Society's Most Scandalous Rake

by Isabelle Goddard

  ‘The weather is so fine, querida,’ he said heartily, embracing her in one of his bear hugs. ‘Why don’t we walk on the Downs, perhaps even take a picnic?’

  Carmela nodded silent approval and he continued persuasively, ‘The breeze will keep us cool and we should easily find sufficient shade to enjoy our meal.’

  She said nothing, but her expression was downcast. Her father, though, was not to be defeated. ‘Just you and I,’ he coaxed.

  She did not wish to disappoint him, but shrank at the idea of walking on the Downs, or indeed anywhere in the vicinity. What she wanted most was to hide away—from the duchess, from Moncaster and particularly from Joshua Marchmain. Every time she stepped outside the door, she risked meeting with one or other of them. Brighton was not a large town.

  ‘If that is too far for you, we could take a short walk through the Lanes.’ Alfredo would not be dissuaded, and she saw how concerned he was. ‘It’s not good, Domino, to be confined in these four walls for too long.’

  She knew he was right. Eventually she would have to emerge from her refuge and face whatever or whoever came her way. She was compounding her folly at Steine House with even greater folly. And showing a drastic lack of spirit too, she castigated herself. She needed to regain her usual vitality and show the world that she was ashamed of nothing. She could do that, must do that. If she met Charlotte Severn, she would smile and curtsy and leave it to the other woman to set the tone. If she met Lord Moncaster, her father would be there to defend her. And if she met Joshua—but she would not, she was sure. She had been shut away in Marine Parade for nearly a week and had heard nothing of him. He had his own tight little circle and would not have noticed her absence from the social scene.

  ‘I need to change my books at the library, Papa,’ she offered, ‘and if you are agreeable we could walk there.’

  The library she patronised, one of the many that were dotted across Brighton, was in the west of the town and would furnish a satisfying stroll. On the way, there was the distraction of any number of tempting shop windows filled with exquisite silks and laces, almost certainly smuggled from France. She chose her dress with care, searching for as plain a gown as possible, and ended by donning a simple but stylish jaconet muslin. Once out of the house, she kept her eyes lowered beneath the deep brim of her straw bonnet, but she need not have worried, for the ton were out of town that day it seemed, enjoying themselves elsewhere. They walked through near-deserted streets while her father told her of his trip to London and the worrying news from Spain.

  ‘A change of government usually means a change of everything else,’ he confided to her. ‘I am no longer certain of my position. It could be that I am recalled to Madrid very soon and perhaps reassigned elsewhere. I am sorry, if that happens, querida. Your holiday by the sea will come to an abrupt end.’

  She squeezed his arm reassuringly, but felt a tremor of foreboding. Leaving Brighton would mean separation from her father when they had so recently been reunited. It would mean an inevitable return to Spain and the future that awaited her. The life she had agreed upon just a few weeks ago seemed increasingly dreary. Nothing had changed and yet everything seemed different. She was still pondering this paradox when they arrived at the fashionable new subscription library, which fronted the western end of the promenade.

  Usually its coffee rooms and lounges were filled with residents and fashionable visitors but, as with the rest of the town today, it was nearly empty. A few ladies were browsing the bookshelves and a small card game was in play at one end of the smallest saloon. Another gentleman was busy sifting through music sheets, evidently keen to find something new for the musical evening he was planning.

  ‘All at the Race Ground,’ he explained succinctly when Alfredo mentioned the scarcity of people. ‘The Regent’s Cup today, y’ know. Big prize money.’

  ‘I wish we had known…’ her father turned to Domino ‘…you would have enjoyed the meeting. That’s what comes of staying too close to home.’

  She could only feel gratitude that her father had not heard the news. At the race course she would have been sure to see everyone that she most wished to avoid.

  Thirty minutes of browsing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves secured a neat pile of small volumes and they made ready to leave. They were almost out of the door when her father spied a tattered poster taped insecurely to the wall.

