No matter how appealing the idea of having her own home and an annuity was, she could not accept the Earl’s proposal. Because, curious as a part of her was to know what it would be like to be the Earl’s wife, a stronger and more frightened part recalled the cruelties her father had inflicted on her mother, and her mother’s tearful despair.
She shivered and pushed away the memory of her mother’s sufferings. But she did not push away her mother’s tragic warning. She could not marry the Earl. But she was still grateful to him for having given her somewhere safe to stay, and if she could only persuade him to give her a reference so that she would be able to find a post as a companion or governess and support herself, then she would have nothing more to wish for.
A governess, she thought the next morning as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
It was a bright and beautiful morning, and sunlight was streaming through a crack in the curtains. What a difference between this room and her dingy room in her uncle’s house! she thought. The pretty sprigged drapes at the window glowed in the bright light, and the polished furniture shone.
She went over to the window and lifted the curtain, looking down into the neat and orderly garden.
Yes, a governess, she thought, dropping the curtain and going over to the washstand, where the porcelain jug had already been filled.
If she became a companion then she would be condemned to a life of servitude, but if she became a governess then in time she might be able to save enough money to open her own small school and achieve a measure of independence.
She washed and dressed, dispensing with a corset as she could not manage the laces by herself, and then went downstairs.
Breakfast had been laid in the dining-room, and Madeline helped herself to a plate of ham and eggs. She was surprised to find that she had such a healthy appetite. In her uncle’s house it had been all she could do to push a morsel of food past her lips, but here, with the burden of fear lifted from her, she enjoyed her meal. She saw only one servant during all that time: Crump, the butler, who brought her a cup of chocolate, and who told her that the Earl had gone out on business but would be back before lunch.
Once Madeline had finished her breakfast she knew exactly what she wanted to do. She had seen a large collection of novels in the bedroom, displayed in a pretty break-fronted bookcase, and she longed to look through it. She had noticed a number of books by famous authors, amongst them Maria Edgeworth, Mrs Radcliffe and Jane Porter, and she was looking forward to browsing through this unexpected treasure. Novels had been forbidden in her father’s house, but her mother had occasionally managed to acquire one and she and Madeline had read them together.
Running her fingers along the spines, Madeline smiled as she came across Evelina, by Fanny Burney. It had been her mother’s favourite book. They had both of them delighted in Evelina’s adventures as she had moved from the country and discovered the joys of London life - until her father had found the novel . . . She shuddered, and her finger moved on. A Sicilian Romance, Castle Rackrent, Octavia – all the best novels by the best authors were there. At last she selected Anna Maria Porter’s The Hungarian Brothers and, tempted by the summer sunshine, took it out into the garden.
A riot of colour met her eyes. Emerald green lawns, lovingly tended, were crossed by gravel paths which snaked through the beautiful garden. Large flower beds were filled with gay blooms, in striking contrast to the rank and overgrown patch of land behind her uncle’s house. The roses in particular, just beginning to unfurl, made a lovely display. She stopped to smell them, breathing in the heady scent; feeling as though, after long months and years of merely existing, she was finally coming back to life.
Then, seeing a stone seat set at an angle to catch the morning sun, she walked over to it and settled herself comfortably. The stone was already warm and she stretched herself luxuriously before opening her book and beginning to read.
‘Ah! Pemberton! There you are. Good of you to come.’
Philip shook hands with the seasoned man who had stood up to address him. They had met by design in a quiet corner of White’s, in St James’s Street, Philip’s London club.
‘Your message sounded urgent,’ said Philip. ‘I thought it best that we should meet straight away.’
Callaghan nodded, and the two men sat down in a couple of deeply-buttoned leather armchairs. ‘Perhaps not urgent, but important. Oh, yes. And something you will want to know.’ He opened an enamelled snuff box and offered Philip a pinch. Philip refused and he shut the box with a snap. ‘I won’t waste your time, Pemberton. I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll come straight to the point. Saunders was a friend of yours, was he not?’
