A Lady of Consequence

by Mary Nichols

  ‘My lord, are you hurt?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Oh, do not look so concerned, I have not spent hours and hours at Jackson’s without learning how to look after myself.’

  ‘Where was your carriage, my lord?’

  ‘Oh, I sent it home, I fancied a walk.’ He flung off the offending cravat and began to undo his waistcoat.

  ‘I think, my lord, that you take too many risks.’ The words were spoken deferentially, but Duncan could see that his servant was worried about him.

  ‘Life would be very dull if we did not draw a bow at a venture now and again, but you know, I always calculate the risk, so do not worry.’

  ‘Very well, my lord.’ The jewellery safely disposed of, Davison went to the wardrobe and fetched out Duncan’s riding coat and a pair of fine tan breeches and laid them across a chair ready for the morning. A white lawn shirt, a fresh cravat and wool hose were fetched from the drawer of his dressing chest and put with them. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, get yourself to bed, man.’

  The valet retreated and Duncan was left to drink his chocolate and finish undressing alone. It had been a memorable evening but one he was not in a hurry to repeat. He had told Davison he always calculated the risk and if he had been only speaking of overcoming a footpad, there might be some truth in it, but what of the greater risk of spending too much time in Miss Madeleine Charron’s company? She had charmed him, bewitched him, so that he was unable to think sensibly.

  She set his mind in a whirl of admiration, protectiveness and desire, which went round and round, looping in and out of his consciousness like the intricate lace he used to watch his old nurse making when he was a small boy. Her flying fingers had threaded the bobbins in and out, over and under, and the result was a cobweb design it was impossible to pull out. His life, hitherto uneventful, was beginning to knot itself up like that.

  His father wished him to marry. He knew he should marry. He wanted to love the woman he married. He wanted her to love him. But Madeleine Charron? Where had that idea come from? She was an actress, totally unsuitable. But she was also the granddaughter of a nobleman. Did that make her acceptable in Society? Was she to be forever condemned to its fringe? And in and out of the web went that dreadful wager Benedict had imposed upon him and the sure knowledge that if the lady ever heard of it, he would be damned forever in her eyes. And back went the bobbin again. Did it matter? He could not marry her.

  Fully undressed now, he stood before the mirror and surveyed himself. He was in the prime of his life; his legs were long, his thighs muscular, his arms strong and his face not at all bad, if you discounted a nose that was a little too long and a chin that could jut dangerously when provoked. He knew he was attractive to women; it was not only his fortune that drew them to him. He might as well take his pleasure where he could, before he was irrevocably hitched to the marriage cart.

  He could seduce Madeleine Charron; he did not doubt she had succumbed before. And even as the thought came to him, he dismissed it. Miss Madeleine Charron was not chère amie material, not a demi-rep to be kept in the background. She was meant to shine, to be seen and admired and preferably on his arm. The spider’s web had trapped him like a fly and the more he struggled, the tighter it became. He reached out and grabbed his nightshirt, pulling it over his head, shrouding himself in fine cotton, as if covering himself would return him to his normal good sense.

  ‘I will not see her again,’ he said, as he turned out the lamp and climbed into bed. ‘I will put temptation out of the way.’

  The audience behaved itself the following night, there were no rowdy scenes and no orange peel on the stage. Madeleine was, as usual, besieged by admirers at the stage door, but the Marquis of Risley was not among them. She went to supper with Marianne and several of the others of the cast and a bevy of young bloods vying with each other for her favours, much to the amusement of Marianne, who, being of middle years, was quite content to sit beside Sir Percy and laugh at them.

  She did not need the Marquis of Risley, Maddy told herself. He had been having a little fun with her, whiling away a dull evening or two, taking risks by venturing into the sordid slums where his sort never went, just for devilment and to boast of it to his friends afterwards—that encounter with the ruffian would add a piquancy to the telling. No doubt he would tell them he had saved her life, that she had been terrified and allowed him to put his arms about her to calm her.

