A Lady of Consequence

by Mary Nichols

‘You may have them with my compliments if you release the lady at once. Unharmed.’

  ‘Do you take me for a fool? She goes free when I’ve got ’em safe in me ’ands.’

  ‘Then how are you going to possess yourself of them?’ He dangled the jewellery in front of the man. ‘You have only two hands and at the moment both seem full.’

  The man took his hand from Madeleine’s mouth and reached out to take the spoils and in that instant Duncan grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm, making him release his prisoner. Madeleine threw herself to the ground. She heard the man grunt in pain as Duncan brought his arm up behind his back and forced him to drop the knife.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Duncan asked her, dropping the jewels into his waistcoat pocket, in order to have two hands to hold on to the captive, who was struggling ineffectually in a surprisingly strong grip.

  ‘No,’ she said, scrambling to her feet, but she was shaking so much she had to lean against a house wall for support.

  ‘I meant no ’arm to the lady,’ the would-be robber said, almost defiantly. ‘But there ain’t no other way, I’ve got no work and me childer are starvin’…’

  ‘And they will starve even more if you are in prison, you fool,’ Duncan said.

  ‘Don’t hand me in, sir, I beg you.’

  ‘No, I do not think that will put bread in the mouths of your children, will it? I think you would do better to find work.’

  ‘You think I ain’t tried?’

  ‘Then I suggest you try again. Go to Bow Street first thing in the morning, the house next to the magistrate and say Stanmore sent you. They will help you.’ He paused. ‘And I suppose if I am not to have your hungry children on my conscience tonight, you had better have this.’ He released the man in order to extract a few coins from his purse. ‘But buy food with it, do you hear?’ The man stood, as if uncertain whether or not to believe his luck. Duncan smiled. ‘Go on, man, before I change my mind.’

  He scuttled away and Duncan turned to Madeleine who was still leaning against the wall, knowing that if she pushed herself away from it, her shaking knees would not support her. ‘Oh, my love, I am sorry,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘I would not for the world have had that happen to you. Are you all right? No bruises or anything?’

  ‘I shall know that tomorrow,’ she said shakily, trying to laugh. ‘But my goodness, how brave you were to stand up to him like that.’

  ‘He was more afraid than I was.’ He stooped to pick up her hat, but it was crumpled and muddy and she could not wear it. ‘Now we must get you home. I am sorry there are no cabs in this vicinity and I dare not leave you to fetch one. Do you think you can walk?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I am a little shaky, but unharmed.’

  ‘I do not think we should loiter. Come, let me help you.’

  They walked on, but now his arm was about her and though she recovered quickly, she liked the feel of it there, the warmth and security of his tall presence and the knowledge, spreading through her like liquid fire, that he had called her his love, and in a voice so full of tender concern, she could not doubt his sincerity. But she would not spoil the moment by trying to analyse how she felt about that.

  ‘You could have been hurt, even killed, and it was all my fault,’ she said. ‘I should never have suggested going home on foot. And now you have a long walk back and he may be lying in wait for you.’

  ‘Oh, I do not think so. I have met such fellows before, they are not true criminals, but driven by desperation.’

  ‘And this house in Bow Street?’

  ‘Oh, a place that finds work for such fellows. I heard of it quite by chance.’ A statement that was not exactly true, since he had founded it and paid for its upkeep.

  ‘But for my silly pride you would have had your carriage.’

  ‘And then, the journey would only have been of a few minutes’ duration and we would not have had time to become friends again. You would still be angry with me.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She laughed shakily. ‘And now you have every right to be angry with me.’

  ‘Not at all, my dear Madeleine. I believe I understand you.’

  ‘Do you?’ she asked softly, thinking that if he did, it was more than she did. Sometimes she thought she knew what drove her, sometimes she was a mass of indecisiveness.

  ‘Yes. Your art is important to you, it is your expression of your true self and anyone who makes light of that is a reprehensible shagbag and deserves your wrath. You are proud, yes, and you have a right to be, though sometimes that pride works against you. Now, have I got it right?’

