by Georgie Lee
Randall possessed the power to stop Lady Ellington from helping her and, after yesterday, Cecelia knew he would.
An isolation stronger than the one she’d known the morning her mother packed her into the post chaise for Falconbridge Manor gripped her. At least then there’d existed the promise of a future. What future did she have now?
Lord Strathmore.
‘What about my debts? Will you return them to me or continue to hold them over my head?’
‘I have no intention of forgiving them. I’ve laid out a tidy sum to Mr Rathbone and I expect to see it all returned to me in full.’
‘You know I have no money.’
‘Once you’re married to Lord Strathmore and he realises you aren’t the saviour he’s been waiting for, he’ll have to part with the many items he’s spent countless hours boring me about. When his creditors demand those things be sold, I’ll be there with my note to collect. I’m a patient woman and willing to wait for what I’m due.’
Cecelia shuddered, seeing no other option and knowing even in marriage her torment would not end. ‘You’ve dallied long enough and we’re losing needed time to get you ready for the theatre.’ Madame de Badeau flapped the paper in front of her. ‘Will you or will you not agree to my terms?’
Cecelia stared at the paper, the fight in her fading. Weeks of worrying, of scraping by and selling her precious things had all come to nothing. She’d been doomed from the beginning. If she agreed to Madame de Badeau’s terms, Lord Strathmore’s title would protect them from the Fleet. Perhaps the title of Countess and whatever money she could secure from Mr Rathbone would be enough to gain Theresa a husband and a better future than the one facing Cecelia. ‘I will.’
* * *
Randall slammed the knocker against Madame de Badeau’s door, irritated at being made to wait. The daylight was long gone from the sky and the stars were difficult to see in the light of the rising moon. After leaving Mr Rathbone’s, he’d gone straight to Cecelia’s, determined to put things right, but the house was dark and empty and no answer met his persistent knock.
He’d made for Madame de Badeau’s, determined to face the woman. He didn’t know what game she was up to, but he’d be damned if he’d allow her to hurt Cecelia.
He balled his fist and slammed it against the door. If breaking it down would bring anyone in the house to greet him, he’d shatter it into splinters, but it wouldn’t. All he could do was stand in the dark, cursing the silence and considering where to go next.
Movement along the far side of the house caught his attention. He stilled, watching as a woman with a plain bonnet pulled low over her head passed through the wrought-iron servants’ gate, the metal clanging as her travelling case knocked against it. The woman was too small to be Madame de Badeau and, when she turned to survey the still street, Randall caught a faint blonde curl against the dark pelisse.
‘Miss Domville. What are you doing?’ Randall demanded, storming to her.
The girl dropped the case, whirling to face him. ‘Nothing.’
‘Does nothing carry a portmanteau out of the servants’ gate without a chaperon at night?’
Her initial surprise changed to defiance and she stuck her chin in the air. ‘I won’t go back in there. I won’t live with her any longer.’
‘I’m not suggesting you do, nor am I about to let you roam London in the dark.’ He picked up the case. ‘I need your help.’
She grabbed the handle, trying to tug it away. ‘Why should I help you?’
‘Because if you do, I’ll see you get wherever it is you’re trying to go, assuming it’s respectable.’
She let go of the handle. ‘I’m going to Nottinghamshire, to the Smiths who raised me. Is that respectable enough for you?’
‘They’ve agreed to take you back?’
‘I wrote to them.’ She shifted on her feet, her confidence faltering. ‘I haven’t received a response, but I’m not staying here another night.’
‘You won’t have to if you help me.’
‘What makes you think I can?’
‘Because I know you listen at keyholes. Now come along.’ He took her by the elbow and led her to the carriage. ‘Why isn’t Dalton answering the door?’
‘Helene told him not to. She’s not in the house anyway.’
‘Where is she?’
‘With Mrs Thompson.’
‘I’ve just come from her house and they aren’t there.’
‘Then I don’t know where they’ve gone.’
