Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

"Oh, please don't," Ann begs. "I don't wish to cause any scandal."

"Yes, we'd be locked in our rooms for the entirety of the holiday," I agree.

We reach a confectioner's shop, where sumptuous pastries and jellied fruits beckon to us from behind glass. A young man sweeps

the sidewalk. He suddenly calls out boldly, "Franny! Come and give us a kiss!"

Franny blanches, looks away. "I'm sure you're mistaken, sir," she says.

Felicity pounces. "Sir, are you well acquainted with my servant?"

The young man doesn't know what to do or say. It's clear he knows Franny, and well, but now he may have gotten her in trouble. For a servant, the slightest whiff of impropriety can be grounds for dismissal.

"My mother should be quite interested to hear how her own maid kissed a man in broad daylight while in the company of her impressionable charges," Felicity says.

"But I never did such a thing!" Franny protests.

" Tis your word against ours," Felicity says, making us her accomplices whether we like it or not.

Franny balls her hands into tight fists at her side. "God sees yer wickedness, miss. It's a black mark in his ledger, to be sure."

"I think we might come to an agreement." Felicity pulls a shilling from her purse. "Here. Go on and take it. Take it and buy yourself a pastry. I'm sure this young man would be happy to help you. We'll agree to meet here again at, say, five o'clock?"

The shilling shines between Felicity's gloved fingers. If Franny takes it, she can enjoy a pastry and an afternoon with her gentleman friend. But she will also be forever in Felicity's pocket. Franny shakes her head. "Oh, no, miss. Please don't ask me to lie to Mrs. Worthington. Lying's a sin. I couldn't possibly, miss. Would you have me endanger my position and my immortal soul for only a shilling, miss?"

That Franny manages to deliver this blackmailing sermon with a straight face is quite a feat. I have newfound respect for her.

"I've a mind to tell my mother, anyway," Felicity snarls. It's an empty statement, and we all know it. Felicity's getting the precious freedom she craves. She hands Franny a pound, the price of her silence. Franny snatches the coin quickly, folding it tightly in her hand. Felicity isn't taking any chances. "If you should even think of confessing to my mother, we shall insist that it was you who left us to meet a gentleman friend. Poor us, lost and alone without our chaperone on the cruel streets of London, and missing a pound as well--most curious how that happened."

Franny, so triumphant a moment ago, blushes red and sets those thin lips in a grim line."Yes, miss. Five o'clock."

As we hurry after Felicity, I turn to Franny, not sure what to say."Thank you, Franny. You've, um, you've proved a very worthy girl." And with that, we are on our own.

Freedom tastes of a cream puff bought on Regent Street. Sweet leaves of flaky pastry dissolve on my tongue while the hansoms and omnibuses move up and down the street, muddy water mixed with dirty snow churning beneath their wheels. People bustle to and fro, armed with a sense of purpose. And we move among them with no constraints, another part of the nameless crowd colliding with chance, with destiny.

We walk to Piccadilly and duck into the great covered Burlington Arcade, striding past the beadles, who keep order with harsh glances and the weight of a stick in their hands. There are stalls selling items of all sorts here--sheet music, gloves, hosiery, cut-glass ornaments and the like--and I feel a deep longing for India again, with its bazaars and frantic markets.

"This is nearly as good as being in the realms," Ann says, happily devouring her treat.

"What is your news?" Felicity asks. "My brother has a patient at Bethlem named Nell Hawkins. A most interesting case . . ."

"It is so noble of Tom to care for the unfortunate," Ann says, licking a dollop of pastry cream from her lips."His betrothed must think him lovely."

"Betrothed? Tom?" I say, annoyed at the interruption. Too late, I remember my lie. "Oh. Yes, um, you meant Miss Richardson. Of course. How silly of me."

"You said her name was Dalton. And that she was beautiful." n

I ..." I can think of nothing to say. I've really put my foot in it."It is ended."

"Oh?" Ann asks, looking hopeful.

"Would you let her get on with the story?" Felicity chides.

"Nell Hawkins doesn't think herself Joan of Arc or the Queen of Sheba. Her particular delusion is that she thinks she's a member of the Order, and that a woman named Circe is after her."