A Lady of Consequence

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Can you tell breeding on so short an acquaintance?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. How did someone like you come to be an actress?’

  ‘My mother was run down by a speeding carriage when I was nine years old,’ she said. ‘I had no other relatives…’

  ‘What about your grandparents?’

  ‘My father’s parents both died some time before. They never got over the loss of their son, so my mother told me. I think my mother’s parents must have died too, for she never spoke of them. I was alone in the world.’

  ‘Oh, you poor, dear girl.’ His sympathy seemed truly genuine and she began to have the first feeling of unease for deceiving him.

  ‘What happened then?’

  The rest was easy. The rest was the truth, or very nearly. She told him she had been sent to an orphanage for the children of army officers, (she had long ago upgraded the orphanage to one specifically for officers’ orphans) where she stayed until she was old enough to work, but nothing at all about the Bulfords. That did not bear speaking about. ‘There you have my history in a nutshell,’ she said, laughing. ‘Now you must tell me yours.’

  ‘Oh, I have nothing at all interesting to report. I was born, I went to school, I became a man…’

  ‘And married?’ She was surprised that question had not crossed her mind until now.

  ‘No, not yet, but undoubtedly my father will have me shackled before much longer. I am his heir, you see. I have a half-brother, a bantling by the name of Freddie, who will, no doubt, carry on the family name if I do not have a son, but he is very young still. That is all there is to tell.’

  It was all he wanted to tell, she decided. ‘So you do not have to earn a living?’

  He laughed. He had an infectious laugh and she found herself smiling back at him. ‘If you mean I live a life of idleness, that is far from the truth,’ he said. ‘My father would not allow it. I have to work on our estate, see that it is running smoothly, look after the tenants…’ He stopped, on the verge of telling her that he did have another mission in life, but decided it would introduce a sombre note to the proceedings and stopped short.

  ‘And that is work?’

  ‘It is harder work than you might think. But I come to London for the Season, as you see.’

  ‘To look for a bride?’

  ‘That is the accepted way of doing it, though I am not so sure it will work in my case. My father despairs of me, says I am too particular.’

  ‘And are you?’ She was slightly breathless, as if his answer was important to her. His name was Stanmore, he had said. Lord Stanmore, she supposed, but she could not remember any of the girls in the troupe mentioning a Lord Stanmore and they knew the names of everyone who was anyone in town; gossip was meat and drink to them.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I am.’ This conversation was not going at all the way he had expected it to. It was not the light, teasing banter he usually employed when talking to the little bits of muslin he chose to dally with. She had more about her than they did, much more. He had not been joking when he said she had the bearing of an aristocrat. It showed itself in the proud way she held her head, the way she used her cutlery, the way she sipped her wine, the way she spoke, without that silly simpering voice young women of the lower orders used when trying to impress him. Madeleine Charron saw no need to impress him; she considered herself his equal.

  ‘How in particular?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s just it, I do not know,’ he said. ‘I have never troubled to analyse it. I suppose what I mean, is that I shall recognise her when I meet her.’

  She laughed. ‘So you have not yet met her?’

  ‘I think I might have.’ Even as he spoke, he knew the idea was preposterous, outlandish, laughable. But it would not go away.

  ‘When did you meet her?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  She stared at him for a moment, then sat back in her chair and burst out laughing. ‘I have heard many a proposition, but that is a new one, it really is.’

  He frowned. ‘You laugh.’

  ‘Am I meant to take you seriously?’

  His mind suddenly produced an image of his illustrious father, of his stepmother and his sister, Lavinia, as he presented Madeleine Charron to them as his intended wife and knew she had been right to laugh. ‘We could pretend, just for one night,’ he said lightly. ‘It might be fun.’

  ‘It depends what you expect of me,’ she said, and she was not laughing now. ‘I am an actress, pretending is second nature to me, but if you mean what I think you mean, I am afraid you have quite misunderstood my role.’

  He sat back and rocked with laughter. ‘Oh, the lady is the aristocrat and no doubt about it. What rank was that grandfather of yours, a comte, a marquis or a duke, perhaps?’

  ‘A comte,’ she said. Marquises and dukes would be too easy to trace.

  She was not naturally a liar and suddenly she found it all very hard going. He was too nice to deceive, too much the gentleman. She knew he would not coerce her or force himself upon her as Henry Bulford had done, but if she were determined enough, she could make him fall in love with her, make him defy his stiff-necked father to marry her. The ball was in her court. Why, then, was she so reluctant to pass it back? Why, when she had the opportunity to further her long-term goal, had she lost her courage? Only the memory of her humiliation at the hands of another aristocrat kept her from confessing her perfidy.

  ‘And one does not lightly roast a comte’s daughter,’ he said, unaware of her tumultuous thoughts.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said, suddenly serious.

  ‘Sorry? Sorry for what?’

  ‘If you have deluded yourself that I would easily succumb…’

  ‘If I had, you have soon put me in my place,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let us begin again, shall we?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Tell me about being an actress. I once acted in a play my sister put on for a charity my stepmother favours and I found it quite hard work.’

