by Diane Gaston
Chapter Sixteen
Madeleine was startled awake by a slamming door and pounding feet on the stairs. She’d dozed off while wrapped in a blanket on the windowseat of Devlin’s room, where she worriedly waited for him. He’d never been so late before. He burst in the room, swaying as he swung around, looking for her.
She shot up in alarm, dropping the blanket. ‘What is it, Devlin? What has happened?’
He clutched at her, pushing her nightdress half off her shoulder. His breath smelled foul with drink.
‘Maddy.’ His voice rose in urgency, but his words slurred. ‘Promise me never to go outside unaccompanied.’
‘I do not, unless for a little walk with Linette.’ She pulled away from him. She had never seen him this way.
‘No more. Promise me!’ He shook her by the shoulders.
Why treat her in this manner? He was like a stranger. ‘What has happened?’
He let go of her and rubbed his forehead. ‘Nothing has happened. Nothing at all. But you will obey me in this. You will do as I say.’
Madeleine folded her arms across her chest, massaging sore shoulders. ‘You are foxed.’
He glared at her. ‘I am not foxed.’ He took a step toward her, touching the wall for balance. ‘Merely a bit disguised.’
She edged away from him. ‘I have no wish to engage in a conversation with you when you are foxed.’
‘Oh, stubble it, Maddy, and get into bed.’
She straightened. ‘I will not.’
He held his hand against the wall and looked as if he would slip to the floor at any moment. ‘I said get into bed. I cannot stand up much longer.’
Having enough of his behaviour, she marched past him, avoiding his attempt to grab at her. ‘I will sleep in my own bed this night.’ Reminding herself in time that slamming the door might wake Linette, she closed it quietly behind her.
Once in her own room, she leaned against the post of her bed, squeezing her eyes shut. She must remind herself that men disappoint. It had been foolish to believe Devlin an exception. She crawled into her lonely bed, its linens cool against her skin. His body would not warm her this night.
Devlin woke in his clothes, half sprawled across the bed, a whole arsenal of French cannon pounding in his head. Rain darkened the sky and he had no idea of the time of day. He sat up, and the room started to spin. As he waited for it to come to a stop, he tried to stop his thoughts from spinning, as well. What the devil had happened last night?
He remembered Ram. He remembered the two of them drinking toast after toast to dead comrades. He remembered shouting at Madeleine, God help him. He could not remember how he got home.
Devlin gingerly put his feet on the floor and took careful steps over to the wash basin. He splashed water on his face and rinsed out the foul taste in his mouth. He poured the pitcher of water over his pounding head. Still dripping, he glanced about the room.
He could not recall telling Madeleine about meeting Ram. He’d shouted at her, though. Why?
Devlin fumbled through his trunk for a worn pair of trousers and an old shirt. He flopped into a chair and tried to pull on his clothing. His head spun around like a child’s toy top.
He sat bolt upright. Good God! He had got drunk and shouted at Madeleine. What else had he done?
As he took careful steps into the kitchen, he resolved to set about correcting his wrongs. Still struggling to recall what wrongs he needed to correct, he warmed himself in front of the fire. The kettle was hot and he brewed himself some tea, wondering where the others were.
Where Madeleine was.
Bart entered the room and shot Devlin a disapproving look.
Devlin waved his hand. ‘I know. I know. I’ve been a wastrel. A miscreant. A scapegrace.’
Bart pursed his lips. ‘Well, you’ve upset the lass.’
Devlin gaped at Bart. ‘I did something to upset Sophie?’
‘Not Sophie,’ Bart huffed. ‘Miss Madeleine.’
Devlin groaned. ‘You do not know what I did to upset her, do you? I confess I remember little of it.’
Bart cut a piece of bread and handed it to Devlin, who accepted it warily, taking a cautious nibble. ‘The lass did not tell me the whole, but I collect you were drunk as an emperor.’
