Lucien Tregellas

by Margaret McPhee

  She moved warily forward, hands outstretched in the darkness. If only the clouds would not keep covering the moon, then she would see readily enough. Progress was slow, but Madeline persevered. She reached the desk, and skimmed her fingers lightly across its surface, seeking the means to make light. Writing slope, paper, pens, ink pots, a small knife, more paper. Nothing of any use to Madeline. She tried the drawers, but they were locked. She withdrew her hand and hesitated where she was, unsure of what to do next. Back to the bedchamber and the thoughts that had forced her down here in the first place. She sighed and looked again at the inky cloud-streaked sky beyond the window. Blues and blacks and deep charcoal grey. And every now and again the peep of the bright white lunar disc. The scene beckoned her. Madeline answered its call. Unmindful of the cold, ignoring the darkness, she moved to stand before the window.

  Lucien smelled her before he saw her. The faint resonance of oranges, and then she appeared. A small figure in a flowing white nightdress that stretched down to the floor. Her hair was unbound, sweeping long and straight across her shoulders and down to meet her waist. He knew her feet would be bare. She moved forward until she was right up at the window, staring out at the view beyond, seemingly unaware of his presence. He heard the softness of her sigh, saw the relaxed slump of her shoulders, as if something of night had taken a burden of tension away from her.

  The empty glass nestled within the palm of his hand. Three-quarters of a decanter of brandy and nothing of the horror of Guy or Norton’s words had faded. And now he had caught her searching around his desk in the dead of night. Hell! The pain bit deep. Farquharson had played him for a fool, thanks to the woman he had tried to save. However hard he tried to deny it, he knew that Madeline had found a route directly to his heart. He reined in his emotions and watched the slight figure before him.

  The clouds drifted, ever changing, forming patterns against the night-time sky. Madeline watched in fascination, feeling some sense of relief from the foreboding that had gripped her in the bedchamber. She was being fanciful and foolish. She was just overtired and thinking too much on Lucien’s story of Farquharson. Everything would seem better in the morning, in the sunlight, with Lucien by her side. As she turned to go, the moon escaped the cover of the cloud and lit Madeline’s route across the library with a soft silver brilliance. She smiled a small smile at her good fortune and glanced down at the floor. Still smiling she stepped forward, raising her eyes…to look directly into the face of her husband.

  Madeline gave a small yelp of fright and jumped back. ‘Oh, Lucien, you startled me. I didn’t know that you were there.’ Her hand touched against the embroidered neckline of her nightdress.

  ‘Evidently not.’ His face appeared unnaturally pale beneath the moonlight, as if he were a carved effigy in white marble. It contrasted starkly with the darkness of his hair. His coat, waistcoat and neckcloth had been cast aside. His shirt was hanging open at the neck. At least his pantaloons and top boots still appeared to be in good order. An empty glass was cradled within his hand and the look upon his face did not bode well.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ She bent and touched a hand to his arm.

  Lucien pulled his arm back as if scalded. ‘He was right, Madeline. You play the game well. I admit that you had me convinced. Not once did I think to question the innocent Miss Madeline Langley.’

  Madeline stared at him as if he was speaking double Dutch. Her eyes dropped to the empty glass in his hand. ‘You’re foxed!’ she exclaimed in surprise. Something of the dangerous glitter in his eyes sent a warning. She knew better than to pursue the conversation. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said and made to leave.

  But Lucien had other ideas. He moved with alarming speed, his hand gripping her shoulder before she had even completed one step.

  ‘Lucien!’ Madeline gasped.

  He hauled her back so that they stood face to face before the window. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ His voice was hard, with nothing of the tenderness that had softened his words earlier in the night.

  Madeline’s brow creased in puzzlement. ‘No. My candle expired too soon. I had hoped to find a new one before it extinguished.’

  One harsh breath of laughter grated. ‘What a shame you couldn’t see to rummage through my desk.’

  ‘I was not rummaging! I couldn’t sleep and had finished my book. I came to borrow one of yours. I didn’t think that you’d mind.’

  ‘Looking for anything in particular, or just something that might be of use to you both?’

  ‘Lucien, I was looking for a candle and tinderbox.’

