“Lord Dane gazed longingly at you as you stormed out of the theater, Sandrine. You can do this. We believe in you,” said Francesca.
Marta bounced on her heels. “Let’s give her the initiation rites.”
“The rites?” Sandrine asked.
“We have initiation rituals,” Roslyn said. “If you want to become a Pink Lady, you have to drink from the sacred flask, smoke a cheroot, climb down a trellis or a drainpipe, and do something secret and scandalous.”
“Sandrine,” Francesca said softly, “you don’t have to agree to any of this. You can go home to the seaside and live a safe, simple life. No harm in saying no. We won’t think any the less of you.”
This was another line drawn in the sand. She was here in London with these brave and brazen ladies. She could run home to her mother, or she could take a stand and fight for what she believed in. And if she became an honorary Pink Lady she’d have so many unpredictable and thrilling new things to add to her list.
Before her mother’s voice could talk her out of it, Sandrine gathered her courage and stared into Francesca’s eyes. “I want to pass your initiation tests. I want to become bold like you.”
“I have a cheroot right here.” Roslyn held out a slim cylinder. “If you’re serious, that is?”
Sandrine took a deep breath. “I am.”
“Then, we’ll go to the balcony. Come along, ladies, live a little! Taste all that life has to offer,” Roslyn said, opening the balcony doors.
It was a fine evening with a full moon overhead. Roslyn lit the cheroot and passed it to Sandrine. “Take a small puff at first and—”
Sandrine filled her lungs with smoke and began to cough and sputter. Francesca pounded her on the back while Marta giggled.
“I was going to say not to inhale, you silly thing.”
“I did it!” Sandrine said, still coughing. “I smoked a cheroot. I don’t much like it.”
“It’s an acquired taste. Take small puffs and blow smoke rings, like this.” Roslyn demonstrated, looking very sophisticated.
“And now the ceremonial flask.” Francesca produced a small silver flask. “Have you ever tasted brandy, Sandrine?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I’m quite partial to it.” She unscrewed the lid from the flask and took a sip. The taste reminded her of that morning on the beach with the man she’d known as Danny.
“Well, you’re full of surprises. Pass it round.” Marta held out her hand, and Sandrine handed her the flask. “I myself prefer bubbly to brandy—”
Marta was interrupted by a gruff, muffledshouting from under their balcony. “Ho there, Pink Ladies!”
Francesca rushed to the balcony railing. “Be quiet, Kenwick! My parents will hear you.”
“I want to talk to Roslyn. Send her down. No harm will come to her, I swear it on my mother’s grave.”
“Are you inebriated?”
“Usually.”
Francesca glanced at Roslyn who gave a little shrug. “I’m going to live while I’m still young, ladies. Don’t wait up for me.” She climbed over the balcony railing and disappeared down a rose trellis.
Sandrine wanted to appear worldly, but she was shocked. “Won’t this ruin her reputation?”
“Only if someone finds out,” Francesca replied. “I know it’s shocking and scandalous, but there’s no stopping Roslyn. We love her, and we’ll stand by her no matter what.”
“I can’t believe she climbed down that trellis!”
“We’ll teach you how to climb down from this balcony another night,” Francesca said.
Sandrine peered over the edge of the stone railing. “It’s a long way down.”
“It’s quite safe.”