she explained. “No one knows who it is. It is said that she is a member of the ton.”
Althea looked at her blankly. “Why would a member of the ton wish to write a book?”
“It is supposed to be full of scandals and rumors—thinly disguised, of course. Everyone is said to be quaking for fear they will be in it,” Francesca went on.
“Ah, but how slighted they will feel if they are left out,” Rochford added.
Francesca chuckled. “True enough.”
“But that’s absurd,” Althea said, frowning. “No one would wish to be included in a book about scandal. Who would wish for a blot upon one’s name?”
It occurred to Francesca that Althea Robart truly was entirely lacking in a sense of humor. She glanced at Rochford and saw his dark eyes dancing in amusement.
“You are right, of course, Lady Althea,” he said smoothly. “I cannot fathom why I should have thought such a thing.” He cast a droll glance at Francesca, and she had to turn away to hide a smile.
But that would not do, she knew. Clearly, the light social conversation in which she was wont to engage was not the sort of thing at which Lady Althea shone. Therefore, it was incumbent upon her to turn the conversation in the other woman’s direction, to introduce a topic upon which Lady Althea could expound. She cast about for such a subject. The problem was that she did not know Lady Althea well.
“Lady Symington’s ball will be coming up soon,” she said after a moment. “Will you be attending, Lady Althea?”
“Oh, yes. She is second cousin to my father, you know.”
Francesca suppressed a groan. Indeed, she had managed to hit on a topic the woman enjoyed—family.
“Ah, look, the lights are going down,” Rochford spoke up. “The play is about to begin.”
“Why, yes, so it is.” With relief, Francesca turned her attention to the stage.
She was not really interested in the action that was occurring there, however. She was too much occupied with her plans. She seemed to be failing at every turn to bring Althea into any interesting conversation. It would be best, she thought, if she followed up on her idea to visit someone else during intermission, leaving Althea and Rochford alone in the box.
It would have been better if she could have found someone more engaging than the Eversons, of course. Mr. Everson was the sort who thought himself an expert on almost any topic and was more than happy to give his opinion, whether one wished it or not. Mrs. Everson, on the other hand, was given to conversing about her ailments, which seemed to be legion, but which never appeared to keep her from attending all social functions. The girls, at least, had little to say—though it was not hard to see why, given that both of their parents strove to dominate any conversation.
However, Francesca knew that she had little choice. She was growing more certain that Althea Robart was not the wife for Rochford, but still, she ought to give it one more push. Perhaps, if she was alone with Rochford, Althea would unexpectedly blossom in some way.
Therefore, as soon as the curtain fell and the lights came on, Francesca stood up, turning to the others. Rochford, however, had been faster than she. He, too, had risen, and before she could speak, he began, “Ladies, shall I bring you some refreshments? A glass of ratafia, perhaps?”
“How kind of you,” Francesca replied quickly before Althea could say anything. “Not for me, thank you. I believe that I shall slip around to see Mrs. Everson. But perhaps Lady Althea would like a glass.”
Rochford stared at her, his eyebrows rising. “Mrs. Everson?”
“Yes. I saw her across the way.” Francesca gestured vaguely about the theater.
“Yes. So did I.” Rochford looked at her oddly. “Well, then…pray allow me to escort you.”
“What?” Now it was Francesca’s turn to stare at him. “You?”
She was well aware that the duke had avoided Mr. Everson like the plague ever since the man had tried to inveigle Rochford into some investment scheme in India. Why, just a few weeks ago Callie had related, laughing, the way Rochford had spent an entire weekend at Lord Kimbrough’s country house dodging Mr. Everson. Why would he be volunteering to enter the man’s presence now?
“Yes,” Rochford returned her gaze blandly. “I.”
“But I— That is—”
“Yes?” He cocked an eyebrow in that maddening way he had.
Francesca swallowed. “Of course. How nice.” She turned to the other woman with a smile. “Lady Althea, would you like to accompany us?”
Althea blinked and cast a glance across the theater—no doubt wondering, Francesca thought caustically, what was so interesting about the Eversons.
“Yes, all right,” she said after a moment, also rising to her feet.
Rochford stepped aside to let the women pass in front of him, but before Francesca was halfway to the door, there came a knock, and then it opened.
Galen Perkins stood framed in the doorway.
Francesca stopped abruptly, and for a long moment there was nothing but silence in the small room. Then Perkins bowed and stepped inside.
“Lady Haughston. You look lovelier than ever. I would have thought eight years would have aged you, but clearly you have found some magic potion.”
“Mr. Perkins,” Francesca answered through tight lips, thinking that she could not say the same about him. She had never liked the man, but he had once been attractive. Years of dissipation, however, had padded his once-lithe frame and blurred the lines of his face. His golden curls, though still artfully tousled, had lost much of their glimmer and were growing thinner, and there was a jaded look in his pale blue eyes.
“Please accept my condolences on your loss,” he went on. “Lord Haughston was a good friend to me. I was very sorry that I was out of the country when he passed away.”
“Thank you.”
Rochford stepped past the women, placing himself in front of Francesca. “Perkins.”
“Rochford,” the other man replied, looking faintly amused at the duke’s gesture.
“I am surprised to see you here,” Rochford went on flatly.
“Indeed? I wished to speak to Lady Haughston. I could not ignore the presence of an old friend.”
“We were never friends,” Francesca told him.
“Such harsh words,” Perkins responded, the small, disdainful smile never leaving his lips. “After all the years that we have known each other, I would not have thought you could be so unkind.”
“I did not mean that I was surprised to see you here in this box,” Rochford explained sharply, “though it is somewhat presumptuous, given your lack of invitation. What I meant was that I would not have thought to see you in London after your precipitous departure eight years ago.”
“That is all in the past.”
“A man’s life can scarcely be shrugged aside so easily,” Rochford retorted.
“I can see that you have not changed,” Perkins drawled. “You always were a sanctimonious sort.” He turned toward Francesca, adding, “Setting your sights higher this time, my dear? I wonder what poor Andrew would think.”
Francesca stiffened. It had slipped her mind over the years how thoroughly she disliked this man.
But the duke spoke before she could open her mouth to deliver a set-down. “I think it is time you took your leave, Mr. Perkins.”
Perkins’ lips tightened, and for a moment Francesca thought he was going to shoot back an angry retort—or worse—but