Love’s a Stage Read online

  Frances shook her head miserably as Madame began stuffing the gauze gown over Frances’ bare shoulders.

  “Edward Kennan, that’s who!” announced Madame triumphantly. “And half the fashionable bucks in town, that’s who! Lord Nascole is having a party for his nephew’s twenty-fifth birthday and he’s invited the cream of the aristocratic cream to drop by here to celebrate after My Lady Jersey’s drum.” Tsking fussily, Madame arranged the dainty puffed sleeves and corrected the gown’s drape. She found a wide silver ribbon in the corner cupboard, and setting it high under Frances’ breasts, she developed an artistic bow at the back of the gown. “There, it looks very well. You’ve got all your twelves and sixes, I’ll say that for you. Ay! What are you doing? Stop fussing with that bodice—it’s not meant to be worn any higher. Just when I had it laying right, too. Stand still! There. Come!”

  None too lightly, Frances was shoved onto the stool before the cosmetic-cluttered dressing table. In the wide arched mirror, she saw the confirmation of her worst fears about the gauze’s translucency. The color that rose to her cheeks was covered over almost before its arrival by the artificial coat of rouge supplied by Madame la Princesse. A sparkling powder crushed in a mortar and pestle was added to Frances’ eyelids and a brown paint to her lashes.

  “Don’t shut your eyes’til that dries,” warned Madame. “I once knew a wench that blinked like a wood owl when the paint was wet. Ran into her eyes and turned her blind, it did. And what am I supposed to do with your hair, may I ask? It’s too long to put up and there’s no short bits in the front to curl around your face. We’ll have to brush it into long curls, pin a white rose behind your ear, and call it done.” As she worked, Madame la Princesse continued her discourse on the presence of Lord Nascole’s party, which she seemed to regard as a tribute to her shrewd and imaginative theories of management and a major coup over all rival hostesses, who, if Madame was to be believed, would currently be found in their boudoirs gnashing their teeth and wringing their hands in envy.

  Madame completed her work, looked at Frances in the mirror, and said, “Beautiful.”

  Frances regarded her very showy image in the mirror and closed her eyes as if in pain, but Madame was already dragging her toward the door. Once there, Madame bent from the waist and pulled off Frances’ dainty velvet slippers.

  “You’ll look better barefoot,” declared Madame.

  “Barefoot!” squeaked Frances, quite unfamiliar with this scandalous hypothesis. Madame put a hand to the small of her back and whisked her from the room.

  Chapter Five

  There was a hallway, a right-angle turn, another hallway, more blue-and-gold walls, more coquettish Venuses. Suddenly, the hall dodged left and burst open into a spacious chamber filled with what could be no less than fifty elegantly dressed males and a smaller number of elegantly undressed females. Frances gave a horrified gasp as she realized that Madame la Princesse had the bald intention of entering the mixed company in her current dishabille and another gasp when she realized that Madame’s lack of attire was the standard garb of the female company present. In contrast, her own gauze seemed almost modest. She made a spirited attempt to convince herself that these ladies were probably actresses. Perhaps it was merely the mode of the elite to practice such sparing use of undergarments—so she tried, and failed, to convince herself. In her heart of hearts, Frances came wretchedly to the correct conclusion of just what sort of establishment this was.

  Madame la Princesse bent to whisper in Frances’ ear. “Do you know Lawrence St. Pips? No? It doesn’t matter. You can entertain him.”

  After her first miserably enlightening glance around the room, Frances had fastened her gaze relentlessly to the floor. She saw no reason to remove it from thence as she whispered back:

  “Can’t I entertain Edward Kennan?”

  “Certainly not! The nerve of you!” Madame’s voice hissed indignantly. “Listen: St. Pips has been drinking since nine. He’s three sheets to the wind by now. He gets clumsy when he’s boozy, so you’re going to have to be careful how you handle him. Last time this happened, he gave Carolina a bruise that showed for two months. You’ll have to entertain at least three or four other gentlemen tonight, so I don’t want you to get roughed around. Any damage to that dress comes off your wages! And mind, St. Pips has already paid his shot. If he hands you so much as a penny gift, you’re to turn it over directly to Jem Beamer. I don’t tolerate my girls holding anything out on me, you can count on that, you hear?”