Mr Joshua stood next to the open carriage door as Randall handed Miss Domville inside and gave the portmanteau to the groom.
‘Mr Joshua, check the theatre, Lady Weatherly’s, anywhere Madame de Badeau may have taken Cecelia for the evening. Come back to me when you find them.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The valet ran off in the direction of Drury Lane as Randall stepped into the carriage.
He sat across from Miss Domville and the vehicle rocked into motion. ‘Why did your sister purchase Mrs Thompson’s debt?’
Miss Domville twisted her hands in her lap. ‘She wants to force Mrs Thompson to marry Lord Strathmore. He’s on the verge of bankruptcy and Helene has convinced him Mrs Thompson is rich. He won’t find out the truth until after they’re married. It’s part of her revenge for the way he left her for that actress two years ago.’
Randall’s hand tightened on the squabs. The Frenchwoman must have lain in wait for Cecelia to return so she could pounce. Madame de Badeau couldn’t touch her when Cecelia was with him in the country and if he hadn’t acted like such a fool, they might still be there, Cecelia safe instead of who knew where with the conniving woman. ‘What about Mrs Thompson?’
‘If Mrs Thompsons refuses him, Helene will reveal her debts and ruin Theresa’s prospects with Mr Menton. I tried to warn Theresa and Mrs Thompson, but Helene caught me writing to them. She hit me, forbade me to see anyone or leave the house, but I’m not about to obey. My sister will pay for striking me,’ she hissed, the word sister laced with venom. ‘While Dalton was at the brandy again today, I went through her desk to see if I could find any money and I found these.’
She withdrew a small packet of old letters from the pocket of her pelisse. They were yellowed and torn along the edges, the pink ribbon tying them together frayed at each end. She pulled the top one from the stack, opened it and held it out to him. ‘You won’t believe the things she’s done.’
Madame de Badeau’s looped handwriting filled the page and Randall held it up to the carriage lantern to read the faded words. Not even Randall, who knew a number of Madame de Badeau’s secrets, was prepared for this. He lowered the letter, unable to fathom how he’d tolerated the vile woman’s company for so many years. No wonder Cecelia was hesitant to trust him. That she gave him a chance at all spoke of her love and belief in him, one he’d make sure to deserve. ‘Madame de Badeau is your mother?’
Tears welled up in Miss Domville’s eyes and she wiped them away with the back of her hand, a dark bruise around her wrist revealed when her sleeve pulled back. ‘When she moved to London from Paris, Chevalier de Badeau was long dead and she didn’t want to be disgraced by having me.’
Randall handed her his handkerchief. ‘So she placed you with the family in Nottinghamshire.’
‘Everyone told me we were sisters, but we weren’t. I was her daughter and this is how she treated me.’ Fresh tears streamed down Miss Domville’s face. ‘I don’t even know which one of her lovers is my father.’
‘I’m very sorry, Miss Domville. When we reach my house, you’ll go to my aunt at Falconbridge until you hear something from the Smiths.’ Aunt Ella would know how to comfort the poor girl. ‘Now, let me see the other letters.’
She passed them to him and he skimmed each one. They were copies of the originals paired with those received in r
esponse. They detailed her time as a courtesan and the kept woman of not one, but many wealthy Frenchmen, including a General LaFette.
Randall shifted in his seat as he read the last one describing her friendship with him and the ruined reputations they’d left in their wake. She painted a poor picture of him, but when he turned the letter over to read the back, his discomfort turned to blazing anger. There Madame de Badeau laid out her joy at the prospect of watching Cecelia suffer under Lord Strathmore’s depravity.
Randall crushed the letter in his hands, about to rip it to shreds before he stopped. It was worth more to him wrinkled than torn and was the key to banishing Madame de Badeau from their lives for good.
Chapter Eighteen
Madame de Badeau glowed like a lantern as she escorted Cecelia into the theatre.
‘Smile, my dear. After all the effort I took to make you lovely, I don’t want your frown ruining it,’ Madame de Badeau snapped, her nails biting into Cecelia’s skin as she hustled her through the crowd.