  Madeline tried to shake him off, but Lucien held her arms in a firm grip.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Madeline, but you’ll only find cut sheets of writing paper there. My documents are thankfully locked away.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He lowered his face towards hers. The first thing she noticed was the strong smell of brandy. The second was the coldness of his eyes. ‘Oh, but I think that you do, Madeline,’ he said silkily. ‘You’re in league with Farquharson, aren’t you?’

  ‘Lucien?’ She lifted her hands to rest against the muscles in his arms. ‘You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘I know all right,’ came his reply. ‘All along I thought I was saving you from him. I would have forced you to become my wife. That’s how determined I was to stop him from harming you. And all along you and Farquharson were playing me for the fool.’

  ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘How could you think it?’

  ‘That night in the Theatre Royal with your mama, and then again at Lady Gilmour’s ball, you were very good at feigning fear. I believed you.’

  Madeline just stared up at him, aghast at the words spilling from his mouth. Gone was the man she had come to love, in his place, a cold stranger.

  ‘You married me to please him, didn’t you? How much further were you willing to go for him? Would you have let me bed you? Make love to you? What then, Madeline? Would you have borne my child?’

  She flinched at his cruelty. ‘Stop it, Lucien.’

  ‘Or perhaps I never would have survived that long.’ His eyes darkened to something she had never seen before. ‘Are you his mistress?’ His fingers tightened against the skin of her arms.

  ‘You’ve run mad!’ Fear snaked up her spine. All the old doubts flooded back.

  His face lowered to hers so that their lips were all but touching. ‘How could you do it, Madeline?’ he whispered before his mouth swooped over hers, lips sliding in hard possession. She felt the light insistent nip of his teeth and held herself rigid against the onslaught. There was nothing of giving and everything of taking. His hands slid from her arms, moving to claim her breasts, thumbing at her nipples, pulling her close, hard against him. Her lips parted in a gasp, allowing his tongue to raid within, possessing her mouth with what started as a fervour, but soon gentled. The taste of brandy lapped against her tongue with his. She felt his fingers cup her buttocks, lifting her against the hard bulge in his pantaloons.

  ‘No, Lucien! It’s not what you think.’

  He seemed to hear her. Ceased his actions. Pulled back to look into her face. Stared for what seemed to be an eternity. His grip slackened. But she could still feel the tension throughout his body pressed against hers. His voice when it came was quiet and harsh and ragged. ‘Damn you, Madeline.’ With that he released her.

  She staggered back, unable to comprehend what was happening.

  ‘Pack your bags. You wished to travel to London to visit your mother. I have arranged for you to leave at the end of the week. Guy will accompany you on your journey to the city.’

  ‘And what of you?

  ‘I’ll stay here as you suggested.’ He heard the soft intake of breath and saw the confusion upon her face. The brandy lent him courage to continue. ‘But before you go, Madeline, tell me just one thing. Did Farquharson tell you what he did to Sarah?’

&nb
sp; A little gasp escaped her.

  Lucien ignored it. ‘Somehow, I doubt very much that he did. If you knew the truth, you wouldn’t be standing here right now, you would never have danced to his tune. Ask him one day, when you’re feeling brave. I warrant you’ll not like what he has to say.’ His gaze held hers directly. ‘Goodbye, Madeline.’

  Her face glowed white beneath the moon, and her eyes were huge dark pools of wounded disbelief. If she did not go soon, he knew he would weaken, give in to the urge to gather her back into her arms and lavish gentle kisses upon her mouth. She waited only a moment more, long enough for him to see the tremble of her lip before her teeth gripped it in a fury, long enough to see the glisten of moisture in her eyes. Then a flurry of white and she was gone, leaving him alone to remind himself that what he had just witnessed was a piece of consummate acting.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Madeline fled through the darkness, unseeing, uncaring, until she reached the safe haven of her bedchamber. The door shut forcibly behind her and, for the first time since arriving at Trethevyn, she turned the key within the lock. His words still echoed in her mind. Cruel words, words that never should have spilled from Lucien’s tongue, and yet they had, all too readily. It was a nightmare from which there was no waking. Tension gripped her muscles so that they contracted hard and tight. Her heart was thudding too fast, too loud in her chest following her hurried flight from the library. Her mouth was dry, and what had started as a faint hint of nausea was rapidly expanding.

