by Sheila Walsh
Madalena
Sheila Walsh
Copyright © 2017 The Estate of Sheila Walsh
This edition first published 2018 by Wyndham Books
(Wyndham Media Ltd)
27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX
First published 1976
www.wyndhambooks.com/sheila-walsh
The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover artwork images: © Period Images / Apostrophe
Cover design: © Wyndham Media Ltd
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Preview: The Sergeant Major’s Daughter by Sheila Walsh
Preview: Wyndham Books
Prologue: Sussex 1812
The March night was wild. The small figure being buffeted along the path to the cliff top stumbled and threw out a hand to clutch at a tuft of coarse grasses, then ran on into the dark tunnel of trees, where the branches writhed in agony and twigs like clawing fingernails snatched at the heavy woollen jacket and snarled themselves in unruly curls.
The trees gave way at last to the wide sweep of headland just before it dipped into a deep, narrow gorge. The young face turned eagerly towards the open sea, fear struggling with a fierce exhilaration. Almost at once a light stabbed the raging darkness and from the house set high at the apex of the gorge came an answering flash. It was inconceivable that anything could come ashore on such a night, for even above the howl of the wind could be heard the crashing surf below.
The young intruder stretched on tiptoe to peer further into the darkness and a huge stallion, black as the night itself, loomed out of nowhere. It squealed and reared up. The rider swore viciously and dragged hard back on the rein, almost unseating himself and sending the instigator of the near-disaster catapulting into a ragged clump of gorse.
‘Hell and damnation! Come out of there this instant and declare yourself!’
A small, bedraggled figure slowly emerged from the sodden gorse bush, brushing away dirt and twigs with impatient gestures and muttering Gallic curses of a fluency astonishing in one so young.
‘Come here, boy!’
The moon, which had been scudding in and out of mountainous black clouds, suddenly sailed clear, silhouetting horse and rider in one enormous, frightening entity ‒ huge flapping shoulder capes whipped about a face that was no more than a white blur beneath the high conical hat, and the stallion, showing white-rimmed eyes, backed nervously in an effort to escape the tight rein, and snorted little puffs of steam.
The child shrank back convinced that, of a surety, it was the Devil himself.
The black rider leaned down from the saddle and hooked his riding crop beneath the miscreant’s chin, jerking the head up; bright curls glinted in the moonlight, crowning an extraordinary monkey-like little face.
‘Who are you, boy?’ The question was rapped out ‒ in French this time. ‘What mischief brings you here?’ The riding crop prodded harder. ‘Come ‒ I will have an answer.’
Stormy eyes stared back at him in stubborn, unyielding silence ‒ a silence that was never resolved, for cloud once more swept across the face of the moon and when it cleared, the rider was alone.
He paused, irresolute … and in a momentary lull, his keen ears picked up the sound of oars being shipped. He turned at once towards the sound, dug in his spurs and urged the stallion forward to pick its way down the treacherous cliff path.
And in the darkness behind him, a figure emerged from the bushes and watched him go.
Chapter One
Light streamed from every window of the house in St James’s Square. Echoes of music and laughter drifted out on the night air, to be lost in the jingle and creak of harness, the clattering of carriage wheels and the forcibly expressed opinions of coachmen as they manoeuvred their already close-packed vehicles to make room for a late arrival.
In the brilliantly lighted foyer, two footmen sprang into instant action as the doors swung inward to admit a tall, saturnine gentleman.
In austere silence, he relinquished his fashionable high-crowned beaver hat, his light walking cane and the magnificently caped greatcoat; he adjusted the set of the plain black coat which already lay in unwrinkled perfection across the superb shoulders, and moved with an air of bored resignation up the wide, curving staircase towards the sounds of revelry.
‘My Gawd!’ The new, young footman stared after him in awe. ‘Who was that?’
‘That, my lad,’ came the dry rejoinder, ‘is his grace, the 9th Duke of Lytten, of ancient and noble lineage ‒ arrogant bastards, the whole Destain line by all accounts ‒ and this one don’t aim to change the family image ‒ takes his women as he takes his wine ‒ liberally, but with the palate of a connoisseur!’ The old servant glanced round to make sure they were alone, and one eyelid drooped knowingly. ‘You’ll be seeing quite a lot of his grace … if you take my meaning!’
The recipient of this doubtful testimonial had by now reached the head of the stairs, where a dark restless beauty at once detached herself from a small group of exquisites with a laughing apology and came towards him, hands outstretched.
‘You are late, Dev,’ she reproved sternly. ‘I declare I had quite given you up.’
The Duke carried her hands to his lips. His mocking glance moved with frank appreciation over the daringly-cut soft green crêpe-gown which so exactly complemented her laughing eyes.
‘But surely, my dear Serena, you knew I would come. When have I ever let you down?’
Lady Serena Fairfax drew him a little aside. ‘I knew nothing of the kind, you wretched man,’ she complained softly. ‘I did not even know if you were safely arrived home.’