Cecelia tried not to stumble on the hem of her gown as the woman dragged her upstairs. The ribbon Madame de Badeau had wound through her hair cut into the back of her neck and the curls scrapped into a tight coiffure pulled at her temples, adding to her discomfort.
At the entrance to her private box, Madame de Badeau tugged aside the curtain, huffing at the empty chairs. ‘Where can he be?’
She pushed Cecelia into a seat, then brushed past her to stand at the front and look over the crowd, tapping her fan against the railing.
Hope flared in Cecelia as she tried to tug the hair ribbon loose. Maybe Lord Strathmore was smarter than she believed and refused to be a pawn in the wicked lady’s game.
Then the curtain behind her rustled and she tensed as Lord Strathmore entered the box.
Madame de Badeau whirled to face him, all beaming smiles and charm. ‘Lord Strathmore, do join us.’
She waved to the chair next to Cecelia and he was quick to slide into it.
‘You look beautiful tonight, Mrs Thompson.’ His gaze raked her chest and he ran his tongue over his lips, greedy lust filling his eyes. ‘This is very striking—is it new?’
He lifted the pendant, his dry fingers scraping along the tops of her breasts.
She leaned away from him, wondering which he coveted more, the gold or her. ‘No, it was a gift.’
He dropped the pendant like a hot stone, his languid eyes hardening. ‘From Lord Falconbridge?’
She didn’t answer and the Earl tugged at his cravat, his skin red above the white linen. He turned his attention to the play, a slight wheeze marking each exhale and making Cecelia’s skin crawl.
Madame de Badeau sat in the single chair in front of them, pretending to watch the performance, but Cecelia knew she was listening and waiting.
An actor on stage launched into a long-winded monologue until the boos from the pit brought it to an end.
‘You don’t know how happy I am to see you tonight,’ the Earl finally spoke, taking Cecelia’s hand, her satin glove keeping the full chill of his skin from hers. ‘London was lifeless without you.’
She focused on the stage and the young actress waving to Lord Weatherly. ‘I can’t believe you missed me so much.’
‘Yes, so much that I’ve decided not to let you slip away from me again. Mrs Thompson, will you marry me?’
Madame de Badeau shifted in her chair, waiting for Cecelia to deliver her own lines without fail.
Cecelia’s throat tightened. She could rise, march out of the box and face whatever wrath her defiance brought down on her, but she couldn’t, not with Theresa’s future in danger, too.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, the word lost in the audience’s laughter.
‘Pardon?’ He leaned in closer, stale port heavy on his breath.
‘Yes,’ Cecelia choked out as the audience quieted, the word seeming to echo through the box. Across the theatre, Lady Weatherly watched them before directing the woman beside her to do the same.
‘Splendid, splendid.’ Lord Strathmore’s beady eyes bored into her as his fingers rubbed the back of her hand, almost to the point of pain. ‘My carriage is outside. Let’s be off.’
‘And go where?’ She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it tight.
‘My house, of course. We’ll leave for Gretna Green in the morning. It will spare us having to wait for the banns.’
She pulled back her hand, nearly losing the glove. ‘I’m flattered by your eagerness, but it isn’t proper for me to spend the night at your house alone before we’re married.’
‘Not to worry. Madame de Badeau will stay with us tonight so your reputation remains intact. I can’t have people thinking ill of my future Countess.’
‘Shall we be off, then?’ Madame de Badeau stood, Lord Strathmore moving to join her.
They hovered over Cecelia like a menacing wall about to tumble down and crush her. She could do nothing except rise and follow them into the hallway. Lord Strathmore wrapped her hand around his arm, his beaming smile increasing her disgust.
Outside the box, Madame de Badeau stopped. ‘I must speak with Lady Weatherly and share the good news. Don’t wait for me. I’ll follow behind in my own carriage.’
