The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,12
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?”
Alexandra and Cecelia exchanged glances before the Duchess of Redmayne forged ahead. “Word is spreading faster than predicted that…”
“That I’m an undiscriminating spinster starving for sex?”