  He was far too perspicacious for her comfort. What else had he deduced about her? She laughed to cover her chagrin. ‘Oh, yes, exactly. I wish I could read your character so readily.’

  ‘Oh, I am easy to read, my dear. I am the spoiled son of a nobleman who falls into a tantrum when he cannot have his own way, but can be a pleasant companion when he has it, which can be said of almost anyone of my ilk.’

  ‘I do not believe that. Others of your ilk, as you put it, would not have been so lenient with that man just now. They would have called out the watch and had him taken to gaol, even supposing they could overcome him as you did, which I ask leave to doubt.’

  ‘You think I should have turned him in?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said doubtfully, not at all sure that the man might not be lurking somewhere to pounce again. ‘If you are right, he deserves our pity.’

  ‘Pity is not enough,’ he said softly.

  She looked at him sharply, surprised by the hint of regret in his voice, as if he had somehow failed the man who tried to rob him. ‘I have not met many aristocrats,’ she said. ‘but those I have met have certainly not betrayed such sentiments. I think you may be different.’

  He laughed and pulled her close against his side. ‘Oh, I do hope so, my dear Madeleine, I do hope so.’ They had arrived outside the door of her lodging and now he stopped and turned her to face him, though he still kept his arms about her. ‘You will be all right now?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘It was fortunate I was with you tonight. You could have been attacked, left for dead, stripped of your clothes and…’ He could not put that particular fear into words, but she knew what he meant.

  ‘I collect it was your valuables he was after. I have none.’

  ‘If I had not been there, it might have been different. I want you to make me a promise, my dear. I want your word you will not attempt to walk home alone again. Go with Miss Doubleday or take a cab, or send for me. I will come, you know.’ He was looking down at her with such an expression of tender concern it turned her heart over and, try as she might, she could not harden it. This was not how she had meant it to be. Not this softness.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I will remember. But it is you I am concerned about. I do not like to think of you walking home alone. Won’t you come in? My landlady might be persuaded to find you a bed.’

  He wondered briefly if she were offering him her bed. If he had been the man his friends thought him to be, he would have jumped at the offer and won his wager. He would be fooling himself if he said he was not tempted, but the special bond they had established was so fragile, it would not survive if he availed himself of her invitation, especially as he longed to do more than take her in his arms. He might make a fool of himself. ‘Best not,’ he said, returning her crumpled hat to her. ‘I might forget I am a gentleman.’ He bent and put his lips to her forehead. ‘Good night, sweet Madeleine. Sleep well.’ And then he was gone, striding away down the street and not looking back.

  Madeleine turned slowly to go indoors. She was confused and angry with herself. How could she go on with the masquerade? How could she deceive him so? How could she go to the Duchess’s soirée and pretend to be someone she was not? He was nothing like Henry Bulford, nothing at all. He was brave as a lion, cool in a crisis, and he respected her, even if it was only for her talent as an actress. Would he respect her when he knew that she had de
liberately deceived him? Marianne had been right; she had got herself into a dreadful coil.

  He would come to the theatre again; she knew it as surely as she knew she would be there herself. She would have to turn him away, pretend to have another engagement, let him know that she looked on tonight’s episode as nothing more than an adventure they had shared and that it meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.

  She went upstairs to her room, flung the battered hat and her pelisse on the bed and kicked off her shoes, then she walked across to the window. The street was dark and empty. He had gone from sight, if not from her mind. She prayed he would arrive home safely.

  Duncan was not especially concerned for his safety. He had met many such fellows as the one who had accosted him tonight and they were only men, just as he was a man, but much less fortunate. As soon as they realised he was not their enemy, they usually became amenable. Even so, he took the precaution of walking down Oxford Street instead of going back the way he had come. By the time he reached the junction with Bond Street, he would find a cab.