  But she could not convince herself that he would do that. He had seemed to care, not only for her but what became of the robber. He had called her his love, had refrained from taking advantage of her. Why? Because he was a gentleman? But her experience of gentlemen did not incline her to that view. Did he not find her attractive? Was he having a little sport with her? Or had he sensed in her the hidden aversion in which she held all aristocrats and knew she was playing with him, as one might play a fish caught on the end of a line. He would not come again if he thought that. Why was she such a mass of contradictions?

  ‘Maddy, you are dreaming again,’ Marianne murmured, while the noise of the party eddied around them.

  She pulled herself together with an effort. ‘Sorry, I was thinking.’

  ‘I never did hold with too much thinking,’ Sir Percy said, with a smile. ‘Brings on premature wrinkles, don’t you know.’

  She laughed. ‘You are no doubt right, Sir Percy. I will endeavour to empty my mind of all but work.’

  ‘And pleasure, my dear,’ he said reaching out and laying a hand upon hers. ‘One as beautiful as you must not devote yourself only to work. Enjoy life.’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ She paused. ‘Sir Percy, you know the Duchess of Loscoe very well, do you not?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. I have known her since she had her come-out, though I will not be so ungentlemanly as to tell you how many years ago that was. Why do you ask?’

  ‘We have both been invited to the Duchess’s soirée on Thursday,’ Marianne put in quickly before Madeleine could answer him. ‘We have been asked to perform for her guests and have been wondering what to do. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘I am sure whatever you choose will be a great success,’ he said.

  ‘Will you be there, Sir Percy?’ Madeleine asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in china, m’dear.’

  ‘I am told the Duke might put in an appearance,’ she went on. ‘And the Marquis of Risley.’

  ‘I shouldn’t count on it,’ he said. ‘The Duke is a very busy man; as for young Stanmore, he has his own pursuits. Has to find himself a wife, don’t you know. He’ll be off doing the rounds of the balls and routs, taking his pick of this Season’s hopefuls.’

  ‘Oh.’ Why was she disappointed? What else did she expect? ‘And I collect they must be ladies equal in station to his lordship.’

  ‘Not necessarily; there would not be enough to choose from if he insisted on that, but she would have to be of a good family known to the Duke. Noblesse oblige and all that, you know.’

  Marianne was looking at her and shaking her head imperceptibly. She smiled. ‘I have often wondered what it must be like to have a come-out. I think that perhaps it is not all enjoyment, being paraded like a horse at Tattersall’s, hoping someone will like you enough to make an offer.’

  ‘Suppose it is, dear girl, but it works the other way too. The young eligibles are being looked over as well, you know. They must come up to the mark.’ He smiled. ‘But the Marquis of Risley can afford to be choosy. I think perhaps he is, for he has been putting off becoming leg-shackled for the last three Seasons to my certain knowledge.’

  The young men were becoming a little disguised and making noisy jokes, to which Marianne always had a ready answer, but Maddy, though she smiled, was still in the dilemma that had beset her the first time she had spoken to Duncan Stanmore and paid little attention. Now the date of the soirée had been confirmed and was only a few days away, she was shaking at the prospect. Could she go through with
it, could she go on pretending?

  The Marquis of Risley was not the only fish in the sea, she told herself sternly. She would go to the soirée at Stanmore House and she would somehow contrive to have a little conversation with the Duchess, tell her about her French grandfather in the presence of other people and from that another invitation would come and then another. All she needed was for everyone to accept that she was of noble birth, fallen on hard times through no fault of her own.

  ‘Sir Percy, I think Madeleine is tired out,’ Marianne said. ‘I think I will take her home.’

  He rose at once. ‘My carriage is at your disposal, my dear. We will leave the young gentlemen carousing, shall we?’

