cheeks darkened as she glanced up and down the busy street. “Well … yes.”
Francesca gave a nonchalant shrug. “What care have I what they all say? They can take neither my title nor my fortune from me. Their acceptance means nothing, and my reputation is useless next to my revenge.”
Before her friends could reply, a blur of heavy rags and faded wool crashed into the porter’s bevy of boxes, sending gowns, millinery, and haberdashery scattering in a fountain of wrapping paper and ribbons.
A portly older man with bad teeth and frizzy grey hair peeking from beneath a weathered cap writhed on a slew of silk chemises and underthings, squawking and carrying on like a seagull in distress.
Her footman, Ivan, stepped to the man, shooing him away with strongly worded reproofs.
“Oh, do stand down, Ivan, and help the poor man up.” Francesca huffed over the cobbles, reaching the man’s right shoulder as Ivan reluctantly held the left. “What happened here? Are you all right, sir? Do you need medical attention?” Her propensity to rapid-fire questions wasn’t one she’d gathered the discipline to overcome.
It took more strength than she’d expected to lift the surprisingly heavy, incredibly solid fellow from the ground, and he seemed to do nothing whatsoever to assist in his own recovery. The shoulders beneath her hands were padded with too many layers of clothing for summer, making him seem twice his size. It was impossible to gauge his height as he was stooped over so, with a hump on his back beneath his coat that made her own neck ache in sympathy.
“No ’arm done. No ’arm done,” he drawled as he tripped and scrambled off his arse to a semi-upright position. He batted at his jacket and backside, releasing more dust into the air than one would collect on the street alone. “It’s me damned rheumatism acting up again. Might you get me cane for me, love?” The nail of the finger he pointed with was caked with the same grime as what stained his fingerless gloves. She didn’t want to consider its origin.
“Of course.” She stooped to retrieve it and extended it, careful not to touch him. “Are you sure you are not hurt?”
“No more than me pride,” he said rather sheepishly as he hobbled about, treading on a few of the garments that had escaped their wrapping.
Francesca did her best not to wince.
“My Mildred, she’s always after me for not watching where I’m going. Thick as a mooring post I am, that’s what she says.” He looked down and gawked at a pair of discarded drawers, which were now soiled from the road and the soles of his patched boots. “What’s all this?” He stooped to scoop up the delicate silk, and bent again to yank at the skirt of her ball gown, which was still mostly in the box until he got his hands on it.
Inspecting it with one wide eye, he turned his attention to her with the narrowed gaze of a detective. “Are you going to some posh to-do later? You’re a fine lady, i’nt ya? I can tell.”
It took no great investigative mind to decipher that. “A ball, in fact, if I can clean my gown by then.” Impatience threatened to seep into her tone as she reached for her dress. It had cost a fortune, and now the cleaning would, as well. She might have to wear another for tonight.
A crowd had begun to gather after a fashion, couples and businessmen passing by more slowly to gawk at their goings-on.
Francesca would be humiliated, if she were prone to such ridiculous emotions.
A dingy smile split the man’s face, revealing three blackened teeth Francesca couldn’t bring herself to look at. “Whar now! I fink you’ll be the prettiest thing at the … wait a tic. Do I know you?”
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” She began to inch toward her carriage as Alexandra, Cecelia, and the footmen did their best to reclaim and reorganize the boxes.
He wagged that large, dingy finger dramatically. “You’re famous or somefing, ain’t ya? I’ve seen you in the papers?”
“That isn’t likely…”
“Why!” His face lit with recognition. “You’re that prodigal countess. Mont Claire it were, weren’t it?” He slapped his thigh. “Well diddle me giddy aunt, I’ll have to tell the missus I was run over by royalty.”
“Hardly royalty—”
“And if it’ll make you feel better, she’ll wallop me another good one for ya. A brigadier general is my Mildred, keeps me on my toes so she don’t smash them with