Devlin chewed a piece of crust. ‘Indeed.’
Bart opened his mouth. Devlin stopped him. ‘Before you jump down my throat, I was with Ram.’
‘Captain Ramsford?’ Bart’s expression changed to surprise. ‘He is alive?’
‘Alive and very well. I thought him dead, too. I saw him fall…that day.’ He lifted his mug of tea and his hand shook.
‘I’ll be damned.’
‘We left the ball together and found a friendly tavern.’ He paused, taking a sip of tea, and closing his eyes. ‘There were many toasts to be made.’
‘By God, I’ll drink to the fellow myself.’ Bart opened a cabinet and removed a bottle. He poured a generous supply in a glass for himself and a dollop in Devlin’s cup.
‘To Captain Ramsford.’ Bart raised his glass.
Devlin clinked his cup against Bart’s glass.
Right at that moment, Madeleine walked into the room. She stared directly at the bottle on the table and then to the two men. Bart quickly drained the contents of his glass and hastily exited. Silently, Madeleine walked over to the kettle.
‘There is tea brewed in the pot,’ Devlin told her.
Without a word, Madeleine put a half-teaspoon of sugar and a mere drop of cream into her cup and poured the tea.
As she turned to leave, Devlin put a hand on her arm. ‘Stay a moment, Maddy.’
She sat, her face expressionless, her posture rigid.
Devlin’s stomach roiled and he took a bite of the bread, hoping to quiet it. He gave up the idea of telling her about Ram. It would sound like excuse-making. He needed some explanation, however, but what to say when the events were obscure to him? Worse, he had this awful feeling of foreboding.
‘I remember little of last night, except that I behaved badly toward you.’ He lifted her chin with his finger.
She swatted it away.
‘I apologise, Maddy. I am sorry.’
Madeleine tried to avoid his intent expression. It conveyed a sincerity she could not quite believe. ‘Apology comes easy when you do not know what it is for.’
He took her hand and stroked it, holding it in his grip when she would have pulled it away. ‘I apologise for being drunk and for shouting at you. That much I do remember.’
She wished he would not touch her. His green eyes reflected the fire in the stove, his hair was tousled, and he had not yet donned his waistcoat and coat.
‘Maddy,’ he murmured, his voice low. His arm drew around her, pulling her close. ‘Maddy.’ The cotton of his shirt was cool against her skin, but a furnace seemed to burn inside her. His lips hovered over her ear, his warm breath tickling. ‘What injuries did I inflict on you, my love? I wish to make amends.’
How was she supposed to tell him of his ridiculous dictate to be chaperoned, or his abominable order to get in bed, when his lips sent shivers directly to…to that part of her body that craved him? A true lady would not run her hands under his shirt. A true lady would not kiss him back. A true lady would not position herself upon his lap, straddling him, wanting him.
‘Deddy!’ Linette burst into the room.
Madeleine pushed away, but Devlin would not let her escape. Linette flung herself at Devlin and scrambled into what scant space was left on his lap.
‘Deddy!’ she shouted directly in his ear.
He let go of Madeleine and grabbed his head.
Madeleine chuckled. ‘Linette, do not scream so. Deddy has the headache.’
‘Poor Deddy,’ Linette crooned, only a fraction lower. ‘I will kiss it and make it aaallll better.’
Linette pulled down Devlin’s head, squeezed it between her chubby little hands, and gave him a big smack of a kiss right on his crown.
‘Dam— Dash it all.’
As he lifted his head and Linette beamed at her apothecary skills, Madeleine laughed.
He managed a wan smile. ‘I think I shall be right and tight now, if I may only finish my tea.’
Linette stood on his lap to reach the mug. Madeleine tried not to laugh at his pained expression. Linette handed Devlin the mug. ‘You slept all day,’ she scolded, settling in his lap.
‘I have no idea of the time.’ He glanced at Madeleine.
‘Near three o’clock,’ she said.
