“When did optimistic and naive become synonymous?” Cecelia huffed. “Can a woman not hope for happiness, fulfillment, and love without being made to feel that she isn’t cynical enough for the trends of the day?”
“I don’t want you to be cynical,” Francesca argued. “Just … careful. In the span of a few months, you found out you had a wealthy aunt who owned the most successful gambling hell in London and half of the ton’s darkest secrets. You’ve been shot at, kidnapped, betrayed by a close friend, and your business burned to the ground.” She ticked these recent events off on her fingers. “You made an enemy, and then a fiancé, of one of the surliest, most unyielding, ill-tempered Scots in the empire—”
“Let us not forget handsome, loyal, rich, and generous—” Cecelia cut in, defending her lover.
“And then you’ve agreed to marry him even though he still does not want you to rebuild the establishment—”
“—as well as a school and employment placement program for displaced women—” Cecelia corrected.
“Also, the investigation into who imprisoned those girls in your cellar isn’t exactly tied up, if you’ll pardon the expression. I mean we’ve found the procurer of the children, but not who intended to buy them. Don’t you think a wedding on top of all that is too much too soon?”
Cecelia shook her head vehemently. “It’s too little, too late, if I’m honest.”
“How do you figure?”
“I love Ramsay.” Cecelia’s voice quieted, as one did when conveying a simple truth. “I want to be his wife, and if our lives are still dangerous, isn’t it best that I marry as soon as I can? That I live the life I want because I’m so aware that tomorrow is not guaranteed? We’re almost thirty, Francesca. If we’re going to marry and have children, now is the time.”
“But…” Francesca almost bit back the argument burning a hole in her chest. “We vowed not to marry.” They were supposed to be the Red Rogues for life. The Three Musketeers. Going on adventures, making mischief, and leading one another through the mire that was life.
Now she’d have to do that all on her own.
Alexandra rested her head on Francesca’s shoulder, all empathy and understanding. “We were young, impulsive, traumatized girls when we made that promise. Things have changed a great deal, haven’t they?”
For them, perhaps. Alexandra had found her duke, and he’d slain her dragons both real and remembered. Cecelia apparently felt as though Ramsay was her match, a Scot every bit as hard as she was soft. Powerful where she was pleasant, and disgustingly besotted with her.
What did Francesca have? Her revenge. She could sense that she drew closer to it, but it remained so frustratingly out of reach.
It consumed her every moment. What time did she have for true affection when she was so busy making false love to anyone she could get her hands on?
What if she survived her quest for vengeance? What then? Of course she and her Red Rogues were all still friends—the best of—but now loyalties were split. Love and family came before friendship. And no matter who had buried the bodies of their enemies, she could tell that her friends’ hearts had a little less room for her.
The thought made her nearly mad with melancholy, though she’d die before she admitted it.
Cecelia turned on her dais, smoothing the dress over her hips with a look of happiness that was almost painful to behold. “Frank,” she asked. “After this is all over … do you think you’ll ever marry?”
Francesca thought about it. Tried to picture any sort of domestic bliss and grimaced. She’d desired to marry once upon a time, but … that was before. Before she’d lost Declan Chandler.
“I think it’s impossible for me to be happy with a man,” she answered.
“Why?”
“Because I could not endure the rule of a husband, and yet would not respect or desire a man who would be ruled by me.” She shrugged at her conundrum.
Cecelia laughed. “You’ll need to find a man with the bravery to stand up to you.”
“And the wisdom to stand down,” Alexandra added sagely.
“Show me such a man, I dare you.” Francesca allowed herself to share their amusement until the modiste and the small army of assistants returned with their gowns for the engagement and wedding week’s revelries.
This evening’s ball gown, a sage-green confection with dramatic black cording and lace at the low bodice, made her appear to have curves where there might be none. This was why she used Madame Jaqueline Dupris, that and because she had made a few alterations specific to her, including extra pockets for weapons, tonics, and whatever else she might need to conceal.
Last-minute alteration notes were made for the subsequent gowns, which would be delivered the next morning.
A restless awareness plagued her as she signed papers, handed hat and dress boxes to footmen, and tossed her scotch back with more relish than usual, glancing toward the tastefully draped window.
The sunlight was … was what? Watchful? Expectant? Or was she being dramatic? A heat skittered across her skin that had nothing to do with the unseasonable late-summer warmth. It was as though a foreign gaze touched her. It peered past the art and artifice she’d tucked around herself, through the skin and sinew of her, to the cold and lonely darkness beneath.
She felt, in that moment, like a diary opened to a stranger, and yet she had no reason to do so.
Unsettled, she scanned the busy street from the corner of the Strand to the bright, cloudless horizon. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No strange fellows lurked down below or peered from windows across the way. People were everywhere, and she was just one of the throng of Londoners going about her rather pedestrian day.
So why did the heat of the sun call her to strip away the layers of her clothing, exposing her flesh to its warmth?
Perhaps this city was driving her mad.
Again the reflection blinded her, and she turned back to face Cecelia’s disturbingly observant assessment, as her friend had drifted closer. A worried wrinkle appeared between Cecelia’s brows as she opened her parasol to protect her skin from the rare sunlight. “You’re not going to … that is to say … you’re not going home with Lord Brendan, are you? On the night of my engagement party?”
“Of course I will. I’m getting close. I can feel it. My next bedfellow might just spill the information I’ve been looking for.”
Alexandra drew up to her other side, adjusting her hastily donned hat. Regardless of their fortunes and status, the Red Rogues often served as one another’s ladies’ maids at such outings, so they might talk freely. “Frank … what you’re doing with these men is not safe. What if someone hurts you, or worse?”
“You well know anyone with nefarious plans should fear me rather than the other way around.” Francesca winked and patted her pocket where a small pistol rested inside. She needn’t remind them of the knife in her boot, another up her sleeve.
“Of course we know you’re trained in combat.” Cecelia spoke more conspiratorially in public. “But … oh, I don’t know … I can’t even say it.”
“Say what?”