Love's a Stage by Laura London Page B

left St. Pips staring with hazy bewilderment into the space where she had been. He frowned up at Landry, who returned the look with an encouraging smile. It spoke volumes for the intimidating ease of Landry’s self-assurance that the moment passed without St. Pips making an objection.
    “You have a horse running next month at the Derby?” inquired Landry suavely, who was nothing if not well informed. Delighted with this show of interest, St. Pips launched once more into his favorite topic.
    Never before had so many conflicting emotions raged in Frances’ breast: resentment, trepidation, awful embarrassment, and a niggardly sum of gratitude that pricked her like a nettle. How she would have liked to know what Landry was thinking. The worst, no doubt. Frances stole her first nervous glance toward Landry, who was conducting an amused and thoughtful study of St. Pips. Landry was dressed in a gray evening coat, which contrasted admirably with his glinting green eyes and his shining, impeccably cut blond hair. His legs, finely muscled and long, were stretched casually before him, encased in tight-fitting breeches, as he leaned back in a chair next to Frances. He reached out an elegant hand to her and played gently, absentmindedly, in her curls with his tapered fingers. She shivered involuntarily and was about to bat his hand away when she saw Madame la Princesse bearing down on them.
    Madame had made a point to keep her eye on Frances throughout the evening. How she hated to use girls she had not personally trained! One never knew what gaucherie they might exhibit before a client. And tonight of all nights she wanted no slipups. She had seen Landry’s show of interest in the girl—his possessive sequester of her. Almost it had made her laugh—the foolish St. Pips gulled by the most beautiful man in the ton. These minor rivalries over girls were frequent in her house and they added spice to the business; but the White Rose was an unknown quantity. Could Madame trust her to keep the situation from getting out of hand? From the tight, unhappy look of her, it seemed as if the girl was going to exercise no conciliatory charm on either man. Perhaps she had already been handled too roughly by that stupid St. Pips. Or perhaps . . . the thought sprang to Madame’s mind—Mother Blanchard might have treacherously sent the girl with the villainous purpose of deliberately causing an incident to bring unfavorable publicity to Madame’s rival establishment? Madame’s heels took wing toward the trouble spot.
    “Ah, Lord Landry. Do you enjoy yourself? And Miss-sewer St. Pips, you are happy, oui?”
    St. Pips gave her a lushy grin and raised his glass. “Tolerable burgundy, Madame,” he said thickly.
    “And the little mademoiselle, she is fond of you?”
    “Slapped me right across the face,” he said proudly.
    “She is original, la petite mademoiselle,” replied Madame la Princesse, and darted a look that bode ill toward the Mysterious White Rose. “I know Mademoiselle the White Rose is eager for you to take her upstairs to continue your game in private, n’est-ce pas? I shall have Miss-sewer Beamer show you to a room.”
    Landry lifted his graceful body from the chair. As he did so, Frances saw him send a deft signal across the room to a young, strikingly handsome man standing by Kennan. The young man set down his wine, gave a wry smile, and came toward them. Landry made a subtle gesture, indicating St. Pips. The young man’s grin widened, and he gave a tiny affirmative nod. As the young man reached them, Landry said:
    “Mr. St. Pips, you know my cousin, Sir Giles? No? Giles, I know you’ll recognize the significance of St. Pips’ views on horseracing.”
    The young man rolled his eyes comically, murmured, “Only for you, David,” and came around the tête-à-tête to sit by St. Pips, inviting him, with an air of solicitous interest, to talk. Satisfied, Landry draped an affectionate arm around Madame and walked her to a