Lucien Tregellas

by Margaret McPhee

  The journey back to Climington Street was not pleasant. Madeline suffered several sympathetic looks from Angelina, a continuous harangue from her mother, and only the mildest expression of reproof from her father.

  The harangue from Mrs Langley paused only while the family made their way into their home, and resumed once more when the front door had been firmly closed. Madeline made to follow Angelina upstairs.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ her mother screeched. ‘We shall discuss this evening’s nonsense, miss. Through to the parlour with you. Now!’

  Madeline started back down the stairs.

  ‘Think I might just have an early night myself,’ mumbled her father and tried to slope away.

  But Mrs Langley was having none of it. ‘Mr Langley,’ she cried. ‘Will you not take control of your daughter?’

  It was strange, or so Madeline thought, that she was always Papa’s daughter when she had displeased Mama, which, of course, was most of the time.

  The long-suffering Mr Langley gave a weary sigh and led the way through to the parlour.

  ‘She has made a spectacle of us this evening,’ ranted Mrs Langley. ‘And most certainly destroyed any chance of an alliance with Lord Farquharson!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Mrs Langley, I’m sure it cannot be quite that bad,’ said Mr Langley.

  Mrs Langley’s face turned a mottled puce. Her mouth opened and closed convulsively. Madeline had never seen her look so distressed. ‘If you had not been hiding in Lady Gilmour’s conservatory all evening, then you would realise that it is worse than bad!’ she shouted.

  ‘Perhaps Lord Farquharson can be persuaded otherwise,’ said Mr Langley in an attempt to pacify his wife.

  ‘Madeline snubbed him to dance with Earl Tregellas, for pity’s sake!’

  ‘Really?’ mumbled Mr Langley, ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it.’ ‘Get over it! Get over it!’ huffed Mrs Langley. ‘How can you say such a thing? Lord Farquharson is unlikely to look in her direction, let alone offer her marriage! She has ruined her chances. We will never be invited anywhere ever again!’ wailed Mrs Langley. Tears squeezed from her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.

  ‘Now, Mrs Langley,’ Mr Langley cajoled, ‘please don’t take on so. I will sort it all out. Come along, my dearest.’ He pressed a soothing arm around his wife’s quivering shoulders.

  But Mrs Langley steadfastly refused to budge. ‘What are we to do? Lord Farquharson will never have her now.’ The trickle of tears was in danger of becoming a deluge.

  Madeline watched the unfolding scene, never uttering a word.

  ‘Speak to her, Arthur,’ Mrs Langley pleaded.

  Mr Langley patted his wife, straightened, and cleared his throat. ‘So, Madeline.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘What’s all this about? How came you to dance with Lord Tregellas over Lord Farquharson?’

  Madeline found that she could not tell even her dear papa what Lord Tregellas had done for her; how he had saved her from Lord Farquharson on, not one, but two separate occasions. ‘He asked me and took my arm. There did not seem any polite manner in which to decline his request.’ Indeed, there had been no request. Lord Tregellas had plucked her straight from her seat and on to the dance floor as if he had every right to do so.

  ‘Did you know who he was?’

  ‘No,’ she answered. That, at least, was true. She had not known that her dark defender was the notorious Wicked Earl, not then.

  Furrows of worry ploughed across her father’s forehead. ‘But how came you to his attention, my dear?’

  Somehow it seemed strangely traitorous to reveal the truth about Lord Tregellas. She didn’t understand why, just knew that it would not be what he wanted. It made no sense. Surely to tell them that he had stepped in to save her honour would have done him only good? Common sense affirmed that. Instinct fought against it…and won. ‘I do not know,’ said Madeline. She was not in the habit of lying, especially to her papa. Guilt sat heavily upon her shoulders.

  ‘I understand he does not normally dance. Why should he then suddenly take it into his head to dance with a quiet, unassuming and gently bred girl like you?’ Mr Langley pondered his own question.

  Madeline understood exactly why Lord Tregellas had waltzed with her. She was not foolish enough to think that he actually liked her. There was nothing to recommend Madeline Langley to him, indeed to any man, when it came to that. It was simply a matter of saving her from enduring the dance within Lord Farquharson’s arms. What she did not understand was why Lord Tregellas should care. She kept her thoughts to herself and shook her head at her father’s question.

