Frances’s mind flashed back to that evening, and she thought of the young man who had walked past them. The one James had tried to warn, who appeared unconcerned and continued on his way regardless. Had he been the one who was shot?
The thought made her stomach turn.
“I will be so glad when Lucien is back,” Marianne said, her voice softer now. “I always feel safer when he’s here. Not that he can do anything to protect me from a mob, but I feel safer, and that matters.”
“Yes,” Frances said. “Indeed.”
But she was hardly listening. She felt as though her head was stuffed with cotton wool. Nothing made sense.
Someone had died that night. A young man. It could’ve been her or James. Had he withdrawn because he found out what happened? Was he haunted by the same images she was?
“Frances,” Marianne said. “We must go. The patronesses are very strict about punctuality.”
Frances stood up, but she could barely feel her feet. She was quite cut up over the news and shaken to the core.
A man had been shot just for walking on the sidewalk. How could that be? Were such things a common occurrence in the city?
These kinds of things didn’t happen back home, at least not that she knew of. Bedfordshire seemed so far away now, so peaceful and safe compared to London’s chaos.
She followed her cousin downstairs, where Aunt Eugenia was already waiting with James. He was dressed in his skin-tight pantaloons again and a garish canary yellow waistcoat that would surely make him stand out in the crowd.
“Don’t you both look lovely,” Aunt Eugenia complimented, beaming at them. “Marianne, if you were not already married, you would certainly find a husband tonight.”
“Don’t let Lucien hear that,” Marianne replied with a laugh. “But I hope we will find one for Frances. There are bound to be several eligible bachelors in attendance.”
Frances looked up at James. Their eyes met for a moment. He nodded briefly, but then turned away, as though even looking at her required too much effort.
“Shall we?” Marianne prompted, and the three of them made their way out and into the waiting carriage.
The drive to Almack’s was odd. James sat across from them, staring out the window into the dark London streets. He did not speak much, only politely replying to Marianne’s inquiries now and then.
They arrived on time and made their way inside, joining the queue of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen waiting to present their vouchers.
“You have never been to Almack’s before, have you?” Marianne asked as they climbed the steps.
“No,” Frances replied, trying not to gawk at the impressive entrance. “But I have heard tales. Supposedly, one high-ranking gentleman arrived late and was not allowed in.”
“Yes,” Marianne confirmed, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “It was quite memorable. It was the Duke of Wellington himself. He was outside, demanding that the patronesses let him in, butthey refused to listen. The doors close at eleven o’clock sharp, and not even the hero of Waterloo is exempt from that rule.”
“What a dust that must have kicked up!” Frances said, imagining the scene.
“Oh, indeed, it did,” Marianne agreed with a smile. “People talked about it for weeks. Some said he should have been admitted, given his service to the country. Others said the rules must apply to everyone, or else they would mean nothing.”
“Served him right. He was always a pompous man,” James muttered, speaking for the first time that evening.
“You know him, then?” Frances asked, surprised.
“Why? Because he is pompous and I ought to be familiar with every pompous man in London?” His tone was light, but his eyes remained hard.
Frances had said nothing of the kind to him since the evening they had gone to the theatre. She had thought that they had moved past their initial dislike for one another and were at least going to be civil, but it seemed she had been wrong.
Marianne showed their vouchers to the patronesses, who fawned over James, but he merely remained polite.
Frances followed them inside, her eyes drinking in her new surroundings. The assembly rooms were surprisingly plain forsuch an exclusive establishment. The main ballroom was a long, rectangular space with cream-colored walls. Along the walls, mirrors reflected the dancers, making the room appear larger than it was.
“Don’t eat those.” James pointed at the refreshments table. “You’ll be trying to remove crumbs from between your teeth for days.”
“I shall stick to the lemonade then,” she replied.