  They bade the others goodnight, amid loud exclamations that the evening had hardly begun, then Sir Percy escorted the ladies to his carriage. ‘Soon have you home,’ he said, helping them both up the steps and following behind. He was a kind man who did not ask questions, though Madeleine was fairly sure he missed very little. Whether he had heard the story of the French comte she did not know, but he would certainly know if the granddaughter of such a one would be acceptable in Society. One thing she was sure of: a nobody would not stand a chance.

  Was she a nobody? she asked herself as she climbed into bed an hour later. The Marquis had said there was something about her that proclaimed her a woman of breeding. Could it possibly be true? Could her father have been something more than a humble soldier? But if he was, why had her mother never told her of it? Perhaps the gossips had been right and her mama had never been married.

  She shook the dreadful thought from her; her mama would never have allowed anything like that to happen. But supposing Mama had been subjected to the same sort of assault she had suffered from Henry Bulford and been unable to throw her attacker off. It did not bear thinking of. If that were true, then all the noble grandfathers in the world would not help her. Perhaps, if she tried to find out about her early childhood, who she was, where her father and mother had come from, she might feel better about herself. She might learn contentment. But where to begin, she had no idea.

  Chapter Four

  Almack’s Assembly Rooms were already crowded and noisy when the Stanmore party arrived, a little late as etiquette demanded. The sound of chattering voices died away as everyone realised who the latecomers were and a concerted sigh went up from all the young single ladies at the sight of the Marquis of Risley; and from some not so young, who were undoubtedly at their last prayers.

  He was superbly dressed in a dark blue evening coat, white breeches and stockings and a richly embroidered waistcoat. A fob lay across his broad chest, a diamond pin glittered in a cravat that Davison had taken hours to launder and tie for him and a quizzing glass dangled on a cord about his neck. He was twenty-five, rich and handsome and the heir to the Duke of Loscoe, so they had every justification for sighing. And hoping.

  Most of them were pretty in a vacuous kind of way, and no doubt their credentials were perfectly acceptable or they would never have been given vouchers to attend. Almack’s balls were by invitation only and those not easily come by.

  ‘Well,’ Lavinia whispered, ‘you certainly made an entrance. Every single one of them is gaping, even those already spoken for. You may take your pick.’

  He did not want to take his pick, he did not want any of them; he wanted the vivacious Miss Madeleine Charron who could knock every one of these into a cocked hat. But he had come to please the Duchess and Lavinia and so he smiled round the room, as the music started again. Mamas were prodding daughters and whispering in their ears, no doubt telling them how best to attract his attention. It happened every time he attended such a function and he would be glad when he was safely married and the interest died away.

  There was only one way to go on and that was to plough straight in. ‘Present me to one of them,’ he asked the Duchess.

  As she led him across the floor, he was aware that all eyes were following their progress, wondering who would be selected. He did not care. They might speculate all they liked, he would not choose any one over another. He would keep them guessing until such time as Madeleine Charron was accepted as one of their number and came to this very room. Then they would see how superior she was in every way.

  The Duchess was making for a group consisting of a plump, red-faced man of about seven and twenty, a tall, imperious-looking woman whose quizzing glass never left her eye and a young lady. ‘The man is Lord Bulford, recently come into his baronetcy,’ she explained in an undertone as they walked. ‘The tall lady is his wife and the other is his sister.’

  The man bowed to the Duchess as they approached. ‘Your Grace.’

  ‘Lord Bulford, I do not think you are acquainted with my stepson, the Marquis of Risley,’ the Duchess said.

  The two men bowed.

  Frances smiled. ‘Lady Bulford, may I present, the Marquis of Risley.’

  Her ladyship inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘My lord, we are indeed pleased to make your acquaintance. May I present my sister-in-law, Miss Annabel Bulford.’

  ‘My lord.’ Annabel dropped so deep a curtsy Duncan began to wonder if she would be able to rise again and put out his hand to raise her up. She blushed furiously as she took it. ‘May I have the honour of this dance?’ he asked, still holding her hand.

