Lucien Tregellas

by Margaret McPhee

  All talk of saving her from Farquharson, of protection, was just a lie. With the harsh brutality of realisation she knew that everything he had said had been a lie. Lies and more lies. Madeline blinked back the tears, determined not to cry. The tip of her nose grew numb and cold. A lump balled in her throat. London had called him the Wicked Earl and with good reason. Madeline had thought she knew better, had refused to believe the rumours. And Madeline had been proved wrong. Now she knew why he would not share her bed. Lucien Tregellas would never love her, for he loved another woman, a tall woman with big blue eyes and long dark hair…the most beautiful woman in all of Cornwall.

  Blood trickled down from Madeline’s lip and still she did not realise the pain or the pressure of her bite. ‘Damn him,’ she whispered. ‘Damn him for the devil he is.’ She had thrown common sense to the wind, risked all to avoid a marriage with Cyril Farquharson. Now that she had made her bed, as Mama would say, she would have to lie in it. Madeline screwed her eyes tight against the tears that threatened to fall. She’d be damned if she’d let him see just how much he’d hurt her.

  Then a little thought made itself known. If Farquharson had told the truth about Lucien’s betrothed, was it also true that Lucien had killed the woman? That he meant to kill Madeline too? No matter how angry she was, no matter how hurt, she could not bring herself to believe either. If Lucien wanted a wife in name, then that’s exactly what he would get. That meant no more allowing him to dictate what she could and couldn’t do. What had he said the night that he asked her to marry him, or at least when she believed she had a choice in the matter? You would be free to live your own life. That was his bargain. A cold-hearted bargain. And, by God, she would hold him to it!

  Guy, Lord Varington, was concentrating on the two piles of cards on the table when the sensation of someone having walked across his grave shivered across his shoulders. He glanced up to find Cyril Farquharson watching him from across the room. Guy delivered him an arrogant sneer and switched his attention back to the game. Ace. He won the last turn and bowed out with a sense of unease still upon him. It was quite out of character for a man whose lazy arrogant confidence was renowned the length and breadth of London. He meandered towards the fireplace, ignoring the call of several voices for him to rejoin the game of faro. The night was still young, but curiously White’s seemed to have lost its atmosphere of indulgent relaxation. He ordered a brandy, sat himself down in a comfortable armchair, and started to browse through a copy of The Times.

  ‘Varington…’ a familiar voice feigned pleasance ‘…the very man I was hoping to see.’

  Guy looked up into the face of Cyril Farquharson. Without showing the slightest hint of surprise he answered, ‘Back in London so soon, Farquharson? But then again, I had forgotten your need to trawl the marriage mart.’

  The barb hit home as Farquharson’s cheeks ruddied, but he controlled his temper well. ‘What ever made you think that I had departed the metropolis? Gossip can be so misleading.’ He sat himself down in the chair opposite Guy’s. ‘Don’t mind if I join you, do you?’

  Guy became aware of the murmur of interest in the room around them. He smiled a smile that did not warm the ice of his eyes. ‘You have five minutes to say what it is you that you’ve come to say, and then…’ Guy’s smile deepened ‘…if you’re still here I feel I must warn you that I’m not endowed with my brother’s restraint.’

  ‘Five minutes shall more than suffice,’ said Farquharson. The grey of his snugly fitted coat mirrored the smokiness of his eyes.

  They looked at one another, dislike bristling beneath a veneer of civility.

  ‘How fares Lady Tregellas in Cornwall?’

  A dark eyebrow arched in sardonic surprise. ‘All the better for choosing my brother over you as her bridegroom.’

  Farquharson’s lips narrowed. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard, sir.’

  ‘Then you ought to have a care to whom you listen.’

  The closed face opened with mock-innocence and he leaned forward in a confidential manner. ‘Even if it comes straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak?’

  Guy smiled his deadly smile again. ‘Your time is running out, Farquharson. Waste the remaining minutes in riddles if you wish.’ But the chill of anticipation was upon him and Guy knew that Farquharson would not be sitting there attracting the attention of White’s patrons if he did not have something worth revealing.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you saw the evidence yourself.’ Farquharson reached into his pocket and produced a letter, ensuring that no one in the room missed him pass the paper into Varington’s hand. ‘I should tell you that I’ve had my lawyer make a copy signed as a true representation of the original…should anything untoward happen to the letter while it’s in the possession of another.’ A row of teeth was revealed.

