by Georgie Lee
At Cecelia’s room, he threw open the door, stopping short at the threshold. The bed stood untouched, the coverlet stretched smooth over it.
No doubt she was crying her heart out to Aunt Ella, winning the woman to her side with all her false grace and charm. He stormed down the hall, determined to thwart her conniving.
He threw open Aunt Ella’s door without knocking and the candlelight danced wildly over the shining brocade. ‘Where is she? Where’s Cecelia?’
Aunt Ella laid aside her book, as steady in the face of his outburst as when Uncle Edmund used to shout down the house. ‘She’s gone back to London.’
Desperation seized him before anger beat it back. ‘Running to Lord Strathmore already?’
‘I wouldn’t blame her if she did, not after the way you’ve behaved.’
He rolled his shoulders, shrugging off the strike. ‘I assume she took the cousin with her.’
‘No, Miss Fields is staying here under my care until things with Mr Menton are settled.’
‘You will send her back to London first thing in the morning,’ he demanded. ‘Neither she nor Cecelia are to receive any more of our help.’
‘Do not command me as if I were a servant.’ Aunt Ella rose, drawing up all her diminutive height. ‘Whom I have as a guest is no more your concern than whom you fritter away your nights with in London is mine, except where Cecelia is concerned.’
Randall ground his teeth. This was only the second time she’d ever taken such a tone with him. ‘I see she’s fooled you, as well.’
‘She’s fooled no one. She loves you, she always has and she’s never wanted anything more from you than your love in return.’ Her composure softened, the motherly woman returning. ‘When you first told me she was back and I saw the way your whole face changed whenever you mentioned her, I was so happy for you. It’s the rare instance when we get a second chance at love.’ She touched the small locket pinned to her dress, the one with her late husband’s portrait inside. ‘I didn’t, and neither did your father nor Edmund.’
‘Uncle Edmund was never in love,’ he scoffed.
‘He was once, long before you were born, but our father forbade the match. She married another and died in childbirth. Edmund regretted losing her all his life. It’s why he never spoke of it. It seems my brothers and I were all doomed to love and lose.’ Aunt Ella approached him, laying one hand on his arm. ‘There’s still time, Randall. Don’t let Cecelia slip away from you again and deny yourself this chance at happiness.’
He turned away from her soft entreaty and moved to the window overlooking the lawn. At the far end, the faint glow of moonlight against his parents’ headstones stood out like a phantom in the darkness beneath the large ash.
A decanter of Aunt Ella’s plum wine sat on the table in front of him. Randall laid his palm on the smooth stopper, his fingers closing over it one by one. It didn’t matter if Cecelia was gone. He didn’t need her any more than he’d needed all the other grasping women who’d clawed at him over the years, hungering after his rank and status, but never him, never the man beneath the reputation.
He pulled out the stopper, snatched up a glass and filled it. The sweet, sharp scent curled his stomach, but he held it up, swirling the wine in the crystal, eager to slide into the warm oblivion waiting at the bottom. Then the candlelight flickered with a draught and the light danced in the wine the way it had in the raindrops on the vicarage window the night his father died, the night everything inside him shattered.
He lowered the glass and with it the shallow promise of peace. There was no comfort in the liquor, no more than in any of the arms of the numerous women he’d bedded or in any of the scandals he’d created. In all of it there was only the numbing cold of the long walk back to Falconbridge Manor with the icy rain pouring over his neck, the chill of it cutting as deep as the loneliness and despair, the self-loathing and hate which had consumed him until the moment he’d met Cecelia.
Out the window, the headstones faded as a cloud passed in front of the moon. His father was gone, buried along with all chances of forgiveness, but Cecelia was still here.
The door squeaked open and Reverend ambled into the room. He sat down next to Randall and leaned against his leg. Randall dropped his hand on the dog’s head, stroking the soft fur.
He was worthy of Cecelia’s love, just as she was worthy of his, and he’d prove it to them both.
He poured the wine back into the decanter, replaced the stopper and turned to face his aunt.