  ‘It is. What part did you play?’

  ‘Oberon. It was A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

  ‘I know it well.’

  It was easier after that. They spent the remainder of the evening talking pleasantly, laughing together, comparing their likes and dislikes and Maddy found she could forget he was one of the hated aristocracy, could forget her schemes and just be herself. He was a charming and attentive companion and she paid him the compliment of genuinely enjoying his company.

  At two o’clock in the morning, they found themselves alone in the dining room and the waiters hovering to clear the table. Reluctantly they stood up to leave. ‘My, how the time has flown by,’ he said. ‘I have never been so well entertained in my life. Thank you, sweet Madeleine.’

  ‘It has been a pleasure,’ she said, allowing him to drape her cloak about her shoulders and escort her to the door.

  They had almost reached it when the proprietor came, bowing deferentially. ‘I hope everything was to your satisfaction, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘You may send the reckoning to Stanmore House. It will be paid promptly.’

  Stanmore House. Maddy knew where that mansion was and who it belonged to. Sir Percival Ponsonby had pointed it out only the week before when he had taken her out in his carriage and regaled her with who was who among the many people they had seen in the park. Why hadn’t she made the connection when Duncan Stanmore had first introduced himself?

  She had been having supper with the Marquis of Risley, the Duke of Loscoe’s heir. The Duke was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom, so it stood to reason his son wanted for nothing. He had entertained her for several hours, and not once had he hinted of his illustrious background. Why? In her experience, most young men were boastful and would not have been able to keep quiet about having a duke for a father. Was he, too, playing a part?

  He put his hand beneath her elbow to escort her to his waiting carriage and helped her ins
ide. ‘Tell me where you want to go and I will see you safely there,’ he said.

  He was being studiously polite now, as if the contract he had made to give her supper in exchange for her company had been fulfilled and that was the end of it. She admitted to a tiny feeling of disappointment. And telling herself she was being more than inconsistent did nothing to appease her. She had made it clear he could expect nothing else and he, like the gentleman he was, had accepted that. But he might have put up more of an argument!

  She told him the address of her lodgings at the bottom end of Oxford Street, which she shared with several others in the company. He passed it on to his coachman and they sat in silence as the coach rattled through the almost deserted streets. There was a constraint between them now, as if they had run out of things to say and did not know how to proceed.

  It was unlike Duncan to be tongue-tied, but she had bewitched him, not only with her good looks and her curvaceous figure, but also with the way she spoke, the way she held her head, the way her expressive hands drew pictures in the air, her humour. He could see that speeding coach, could see the childlike figure weeping over a dead mother, could feel her pain. And no one to comfort her, no father, no grandparents, no one except an orphanage such as his stepmother supported. It was a wonder she had not become bitter.

  Instead she had risen above it and the result was perfection. He had never been so captivated. Not that any liaison other than that of lover and chère amie was possible. She was not wifely material, at least not for him, and suddenly he could not bring himself to spoil that perfection by suggesting they continue the evening elsewhere.

  When the coach stopped at her door, he jumped down to help her to alight. ‘Thank you for a truly delightful evening,’ he said, raising her hand to his lips.

  Dozens of young men had done the same thing, but none had made her shiver as she was shivering now. It was not a shiver of cold, but of heat. His touch was like a lick of flame that spread from her hand, up her arm and down to the pit of her stomach and from there it found its way to her groin. She had never experienced anything like it before, but she recognised it as weakness. She shook herself angrily for being a traitor to herself. This was not the way, she berated herself, allowing herself to fall under his spell was not part of the plan. He was supposed to fall under hers!

  ‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, putting his hand in his pocket and extracting the diamond ear drop. ‘You must have this to remind you of the delightful time we spent together.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘May I put it in?’

  Gently he took her earlobe and hooked the jewel into it. Then he bent and put his lips to her ear, kissed it and whispered, ‘I shall always remember it.’ Now he was the stage-door admirer that she was used to, paying extravagant compliments and meaning none of them.

  She found herself smiling. ‘You are too generous, my lord Marquis.’

  ‘Drat it, you have seen through me,’ he said, laughing and breaking the stiff atmosphere that had suddenly developed between them.

  ‘Did you think I did not know the Marquis of Risley?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he said, with a theatrical sigh. ‘And I thought you loved me for myself alone.’

  There was no answer to that and she did not give him one. She turned and went into the house and closed the door behind her, leaning her back on it, hearing his carriage roll away. She had had her chance and she had let it go. All those years nursing a hate, all those years working towards her goal and she had fallen at the first hurdle. What a ninny she had been!

  Beautiful he had called her, aristocratic, he had said, different. Oh, she was different all right. She was a fraud, a tease, for all she had told Marianne she was not. And she had been given her just reward: supper and a pair of diamond ear drops. She supposed she should be flattered that he thought her worth that much, but then diamonds were commonplace to him and would hardly make a dint in his fortune. The pin in his cravat had been worth many times his gift to her.

  She toiled wearily up to her room, to find Marianne sitting on her bed, waiting for her, clad in an undress robe in peacock colours and her hair in a nightcap. ‘Well?’ her friend demanded.