Madame de Badeau pinned her with a triumphant smile before sweeping off down the hall, ending all pretence of safeguarding Cecelia’s reputation or sanctity.
‘Come along.’ Lord Strathmore pulled her towards the stairs and the theatre entrance.
Panic swept through her at being alone with Lord Strathmore. However, without Madame de Badeau standing guard, maybe she could convince him to see the folly of the union and abandon his pursuit.
Hope faded as fast as it rose. Even if she persuaded him to break the engagement, Madame de Badeau still held the power to ruin her. The dreaded letter to Lady Menton had probably already been sent and, with Lady Weatherly learning of the engagement, it wouldn’t be long before Randall heard of it, too. He’d probably rejoice at being so easily rid of her.
Outside, Lord Strathmore paused, looking up and down the long line of carriages pressed together in the street, their drivers huddled in groups chatting and laughing.
She envied the men, wishing she possessed their freedom, when one face among them stood out.
Mr Joshua.
Was Randall here? She searched the carriages for his, but didn’t see it.
‘Ah, there is my carriage,’ Lord Strathmore exclaimed, pulling her down the steps.
She watched her feet to keep from falling. When she looked up again, the valet was gone, probably home to tell Randall what he’d seen.
At the bottom of the stairs, three men approached Lord Strathmore. She didn’t recognise them, but the poor quality of the middle one’s coat and the ill-fitting breeches of the two burly men flanking him whispered of disreputable dealings.
‘Wait here while I deal with these men.’ Lord Strathmore stepped off to one side to speak with the strangers and she heard snippets of the conversation over the horses and laughing drivers.
‘...you owe quite a sum...’
‘...the lady is wealthy. If you’ll be patient, I’ll have the money soon...’
Their conversation continued, muffled by the sound of approaching footsteps. Cecelia thought of running, making for her house, but what good would it do? Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore would only follow.
‘Mrs Thompson,’ came a male voice from beside her and she turned to find Mr Joshua next to her. ‘Are you all right?’
The concern on his face touched her and she wondered if it was his regard or Randall’s which led him to ask. She hesitated, unsure what to tell him, and wondering if anything she said would make a difference.
‘What are you doing talking to him?’ Lord Strathmore demanded, grabbing her by the arm and tugging he
r back.
‘I was giving him a message for Ran— I mean, Lord Falconbridge,’ she protested, her body tense with fear.
‘Here’s a message for him.’ He snatched the pendant from her neck and flung it at Mr Joshua. ‘The lady and I are to be married tomorrow. Tell Lord Falconbridge he may send his regards to my house. Now be gone.’
He jerked her away, her neck stinging from where the chain had scratched it.
‘Let go of me,’ she demanded, looking back to watch the valet disappear around the building. ‘You had no right to give away my necklace.’
He stopped and pulled her close, his fingers digging into her upper arms. ‘You’re mine, do you understand? You agreed to marry me and be my wife and you will treat me with the respect I deserve.’
‘And what of my respect?’ she challenged, trying to twist out of his grasp.
‘What respect do you deserve, whoring with the likes of Falconbridge? Well, no more. Now come along.’
He pulled her down the line of carriages, stopping more than once to search for his. He finally spied it, wedged between two town coaches, the red lacquered side and the gold trim along the top standing out in the dark.
He pulled open the door and shoved her inside.
‘To my town house, at once,’ he called to the driver.
‘But sir, the other carriages will have to move. It’ll take time to find the drivers.’
‘Then get to it.’
* * *
Randall’s carriage turned into Grosvenor Square. As it approached his town house, he saw Mr Joshua standing with a horse by the mounting block. Randall jumped from the carriage before it came to a full stop and rushed to the valet. ‘You’ve found her?’
‘She’s in trouble, sir.’ He held out the pendant by its broken chain.
Randall took it, his fury rising as his fingers closed over the gold. ‘Where is she?’
‘Leaving Drury Lane with Lord Strathmore. I think he’s taking her to his town house. I don’t trust her alone with him, my lord. He was rough with her.’