The Courtship Dance (11 page)

Her insides turned to ice, but she struggled to keep her face from dissolving into fear. “You are lying.”

“Am I?” He extended the paper, holding it out to her so that she could read it. “Do you really think Andrew was not capable of such a thing?”

Francesca’s eyes flew over the words, taking in the formal terms of sale and, at the bottom, the faded but dreadfully familiar handwriting: Andrew, Lord Haughston. Her lungs felt squeezed together, and for a moment she feared that she might faint.
This couldn’t be true. It simply could not. Surely Andrew, even Andrew, had not done this to her!
But, of course, she knew that he certainly could have. Andrew rarely thought of consequences, especially in terms of what might happen to her.

She swallowed hard and raised her eyes to meet his, a saving anger boiling up in her. “Get out of my house.”

Again that faintly amused, taunting smile curved his lips. “
My
house, I am afraid, my lady.”

“Did you think that I would meekly turn it over to you?” Francesca asked. “Let me assure you that I will not. I am not some weak reed who will break at the slightest blow. I am not without friends. People of influence and power. For all I know, you have forged that document. I saw no witnesses upon it.”

He took a step forward so that he loomed over her, his pale eyes gleaming with a cold light. “Nor am
I
a weak reed, my lady.” He made the formal address a sneer of contempt. “There were witnesses. Two other men playing cards with us, not to mention the whores and the madam of the brothel. I will take you to court if you do not turn over this house to me. And they will all come forward as witnesses to the deed.” He raised his eyebrows, adding silkily, “If that is what you want.”

His words struck her like a blow, as he had intended. If she fought him for the house, he would expose her late husband’s scandalous behavior to the world. She would be dragged through the mud of gossip; everyone would whisper avidly about Andrew and his profligate ways, his drunkenness and gambling, his lightskirts.

But she kept her back straight and looked him in the eye as she repeated grimly, “I will not leave this house.”

He studied her for a moment longer, then stepped
back, saying easily, “Of course, I could make you the same offer I gave to Andrew at that time. I told him if he came up with the money in lieu of which he put up the house, I would tear up the deed.”

Francesca relaxed fractionally. Perhaps there was a way out of this, after all. The man just wanted money. “What was the sum?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

She felt the blood drain out of her face, and she grasped the edge of her desk to steady herself. He might as well have said the moon. There was no way that she could come by £5000.

“I gave him two weeks to come up with the sum, but then, unfortunately, I had to leave the country because of the…incident with Bagshaw.”

“Incident? Is that what you term murder?”

As if she had not spoken, he said smoothly, “Oddly enough, though, Haughston never saw fit to send me the money he owed me.” He shook his head, as though despairing over the lack of loyalty among friends. “Still, I am willing to extend the same courtesy to you. In two weeks, you can pay me the money and we will tear up the note.”

She knew that she could not come up with that sum if he had given her a lifetime to redeem the note, but still she exclaimed, “Two weeks! You cannot possibly expect me to gather so much together in that length of time. Haughston had far more resources than I. I must…write my parents and…and others. I have to
speak to my man of business. Surely you can see that it is not enough time. Give me a few months.”

“A few months!” he scoffed. “I have been waiting to take possession of this house for nigh seven years. Why would I wait still longer to obtain it?”

“It will be far easier, surely, if I were to give you the money,” Francesca argued desperately. “What does a single gentleman need with a house? And I cannot obtain that much money so quickly. Please. Just two months.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, then said shortly, “Very well. I will give you three weeks.”

It was scarcely any better, but she nodded, glad for any delay. “Very well.”

He smiled, sending a shiver through her, and sketched her a bow. “’Til then, my dear Lady Haughston.”

He walked out of the room. In the hallway, Fenton turned and followed him, intent on showing him the door.

Francesca sank down into her chair as soon as he was out of sight. It was a wonder, she thought, that her legs had held her up this long. Setting her elbows on the desk, she dropped her face to her hands. Terror gripped her.

How could she possibly come up with such an amount of money? She was barely able to get by as it was, and she had very little left to sell. Her carriage was old, and her horses, too; they would bring very little. She had no jewelry that was not paste, except for the bracelet and earrings the duke had given her, and the cameo from his sister Callie. All of those things would not amount to a tenth of what Perkins said she owed
him. Indeed, even if she stripped the house of every last piece of furniture and silver plate, it would not be enough.

The only thing she owned that would bring in any amount of money would be the house itself. Of course, if she sold the house and paid Perkins the money, it would still leave her without a place to live. She might be able to sell the place for more than the amount Perkins claimed she owed him and have enough to pay for a smaller home in a less fashionable area. However, selling a house would require a great deal more time than the three weeks Perkins had given her, and she did not think that she would be able to talk him into any extra time. Indeed, if he knew that she was trying to sell the house, she suspected that he would take her to court to block the sale.

Nor could she go to her father. He had already run his estate into the ground and been forced to turn it over to her brother Dominic to manage. Dominic would help her if he could, she knew, but he was struggling to return the estate to solvency. He had even sold his own manor house, an inheritance from their uncle, to pay off some of the estate’s debts and make the improvements necessary to get the place on solid financial footing again. She could not ask him to endanger those efforts by creating a new load of debt to pay for her house. She would never be able to give him back the money.

She could think of nowhere else to turn. She could scarcely ask her friends for such a large sum of money,
and she had no other family. Nor was she close to Lord Haughston’s cousin, who had inherited the estate—not that even he had that much available money. Andrew had bled the estate as dry as he could, along with everything else.

She could fight Perkins to the bitter end. She could refuse to leave the house. Perhaps he would not really take her to court—though he had certainly seemed confident in that regard. Even if he did, it was always possible that the document was a forgery. While she did not doubt that Andrew would have thrown away his house on a hand of cards, neither did she doubt that Galen Perkins was capable of forging the document.

If she did force him to go to court to obtain the house, though, she had little doubt that he would make good his threat of dragging her husband’s low acquaintances into court and exposing her to public humiliation. Even if the document was a false one and there had been no witnesses, she felt sure that he could find two men and a few prostitutes who would willingly testify, for a few gold coins, that Lord Haughston had indeed signed away his house in front of them.

Francesca could not bear to think of living through the scandal, of having her name spread through the newspapers, whispered about by all of London, from the highest lord to the lowliest chambermaid. And in the end, she would probably lose the house anyway. The signature on the deed had looked very much like Andrew’s.

What was she to do if she lost this house? Where would she go? To Redfields, where she would have to live out the rest of her life on her brother’s generosity? She had no doubt that Dom and his wife, Constance, would welcome her with never a word of complaint. But she dreaded the thought of being a burden to them just as much as she dreaded the idea of having nothing of her own anymore. And living the entire year away from London seemed like exile.

Perhaps the pittance her jointure provided would allow her to eke out a life in London, renting a room somewhere. But what sort of life would that be? Without a house, without servants or the money to buy clothes, and with everyone in the
ton
knowing that she was utterly penurious, she could scarcely maintain her position as one of the shining lights of the
beau monde.
It would be impossible for her to continue to supplement her income by guiding girls through their Seasons.

No, she thought bleakly, fighting back the tears, the truth was, she was facing ruination. If she could not somehow stave off Perkins, it would be virtually the end of her world.

F
RANCESCA 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. Ev
erything 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.”