  ‘Well, what?’ She sank on to the bed and kicked off her shoes.

  ‘What happened? Did you find out who he was?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I found out.’

  ‘And? Come on, don’t keep me in suspense. I was right, he is an aristocrat, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. None other than the Marquis of Risley.’

  ‘The Duke of Loscoe’s heir! I am impressed. What happened?’

  ‘He bought me supper at Reid’s, entertained me with anecdotes, brought me home and left me with the other ear drop.’

  ‘That’s all? He didn’t suggest a private room?’

  ‘No. He was amiable and generous and a perfect gentleman.’

  Marianne laughed. ‘Oh dear, and you are disappointed.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She could not tell Marianne of her doubts. ‘I had no intention of falling at his feet or even encouraging him. I need to be more subtle than that.’

  ‘More subtle,’ Marianne repeated, looking into Maddy’s bright eyes. ‘Oh, Maddy I do hope you have not developed a tendre for him. The Duke will never allow his son to become attached to an actress.’

  ‘But if that actress also happens to be the granddaughter of a French comte, he might condescend to overlook her faults.’

  ‘You never told him that tale of the French émigré, did you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, Maddy, you will be in a serious coil, if you persist. Tell him the truth, make a jest of it before he finds out for himself.’

  ‘I didn’t know who he was when I told it. He was pretending to be a nobody while I was doing my best pretending to be a somebody, so we were both at fault. It was only harmless fun, not to be taken seriously at all. I am sure his lordship did not do so.’ And that was what rankled. He had not asked to see her again and she would not be given another opportunity to demonstrate her ascendancy over him. He had been the one to draw back, as if he had suddenly remembered who he was and what she was. An actress.

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’ Marianne stood up, prepared to leave. ‘Now, I suggest you go to bed. You will be fit for nothing later today if you do not.’

  When Marianne had taken her leave Madeleine undressed and climbed into bed, knowing, late as it was and tired as she was, she would not sleep. Her evening out, which had been so enjoyable in one way, had been a disaster in another. Sometimes for days, even weeks, at a time she managed to forget her past and her enmity towards the aristocracy, but tonight had brought it all back and she was feeling decidedly vulnerable.

  The fact that the Marquis had appeared to believe her story of her French grandfather, and had said he had known she was a lady of good breeding, made her wonder about her unknown father. She racked her brains, trying to think of anything her mother might have said to throw some light on who he could have been, but there was nothing. She could not remember Mama even mentioning him.

  Her grandfather was certainly not a French émigré, she had invented him, but supposing the fictional character could give her an entrée into Society? And in the dark watches of the night when anything seems possible, a plan began to form in her mind, a plan so audacious it made her shiver. But she needed the help of her friend Marianne.

  ‘Well, do I owe you twenty-five pounds or not?’ Benedict asked Duncan the following morning when he came upon him at Humbold’s coffee house, blowing a cloud and amusing himself watching the people passing the window. ‘A week has gone by and no news of the citadel being stormed.’

  ‘Citadel?’

  ‘The lovely Madeleine Charron.’

  ‘Supper we agreed and supper it was,’ Duncan said, sitting down opposite his friend and beckoning to the waiter to bring a dish of coffee to him. ‘Taken at Reid’s with plenty of witnesses, so pay up and look cheerful about it.’

  Bene
dict dug in his tail pocket and produced his purse. ‘And?’ He carefully counted out the twenty-five sovereigns in five neat heaps. ‘You are going to refine upon that, I hope.’

  ‘Nothing to refine upon.’

  ‘You are bamming me.’

  ‘No. What happened and what was said between us is our private business and nothing to do with the wager.’

  ‘She turned you down!’ It was said almost triumphantly.

  ‘Not at all.’ Benedict was annoying him and he was damned if he would tell him anything. ‘But, unlike you, I do not rush in where angels fear to tread. I prefer to deal gently with the fair sex. It pays in the end.’

  ‘Ah, the assault goes on. You want another wager?’ His hand hovered over the coins. ‘Double or quits?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For a night in her bed.’

  Duncan should have refused. He should have scooped up his winnings and told his friend that he had no intention of even trying, when he realised that Benedict would take that as weakness or a lack of self-confidence at the very least and would offer to do the deed himself. The thought of his clumsy friend going anywhere near Madeleine filled him with a kind of desperate fury. He smiled. ‘Done, my friend.’

  ‘Done to the wager or done to the deed?’ Benedict queried, grinning.

  ‘The wager, you bufflehead.’

  Benedict retrieved the coins and replaced them in his purse with evident relief. ‘Another se’nnight?’

  ‘No, give me credit for more finesse than that. Make it a fortnight.’

  He could have bitten his tongue out. If the object of the wager had been anyone else but the lovely Madeleine Charron, he would not have given it another thought. As it was, he was consumed with shame. She had endured so much in her short life, he had no right to play with her as if she were a toy. She deserved his respect. He flung the contents of the coffee cup down his throat and with a curt, ‘I will see you later,’ stood up and left the premises.