  The night was still comparatively young; he could go to his club, but, knowing Benedict Willoughby and his cronies would be there, waiting for him, wanting to know what had happened, he decided against it. He could not tell them the truth: that he had developed a genuine tendre for Madeleine Charron and could not take advantage of her, that he wished with all his heart that he could somehow transform her into someone his father would accept. They would laugh him to scorn. Nor could he lie. He could not pretend he had shared Madeleine’s bed and take Willoughby’s money. That was even more unthinkable.

  He would go home. Tomorrow morning, very early, he would blow away the cobwebs by going for a gallop in Hyde Park and then he would go to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing establishment and go a few rounds with whoever happened to be there. After that, dressed in an anonymous-looking drab coat and a low-crowned hat, he would visit the house in Bow Street to see if the man had turned up there. They usually did. After that, if there was time, he would visit Newgate prison. It would take his mind off Miss Madeleine Charron and give him something else to think about.

  His interest in prisons and prisoners had begun three years before when he had gone with a lawyer friend who was defending a fellow accused of stealing two loaves of bread and a quantity of tea from a house on Piccadilly. He and the friend were going to the races later in the day and, as he had nothing better to do, he had gone with him to Newgate. The visit had changed his life.

  He had known, of course, that being imprisoned was not a pleasant experience; it was not meant to be a bed of roses, but a punishment for crime; he had not, until then, given it much thought. If a man picked his pocket, that man must go to gaol. But he had been appalled at what he saw. It was difficult to believe that the filthy ragged inmates with matted beards and tangled hair were human beings and not some strange animals, caged because they were dangerous. Nor, until his friend had enlightened him, had he realised how many offences had been punishable by death—over two hundred, so he had said.

  ‘Besides murder, treason, piracy and arson,’ he had told him, ‘you could be hanged for highway robbery, housebreaking, shoplifting, rick-burning and poaching, and a host of other seemingly slight offences, like sending a begging letter signed with a pseudonym or impersonating a Chelsea Pensioner, and hundreds more, equally curious. Of course, Peel is full of reforming zeal and has managed to reduce the huge number of crimes for which hanging is the prescribed punishment, but that has done little to reduce crime and only serves to make the prisons more crowded than ever.’

  ‘Mrs Fry has been pioneering for prison reform for some time, has she not?’

  ‘True, and she has achieved much for the women and children, but the men still spend their days in idleness, gambling and drinking…’

  ‘Drinking?’

  ‘Yes, cheap gin is readily available from the wards-men if you have money to pay for it. You can hardly blame them for wanting to drown their misery.’

  It was not until he had met and talked with some of the prisoners that he discovered that most of them were not murderers, nor even deeply felonious, but petty thieves and minor delinquents, often forced to steal in order to provide for their families, and he had come to the conclusion that it was not the people who needed to reform so much as the system that made them what they were.

  He had taken his seat in the House of Lords in 1820, when everyone entitled to sit there had been obliged to attend that travesty of a trial aimed at disgracing the Queen and allowing the King to divorce her, but he had not been much interested in politics and did not attend the House afterwards. Following that visit to Newgate, he had resumed his seat and become a vociferous advocate of treating convicted people as human beings whatever they had done. But it did him little good; he was said to be too enthusiastic and would have the country go so far down the road to leniency as to invite anarchy. Why, if he had his way, so these greybeards said, men would come to welcome prison as an alternative to going out and earning an honest living.

  He had taken the criticism with a shrug of his shoulders and continued his campaign in private, leaving his father and Robert Peel, the Home Secretary, to make the public speeches. Instead he did what he could, taking clothes and food in to the prisoners and, in some cases, paying for a lawyer, or using his name and consequence to obtain employment for them when they were released. It was why he had set up the house in Bow Street. Just as the orphanage was his stepmother’s charity, the prisoners and their families had become his.

