Lucien Tregellas

by Margaret McPhee

  But Betsy would not be hushed.

  ‘He’s comin’, I knows it!’ she wailed again and began to tremble from head to toe.

  John Hayley stepped back briefly. ‘It’ll be all right, Betsy,’ soothed the young groom. ‘We won’t let nothin’ happen to neither of you.’ A large hand touched against the maid’s arm, a bright smile flashed, and Betsy’s crying miraculously ceased.

  ‘Promise?’ she hiccupped through breaths still small and panting from her sobbing.

  ‘I promise,’ said the young man.

  The mist closed in around them. The hooves grew louder. John Hayley stepped forward to be level with Mr Boyle. They waited in silence, tension crackling all around them, eyes trained upon that spot where the road had been. Waiting. Poised. Afraid. Knowing that the encroaching mist distorted sound, aware that the horseman could be closer. They strained their attention towards that one single point. Both wishing and dreading his appearance.

  Suddenly, from out of the mist, the horseman appeared. A large dark shape astride a huge black horse.

  Betsy screamed. ‘It’s Harry Staunton!’

  An almighty flash and a loud explosive crack burst forth from the blunderbuss, the recoil of which knocked Mr Boyle to the ground. The air was heavy with blue smoke and the stench of gunpowder. It seemed that the shattering noise echoed amidst Betsy’s incessant screaming. Raising the cudgel John Hayley prepared to protect them all from the attack of the ghostly highwayman.

  ‘What the blazes…?’ Lucien saw the flash of gunpowder ignite and threw himself flat against his horse’s back, bracing himself to control the petrified beast. From behind he heard the shout of alarm from his man Sibton, and reined the gelding in hard. Nelson reared on to his hindlegs, eyes rolling back in terror. Lucien clung on for dear life, whispering calming reassurances in the horse’s flattened-back ears, using every ounce of strength to stop the beast bolting directly into the small huddled group before him. Nelson skittered forward and reared again, sending deadly hooves crashing down dangerously close to the fair-haired man standing to their fore. The bodies scuttled backwards, the woman’s piercing screams unnerving both Nelson and his master. With a firm press of the knees Lucien managed to quiet the great black horse enough to draw the pistol from the pocket of his greatcoat. He jumped down from Nelson’s back, throwing the reins to Sibton, and pointed the muzzle at the shape before him. ‘Unhand that woman or I’ll fire.’

  The screaming intensified.

  ‘What the hell are you doing to her?’ He prowled forward, the mist thinning as he did so. The pistol cocked beneath his finger.

  ‘Lord Tregellas?’ a familiar elderly voice sounded. ‘Can it be you?’

  ‘Boyle?’ One more step and he saw them clearly. Young Hayley with cudgel raised, standing before Boyle, who lay upon the ground. Two women, one trying to help the old man up, the other huddled in a frightened ball, screaming and sobbing in terror.

  The stick dropped from the young groom’s hand and the defensive stance relaxed. ‘M’lord, thank God it’s you. We thought…’

  Lucien surveyed the scene before him closer, his eyes moving quickly from one face to another, until it came to rest on that of his wife. ‘Madeline.’ Her eyes were huge and dark in the pallor of her face. He stepped past Hayley. ‘What happened?’ He saw the blunderbuss down by Boyle’s side.

  ‘Forgive me, m’lord. I didn’t know ’twas you. Thought you were a villain comin’ out of the mist. Couldn’t take no chances on account of her ladyship bein’ present,’ Boyle murmured, clutching at his shoulder.

  Comprehension dropped into place. ‘You mean it was you that shot at me?’

  Boyle nodded weakly. ‘Praise the lord that the shot went high. I could have killed you.’

  ‘Never mind that now. Let me have a look at that shoulder.’

  ‘Just a bruise,’ gasped Boyle from between gritted teeth. ‘See to her ladyship, I’ll be fine,’ he whispered, cheeks turning chalkier by the minute. Lucien had to bend an ear close to the old man’s mouth to catch the faint words amidst Betsy’s hysteria. Lucien turned an irritated eye towards the maid. ‘By Hades, will someone quieten that girl before I do it myself?’

  ‘Lucien!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘Don’t be so unkind. Betsy is distraught. She thought you were a ghost coming out of the mist.’

