by Mary Nichols
‘And I am sorry I could not be what you wanted me to be, my lord.’
He pulled the curricle up at her door and jumped down to hand her out. ‘Madeleine…’
‘My lord, there is nothing more to say.’ She broke away from him and ran into the house, slamming the door behind her. And only then did she allow herself the comfort of tears, hot scalding tears that ran down her face unchecked, tears for lost dreams, for a life that could never be.
Chapter Six
It was only her professionalism that kept Madeleine going in the days that followed. She played the part of Helena, scheming to get the Count of Roussillon in her bed and so make him love her, while all the time her heart was breaking for love of the Marquis of Risley. She knew perfectly well she had deliberately goaded him into saying the things he had because she could not accept the truth, that he might love her for herself alone. Had he really been prepared to give up his standing in Society for a woman who was nothing but a sham, a liar? She could not let him do that. Better to make him dislike her. Better to hold him in aversion. But she could not.
She found herself looking for him in the audience every night, but he did not come. She listened to the gossip among the girls who surrounded her, hoping to hear him mentioned; she read the Society columns of the newspapers, looking for his name. It was there, of course; the doings of London’s most eligible bachelor were always news. He had escorted Miss Annabel Bulford to the come-out ball of Miss Elizabeth Tremayne and stood up with both ladies twice; he had attended the opening of an art exhibition in the company of his stepmother, herself a noted painter; he had been an honoured guest at the wedding of Miss Martha Hartwood to the Earl of Bentley. His race-horse had won at Newmarket but the odds were so short it was hardly worth putting a wager on it.
He had gone back to his life before he met her, doing the things he had always done, secure among family and friends, wealthy and confident. On the surface she had done the same, returned to her life in the theatre: on stage every evening; rehearsing and sleeping most of the morning; going to suppers and routs after the performances. Some of the invitations came from the edges of the haut monde who had heard the story of the comte and had decided she was acceptable in Society. She should have been triumphant, but, unable to keep up the pretence, she rarely went.
She was loved in a theatrical kind of way by her fellow thespians, but that was little comfort. It could all float away on a breeze and what would she be left with? One day she would grow old and raddled, living on the memories of her long-lost fame. Alone.
‘Maddy, are you coming or no?’ Marianne’s voice broke in on her reverie and she found herself sitting half dressed in front of the mirror in her dressing room, with a hair brush in her hand. She could not remember how it had got there. The run of All’s Well That Ends Well had come to an end at last and she was heartily thankful. Next week, it would be Love’s Labour’s Lost, a tale of courtship and masquerade in which no one was who they seemed to be, which she found ironic. Shakespeare had a wonderful way of holding up a mirror to life, she decided, even if it was distorted.
She smiled. ‘Yes, I’m coming. You go on. I’ll follow.’
‘Very well, but do not be long.’
Marianne hurried off to join the party to celebrate the successful conclusion of the run, leaving Madeleine to finish dressing. The end of the Season was not far off, when the haut monde would be leaving London for their country estates and those left in the capital—those who had no country estates, those whose business kept them in town, the vast army of artisans, servants, shopkeepers, for whom the ton had little relevance except as a source of income—would settle down to a more humdrum existence and there would not be so many people coming to the theatre.
Lancelot might declare a holiday or take a few of the company on tour to provincial theatres. She had been on tour with him before; though she enjoyed it in some ways, it was hard work and they never stayed in one place more than a week. But now she might welcome a few weeks away from London, anywhere would do, so long as she did not have to think about the Marquis of Risley.
Sighing, she put on an evening gown of turquoise gros de Naples. With its gigot sleeves and a crossover bodice fastened at the centre front of the low décolletage with a satin rose, it was the height of fashion. Its skirt had a deep border of puckered crepe in the same colour. When she made it, she had been dreaming of being taken out by the Marquis of Risley and imagining his compliments on how she looked. Foolish, foolish girl! Impatient with herself, she slipped on her shoes, picked up her reticule and made for the door.
