The Widow's Scandalous Affair

by Lucy Ashford

  Dominic gave an exasperated sigh. ‘But you embraced her, man! You were actually seen kissing her! What’s going on? Don’t say you’re halfway to seducing her! My God, if I were a gambler, I’d say your chances were nil!’

  Raphael straightened and blew chalk dust from the tip of his cue. ‘You do gamble occasionally, mon ami. And you nearly always lose, so, going by that logic, I’d say my chances of seducing the lady are actually quite good. That is,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘if I wanted to.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘It’s your turn.’

  Dominic didn’t move. ‘Good Lord, Raphael, you know I’m forever defending you. But Lady Serena has powerful friends, as well as wealth. She also has a highly respected older brother who happens to be an earl, so be very careful. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘In that case, can we proceed with the game? As I said, it’s your turn.’

  Dominic surveyed the table gloomily. ‘You’ve left me in a difficult spot.’

  ‘Look there.’ Raphael pointed. ‘You could always try a cannon off the cushion.’

  Dominic tried, but failed miserably. Raphael took over and they played on in silence for a while.

  The two had met at Eton, where Raphael had been sent by his father. ‘It was to get me out of the way,’ Raphael always sardonically explained. ‘My older brother, Guy, was the dutiful heir. I was trouble.’ Dominic had been Raphael’s reluctant accomplice in many a scrape at school and after that at Oxford, but it was true that loyalty was Dominic’s overriding virtue. When the Marquis died eight years ago, Raphael’s older brother inherited the title and the estates in southern France, while Raphael chose to become an officer in the French army. He kept in touch with Dominic by letter and Dominic even came to visit the family estate one summer when Raphael was home on leave. But after that, Raphael’s letters ceased.

  ‘No point,’ he’d explained to his old friend at their reunion in London last year. ‘I was abroad with the army most of the time. And then came the Revolution—so do you really think anyone had time to write letters? Or that there was any chance of them getting through?’

  Nevertheless, when Raphael arrived in England Dominic had been one of the first to greet him, delighted that his old comrade was alive and well. Dominic also knew better than to ask Raphael about the bloodshed he must have seen, or the friends he must have lost.

  By then Raphael had inherited the title, because his brother had died—murdered, he told Dominic briefly, by a Revolutionary mob. But Raphael spoke rarely about the past and he knew Dominic was disappointed by the way he’d so rapidly immersed himself in the pleasures of London, finding himself a fine mansion in Grosvenor Square and becoming a member of all the best clubs.

  Quite a few people complained that while France was drowning in the blood of its people, the Marquis of Montpellier seemed miraculously consoled by the delights of upper-class English society. But most of the ton enjoyed his sense of fashion and his dry wit, which was aimed especially at the earnest folk who took life too seriously. His forays into the London underworlds of cockfighting, gambling and the demi-monde in general were dismissed merely as evidence of his Continental heritage. Certainly they did little to diminish his popularity either with London’s young blades or with the fairer sex.

  But what about Lady Serena Willoughby?

  She had always appeared impervious—indeed, hostile—to Raphael’s charm and, lately, her enmity had started to become a problem. Tonight, Raphael had most definitely gained the upper hand. Though did he feel a sense of satisfaction? Dieu, he ought to! But instead he kept seeing her face, her delicate, vulnerable face as she shivered in his arms. And the expression in her rather lovely blue-green eyes as he leaned in to kiss her...

  Dominic said, frowning, ‘Your turn again, Raphael—didn’t you hear me?’

  ‘Of course. My apologies.’

  The trouble was, Raphael had never really been able to put Lady Serena out of his mind since their very first meeting last November. Which had been, quite simply, a disaster. He’d already heard all about her, of course; knew that she and her three close friends had been labelled ‘the Wicked Widows’ by some wag who’d fallen on the wrong side of that wealthy and aristocratic quartet. All four had lost their husbands at a relatively young age; all four were targets for suitors, fortune hunters especially, but the women were united in their declaration that they had no need whatsoever of new husbands.