  On which dismal note they arrived before a young man slumped into a lolling tête-à-tête upholstered in raspberry-colored mohair.

  “Ah, Miss-sewer St. Peeps!” purred Madame, who had suddenly acquired a French accent. “I have here a young girl who has been begging to meet you. Permit me to introduce to you . . .” Her words were forced to a halt under the realization that she had never bothered to learn Frances’ name. “. . . A lady we call ‘the mysterious white rose.’”

  Frances wished she were small enough to sink between the blue orchid petals splendidly adorning the yellow carpet beneath her bare toes.

  Mr. St. Pips said something that might have been, “Likes me, does she? Well, well, well, well . . .” The “wells” trailed off and he reached unsteadily for Frances’ arm, bringing her down with a jolt to sit beside him on the tête-à-tête. St. Pips was on the youthful side of thirty, and the possessor of a nose that looked as if it might have been borrowed from a camel. This large and distinguished member was the focal point of a small and squint-eyed head encumbered by nothing more than a sparse and sandy fringe of hair that poked out sideways over his ears. His very expensive suit of clothing gave the appearance of having started out the evening in prime twig, but now his cravat was askew, his stockings bagged at the knees, and his white shirtfront wore wine spots from the excess of spirits that had dribbled down his chin.

  The speed with which her situation had gone from bad to worse to disastrous had stunned Frances, but Mr. St. Pips’ drunken attempt to cement the foundation for their future friendship by slipping an arm around her shoulders left her no time to sit agonizing. As Madame moved off through the crowd, Frances shot to the far side of the tête-à-tête. In St. Pips’ right hand was a full glass of wine. Frances gave that vulnerable hand a hardy slap, dumping half the contents of that glass onto the seat cushion between them.

  “How awkward of you!” exclaimed Frances. “Last week Madame paid twenty-five guineas to have this piece reupholstered. How angry she’ll be! And send you a bill for the whole, no doubt!” Poor Mr. St. Pips was too intoxicated to realize that it was Frances who had caused the spill. He stared at her with drunken dismay. “But never mind,” continued Frances, forcing herself to pat his fuzz-covered hand. She gave him a stiff conspiratorial smile. “We won’t tell her you did it.”

  Beaming his relief, St. Pips lunged to give Frances a physical demonstration of his gratitude and she shoved him back in his seat, saying, “No, no, stay on that side of the couch, you’ll sit in the wet, and how will that look when you stand up? Tell me about your horses.”

  It had been the oft-expressed opinion of the Squire’s good wife at home that, “Introduce the topic of politics or horses and you’ll have a man talking for hours.” St. Pips was clearly in no state to discuss politics. How fortunate for Frances that Mr. St. Pips had a filly running in Derby next month and had bored his friends and family so with the subject that they had refused to discuss it further. Nothing could have pleased him more than a willing listener.

  St. Pips embarked upon a largely incoherent lecture regarding the training of thoroughbreds that was based in its entirety on misquoted comments from his jockey and The Gentlemen’s Sporting Monthly. An occasional “Is that truly so?” or “A sound point, Mr. St. Pips!” were the only role Frances need play in the conversation; the greater part of her mind was free to take stock of her situation.

  Tonight, Frances knew, there would be no opportunity to probe the secrets of Kennan’s kn
avery. Mischief, indeed, might explain his presence here, but it would be mischief of quite another order than smuggling! Tomorrow she must plan a scheme for Kennan’s undoing; now all that Frances desired was a swift and safe retreat to Aunt Sophie’s. She must put aside how she was to find her way home in the dark (for it was the city fathers’ stingy policy to provide oil for the streetlamps only from sunset to midnight); her immediate problem was to show a light pair of heels to the domain of Madame la Princesse. But caution must be the byword. Something in Madame’s hardened expression had warned Frances that any attempt to leave might be construed as desertion and dealt with harshly. And Beamer, with the monster arms—would he try forcefully to prevent her from going? If she created a tumult and Kennan should notice her, he might be wary of her in the future. It would be folly to attract attention! She must sneak away quietly.

  Jem Beamer stood by the hallway from which she had entered. If only he were called elsewhere, she might be able to disguise her departure among the general comings and goings.

