by Mary Nichols
‘The Marquis of Risley, among them.’ She paused. ‘There is no need to ask Sir Percy about going to the Duchess’s, seeing we have managed it without his help. The fewer people who know my intentions the better.’
‘You still mean to go through with it, then?’
‘Yes, more than ever.’
Marianne finished dressing just as Sir Percy arrived to take her to supper. He was dressed in an outrageous coat of puce satin with a high stand collar and huge pocket flaps in a darker pink velvet. His waistcoat was a striped green marcella and his trousers were cream coloured and strapped under his red-heeled shoes, left over from a time when he was young and red heels were the height of fashion. He knew perfectly well that everyone laughed at his dress and some of the young bucks laid bets on what colour he would be wearing next, and it amused him to amuse them.
He executed a flourishing leg to both ladies. ‘Delectable, my dear Marianne,’ he said, surveying her from head to toe. ‘Does Miss Charron come too?’
‘Oh, no, dear sir,’ Madeleine said, laughing. ‘The role of chaperon does not suit me. I am for home and bed.’
‘Do you say so?’ he queried, lifting a dark eyebrow. ‘Now, I thought I saw Risley’s coach outside. It must have been there for one of the others.’
‘I expect it was.’
‘Come along, my dear.’ He addressed Marianne. ‘I am as hungry as a hunter.’
They disappeared in a flurry of rainbow colours, leaving Madeleine to complete her toilette alone, dressing in a green round gown with leg o’mutton sleeves and a sleeveless pelisse of light wool and topping her dark curls with a small green bonnet, decorated with a sweeping feather. She took her time, hoping that the Marquis would give up and go home, but when she ventured out into the street, the carriage was still there. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her head, she walked past it.
‘Madeleine!’ Her name was spoken softly but urgently. ‘Madeleine, wait!’
She swung round, but could see nothing but his dark shape in the shadow of the building. ‘I have nothing to say to you, sir.’
‘Why not? Have I offended you?’
‘I will let your conscience be the judge of that, sir. If you have one, that is. I bid you goodnight.’
He reached out and put his hand on her arm to detain her. ‘Let me escort you home, then you may tell me how I have displeased you.’
She shook him off. ‘I do not need to ride in a carriage for that, my lord. It is easily told. You mocked the play. You brought your drunken friends to make fun of me. You threw orange peel on to the stage and cut off my speeches before they could be properly delivered. I am used to being derided, Lord Risley, but I had thought you were more sensible of my talent. You certainly made a great pretence of appreciating it last week, but that was before I refused to become your paramour, wasn’t it? Was this your vengeance?’
‘Vengeance? Good God! Surely you do not believe I am as contemptible as that?’
She ignored his denial. ‘And now I suppose those…those…rakeshames are privy to everything I told you in confidence.’
‘No, never! I was with those fellows, but I did not know what they would do and I certainly took no part in their bad behaviour. Please believe me. I would not for the world have you hurt.’
‘Hurt, my lord,’ she said haughtily. ‘I am beyond hurting. I am angry that other people’s enjoyment of the play was spoiled by a handful of idle ne’er-do-wells.’
‘So am I, believe me. Please allow me to take you home. You cannot walk through the streets alone at this time of night. Anything could happen.’
She smiled slowly in the darkness. ‘You are concerned for my safety?’
‘Naturally I am.’
‘And you would walk with me?’
‘If you prefer that to riding in my carriage, then I will be honoured to do so.’
‘Then send your carriage home. It is not fair on the horses to keep them waiting so long.’
He turned and instructed his coachman to take the equipage home, then offered her his arm. She laid her fingers upon it and together they strolled off in the direction of Oxford Street. He would have to walk home from there, but she did not care. It served him right.
