He left then. Left the free-flowing wine, the lively conversation, the promise of secret, wicked pleasures. It all seemed empty and colorless tonight. He had perplexing financial records to sort through, blackmailers to exposeand vanquish, and a host of other problems lying in wait.
He’d done what he had to do. He couldn’t have innocent country ladies hanging about while he was embroiled in dangerous games with desperate criminals.
Chapter Ten
Choose your friends wisely; a lady is judged by the company she keeps.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
“She’s too pristine to be pink,” Sandrine overheard Lady Roslyn say in her sarcastic tones. Sandrine had left Francesca’s room to gulp fresh night air on the balcony. Lady Roslyn had been smoking a cheroot, and the smell had made her feel sick to her stomach.
“Give her a chance,” Francesca replied. “Aunt Eve told me that her mother is terribly strict and overprotective, and this is the very first time Sandrine has been allowed to enter any kind of society. I think she has pink potential. Did you see the way she splashed Lord Dane with that punch?”
“That was rather brazen of her,” said Marta. “Perhaps we could allow her to join the Pink Ladies while she’s in London.”
“One of our coveted sashes tied around that drab old gown of hers?” Roslyn snorted. “I think not.”
“And the way she wears her hair like an elderly maiden aunt.” Marta giggled. “All she needs is a lace cap and a pair of spectacles.”
“I’ll help her dress her hair and lend her some of my old gowns,” Francesca said.
“You’ll never disguise her country accent and that wide-eyed innocence. ‘Oh lawk, Lord Dane, keep those skintight trousers far away from me,’” Roslyn proclaimed in a soft, breathy voice.
Was that meant to beher? Sandrine pushed open the balcony door. “Are you poking fun at me, Lady Roslyn?”
Roslyn coughed. “Only a little.”
“I don’t have an accent, do I?”
“You do, rather,” said Francesca.
Marta nodded. “You do.”
“I suppose I’m only a gullible country girl who doesn’t have a sophisticated bone in her body.” Sandrine gathered up her reticule. “I should go back to your aunt’s house, Francesca. I don’t belong here.”
Francesca sprang up from her chair. “Don’t be put out. That’s only Roslyn. She’s like that with everyone. Come and sit with us.” She pulled Sandrine over toward the fireplace.
“I meant that I don’t belong in London. I should go back to Squalton-on-Sea.”
“So that’s it?” Roslyn asked. “You’re going to admit defeat so easily and cry yourself back to Squalton? Your mother will be so proud.”
“You can’t leave and allow Lord Dane to win,” said Francesca.
Marta leaped up from the bed she’d been lounging on fetchingly. “You must stand and fight!”
“I don’t see as how I have a leg to stand upon.I’m supposed to go to Rydell House tomorrow to present a petition to Lord Dane about the fate of Squalton Manor, but yesterday evening I lost my temper and made a public spectacle of myself.”
“This is the perfect opportunity to make him pay for what he did to you!” Francesca crowed. “Your goal is to make him fall madly in love with you. Have him eating sugar from the palm of your hand like one of his stallions. And then he’ll do anything you ask, including doing whatever you want with Squalton Manor. It’s only afterward that you spurn him, as he did you.”
“Spurn him?”
Roslyn nodded sharply. “Burn him to the ground.”
“Trust us,” Marta said. “We know men. They’re very easy to manipulate. The problem is that he spends more time with his blasted Thunderbolt Club than at the social events of the season.”
“And women aren’t allowed in gentleman’s clubs,” Roslyn said. “Even if those women can ride circles around any man alive.”
“You have the appointment at Rydell House tomorrow, that’s good,” Francesca said. “But we’ll need to find other opportunities to throw you together.”