Society's Most Scandalous Rake

by Isabelle Goddard

  ‘I see you have brought reinforcements with you this time.’ The sneer became even more pronounced. ‘And is your aunt here also, ready to come to your defence at any moment?’

  ‘Lady Blythe remains in London, sir, although I see no reason why that should interest you.’

  ‘On the contrary, Miss de Silva, everything to do with you interests me. I have a long memory, even if you do not.’

  And with that he pushed past beneath the pediment displaying the Prince Regent’s coat of arms and into the church. She was left trembling from the encounter, but anxious that her father should not suspect anything amiss. She linked arms with him and smiled as bravely as she could.

  ‘Shall we go in?’

  Seeing Leo Moncaster had been a crippling blow. When she had agreed to play hostess for her father, she had never for a moment imagined that she would meet the man who had done her so much harm. If she had been thinking sensibly, she might have known he could well be here and living at the Pavilion. Moncaster was an inveterate gambler and it was said that fortunes were won and lost on a nightly basis at the Regent’s tables. Where better for such a man to spend his summer? It was clear that his malevolence was unabated despite Lady Blythe having paid her niece’s gambling debt in full. Of course, he had not wanted the money. It was herself, or rather her body, that he had wanted. That was the prize of which he’d been cheated. But how could she ever have thought him attractive? A shudder ran through her as though she were tiptoeing over a grave, fearful of disturbing dark layers of memory. Her only comfort was her father’s assertion that they need have little to do with the Prince Regent or any of his cronies.

  Certainly the Prince would not be in evidence this morning. Although he had laid the church’s foundation stone some twenty-five years ago, he had stopped worshipping at the Chapel Royal when a sermon on immorality had offended him. But there was some compensation to be had. An enormous man with creaking corsets was heaving himself into the pews reserved for the Royal Family a few rows in front of her: the Regent’s brother, the Duke of York. He kept up a constant muttering, hardly audible, but nevertheless highly embarrassing to his companions. Their attempts to stifle him made her smile; for the moment she forgot the dreadful meeting she had just endured and was emboldened to look about her. The galleried church was filled with decoration, its supporting columns and pulpit highly embellished, while a large organ in burnished copper thundered from above the altar. It was a rich man’s building.

  She looked sideways across the aisle, scanning a busy canvas of faces, hoping to keep out of Moncaster’s sight. Immediately beneath one of the galleries a countenance she was beginning to know well swam into view. Joshua’s gaze was on her, sporting an appreciative smile as he took in her situation just behind the noisy Duke. She noticed that he was dressed more soberly this morning, but the familiar lock of fair hair trailed over his brow and his sprawling figure exuded his customary confidence. Her glance moved on to the woman who sat next to him; there was something proprietorial in her posture. She was richly dressed in an ensemble of emerald-green Venetian silk and her hair was covered with a headpiece of ostrich feathers. The feathers swayed slightly in the current of air and their height ensured that those who sat immediately behind could see little of the service at the altar.

  * * *

  Domino did not profit from the parson’s homily that morning. She was too conscious of both the men she wished to avoid and was relieved when the final hymn reverberated through the rafters and she was able to walk from the church into a burst of sunshine. The rector was at the door to greet his parishioners and once again they were forced to wait patiently in line before they could pass through the narrow entrance.

  ‘Pious as well as pretty,’ a voice said softly in her ear. ‘It gets better all the time.’

  She turned to face him, grateful that her father was engaged in talking to a fellow communicant.

  ‘Still accosting unwilling women, Mr Marchmain?’ she snapped back.

  ‘Never unwilling, Miss de Silva.’

  Her face flushed scarlet as she took in the implication of his remark. She was just about to retort angrily when another voice cut across their interchange.

  ‘Joshua, why don’t you introduce me to your delightful new friend?’

  It was the richly dressed woman she had seen sitting next to him in the pew.

  A look of irritation flitted across his face, but was gone in a moment.

  ‘But of course. Miss de Silva, may I present the Duchess of Severn. Charlotte, Miss de Silva—the daughter of our new ambassador from Spain.’