‘Well, for that omission you must blame my Lord Castlereagh,’ he murmured with some feeling. ‘I landed only this morning, and have spent the entire day closeted with him ‒ and later with our beloved War Minister, who must needs hear all again at first hand.
‘I tell you, my dear, it was a marathon performance deserving of the very highest reward!’ His words were charged with a quite unmistakable meaning and drew a soft chuckle from his
companion.
‘Later,’ she promised. ‘When my guests have gone. We will be cosy, and you shall tell me all.’
One calculating eyebrow lifted. ‘If that is all I am to hope for, I may well seek more … accommodating company!’
This threat was greeted with more mirth. ‘Poseur! Very well, you shall have your reward, but you must know I am impatient to hear about the war ‒ and how Lord Wellington goes on.’
For an instant the mask of ennui slipped, and he spoke with soft vehemence. ‘I have no doubt that our newly elevated Earl is a great, a formidable Commander! But I have just pursued him over half of Portugal, into the jaws of a Hell called Badajos ‒ a bloody experience and such a one as I hope, by God’s grace, never to encounter again! Yet I survived, and have returned to an eight hour inquisition at the end of it.’ He shrugged. ‘I can no more, my dear Serena ‒ even for you!’
She looked distressed and would have spoken, but the mask was firmly back in place once more; a fat lady who would have approached them wilted under his intense stare and retreated in disorder. He sighed. ‘The company looks as distressingly boring as usual, my dear. I trust your card room is up to scratch?’
Lady Serena shook her head at him. ‘I positively forbid you to bury yourself in my card room until you have circulated a little among my guests. You know how much of a stir you create ‒ how much it delights me to see all the fond mamas marshalling their dewy-eyed offspring for your approbation!’
His eyes glinted. ‘Someone should inform them that they waste their time. I’ll wed no whey-faced infant; even in my dissolute and inglorious youth I ever preferred women of taste and experience!’
Lady Serena laughed. They had known one another too long and too well to dissemble.
‘Well, do go and make their hearts flutter just a little. I promise I have done my best to afford you some small amusements.’
‘What are you plotting, Serena? You have a look I mistrust!’
‘Nothing dreadful, on my word. It will shock only the prudes ‒ and some of the strait-laced old dowagers!’ Her eyes brimmed with mischief. ‘Lord Palmerston and I are to demonstrate the “wicked waltz”, and we are fully expecting others to follow us on to the floor. You must find yourself a partner, for I will not believe you are not an expert in the waltz as you are in all else.’
His brow lifted laconically. ‘You flatter me, my dear. But who is to match me, since you are bespoken?’
‘My dearest Devereux, you know very well there is not a woman in that ballroom whom you cannot command, should you so choose!’ The mischievous look was back. ‘Caroline Lamb is here ‒ I am sure she would oblige you!’
‘Caro Lamb would oblige anyone ‒ anytime!’ came the Duke’s pithy retort. At that moment Lady Serena’s attention was claimed and her husky laugh floated back to him. He raised his eyeglass and allowed his glance to wander slowly round the huge, gilded ballroom.
As always, Serena’s guests seemed to include almost everyone who was anyone; for even those who disliked her or perhaps had cause to fear her at times faintly malicious tongue accepted her invitations with alacrity. It was widely acknowledged that the Lady Serena ‘had influence’; her late husband had held high office in the government, an office in which he had been successful largely due to his wife’s undoubted capacity for political intrigue. It was a talent she still put to good use whenever called upon so to do.
A cotillion was just coming to an end and the couples began to disperse. A liberal sprinkling of uniforms lent vivid splashes of colour to the already colourful scene.
Along the perimeter of the room a clutch of young girls sat chattering like a flock of birds ‒ no, doves ‒ he thought sardonically ‒ a flock of virginal doves! He knew from the sudden spate of giggling and fluttering that his presence had been noted ‒ and he sighed.
One corner of the ballroom seemed to be attracting a deal of lively attention. The Duke trained his eyeglass upon the centre of the group. A low musical laugh floated out above the hum of conversation and the young men pressed eagerly forward. Then, as though being dismissed, they began to drift away one by one ‒ and he was left staring into an engaging little monkey-like face topped by a close-cropped head of bright copper curls …
Madalena de Brussec turned impulsively to the pretty blonde girl who was her cousin. ‘Phoebe ‒ you will tell me please, who is the man who stands by the door ‒ the one who looks like Satan? He will not take his eyes off me!’
Phoebe Vernon followed her gaze and let out a little gasp. ‘Lud, child ‒ it’s Lytten!’
‘Should this mean something to me? This Lytten is a somebody?’
‘The Duke of Lytten, my dear. His land marches with ours at home. In fact, he owns most of the land around us; his family have done so for generations.’
Madalena’s straight little nose wrinkled. ‘He is perhaps what you would call a feudal lord?’