‘I’d like you to pay a call on Lady Menton tomorrow,’ he began, respectful to the woman who’d been like a mother to him. ‘Make it clear to her, in blunt terms if you must, that if she doesn’t oppose the match, Theresa will have five thousand pounds for a dowry and Mr Menton will have my full support on either a bid for Parliament or whatever business venture he wishes to pursue.’
‘And Cecelia?’
He looked at the small portraits of Aunt Ella, his father and Uncle Edmund painted in their youth and hanging above the dressing table. He would not lose Cecelia, he would not let his mistake drive her into the arms of another man, not if he had to stand outside her house every night for the rest of his life until she finally granted him entrance.
‘I’ll leave for London as soon as the carriage is ready and call on Mr Rathbone to settle her debts. Then I’ll see her.’
Aunt Ella twisted the largest diamond ring off her finger and held it out to him. ‘Here, take this.’
‘Your engagement ring?’
‘You need it more than I do and I’d be proud to see Cecelia wear it.’
‘Thank you.’ He moved to leave, then stopped. ‘You were a bright spot during a terrible time.’
‘I did my best.’ She smiled with all the love he used to take for granted. ‘Now it’s time to do yours.’
Chapter Seventeen
Randall rapped on the Fleet Street town-house door, impatience making his fist heavy. A blinding evening sun cut in between the buildings, a stark reminder of the time he’d lost on the road to London. First a cracked carriage wheel, then a lazy carpenter had delayed them for hours at a coaching inn. He’d have hired a horse and finished the journey but the shamble of a place hadn’t possessed one suitable nag. Near daybreak, he’d given up any hope of reaching London by morning and rented a room, catching a few hours of fitful sleep before his driver roused him to continue the journey. Muddy roads crammed with carts and carriages had further slowed their progress until the spires of London had finally come into view, the afternoon sun low behind them.
At last a butler pulled open the door, the servant as well poised as any in Mayfair. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Lord Falconbridge to see Mr Rathbone.’ Randall stepped into a clean entrance hall furnished with fine paintings and furniture, all of it probably seized from one of Mr Rathbone’s poor clients. Randall’s hand tightened on his walking stick as he wondered how close Cecelia’s things had come to ending up in this horde.
A door on the opposite wall creaked open and a tall, young man approached, his clothes simple but of fine material and superbly tailored.
‘Lord Falconbridge,’ he greeted, as stiff and formal as the butler, but not overawed at having a Marquess in his presence. No doubt it wasn’t the first time a titled man had graced his entryway. Mr Rathbone motioned to the office. ‘If you please.’
The office was as neat as the hall, if not more so, the desk clean except for the short stacks of papers resting on one corner. Mr Rathbone took a seat behind the polished desk and Randall perched on one of the chairs in front of it.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, my lord?’ Mr Rathbone asked.
‘I’m here to settle Mrs Thompson’s debt.’
A faint trace of surprise crossed his face, so subtle it might have been missed if Randall were not facing the man. ‘T
he debt has already been settled.’
‘By whom?’
‘Madame de Badeau. She purchased it yesterday.’
Randall’s stomach tightened. What the devil was she doing involved in all this? ‘Why?’
‘It’s not my habit to enquire into the nature of my clients’ affairs except where collateral and the ability to repay are concerned.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it was only Mrs Thompson’s collateral you were interested in, not whether her dealings with you would ruin her.’
If he hoped to raise the man’s ire, he was sorely mistaken, for Mr Rathbone continued to face him, as calm as if they were discussing the weather. ‘Mrs Thompson came to me, Lord Falconbridge, and asked for my assistance. I did not seek her out.’
‘Yet you advanced her funds, knowing she must be in trouble and that her debt might ruin her.’
Again Mr Rathbone failed to take umbrage or meet the challenge. He only rested his elbows on the desk and laced his fingers over the leather blotter. ‘Based on Mrs Thompson’s limited collateral, I provided much less than the amount she requested. It does neither me nor my clients any good to advance sums on which they will default.’