  Even before he touched it Guy could see that the broken wax seal was that of Tregellas. The note opened to reveal a tidy flow of ink script upon his brother’s headed writing paper. Guy’s eyes followed each and every word down to the flourish of the neat signature. He balked at the letter’s contents, but the face he raised to the red-haired man seated opposite showed nothing but a bland disinterest. ‘Another one of your efforts at amusement.’ Guy let the paper fall to his lap and proceeded to examine his fingernails. ‘And another failure. May I remind you, sir, that forgery is a crime.’

  ‘Indeed it is. That’s why I’ve had the authenticity of the paper and seal checked. I wouldn’t want anyone to believe any misrepresentations that may have been circulated about me. The letter verifies what I’ve said all along about Tregellas. That’s why I plan to publish it in a certain London newspaper, so that all may see it.’

  Pale blue eyes locked a focus on smoky grey.

  ‘But as you are aware, Varington, I’m a just and fair man, and even though Tregellas has wronged me I’m prepared to give him the chance to do the right thing.’ A slim white finger stroked his upper lip. ‘Take the letter and show it to him. If I hear nothing from him within the next fortnight, then I’ll go ahead and publish.’

  ‘Go to hell, Farquharson. I’ll not be your messenger.’

  Farquharson’s mouth stretched to a semblance of a smile. ‘Then you forfeit your brother’s chance to prevent publication. Thank you for your time, sir.’ Farquharson reached to retrieve the letter, but Guy’s fingers were there first, removing the letter, tucking it safely inside his coat, knowing that he had no other option.

  Farquharson stood and made to leave. ‘Just one more thing, Varington. When you see Tregellas, ask him if he has come to appreciate Madeline’s acting skills. She is really rather good, but then again I did train her myself. Tregellas is so very predictable. I couldn’t have “guided” his actions nearly so well without her.’

  Guy rose quickly, but Farquharson was halfway across the room, making his escape, smiling his gratitude at the captive audience that allowed it. There was nothing that Guy could do without causing a scene, and that was the last thing that Lucien needed right now. Guy forced himself to sit back down, to finish his brandy and read a few more news articles in The Times before strolling out of the gentlemen’s club as if he had not a care in the world. It was only when he reached the haven of his townhouse that the affected air of boredom was cast aside.

  At first light next morning, Viscount Varington was seen leaving his house, travelling light on the fastest horse in his stables, with only his trusty valet for company.

  When Farquharson heard the news that Varington had left town he could scarcely contain his glee. The bait had been swallowed. He knew there was only one place that Varington would have gone, and that was exactly where Farquharson wanted him to be: Trethevyn. Farquharson smiled. The first aim of the letter had been achieved. The second would follow soon, when Tregellas read the words penned upon that paper. Farquharson’s smile deepened. Contrary to his threats, he was not ready to publish, not until matters in Cornwall were completed. Publication of the letter would meet its third a
nd final aim: a fitting end to Tregellas. Farquharson sniggered. The five years of waiting would almost be worth it. His plan was coming together nicely…beginning with Varington. The last of Farquharson’s valises was carried from his bedchamber. He made his way down the stairs and out to his waiting carriage to begin the journey to Cornwall. And the thought of just what he planned to do there excited Cyril Farquharson almost to a frenzy.

  The woman who faced Lucien over dinner that night was not the woman he had come to know in the months since he’d married her. It seemed that the light in Madeline’s eyes had dimmed and a new coolness had crept into her manner.

  ‘I met Mr Bancroft while I was out today. He invited us for dinner tomorrow evening. Mr and Mrs Cox will be there, along with Mrs Muirfield, Reverend and Mrs Woodford, and Dr Moffat.’

  ‘Unfortunately I shall be unable to attend,’ said Madeline in the voice of a stranger.

  He couldn’t help but notice that her cheeks looked pale tonight. Indeed, something of the bloom that had settled upon her in the past weeks seemed to have faded. She was once more picking at the food set upon her plate. ‘Why might that be?’