  ‘How delightful to have you in Brighton, my dear.’

  Domino wasn’t sure she liked the woman. She seemed to purr when she spoke and the glances she cast towards the waiting Joshua verged on the covetous. But she curtsied decorously and made her father known to the duchess.

  ‘You must both come to one of my small soirées as soon as possible,’ Charlotte Severn said smoothly. ‘I will send an invitation this very week. I am sure Joshua will know your direction.’

  Domino sensed a hidden meaning, but managed to smile politely and hope that her father would conjure some excuse for their not attending.

  * * *

  ‘She is a very fine lady, is she not, Papa?’ she remarked as they made their way back along the promenade.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Duchess of Severn.’

  ‘Finely dressed at least.’

  ‘You don’t sound as though you like her.’

  ‘I don’t know her, Domino, but I do not like the set she moves in. I would prefer you to have as little to do with her as possible.’

  ‘Mr Marchmain seems to know her well,’ she ventured.

  ‘Indeed he does,’ her father said grimly, then abruptly changed the subject.

  She was left to puzzle over just what had vexed him so badly.

  Chapter Two

  Joshua turned abruptly on his heels and headed back towards the Pavilion, his temper frayed. He needed to be alone and Charlotte Severn could easily be left to the escort of Moncaster, whom he had noticed in the distance. He was angry with her for intervening in his conversation with Domino and even more annoyed that she had promised an invitation to one of her celebrated soirées. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to keep Domino to himself, or at the very least not expose her to the intimacies of the Severn household.

  He had no intention of seducing the young girl, that was not his style, but neither did he want her knowing a woman such as Charlotte. That lady might be the wife of one of the premier dukes of the land, but she had the soul of a courtesan. The role suited her well and she should stick to it, he thought, rather than attempting to befriend the young and inexperienced. The Royal Pavilion was a suitable milieu for her. Every kind of dubious pleasure was available there and she had a husband happy to look away while she played. His Grace was content in his declining years to puff off his wife’s beauty and retire to the lure of the gaming table. He was one of the Regent’s most assiduous companions, not least because he was so wealthy that it mattered little to him how much money he lost.

  Charlotte had access to wealth untold—but that was not enough, Joshua reflected wryly. It hardly compensated for a dull and ageing husband. He remembered when he had first seen her two years ago—Wiesbaden, it was, at the town’s most opulent casino, and seated at the hazard table. She had looked across at him, her eyes staring straight into his, their porcelain blue still and expressionless, but nevertheless saying all they needed to say. That very night they had become lovers and from time to time continued to meet. But for long stretches of the year the duchess could not shrug off the duties incumbent on her position and that suited him well. There were always others happy to keep him company and lengthy periods of absence had until recently staved off the ine
vitable ennui which acquaintance with any woman produced. Or any woman since that first disastrous love affair.

  But things were changing. He didn’t know if it was the sea air stirring his blood and making him restless, but something had altered in him. Charlotte Severn no longer beguiled him and his frustration at being part of the Regent’s sycophantic court was beginning to acquire a sharper edge. And the girl—she had something to do with it, too. It wasn’t just that he wanted to bed her; that was as certain as it was unlikely. It was, he thought, that he had enjoyed their encounters, enjoyed her vitality, her verve, the zest with which she resisted his raillery. He had met her on three occasions and each time behind his gentle mockery he had wanted to explore, to discover more, to begin to know her. Today she had looked enchanting in peaches and cream and yet another rakish bonnet, those dark tragic eyes looking out at him so scornfully from beneath its brim. They could be made to wear another expression, he was sure. If ever he felt mad enough to risk exile again, he would savour the challenge. Charlotte’s companionship had never seemed more irksome; she had stepped between them, muddying the waters, placing her footprint where only his had previously been.

  * * *

  The duchess was waiting for him in the outer vestibule of the Pavilion. If his temper had improved with the circuitous route he had taken, hers certainly had not. He barely had a foot through the door when she addressed him in a voice crisp with indignation.

