‘How certain are you of your wife, Lucien?’
‘What do you mean?’ A dark frown drew his brows close. ‘She’s the innocent in all of this mess.’
‘Is she really?’ asked Guy softly.
‘What the hell are you getting at? Farquharson had her in his sights. I married her to protect her.’
‘And lure Farquharson to a confrontation.’
‘Yes, I admit it, that as well. None of us are safe until he’s dead.’
‘And Farquharson isn’t safe until you’re out of the way either. You’ve never left him alone in all of these years. Everywhere he’s gone you’ve dogged his steps, waiting for your chance.’
‘Ensuring that there would never be a repetition of what happened to us five years ago.’
‘You knew what you’d do if he found another woman, a woman like Sarah.’
‘You know that I did.’
‘While you were watching and waiting all those years, did it never occur to you that Farquharson might be hatching his own plan, to rid himself of you?’
Lucien looked into the eyes that were so like his own.
‘That he might use an “innocent little victim” to lure you?’
‘Are you saying that Farquharson never had any intention of marrying Madeline? That he deliberately set matters up to make it appear that he meant to?’
Guy’s lip curled. ‘Knowing full well that you would rush to her rescue, even if it meant marrying her yourself.’
The coldness started in his toes and spread up through the core of his body. ‘Even if it was all a ploy, I still won’t yield her to him. She’s my wife now. He may have used her. I have no intention of doing the same.’
‘Even if she accuses you of abduction and begs him to rescue her.’
‘Don’t be absurd! Madeline would never do such a thing.’
Guy set the empty glass down carefully on the table before standing to face his brother. ‘She already has,’ he said quietly; retrieving the letter from his pocket, he handed it to his brother. ‘Farquharson has a copy and means to publish it unless you come to some kind of agreement with him within the next two weeks.’ He placed a hand on Lucien’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, but, with Madeline’s assistance, Farquharson cannot fail to make you the villain of the piece while he comes out as the unfairly wronged victim of the whole affair, just as he did before.’
‘It’s not possible.’
‘Oh, I assure you that not only is it possible, but that Farquharson and Madeline have their little plan well under way.’
‘Are you suggesting that Madeline is somehow complicit in this absurdity?’ Lucien’s eyes narrowed and everything about him stilled: the calm before the storm.
Guy squeezed Lucien’s shoulder, his fingers conveying the sympathies that he knew his brother would never let him voice. ‘Farquharson bade me ask you if you appreciate her acting skills. Said he trained her himself. She’s tricked you, Lucien. She’s in league with that devil.’
‘You would believe his word?’ Aggression snarled as Lucien batted Guy’s hand away.
Guy dropped his hand loosely to his side. ‘Look at the letter, Lucien. It bears the Tregellas name and crest at the top of the paper. Even though the seal is broken, it is clear that it is yours. Unless you are in the habit of allowing Farquharson to use your writing desk, I fail to see how he could have faked such things.’
Guy refilled two glasses; the brandy spilled down the decanter, splashing unnoticed against the cherrywood of the table and over the base of the branched candlestick that sat behind it on the table. ‘Is the writing from Madeline’s hand? Have you nothing against which you can compare it?’
‘No.’ Then he remembered the letter lying on his desk to be sent; the letter she had written to her mother. Woodenly he moved towards the desk, taking the neatly folded paper up in his hands, dread and disbelief eating at him in equal measure. ‘A letter she would have me dispatch to Mrs Langley.’
Guy brought the branched candlestick close.
The two men looked from the incriminating letter to the neatly penned address on the letter to be franked. A short silence. The words did not need to be said—it was quite clear to see that the writing was identical in both cases.
Guy looked with saddened eyes towards his brother and nodded. ‘You had best check that the letter within is indeed to her mother.’
Lucien broke the seal, unfolded the paper, scanned the lines of small neat words that stacked tidily, one row upon another. ‘It’s to Amelia Langley all right. Nothing in it that I would not expect her to say.’
A log crackled upon the fire.