‘No, of course not.’ Randall’s anger in the face of Mr Rathbone’s calm faded. He wanted to blame the man for Cecelia’s troubles, but he couldn’t. The moneylender had been fair in his dealings with her, more so than Randall. Again he kicked himself for not visiting the man sooner. This whole situation might have been avoided if he’d taken a chance and risked his once-precious ego and reputation. He rose to leave. ‘Thank you for your time.’
Outside, Randall took a deep breath. He hadn’t expected this complication, but he should have known coming back to London would not be as easy as waltzing into Cecelia’s and solving all her problems. He’d approached Mr Rathbone first in the hopes of arriving on Cecelia’s doorstep with the debt and tearing it up in front of her in an effort to prove his sincerity before he begged for her forgiveness. Now there was Madame de Badeau to contend with. She hadn’t purchased the debt to help her friend. No, there was a much more sinister reason behind it.
Miss Domville’s words in Madame de Badeau’s hall came rushing back to him along with the sickening sense he’d brought the vile woman’s wrath down on Cecelia. He didn’t know what she was planning, but if she threatened or hurt Cecelia, he would see her crushed.
* * *
A distant knock pulled Cecelia out of a deep sleep. She opened her eyes and struggled to focus in the dim evening light turning the bedroom grey. She’d come upstairs a few hours ago to rest after a long night on the road and a difficult day pacing the house, trying to work out what to do next. She hadn’t expected to fall so soundly asleep.
She sat up and the pendant slid over her dress, bringing back all the loneliness of the carriage ride to London and the memory of Randall storming away from her at the lake.
At least he left me something to pawn.
Her eyes stung with new tears and she gripped the edge of the mattress, determined not to lie down and curl into a crying ball. There were decisions to be made about her and Theresa’s future. In spite of Lady Ellington’s confidence, Cecelia expected to see her cousin back in London at any moment, banished by Randall in a bid to wash his hands of both of them.
Mary’s steady footsteps sounded on the stairs and she suspected the maid was coming to announce Theresa’s arrival.
With a sigh, she rose and poured water from a pitcher into the chipped porcelain basin on the dressing table. She dipped her hands in the water and splashed her face, trying to shore up the strength she needed to comfort the broken-hearted girl.
Mary opened the door. ‘Mrs Thompson, Madame de Badeau is waiting for you downstairs.’
Cecelia snatched up a towel, in no mood to see the Frenchwoman. ‘Tell her I’m sick and I’ll call on her in a few days.’
‘I already told her, but she said it’s a matter of urgency and she won’t leave until she’s seen you.’
Cecelia rubbed her damp and raw cheeks, knowing exactly what the woman would see. She debated sending Mary downstairs with a more curt dismissal, but Cecelia wouldn’t put it past Madame de Badeau to march upstairs anyway. ‘I’ll see her.’
She slid her feet into her shoes and made her way downstairs, hoping Madame de Badeau would mistake her worn appearance for proof of illness and keep the meeting brief.
‘Madame de Badeau, what an unexpected surprise.’ She nearly choked on the polite words as she walked into the morning room. The woman stood by the fireplace, dressed in a deep blue silk gown, her wide bosom covered in diamonds. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t send word to you sooner, but I haven’t been well today.’
‘Yes, travel can make one so very ill.’ She sounded less than sympathetic and the way she eyed Cecelia like a goose about to pounce on a June bug made her wary. ‘Tell me, is everything settled between your cousin and Mr Menton?’
‘No, but it will be shortly.’
‘Whatever objections can there be?’ Madame de Badeau clasped one surprised hand to her chest, her diamonds sparkling.
‘Lady Menton is a proud woman.’
Madame de Badeau’s lips curled into a wicked smile. ‘Or perhaps she doesn’t want her son tricked into marrying a poor young lady in search of a rich husband.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cecelia rubbed the pendant between her fingers, trying to soothe her rising worry.