  ‘There you are, Mr Marchmain. I had begun to think I had lost you.’

  ‘Why is that, Your Grace?’ He would be as formal as she.

  ‘Not unnaturally, I awaited your escort from the Chapel Royal. But when I turned to call on your services, you had gone.’

  ‘Forgive me. I felt in need of a slightly longer walk and I am aware that it is not a pastime you favour.’

  ‘A walk with you is always a pleasure, Joshua,’ she replied in a more conciliatory tone.

  ‘Then forgive me once more. Had I known, I would certainly have requested your company,’ he lied.

  She fixed him with a cold, enquiring eye. ‘How is it that you know the ambassador’s daughter?’

  ‘I was representing the Regent last night, if you remember,’ he said indifferently. ‘We met at her father’s diplomatic reception.’

  ‘You seem already to be on good terms with her.’

  ‘Why should I not be? I understand the need for England to maintain a good relationship with Spain.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what it is.’

  Leo Moncaster strode into the Octagon Hall as they talked and viewed the two tense figures with satirical amusement.

  ‘Quite a breeze blowing out there,’ he offered with an assumed bonhomie. ‘That’s the problem with being beside the sea, never without a wind. Still hopefully Prinny will soon get bored with coastal delights and leave for Carlton House within the month.’

  His audience remained resolutely silent and his eyebrows rose enquiringly.

  ‘Have I been guilty of interrupting a private conversation? If so, my profuse apologies.’

  ‘Apologies are unnecessary. Your manners are never anything but perfect, Moncaster,’ Joshua remarked acidly, unable to conceal his dislike. ‘Her Grace and I were just about to part.’ And with that he strode off to his rooms, leaving Leo Moncaster looking quizzically at the duchess.

  ‘I realise I am hardly a favourite of Marchmain’s, but, beyond my unwelcome presence, what ails him?’

  ‘I imagine no more than a tedious sermon and a cold walk from the Chapel Royal.’

  ‘He seemed ruffled—uncharacteristically so.’

  ‘I may have annoyed him,’ the duchess admitted, her voice carefully neutral.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I invited a young woman who appears to have become his protégée to one of my soirées. That apparently is not something to be done.’

  ‘And why not exactly?’

  ‘Possibly he thinks I may corrupt her innocence,’ Charlotte said with a knowing little smile. ‘Would you be so good, Leo, as to escort me back to Steine House? A trifling distance, I know, but I prefer to have a reliable man by my side.’

  Lord Moncaster offered his arm and they sailed past the waiting footman. He was not to be put off the scent, however, and as they walked through the Pavilion Gardens enquired, ‘And what innocence would that be, if she knows Joshua Marchmain well?’

  ‘Don’t be so crude, Leo. Joshua is a gentleman.’

  ‘You think so? Never trust a man not to sully innocence.’

  ‘I suppose you should know,’ she answered in a bored voice, ‘your reputation precedes you.’

  ‘At least I make no pretence to be other than I am,’ he responded harshly. ‘Marchmain is as much a rake; his pretence is to be something else.’

  ‘Joshua is a man of the world, but he is not a rake. He has discrimination.’

  ‘In seeking you out, dear lady?’

  ‘In seeking out a woman who is mature and experienced and with whom he can enjoy life to the full.’

  ‘As opposed to a girl who is young and naïve, yet sends his heartstrings singing.’

  She bit her lip viciously, Moncaster observed with a sly glance. ‘Don’t say, my dear, that you’ve fallen in love with him. Not a good policy, not at all.’

  ‘Joshua and I understand each other very well.’

  ‘I wonder.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I wonder how well. After all, you knew nothing of this girl.’

  ‘That is because he made her acquaintance only yesterday.’

  ‘And who is this paragon of unsullied innocence?’

  ‘Her name is Domino de Silva. Domino, what a ridiculous name! Why, what’s the matter?’ The man beside her had stiffened imperceptibly.

  ‘De Silva, you say?’

  ‘Yes, do you know her?’