Chapter Three
Neither spoke for several minutes, both deep in thoughts they could not share. Though she was still very angry with him, Madeleine was obliged to admit, if only to herself, that she was glad of his company. She could easily have asked the stage door-keeper to fetch her a cab, but instead she had elected to walk home, a decision she regretted almost as soon as she had made it, but her pride prevented her from retracting. To reach Oxford Street from Covent Garden on foot meant going through a most insalubrious area of town, where footpads and other criminals abounded and a lone woman was fair game. Furious with her escort she might be, but she was glad of his protection.
Duncan was fully aware that his fellow carousers had assumed he had left them to take Miss Charron home in pursuit of the wager, which he wished with all his heart he had never made. Tomorrow they would demand chapter and verse in order to be convinced that he had succeeded in climbing into the actress’s bed. He sighed heavily; he would have to admit failure and put up with the ribaldry that was bound to follow. He would never live it down. And he prayed most heartily that Miss Charron herself never got to hear of it. How, in heaven’s name, could he explain it to her and still keep her goodwill?
Judging by the peal she had rung over him a few minutes before, he had lost it already and he cursed himself for agreeing to dine with Benedict and his friends and accompanying them to the theatre afterwards. Once they began hectoring the performers, he had tried to restrain them, but they were all so drunk, they took no notice and, to his eternal shame, he had given up.
‘Miss Charron,’ he said at last, ‘I most humbly beg your pardon if I have offended you—’
‘It is not me alone you offended, my lord,’ she said in her haughtiest voice, ‘but all the other performers and the audience too who could not hear the play for the noise you and your friends were making. You call yourselves gentlemen! I have seen more gentlemanly behaviour in street urchins.’
‘You are right, but in my own defence I can only say I did not know my friends would behave in such a fashion; they had taken a drop too much.’
‘A drop!’ She spoke scornfully, walking swiftly, head high, so that her words were carried to him over her shoulder. ‘A barrel would be more accurate. And that is no excuse, though I am aware everyone thinks it is. Now, I beg you to say no more about it, for talking about it is making me angrier by the minute.’
‘If you will not hear my apology, then I will remain silent.’
‘Please do.’
They resumed their silent contemplation as they walked, more quickly now. The streets had been busy around the theatre, which was lit by street lamps, but now they were in an unlit area, where the houses were crowded together and what little moonlight there was could hardly penetrate. Every now and again a door opened to reveal the noisy interior of a low tavern, as people came out to wend their way drunkenly homeward. There were puddles in the road and unpleasant smells whose source could not be determined. There was a scurrying of mice around a pile of rubbish and a cat screeched as someone threw something at it from a bedroom window.
Madeleine shuddered, realising she had become soft. Not so many years before, she would have walked through here and thought nothing of it. No one would have accosted her; she was a child of poverty, just as they were, and had nothing to steal. What a long way she had come. But not far enough, nowhere near far enough. She smiled suddenly.
‘My lord, I am sorry.’ She laid a hand on his arm and the slight contact heightened her awareness of him as a man—a tall, muscular, handsome and very virile man. ‘That was unkind in me when you have taken the trouble to see me safe home. Talk if you wish to, I shall listen.’
The sudden change in her tone of voice took him by surprise. The virago had gone and been
replaced by a woman who appeared to care that she had berated him unjustly. And the hand on his sleeve was as warm as the smile she turned towards him. He could see her face clearly by the light coming from the window of a house they were passing. The rest of her—her clothes, her hat, her small feet in patent leather shoes—were in shadow, but the face, framed by the soft outline of the feather in her bonnet, was clear, the eyes bright and the lips slightly parted.
She was beautiful and desirable and if she were not who she was and if he were not who he was, he could easily fall in love with her, properly in love, not as a man loves his mistress, which would be acceptable in Society so long as he kept her in the background, but as a man loves the woman he would like for his wife. The unthinkable thought shook him to the core and he took a moment to compose himself before he spoke again.
‘I am not a great talker,’ he said, reaching across himself to put his other hand upon hers. He did not know why he did it; it only served to heighten his already excited senses. ‘But I would like us to be friends and if I have in any way endangered that by my insensitive behaviour, then I am truly penitent. I will insist on Mr Willoughby offering you an apology.’