‘I know all about what your stepson did, and General LaFette, and how the two of them drove you back to England without a penny to your name.’
Cecelia gripped the back of a chair, the floor shifting beneath her. ‘How?’
‘Many years ago in France, I knew General LaFette and we’ve enjoyed a lively correspondence ever since. In his last letter, which I received shortly before your first visit, he told me everything about you. You see, despite all your pretences to wealth, I’ve known all along you’re nothing but a beggar.’
Cecelia’s fingers tightened on the chair, one fingernail finding a small hole in the fabric. ‘If you knew, then why did you trouble with me?’
‘Revenge.’ The word slid out, low and icy, the destruction of her life by Paul’s selfishness and General LaFette’s lies all echoing in the simple declaration.
‘What have I ever done to you?’
‘Not you, your mother.’
She stared at the Frenchwoman in disbelief. ‘What could she have done to hurt you?’
‘That conniving whore stole your father from me,’ she seethed, her composure slipping. ‘Do you know what I suffered under Chevalier de Badeau before Madame Guillotine killed him and left me with nothing? I had to crawl and scrape my way back from the gutters. Then you returned to London and, like your mother, tried to steal the man I love. Randall is mine and I won’t lose him to someone like you.’
Cecelia wanted to laugh at the absurdity of Madame de Badeau loving anyone, but she bit it back, striking instead with the only barb she still possessed. ‘You can’t lose what you never had.’
‘And you think he loves you?’ Madame de Badeau sneered. ‘When I first heard you’d gone to Falconbridge Manor, I thought you’d won, but now you’re back without him and without the happy look of love on your face. He’s thrown you over, had his way with you and forgotten you, just like all the others. Except me. I’ve maintained the one thing none of them could—his friendship. When he returns to London, I’ll tell him how you hid your poverty and tried to trap him.’
‘He already knows I’m poor.’
‘Good. Then he’ll see once again how I was right and how I’m the only person who’s ever cared about him.’
Cecelia’s heart dropped, hearing too much truth in Madame de Badeau’s nasty words.
‘Don’t look so cheerless, my dear. After all, there is still Lord Strathmore to consider. Wh
en I heard you’d returned without Randall, I told him at once. Not only was he delighted, but he informed me of his plan to ask you to marry him tonight at the theatre.’
‘I’m not going to the theatre, nor am I about to let you humiliate me in front of all London.’
‘Oh, I think you will. You see, I’ve purchased your debt from Mr Rathbone.’ Madame de Badeau withdrew a piece of paper from her reticule, unfolded it and held it up. From across the room, Cecelia could see her signature at the bottom of the paper and with it her happiness and future signed away. ‘If you don’t accept Lord Strathmore’s proposal and agree to his plan to expedite your happy union, I’ll reveal to everyone that you and your cousin are penniless. I’ll deliver the proof to Lady Menton myself and then insist you repay your debt to me. If you don’t, I’ll send the bailiffs to secure it and your place in the Fleet. Then I’ll watch as you and your cousin sink from good society for ever.’
Madame de Badeau took a menacing step closer, but Cecelia stood her ground, meeting the woman’s icy stare, refusing to be cowed.
‘I know what it is to suffer poverty and the humiliating depths which one must sink to survive,’ Madame de Badeau hissed. ‘Imagine your sweet little cousin suffering at the hands of sailors, or the depraved young lords who frequent the bawdy houses.’
Cecelia stared at the debt clutched in the woman’s hand, the horror in Madame de Badeau’s words made more terrifying by their truth. The Fleet or worse had been her greatest fear since arriving in London and starting this risky game. It was the fate she and Theresa might suffer if she refused Madame de Badeau. Unless Lady Ellington could help them.
‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if Randall still has enough feelings left for you to save you,’ Madame de Badeau jeered. ‘I assure you, he doesn’t. Once he’s finished with a dalliance, he doesn’t look back. In fact, he’ll welcome your marriage to Lord Strathmore as an easy end to this whole affair.’