  Such was her agitation that she paced the floor of the bedchamber, a small white ghost lit only by the transient light of the cloud cast moon. A scratching came from the connecting door. She moved to the spot, heard Max’s muted whimpers, and let the dog back into her own room before locking the door. As if sensing something was wrong, Max looked up at her with a saddened expression. His tongue licked his reassurance over her fingers.

  ‘Oh, Max!’ Madeline crouched and clutched the warm black body of fur to her. ‘What has happened to make him so angry and suspicious? He must truly have run mad.’ She stroked the dog’s head, lingering over the silky softness of his ears.

  Max looked up at her, eyes dark within the muted nocturnal light, and whined.

  Madeline could not bring herself to climb back into the bed she had left with such hopes. Lucien’s gentle kisses and whispered promise seemed a lifetime ago. What could have wrought such a change in her husband? Then she remembered that he had gone to meet with his brother and that Lord Varington’s sudden appearance probably meant that he conveyed news of great importance, news that had turned her husband against her. Madeline curled herself up on the sofa. Max clambered up next to her and laid his head across her legs. And there they stayed for what remained of the night, until the darkness paled to grey and a new dawn had broken. Never asleep. Just thinking, of a love so newly found and now lost.

  By the time Betsy tried the door the next morning the faint outline of a plan had formed in Madeline’s mind. If Lucien had no mind to discuss his brother’s news rationally with her, then she would seek out the Viscount and ask him herself. She might as well know what had happened to bring about such a change in Lucien. If matters had not changed by the end of the week, she had no other choice than to travel to London with Lord Varington, as directed, and deal with the matter as best she could from there. As gently as she could she dislodged Max’s heavy weight, finding that the cost of the great beast’s warming presence was a numbing sensation in her left leg.

  Betsy’s knocking became louder. She whispered hesitantly through the thick oaken door. ‘M’lady? It’s Betsy. I have your water here.’

  Madeline hobbled faster towards the door, the key turning easily beneath her fingers. ‘Forgive me, Betsy, I had forgotten that it was locked.’

  The maid stared wide-eyed at her mistress, taking in the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the ashen hue of her complexion, and the fact that she appeared to be having difficulty in walking. ‘M’lady!’ she whispered in shock. Betsy set the basin down on the nearest table and rushed to Madeline’s side. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I slept poorly, that’s all,’ Madeline sought to reassure the girl.

  ‘But your leg?’

  Madeline attempted a smile. ‘Max was lying on it and has given me pins and needles. He’s rather heavy, must be eating too much.’

  Betsy did not look convinced.

  ‘I think I might just take a little breakfast here this morning, Betsy. Please could you bring up some coffee and a bread roll.’

  Betsy stared some more. Madeline’s next words confirmed in the maid’s mind that something strange was going on.

  ‘Oh, and can you find out if Lord Varington is up yet.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’ Betsy beat a hasty retreat to inform Mrs Babcock that Lady Tregellas was not at all herself this morning.

  It was Mrs Babcock herself who returned with Madeline’s breakfast on a tray. Red-cheeked and panting with quite an alarming volume, the housekeeper hobbled into the room.

  ‘Babbie! I wasn’t expecting you to carry that tray all the way up here. I would have come down to the morning room to save you the trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, m’lady,’ puffed Mrs Babcock. She peered at Madeline’s face. ‘Feelin’ a bit under the weather, are you, doe?’

  ‘No. I’m quite well, thank you,’ lied Madeline.

  Mrs Babcock sniffed suspiciously. ‘Lord Varington is still abed. Always was a slug in the mornings. Won’t see him until this afternoon. Used to keepin’ London hours, he is. At least, that’s a polite way of puttin’ it.’ Her lips pursed in disapproval. ‘Wayward young puppy!’

  Madeline sipped at her coffee. The prospect of waiting for several hours until LordVarington managed to extract himself from bed was sure only to set Madeline’s nerves even more on edge. ‘In that case, I think I might spend the morning visiting Tintagel Castle. I’ve been hoping to see it for some time and I shouldn’t like to leave Cornwall without visiting it.’