  Mrs Langley snorted in the background. ‘Quiet and unassuming?’ she echoed. ‘It is clear you have spent little time of late in your daughter’s company!’

  Mr Langley chose to ignore this comment. ‘Madeline,’ he said as carefully as he could, ‘Lord Tregellas is a gentleman of some renown. He may be an earl and in receipt of a large fortune, but…’ He hesitated, unsure how best to phrase the next words. ‘He has a rather dubious reputation, my dear—’

  ‘Everyone knows what he is reputed to have done,’ cut in her mother.

  ‘What did he do?’ asked Madeline.

  Mrs Langley’s mouth opened. ‘He is a murderer of the very worst kind. Why do you think he’s called the Wicked Earl? He killed the—’

  ‘We shall not lower ourselves to become gossip-mongers, Mrs Langley,’ said her father reprovingly.

  Madeline looked from one parent to the other. Even she, prim and proper Miss Madeline Langley, had heard talk of Lord Tregellas. He was said to have committed some heinous crime in the past. That fact alone made him strangely fascinating to half the women across London, although he was reputed to treat them all with a cold contempt. Madeline knew that, and still it did not matter. The man that had forced Lord Farquharson to leave her safe in the Theatre Royal, who had warned her against that fiend, and had saved her again at this evening’s ball, was not someone she could fear. He had, after all, given her every reason to trust him. ‘It was only one dance,’ she said in defence of Lord Tregellas and herself.

  ‘It was the waltz!’ sobbed her mother. ‘Madeline is quite ruined after this evening’s fiasco.’

  Mr Langley said patiently, ‘Come now, my dear, she’s hardly ruined. It was, as she said, only a dance.’

  The sobbing burst forth into a wail. ‘Oh, you understand nothing, Mr Langley!’

  Mr Langley wore the weary air of a man who knew exactly what the forthcoming weeks would hold if he did nothing to resolve the situation. ‘Perhaps I could have a word with Farquharson.’

  ‘He’ll have nothing to do with Madeline now. All my plans lie in ruins.’

  ‘He’s a stout fellow. He’ll listen to reason,’ said Mr Langley.

  Her mother stopped wailing and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Do you really think so?’ she hiccupped.

  ‘Of course,’ her father replied. ‘I’ll go round there tomorrow and explain that Madeline had no notion to dance with Tregellas, that she was taken unawares, and, as a young and inexperienced lady, had no say in the matter. Perhaps I could invite him to dinner.’

  Madeline could not believe what she was hearing. Her father thought Farquharson a stout fellow? ‘Papa,’ she said. ‘Please do not. If you knew Lord Farquharson’s true nature, you would not suggest such a thing. He is not an honourable man.’

  ‘Mr Langley,’ said her mother, ‘pray do not heed her. She’s taken a set against Lord Farquharson and is determined to thwart my plans. He’s a wealthy and respected member of the aristocracy, a war hero and more. And he’s worth ten thousand a year. Does that sound like a dishonourable man?’

  ‘Papa, if you knew what he had done—’

  ‘Then tell me, child,’ encouraged her father.

  ‘Arthur!’ her mother whined.

  But Mr Langley made no sign of having heard his wife’s complaint. ‘Madeline, what has happened?’

  Madeline sighed. Papa would listen. He would no
t make excuses for Lord Farquharson or, worse still, encourage the man’s attentions. Once Papa knew the truth, she would be free of Lord Farquharson for ever. It did not matter that she would never marry. Rather that, than wedded to Lord Farquharson. No man other than that villain had ever expressed so much as an interest in her. She was four-and-twenty years old, with a string of failed Seasons behind her. She did not blame her mother and father for not sending her out on to the circuit last year. In fact, it was a blessed relief, and they did, after all, have Angelina to think about. Surely Angelina would more than compensate them for Madeline’s failings?

  ‘Madeline?’ her father prompted.

  Madeline shook the fluttering thoughts from her head. The truth must be told—just without any mention of Lord Tregellas. Taking a deep breath, she relayed what Lord Farquharson had been about, both in the Theatre Royal and at Lady Gilmour’s ball. There was no embellishment, no dramatics, just plain facts, minus a certain earl’s involvement.