The theatre was deserted; she must have been longer than she intended and everyone had gone. Luckily it was only a short step to the rooms that had been hired for the party and she did not bother to call a cab. The theatre watchman let her out of the stage door and into the lane.
‘Well, my beauty, you took your time.’
She whirled round to find herself facing Benedict Willoughby. ‘Oh, you startled me, Mr Willoughby.’
‘Did I? Then I beg your pardon.’
‘What are you doing here? The performance finished well over an hour ago.’
‘Waiting for you, my dear. And I must say, you look superb. That colour makes you look like a nymph rising out of the sea.’
She ignored his flattery. ‘Why were you waiting for me?’
‘To take you to supper.’
‘I am already engaged for supper, sir.’
‘With whom? Not Stanmore, I know, for he has already reported his failure to make headway with you.’
‘He talks to you of me?’ she demanded furiously. How could he? How could he make their meetings a subject for tattle? But then he had no high opinion of her and young gentlemen must have their fun! She had been a fool even to think it could be any different.
‘Why should he not?’ he said. ‘You are the talk of the village, or didn’t you know? Is she or isn’t she what she seems? Is she nobility or a flycatcher? Demure as a whore at a christening or a clever bit of muslin, luring us poor men into her trap?’
‘You are talking nonsense. Let me pass.’
‘When you say you will come to supper with me. Stanmore has had his chance, now it is my turn.’
‘Your turn?’
‘Yes, it’s only fair, after all. I can see why you fell out with him, he is not half the fun he used to be. He has become very morose. I think it is because his papa is urging him to get himself shackled and no man likes that, not before he has had time to live a little…’ He paused and looked sideways at her, smiling. ‘Enough of Stanmore, what about supper?’
‘I told you, not tonight, Mr Willoughby. My friends are waiting for me.’
‘Come with me instead. They will not miss you. We could have a grand time. I am not ungenerous.’ He laughed a little. ‘Besides, I have just come into fifty pounds and who better to spend it on than a beautiful woman?’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ she said disdainfully. ‘Please let me pass.’
‘Good heavens! I never met anyone so top lofty. Is that what comes of having an aristo for a grandpère? Surely you did not think that a mere comte would signify with the Duke, did you? He will not have you for a daughter-in-law, never in a million years, even if Stanmore himself wished it, which I doubt. His intentions were strictly dishonourable, don’t you know?’
She shut her ears to what he was saying; she did not want to hear it. ‘Mr Willoughby, I asked you to let me pass.’
‘Very well, but you must pay the forfeit of a kiss and promise to let me take you to supper another night.’
‘Certainly not.’ She went to push past him and he put his arms round her and held her in a fierce bear hug which took her breath away. All at once she was back in Bedford Row, struggling with Henry Bulford. She would not allow this man to succeed where Henry had failed. She wriggled desperately to free herself, cursing him in language that was certainly not ladylike. It only served to amuse him.
‘Now we have the truth of i
t, the sans culotte shows her true form. I always said you were too good to be real. Now, I will show you how a doxy should be dealt with. Stanmore was too soft with you.’
He leaned over her, smelling of wine and spirits, and then suddenly she saw a fist appear from nowhere and smash into his face. He let go of her so suddenly she nearly fell over with him as he toppled to the ground. A hand, the same hand that had made the fist, steadied her.
‘Are you hurt, Miss Charron?’ The voice was Duncan’s, but the tone was measured, cold almost, as if he were talking to a stranger.
‘No, I have come to no harm, thanks to your timely intervention.’ She matched his coolness with her own, determined he should not know how much of an effort that was.
He looked down at his prostrate friend. ‘Get up, Ben, you are not hurt.’
Willoughby scrambled to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose with his lace handkerchief. ‘There was no call for that, Stanmore. Fair’s fair. I was only doing what you tried and failed to do.’