  Beamer’s glinting survey began to swing in her direction, so Frances shifted her gaze.

  The rest of the room, she found, was decorated with a feverish opulence and without the best of craftsmanship, a matter that did not seem to be exercising the concern of the gentlemen present. To the right lay a wide curving stair, its balusters adorned with gilt cherubs shooting tiny pointed arrows. Ready to be grateful for each small kindness of Fate, Frances was relieved to see the walls decorated with a series of unobjectionable, if bland, landscapes and not, as she had feared, by murals of couples locked in the Marriage Act, which was the impression Frances had mistakenly gathered from the dire hints of journals seeking to reform the nation’s moral clime. And whatever orgiastic revels might be taking place elsewhere in the building, within this room at least, the entertainment consisted of sprightly conversation groups, hard drinking, and a great deal of flirtation. Kennan was at the far end of the room surrounded by a sizable clique of prestigious gentlemen, if one was to judge from the attention paid them by Madame la Princesse and her compatriots. A royal duke was there; Frances recognized that stout noble from the thousands of lampoons that pilloried his extravagance. It must be Lord Nascole’s nephew beside the Duke, receiving a hearty round of birthday salutes. Frances knew none of the other men but their demeanor, their bearing, the cut and fit of their evening wear, marked them as gentlemen of the highest caliber—the cream of the aristocratic cream.

  There was a stir by the door. A man entered, but Frances had been watching Kennan, so by the time she turned to see the new arrival, he was already surrounded by a large group of friends, which obstructed her view. Obviously a popular gentleman, he was at once borne to Kennan’s crowd, where he received another round of exultant greetings. A very popular gentleman! His back was to Frances. She could see his sunny golden hair trap the candlelight. The man turned, and two of the prettiest negligeed beauties slid beneath the branch of his arms and kissed his laughing countenance with obvious sincerity. Lord Landry! If he sees me, thought Frances, I shall die of shame. She whipped her face toward St. Pips.

  As the night progressed, Beamer stuck to the entrance as if he’d been glued there. The company grew drunker, the conversation more ribald, and the flirtations into fondling. Couples began to break from the group and ascend the staircase, accompanied by merry encouragement from those remaining below. It was almost more than poor Miss Atherton could bear.

  Frances was so intent upon both keeping her head, her profile even, from Landry’s direction and peeking to see if Beamer left his post, that she was caught unaware by a shift in St. Pips’ mood. True, his monologue about horses had distracted him, but it had also had the unfortunate effect of sobering him enough to realize that he was in no way tapping Frances for her full potential. Suddenly, he thrust a strong arm around her waist and drew Frances roughly to his lap. Her instinct was to slap him, and she did. St. Pips gaped at Frances, then shouted with beery laughter.

  “By God, don’t I love a naughty wench! What a time we’ll have together!” He poked his fingers gleefully into her ribs. “The slap and tickle, eh? You slap me, and I’ll tickle you!”

  “I’ll do a lot more than slap you if you don’t remove your hands this instant,” muttered Frances, fighting to disengage herself from his bullish clinch.

  “Oh, you’re a good one, you are. Tell you what . . .” St. Pips made a suggestion to her that made Lord Landry’s proposal of last week seem the pinnacle of delicacy. “So let’s go upstairs.”

  Covered with a full body blush, frightened that Madame or Jem Beamer would observe their struggle, frightened of St. Pips’ beefy strength, Frances felt her poise beginning to waver.

  She demanded to be released, but St. Pips persisted in his belief that they were having a grand time of it. Catching her wrists in one hand, St. Pips used the other to continue tickling at her waist. It was in the midst of this miserable tussle that Frances heard Lord Landry speak.

  “My friend St. Pips!” Yes, it was Landry’s voice, untroubled by temperament, unmoved by pity; the same easy, friendly tones that promised much and nothing. “How are you?”

  St. Pips stopped wrestling with Frances and stared up, blinking in befuddlement.

  “Landry!” he blurted, “but you never talk to me! . . . Oh! Wait! Didn’t mean that. What I mean is—Hullo!”

  Frances sat frozen on St. Pips’ lap, cringing, filled with the most vile humiliation, her gaze fixed on the clinging fabric of her gown.