  Raphael had expected the four of them to be a bunch of harridans. But when he first actually spoke to Lady Serena at that ball last November, she’d taken him by surprise.

  He had no difficulty even now picturing the diaphanous peach gown she’d worn, which was high-necked but close-fitting and sewn with sequins and seed pearls. Her arms had been sheathed in long cream gloves that ended high above the elbow, leaving a tantalising few inches of bare flesh that made his mind rove instantly into dangerous territory—lovely arms. Which meant, in his experience, that her legs would be long and slender, too, and would start to become deliciously curvaceous in the forbidden realm above her gartered stockings...

  He remembered how he’d clamped down hard on his illicit imaginings, fully intending to move on; but then fate took a hand. Disastrously. Because just at that moment he’d heard the comments of some spiteful matrons from nearby. Such a scandalous gown, they were saying. Why, you can almost see through it. Women like her are a menace. They either steal the attention that should be paid to our daughters, or they are out to lure our husbands into mischief.

  And Serena had heard them also. He knew it by the sudden set of her slender shoulders, the defiant tilt of her chin. It was then that he’d approached her.

  ‘What a set of old dragons,’ he’d said cheerfully to her. ‘And I think your gown is rather marvellous, actually. My name is Raphael Lefevre. I know it’s somewhat unconventional of me to announce myself like this when we’ve not been formally introduced, but I hope you’ll do me the honour of dancing with me, Lady Serena?’

  When he’d taken her hand and led her into the dance, he’d felt he was in contact with something very unusual, almost precious. A lady of independence and integrity, not to mention beauty. It was her eyes that had struck him first, those blue-green eyes that were translucent like the sea, so thick-lashed and expressive; then his gaze had flown unbidden to her lush pink mouth. And gradually he’d realised that, quite contrary to his expectations, she was shy, even vulnerable.

  ‘I will not be cowed by them,’ she’d told him. ‘I will not.’

  ‘Bravo,’ he’d answered with a smile.

  He knew she’d been married to a high-ranking army officer who’d died a hero in battle. He’d also heard that after the set period of mourning, Lady Serena had made it plain she had no wish to marry again. Was her heart broken? So people maintained; indeed, during that dance Raphael thought he sensed some undefined emotion she was trying, he guessed, to hide with her witty talk. He’d been glad to make her smile a little with his droll comments about the assembled company and he’d felt a kind of connection between them that made him want to linger when the dance ended.

  But the encounter turned to disaster all too swiftly. Thanks to that comment about a wager, she’d condemned him out of hand and their mutual enmity became a public entertainment.

  ‘Men like Raphael Lefevre,’ she’d said soon afterwards at a fashionable party, ‘with their gambling, their drinking and their habit of treating women as playthings make one realise why there was a revolution in France.’

  Raphael, who’d been passing by at the time, had gracefully bowed in her direction. ‘I treat women as playthings sometimes, madame,’ he’d agreed politely. ‘But only if the ladies in question ask me nicely.’

  There had been gasps of shock, together with not a few chuckles. Raphael had strolled on past them all, aware that his retort would quickly spread around town; indeed, the very next afternoon while riding in Hyde Par
k he had encountered no less a personage than the Prince of Wales, who’d beckoned Raphael over to his carriage with a merry grin. ‘Heard about your quip last night, Lefevre, you devilish fellow! Only if they ask me nicely. Oh, dear me! My friend, you are priceless—France has lost an impeccable wit! And do tell me—’ the Prince pointed a finger at Raphael’s chest ‘—where did you get that elegant waistcoat?’

  Yes, Lady Serena’s initial attacks on him had done Raphael no harm at all. But recently she’d gone one step too far and begun to ask questions about his former life. She also had one or two suitors whom he suspected could prove equally problematic if they, too, joined in her enmity against him and a line had been crossed. The time had come to take more decisive action—and tonight had offered him his chance.

