Lucien Tregellas

by Margaret McPhee

  The bed linen was very crumpled and Madeline very tired by the time morning came. The foggy dullness of her brain contrasted with the tense agitation of her body. She rose early, washed, dressed, took only the smallest cup of coffee and waited in the quiet little dining room, ignoring the heated salvers of ham and eggs. Her stomach was squeezed so tight by anxiety that even the smell of the food stirred a wave of nausea. It was not until after nine o’clock that her father finally appeared, with her mother in tow.

  Mrs Langley was surprisingly calm in the light of what had yesterday been cited as the biggest catastrophe of the century. In fact, Madeline might even have gone so far as to say that her mother was looking rather pleased. At least Papa did not seem to have taken any hurts. His arm was not in a sling nor did he limp. His eyes were bagged with tiredness, but were not blackened from bruising. Indeed, he had not one visible scratch upon him. Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. Tension’s hold slackened a little. ‘Papa!’ she breathed. ‘Thank goodness you’re safe.’ She ran to him and placed her arms around him in a grateful embrace. ‘I was so worried.’

  Mr Langley did not return Madeline’s tremulous smile. Rather, he reached out a tired old hand and pulled her gently to him. ‘Madeline,’ he said, and there was sadness in his voice.

  Something was wrong. Madeline felt it immediately. She started back and stared up into his eyes. ‘What is it, Papa? What has happened?’ It did not make sense. He was home, returned safely, hurt, it seemed, by nothing more than Farquharson’s words. The first hint of apprehension wriggled down Madeline’s spine. What had Lord Farquharson said? And then a worse thought made itself known. ‘You have not…killed him, have you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, child.’ Mr Langley shook his grizzled head. ‘Although, I begin to think that I would be better placed if I had.’

  ‘Then what…?’

  Mrs Langley touched a hand to her husband’s arm; she could no longer hide her smile. ‘Pray tell Madeline the good news, Mr Langley,’ she said.

  Madeline looked up into her father’s face and waited for the words to fall.

  ‘Lord Farquharson apologised for his lapse of control. He said that his normal behaviour was overcome by the magnitude of his feelings for you.’

  The first tentacles of dread enclosed around Madeline’s heart. ‘And?’ Her voice was nothing more than a cracked whisper.

  ‘He has offered to do the decent thing. Lord Farquharson wishes to marry you, Madeline.’

  His words clattered harsh against the ensuing silence.

  She stared at her father, resisting the enormity of what he had just said.

  Mr Langley’s palm dabbed against Madeline’s back as if to salve the hurt he had just dealt her. ‘As a gentleman he should never have tried to compromise you. But the deed is done and he would redeem himself by making you his wife. He said it was ever his wish since first he saw you. I believe he does care for you, my dear. Perhaps in time you will come to be happy together.’

  ‘No.’ Madeline shook her head. ‘No!’ The word reverberated around the room. ‘I cannot marry him, Papa. I will not!’

  Mrs Langley came forward then. ‘Your father has already agreed it. Lord Farquharson is already organising a party at which your betrothal will be announced. The invitations are to be written and sent today.’

  ‘The party can be cancelled.’

  The smile wiped from Mrs Langley’s face. ‘You see how she tortures me, Mr Langley!’ she cried. ‘She would rather make fools of us before all of London than do as she is bid.’

  None of it seemed real. They were but players upon a stage, mouthing lines that would wreck her life for ever. Madeline struggled to shake the thick fleece that clouded her thoughts. ‘Papa, please, I cannot do this.’

  ‘Madeline,’ he said gently, and it seemed as if his heart were breaking. ‘If you really cannot bear to marry Lord Farquharson, then I am obliged to take other steps. He has impugned your honour. As your father, I cannot just sit back and let that happen. If word were to get out of your meeting with Farquharson in Lady Gilmour’s bedchamber, then your reputation would be utterly tarnished, and even Angelina would not remain unharmed.’ His eyes shuttered in anguish, and prised open again. ‘Either he marries you or I must call him out. The guilt is Farquharson’s, not yours, never doubt that, my dear, but we both know that society will not view it that way, and I cannot let you suffer their persecution should the matter come to light.’ His fingers fluttered against her hair, drawing her face up to look at him. ‘I will not force you to this marriage, Madeline. The choice is yours to make. If you truly cannot bear to have Farquharson as your husband, then so be it.’

