Free The Courtship Dance by Candace Camp

walking into the theater. Startled, she felt a touch beneath her elbow and turned to find Rochford gazing quizzically at her. He and Lady Althea had dropped back beside her.
    “Woolgathering again, Lady Haughston?” he asked with a faint smile.
    “Oh, um…” Francesca felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. I am afraid I must be a trifle distracted this evening.”
    They continued into the theater, with the duke now by Francesca’s side, Lady Althea in front of them. However, when they reached the duke’s luxurious box, Francesca managed to neatly maneuver things so that she was against the wall, and Althea was between her and Rochford. Again separating herself from their conversation, Francesca scooted forward in her seat and raised her opera glasses to inspect the other occupants of the theater.
    There was Mrs. Everson, with her husband and two daughters. Francesca supposed she could visit with them later, though the prospect was not inviting. She lowered her glasses and nodded to them, just in case, then resumed her search. She wished she had urged SirLucien to attend with someone tonight, for then she could have visited with him and been assured of a lively conversation.
    As she looked, she became aware of that odd, indefinable sensation of being watched. She lowered her glasses and swept her eyes around the large room, taking in the tiers of boxes, then glanced down at the floor below.
    She let out a low exclamation as her eyes fell on a man standing in the aisle, staring up at her. Her hand tightened involuntarily on her fan.
    “Francesca? What is it?” she heard Rochford say, leaning forward and following her gaze.
    “The devil!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Perkins.”
    The man, seeing that he had gained Francesca’s attention, swept her a mocking bow. Francesca looked away without even a nod, sitting back in her seat.
    “What is he doing here?” she asked with disgust.
    “Who?” Lady Althea asked, glancing toward the crowd below.
    “Galen Perkins,” Rochford answered.
    “I don’t believe I recognize the name.”
    “There is no reason for you to,” Francesca assured her. “He has been out of the country for years.”
    “He is a thorough rogue,” Rochford added, shooting a quick sideways glance at Francesca.
    He knew, Francesca thought, that Perkins had been one of her late husband’s cronies. Though he came from a minor branch of a good family, he had done allhe could to tarnish their name. He had been a gambler and drinker, accompanying Lord Haughston on many of his wilder ventures. He had even, Francesca recalled, with a tightening of her stomach, been so low as to make advances to her despite his friendship with her husband.
    “What is he doing back in London?” Francesca asked. She explained in an aside to Althea, “He had to flee to the Continent several years ago because he killed a man in a duel.”
    Althea’s eyes widened. “Oh, my. Who?”
    “Avery Bagshaw, Sir Gerald’s son,” the duke told her. “As Sir Gerald died not long ago, I presume Perkins has decided that it is safe to return. Without Sir Gerald to push the authorities to arrest him, it is doubtful that anything will be done now. It has been seven or eight years, and they are apt to turn a blind eye to such things, anyway.”
    “Well, I am sure he will not be received anywhere,” Althea said decisively, delivering what was for her, apparently, the greatest punishment.
    “No. I am sure not,” Francesca agreed. It was terrible that he was once again able to live here freely, given what he had done. But at least she would not have to be around the man. With Andrew gone, he would not be coming to her house, and Althea was right in saying that he would not be received by polite society, so he would not be at any parties.
    She pulled her mind away from the thought of GalenPerkins, turning her attention back to her companions. Conversation had lagged while she had been scouting the theater, and