She laughed lightly. ‘Oh, I do not think that will be necessary, my lord. An apology not heartily meant is not worth the effort of making and I doubt he even realises he has anything to apologise for. Pray, let us forget it.’
‘I will,’ he said, ‘if you will stop addressing me by my title. I prefer Duncan, or if you cannot manage that, then Stanmore. Sometimes, you know, a title can be a dreadful encumbrance.’
‘You don’t say so.’
‘Indeed, I do. It can have a very restricting influence on a fellow.’
‘You mean because everyone knows you and you cannot get into the least scrape without the whole world knowing of it?’
He grinned in the darkness; she was right about that. ‘Something of the sort. But it also means some people, those whose opinion I value, are uncomfortable with me, afraid to speak their minds.’
‘Can you wonder at it? You are all-powerful, or at least your father, the Duke of Loscoe, is; earning your disapprobation could easily ruin a man. Or a woman, come to that,’ she added softly.
‘I collect you have no such constraints.’
‘Should I have?’
‘No, certainly not. That is what I like about you. You say what you think and if it means giving me a jobation, then you do not hold back, do you?’
She laughed. ‘No, you must take me as I am. I have never been in a position to learn the niceties of Polite Society but, from my limited observation, I have come to the conclusion that a great deal of what goes on is empty sham. One must do this. One must on no account do that. The hierarchy of status must be maintained at all costs…’
‘Everyone in Society is not like that,’ he said softly. ‘My own parents are as liberal as anyone can be.’
‘Yes, the Duchess was very amiable when she spoke to me last week, but that does not mean she would accept me in her circle of friends.’
‘I do not see why not. You are the granddaughter of a count.’
She did not like to be reminded of that untruth, but she was not yet ready to confess her fault, for all she had promised Marianne she would. ‘A French count, that is not the same as an English one, is it?’
He smiled. ‘Perhaps not, but Mama would make no distinction.’
‘I imagine the Duke would.’
‘Not necessarily. Oh, undoubtedly he can be top-lofty, it was especially true when my sister and I were children, but the present Duchess has tamed him, you know. You will see, when you come to the house for the soirée, how very agreeable he can be.’
‘Will he be there?’ She had not thought much about facing the Duke before and she began to tremble at her own temerity. It was easy to boast to Marianne of what she meant to do, but putting it into practice was proving harder than she had imagined; the Marquis of Risley was turning out to be much too good-natured and caring for her peace of mind. If she were not vigilant, she might even find herself liking him too much. And that would never do. ‘I had thought it would only be ladies.’
‘No, there is usually a sprinkling of gentlemen my stepmother has coerced into donating funds to her charity.’
‘And does that include you?’
‘I would not miss it for the world,’ he said. ‘The delectable Miss Charron gracing the Stanmore drawing room, that is something to be seen. Mama was right, you will draw the haut monde like a magnet.’
‘Fustian!’
‘Oh, indeed yes. The evening will make a great deal of money for the orphanage.’
‘Orphanage,’ she echoed in a small voice, watching her feet, unable to look up at him in case he saw her agitation in her face.
‘Yes, did you not know? Mama has been involved in providing homes for soldiers’ orphans ever since the war. Why, when they opened the one in Maiden Lane, she rolled up her sleeves and helped to scrub it out.’
Madeleine breathed easily again. The orphanage she had attended had been in Monmouth Street, not Maiden Lane. ‘Then, I hope you are right and she does well from it. I shall do my best to help.’
‘Of course,’ he said, suddenly remembering. ‘I had forgot you have lived in an orphanage yourself.’
‘I do not dwell on it. It is in the past.’ She did not want to be questioned about it; it made her feel even more guilty and uncomfortable.
‘I understand.’ He squeezed her hand gently. ‘It must be particularly painful for you, being of gentle birth as you are. But perhaps one day, you may find you have a family after all.’