  Mrs Langley gripped at her husband’s arm, pulling it away from Madeline. ‘Oh, Mr Langley, you cannot seriously mean to challenge his lordship?’ Her voice rose in a panic. ‘Duelling is illegal…and dangerous. You might be killed!’ She clung to him, tears springing to her eyes. ‘And what good would it do? Madeline’s reputation will be ruined if she does not marry him, regardless of the outcome of any duel. I beg of you, Mr Langley, do not give her the choice. Madeline must wed him and be done with it.’

  ‘It is a matter of honour, Mrs Langley, and I shall not force her to wed against her will,’ said Mr Langley.

  Madeline’s teeth clung to her lower lip. Her throat constricted ready to choke her. She would not cry. She would not.

  ‘You may have some little time to think on your decision, but if you decide against the marriage, Madeline, speed might yet prevent the sending of the invitations.’

  Mrs Langley was tugging at her husband’s hand. ‘No, Arthur, no, please!’

  For Madeline there was, of course, no decision to be made. Marry Lord Farquharson, or have her father risk his life. The choice was not a difficult one, and in its making, a cold calm settled upon her. Tears and fear and anger would come later. For now, Madeline moved like an automaton.

  Mr Langley turned to go.

  ‘Wait, Papa…’ Madeline stayed him with a hand ‘…I’ve made my choice.’

  Her father’s kindly brown eyes looked down into hers.

  ‘I will marry Lord Farquharson.’

  Mrs Langley’s face uncrinkled.

  ‘Are you certain, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Such a little word to tilt the axis of the world.

  An uncertain smile blossomed on Mrs Langley’s face. ‘It will not be so bad, Madeline. You’ll see. His lordship will make up for his mistakes, I’m sure he will.’ She patted at her daughter’s arm. ‘And he is a baron.’

  Madeline barely felt her touch. Yes, Lord Farquharson would more than make up for his mistakes, just not in the way her mother thought. There had been nothing of care or affection in his eyes. Whatever he meant to do, Madeline knew that it would not be with her welfare or her wishes in mind. Neither would matter once she was his wife. He could do what he pleased with her then, and no one would mind in the slightest. Farquharson’s wife. The ball of nausea within her stomach started to grow. ‘Please excuse me, Mama, Papa. I feel suddenly rather…tired.’

  ‘Of course, my dearest,’ said Mrs Langley.

  Her father looked drained, wrung out. ‘It’s for the best,’ he said.

  Madeline tried to smile, tried to give him some small measure of false assurance, but her lips would do nothing but waver. ‘Yes,’ she said again, and slipped quietly from the room.

  ‘Hell!’ Earl Tregellas’s curse drew the attention of several of the surrounding gentlemen dotted around the room.

  ‘Lucien?’ Guy watched the rigidity grip Lucien’s jaw and saw the telltale tightening of his lips. He leaned forward from his chair, all previous lounging forgotten, keen to know exactly what was printed in today’s copy of The Morning Post that had wrought such a reaction from his brother. Lucien normally preferred to keep his emotions tightly in check in public.

  Lucien Tregellas threw an insolent stare at those gentlemen in White’s lounge area who were fool enough to be still expressing an in
terest. The grandfather clock over by the door ticked its languorous pace. A few newspapers rustled. The chink of porcelain and glass sounded. And the normal quiet drone of conversation resumed. ‘Come, Guy, I’ve a mind to get out of here.’ He folded the newspaper in half and threw it nonchalantly on to the small occasional table by his elbow.

  Both men rose, and, with their coffee still unfinished on the table, left the premises of White’s gentlemen’s club without so much as a backward glance.

  Lucien’s curricle was waiting outside, the horses impatiently striking up dust from the street. ‘Do you mind if we walk?’

  Guy shook his head. Things must be bad.

  A brief word to his tiger and Lucien’s curricle was gone, leaving the brothers alone in the late winter’s pale sunlight.