  The game of billiards didn’t last long, since Raphael was very much on form. Afterwards he and Dominic joined more of their friends in the card room, but Dominic was rather quiet. Doubtless he was disappointed, not for the first time, by his friend’s behaviour. Shortly afterwards, Dominic left, but Raphael stayed on to play several hands at piquet while lightly fending off further questions about his encounter with Lady Serena—until a young viscount, rather drunk, blurted out, ‘Does this mean we’ll hear no more of the rumours that you’d really prefer a French girl to warm your bed, Lefevre?’

  There were several indrawn breaths, but Raphael merely smiled. ‘Quel absurdité. What nonsense.’ He splayed his cards out on the table. ‘I have the trick, I believe. Would you care to deal, Monsieur le Vicomte?’

  Once the game was over he downed the last of his brandy, gathered up his winnings and announced it was time for him to leave. Some demurred, asking him to stay, but others said nothing, though they were watching him closely. No doubt several of them thought he’d gone too far tonight, toying with a lady like Serena Willoughby. But unlike Dominic, they were careful to keep it quiet.

  He went outside. It was late, but instead of heading homewards he turned in the direction of Leicester Fields, where several of the taverns were still open. And in one of them, he found his manservant, Jacques.

  Raphael sat down next to him. ‘Well? Did you manage to track down Silas Mort?’

  Jacques wiped some beer froth from his lips and answered gruffly, ‘I did. He and a couple of his friends have rooms in a lodging house near here and I followed them to a drinking hole they’re fond of. One of them was drunk and I got him even drunker. He blabbed about how Mort is blackmailing a grand lady. And it’s exactly as you guessed, my lord.’

  Raphael nodded. ‘Bien,’ he said softly. ‘Very good, Jacques. And what about the other fellow I asked you to investigate? Mr Jeremy Wolverton?’

  ‘Wolverton is a church-going businessman who’s made a fortune in importing expensive fabrics. And he happens to be one of Lady Serena Willoughby’s most ardent admirers.’

  Jacques was a Breton, not tall, but wiry and strong. He’d been known to say he would die for his master, but he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind to him. And he spoke his mind now as he went on, ‘You took a risk, my lord, tangling with that woman tonight. You need to silence her, not seduce her.’

  Raphael took a long drink of the ale the landlord had brought over and contemplated his manservant in silence for a moment. He answered softly at last, ‘But what if the two coincide, mon ami? What if seduction is the only way to silence her?’

  Jacques gave a sigh. ‘A lady as virtuous and as privileged as her? You’re on dangerous ground, my lord. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

  Raphael regarded him steadily. ‘Any further news of our other search? Our main purpose here in London?’

  ‘No, my lord. I keep asking—carefully, like you said—but there’s no news at all. And now I’d guess even you would agree it’s time to retire for the night. Shall I find you a hackney cab?’

  Raphael examined his pocket watch. ‘No. It’s not raining so I’d rather walk.’ And clear my head, he added to himself. In fact, it would take them a mere twenty minutes to reach the mansion that Raphael rented in Grosvenor Square, where Jacques, at his own insistence, slept in an attic room above the stables. ‘I prefer to keep an eye on those valuable nags of yours myself, my lord,’ he’d once said. ‘I don’t trust these English grooms one bit.’

  Raphael didn’t trust them either. Didn’t trust anyone, come to think of it, except Jacques and his old friend Dominic.

  * * *

  As if sensing his master’s mood, Jacques spoke not a word all the way home and in the silence Raphael was aware that above them the moon shone bravely from between the rain clouds to miraculously paint the damp rooftops and pavements with gleaming silver. But his mind was filled with darkness. I thought even you couldn’t stoop so low, Lady Serena had told him.

  ‘Your opinion of me,’ he’d replied smoothly, ‘never ceases to entertain me.’

  How much further could he fall in Lady Serena’s eyes? Tomorrow she would realise that she’d been recognised in his arms tonight by people who knew them both. People who mattered.

  Thanks to Jacques, who’d been on her trail for weeks, he’d known about Silas Mort accosting her in the Park the other day. He’d learned the details of her planned assignation with Mort, again thanks to Jacques. He’d arranged to be in the vicinity of the piazza himself, watching from the shadows, and—now this was the riskiest part of the plan—he’d suggested to his three regular companions in revelry, Beaumaris, Finlay and Hawkesworth, that they all meet up there a little after nine, to see what entertainment was on offer.

