Francesca Read Online Free PDF Page A

hardly old. Twenty-four or -five. He preferred the experience of an older woman in his affairs.
    Devane had attended the play with his sister, her husband, and his family, the Morgans. Marie would not take it amiss if he left them after the play, and Lord Morgan would be delighted to be allowed to return home directly to bed. In fact, he was nodding off already. Devane decided he would follow Mrs. Wilson’s carriage when she left, and discover where she lived.
    There was no point asking Marie if she knew anything about Mrs. Wilson. Lady Morgan would scarcely recognize the name of Harriet Wilson, the most infamous courtesan since Nell Gwynne. Marie knew all the respectable on-dits, but she drew the line at lightskirts. The worst calumny of that sort to pass her lips was that so and so was “keeping a woman.”
    The play seemed very long and dull. It was the Morgans’habit to have wine brought in at intermission, and as several friends stopped at their box, Devane was obliged to remain as well.
    Francesca went into the hallway to take a glass of wine and have a stroll. She noticed a few gentlemen gazing at her bosom, and remembered the patch. Lydia Forsythe complimented her on it, and said jealously, “You have outdone yourself this time, Frankie! Honestly, I don’t know how you come up with these clever ideas. And where does one buy patches in this day and age?”This question indicated an intention to follow the style, so Francesca left the patch where it was. She didn’t even think to look around for Devane. She had forgotten all about him.
    It took some doing to keep track of Mrs. Wilson’s carriage in the melée after the play, but Devane’s groom, from long practice, was quite a wizard in that respect. When the lady’s carriage turned into Grosvenor Square, Devane’s was only three carriages behind it. He frowned to see her carriage draw up in front of the perfectly respectable residence of Sir Giles and Lady Lister. Surely the chit was not bold enough to crash a polite party! No, the brown-haired gent escorting her must have some entree to society. The Listers were not a couple whose party he would normally include in his rounds, but they were by no means on the fringes of society.
    He watched as Mrs. Wilson was handed out by the brown-haired nonentity. He didn’t recognize the other couple with her, but they looked respectable. By the time he entered the ballroom, Mrs. Wilson had not only been announced but had joined a set for a country dance. She heard the announcer call, “Lord Devane,”and her head spun around. He stood behind an iron railing at the top of a shallow set of stairs, surveying the room as if he owned it. How arrogant he looked, how proud. She quickly turned her back to him, and was aware of a nervous dryness in her throat.
    He couldn’t possibly recognize her! She hadn’t removed her mask at the Pantheon. He might see some resemblance, but when he heard her friends call her Frankie or Lady Camden, he would think he was mistaken. If he approached her, she would look right through him. What had she to worry about? He wasthe one who had behaved outrageously! Yet she felt guilty, and angry with herself for it. Why did he have to come here? She couldn’t remember ever having attended the same party as him before, so they obviously traveled in different sets. He had come alone, without Lady Devane, if there was a Lady Devane. She was assailed by the awful idea that he had followed her.
    When the music began, the motions of the dance distracted her to some extent. She looked around the room, wondering what set he had joined, but couldn’t find him. Perhaps he was in the card parlor. She glanced toward the door, and there she saw him, hovering, looking directly at her through his raised quizzing glass. He looked like a vulture, all in black. She hastily averted her eyes and tried not to look at the doorway again.
    But her eyes were impossible to control. Again she looked, and again he was