  ‘Look, Domino, Henry Angelo has set up a new fencing academy here in Brighton. I was tempted in London to try a lesson or two with him.’

  She could not help but smile. Her father’s physique in middle age was hardly conducive to fencing.

  ‘Why do you smile, little one? You think I couldn’t do it?’

  ‘No, Papa, I am sure you could, but wouldn’t you prefer to watch rather than participate?’

  ‘Perhaps you are right, though in my youth I was a match for anyone.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I actually beat the legendary Don Roderiguez.’

  She looked questioningly.

  ‘You wouldn’t know of him. It was well before you were born, but he was worshipped in Madrid for his skill. I took him on as a wager and nobody expected me to win, but I did.’

  ‘And Don Roderiguez?’

  ‘I have to admit that he was probably not quite himself. I managed to fight him after a particularly boisterous party.’

  They both laughed and she said wistfully, ‘Gentlemen are so lucky; they have many channels for their energy. All we have is embroidery or the pianoforte.’

  ‘I don’t notice either of those featuring heavily in your life, my dear.’

  ‘Exactly, Papa, that is just what I mean. Fencing would be far more enjoyable.’

  And it would get rid of some of my restlessness, she thought, even perhaps beat the blue-devils that have been plaguing me. Yes, men were lucky. A woman had simply to sit, to watch and to wait.

  Unbeknown to her, Alfredo had taken note of his daughter’s interest and promptly committed to memory the address of the new fencing school. He would arrange a small treat for her. Lately she had seemed unusually dejected. He knew the evening at Steine House had not gone to plan, but he was in the dark about his daughter’s true state of mind. Anything that would distract her could only be good.

  * * *

  So it was that Henry Angelo had an early morning visitor the next day. The request was unusual and certainly unconventional, but he had a business to establish and an ambassador was too important a personage to offend in these early days. His school had already attracted the attention of those members of the ton spending the summer in Brighton, but Señor de Silva could prove useful in bringing new clients from the diplomatic circles in which he moved.

  * * *

  Summoned to an early breakfast, Domino found her father already at the table, seething with barely suppressed excitement.

  ‘What have you been doing, Papa?’ she asked guardedly. ‘You look like a naughty schoolboy.’

  ‘This morning I have important papers to clear, but this afternoon, Domino, we are to play truant together!’

  ‘And Carmela?’ Her cousin had not yet put in an appearance.

  ‘Carmela and playing truant are not compatible, I think.’ Señor de Silva smiled happily. ‘This is just for you and me.’

  ‘Not a picnic on the Downs?’ she asked in some alarm. Despite her resolve to be brave, she still feared places where she risked meeting the world and his wife.

  ‘No, no picnic. The wind today is far too strong even for the English to eat outdoors.’

  Through the windows she saw the grey surf breaking harshly on the sea wall and spilling through the iron railings that defended the promenade. A few hardy souls, determined to complete their daily constitutional, were making their slow progress along the seafront. They were bent nea
rly double as they headed into the fierce wind, clutching wildly at flying garments.

  ‘Then indoors somewhere?’

  ‘Indeed. But you must probe no further. It is to be a great surprise!’

  * * *

  She had hoped to spend the day curled on the sofa reading some of the library’s offerings, but it was evident that Alfredo had made special plans and she was sufficiently intrigued to hurry upstairs after a modest nuncheon and change her dress. Choosing suitable raiment proved difficult, for she had no idea where she was going. Eventually she settled on a primrose sarsenet flounced with French trimmings: modest enough for an informal outing, yet not too plain. She quickly threaded a matching primrose ribbon through a tangle of black curls and joined her father in the hall.

  ‘We will go by carriage,’ he announced as Marston battled to hold the front door ajar. ‘The weather is far too rough to walk.’