Philip’s attention sharpened at the sound of the familiar name. ‘He was. And still is.’
Callaghan nodded thoughtfully. ‘Seen anything of him lately?’
Philip sat back and surveyed the man in front of him. To outward appearances Callaghan was an ordinary man. More weather-beaten than most, perhaps, but nothing more. And yet Philip knew him to be a spy.
The war in Europe was dragging on. Although Napoleon had suffered a number of defeats in recent years he had still not been stopped. He seemed determined to prolong the war for as long as possible, knowing that if he sued for peace his own power would be lost. The activity of spies, therefore - men who regularly risked their lives to find out where he would strike next, or what his numbers were - was vital if the war was to be brought to a speedy end. They lived in a dark and shadowy world; a world of intrigue, deceit and double agents, of sudden danger and silent death. And in this dark and shadowy world moved men like Callaghan. And men like Jack Saunders; the man who, three years before, had saved Philip’s life – a debt that, if the opportunity ever presented itself, Philip meant to repay.
But for now he could do nothing to help Callaghan. ‘No. Not since I left Spain. Why? Has something happened to him?’
‘We’re not sure. We lost touch with him some weeks ago.’
Philip’s voice was emotionless: years of fighting on the Continent had taught him that tragedy was inevitable in such a conflict. ‘Which means that he is injured, captured or dead.’
Callaghan’s face remained bland. ‘Not necessarily.’
Philip’s gaze sharpened. Callaghan wasn’t some green boy who clung on to hope for no good reason. He was an experienced campaigner. A cautious, experienced campaigner. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
Callaghan did not immediately reply. His face became blander by the second. ‘It means that Saunders was engaged on . . . delicate work. There may be reasons why he has not been in touch.’
Philip’s eyes narrowed. He knew Callaghan would not say anything more definite, but that did not stop him from speculating as to what the delicate work could be. Going undercover, perhaps? Infiltrating Napoleon’s staff? – made easier by the fact that Napoleon was running desperately short of men and needed all the help he could find. Or was the delicate work something of a different kind? Was it a matter of trying to weed out the double agents who played both sides off against each other, in the certainty of coming out on top no matter which side won? Yes, that was possible.
‘Why would he contact me?’ Philip asked.
‘He knows you. He trusts you. If something’s wrong he may not want to go through the regular channels, or he may not be able to. We have to investigate every possibility. He’s not been —’
He stopped as a waiter approached their corner and asked if he could get either of the men anything. They answered in the negative, and did not speak again until he had left.
‘He’s not been in touch with you?’ asked Callaghan, finishing his question.
‘No,’ said Philip. He said no more.
Callaghan nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’ll let us know if you hear from him?’ he asked.
Philip looked at him appraisingly. He was a good judge of character – his years in the army had honed his original instincts in that direction – and he felt that
Callaghan was a man to be trusted. But even so he would only reveal any contact if Jack himself wanted him to do so.
Callaghan smiled, as if reading his thoughts. ‘That is, if Saunders has no objections?’
Philip gave a curt nod
‘Good.’ Callaghan stood up. Then, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, he said in a hearty voice as the two men left the club, ‘Good to see you again, Pemberton! Next time we mustn’t leave it so long!’
The two men parted, Philip frowning as he thought over what Callaghan had said.
He did not like it. No, he did not like it one bit. Jack wasn’t the kind to lose touch with his superior officers unless it was unavoidable, no matter how delicate his mission might be, and if it was unavoidable, that meant trouble.
Still, Jack was capable of handling trouble. And right now, thought Philip, as an image of Madeline rose before his eyes, he had his own concerns.
The sooner he returned home and attended to them, the better.
