“Introduce the topic of politics or horses and you’ll have a man talking for hours.” St. Pips was clearly in no state to discuss politics. How fortunate for Frances that Mr. St. Pips had a filly running in Derby next month and had bored his friends and family so with the subject that they had refused to discuss it further. Nothing could have pleased him more than a willing listener.
St. Pips embarked upon a largely incoherent lecture regarding the training of thoroughbreds that was based in its entirety on misquoted comments from his jockey and The Gentlemen’s Sporting Monthly . An occasional “Is that truly so?” or “A sound point, Mr. St. Pips!” were the only role Frances need play in the conversation; the greater part of her mind was free to take stock of her situation.
Tonight, Frances knew, there would be no opportunity to probe the secrets of Kennan’s knavery. Mischief, indeed, might explain his presence here, but it would be mischief of quite another order than smuggling! Tomorrow she must plan a scheme for Kennan’s undoing; now all that Frances desired was a swift and safe retreat to Aunt Sophie’s. She must put aside how she was to find her way home in the dark (for it was the city fathers’ stingy policy to provide oil for the streetlamps only from sunset to midnight); her immediate problem was to show a light pair of heels to the domain of Madame la Princesse. But caution must be the byword. Something in Madame’s hardened expression had warned Frances that any attempt to leave might be construed as desertion and dealt with harshly. And Beamer, with the monster arms—would he try forcefully to prevent her from going? If she created a tumult and Kennan should notice her, he might be wary of her in the future. It would be folly to attract attention! She must sneak away quietly.
Jem Beamer stood by the hallway from which she had entered. If only he were called elsewhere, she might be able to disguise her departure among the general comings and goings.
Beamer’s glinting survey began to swing in her direction, so Frances shifted her gaze.
The rest of the room, she found, was decorated with a feverish opulence and without the best of craftsmanship, a matter that did not seem to be exercising the concern of the gentlemen present. To the right lay a wide curving stair, its balusters adorned with gilt cherubs shooting tiny pointed arrows. Ready to be grateful for each small kindness of Fate, Frances was relieved to see the walls decorated with a series of unobjectionable, if bland, landscapes and not, as she had feared, by murals of couples locked in the Marriage Act, which was the impression Frances had mistakenly gathered from the dire hints of journals seeking to reform the nation’s moral clime. And whatever orgiastic revels might be taking place elsewhere in the building, within this room at least, the entertainment consisted of sprightly conversation groups, hard drinking, and a great deal of flirtation. Kennan was at the far end of the room surrounded by a sizable clique of prestigious gentlemen, if one was to judge from the attention paid them by Madame la Princesse and her compatriots. A royal duke was there; Frances recognized that stout noble from the thousands of lampoons that pilloried his extravagance. It must be Lord Nascole’s nephew beside the Duke, receiving a hearty round of birthday salutes. Frances knew none of the other men but their demeanor, their bearing, the cut and fit of their evening wear, marked them as gentlemen of the highest caliber—the cream of the aristocratic cream.
There was a stir by the door. A man entered, but Frances had been watching Kennan, so by the time she turned to see the new arrival, he was already surrounded by a large group of friends, which obstructed her view. Obviously a popular gentleman, he was at once borne to Kennan’s crowd, where he received another round of exultant greetings. A very popular gentleman! His back was to Frances. She
St. Pips embarked upon a largely incoherent lecture regarding the training of thoroughbreds that was based in its entirety on misquoted comments from his jockey and The Gentlemen’s Sporting Monthly . An occasional “Is that truly so?” or “A sound point, Mr. St. Pips!” were the only role Frances need play in the conversation; the greater part of her mind was free to take stock of her situation.
Tonight, Frances knew, there would be no opportunity to probe the secrets of Kennan’s knavery. Mischief, indeed, might explain his presence here, but it would be mischief of quite another order than smuggling! Tomorrow she must plan a scheme for Kennan’s undoing; now all that Frances desired was a swift and safe retreat to Aunt Sophie’s. She must put aside how she was to find her way home in the dark (for it was the city fathers’ stingy policy to provide oil for the streetlamps only from sunset to midnight); her immediate problem was to show a light pair of heels to the domain of Madame la Princesse. But caution must be the byword. Something in Madame’s hardened expression had warned Frances that any attempt to leave might be construed as desertion and dealt with harshly. And Beamer, with the monster arms—would he try forcefully to prevent her from going? If she created a tumult and Kennan should notice her, he might be wary of her in the future. It would be folly to attract attention! She must sneak away quietly.
Jem Beamer stood by the hallway from which she had entered. If only he were called elsewhere, she might be able to disguise her departure among the general comings and goings.
Beamer’s glinting survey began to swing in her direction, so Frances shifted her gaze.
The rest of the room, she found, was decorated with a feverish opulence and without the best of craftsmanship, a matter that did not seem to be exercising the concern of the gentlemen present. To the right lay a wide curving stair, its balusters adorned with gilt cherubs shooting tiny pointed arrows. Ready to be grateful for each small kindness of Fate, Frances was relieved to see the walls decorated with a series of unobjectionable, if bland, landscapes and not, as she had feared, by murals of couples locked in the Marriage Act, which was the impression Frances had mistakenly gathered from the dire hints of journals seeking to reform the nation’s moral clime. And whatever orgiastic revels might be taking place elsewhere in the building, within this room at least, the entertainment consisted of sprightly conversation groups, hard drinking, and a great deal of flirtation. Kennan was at the far end of the room surrounded by a sizable clique of prestigious gentlemen, if one was to judge from the attention paid them by Madame la Princesse and her compatriots. A royal duke was there; Frances recognized that stout noble from the thousands of lampoons that pilloried his extravagance. It must be Lord Nascole’s nephew beside the Duke, receiving a hearty round of birthday salutes. Frances knew none of the other men but their demeanor, their bearing, the cut and fit of their evening wear, marked them as gentlemen of the highest caliber—the cream of the aristocratic cream.
There was a stir by the door. A man entered, but Frances had been watching Kennan, so by the time she turned to see the new arrival, he was already surrounded by a large group of friends, which obstructed her view. Obviously a popular gentleman, he was at once borne to Kennan’s crowd, where he received another round of exultant greetings. A very popular gentleman! His back was to Frances. She
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