  They walked off down St James’s Street. ‘Well?’ said Guy.

  Lucien made no reply, just clenched his jaw tighter to check the unleashing of the rage that threatened to explode. To any that passed it would seem that Earl Tregellas was just out for a casual morning stroll with his brother. There was nothing in his demeanour to suggest that anything might be awry in his usual lifestyle. Lucien might disguise it well, but Guy was not indifferent to the tension simmering below the surface of his brother’s relaxed exterior. That Lucien had failed to prevent his outburst in White’s was not a good sign.

  ‘Are you going to tell me just what has you biting down on your jaw as if you were having a bullet extracted?’

  Lucien’s long stride faltered momentarily and then recovered. ‘Lord Farquharson entertained a small party last evening in Bloomsbury Square to announce his betrothal to Miss Madeline Langley, elder daughter of Mr Arthur Langley and Mrs Amelia Langley of Climington Street.’

  Guy stopped dead on the spot. ‘He means to marry her?’

  ‘It would appear so.’ There was a harshness in Lucien’s features, an anger that would not be suppressed for long.

  ‘But why?’ Guy turned a baffled expression upon Lucien.

  ‘Keep walking, Guy.’ Lucien touched a hand briefly to his brother’s arm.

  ‘Why not just turn his attention to another, easier target? By Hades, I would not have thought him to be so desperate for Miss Langley above all others. The girl has nothing particular to recommend her. She doesn’t even look like—’ Guy caught himself just in time. ‘Sorry, Lucien, didn’t mean to…’

  ‘I warned him if he ever tried to strike again that I would be waiting. Perhaps he thought that I was bluffing, that I would just sit back and let him take Madeline Langley. I did not think he would resort to marriage to get his hands on her.’

  They walked in silence for a few minutes before Guy slowly said, ‘Or he may have misinterpreted your defence of Miss Langley.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Lucien. ‘Why on earth would he think that I have any interest in the girl?’

  Guy raised a wry eyebrow. ‘For the same reason that half of London did only yesterday.’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do? Watch him run his lecherous hands all over her? Let him force her to a dance she did not want…and more?’

  ‘It seems that Miss Langley has changed her opinion of Farquharson. She might not have wanted to dance then, but she wants to marry him now.’

  Lucien thought of the fear and revulsion on Miss Langley’s face as that brute had tried to force himself upon her; of her terror when she’d quite literally run straight into him on that servants’ stairwell; and her loathing at the prospect of waltzing with Farquharson. ‘I cannot believe that it is so.’

  ‘There’s nothing so fickle as women. You should know that, Lucien. Saying one thing, then changing their minds at the drop of a hat. It’s amazing what the odd bauble or two can buy these days.’

  ‘Madeline Langley isn’t like that. You’ve seen her, Guy. She isn’t that sort of woman.’

  ‘Plain and puritanical maybe, Lucien, but still as likely to yield to temptation as any other. The Langleys are not wealthy. The pretty golden looks of the younger Langley chit are bound to catch her a husband. Not so with the elder Miss Langley. Perhaps she decided Farquharson was preferable to life as an old maid.’

  Lucien shook his head. ‘No.’ He could not imagine Miss Langley agreeing to touch Farquharson, let alone marry him.

  ‘Let it rest, Lucien,’ his brother advised. ‘You’ve done all you can to save the girl. If she’s foolish enough to become his wife, then there’s nothing more you can do. Your conscience, at least, is clear.’

  ‘My conscience is anything but clear. My actions have brought about this situation.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ countered Guy.

  ‘I threw down the gauntlet and Farquharson took it up.’

  ‘Perhaps he planned to marry her all along.’

  ‘Perhaps. Whatever the reasoning, I cannot let Miss Langley become his wife.’

  ‘Oh, and just how do you propose to stop the wedding? Stand up and announce the truth of what Farquharson did? Stirring up the past will release Miss Langley from the betrothal, but at what cost? It’s too high a price, Lucien.’

  ‘I’ll find another way.’

  Guy sighed. ‘What is Miss Langley to you? Nothing. She’s not worth it.’

  ‘Whatever Madeline Langley may or may not be worth, I’ll be damned if I just abandon her to Farquharson. You know what he’ll do.’