  Lucien’s gaze swivelled to Madeline. He raised one dark eyebrow. ‘If that bullet had been an inch lower, I damn well would have been.’ He looked into her eyes and saw fear mixed with relief. He caught back the words from the tip of his tongue. ‘See to your maid,’ he said and turned to Hayley. ‘Help me get Boyle up to a sitting position. I think he may have dislocated his shoulder.’ Between them, Lucien and the young groom manoeuvred Boyle until Lucien had a gentle grip upon the coachman’s shoulder. ‘Hold him tight, this is going to hurt like hell.’

  The one short grunt that issued from Archie Boyle’s lips were more distressing than all of Betsy’s screaming put together.

  Madeline averted her face, holding her arms around Betsy, until the sobbing was nothing more than a series of shudders through the maid’s body.

  Lucien spoke to Hayley. ‘That should have done the trick, but I want Dr Moffat to look him over when we get back. Stay here with Boyle and Betsy.’ He rose and, walking over to Sibton who was still holding the horses, pressed a pistol into his servant’s hand. ‘Just make sure you know who’s coming out of the mist before you fire it. I’ll take Lady Tregellas back to Trethevyn with me, and send the coach out for Boyle and the others. Tether the bays and bring them back in at the same time. We’ll come back for the carriage once everyone is safe.’

  Sibton nodded his compliance.

  Lucien returned to stand before his wife. Not trusting himself to speak, he just reached a hand down towards her and pulled her up into his arms. He felt the subtle resistance, saw the flicker of her eyes towards the maid.

  ‘I cannot leave Betsy,’ she murmured.

  ‘Hayley will look after her,’ he said, and steered Madeline towards his horse. ‘We’re going home.’

  Home. Madeline realised that she had indeed come to think upon Trethevyn as her home. It offered safety and comfort, and a whole lot more. Despite the threat of Farquharson, and the mystery surrounding Lucien, Madeline acknowledged that she was happier in the large country house than she had been at any other time in her life. The strength of Lucien’s arm curled around her waist, securing her firmly to both the saddle and himself. She felt the warmth of his chest press against her, chasing away the worst of the damp chill. One hand clung tight to him, the other gripped the edge of the saddle. He was angry. She could see it in the tense muscles around his mouth, feel it in his body’s rigidity. Yet every so often his arm squeezed a little tighter around her, as if to reassure himself that she was still there, still safe. Nelson’s steady canter enabled her to keep her seat easily enough. But the mist was thickening so that they could barely see the road before them.

  ‘Nelson knows his way home, Madeline. We can trust that he will keep to the road easily enough.’

  ‘Lucien…’ she looked up at his face ‘…I’m sorry. Mrs Woodford is unwell and I was so worried…I did not anticipate that the visit would turn out in this way.’

  ‘We’ll discuss the matter when we get home.’ His voice was firm, but the fingers that caressed her waist were gentle and reassuring.

  The smirr of rain grew stronger. She nestled in closer, trying to shield herself from its seeping dampness. Lucien stopped the horse, unbuttoned his greatcoat, and, unmindful of her wet clothing, pulled her against his body, inside the shelter of the coat. And that was how she stayed all the way back to Trethevyn, her cheek pressed against the hard muscle of his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

  It was an hour later and all of Lucien’s staff were safely back at Trethevyn. Lucien made his way upstairs. A curt knock and, without waiting for a reply, he swung the door open. He entered the bedchamber silently, dismissed Betsy, ensuring that
she took a grudging Max with her and closed the door quietly behind them. His wife had at least changed from her wet clothes into something warm and dry. She knelt on the rug before the marble fireplace, head bowed, drying her hair by the heat of the flames. Her hair tumbled in a tousled waterfall, pooling around her shoulders in a sensual reminder of what he was missing. Lucien banished such thoughts, forcing himself to remember exactly why he had come here and what he meant to say.