The Hungarian Brothers was turning out to be even more interesting than Evelina. Madeline, absorbed in her book, was enjoying herself. The sun was warm and a pleasant buzzing of the bees, interspersed with the occasional cooing of the doves, created an idyllic backdrop to the romance. Lord Pemberton’s house was only a short distance away from her uncle’s house in Grosvenor Square, but it seemed to be in a different world. It was calm and peaceful; all the things her uncle’s – and her father’s - house had never been. She was just about to turn the page when she was disturbed by a sound coming from the direction of the house and, looking up, was amazed to see Jenny hurrying towards her through the garden.
‘Jenny! What are you doing here?’ she asked, laying down her book and going to greet her maid. ‘How did you find me?’
‘Oh, miss,’ gasped Jenny, who had obviously been running hard, and who was clutching her side where a sharp pain had formed with the effort. ‘I’ve come to warn you, miss. Your uncle’s found out where you are and he’s coming to get you. He’s already on his way.’
Madeline looked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘No, Jenny, you must be mistaken. He can’t have found me.’ But even as she said it she began to realise it must be true. Jenny had found her, and if her maid could find her then so could her uncle.
Icy fingers clutched at her heart.
‘He’s had the servants looking for you all night,’ went on Jenny. Her breathing was still laboured, but she was determined to speak. ‘He sent everyone out. He was in such a taking. They’ve been combing the streets, but they couldn’t find you. You don’t know how glad I was to think you’d got away! But someone saw you, miss. Some drunk. He saw you getting into a hackney carriage with the Earl of Pemberton. And now your uncle’s on his way here to fetch you back again. But don’t you let him take you, miss. Don’t you ever go back to him, or he’ll make you pay for having run away. There’s no telling what he might do if he gets you in his clutches again.’
Madeline turned pale. Whatever happened, she was not going back with her uncle. But if he found her in the garden she would be an easy target.
‘Quickly,’ she said to Jenny. ‘We must go inside. I’ll speak to Crump and give him instructions not to admit –’
But it was too late. A violent altercation was coming from the direction of the house, and a minute later her uncle appeared, Crump following and still protesting that Mr Delaware could not come in.
Madeline looked wildly round but the garden was bounded by a high wall and there was no escape.
‘There you are!’ seethed her uncle. His face was contorted with anger and he was almost purple with rage. He strode towards her in fury. ‘Thought you’d set up for yourself, did you?’
Madeline shrank back, afraid of him and humiliated by his words. As if she would . . . would . . . she couldn’t bear to think what he was implying.
But her uncle did not stop. He advanced on her menacingly and as she turned to run he caught her by the wrist, his fingers like a vice and his nails biting into her flesh. ‘Oh, no, miss. You’re not going anywhere. Your dowry’s going to pay my gambling debts. You’re coming back with me.’ His face suddenly broke into a warped smile, and Madeline found it almost worse than his rage. ‘I never thought you had it in you, Maddy. A chip off the old block after all.’ He gave a leer. ‘And you’ve not done bad for yourself. I told you that dress would work wonders. Look what it’s done for you. Set you up as Pemberton’s mistress. Pemberton! An earl! If I didn’t need your dowry to pay off Lucius Spalding, I’d applaud!’
Madeline, trying to twist her wrist out of his grip, suddenly saw Philip striding across the garden. She closed her eyes, racked with humiliation as she realised that he must have overheard. She made a renewed effort to wrench herself free whilst Philip strode towards them across the garden, his face like thunder.
That is how he must look on the battlefield, she thought as she saw him. His long, lean body was rippling with sinew and muscle and a wave of power seemed to emanate from him, flooding the air with danger.
‘Delaware!’ His voice cut the air like a whip. ‘Get your hands off my wife!’
Gareth sneered, although he took an involuntary step backwards all the same. ‘She’s coming with – what did you say?’ he asked as the Earl’s words sunk in. ‘Your wife?’ And then he quickly recovered. ‘Oh, no, Pemberton, you don’t play that one with me. You have no claim on her. She is my ward. My twenty-year-old ward. She’s under-age, Pemberton; under my care and protection. You’ll have to find yourself another bit of muslin.’ His face took on its customary leer. ‘Although this one’ll take some beating, I agree.’