  “Introduce me to your friend?” suggested Landry.

  “This one’s the Mysterious White Rose,” guffawed St. Pips, and gave her a jovial swat on the back. “Make no mistake about it, she’s a game one.” He gave a suggestive wink. “Likes a spirited play.”

  “What rare discernment, my dear St. Pips.” Frances didn’t have to see Lord Landry’s face to know that he was smiling. “But how is it that you’re not drinking? Here’s your glass, and full, too! Give me your opinion. The burgundy is tolerable stuff, don’t you think?”

  Flattered beyond words to have his views solicited by so elevated a connoisseur, St. Pips began a rambling attempt to prove that he was in exact agreement with Lord Landry’s pronouncement. Landry, meanwhile, was able to introduce the wineglass into one of St. Pips’ hands, and at the same time free Frances’ wrists from the other. Frances felt the cool, steady pressure of Landry’s hands high on her sides as he whisked her from St. Pips’ lap and sat her carefully in a nearby chair.

  “What a lot of names you have, Miss Atherton,” he whispered, his breath soft among her curls.

  Frances’ quickly accomplished removal left St. Pips staring with hazy bewilderment into the space where she had been. He frowned up at Landry, who returned the look with an encouraging smile. It spoke volumes for the intimidating ease of Landry’s self-assurance that the moment passed without St. Pips making an objection.

  “You have a horse running next month at the Derby?” inquired Landry suavely, who was nothing if not well informed. Delighted with this show of interest, St. Pips launched once more into his favorite topic.

  Never before had so many conflicting emotions raged in Frances’ breast: resentment, trepidation, awful embarrassment, and a niggardly sum of gratitude that pricked her like a nettle. How she would have liked to know what Landry was thinking. The worst, no doubt. Frances stole her first nervous glance toward Landry, who was conducting an amused and thoughtful study of St. Pips. Landry was dressed in a gray evening coat, which contrasted admirably with his glinting green eyes and his shining, impeccably cut blond hair. His legs, finely muscled and long, were stretched casually before him, encased in tight-fitting breeches, as he leaned back in a chair next to Frances. He reached out an elegant hand to her and played gently, absentmindedly, in her curls with his tapered fingers. She shivered involuntarily and was about to bat his hand away when she saw Madame la Princesse bearing down on them.

  Madame had made a point to keep her eye on Frances thr
oughout the evening. How she hated to use girls she had not personally trained! One never knew what gaucherie they might exhibit before a client. And tonight of all nights she wanted no slipups. She had seen Landry’s show of interest in the girl—his possessive sequester of her. Almost it had made her laugh—the foolish St. Pips gulled by the most beautiful man in the ton. These minor rivalries over girls were frequent in her house and they added spice to the business; but the White Rose was an unknown quantity. Could Madame trust her to keep the situation from getting out of hand? From the tight, unhappy look of her, it seemed as if the girl was going to exercise no conciliatory charm on either man. Perhaps she had already been handled too roughly by that stupid St. Pips. Or perhaps . . . the thought sprang to Madame’s mind—Mother Blanchard might have treacherously sent the girl with the villainous purpose of deliberately causing an incident to bring unfavorable publicity to Madame’s rival establishment? Madame’s heels took wing toward the trouble spot.

  “Ah, Lord Landry. Do you enjoy yourself? And Miss-sewer St. Pips, you are happy, oui?”

  St. Pips gave her a lushy grin and raised his glass. “Tolerable burgundy, Madame,” he said thickly.

  “And the little mademoiselle, she is fond of you?”

  “Slapped me right across the face,” he said proudly.

  “She is original, la petite mademoiselle,” replied Madame la Princesse, and darted a look that bode ill toward the Mysterious White Rose. “I know Mademoiselle the White Rose is eager for you to take her upstairs to continue your game in private, n’est-ce pas? I shall have Miss-sewer Beamer show you to a room.”

  Landry lifted his graceful body from the chair. As he did so, Frances saw him send a deft signal across the room to a young, strikingly handsome man standing by Kennan. The young man set down his wine, gave a wry smile, and came toward them. Landry made a subtle gesture, indicating St. Pips. The young man’s grin widened, and he gave a tiny affirmative nod. As the young man reached them, Landry said: