Chapter 2

As twilight fell, the carriage pulled away from Kleeton House with Frances and her family aboard. Aunt Bridget sat beside Juliet, while Uncle Josias sat beside Frances. She did her best to wedge herself against the wall of the vehicle and not take up too much space, an old habit she had adopted from the moment she'd arrived at the Hutchings' residence as an orphaned girl.

Across from Frances, Juliet glared daggers at her. The reason was completely lost on her, though, for the younger girl had scarcely spoken three words to Frances since her arrival.

It's a shame, Frances thought, keeping her gaze fixed on the streets beyond the carriage as she remembered the years she'd first spent in Juliet's company. We used to be so close when we were younger.

If she was being honest, though, Frances would have to admit that their friendship had always been very one-sided. Juliet had instantly been an awestruck companion, marveling at the slightly older girl who was to be her only playmate. It hadn't taken long for Frances' shine to wear off and for Juliet to take charge of their friendship. Under Aunt Bridget's guidance, Juliet took charge of all their games and outings had been required to follow along.

Still, Frances hadn't minded it all that much. She had someone to talk to and play with, and Juliet hadn't been too spoiled or demanding.

Until now.

"Mother, I still don't see why Frances has to wear my gown. I've only worn it to two parties, and everyone hasn't had a chance to see it yet," the girl grumbled.

"It's all right, my dear. No one will recognize it for it fits her differently," Lady Hutchings said, attempting to placate her.

That's true, Frances thought. I'm so much taller that I shall have to squat all evening to have the hem even reach my ankles!

"But why must she show up here and take my things? Can't she have her own gowns?"

For a moment, Frances' heart leapt with hope. Was this Juliet's way of ensuring that she was fashionably outfitted herself rather than relying on castoff garments?

Of course not.

"Oh, that's right," Juliet continued, turning her spiteful gaze on Frances, "she has no money to buy anything. I suppose she'll have to wear my old things. You go ahead and keep that one, Frances. I don't want it back. Father will simply have to buy me a new one."

Frances would have rolled her eyes if Lady Hutchings wasn't watching her smugly to gauge her reaction.

"Oh, Juliet. I could never take your gown for keeps," she said, simpering a little. "I'm sure your father has already spent more than he intended on your Season. I shall be very careful with it, I promise, and try not to spill anything on it."

After Lord Hutchings' ominous grunt of agreement, Juliet fumed at her words. It took all of Frances' strength not to grin triumphantly in return, so instead she kept watch from the window until they reached Colonel Fitzgerald's house.

No sooner had she stepped down from the carriage than Lady Hutchings was at her elbow. The woman gripped it almost painfully tightly and whispered urgently in Frances' ear.

"I do not need to remind you how to conduct yourself. After all, the money we threw away on your education should have more than prepared you. But I am reminding you that you have a singular purpose this evening—find a worthy match."

With that, her aunt released her grip and pushed ahead of Frances to follow after Juliet. Frances turned and glanced at her uncle for reassurance, but he only looked right through her as he always did.

Inside, the Colonel's house was homey and inviting. Every room had been cleared of most of the furnishings to make room for the boisterous crowds. Most of the chairs had been placed along the walls to permit the revelers to sit and rest after dancing, or better, to converse and catch up. Frances couldn't help but admire the overly welcoming scene.

"This is nothing like the balls at Miss Chatham's school, is it?" someone said, coming up behind her and covering her eyes with their hands.

Startled, Frances turned around at once and pulled the hands from her eyes. She laughed with delight when she saw Emma and Agnes beaming at her.

"Oh, it's so wonderful to see a familiar face!" Frances cried, embracing them both. "But no, this is not at all what I expected."

"Mother says it's because Colonel Fitzgerald married well above his station," Agnes said in a low voice so as not to be overheard. "His reward for all the years of victorious service was to marry well, a third daughter of a well-appointed gentleman. The Colonel's wife is great-niece to the king!"

"My word!" Emma said, looking around. "But this is more like a public ball than one of Miss Chatham's carefully arranged events."

"To be fair, we were not there to socialize," Frances reminded her as she looked around to get her bearings. "We were only there to learn and observe."

"True enough, though I shall not miss having to dance with any of the young soldiers who were brought in to help us practice our steps. My toes still haven't recovered!"

As the three ladies took a turn of the various rooms in Colonel Fitzgerald's first floor, they nodded in greeting to those they did not yet know. As they walked, they whispered and giggled secretively about some of the many misadventures they'd faced at school. From nearly being caught pilfering cakes from the larder to hiding on the roof to avoid going to chapel, there was a delicious story for practically every misdeed.

"I still cannot believe we managed to last as long as we did there," Agnes complained, turning serious. "It's a wonder we weren't packed off for home on a number of occasions, and with no one to blame but ourselves!"

"Well, a school cannot afford to toss aside its well-monied students. It's positively shocking what Miss Chatham would be willing to overlook if she knew, all in the name of keeping her doors open and coal in the cellar," Emma said brazenly.

Agnes nudged Emma sharply, and Emma looked horrified for a moment. Her disposition became apologetic almost at once.

"I'm sorry, Frances. That wasn't kind of me," she said quietly.

"What's that? Oh, there's no harm done! It's not as though I wasn't aware of my situation," Frances answered pleasantly. "It's not your fault that my father left this world with little to show for it, after all, and I wouldn't expect you to be forlorn to spare me just because your father is rather solvent. Or you as well, Aggie."

Her friends smiled gratefully at her readiness to be understanding, and Frances couldn't understand why. Was it only those who had money and feared losing it who felt as though the poorer among them were to be pitied… or avoided altogether?

"What a flock of wayward ducklings we make, hmm? You're the only one among us who had any sort of respectability to her," Emma said mournfully to Frances. "Your father and mother were at least well-respected and known before their untimely accident. My father is a baron who cannot stand being scorned for his low station, and Agnes—"

"Don't say it," Agnes warned darkly, an uncharacteristic sharpness to her protest.

"Aggie," Frances said lovingly, putting her hand on her friend's arm.

"What? Do you think I'm not constantly reminded of my own lot in life?" she asked, turning away from their sympathetic gazes. "I wear my shame like a cloak everywhere I go. Being in London has done nothing but serve as a reminder that there are doors that will remain steadfastly closed to me because of my…"

Frances put an arm around Agnes' shoulder, but neither she nor Emma waited for Agnes to finish her thought. They knew all too well what she meant, what the other girls at Miss Chatham's had often taunted Agnes with.

Her father was a duke… and a rake who had ruined her mother. She'd been left on his doorstep after her own mother had not survived the birth, and her father—though he and Agnes and all the ton knew the never-to-be-spoken-of truth—raised her as his adopted child.

"Aggie, that is not your crime. You did nothing wrong. All this time, you've grown up into a beautiful, witty, warm young lady who's made the best of her situation. Weren't you the one whose mother secured all these invitations for you? For us? People cannot still harbor any scorn towards you if they're glad to have you dance in their ballrooms."

"That's very true!" Emma interjected cheerfully.

"Do you really think so?" Agnes asked, the hope in her voice piercing Frances' heart like a knife.

"I do. Those girls at school were only being horrid to you with the one weapon they had. They could never match you in beauty or intelligence or kindness or anything else, so they sought to tear you down for something that was beyond your control. These fine people? They care not, obviously!"

As their mood lightened once more

"Who is that man?" Emma asked, nodding her head towards someone on the other side of the largest room they entered.

"Now why would any of us know that?" Agnes demanded, sounding exasperated. "We've been in London for less than a week. Unless Frances has some mystical insight, we're all at a loss!"

Frances looked to where Emma was still watching him. Though he wasn't staring in their direction, there was something unnerving about the way he stood off to himself with his arms stiffly at his sides, a mask of complete nothingness as his only expression. Frances was at first intrigued by the way he stood there like a statue, but then she began to feel a pang of sympathy.

"Perhaps he doesn't know anyone," Frances suggested, still looking over at him.

"Perhaps he was forced to attend against his will," Emma said, laughing softly.

"Now why would he be forced?" Agnes countered, but before Emma could argue with her, Frances intervened.

"He could have a mother or sister that he must chaperone. It's been known to happen, and from what I've read, most men are utterly miserable if they have no interest in being there."

"Well, he does look utterly miserable," Emma agreed, and even Agnes nodded.

As the first strains of music from the instruments began to drift throughout the house, signaling the start of the dancing, Frances and her friends found a spot just aside from center along the main room's wall to wait. Like the other young ladies who sought to be asked to dance, they felt an air of hopeful anticipation that barely concealed their taut nerves. Fortunately, the next few hours were a joyful blur of merriment as men throughout the party invited their hopeful partners to dance.

"I cannot recall when I've had such fun. This is nothing like those dreadful balls at school," Emma said when one song ended and they left the dance floor.

"I cannot help but notice that Aggie had absolutely nothing to worry about," Frances said pointedly, smiling at their friend. "You've been asked to dance by nearly every man here!"

Agnes smiled shyly. "I suppose some things are hard to forget."

Frances started to reply, but she stopped when there came a gentle tap on her shoulder. For a moment, she wasn't sure someone had even tried to get her attention, thinking the faint touch might be nothing more than someone brushing past her in the crowded room. But Emma and Agnes looked over her shoulder at the newcomer, prompting Frances to turn around and smile.

Her face froze and her breath caught. It was him. No longer standing alone on the far side of the room as he'd done all evening, the stranger had crossed over and was now staring down at her expectantly with the coldest dark brown eyes she'd ever seen. There seemed to be endless depth to them, as though they swallowed all light and warmth from the surroundings. She couldn't even see herself mirrored in them, for his brown curls framed his face in a way that seemed to shade the flickering candlelight from the many sconces. The set of his jaw was almost alarming, as though he was desperately unhappy with his circumstances, and when he spoke, his voice did nothing to change that perception.

"May I have the next dance?" he asked plainly, his tone more of a statement than a question.

Frances darted her eyes back to her friends, who looked on helplessly.

"Of course, Mr.—" Frances began warily.

"Hughes."

"Oh. Mr. Hughes," she said, surprised by the abrupt answer when she'd expected an introduction.

Instead of saying anything more, the man merely held out his hand for her to take. Frances cast one last imploring glance to Emma and Agnes but there was nothing they could do. Instead, she slowly placed her hand in his and followed him to the dance floor. Frances faced him and curtseyed deeply, looking down, as the stranger bowed stiffly.

As the music began, Frances looked up at her partner and smiled weakly. He took no notice of it, but instead only positioned his arms for them to dance together. Frances stepped only as close to him as required and began to move about the room like the other couples. She waited, wondering if he would ever tell her his name or make any effort at conversation, but instead, he kept his attention fixed somewhere behind her at all times, regardless of the direction they faced. More than once she thought to say something friendly, but this man left her with the distinct impression that he would not appreciate it.

After a painfully long time, the last notes of the song drifted away to silence. The other dancers erupted in their usual bout of grateful applause, giving Frances the opportunity to move along. She curtseyed, but the man caught her elbow tenderly.

"Do you not wish to dance again?" he asked with a frown.

Frances looked up at him, perplexed. Who was he? How would he not know that convention does not permit a lady to dance with the same gentleman twice unless they are betrothed, and even then, not for two dances in a row! He must be some country relation to the Colonel and therefore unfamiliar with the rules that the ton held so dear.

"I'm sorry, I cannot," she said simply, giving him a half-smile before hurrying back to find her friends.