  ‘Lucien.’ She looked up and smiled. Her cheeks were pink with warmth and her eyes sparkled a clear golden brown. A thick cotton nightdress showed above her dressing gown. Lucien’s eyes flicked down to take in the bare feet that peeped out from under the cotton, and rose to take in a very shapely pair of hips. Stirrings of a highly inappropriate nature made themselves known. Lucien cleared his throat and strolled over to survey the view from the window until he could regain control over his body. Lord, but she looked so adorable he longed to just pull her up into his arms and kiss her. He swallowed hard. If he was entirely honest, that’s not all he wanted to do. It would be so easy to scoop her up into his bed and keep her there the whole night through. Such thoughts were not helping his problem. He glanced down. Indeed they seemed only to be making it worse. He strove to think of Farquharson and the danger that he presented. And from that to Madeline’s blatant disregard of his request that she did not travel from Trethevyn unless in his company. That seemed to do the trick.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ The soft pad of bare feet sounded behind him.

  ‘Nothing apart from the fact you seem determined to place yourself in the worst of situations.’

  The clear honey eyes blinked back at him. ‘I’ve said my apologies. Mary Woodford is my friend. She might have lost the baby, Lucien, so I went in response to her note, to offer my help. Thankfully, matters were not so bad as she had thought. The doctor has said that the baby is safe.’ A tenderness came into her eyes.

  He swallowed back the reciprocal feeling that it engendered. ‘I asked you not to leave Trethevyn without me.’

  ‘Would you have had me ignore her plea and just sit here while she was enduring such agonies?’ Madeline looked up at him. ‘They are your people, Lucien. Do you not care for their welfare?’

  ‘That’s an unfair question. You know that I do. Besides…’ he raked a hand through his hair ‘…I have no issue with you visiting the parsonage, or anywhere else for that matter, as long as I’m with you. And you understand the reason that I’ve asked such a thing.’

  She sighed, and moved to stand beside him.

  ‘You should have waited until I got back. We could have gone together, tomorrow.’

  ‘It might have been too late by then. I was worried and she asked me to go as soon as possible.’

  ‘I know you were, Madeline, but not half as worried as I was when I heard that blunderbuss and saw you stooped over Boyle’s body.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  But ‘sorry’ would not save her from Farquharson. ‘You play a dangerous game, Madeline. Farquharson could have plucked you as easy as a berry from a bush.’

  A little line of pique appeared between her brows. ‘I took John Hayley and a cudgel. My Boyle took his blunderbuss. I thought we would be safe.’

  ‘Indeed?’ he said. The memory of the pounding of his heart and the dread when he saw her through the drifting mist and gunpowder plume spurred him on. ‘Had I been Farquharson, or any other villain, do you think that Boyle would have stopped me? I could have put a bullet through Hayley before the cudgel was even raised in his hand. Then where would you have been, Madeline? Completely at my mercy.’

  Madeline’s chin tilted in defiance. ‘You are obsessed with Farquharson. Of all the places he is likely to be, Bodmin Moor late on a damp misty afternoon is not one of them.’

  ‘And you know that beyond all reasonable doubt, do you? You are willing to take the risk? Believe me, Madeline, I know, better than most, the evil of which that man is capable. I will not have you expose yourself to such danger.’

  ‘We weren’t going far. I did not know that the wheel would come off.’ She turned from the window so that they were facing one another.

  ‘That does not matter.’ He pushed her excuses aside. ‘You disregarded my request not to travel alone.’

  ‘I wasn’t alone,’ she protested.

  ‘You understand my meaning well.’ Exasperation lent an edge to his voice. ‘You seem intent on trying to throw yourself into Farquharson’s path.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so silly!’ she replied, anger lending her a foolhardy courage. ‘I’m just getting on with living. I cannot forever be looking over my shoulder. Would you lock me behind these doors, never to venture out again for fear of him?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying, Madeline.’

  ‘Then what are you saying?’

  ‘It’s not too much to ask that I accompany you.’

  Madeline’s breast rose and fell beneath the dressing gown in a flurry. ‘I’m beginning to feel like a prisoner, Lucien. I love Trethevyn, but I should be able to at least visit a friend when she is ill without waiting for you!’

  ‘Under normal circumstances I would agree entirely. But the circumstances are far from normal. Until I have dealt with Farquharson, we must both live by certain constraints.’

  She hesitated. Dealt with Farquharson. The claims of Farquharson’s letter came back to her. He has stalked me, desiring nothing more than my death. ‘What do you mean to do to him?’ she asked.

