Regency Masquerade

Chapter Eight

Tony took his leave, and Carleton turned back to Frances. "Alright?" he queried, curiously.

She nodded, offering no explanation, and after a second he continued walking.

"Care to come back with me for a drink?" he invited over his shoulder.

She felt she could do with a strong brandy at the moment but it would be beyond rash to go alone to Carleton's house with him a second time. "That is very kind of you, my lord, but -"

"Come now, I'll brook no refusal!" the older man interrupted smiling, "The night is still young ... unless there is some reason why you no longer want my company?"

Frances stopped in her tracks, her eyes flying to his face. Did he suspect? She had not seen that hard look in his eyes before, she did not think he had guessed her secret but he obviously suspected she was hiding something from him. She stiffened, squaring her shoulders, "I am sorry, my lord. It's rather that you may no longer want my company." She bowed slightly, "I'll go."

Already regretting his sharpness, Carleton put a hand on her shoulder, "Please don't. I apologise. I would very much appreciate it if you would tell me your full story, or as much of it as you feel comfortable in telling."

When he smiled at her like that Frances felt that she would have walked on coals rather than lose his regard. What was another risk to her reputation after all? It was already beyond redemption if her secret was discovered. "In that case I accept your kind invitation."

They took a hackney cab, as Carleton had not thought it worthwhile to bring his own carriage. The thought crossed her mind of the absolute impropriety of the action if she had been dressed as a woman. Men had so much more freedom.

In his study, with the coals stirred up into an orange blaze, Carleton poured them both a glass of brandy and asked, "Will you tell me what is between you and the Comte Duverne?"

Frances gaped at him. He smiled wryly at her, "You looked as sick as a dog when Tony asked me about him and I know I have never met the gentleman."

"I ...er," she stuttered.

"Tell me to mind my own business if you like," he offered, withdrawing slightly.

"No it is just ... well ... oh the devil! I'll have to tell you now or you will be imagining the Lord knows what!"

Carleton relaxed at this rather ingenious outburst and sat down.

"I'd rather not have told you," Frances confessed, "as 'tis not a pretty tale and you will only have my word for the truth of it. It was a gaming matter. I was in Paris at the time with my ... my father, and we visited a rather infamous gaming den. The Comte Duverne was there also."

Her mind went back to the scene, the smoke filled room, the Comte with a party of friends and hangers on, obviously the leader of the group and equally obviously half primed, and ready for a lark. His eyes, searching for diversion, had landed on Frances, a young boy as he thought, sitting idly at a table by himself watching the game across the room. He had risen to his feet and approached him. "A game of piquet, lad?" he enquired, seating himself without waiting for an invitation. "Just a friendly hand or two while I wait for my friends to finish their game."

"I tried to decline, but he was insistent," she continued. She had not tried very hard, she admitted to herself. She had been playing cards ever since she could remember. Her father had taught her originally so that he could have someone to play against and keep up his own skills, and then when she had shown such natural aptitude, so that she could join him in his livelihood.

After the first game which she suspected he had let her win, the Comte had insisted on increasing the stakes, no doubt thinking to frighten the lad out of what wits he had for cards, and then to have some fun with him when he couldn't settle the score. Frances, or Louis Caron as he had been at the time, had responded nervously but with some dignity and accepted five francs a point.

She looked at Carleton, "He thought he had found a pigeon ready for his plucking, but I play piquet well enough to know how to minimize a poor hand and make the most of a good one. The Comte became infuriated with my cautious wins and plunged more and more wildly. In addition I was not drunk nor had I sycophants to impress ... anyway the long and the short of it was that by the time he overturned the table in a fit of rage, I was 500 francs ahead! He could not accept that I had beaten him and accused me of cheating. Luckily there was a witness who took my part."

She remembered the mixture of fear and excitement churning in her stomach as she had calmly faced the Comte and denied his accusations. Her father had been standing nearby to offer her protection if she needed it but not so close for anyone to think they were connected. Suddenly, the Comte had flung the money down on the table in a pretence of unconcern so as to maintain face with his friends and she had left shortly afterwards.

"Unfortunately," she continued, "the Comte witnessed our departure as my father was getting into our coach and gave chase, swearing that we had cheated him. My father, you see, was the witness to our game."

She looked up and met Carleton's questioning eyes, flushing. "I swear to you we did not cheat! But I admit we were there to make money if we could." She broke off and sprang to her feet. "It sounds damnable when I put it into words, doesn't it! How could I expect anyone to believe me? I'll understand if you wish to drop our acquaintance."

"But I do believe you, and I do not wish to drop our acquaintance," Carleton's low, measured voice stopped her at the door.

She turned and faced him, frowning, obviously he had not understood what she had said. "Your pardon but perhaps I was not clear - we were gamesters, 'twas our profession."

He nodded gravely, "Yes, I gathered that. May I ask what happened to your father?"

"He took ill in Florence, and died several months ago. I settled our affairs and came to London, although I have lived most of my life in Europe my parents were born in England. I thought it was time to come home," Frances explained truthfully.

"My sympathy on the loss of your father," offered Carleton sincerely. "Do you know what part of England he came from? Perhaps you have family here."

"Perhaps," agreed Frances. She hesitated to say anything further, she had already trusted him with more of the truth than she probably should have.

Rather to his disappointment, Carleton could see that Peter's confidences were at an end. He broke the slightly awkward silence.

"I don't mean to interfere, but if you need any help, come to me."

Frances summoned up a shaky smile, "You are too kind, my lord, I don't deserve your friendship."

"Nonsense, I like to make up my own mind about a man." He sought for a way to break the tension and added with a smile, "You have warned me quite clearly not to play cards with you, but perhaps we could have a game one day, just for the fun of it?"

"Of course, my lord," Frances smiled and stepped forward to shake his hand, "I should go, good night, sir."

Carleton made his way up to bed mulling over their conversation. There was something engaging about Francis, despite his shady background. He was no green youth himself, and was well aware of the different strategies used by men on the edge of society to attach themselves to the wealthy. But if Francis was one of those, he had certainly gone about it in an unusual way! He could not believe he had made his acquaintance deliberately. He could not have known Carleton would be attacked that night as he was passing - could he? Thinking back, Francis had tried to withdraw, several times in fact. It had been he, himself, who had pursued the friendship.

He felt suddenly a little uncomfortable, he did not normally befriend such a young man, but Francis did not act young, he must surely be older than he looked. He could hardly ask him his age at this point!