  It was not something he boasted of. In fact, his contemporaries in the haut monde would be astonished and horrified if they knew about it. He doubted if any of them, and that included Benedict Willoughby, would have sympathised. They would say he had taken leave of his senses. And so he told no one, doing good by stealth. Except that now Madeleine Charron had an inkling of it.

  There he was, thinking about her again. Why could he not contemplate anything—his social engagements, his charitable work, what coat or cravat he should wear, whether to dine at his club or at home, whether to go to Almack’s or not—without thinking of her, putting her into the context of his life? He turned from Oxford Street into Bond Street. An empty cab rattled past, but he made no attempt to hail it. He had not yet concluded the inner debate that raged within him and he needed more time.

  Madeleine Charron was an actress, a very fine actress, but not socially acceptable. His father, his stepmother, his sister and her husband, not to mention all their friends, would never countenance a marriage. He stopped suddenly. Marriage. When had that thought entered his head? It had not been a conscious one and it must be banished at once. He set off again with renewed purpose. He needed a stiff drink. A very stiff drink.

  He paused outside White’s, but, knowing Benedict would probably be there, he continued on his way to Stanmore House. One day, some time off yet, for he loved his father, it would become his. His wife would be its mistress, his son the heir to everything: the London house, the Risley estate in Derbyshire, the hunting box in Leicestershire, the Scottish castle where his Uncle John lived, almost a recluse, not to mention shipping interests worldwide. He was not even sure how much there was. The future Duchess of Loscoe would have to be a very special person and must be chosen with care.

  What had he said to his stepmother, the present Duchess, only two days ago? I want to have feelings for the woman I marry, feelings that last a lifetime. Which was more important, his feelings or the future of the Loscoe inheritance? It was not a matter of pleasing himself, because so many other people depended on a healthy estate: tenants, workers, servants, employees. He was not free to have feelings.

  He clattered up to the door and, despite the late hour, it was opened by a footman. There was always someone on duty, night and day; he did not even have to open a door for himself. He thanked the man, remembering to call him by his name, and continued up the grand staircase to his room on the second floor. He was met by his valet, slightly dish
eveled, it was true, as if he had been woken from sleep, but none the less ready to serve him.

  ‘Davison, I told you not to wait up for me.’

  ‘I know, my lord, but it is a chilly night, for all it is June, and I thought you might like a hot drink.’

  How could he be churlish when faced with such devotion? The idea of the stiff drink was abandoned in favour of hot chocolate. ‘Thank you, yes, please. And then go to bed. I am perfectly capable of undressing myself. You can tidy up in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Davison busied himself with a small spirit stove on a table in the corner of the large room, put there for occasions like this when his master came in late and they did not want to disturb the downstairs servants by asking for a hot drink to be made. ‘What shall I put out for you?’

  ‘I’m going riding very early. I’ll dress myself.’

  ‘My lord, I would die of mortification if anyone was to see the way you tie a cravat.’

  ‘I thought I was rather good at it.’ He surveyed himself in the mirror. The struggle with the would-be robber had left him in a sorry state. The sleeve of his coat was torn and dirty, his cravat was a crumpled mess and his carefully arranged curls were tumbling over his brow. Davison must have noticed but, like the good servant he was, had made no comment.

  ‘Why should you be good at it, my lord, when it is the province of your valet to tie your cravat?’ He placed a dish of hot chocolate on the table beside his master. ‘Though I see I did not do a very good job this evening and I beg your pardon for it.’

  Duncan laughed aloud. ‘Oh, do not be so roundabout, man. You can see I have been in a scrape and you are dying of curiosity.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘I will satisfy it, but only if you swear not to say a word to anyone.’

  ‘My lord, I have never betrayed your confidence in me and never will.’

  ‘I know that, Davison, I know that. Tonight I was set upon.’

  ‘Set upon, my lord? You mean you were robbed?’

  ‘Oh, no, I was not robbed, for I turned the tables on my attacker, but it has left me as you see.’ He took his diamond pin and fob from his waistcoat pocket and handed them to the valet to put away safely.