She gave a short laugh that grated in her own ears. ‘I think not, sir, or they would have come forward when Mama died. I am resigned to being without. I have my work and my friends…’
‘I hope I may count myself one of them,’ he said softly.
‘Oh, that you may,’ she said, laughing to try to lighten the atmosphere which had become tense. ‘So long as you behave.’
‘For the reward of being your friend, I will be a model of good behaviour,’ he said, matching his mood to hers. ‘I will only throw orange peel if you are not on the stage.’
‘You will not throw it at all.’ She paused. ‘Why did you come to the theatre tonight? I would have thought a play about a nobleman being duped into accepting for his wife the physician’s daughter he had disdained is surely a little too hard for you to stomach.’
‘He deserved it for behaving so ungallantly towards her.’
His vehemence made her laugh. ‘It is only a play, my lord, and Helena was forced upon him. I am sure you would not allow yourself to be hoaxed in that way.’
He grinned. ‘If she were as beautiful as you, I would be giving thanks for my good luck.’
It was simple flattery, she knew that, a flirtatious dallying with words, meant to heighten their awareness of each other, as if she needed anything to do that. She was already strung like a bow and almost ready to break. ‘My lord, you do not have to empty the butter boat over me, you know. I am quite vain enough as it is. I play the parts I am given to the best of my ability and if my acting serves to make the audience think, then I am doubly rewarded.’
‘It certainly made me think,’ he said. ‘I find something new to admire every time I see you.’
‘More flummery.’
‘It is true, my dear. I find myself speechless with admiration.’
‘And that I do not believe. For one who says he is not a great talker, you are not short of words.’
‘And, I collect, you bade me be silent,’ he said ruefully.
They were so busy with the cut and thrust of a dialogue that hid more than it revealed, they had not noticed their surroundings, which were dismal in the extreme and best ignored, but now they were turning into Oxford Street and almost at their destination. Madeleine began to feel sorry that she had made him walk so far out of his way and would be alone on the return journey, a prey to any scamp who caught sight of his
fine clothes. But if he thought she was going to invite him to stay the night with her, he would have to think again. She did not intend to succumb that easily; she did not intend to succumb at all.
Deep in thought, she did not notice the man dart out of a side alley until he grabbed hold of her, pulling her round in front of him, using her to shield his own body, and brandishing a wicked-looking knife. ‘Now, sir, unless you want me to spoil the lady’s good looks, you will hand over your valuables,’ he said, addressing Duncan.
He was a big man and very powerful. She could smell the drink on his breath and the odour of his unwashed body and it made her feel sick, but the knife was perilously close to her face and she dare not struggle. ‘Let me go,’ she begged. ‘Please let me go.’
‘I will, as soon as lover-boy has coughed up his gewgaws.’
But Duncan did not seem in any hurry to remove the diamond pin from his cravat or the fob from his waistcoat; he faced the man squarely and stood his ground. ‘I think not,’ he said mildly. ‘I am rather attached to them.’
Madeleine gasped, hardly able to believe he would sacrifice her to keep his jewels.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the robber anticipated her and clamped a hand over her mouth, while the other still held the knife to her throat. ‘I mean it, sir, your valuables, if you please. ‘
‘Don’t be a damned fool, man,’ Duncan said evenly, stepping towards him. ‘It’s not worth it, you know.’
‘You keep your distance, this knife is sharp as a razor.’ He took a step backwards, pulling Madeleine with him. Her hat came off and rolled in the dirt. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I ain’t got all night.’
Duncan began slowly—too slowly for Madeleine, who was fighting for breath—to undo the pin and then the fob, but he did not hand them over, but weighed them in the palm of his hand. ‘Do you need these so badly?’ he asked calmly.
‘Course I do. D’you think I’d hold you up if I weren’t driv to it? Now, ’and ’em over. And yer blunt too.’
