Regency Masquerade (6 page)

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.

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 reading 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.

“Well
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 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!

CHAPTER
SIX

Meanwhile,
Frances had returned to the Pelican and was telling John that the Comte Duverne
was in London.

He
looked simultaneously worried and relieved, “Well that’ll put an end to your
gallivanting about town at least!  You’ll have to stay here while he is in
London.”

She
sighed rebelliously. “I could still go out as Diana Murray!” she said with
sudden inspiration.

Her
servant rolled his eyes heavenwards.  He shook his head as he took her boots
out with him to clean, that was not even worth a reply!

Frances
kept to her room for as long as she could bear it the next day, which was in
fact only until she remembered her arrangement to meet Harry Belmont for
shooting practice that afternoon.  Feeling only slightly guilty for worrying
John and keeping a careful eye out for the Comte she sallied forth to the
pistol gallery and spent an enjoyable hour or so with her newest friend.

On
her return to the Pelican some hours later, she was met by the innkeeper’s
wife, wringing her hands and alternately excusing herself and foretelling
disaster.  The gentleman had seemed so respectable, foreign of course but she
had had no idea he was going to turn out to be a murderer so she had let him
sit in her best parlour to wait and then Sally had come screaming down the
passage and Will had raced straight up and found Mr Hopgood crumpled on the
floor as white and still as-

At
this point the bewildered Frances realised something had happened to John.  She
grasped the woman’s arm, giving her a little shake, and begged her to tell her
quickly where he was and what had happened.  She looked up at her somewhat
affronted.

“That’s
what I’ve been telling you sir!  He was struck down by this foreigner, white as
a sheet he was.  We’ve put ‘im to bed and sent Joe for the doctor.  Doctors
here now, you can go up and see ‘im if you’d like to.”

“Yes
indeed” Frances followed Mrs Cobb up the stairs, she was still talking though
rather breathlessly as she climbed.  “Hit on the head, my Will says. And such a
fancy coat he had on too, I’d never have thought it.  What d’ye think he was
after sir? I couldn’t see anything missing from your room, not at a quick
glance that is. I’ll expect you’ll want to see for yourself.”  They reached the
door of John’s room which was next to Frances’ and entered after a soft knock.

The
doctor, a middle-aged, harassed looking man with spectacles was just about to
take his leave.  He turned to face them questioningly, clutching his black
case.

“How
is he doctor?’’ asked Frances anxiously.

“Concussed
– not too badly I don’t think, but he’ll need to stay quietly in bed for about
a week and then take things easily for a while.  He’ll need nursing for the
first two or three days.  I can recommend someone if you like.  It will cost
you a few shillings but Mrs Brown is better than most.”

“Thank
you doctor, I’d be very grateful,” Frances paid his fee and took down the name
and address of the nurse.  John was lying pale and still under the blankets but
the doctor assured her there was nothing she could do but let him rest. 
Frances arranged with Mrs Cobb to have the nurse fetched, then suggested they
go downstairs for a glass of sherry while she told her what had happened.

It
appeared that a man had come to the inn just as dusk was falling and asked to
be directed to the room of Peter Francis.  Although he was foreign, he was so
well dressed and ever so politely spoken that she had felt no hesitation in
giving him the information.  She had put him in her best parlour to wait for
his return and Will had taken him a bottle of burgundy which he’d ordered and
left him to it.  The villain had then apparently crept upstairs and somehow
attacked Mr Hopgood.  The door to Frances’ room had been ajar and the
unconscious servant lying inside so that one could only assume that the villain
had broken in and been lying in wait for either Mr Francis or Mr Hopgood. 
After the brutal attack, the stranger had returned to the parlour, then come
out as bold as brass to announce that he could not wait any longer.