‘Da— Dash it. I have an engagement.’
Madeleine’s smile faded. A peculiar feeling settled in her stomach. ‘Do you need any assistance dressing?’ Her words sounded stiff, even to her.
He gave her a pained expression. ‘I can manage, I think.’
‘I…I don’t mind helping.’
‘I want to help!’ Linette jumped up and down in his lap.
‘Linette!’ He grabbed the child. ‘Stop it!’
She stopped. Fat tears gathered in her wide blue eyes. Her lower lip trembled. Devlin, his head still pounding like a hammer to an anvil, felt like a cad.
He wiped a trickle of a tear from her cheek. ‘Don’t cry, Lady Lin. Jumping on me hurt me a little, you see.’
She sniffled.
He shot a look of appeal to Madeleine, who simply stared at him.
‘No more crying now,’ he said to Linette in a soft voice. He brushed the little girl’s hair with his fingers.
Madeleine spun around and ran out of the room.
A few minutes later, Devlin hurried out of the house, barely pausing to close the door behind him. Soon after, Bart and Sophie took Linette to purchase beefsteak pies and sweet-breads for supper. Madeleine was left with nothing but her thoughts.
She went to the kitchen and filled a bucket from the pump. On her knees she attacked the floor, rubbing the hard bar of lye soap on the brush and scrubbing the wood, rinsing it with wet rags. She’d watched Bart do this job and it seemed not too difficult, but the lye soap stung and reddened her hands. She dipped them in the cool water. She considered what delicate white hands the lady Devlin called upon would have, and scrubbed harder.
She could barely help thinking about Devlin’s afternoon calls. What clothes did the ladies wear? Were they all as elegant as the Marchioness? Did they smile prettily at him?
Had Devlin selected a lady to marry? He had not said so, but she sensed it was true. He had become quieter, no longer describing the entertainments he attended or the people he encountered.
What did she look like, this woman he must have selected? Was she beautiful? Intelligent? Accomplished?
Madeleine pressed the scrub brush down more firmly, the scraping sound drowning out her thoughts. Unbearable thoughts. She attacked the floor as if scrubbing dirt that had accumulated over eons. The apron covering her dress became damp from where she knelt, but at least she was being of some use. The pungent odour of the soap, the smell of the wet wood, the rhythm of scrubbing back and forth, even the sting of the harsh soap, distracted and somehow soothed.
Perhaps this was how people endured lives of drudgery. In any event, she vastly preferred numbing herself with hard labour than willing herself numb from the labour she had once been compelled to endure. Until Devlin rescued her and showed her joy.
Madeleine threw the scrub brush in the pail, splashing water on the floor. She would not think of Devlin. She would think of nothing at all.
A knock sounded at the door, firm and officious. Callers were rare at the house. In fact, the Marquess had been the only one. Madeleine hastily wiped her hands on her apron and rose. Cautiously, she peered from the parlour window and saw familiar matched bays harnessed to the elegant carriage bearing the Heronvale crest. He had come for Linette, after all.
Madeleine quickly stepped back from the window, her hand flying to her mouth and her heart pounding. Perhaps if she stood very still, he would think no one at home and would leave.
The knocker pounded again. She heard a voice. ‘There seems to be no one at home, my lady.’
Through the slit in the curtains, Madeleine saw the Marchioness lean out of the carriage.
‘I am sure someone is at home, Simms. I saw movement at the window. I shall knock myself.’
The footman descended the steps from the house and assisted the Marchioness out of the carriage. Beautifully dressed in a deep green walking dress, spencer and plumed hat, she seemed to float up to the door.
More knocking. ‘Miss England, are you there? Please open the door.’
The Marchioness’s behaviour was most improper. Ladies of rank did not knock on doors, nor did they visit this part of town. Only extreme foolishness or some urgent situation would explain it.
Blood drained from Madeleine’s face. Devlin!