  ‘I’m planning to return to London tomorrow morning. It’s a while since I have seen my family, and I would like to visit them.’

  The sudden silence within the dining room grated. Only the clock upon the mantel sounded.

  Lucien dismissed Mr Norton and the footmen. Only when the door had been closed behind their departing bodies did he speak. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it does not suit me to leave Trethevyn so soon. Perhaps in a week or two we shall make the journey. I’m sure that your parents will understand.’ Lucien waited for his wife’s reaction.

  Madeline did not look up from her dinner plate. ‘I’m perfectly content to travel alone. You may stay here.’

  Another silence.

  Was she so keen to be rid of his company as to risk exposing herself to Farquharson? A sliver of hurt stabbed at Lucien’s heart. Even as he closed his mind to the pain, he wondered how she had managed to pierce the protective numbness that the years of torment had forged. ‘I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Madeline,’ he said.

  Her knife and fork were set down upon her plate, the pretence of eating the food forgotten. Gone was the warm biddable woman, replaced instead by someone that he did not know. ‘Cannot allow?’ For the first time he saw a spark of anger in her eyes. ‘Did we not have an agreement, sir?’ Without waiting for a reply she rushed on. ‘I have fulfilled my side of the bargain—do you seek to renege on yours?’

  Lucien found himself frowning across at her. ‘I’m doing exactly what I said I would.’

  ‘You said that I may visit my family whenever I wished. Well, I wish to do so now.’ A hint of a pink stain stole into her previously pale cheeks.

  Lucien gritted his teeth. ‘You may also recall that I promised to protect you. And I cannot do that if you are insistent upon exposing yourself to danger. It’s not that I do not wish you to see your family, but I won’t have you put your life at risk to do so. Patience is a virtue, Madeline. The visit will be all the sweeter for waiting a few weeks more.’

  ‘You would know all about patience, wouldn’t you? Please do not presume to lecture me on it, for I would rather act on one foolish impulse after another than have your cold, calculated patience!’ A deeper blush flooded her cheeks and her chair scraped back hard against the polished wooden floor. ‘And as for protection and safety…please spare me any more of your untruths. I know full well what this is about, sir. You may cease your game.’ She rose swiftly, threw her napkin down upon the table and started to walk towards the door.

  In one seamless motion he was out of his chair and across the floor, his hand grasping her arm, pulling her back to face him. He was aware of the tension that resonated through them both, of the pulse that throbbed at her neck. ‘I think you had better explain your words, Madeline.’ The softness of his voice belied the turmoil of emotion that roared beneath that calm façade.

  She looked up into his cold pale eyes and felt a tremor flutter deep within, but it was too late to pull back. She had fired the first shot and now she would have to finish the fight. ‘You know of what I speak. There is no need for me to spell it out.’

  ‘Humour me,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘Every word, every letter.’

  His fingers burned against the flesh of her upper arm. He was so close she could feel the brush of his breeches against her skirt, smell the scent of soap and cologne upon his skin, see the detail of the dark shadow of stubble upon his chin. Her heart hammered in her chest. ‘I know the truth,’ she whispered.

  His eyes bored into hers. ‘Pray enlighten me with it.’

  ‘I know why you married me.’ She saw a muscle twitch in the tightness around his jaw. ‘I was never in any danger from Cyril Farquharson, was I?’ she said in a low voice. ‘Only from you.’ She thought she saw shock and something else in the depths of those ice-blue pools, a reflection, there, then gone.

  ‘You really have no idea of the lengths to which Farquharson will go, the depths to which he will plummet, to have you. He means to kill you, and he will, unless I stop him.’

  ‘No, Lucien! I won’t listen to any more of your lies.’ She tried to pull back from him but he made no effort to release his grip. ‘Why did you not just call him out and have done with it?’ she shouted at him. ‘It would have saved us both a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I did, albeit too damned late. Have you not noticed his limp? My aim was flawed. A leg is a poor substitute for a heart. I shall not make the same mistake again.’ His face was white and bloodless against the stark black of his hair.

  ‘Your fight with him has nothing to do with me. Just let me go. You may seek a divorce at the Consistory Courts. I will not stop you. I’ll return to my family until I’m able to think of what to do with my future. You need not fear I will speak of the matter—I give you my word that I will not.’