  Serena had been a few minutes late. That had worried him at first, but fortunately his friends had been late, too. He’d taken her in his arms the minute he saw them approaching in the distance. And he’d offered them entertainment indeed—for they’d witnessed one of the haughtiest ladies of the ton in Lefevre’s embrace and the news was spreading like wildfire.

  He wondered what her reaction would be, were she to find out that this was exactly—exactly what he’d planned.

  Chapter Five

  The next day—two p.m.

  There was no hiding it.

  Serena realised from the minute she entered the room that her friends must have heard every detail of last night’s excruciating encounter with Raphael Lefevre. Poor Beth looked decidedly shocked. Lady Joanna’s eyebrows were raised, as if to ask, My dear Serena. Whatever have you been up to this time? Even Mary, who claimed to despise gossip, was sitting on the edge of her chair, tense with expectation.

  They met like this regularly at one another’s homes and this time it was Lady Joanna’s turn to host at her house in Brook Street. Normally the greetings they exchanged were relaxed; it was never long before the wine started to flow as well as the conversation and, in this particular drawing room, Serena loved to feast her eyes on all the exotic mementoes that Joanna’s husband, a wealthy East India merchant, had brought home from his travels. Twenty years older than Joanna, he’d died three years ago, but the large room was still a vivid reminder of his journeying, scattered as it was with Hindu statuettes, Oriental porcelain and silk tapestries.

  Though clearly, all these treasures were as nothing compared to the novelty of having someone in their midst who had been kissed by the notorious Raphael Lefevre.

  It was Joanna who was the first to speak. ‘Well, Serena darling!’ Joanna was the granddaughter of a duke and pronounced her words with aristocratic relish. ‘What an absolute scandal broth this is, to be sure. Now tell us, do—how exactly did you come to be in the company of the rather delicious Marquis?’

  Serena tried to wave one hand airily. ‘Goodness me. You know how the gossips exaggerate!’

  Beth’s eyes were round. ‘But, Serena—did you truly let that dreadful man actually kiss you?’

  Oh, Lord. Serena’s heart fluttered in panic now. And what a kiss... She was saved temporarily, because it was at that very moment that a procession of footmen entere
d, bearing platters of tiny salmon sandwiches, asparagus tartlets and chocolate eclairs.

  Serena ate very little. She knew she was safe while the footmen were here serving the refreshments, thus ensuring the rest of the conversation could only be small talk, but soon enough they’d be gone and then three pairs of inquisitive eyes would turn on her once more. How on earth could she explain last night’s horrendous events without betraying the story of her blackmailer, Silas Mort?

  These women were her dearest friends. All wealthy and well born, the four of them had always moved in the same social circles and Mary had drawn them even closer by asking if they would help her with a charity school she’d established in Spitalfields, one of the poorest areas of east London.

  ‘How can we best help these deprived children?’ she’d said to Serena. ‘By making sure they get an education, that’s how. Education is the key to everything!’

  Possessed of a dry sense of humour along with considerable wealth after her businessman husband’s death, Mary was a natural leader who was determined to put her brains and her money to good use. Serena, though her own husband was still alive then, had embraced the cause wholeheartedly. At least, she’d thought, I can put some of my time to good use. Then Beth had joined them and finally Lady Joanna. ‘We need to educate these girls so they can work out what lies men are going to spin them,’ Joanna had declared in her forthright way.

  But then Lionel Willoughby was sent to the war in India, where he died. Serena often thought it was the loss of their husbands that had formed the real bond between the four friends, especially as many married women shunned their company.

  ‘As if I would be interested in any of their dreary menfolk!’ Joanna had once exclaimed with a peal of laughter. ‘But I could definitely be tempted by a rake. Yes—by a handsome, daredevil rogue. I am determined not to give up on my life just because my husband’s in his grave!’