‘She must have sneaked her letters to Farquharson through the village post. Your servants are loyal. It should be easy enough to find if anyone carried such a letter in recent weeks.’ Guy emptied the contents of the glass down his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Lucien.’
‘Not as damned sorry as I am,’ came the reply, as he settled down to read exactly what his wife had written to Cyril Farquharson.
He sat by the fire for an hour after Guy had gone to bed, trying to make sense of the words, following every avenue of hope, exploring alternative explanations for a letter written in his wife’s hand, on his crested paper, and bearing his own seal. A letter that spoke of mistakes and distrust; that accused him of obsessive hate, verging on insanity. A letter that begged Farquharson’s forgiveness and pleaded with him to rescue her from the clutches of a madman who held her prisoner. Had she not voiced the very same doubts on his honesty and his sanity earlier that evening? Lucien felt like his ribcage had been levered open and his heart ripped out. Surely Madeline’s response to him, her passion, her warmth, could not have been feigned? Could it?
The brandy burned at his throat, searing a path down to his stomach, but did nothing to numb the pain. It was a raw pulsating hurt beyond anything that he ever thought to allow himself to feel again. This had to be Farquharson stirring trouble, seeking some way to blacken Madeline’s name. What better way to damage both her and the man who had been his nemesis for so long? Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed it. The writing was that of Madeline’s hand. But writing could be copied, words faked. The seal and paper were that of Tregellas. There were only two Tregellas seals: one adorned the ring fitted firmly on the third finger on Lucien’s right hand, the other lay within the top drawer of his desk by the window. Damn Farquharson’s eyes! Damn his soul! Guy was right. Quizzing of his staff would soon determine if a letter to Farquharson had left the house. With a heavy heart he pulled the bell and waited for Norton to appear.
Madeline curled her legs beneath her on the sofa and stared into the flickering flames in the centre of the fireplace. He would tell her the truth, she knew it instinctively. The story of how Sarah Wyatt had died. Madeline shuddered at the thought. But then again, Sarah had chosen Farquharson over Lucien. Quite how any woman could have come to make that choice was beyond her.
Lord Farquharson and Lord Tregellas. Two men at opposing ends of the spectrum. One gifted with pretty polished words that tripped too readily from his tongue. Red hair, creamy pale skin peppered with freckles, sharp grey eyes and a slim face that some considered handsome. Madeline could not agree. He reminded her of a fox, all slyness and cunning. The other man, a contrast of dark and light. White skin and pale blue eyes that could not fail to pierce the reserve of that upon which he fixed his focus. Classically sculpted features as handsome and as cold as those of the marble Greek god that represented the ideal of manly beauty. Scant of words. Austere. Hair as black as midnight and, if London was to be believed, a soul to match.
But therein lay the problem. Madeline could not believe it, indeed, had never believed the whispered rumours that fanned in his wake. The Wicked Earl, they called him, but when she looked into his eyes it was not wickedness that she saw, but pain and passion, kindness and consideration. Hidden deep behind his cold façade, but there all the same. Whatever Lucien Tregellas would have the world believ
e, he was a man who felt things deeply. Hadn’t she seen the evidence with her own eyes? Felt the warmth of his arms around her, the strength of his determination, the tenderness in his eyes and the burning heat of his lips? It seemed that for all he said, her husband was not indifferent to her, that he didn’t just want the unemotional bargain that he had set out that night in his coach in London, any more than she did. She remembered his words, I’ll come to you tonight.
Excitement tingled through her. He would tell her the truth and then he would kiss her. Without disgust. Without guilt. Only with gentle possession. He would kiss her until she felt hot and all of a tremble. Madeline smiled, knowing that there was a truth of her own to be told. She loved him. No matter what lies Farquharson sought to spread about him, no matter the chill of his veneer, she knew the warm tenderness of the man beneath it. She loved him. Tonight she would tell him. With a smile she picked up the discarded novel by her side and was soon immersed in the description of Mr Darcy proposing to Miss Elizabeth Bennett at the parsonage in Kent.
‘Are you certain, Norton? Might the boy not be mistaken as to the addressee? Can he even read?’ Lucien thought he saw the hint of a flush touch the old butler’s cheeks.