‘That is the second time you have insulted Lady Pemberton,’ said the Earl, the wave of danger intensifying. ‘Do so again and I will call you out.’
Gareth dropped Madeline’s wrist and a look of fear crossed his face. The Earl had fought on the Peninsula. His reputation was formidable. ‘Now, look here, Pemberton,’ he said shakily. ‘You can’t do this. She isn’t your wife. You know she isn’t.’ His tone was almost pleading.
‘The Countess and I were married by special licence this morning. Which means that she is no longer under your “care and protection”, Delaware. She is under mine. If you wish to complain that I married her without your consent then I suggest you take the matter up with the proper authorities.’
‘You . . .You . . .’ spat Gareth, words failing him as his rage momentarily overcame his fear. Then, ‘You’ll never get her dowry,’ he said, holding his ground and squaring up to the Earl; only to quail a moment later before the latter’s aura of power.
‘I don’t want it.’ The Earl spoke contemptuously.
‘You don’t want ten thousand pounds?’ asked Gareth incredulously.
‘It would barely cover the Countess’s pin money. You may keep her dowry. Provided,’ he said, his voice becoming like polished steel, ‘that neither I nor the Countess ever see or hear from you again. Is that understood?’
‘I –’ Gareth’s eyes were calculating.
Madeline watched him in fear, seeing the play of emotions across his face. She had learnt to read him well; indeed, her safety had often rested on her ability to know what he was thinking.
He felt ill used, that much was clear from his aggrieved expression, but there was a calculating look in his eye which told her that he was reluctant to make a fuss. And small wonder. With Madeline’s dowry he could pay off his debts, and what use was she to him anyway? Without her dowry she was no use at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was a hindrance.
True, her dowry was tied up so that he could not touch it, but if Philip did not want the money, then he could easily claim it and give it back to Gareth.
If she married him.
Which she was determined not to do.
But Gareth did not know that.
He thought she was already married.
‘I don’t like it,’ Gareth said grudgingly at last. ‘You have played me a dirty trick. But - yes. It seems I
have no choice. I agree.’
‘A wise move,’ said Philip. ‘And now, you have polluted my house for long enough. Crump will show you out.’
Gareth looked as though he might choose to stay and create further trouble, but one look at Philip’s implacable face decided him. He gave a curt nod and followed Crump back into the house.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Philip, striding over to Madeline.
But now that the immediate danger had passed, another worry forced its way to the front of her mind. Was the Earl going to force her to marry him after all? Was that why he had claimed they were already married? Only last night he had told her that she had a choice in the matter of her marriage. He had made her think she could agree to his proposal or reject it as she chose. But by telling her uncle they were married he had taken that choice away from her.
‘You had no right to say that,’ she declared. ‘I have not agreed to be your wife.’
His stopped in his tracks.
‘I have just —’ he began.
‘Taken my choices away from me.’
‘I have done nothing of the kind,’ he said. ‘If I had not told your uncle we were married he would have had every right to take you back - though how he found you in the first place I don’t know,’ he added.
‘As to that, the answer is simple,’ said Madeline. Her anger was beginning to fade as it did not seem as if he was going to force her, after all. ‘My uncle sent his servants out to look for me. A drunk saw me getting into the carriage with you, and told my uncle’s servants what he had seen.’ She shook her head and shivered, suddenly feeling cold. ‘I should have known he would not let me go so easily.’
‘He told you this?’ asked Philip curiously.
‘No.’ Turning to Jenny, Madeline said, ‘It was Jenny who told me. She came to warn me that my uncle had discovered my whereabouts.’
Noticing Jenny for the first time, Philip said, ‘That explains it.’ He became thoughtful. ‘Well, it is a good thing Jenny is here,’ he said at last. ‘You are in need of a maid.’ He turned to Jenny. ‘I take it you do not wish to go back to Mr Delaware?’
The Six-Month Marriage Page 4
