“She was probably pretending to have a cramp so you’d have to carry her to the shore,” said Dudley.
“‘Lawks! I’m drowning!’” Somersby pretended to swoon into Dane’s arms. Dane pushed him away, but Somersby held on to his coat. “‘Lord Dane, thank you for saving me. How can I ever repay you?’” He batted his eyelashes up at Dane.
Dane broke Somersby’s grasp, none too gently. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Somersby asked. “Didn’t take you for an old maid.”
“Gone prudish on us? Going to tell us to stop swearing and drinking?” Dudley asked.
Dane took a slug from his pocket flask. “’Course not.” He wiped his mouth.
For some reason his friends’ joking about Sandrine had put him on edge. The memory of their time together was something almost sacred. A treasured memento to marvel at when the noise of the sea lapping at the shore was long gone. A reminder of the man he’d dreamed of becoming to be worthy of her.
“It wasn’t meant to be, that’s all. She’s an innocent young lady and I’m a bad, wicked rake. She’s probably already engaged to the town vicar. He was about to propose to her when Warburton dragged me back to London.”
Kenwick folded his arms. “Never thought you’d lose out to a curate.”
“But it’s not marriage our Dane wants,” Somersby said. “You’re always going on about never being caught in the marriage trap.”
“Plenty of lovely ladies here in London who don’t want marriage from a fellow,” Dudley agreed.
“And they’ll all be at Madam Avalon’s Silver Palace tonight,” Kenwick said with a wink. “We’re going there after the play, and you’re coming with us if we have to truss you up and carry you over our shoulders.”
“I don’t know about this, Miss Hodwell.” Sandrine clung to her elderly friend’s arm as they were jostled by the crowd inside a Covent Garden theater. “My mother gave me a very extensive list of rules to follow while I’m in London.”
“We won’t allow you to come to any harm, dearie,” Miss Hodwell said.
“I mustn’t attend any balls for fear of being lured into the garden by handsome scoundrels who mean to harm me, or ride in open carriages with a gentleman, or ride in closed carriages with a gentleman, or drink any lemonade or punch for fear that it’s been poisoned with spirits. And one of her rules is that I can’t attend any events in Covent Garden.”
“Then, how are you supposed to attend theatrical evenings?”
“I think that’s the point.”
“My dear Miss Oliver,” said Mrs. McGovern, pursing her lips, “while your mother is a friend of ours, she has some very unreasonable ideas about London. With the proper chaperone, a young lady may enjoy the activities of town in a safe manner.”
Miss Hodwell smiled kindly. “She’ll never have to know if you break a few of her rules. We won’t tell her if you don’t. We think it’s not healthy for you to be kept so rigidly confined.”
“You need some diversion, and that is why I’ve asked my niece, Francesca, to meet us here.” Mrs. McGovern lifted her hand. “Oh look, there she is now. Francesca darling, over here!”
A slender young lady with her hair piled into a tower of yellow curls approached them, with two other elegant ladies trailing her.
“Francesca, this is the young lady I wrote to you about, Miss Sandrine Oliver.”
“Miss Oliver, how do you do?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“She’s nervous about attending the theater,” Miss Hodwell said. “Her mother doesn’t think it’s proper for young ladies.”
“But this is a morality play,” said Francesca. “It teaches us morals.”
“I suppose that might make a slight difference.” But Sandrine was doubtful that anything would make her mother approve of any of this.
“And how are you finding London, Miss Oliver?” Francesca asked.
“It’s very tumultuous.” Nothing was ever predictable in London. People seemed to rush instead of walk, and there were so many new sights and sounds all in competition—the cries of costermongers hawking their wares, groups of ragged children playing in the reeking gutters, the hubbub of carriage wheels and crowds teeming about under the stony gaze of the imposing edifices she’d only read about in her history books.
“Miss Oliver,” said Francesca, “these are my dear friends, Lady Roslyn Stockard and Miss Marta Maples.”