Candace Camp - The Courtship Dance

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 Rumor?” Rochford tossed back, a smile quirking at the corner of his lips.

“Who?” Althea asked, looking confused. “Lady who?”

“Rumor. It’s a nom de plume,” she explained. “No one knows who it is. It is said that she is a member of the ton.”

Althea looked at her blankly. “Why would a member of the ton wish to write a book?”

“It is supposed to be full of scandals and rumors—thinly disguised, of course. Everyone is said to be quaking for fear they will be in it,” Francesca went on.

“Ah, but how slighted they will feel if they are left out,” Rochford added.

Francesca chuckled. “True enough.”

“But that’s absurd,” Althea said, frowning. “No one would wish to be included in a book about scandal. Who would wish for a blot upon one’s name?”

It occurred to Francesca that Althea Robart truly was entirely lacking in a sense of humor. She glanced at Rochford and saw his dark eyes dancing in amusement.

“You are right, of course, Lady Althea,” he said smoothly. “I cannot fathom why I should have thought such a thing.” He cast a droll glance at Francesca, and she had to turn away to hide a smile.

But that would not do, she knew. Clearly, the light social conversation in which she was wont to engage was not the sort of thing at which Lady Althea shone. Therefore, it was incumbent upon her to turn the conversation in the other woman’s direction, to introduce a topic upon which Lady Althea could expound. She cast about for such a subject. The problem was that she did not know Lady Althea well.

“Lady Symington’s ball will be coming up soon,” she said after a moment. “Will you be attending, Lady Althea?”

“Oh, yes. She is second cousin to my father, you know.”

Francesca suppressed a groan. Indeed, she had managed to hit on a topic the woman enjoyed—family.

“Ah, look, the lights are going down,” Rochford spoke up. “The play is about to begin.”

“Why, yes, so it is.” With relief, Francesca turned her attention to the stage.

She was not really interested in the action that was occurring there, however. She was too much occupied with her plans. She seemed to be failing at every turn to bring Althea into any interesting conversation. It would be best, she thought, if she followed up on her idea to visit someone else during intermission, leaving Althea and Rochford alone in the box.

It would have been better if she could have found someone more engaging than the Eversons, of course. Mr. Everson was the sort who thought himself an expert on almost any topic and was more than happy to give his opinion, whether one wished it or not. Mrs. Everson, on the other hand, was given to conversing about her ailments, which seemed to be legion, but which never appeared to keep her from attending all social functions. The girls, at least, had little to say—though it was not hard to see why, given that both of their parents strove to dominate any conversation.

However, Francesca knew that she had little choice. She was growing more certain that Althea Robart was not the wife for Rochford, but still, she ought to give it one more push. Perhaps, if she was alone with Rochford, Althea would unexpectedly blossom in some way.

Therefore, as soon as the curtain fell and the lights came on, Francesca stood up, turning to the others. Rochford, however, had been faster than she. He, too, had risen, and before she could speak, he began, “Ladies, shall I bring you some refreshments? A glass of ratafia, perhaps?”

“How kind of you,” Francesca replied quickly before Althea could say anything. “Not for me, thank you. I believe that I shall slip around to see Mrs. Everson. But perhaps Lady Althea would like a glass.”

Rochford stared at her, his eyebrows rising. “Mrs. Everson?”

“Yes. I saw her across the way.” Francesca gestured vaguely about the theater.

“Yes. So did I.” Rochford looked at her oddly. “Well, then…pray allow me to escort you.”

“What?” Now it was Francesca’s turn to stare at him. “You?”

She was well aware that the duke had avoided Mr. Everson like the plague ever since the man had tried to inveigle Rochford into some investment scheme in India. Why, just a few weeks ago Callie had related, laughing, the way Rochford had spent an entire weekend at Lord Kimbrough’s country house dodging Mr. Everson. Why would he be volunteering to enter the man’s presence now?

“Yes,” Rochford returned her gaze blandly. “I.”

“But I— That is—”

“Yes?” He cocked an eyebrow in that maddening way he had.

Francesca swallowed. “Of course. How nice.” She turned to the other woman with a smile. “Lady Althea, would you like to accompany us?”

Althea blinked and cast a glance across the theater—no doubt wondering, Francesca thought caustically, what was so interesting about the Eversons.