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did.
    Francesca smiled at the man now. “No. I am fine. Just a bit of a headache.”
    Upstairs, she faced the same quizzing from her maid, Maisie, who immediately took down Francesca’s hair and brushed it out, whisked off her dress and helped her into her nightclothes, then bustled out of the room to fetch lavender water to ease her headache. Before long Francesca found herself ensconced in her bed, pillows fluffed behind her, a handkerchief soaked in lavender water stretched across her forehead and the kerosene lamp beside her bed turned to its lowest glow.
    With a sigh, Francesca closed her eyes. She was not sleepy. The hour was far earlier than she was accustomed to retiring. And, in truth, the headache had eased as soon as she returned home and let down her hair. Unfortunately, the gloom that had touched her at the ball seemed to have settled in.
    She was not a woman who dwelled upon her misfortunes. When her husband had died five years ago, leaving her with little but this town house in London, one of the few things that had not been entailed with his estate, she had not sat about twisting her hands and bemoaning her fate. She had done her best to marshalher resources and pay off his debts, reducing her own expenses to the bare minimum. She had closed off part of the house and reduced the staff, then proceeded to gradually sell her silver and gold plate, and even her own jewelry. She had also quickly learned to practice economy, turning and refurbishing her old gowns rather than buying new ones, and wearing her slippers until the soles wore through.
    Even so, it had become apparent that such economies and her small jointure were not enough to support her and even a small staff for any length of time. Most women in her position would have sought a new husband, but after her experience with the first one, Francesca had been determined not to embark on that course again. Without a marriage to finance her, she knew, the expected course would be to retire to her father’s house, now her brother’s, to live as a dependent relative for the rest of her life.
    Instead, she had cast about for some means of bringing in more income. There were no jobs for ladies, of course, except for something like a companion or a governess. Neither of those held the slightest appeal for Francesca, and, indeed, she was sure that no one would have hired her for either one. The skills she possessed—impeccable taste, an eye for the fashions that complemented one’s looks rather than taking away from them, a thorough knowledge of the London social scene, the ability to flirt to exactly the right degree, as well as to enliven even the dullest party or most uncomfortablesituation—were not the sorts of things that would make one money.
    However, it occurred to her, after yet another society matron begged her help in bringing off an unpopular daughter’s Season, that her skills were quite useful in the primary occupation of the mamas of the ton —securing a good marriage for their unmarried daughters. Few could better guide a naive young girl through the treacherous waters of the Season, and none were as adept in finding the perfect dress or accessory to flatter a figure or diminish a fault, or the most becoming hairstyle for any sort of face. Patience, tact and a ready sense of humor had helped her through an unhappy marriage, as well as fifteen years as one of the leaders of the beau monde, an always-perilous position. Surely those qualities could be used to successfully steer a young woman into a good marriage—even, if she was lucky, into love.
    Francesca had been matchmaking for three years now—always under the genteel guise of doing a favor for a friend, of course—and she had managed, if not to live well, at least to get by. She was able to keep food on the table and pay a small staff, as well as heat the house in the winter—as long as she kept many of the larger, draftier rooms closed off. And given the amount of business she was