Duncan’s jaw was rigid with trying to control the impulse to let fly at him. ‘Go home, before I land another facer.’
‘You know I am no pugilist.’ His voice had a nasal twang due to the fact that he was holding his nose. ‘But no man knocks me down with impunity. Be sure you are at home when my representatives call on you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. I am not going to fight you.’
‘Then you will be known for the coward you are.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, will you both stop it,’ Madeleine said. ‘You are behaving like spoiled brats. I am not a toy to be argued over.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Duncan said, bowing to her. ‘I was passing and saw a lady in distress and came to help. I would have done it for anyone.’
That had put her in her place, she decided, and smiled crookedly. ‘Then I thank you.’ She heard Benedict Willoughby grunt, but ignored him. He ambled away, still holding his nose, and she turned to go in the opposite direction.
Duncan caught her arm. ‘No, Madeleine, you do not go alone. Remember your promise?’
She wrenched herself away. ‘I am only going across the street to join my friends. I do not need an escort, particularly yours.’
‘If you do not want my company, I will follow at a distance until I see you safely indoors.’
‘If you think… God, do you men never give up?’
‘Give up? No, my dear Madeleine, I cannot give up. Not yet.’
‘I will burn in hell before I let you make a whore out of me, Lord Risley. Be on your way and leave me alone.’
He winced at her words. ‘I will. After I have seen you safely to your destination.’
‘And how can my safety matter to you? I am little more than a common whore. They were your own words, were they not?’
‘That is not what I meant, I was angry. I am deeply sorry. Can you not forgive me?’
‘It is of no consequence whether I do or no. I am merely a subject of tattle, an object of fun and ridicule, if Mr Willoughby is to be believed.’
‘What has he been saying?’
‘Ask him. He is your friend. I have nothing more to say to you.’ They had crossed the road and were approaching the assembly rooms where the theatre party was in full swing, judging by the noise and laughter coming from inside. He stopped to open the door for her.
‘The reason I wanted to speak to you tonight, besides asking your pardon,’ he said, ‘is that Miss Annabel Bulford is holding me to my promise to bring her backstage to see you and I wanted to be sure you would still welcome her.’
She had forgotten that invitation and wished he had. The last thing she wanted was to entertain someone who had everything she did not: a family, a secure place in Society, acceptance as wifely material. She doubted if the girl even had a genuine interest in the theatre, but coming backstage and talking to theatre people was the height of daring which she could boast of to her friends. The Marquis of Risley took me. How intimate that sounded. But she could not withdraw the invitation, it would look too much like sour grapes.
‘I have no quarrel with Miss Bulford, my lord,’ she said, keeping her voice level. ‘And I am not so lacking in manners that I would let my loathing of you affect other people. Bring her to the first night of Love’s Labour’s Lost. Tell her I look forward to meeting her again.’ And with that she went in at the door and shut it behind her, leaving him standing on the pavement.
He turned to go, cursing himself for his stupidity, Madeleine for her stubbornness and Benedict most of all. What had the fool said to Madeleine? Whatever it was, it was enough to drive the wedge between them even deeper. If there had been the smallest chance that she would forgive him, she would never do so now. He had lost her. He crossed the square to where Dobson waited with the carriage and went home, where he proceeded to get very drunk in the privacy of his own room. It did not help.
The next afternoon he sent in his card at Bedford Row where Lady Bulford was at home, entertaining her cronies of the beau monde. It was known that her ladyship, tired of having to act as chaperon to her sisters-in-law, years after they should have been running households of their own, was anxious to fire them off. Hortense at twenty-five was already at her last prayers, but Annabel, four years younger, and much the prettier of the two, had every hope of making a good match.
Duncan knew perfectly well he was her ladyship’s main prey, which until a couple of weeks before he had found amusing, but since that evening at Almack’s and Miss Tremayne’s ball when he had danced twice with Annabel and taken her into supper, it had developed into a serious campaign. Why, oh why, had Madeleine made everything doubly difficult by inviting her backstage? The girl kept talking of it, not only to him but to everyone she spoke to, so he had no choice but to comply. It was not difficult to imagine what the world would make of that.