  By the end of it Mr Langley was no longer looking his usual mild-mannered self. He fixed a stern eye upon his wife. ‘You knew of this, Amelia?’ Incredulity edged his voice.

  ‘Only about the theatre. But he did not kiss her, Arthur.’ Mrs Langley cast imploring eyes up to her husband. ‘I knew nothing of this evening. She said not one word of being alone in a bedchamber with Lord Farquharson. Had I but known…’ Mrs Langley pressed her tiny lace handkerchief to her mouth and fell silent.

  A small cynical part of Madeline wondered as to her mother’s claim. Would she still have had her daughter dance with Lord Farquharson, knowing all that he had done? Mama had been unwilling to hear Madeline speak against the Baron. And social standing and money were so very important to Mrs Langley. It was a pointless question.

  ‘We shall discuss this further, Mrs Langley, once the matter has been satisfactorily resolved.’

  Madeline had never seen her father like this before. There was a determined glare in his normally kind brown eyes, a tension in his usually relaxed stance. He rang the bell and requested that the carriage be brought back round. ‘Papa?’ said Madeline. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see Lord Farquharson.’

  Madeline felt the blood drain from her face. Visions of duelling pistols and her father lying wounded, or worse, swam in her head. She prayed that he would not do anything so foolish as call out Lord Farquharson. Not her papa, not her mild-mannered, gentle papa. ‘Please, Papa, do not go.’

  ‘I must, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’

  ‘Arthur?’ Mrs Langley raised a trembling voice.

  ‘Do not wait up, I may be some time,’ said Mr Langley and walked from the parlour.

  The clock on the mantel struck midnight as the front door slammed behind him.

  ‘So you waltzed with Miss Langley just to prevent Farquharson from doing so?’ Guy, Viscount Varington, raised a cynical brow.

  The library was quiet; only the slow rhythmic ticking of the clock and the occasional spit from the fire punctuated the silence.

  ‘Why else?’ Lucien Tregellas didn’t even glance round at his brother, just stood by the carved marble fireplace looking into the dancing yellow flames. They glowed golden in the darkness of the library, reminding him of the lights in Madeline Langley’s eyes. Such warmth and honesty as he had not seen in any other woman’s eyes. Long dark lashes and that straight little nose…and a clean pleasant smell that reminded him of…It came to him then exactly what Miss Langley smelled of—oranges!

  ‘You’ve done far more damage to her reputation just by dancing with her than Farquharson ever could.’ Guy leaned across the small drum table and captured the decanter.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, Guy! I only danced with the girl. Farquharson would have done a damned sight worse. It wasn’t as if I ravished her.’

  ‘Might as well have, old chap,’ said his brother. ‘You haven’t danced in the last five years. And when you decide to take again to the dance floor, after such a long absence, you don’t choose just any old dance, but the waltz.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, all of London’s eyes will be upon you now to see what Tregellas meant by waltzing with the very proper Miss Langley.’ Guy filled two balloon glasses with the rich amber liquid from the decanter.

  ‘Then London will have a long wait.’

  Guy pressed a glass into his brother’s hand. ‘Really?’

  Lucien arched an eyebrow and ignored the comment.

  Guy continued on, knowing full well his brother’s irritation. ‘You know, of course, that the chit will now be thrust under your nose at every opportunity. Why should Miss Langley’s mama settle for a mere baron when an earl has just waltzed right into her sight?’

  ‘Your puns get worse, Guy.’ Lucien’s fingers rubbed against the Tregellas coat of arms artfully engraved upon the side of his glass. ‘Mrs Langley may do her worst. I had no interest in Madeline Langley other than to stop Farquharson getting his hands on her.’

  ‘Had?’ queried Guy with an expression that bellied innocence.

  ‘Had, have, what’s the difference?’

  ‘You tell me,’ came Guy’s rejoinder.

  Lucien took a large swig of brandy. The liquid burned a satisfying trail down to his stomach. ‘I made my meaning clear enough to Farquharson.’

