazing quizzically at her. He and Lady Althea had dropped back beside her.
“Woolgathering again, Lady Haughston?” he asked with a faint smile.
“Oh, um…” Francesca felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. I am afraid I must be a trifle distracted this evening.”
They continued into the theater, with the duke now by Francesca’s side, Lady Althea in front of them. However, when they reached the duke’s luxurious box, Francesca managed to neatly maneuver things so that she was against the wall, and Althea was between her and Rochford. Again separating herself from their conversation, Francesca scooted forward in her seat and raised her opera glasses to inspect the other occupants of the theater.
There was Mrs. Everson, with her husband and two daughters. Francesca supposed she could visit with them later, though the prospect was not inviting. She lowered her glasses and nodded to them, just in case, then resumed her search. She wished she had urged Sir Lucien to attend with someone tonight, for then she could have visited with him and been assured of a lively conversation.
As she looked, she became aware of that odd, indefinable sensation of being watched. She lowered her glasses and swept her eyes around the large room, taking in the tiers of boxes, then glanced down at the floor below.
She let out a low exclamation as her eyes fell on a man standing in the aisle, staring up at her. Her hand tightened involuntarily on her fan.
“Francesca? What is it?” she heard Rochford say, leaning forward and following her gaze.
“The devil!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Perkins.”
The man, seeing that he had gained Francesca’s attention, swept her a mocking bow. Francesca looked away without even a nod, sitting back in her seat.
“What is he doing here?” she asked with disgust.
“Who?” Lady Althea asked, glancing toward the crowd below.
“Galen Perkins,” Rochford answered.
“I don’t believe I recognize the name.”
“There is no reason for you to,” Francesca assured her. “He has been out of the country for years.”
“He is a thorough rogue,” Rochford added, shooting a quick sideways glance at Francesca.
He knew, Francesca thought, that Perkins had been one of her late husband’s cronies. Though he came from a minor branch of a good family, he had done all he could to tarnish their name. He had been a gambler and drinker, accompanying Lord Haughston on many of his wilder ventures. He had even, Francesca recalled, with a tightening of her stomach, been so low as to make advances to her despite his friendship with her husband.
“What is he doing back in London?” Francesca asked. She explained in an aside to Althea, “He had to flee to the Continent several years ago because he killed a man in a duel.”
Althea’s eyes widened. “Oh, my. Who?”
“Avery Bagshaw, Sir Gerald’s son,” the duke told her. “As Sir Gerald died not long ago, I presume Perkins has decided that it is safe to return. Without Sir Gerald to push the authorities to arrest him, it is doubtful that anything will be done now. It has been seven or eight years, and they are apt to turn a blind eye to such things, anyway.”
“Well, I am sure he will not be received anywhere,” Althea said decisively, delivering what was for her, apparently, the greatest punishment.
“No. I am sure not,” Francesca agreed. It was terrible that he was once again able to live here freely, given what he had done. But at least she would not have to be around the man. With Andrew gone, he would not be coming to her house, and Althea was right in saying that he would not be received by polite society, so he would not be at any parties.
She pulled her mind away from the thought of Galen Perkins, turning her attention back to her companions. Conversation had lagged while she had been scouting the theater, and Rochford and Althea fell silent again once the topic of Galen Perkins had been dropped.
Gamely, Francesca took up the conversational baton again, saying, “Have you read the newest book?”
“Lady