Miss Annabel Bulford was acceptable in every way. She had breeding, good looks and a pretty way with her. She was not particularly intelligent, but there were plenty who would say that was an advantage; her conversation was not sparkling but certainly not contentious; she was healthy and would bear strong children and if she did not know how to run a household, she would soon learn. She would be compliant and undemanding.
He almost grinned to himself while he waited to be announced; Society had a way of weighing up the pros and cons of the suitability of a prospective wife as if they were buying a breed mare at Tattersall’s. But it was not amusing when he was the one they were endeavouring to draw into their trap.
The room, when he entered it, was already crowded with several single young ladies and their mamas and an equal number of eligible young men. He crossed the room to where his hostess sat, with the Misses Bulford on either side.
‘Lady Bulford, your obedient.’ He executed a flourishing leg. ‘Miss Bulford, Miss Annabel.’
‘Good afternoon, Marquis.’ Her ladyship was visibly preening herself, her face pink with pride. ‘How good of you to honour us with your company.’
‘Not at all. Are you well?’
He should not have asked that question for she launched into an account of her various illnesses, chief of which seemed to be megrim from constantly worrying about her dear sisters, whom she wished to see happily settled. She drew breath at last and he was able to ask if the ladies would care to accompany him to the first night of Love’s Labour’s Lost.
‘Is that the new play Miss Charron is acting in?’ Annabel asked.
‘It is indeed,’ he said.
‘Well, I do not care to go,’ Lady Bulford said. ‘I am not fond of the theatre, but I suppose Hortense and Annabel may chaperon each other, if they wish to go.’
‘Oh, I should like that above everything,’ Annabel said breathlessly. ‘Do say you will come too, Hortense.’
‘Please do, Miss Bulford,’ Duncan added. ‘I will call for you in my carriage at seven thirty.’
‘Very well,’ Hortense said stiffly, as if she were doing him a great favour. In Dunca
n’s opinion it was no wonder she had not found a match.
He stayed the customary fifteen minutes, making meaningless conversation with others of the company, and then took his leave, glad to escape. Annabel he could tolerate; he liked her. If it had not been for Madeleine Charron, who haunted his every waking moment and much of his sleep, he might have considered her for a wife. But Lady Bulford and Hortense were so stiff-necked they made his hackles rise. They could not see past his title and wealth to the man behind it. He supposed in their eyes, and probably Bulford’s too, that’s all he represented, a title and money.
He said as much to Lavinia when she called the following afternoon. The Duchess, who had not been expecting her, was out visiting the orphanage. ‘Stay and have tea with me,’ he said, ringing the bell for a servant. ‘Mama will probably be home by the time we have finished.’
They adjourned to the morning room, smaller and more intimate than the withdrawing room, which was situated at the back of the house and looked out on to a terrace and a well-tended garden. The teatray was brought and the maidservant sent away.
‘What are you doing at home all alone in the middle of the afternoon?’ Lavinia asked, pouring tea for them both.
‘Enjoying the peace and quiet,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ She raised one well-defined brow, so like his own they could only be brother and sister. ‘Why do you need peace and quiet? Have you been in a scrap?’
‘Not exactly.’ He paused. ‘Lady Bulford is working very hard to push me into the arms of Miss Annabel Bulford and Benedict Willoughby has called me out.’
‘Benedict!’ She laughed. ‘You are bamming me.’
‘No, I am not. He sent Harry Scott-Smythe and Johnny Tremayne round this morning.’
‘But you must have quarrelled with him quite badly for him to go to such lengths. Whatever was it all about?’
‘I tapped his claret for insulting a lady.’
‘What lady? Surely not Miss Annabel?’
He smiled wryly. ‘No, Miss Charron.’