  Soon they were bowling past fishermen painting boats that had been pulled high on to the beach, past their women tending the nets and then past Mahomed’s much-patronised Vapour Baths, until they reached the end of East Cliff. The imposing mansions that lined the road gradually became far less in number as they travelled eastwards, but just before they reached open countryside the carriage pulled up at a small establishment tucked between two much larger white-washed dwellings. An arched wooden door painted in luminescent green beckoned a greeting and, even before they had taken a step out of the vehicle, a sprightly, dark-haired man bounded out to greet them.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he enthused, executing a deep bow. ‘I am most honoured by your visit.’ Domino supposed him to be the proprietor of whatever establishment they had come to.

  ‘Follow me, please, come this way.’ The man ushered them into the house, fairly dancing down a narrow passageway to a small but comfortable sitting room. All the time he kept up a stream of lively chatter.

  Looking around her she saw a pair of highly polished rapiers crossed above the fireplace and all four plastered walls closely hung with prints of sword fighting. Her father had brought her to none other than the fencing academy they had seen advertised! It was hardly the outing she would have chosen, but she owed it to him to look pleased. For days he had good humouredly tolerated the Friday face she had been wearing and must have gone to some trouble to arrange what he clearly thought an interesting diversion.

  Henry Angelo proved an attentive host. She had to suppress a smile; this most Italian of men was intent on solemnly observing the rituals of an English tea. He did it with aplomb, pouring the steaming liquid himself and handing around the Crown Derby teacups with a splendid flourish. Small delicate scones with a selection of jams were offered, followed by pastries and fruit cake. The whole time Signor Angelo bubbled along with his tea.

  ‘My father moved from Paris, you know, forty years ago to set up a fencing school in London. It was a gamble, but he has been very successful!’

  ‘So I understand,’ Alfredo acknowledged, ‘and you are continuing the family tradition, I see.’

  ‘I hope so. These new premises in Brighton are a venture, but I am gradually becoming known. And it helps that my father has many powerful friends. He knows the great boxer, Gentleman Jackson.’

  ‘Really?’ Alfredo appeared genuinely interested.

  ‘Yes, indeed. He numbers Mr Jackson among his closest friends. Years ago he helped him establish a boxing club next door to our Fencing Academy in Bond Street.’

  Reminiscences of the Gentleman’s many successful prize fights, and a listing of all the great and the good that had frequented both establishments, followed at breakneck speed.

  ‘The Regent himself honoured us with a visit to Bond Street,’ the younger Henry announced breathlessly. ‘We hosted an exhibition of fencing just for him, you know, and he asked for a set of foils used by the master fencer of the day. Masks and gloves, too!’ he concluded triumphantly.

  The heat of the small sitting room, combined with the unbroken flow of small talk, was making Domino’s head swim. She was heartily glad when their host danced once more to his feet and made ready to show them around the Academy of which he was inordinately proud.

  Once in the school proper, there was far more space and air and she breathed more freely. Signor Angelo led them from one practice room to another. The building was far larger than it appeared from outside, stretching back seawards a considerable distance. Each room was flooded with natural light, the ceiling consisting almost entirely of glass panels open to the sky. Collections of foils, their guards decorated with a variety of acanthus leaves, anchors, cherubs and serpents, filled the corners of each room. Still voluble, their host was explaining at length the distinctive style of French epées, Italian rapiers and English swords. From a large oak cupboard in one room face masks and padded bibs spilled out on to the floor.

  ‘Señor, please, try one of these,’ he invited Alfredo, holding up a stiff white corset. ‘It is the very latest in design.’

  The body padding was a cause of some humour since Señor de Silva’s rotund figure defeated all attempts to accommodate it. Alfredo smiled ruefully.

  ‘My dream of fencing is again dashed!’

  They had passed through a series of such rooms when their host suggested that they might like to see a demonstration.

  ‘I have just now one of my best instructors engaged in a training bout with a most proficient amateur. They are upstairs in an arena I keep for more serious competition.’