  ‘Whatever it takes to stop him.’

  Madeline shivered.

  He reached across and pulled her into his arms. She was so small, so vulnerable. ‘Farquharson’s more dangerous than you realise.’ He stroked a hand over the damp tumble of hair, smelling the sweetness of her and her orange fragrance. ‘He will come after you in the most unexpected of places.’

  ‘But if he meant to hurt us, would he not have done so by now?’

  Lucien shook his head. ‘He’s biding his time. But our waiting is nearly at an end. Farquharson will strike soon. And when he does, I want us both to be ready.’

  It should have been her husband that she asked, but it wasn’t. Madeline was desperate and so she asked Babbie about the woman Lucien was to have married.

  ‘Terrible affair it was,’ said Mrs Babcock. ‘Almost drove Master Lucien insane. It’s not my story to tell, but what I will say to you, m’lady, is please don’t judge him too harshly. He was a young man and he made a mistake like all young men do. ’Cept his mistake cost him dearly. Can’t forgive or forget. Blames himself even yet, though it weren’t his fault.’ Mrs Babcock’s eyes dampened with a terrible sadness. Her eyelids flickered shut as if gathering the strength to carry on.

  Madeline touched cold fingers to Mrs Babcock’s hand. ‘What happened?’ she asked carefully. ‘Will you not at least tell me that? Please, Babbie.’

  ‘She was a young lady. I won’t divulge her name. Wealthy, titled, only daughter of a viscount. Quiet and shy. Beautiful she was, tall and slender with long black hair and big blue eyes. The most beautiful girl in all of Cornwall.’

  Beautiful, tall, black hair, big blue eyes—in short, everything that Madeline was not. A little ball of nausea rotated in Madeline’s stomach. She didn’t want to hear the words. She knew that she had to.

  ‘And the most foolish. She was just eighteen when they were betrothed.’

  Madeline pressed a hand to her stomach and swallowed hard.

  ‘Even so, she went up to London for her first Season. Met a gentleman there. Next thing she ran off and married him, even though she were under age and had not so much as a word of consideration for Master Lucien. Whisked off with the gent in the middle of a dance. Most out of character for her, by all accounts. Needless to say, it was a right scandal.’

  In the middle of a dance! ‘Oh, God!’ Madeline could stop the expletive no longer. For she had a horrible premonition of where this story was heading.

  Mrs Babcock’s hand balled to a fi
st tight against her own lips. ‘I’ve said too much. You should hear the whole of it from his lordship. He’ll tell you when he’s ready, m’lady. Please, give him some more time. He don’t mean to be high-handed. He’s just worried and wants to keep you safe.’

  Madeline bit down hard upon her lip. ‘Who was the gentleman that the girl ran off with?’

  ‘That’s for his lordship to tell,’ said Mrs Babcock.

  ‘It was Cyril Farquharson, wasn’t it?’ Madeline stared at the housekeeper.

  Mrs Babcock’s mouth stayed firmly shut.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ said Madeline, and there followed a deadly hush.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Babcock miserably, ‘Lord Farquharson was his name.’

  Madeline gazed in anguish for a moment longer. ‘Please can you go now? I’m tired and would like to rest.’

  ‘But, m’lady, you don’t know the full of it. It weren’t just that. There’s more. Much more. And—’

  Madeline shook her head. ‘I’ve heard enough, Babbie. Please just go.’

  Mrs Babcock rose and hobbled out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Chapter Eleven

  It seemed to Madeline that her heart had ceased to beat. She sat stunned, unable to move, barely able to breathe for the tightness that constricted her throat. Everything suddenly made sense. Cyril Farquharson had told the truth. The pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place to reveal the picture in full. She knew now why Lucien had been so determined to save her from Farquharson, why the wealthy Earl Tregellas had plucked a plain little nobody from beneath that fiend’s nose to make her his wife. For in truth it was not Lord Farquharson who was the fiend at all—that title belonged to her husband. He had married her for nothing more than to exact revenge upon Farquharson, to do unto Farquharson precisely what the Baron had done unto him. Madeline Langley was just the silly little fool who had lent herself as the weapon of his vengeance. And that vengeance had not been for her. It had never been for her. It was for another woman from across the years who had betrayed him.