Regency Masquerade (5 page)

Frances
nodded and carefully loaded her pistol “After you my Lord.”

Carleton
loaded both weapons, then chose one and stepped forward to the white line
painted across the floor.  Put on his mettle by Frances self assurance, he took
his time between each shot and placed one hole in the centre and the other two
edging the black of the spade.

“Rather
better than
fair
sir,” remarked Frances drily.

Watched
by a satisfied Carleton and an interested attendant, she took careful aim with
her silver pistol and fired off three shots in quick succession, only pausing
to reload in between.  Carleton saw the single hole in the black and said
bracingly, “That one is in the centre at least, not bad for a first attempt.” 

Rather
to his surprise, Francis looked very pleased with himself, unable to keep a
little smile from his lips as he turned to the attendant.  “If you would be so
good as to bring the card up here?”  The man went willingly and Frances looked
with slightly guilty apology at Carleton.

“I
am sorry, but when one shows off, it is so good to succeed!”  The attendant
gave her the card and she passed it to Carleton who held it up to the light. 
He could see then that the hole was a fraction larger than that made by a
single bullet – the youngster had scored three bullseyes in a row!  He pursed
his lips in a low whistle, “Excellent shooting! Well done lad!”

Frances
flushed at his praise, “There are only two things that I do well my Lord and
that is one of them!  May I try your pistol now?”  Carleton nodded, still
impressed.  With an unfamiliar weapon, Frances hit wide of the spade at her
first shot and clipped the edge of it at her second.  “I find it a little heavy
after my own.  I’d need to practice to be as accurate with it.”  She turned back
to Carleton to find that he had been joined by a couple of well dressed
gentlemen in buckskins.  One was a stranger to her but the other was her
dancing partner of the previous night!  She fancied he was looking rather
closely at her and bent down to return Carleton’s pistol to its case.

“May
we join you Richard?” Lambert was asking.  “Harry has a new pair he wants me to
try, claims they are the best he’s handled.”

Carleton
nodded, “Have you met Peter Francis? Jack Lambert and Harry Belmont.” They all
shook hands.  “Harry rather fancies himself as a good shot too Peter – you two
should have a match,” Carleton continued slyly.

Frances
shot him a look of reproach but Belmont said eagerly, “What a capital idea!”  He
reminded her of a young puppy, full of bounce and enthusiasm.  Already he was
unpacking his precious new guns and running through their points, oblivious
that no-one was really listening.

“What
will it be?” Lambert asked Carleton, “Best of five?  What about the five of
spades then?”

“What’s
the wager?”

Men,
thought Frances crossly to herself, everything had to be a wager.  “I can’t
afford more than a few guineas” she spoke up firmly.

“That’s
alright,” Carleton stepped in smoothly.  “I’ve a hundred here that says you’ll
win.”

Lambert
grinned “Right then, here’s another hundred that says he won’t.  No hard
feelings I hope Francis but I’ve seen Harry shoot before.”

“Who
will go first?”

“One
after the other?  A shot at a time?”

The
two rivals agreed rather dazedly to their sponsors’ arrangements.  Carleton
noticed the serious look on Peter’s face and said cheerfully, “Don’t worry lad,
it’s not your money!”  Frances scarcely glanced at him, that’s what was making
her nervous.

Harry
grinned across at her and fired his first shot into the black of the top left
spade.  Frances aimed carefully but nerves got the better of her and the
resulting hole was at least half into the white.  The other man relaxed a
fraction and hit the next spade but not quite as neatly as before.  Frances
shook her head, took two deep breaths to relax her concentration, and shot
straight into the centre of her target. Harry followed up with another three
good shots but Frances interspersed each with a perfect centre.  The attendant
went down to the end of the room to collect the cards while Frances and Harry
waited anxiously.

Lambert
and Carleton studied the two records closely. “What do you think? This one is a
bit out but all the others are dead on target.  These are close, though not
completely in the middle – bad luck Harry,” Lambert concluded eventually, “but
I think Francis has beaten you.  Here, see for yourself.”

Belmont
glanced at the cards then said generously, “Yes indeed.  The first shot was
obviously a slip. Damned fine shooting Francis.”  He held out his hand and
Frances shook it firmly, flushing a little with self consciousness.

“Good
of you,” she murmured.  She offered her pistol for his inspection. “Like to
try?”

He
took it with interest and for the next few minutes they exchanged avid
information and ideas on what made the best weapon, Harry agreeing that hers
certainly seemed to have a true line.

Carleton
looked at the two heads close together with an odd twinge of jealousy. 
Nonsense, he told himself, the lad’s got a right to more friends than just you. 
He took the money Lambert was cheerfully paying out with some satisfaction – it
was a while since he had got the better of Jack in a sporting venture.  “Here
you are Peter, half of this should be yours,” he handed him fifty guineas and
smilingly ignored his half-hearted protest.  The four of them spent a further
half hour at the pistol range practising and trying to persuade Francis to show
them some trick shots.  Eventually Lambert remembered that he was engaged for
dinner that night on the other side of town and had to leave.  Belmont also
made his farewells after extracting a promise from Frances to meet him at the
gallery again the next day.

“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 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.