  Alfredo looked a little uncertain, but Domino smiled easily and they mounted the steps to a large room that filled the whole of the first floor of the building. Signor Angelo waved them to the chairs situated at the very edge of the room. The two combatants were at some distance, but immediately she became aware of the sheer volume of energy crackling in the air. Their white-clothed figures circled each other, lunging, parrying, occasionally retreating to recover position. It was impossible to tell who was the instructor and who the pupil, since the opponents were so well matched and first one man, then the other, gained the advantage.

  She found herself being pulled into the drama of the fight. It was a practice session only and the buttons were firmly secured to the top of the men’s foils, yet there was a sense of restrained danger. Both men were at the prime of their fitness: one small and angular, buzzing forwards and backwards like an angry bee, the other slim but muscular, agile and menacing in his weavings. She watched his body tauten and slacken in response to the other’s constant teasing, his muscles hardened and contouring his body. He had such natural grace and such power in his limbs that she was mesmerised into following his every movement, imbibing his male strength almost like a drug. She would have liked to reach out and touch him, stroke the line of his rippling arm, his slim waist, his powerful thigh. For a moment she found herself breathless, liquid with desire.

  Then she shook herself awake. She had not felt such a powerful emotion since Richard had smiled at her and turned her body to water. With a shock, she realised she had not thought of Richard once during the past few days. Somehow he had begun to drift into the distance, remote from the pressing concerns of her life. And thinking of him now no longer evoked the same eager yearning that it had always done. What could that mean? That she was ready to give herself to another, ready perhaps for the husband who was even now awaiting her return to Spain? Would he evoke the same intense desire that had just shaken her? It seemed unlikely.

  The bout was over and the opponents shaking hands. Signor Angelo rushed forwards and congratulated his pupil.

  ‘That was magnifico, signor. You get better all the time.’

  The man addressed laid down his foil and raised his mask. Of course, it could only be him, she thought.

  Joshua Marchmain smiled across the length of the room and walked slowly towards her. She drank in his shapely form. Really, fencing clothes
left little to the imagination. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and smiled that leonine smile.

  ‘If I’d known I had such an audience, I would have finished off Guido in double-quick time!’ He bowed courteously and raised her hand to his lips, just grazing the surface.

  She found herself unable to speak. His touch had reignited the earlier fire and she was helpless to dampen its ravages. It was left to her father to fill the silence that spread between them.

  ‘Thank you for a splendid display, sir. I have not seen such skill for many years.’

  ‘You fence yourself?’

  ‘I used to.’ Alfredo smiled wryly. ‘But tell me, was that the Italian style?’

  ‘Always the Italian style,’ Henry Angelo put in. ‘Mr Marchmain fences like a professional.’

  ‘I had to wait until I reached Italy before I learned the true art of fencing,’ Joshua said in explanation.

  ‘But now you don’t have to do it for real, eh?’ Henry interrupted. ‘English husbands are more complacent.’ And he waved his hand at the scar that Joshua bore on his cheek.

  The barely disguised reminder that this man was an out-and-out rake brought Domino back to her senses. In seconds she had recovered her poise.

  ‘How often do you fence, Mr Marchmain?’ she asked in a neutral voice.

  Still flushed with annoyance at Angelo’s intervention, Joshua turned to her, suddenly smiling so sweetly that hammer blows again began to afflict her heart.

  ‘As often as I can, Miss de Silva. Are you interested in the sport?’

  ‘I have never seen it until today, but I can understand why men find it so exciting.’

  ‘But not women,’ he mocked.

  ‘I am sure if we were allowed the necessary freedom, sir, we too might find it exciting.’

  ‘Any time you wish to strike for freedom and would like a lesson, Miss de Silva, I am at your service.’

  The golden eyes darkened and she felt his voice caressing her with a warmth akin to velvet. She was quite certain that it wasn’t only fencing he had in mind.