‘Lordy, what a thought! I suppose he is in a way.’
‘So ‒ you will know him?’
‘No, hardly at all.’ Phoebe giggled. ‘He is a friend of Kit’s, though he is considerably older ‒ well into his thirty-fifth year, I believe.’ She giggled again. ‘He has the most dreadful reputation.’
‘Vraiment!’ Madalena studied this wicked Duke more closely. She met his raking glance with a speculative tilt of her chin; he smiled faintly and inclined his head in answer.
At Madalena’s other side, a tall, willowy girl, with hair like a raven’s wing, watched this exchange with obvious chagrin. Bettina Varley was an acknowledged beauty and, until Mademoiselle de Brussec’s arrival in London, was used to being considered the most popular girl of the season. Yet Lytten had never looked at her in such a way.
She could not imagine what people saw in the little French chit with her cropped Parisian curls; it was infuriating to be cast into the shade by one so frankly ugly! This was not strictly true, for although in repose Madalena de Brussec’s features were ill-balanced, they were lit from within with so much vitality and pure joie de vivre that one noticed only how the large, almond-shaped eyes glowed with amber fires and the too-wide mouth was always tilted up at the corners to disappear, as it frequently did, into two delightful dimples.
Miss Varley said waspishly, ‘It is no use trying to engage his grace’s attention, mademoiselle, for he comes only to tease us. He has no interest in jeunes filles.’
Madalena turned a long cool glance on her. ‘You think not? He has not then tried to ravish you ‒ no?’ She smiled kindly. ‘It is perhaps just as well, for you would not at all care for it. Quant à ça, the English do not understand these matters as we French do.’
‘Madalena!’ Phoebe was scandalized.
Hot colour had crept up under Miss Varley’s skin, but she snapped her mouth tight shut against the temptation to reply.
‘But it is true!’ Madalena insisted with a roguish twinkle. She tapped one tiny gold pump thoughtfully. ‘It would seem to me that this so arrogant Duc should be taught a small lesson.’
Phoebe groaned. ‘Oh Madalena ‒ no!’
‘I am sure I do not know what you mean,’ said Madalena innocently. ‘You are as bad as Tante Vernon.’
Her cousin eyed her nervously. Mama would not like it if Madalena made a scandal. ‘Promise you won’t do anything indiscreet!’
A gurgling laugh greeted this impassioned plea. ‘Voyons ‒ I believe he is coming across.’
The Duke had accosted Kit Vernon, who was making for the card room.
‘Introduce me, my boy,’ he commanded, indicating the object of his attentions. ‘Since she is with your sister, I infer she is the little French cousin?’
Kit regarded him pensively; already more than halfway under Madalena’s spell, he felt a swift, instinctive desire to protect her.
‘I ain’t at all sure I should,’ he said bluntly. ‘You’ve got that infernal gleam in your eye.’
‘As you will,’ drawled the Duke. ‘I certainly don’t propose to furnish you with a ca
talogue of my intentions. Serena will, no doubt, be happy to oblige me.’
‘That damned haughty air don’t cut no ice with me; I’ve known you too long.’ Kit grinned suddenly. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll do the honours, but for God’s sake watch it, Dev ‒ I know she’s a devilish taking little thing, but do try to remember she’s family! Mama is already finding her a mixed blessing!’
‘That I can well understand ‒ a twin, I think you said?’
‘As ever was. Like two dashed peas, except the lad’s a half head taller and a touch less volatile. See ‒ there’s Armand, talking with young Merchent.’
A casual glance confirmed Devereux’s suspicions and he smiled.
The two men crossed the ballroom floor shoulder to shoulder and Madalena watched them with frank interest. They were both well-built, but next to Kit’s sandy fairness, this Duke was more than ever sinister in his stark black, with only the white at his throat for relief; a single diamond pin glittered in the elaborate folds of his cravat.
The face seemed strangely familiar. But yes ‒ there was a picture of Satan in the prayer book she had as a child with just such a face ‒ high-moulded cheekbones and a hooked nose with deep etched lines running down either side of a full, sensual mouth. And the eyes! Mon Dieu! Such eyes. She shivered deliciously, remembering how she had feared that portrait.
When he stood at last before Madalena, she was able to observe that the Duke’s eyebrows also had a curious upward flick, so that one might imagine them to be horns!
Kit performed his introductions. Phoebe blushed prettily and murmured something unintelligible, but Miss Varley, being included as one of the party, was much more willing to engage the Duke’s interest. However, beyond a brief nod, he paid her scant attention; his brilliant blue eyes were fixed with a curious intentness upon Madalena.
She returned the look with a complete lack of shyness and challenged in mock reproof, ‘Monseigneur le Duc, you have been staring at me!’
He agreed imperturbably. ‘I hope you do not mean to take exception, mademoiselle, for you will have noticed that I am continuing to do so.’
