Regency Masquerade

Chapter Seven

"Are you free this evening?" queried Carleton. "I'd thought of attending the opera. I haven't arranged a box so it would be just in the pit. Are you at all interested in accompanying me?" 

Frances considered the idea and thought that should be safe enough. She smiled at him, "Thank you very much, I was just thinking the other day that I should attend at least once while I am in London. What time should I meet you there?" 

They arranged to meet at the theatre, then went their separate ways, Frances heading to the Pelican for an early dinner and Carleton to his house to finish some business letters. Frances found she was looking forward to the evening and thought she could very easily grow accustomed to this way of life. The money she had won today would allow her to stay comfortably at the Pelican for some time longer. It was all very well, she chastised herself, but she should be attending more seriously to her future. 

What would she do if Lady Murray could not be found, or more likely, refused to have anything to do with her? 'Peter Francis' could hardly live at the Pelican indefinitely. Perhaps I could set up my own pistol gallery, she joked, tucking in to a large plate of roast beef and potatoes. 

She took extra pains with her dress that evening, putting on her best cream pantaloons and dark blue coat. Shiny black boots completed her ensemble and she brushed her hair carefully into the fashionable Brutus style. She stared at herself in the small mirror. A pretty enough boy b'Gad, perhaps she would not put Carleton quite to shame. She collected her gloves and cane and took a hackney to the theatre. There was a great crowd milling around out the front and it took her some minutes to locate Carleton, standing against the wall in his black evening dress. 

"Evening, my Lord," she greeted him, pushing through the crowd. "What are we seeing tonight?" 

"Ah there you are. It's by Mozart, The Marriage of Figaro." 

"Wonderful, I saw that performed in Salzburg several years ago," she enthused. 

They went in and found seats in front of the private boxes, along with the more wealthy tradespeople and gentlemen with less than respectable female companions. 

Unattached young bucks sauntered back and forth eyeing the audience until the opera started and they could ogle the dancers. Carleton gazed at them with resignation, "One of these days, everyone will be made to keep quiet and listen to the singing," he joked. Despite the constant chatter around them, Frances enjoyed the first act immensely. The Countess was particularly good, though the Count could have been a bit stronger. 

At interval, Carleton announced that he was going to stretch his legs and Frances accompanied him, wondering if they would ever find their seats again. From up in the second row of boxes, a man glanced idly down. He had sleek dark hair, olive skin and a certain feline grace which defeated his attempts to look English. He caught sight of the pair below and froze into immobility. His companion looked curiously at him. "Anything the matter, Comte?" 

With a start the other man recollected himself, "Nothing. I just ... thought I saw someone I knew." 

"A friend of yours?" 

"No," the Comte realised he had been more adamant than he wanted and smiled without humour, "Can you tell me the name of the man in black? And his companion?" 

"Who ...? Oh I see. That's Lord Carleton in the black but I don't know the name of the boy with him - a nephew perhaps?" 

"Oh well it is of no consequence," the Comte dismissed the matter with a flick of his fingers and settled back in his chair. "Can you tell me the name of that delightful young lady over there?" He changed the subject smoothly and his companion was happy to oblige, finding it much more interesting. He hadn't liked the look in the Comte's eyes a few moments ago and he half thought he might drop Carleton a word of warning. 

Meanwhile Carleton was saying casually to Frances, "There is a young lady I wish to pay my respects to, do you care to accompany me?" 

She nodded and followed him up the stairs and along the corridors full of chattering patrons to whom this was the prime purpose of the evening, and eventually to the curtained entrance of the box he sought. She paused outside a moment to ascertain that Sammy Fairfax was not inside, then entered discreetly on seeing that the party was made up of strangers apart from Rosamond Lyle and her friend from the ball. 

She was secretly amused by the appraising look Rosamond gave her and even more so when the judgement appeared to be favourable. Carleton introduced her to a matronly lady in puce satin who proved to be Rosamond's Aunt Louisa, and to her stout husband. With a tender smile he continued, "And this is Miss Rosamond Lyle and her cousin Miss Amanda Marlowe." Frances bowed politely to each of them.  

While Carleton was obliged to exchange courtesies with the older Lyles, Frances addressed herself to the two cousins. "And how do you find the opera?" she asked innocuously. 

Amanda confessed that it was very pretty and Rosamond said with an air of assumed sophistication that it was all very well but that she preferred a play. When pressed as to her favourite play she chose Hamlet but could offer no reason other than it was vastly tragic. Wickedly, Frances commented that the death of Othello must soften the hardest of hearts. Rosamond's agreement to this piece of fiction confirmed her opinion that she really knew very little about it. 

At that point Carleton entered the conversation and Frances found herself fending off exploratory questions from Mrs Lyle about her circumstances. Fortunately, a chance reference to Italy brought Mr Lyle into the conversation with a heated diatribe against all foreigners and Italians in particular. Mrs Lyle and Frances were soon reduced to muttering noncommittal noises as Mr Lyle got into full stride of what was obviously a favourite hobby horse. 

Her eyes attentively on the reddening face before her, Frances let her ears concentrate on what Carleton was saying to Amanda and Rosamond. From the odd words she could make out they seemed to be talking about the ball to be held soon in Rosamond's honour and the gown she was planning to wear. Not too soon as far as Frances was concerned, the interval ended and the visitors had to return to their seats. 

On their way down, Carleton asked offhandedly, "May I ask what was your opinion of the young ladies?" 

"I thought them both pleasant enough", returned Frances, seizing the opportunity to cast a few stones, "perhaps a little empty headed as very young ladies often are." 

"Empty headed?" queried his companion stiffly.  

Feigning ignorance of Carleton's special interest, she continued blithely, "Yes, Miss Lyle prefers plays to opera and her favourite is Hamlet because it is so tragic and Othello dies so sadly." 

"But Othello does not even appear in Hamlet!" protested Carleton inadvertently. "I daresay she confused the names, Ophelia is fairly similar sounding," he defended belatedly. 

"Perhaps," agreed Frances cheerfully, obviously more interested in finding if their seats were still empty. 

Carleton looked and felt slightly ruffled. 

"I am sorry if I offended you," his companion apologised with a smile, "At least she did not say the opera was pretty as her cousin did!" This made him laugh and they settled down to watch the rest of the opera in harmony with each other. 

On their way out at the end of the performance, Carleton was accosted by an elegantly dressed man who stepped out in front of him from the crowd of patrons streaming out of the theatre, "What have you been up to, Richard?" he queried jovially, "Have you stolen the Comte's mistress?" 

Taken aback, Carleton exclaimed, "What the devil are you talking about, Tony? What Comte?" 

"The Comte Duverne. He was sitting with me and looked as if he had bitten into a lemon when he saw you." 

Carleton shook his head, "Never heard of the man in my life - I assure you, Tony. Must be mistaken." 

"Well you know best, but he asked me your name. Be on your guard, he is not someone I'd want after me!" Tony clapped him on the shoulder. 

Neither man appeared to notice that Frances looked quite ill with shock. She bent down and pretended to adjust the buckle on her boot while she got some colour into her face and grappled with the news. The Comte Duverne was in London! She threw a fearful glance around the room, half fearing that he was even now bearing down on her.