  Lucien’s hands tightened around her arms. ‘Divorce? By heaven and hell, Madeline, if that’s what you’re hoping, then I tell you now that I will never divorce you. You knew when you agreed to marry me that there was no going back. I haven’t gone through all of this to hand you to Farquharson on a plate. If he has his way, you won’t have a future.’

  ‘Cease this pretence, Lucien. Can you not forget what he did, carry on with your own life?’

  A gasp of incredulity escaped Lucien’s lips. His eyes burned with cold blue fire. Anger coiled tight. ‘I will never forget, and I will never rest until Cyril Farquharson is dead.’

  ‘He was right,’ she whispered. ‘Jealousy has driven you mad.’ She struggled to release herself from him.

  He hauled her closer. ‘Jealousy?’ The straight white teeth practically bared. ‘And of what is it that you think I would be jealous? Rape? Torture? Murder?’

  Disbelief blasted at her from every pore of his body. The breath grew ragged in her throat. They stared at one another with the frenzied ticking of the clock in the background goading the squall of emotion higher. The mask slipped. Raw and bleeding hurt showed clear upon his face. All her beliefs of what lay between him and Farquharson, of his callousness in using her for revenge, turned on their head. ‘Lucien…’ she reached a hand towards him, but it was too late.

  Letting his hands fall loosely by his sides, he stepped back from her. ‘Good God, you really don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m lying about protecting you? About what he means to do to you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I…I don’t know.’ She watched the harsh shutter drop back across his face, shielding whatever he was really thinking from her view. ‘He stole your betrothed. So you stole his. Quid pro quo.’

  His eyes held hers. There was about him an agony of tension that reached across the small distance between them. ‘Never think that,’ he said. ‘I will not let him hurt you in the way that he hurt Sarah.’ He reached across and with a feather-light touch caressed her cheek. ‘I failed before and two women died becau
se of it. I will not fail again. Hate me if you will, but I’m the only thing that stands between you and Farquharson, and I have no intention of giving up an innocent to him again. You’re my wife, Madeline, and while Farquharson still breathes that’s the way it’s going to stay.’

  The gentleness of his fingers stilled against her cheek, transfixing her, wooing her against her will. But beneath it all she heard the steely determination of his tone.

  ‘Lucien, I cannot…I will not…’ She was determined to finish what had to be said. ‘You loved her.’ Madeline ploughed on through the weight of crushing pain that had settled upon her chest. It pricked at her eyes and tightened around her throat as if to choke her. ‘I didn’t know it, that night in the inn…in the bed. I would never have…I wouldn’t have done what I did, had I known.’ And I wouldn’t have married you had I known that your heart had already been given, and I would lose my own to you, the little voice inside her head whispered. She would not hear it, could not allow herself to. Tonight she would say everything she must, for tomorrow she would be gone—whatever Lucien said to the contrary.

  ‘You did nothing. I was the one who forgot myself, not—’

  ‘No, Lucien. That’s not true.’ She looked at him a moment longer. The blush scalded her cheeks. ‘I understand why I disgusted you.’

  She thought she disgusted him? Lucien reeled at the frank admission. ‘What ever gave you such a ridiculous idea?’ But as the question formed upon his lips, he remembered his reaction on waking to find himself in the throes of making love to his wife. He’d been disgusted all right, but with himself, not Madeline.

  The amber eyes looked up to his.

  ‘I can assure that you do not disgust me, Madeline. Quite the reverse, in fact.’

  ‘Then why—?’

  Lucien’s fingers slid round to cradle the nape of her neck. In one step he closed the space between them, his other hand sweeping down to press against the small of her back. She felt the superfine of his coat brush against her breasts. His head lowered towards hers until his breath tickled against her neck, licked against her cheek, her chin, her nose, igniting a trail of passion. Ice-blue eyes locked with warm amber. The words died in her mouth. Madeline found she could not move, could not breathe for drowning in the cool blue water that was his eyes. ‘Lucien…’ The word was nothing more than a hoarse breath between them. She watched his gaze drop to her mouth and linger. Felt hers do the same, cleaving to that finely sculpted mouth. ‘Lucien…’ Need grew stronger.