  A nudge from her sister-in-law helped her to smile her agreement and they took to the floor.

  She was stiff as a board and half afraid of him. He smiled to put her at her ease. ‘I wonder I have not seen you about before, Miss Bulford,’ he said. ‘Perhaps this is your first Season?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She spoke a little breathlessly, but her voice was not unpleasant. ‘I am to have my come-out ball later in the Season.’

  ‘Ah, that accounts for my not having met you before. I should certainly have remembered it.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Naturally I would have noticed you.’ She was pretty in a colourless sort of way, the sort of prettiness that Society approved of. She had a small oval-shaped face, with a pale complexion that made her pale eyes seem extra large, and fair ringlets, caught in a comb just above each ear. Her figure was just on the plump side of slender and she danced very well. She was smiling at his compliment.

  ‘I have always known of you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh dear, that sounds ominous.’

  ‘No, no, I did not mean anything bad. You have always been put forward as a splendid example of this country’s nobility.’

  He laughed lightly. ‘I cannot think who would say such a thing, unless it be my stepmama or sister. Only they could be so blind to my many faults.’

  ‘Oh, no, it was not either of them. It was my brother Henry.’

  ‘I do not think I have had the pleasure of making his acquaintance before tonight.’

  ‘He has been on an extended Grand Tour. He came back a year ago when Papa died. He married Dorothy last summer.’

  ‘Then how can he be in a position to pronounce upon my virtues?’

  She seemed very flustered. ‘Mama said it too.’

  ‘Then I am indebted to her ladyship.’

  ‘Since Papa died, we have been retired to the country, but my sister and I are come to stay with my brother for the Season.’

  ‘Then the Season cannot fail to be a success.’

  She coloured at the compliment. ‘My lord, would it be considered presumptuous of me to invite you to attend my ball? I should very much like you to be there. I know Dorothy is going to invite the Duke and Duchess of Loscoe and the Earl and Countess of Corringham.’

  ‘I should be delighted,’ he said. The music was coming to an end and he made her a flourishing leg and received a deep curtsy in reply. Then he offered his arm and paraded her round the room once, along with the other dancers before taking her back to her brother and sister-in-law.

  She was pink and glowing and Lady Bulford’s face was a picture of triumph. He must be careful, he told himself, not to favour one before another or the tab
bies would have the wedding bells ringing before the word ‘offer’ was ever uttered. He bowed to both ladies and strolled away to ask someone else to stand up with him.

  By the time the evening drew to a close, he had danced with every young lady who could be considered even halfway eligible, and some who were not, and he was exhausted. It was not the dancing which had worn him out—he could dance all night if the mood took him and he had a beautiful partner—it was talking to them, watching his every word lest he give any the idea that he was considering them for his marchioness.

  Some were coy, some were arch and some playfully flirtatious, which he had no difficulty in dealing with. The troublesome ones were those who were so completely overawed they had nothing to say at all. They had obviously been schooled by their mamas on no account to say this and to refrain from saying that, and always to remember to address him by his title, with the result that they dare not open their mouths. He had been especially kind to those.

  From the point of view of the ladies who organised these weekly balls and according to the mamas whose daughters he had noticed, it was a great success, but as a palliative for his own troubled emotions, it failed. All the time he had been dancing, he had been imagining Madeleine in his arms, moving gracefully to the music, her animated face looking into his, laughing with him. It was easy to smile and pay compliments to his partners with that vision before him.

  ‘Well, that was not so bad, was it?’ Lavinia said, as they left.

  ‘It was mortifying. I felt like some prize bull.’

  ‘Oh, Duncan, how can you say so? You are a very handsome man and you have prospects…’

  ‘Oh, I am aware of the prospects,’ he said, as the coaches in which they had arrived were brought to the door. ‘I could see the gleam in every mama’s eyes as she totted up what I must be worth. I do not want to be married for my prospects.’