  ‘Bit of mornin’ mist out there, m’lady. It’ll be worse on the coast. Best wait until later in the day.

  Madeline poked at her bread roll, but found that her appetite had deserted her. ‘Perhaps I could wait a little, but I’d like to be back by this afternoon.’ She looked up into the housekeeper’s blackcurrant eyes. ‘It’s likely that I’m to leave Trethevyn at the end of the week.’

  ‘His lordship didn’t mention nothin’ ’bout leavin’ so soon.’ Mrs Babcock crossed her arms over her ample bosom.

  ‘No,’ said Madeline with the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Lucien shall stay here. I’m to travel with…with Lord Varington.’

  Mrs Babcock’s beady eyes missed nothing, from the bleakness in Madeline’s eyes to the embarrassment warming her otherwise pale cheeks. ‘I’ll ask the master to make ready for your trip to Tintagel, then?’

  ‘No!’ Madeline almost shouted the word. ‘I mean, no, thank you. I would rather that you didn’t disturb Lucien.’

  ‘He won’t be best pleased. Told me in no uncertain terms that you weren’t to leave this place without him.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that he’s changed his mind,’ said Madeline softly.

  The older woman looked at her strangely. ‘As you wish. Betsy will be up shortly.’ Mrs Babcock had almost reached the door when she faltered and looked back at the slim figure standing by the newly lit fire. ‘It’s not my place to speak out, but I’m going to anyway. I’ve loved Master Lucien since he was a baby and I don’t want to see any more unhappiness for him. I don’t know what the two of you have had words about, and I won’t ask. All I do ask is that you don’t just leave him, m’lady. I know he’s been a bit, well, high-handed, of late, but then I reckon he’s got good reason with Lord Farquharson likely to appear at any minute.’

  Madeline saw the opportunity rise before her eyes. ‘Farquharson stole Sarah Wyatt from Lucien. Did he…? What happened to her?’

  ‘He killed her.’

 
A heartbeat, then Madeline asked, ‘Who killed her?’

  Mrs Babcock looked her straight in the eye, knowing the traitorous thought that lurked beneath the question. ‘Why, Lord Farquharson, m’lady. Who else did you think it might have been?’

  Their gazes locked, golden on black.

  ‘I had to be sure,’ said Madeline. ‘Farquharson told me that Lucien was responsible for her death.’

  Mrs Babcock’s upper lip curled in disgust. ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘No.’ The word was like a sigh in the room.

  ‘But you asked all the same.’ Mrs Babcock turned and limped from the room. The quiet click of the bedchamber door closing behind her was louder than any slam could have been.

  Madeline calmly pushed the uneaten bread roll away and drained the cooled dregs of her coffee. Time sounded with the steady strokes of the clock’s pendulum. A small shaft of sunlight flooded the room, shining a golden spotlight upon the painting of two small boys from which Madeline had worked her embroidery. Outside in the garden, a blackbird whistled. And inside, Madeline knew she had just lost a friend.

  Lucien awoke some time the wrong side of noon. His head ached like it had been cleaved with a wood axe and his mouth tasted as if he had been licking the soles of filth-encrusted boots. Sunlight streamed in through the library window, burning at his eyeballs. He moved the discomfort of his back and the pounding in his head intensified. The reek of stale brandy assailed his nostrils and he noticed the empty decanter and broken glass on the floor by his feet. Tentative fingers probed at his scalp and he winced.

  God in heaven, it had been a long time since he’d felt this bad as a result of drink. He pushed himself up out of the wing chair in which he’d spent the night and walked gingerly forward, gripping the edge of the desk as his head thumped worse than ever. He had just focused himself enough to make it to the bell pull, when his eye alighted on two objects that should not have been on his desk. The memory of the night’s dealings returned with a cruel and battering clarity. Madeline. Her words played loudly through his poor aching head, I finished my book and came to borrow one of yours…I was looking for a candle and tinderbox. And there before his very eyes was the evidence of what she had said. A rather battered copy of Pride and Prejudice and a single candleholder, complete with the stubby remains of a long-expired candle.