  ‘And what of Miss Langley? Did you make your meaning clear to her, too? Perhaps she has expectations following her waltz this evening. A girl like that can’t have too many men hanging after her.’

  Lucien took another gulp of brandy. ‘Miss Langley has no expectations of me.’ He thought momentarily of Madeline Langley’s clear nonjudgemental gaze, and a touch of tenderness twitched at his lips. The girl didn’t have a conniving bone in her body.

  ‘News of your waltz with Miss Langley will be all over town by tomorrow afternoon, and you know what people will think.’ Guy paused to take a delicate sip from his glass. ‘Dallying with a respectable girl can only mean one thing in their tawdry little minds—that you have finally decided to take a wife and beget an heir.’

  ‘Let them think what they will,’ Lucien shrugged. ‘We both know that I have no intention of marrying, and as for the Tregellas heir…’ Lucien raised his glass in the direction of his brother ‘…I’m looking at him. Hell will freeze over before I find myself in parson’s trap.’

  A peculiar smile hovered around Guy’s mouth. ‘We’ll see,’ he said softly. ‘Only the devil or a fool tempts fate.’

  Not so very far away in Brooks’s Club on St James’s Street, Cyril Farquharson was also sipping brandy. His attention was not on the small circle of fashionable gentlemen with whom he was sitting. Indeed, Lord Farquharson’s thoughts were concerned with someone else entirely; and that someone was Miss Madeline Langley. The whores at Madame Fouet’s had been meagre rations to feed his appetite. Five years was a long time to starve. He had grown tired of them. They were too willing, too coarse and worldly wise, and, even though they role-played otherwise, that fact detracted something from the experience for Farquharson. And he was tired too of Tregellas’s constant watching, his constant waiting. Damn the man for curtailing the best of his pleasures. But Farquharson would be held in check no longer. He hungered for a gentlewoman, someone young and innocent and fearful, someone with that unique je ne sais quoi; in short, someone like Madeline Langley.

  She had taken years in the finding, but Farquharson had known that Madeline was the one from the moment he had seen her. She was quiet and reserved and afraid of him, all the things he liked in a woman. He played with her, like a cat played with a mouse. He liked to see her discomfort when he stepped too close or lingered too long over her hand. He liked the way she tried to hide her fear and her futile efforts to avoid him. Dear, sweet, fearful Madeline. He meant to take his pleasure of her…in the worst possible way. If the empty-headed Mrs Langley was determined to dangle her delicious daughter before him in the hope of trapping him in marriage, who was he to refuse the bait? Cyril Farquharson was f
ar too cunning to be caught. So he had enjoyed his game with Madeline Langley until Tregellas had entered the scene.

  The interruption in the Theatre Royal during the play had been an irritation. Tregellas’s dance with the girl at Lady Gilmour’s ball went beyond that. It smacked of more than a desire to thwart Farquharson. Tregellas had not looked at a female in years, and now he had waltzed with the very woman that Farquharson held within his sights. Perhaps Tregellas had an interest in Miss Langley. There was an irony in that thought. Lord Farquharson mulled the matter over. By the time that he finished his brandy and headed for home, he knew just what he was going to do. In one fell swoop, not only would he secure Miss Langley to do with whatsoever he might please, but he would also effectively thwart any move that Tregellas might mean to make. And that idea appealed very much to Cyril Farquharson. He smiled at his own ingenuity and looked forward to Madeline Langley’s reaction when she learned what he meant to do.

  Chapter Four

  Madeline did not see her father again until the next morning. All the night through she had lain awake, unable to find sleep; tossing and turning beneath the bedcovers, until her cheeks burned red with the worry of it all. Papa was well meaning, but he had no real appreciation of the malice contained in a man like Lord Farquharson. It seemed that Madeline could see the cruel grey eyes and the sneer stretched across Lord Farquharson’s lips. Dear Lord in heaven, Papa didn’t stand a chance! Lord Farquharson would dispense with her gentle father before Mr Langley had so much as taken his second breath. What good did Papa think that complaining would do? None, as far as Madeline could see. And God forbid that he took it into his head to challenge Lord Farquharson! She did not even know if her father owned a pair of duelling pistols. Papa was far too sensible to call Lord Farquharson out. Wasn’t he?