  ‘He might have changed, learned his lesson over the years.’

  Lucien drew his brother a look of withering incredulity. ‘Men like Farquharson never change. Why else has he been visiting Madame Fouet’s all these years?’

  ‘Face it, Lucien. Short of marrying Miss Langley yourself, there’s not a cursed thing you can do to stop him.’

  A silence hiccupped between them.

  A crooked smile eased the hardness of Lucien’s lips. ‘You might just have an idea there, little brother.’

  Guy laughed at the jest. ‘Now that really would be beyond belief, the Wicked Earl and Miss Langley!’ Still laughing, he grabbed his brother’s arm. ‘What you need is a good stiff drink.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Lucien.

  The more that Lucien thought on it, the more sense it seemed to make. He knew what would happen if Farquharson married Miss Langley, knew that he could not stand by and let another woman walk to her death, willing or not. For all that his brother said, Lucien still could not bring himself to believe in Miss Langley’s sudden capitulation. Could she really want Farquharson as a husband? Lucien drank deeper and stared unseeing into the dying embers of the fire. Did the answer to that question even make any difference? Farquharson was Farquharson. No woman, knowing the truth about him, would willingly agree to so much as look at the man. Lucien remembered too well that of which Farquharson was capable. Mercifully the brandy anaesthetised the worst of the pain that the memories triggered. He emptied the contents down his throat and reached for the decanter again.

  Farquharson. Farquharson. Farquharson. For five long years Lucien had thought of little else. Nothing but that and his own vow to ensure that Farquharson never struck again. Then Miss Madeline Langley had entered the picture and history was suddenly in danger of repeating itself, while all he could do was watch it happen. Lucien’s lip curled at the very thought. His eyes closed tight against the spiralling anger. When they opened again, he was perfectly calm, his thinking never clearer. Lucien Tregellas knew exactly what he was going to do. Raising the stakes was a risky move but, if played well, would resolve the situation admirably. Guilt prickled at his conscience. He quashed it. Even if he was using her for revenge, Miss Langley would also benefit from the arrangement. And besides, being with him would be infinitely safer for the girl than being with Farquharson.

  Madeline sat demurely on the gilt-legged chair, her mother positioned on one side, Angelina on the other. Since the announcement of her betrothal to Lord Farquharson, Madeline had been elevated in her mother’s order of things. There had been trips to cloth warehouses, milliners, drapers and
Burlington Arcade. Shopping, shopping and more shopping. Life had taken on a frenzied whirl of dances and parties and balls. The little house in Climington Street looked more like a florist’s shop following the daily arrival of Lord Farquharson’s bouquets. And now, Mrs Langley had managed to obtain the ultimate in social acceptance—vouchers for Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Amelia Langley had finally arrived, and the look on her face told the world that she knew it was so.

  Through it all Madeline appeared as the ghost of the person she had been. She moved mechanically, her emotions disengaged by necessity. It was the only way to get through this, the only way to survive Lord Farquharson’s little visits to take afternoon tea with the Langley household, to bear his hand upon her arm, the touch of his lips to her fingers. It was the shell of Madeline Langley who allowed Lord Farquharson to lead her out on to dance floor after dance floor, to whisper promises of love into her ear, to take her up in his chaise around Hyde Park at the most fashionable of hours for all the world to see. The real Madeline Langley was curled up tight in a ball somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of that protection. So it was Madeline’s shell, and not Madeline herself, who sat that night in Almack’s.

  It did not matter that they were in the famous assembly rooms. It did not matter that the night was chilled, or that the air within the dance rooms was stuffy and hot. It did not even matter when one of the ladies patronesses gave permission for Madeline to waltz with Lord Farquharson, or when his fingers lingered about her waist, or when he gazed with such promise into her face. Madeline saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. And by being so, Madeline’s shell could do what it had to do.

  ‘Madeline, Mrs Barrington has promised me the recipe for a wonderful lotion that clarifies the skin and removes any blemish or shadow. It will do wonders for your complexion, my dear.’

  Madeline sat, like she had done on every other occasion since learning of her betrothal to Lord Farquharson, and said nothing.