Mr Norton folded his hands behind his back and regarded his employer with his usual servile superiority. ‘Hayley is illiterate, m’lord. Lady Tregellas asked him to take the letter to the post office in the village right away. Hayley is sweet on her ladyship’s maid, Betsy Porter, and he spent a few minutes in saying his farewells to her before attending to his errand.’ Two silver-grey eyebrows raised marginally. ‘I noticed the letter lying upon the kitchen table on account of the person to whom it was addressed. Farquharson is a name I’m not likely ever to forget for the rest of my days, m’lord.’
Lucien touched a solitary finger to the hard square line of his jaw. ‘Did my wife ask anything else of Hayley with regard to the letter? Not to speak of it before me, for example?’
‘No, m’lord.’ The old butler shook his head. ‘Nothing like that, but she did give him half a crown for his trouble.’
‘I see.’
‘Will that be all, m’lord?’ Mr Norton did not like the dark brooding look that had settled upon his master’s face.
‘Yes, thank you, Norton. You may retire for the night.’
Only when the butler had gone and the library door was firmly closed did Lucien allow himself to fully contemplate the impact of Madeline’s dishonesty.
Madeline closed the last page of the book, well contented with the happy ending. Stretching out her back, she snuggled lower beneath the covers and watched the low flickering flame of her bedside candle. The clock struck midnight and a little furrow of worry creased between her brows. Guy’s news must be bad indeed to keep Lucien so late. Momentarily she wondered what had brought LordVarington to Trethevyn with such speed. Lucien would tell her soon enough, when he came to her as he had promised. Madeline smiled at the thought. Soon he would lie beside her in the bed and tell her the rest of his story. She would kiss him and tell him that he was not to blame, that she loved him, that she would love him for ever.
Guilt was a heavy burden to bear and Lucien had carried it for five long years. In truth, he had done nothing wrong. Sarah Wyatt had chosen Farquharson and she had paid the price with her life. Poor, foolish Sarah. Eighteen was too young to die. Madeline could only be glad that Lucien had intervened to save herself from Farquharson.
A pang of conscience tweaked at her. To think that only this evening she had doubted her husband and had questioned the motives behind their marriage. All along he had blamed himself for Sarah’s death and determined to save her from the same fate. An image of Lord Farquharson’s face stole into her mind. Hard grey eyes, narrow lips that formed such pretty words, and beneath it all a soul as black as the devil’s. Even the memory of his moist breath against her cheek and the pungency of his spicy scent made her feel quite sick. How could she have even contemplated the words of such a man?
Instinct had warned her against him from the start. Lucien had described him as unsavoury. Madeline would have used a much stronger and unladylike word. Yet despite it all she had questioned her husband with ungrateful suspicion. He had gone to such lengths to save her from Farquharson. And she had practically cast it all back in his face. It was a wonder that he had not just sent her packing back to London. But Lucien had not done that. He had told her the truth, and kissed her. Tonight he would come to her bed and everything would be all right.
Madeline awoke with a start and as much a feeling of panic as from her nightmares of Farquharson that had long since ceased. The clock on the mantel chimed two. The room was in darkness, the candle long since expired, and the fire nothing more than a pile of warm ashes. She sat up, stared around her, aware of a feeling that something was wrong. Then she remembered that Lucien was supposed to have come. On the covers beside her lay the warm, heavy weight of Max, giving the occasional whimper while he chased rabbits in his dreams. The small seed of dread deep within her began to grow. An unease. What news was so bad as to have kept Lucien from his promise? All around her was the hiss of nocturnal silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. The night was black with the occasional glimmer of a cold pale moonlight that crept from behind cloud cover to illuminate her bedchamber. It seemed that a hand wrung at her stomach and she could not rid herself of a bleak, unnatural sensation. Something was badly awry. Had Farquharson harmed another woman? Her mother? Angelina? Madeline could not dispel the notion of dread, even when Max opened a sleepy eye and licked her face.
