Page 28 of From Unwanted to Duchess
“I would not recommend that either,” Marianne said with a chuckle.
“Why not?” Frances asked, confused.
Marianne and James exchanged a smirk.
“It tastes like little more than sugar water. But if you do get thirsty, it is better than nothing,” Marianne replied.
James grinned. “I do have something better than lemonade and sugar water.” He opened his pocket and pulled out a small flask.
“Your Grace,” Marianne gasped in mock horror.
“It was your aunt who gave it to me,” he defended himself.
Frances shook her head, but she could not deny that she, too, would not mind a sip.
“Now, if you ladies do not mind, I will find myself a corner to hide in and enjoy my beverage. Then, I will return and dance the quadrille with you,” James told her without waiting for her answer.
As he walked away, Frances remained by Marianne’s side. Almost immediately, a woman joined them.
“Lady Wexford,” she greeted as she approached, her feathered turban bobbing with each step.
Marianne smiled graciously. “Lady Foxworthy. Allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Frances Langley.”
Frances bobbed an awkward curtsy and rose with a smile, hoping she had gotten it right.
“Oh yes, the relation from Bedfordshire. I was most surprised when I heard that your aunt is trying to find you a husband. What a valiant effort she’s making on your behalf.”
“Thank you,” Frances said, though it did not sound like a compliment. The woman’s tone suggested it was more of an impossibility than a valiant effort.
“Lady Eugenia told me you were caught up in that dreadful situation a few nights ago. How perfectly frightful that must have been.”
“It was.” She nodded. “The Duke of Somerset and I were separated from Lady Eugenia. It was quite frightening.”
“Oh yes, and that poor boy who was killed. What an unfortunate situation. He was a midshipman, you know. Just nineteen years old. Had his whole life ahead of him.”
“I heard someone was killed, but I was unaware of his station,” Frances said, that horrible feeling that had sat in her chest since earlier this evening growing.
Nineteen years old. The same age as me.
“How terrible, and how ruthless of those hooligans to shoot someone just passing by. These radicals are getting out of hand.”
“Excuse me,” a deep voice sounded from behind them. A portly gentleman Frances didn’t recognize stepped forward, his mutton chop whiskers twitching. “I heard it was Mr. Frederick John Robinson who shot him from inside his house. In fact, my brother is in the military, and he says that such a shot could have only come from inside a building, not from a mob in the street.”
“Impossible,” Lady Foxworthy said, her voice rising indignantly. “Mr. Robinson is the most refined of gentlemen. He would not shoot out of his window at peasants, no matter how provoked.”
At the wordpeasants, Frances gulped, feeling quite out of countenance.
Was she a member of the peasant class to these people? Probably. Her father was a farmer, after all, even if he owned land.
“In any case, it is a terrible tragedy,” Marianne interjected, attempting to steer the conversation to safer ground. “Whoever did it?—”
The gentleman shrugged dismissively. “It might’ve been one of his servants. Probably somebody who overreacted to the mob. Likely someone newly arrived from the ends of the world, unused to London crowds.”
Frances looked down at her shoes, feeling decidedly put out. Everything about this conversation made her uncomfortable.
“Excuse me,” a familiar voice called from behind. “I think this is my dance.”
She turned and saw James. It was, in fact, not their time to dance. She was to dance the quadrille with him, and at the moment they were dancing some sort of reel.