  ‘Shall we say I have had dealings with her.’ It was Lord Moncaster’s turn to look grim.

  ‘It sounds as though they were not entirely to your liking.’

  ‘They were not. I have a score to settle.’

  ‘I see.’ Charlotte Severn glanced covertly at the polished man accompanying her. He took his time before he spoke again.

  ‘Are you interested, perhaps? We might work well together.’

  ‘We might,’ she replied consideringly, ‘but for the moment I prefer to see what I can accomplish alone.’

  ‘Then let me give you a hint. Gaming.’

  ‘Gaming? In what way?’

  ‘A small chink in the armour. It is so fatally easy, is it not, when one is young and inexperienced, to find oneself adrift in a world one does not understand? Fatally easy to lose money, for instance, that one does not have. Then think of the shame, the scandal that would necessitate instant withdrawal from society.’

  ‘You are a wicked man, Leo.’

  ‘A practical man, my dear. And practical is what you should be. Marchmain may be the gentleman you profess, but he is a man, and a very attractive one, too. Think of that.’

  The duchess did think of it. She hurried away to her chambers, a frown on her otherwise unblemished forehead, and immediately called for paper and pen.

  * * *

  Domino thought little more of Charlotte Severn. If her invitation ever materialised, she was sure she could depend on her father to rescue her. Alfredo was busier than ever and it seemed to Domino that whole days passed when she barely saw him. Looking for occupation, she decided to seek out one of the many art galleries that had sprung up in and around Brighton under the Regent’s patronage. Prince George loved art and so, by default, did his courtiers—or, at least, they maintained the pretence that they did. But rather than attend the Picture Gallery on Grand P
arade, which boasted an unrivalled collection of Italian and French art, she chose a newer and much quieter gallery situated to the north of the town. It was an unfashionable area and little visited by the nobility, but Domino had recently seen a flyer advertising the Grove Gallery’s latest exhibition and had been intrigued by the more experimental art it was offering for sale. Mindful of Carmela’s repeated injunctions, she took Flora with her.

  It was a beautiful early July morning when they struck inland towards New England farm and the scattering of modern houses that had been built nearby. A delighted Flora chattered incessantly as they walked, for accompanying her mistress was a rare treat and she was determined to provide amusement on the arduous walk uphill. Listening to the unending flow with only one ear, Domino hoped fervently that her maid would run out of words well before they reached their destination.

  Thirty minutes walking had brought them to the top of the Dyke Road, the main thoroughfare north out of Brighton, and Flora was still talking. They found the gallery easily enough, the only building apart from a scattering of new villas, set amongst fields where cows were placidly grazing amid the shadows. Not even Carmela could find dangers lurking in such a tranquil setting, Domino thought, and felt justified in asking the garrulous Flora to await for her outside. Gratefully she trod over the threshold and felt the silence fall like a gentle cloak on her shoulders. The interior was bright and airy, a large rectangular space, its walls hung with green baize and its floor covered by a rough drugget. The paintings were displayed seemingly at random, but the brilliant light emanating high up from latticed casements that encircled the entire top of the rectangle illuminated them perfectly. She looked about her with pleasure and began to relax.

  The paintings were certainly unusual. She wasn’t at all sure she liked them, though they were for the most part ingeniously executed. But there was one landscape that caught her eye and slowed her steps: the Downs on a tempestuous day, the grass, the bushes, the trees, all bending seawards in the westerly wind, seeming to tumble unstoppably towards the troubled and racing waters in the distance. A glorious sense of freedom, brought to life so strongly in the painting, swept through her. She wanted to awake every morning to that wild landscape, feel its energy and be invigorated. But the price tag was far beyond her means. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, she could return next year when she had inherited the very large fortune that awaited her—but then someone else would hold the purse strings. Perhaps that someone else would have a love of art too, would see how very special this picture was. But no, that was too fanciful. If he took any pleasure in painting, it would not be an English landscape that would hang in his bedroom. Our bedroom, she thought, and quaked at the thought of the intimacies that must be shared with a virtual stranger.