The floor was cold beneath her feet on the edge of the rug. She peered from her window across the darkened gardens, seeking any sign of movement. There was none. An owl hooted in the distance. She moved silently towards the connecting door that led to Lucien’s rooms, Max padding by her side. Her fingers closed around the smooth roundness of the handle, hesitated for a minute and then turned. It was not locked. The door opened noiselessly. Madeline waited where she was, heart racing twenty to the dozen, eyes straining to see through the darkness of the room. Lucien’s bedchamber was shrouded in a thick black, by virtue of the heavy curtains closed across his windows. No fire. No lit candles. That did not deter Max. The dog disappeared into his master’s room, the black hair of his coat merging with the darkness. ‘Max! Come here!’ Madeline whispered. A snuffling and the click of canine nails against wooden flooring sounded from the other side of the room. ‘Max!’ she whispered again.
She stepped across the threshold. Gradually her eyes adjusted to make out the shapes of large pieces of furniture, blacker shapes within the darkness, there, but only just. Without some hint of guiding light, she did not dare proceed lest she knocked something over or tripped over some hidden object. ‘Max,’ she said softly. No reply. Her hands extended, reaching out before her, probing cautiously into the darkness. One foot edged forward, then the other, arms waving before her. But Max was not forthcoming. And it seemed that her husband must be in the depths of a sound sleep, for no stirring came from anywhere in the room. Madeline sighed and knew that she would have to leave Max to snuggle his warmth against Lucien. She retreated as silently as she had arrived, the handle scraping slightly as the door closed. The barrier between the two bedchambers was intact once more.
Her fingers fumbled with the tinderbox as she struggled to strike a light. Eventually the small remnants of her candle by the bedside took, casting soft yellow flickers of light to dance around the paintings upon the walls. Madeline had never felt more disinclined to sleep. Her fingers fanned through Pride and Prejudice, but the story had been read. Then she remembered Lucien’s library with its complete wall lined with books. She looked at the small lump of candle left within her holder. There would be candles down there, too. A good novel would drag her mind from such melancholic contemplation. Madeline lifted the small spluttering candle and headed towards the bedchamber door.
Lucien stared blindly out of the library window. The fire had long since died and
the draught infiltrating the window frames caused a flutter of the curtains he had pulled back two hours since. Lucien noticed neither, nor did he feel the chill that had steadily descended upon the room. He lounged back in the chair and threw some more brandy down his throat. Anything to deaden the pain of betrayal.
Every time his eyes closed it was to see Madeline. Sherry-gold eyes and pink parted lips that curved in the sweetness of her smile. What happened with Farquharson wasn’t your fault, she said, and reached her lips to his. Warm. Willing. So beguiling, yet traitorous. Farquharson would never get beneath the guard he had so carefully erected in the years that had passed. Madeline had managed it without even trying.
He rubbed long fingers against his temples, replaying the scenes for the umpteenth time. She was good. He had to give her that. Feigning such innocence. Responding to his kisses. Asking him to come to her bed. How far would she have gone to be sure of him? Would she actually have given herself to him for Farquharson’s sake?
Another swig of brandy, but the pain hung on grimly, refusing to go. Especially in view of what he knew he must do. A faint noise sounded from the hallway. He thought he heard a woman’s voice. A pause, then the library door slowly creaked open. There was a moment of faint illumination and then darkness.
‘Wretched candle,’ the voice muttered.
Lucien froze in his seat, the smell of candle smoke tickling at his nose.
One small hesitant step sounded and then another. Whoever had decided to visit his library in the middle of the night was coming closer. His muscles tensed for action.
Madeline edged towards the window, thankful that her husband had left the curtains open. Now that she thought of it the curtains had been closed earlier that evening when he had brought her here to tell her of his past. He must have opened them before retiring for the night. And he must have retired, for she had seen no glimmer of light escaping the drawing-room door along the corridor. Fleetingly a break in the clouds revealed a shaft of moonlight. It lit enough of the library to show her the desk by the window and the high-backed chair behind it. Maybe Lucien would keep a candle and a tinderbox on his desk. Her father had always done so.
Lucien Tregellas Page 20