She ran to the door and flung it open, throat tight with anxiety. The Marchioness’s hand was poised to knock again and the delicate blonde gasped with surprise. Madeleine could not speak.
‘May…may I come in?’ The lady’s trembling smile did nothing to allay Madeleine’s fears.
She stepped aside for the lady to enter. The Marchioness turned to the footman. ‘Thank you, Simms. You may wait with the carriage.’
The footman bowed and, with one eyebrow arched, gave Madeleine an appraising look before retreating.
Madeleine closed the door and faced her visitor. ‘Please tell me…has something happened? Is Devlin…?’ She could not make herself coherent.
The Marchioness blinked her eyes in confusion. ‘Devlin? I have not seen him.’
Madeleine’s muscles, all taut for disastrous news, relaxed measurably. ‘You have not come to tell me Devlin is hurt?’
The Marchioness blushed. ‘No. Indeed not.’ She cast down her eyes. ‘The matter I have come upon is personal.’
Madeleine nearly laughed in relief. Devlin was not dead, or hurt, or married. She pressed her fingers to her temples, only then realising her hair hung in damp clumps around her face. She tried to smooth the tangled mess.
The Marchioness cleared her throat. ‘May I speak to you for a moment?’ She glanced toward the parlour.
Madeleine peered at her. ‘I will not give up Linette. Devlin promised to make that clear to you.’
The lady blushed again. ‘This is not about…I am so sorry… My husband meant no harm to you, I assure you.’
Madeleine regarded her with scepticism. ‘He wished to take my child.’
The Marchioness’s eyes pleaded. ‘He did not realise. I do pray you will forgive him.’
‘Forgive him?’ Madeleine said, her voice rising. ‘I doubt my forgiveness would be worth a farthing to him.’
The lady straightened and gave Madeleine a direct gaze. ‘You sorely misjudge my husband, Miss England. He is the best of men. His interest in your child, misguided as it was, was motivated solely by a desire to please me.’ Her voice changed to one of conviction and authority. ‘May we retire to the parlour, please?’
Madeleine nodded coolly, though somewhat abashed at her lapse in manners. She led the Marchioness into the small parlour, shabby looking compared to the one in Grosvenor Square.
‘Some tea, my lady?’ she asked with inbred hospitality.
‘That is kind of you,’ the Marchioness replied, a slight tremble to her words.
As Madeleine rushed to the kitchen, she glanced at herself in the hallway mirror. She was a fright, her apron wet and dirty where she had knelt. Her hair had escaped from its braid and was a tangle of wayward dark curls.
She set the kettle on the fire in the kitchen and pulled off her apron. The blue cotton day dress she wore would have been presentable had it not been soaked with water. Madeleine measured out the tea and poured the water into the pot. She attempted to rebraid her hair, wishing she had pins to bind it into some sort of submission. She found a few lemon biscuits to add to the fare and hurriedly assembled the tray.
She entered the parlour and placed the tray on the table next to the Marchioness. As Madeleine pou
red the tea, she noticed the lady twisting her fine lime kid gloves in her smooth, delicate, ivory hands. Madeleine handed her the cup and hid her own beet-red hands in the folds of her skirt.
‘How may I be of service to you, ma’am?’ Madeleine asked, determined to display good breeding, though not feeling gracious inside. Indeed, this interview was too puzzling by half.
The Marchioness’s teacup rattled in its saucer. ‘I do wish you would call me Serena.’
‘I would not presume, madam.’
The Marchioness looked so disappointed, Madeleine thought the lady might cry. She felt a sudden sympathy.
‘Perhaps you ought to tell why you have come,’ she said in a soft, inviting tone.
The Marchioness burst into tears. ‘I have nowhere else to turn. I do not know what to do.’ She rummaged in her reticule and pulled out a white linen handkerchief, edged in elegant lace. She turned away and dabbed at her face.
Madeleine wrinkled her forehead in concern. ‘Are you in trouble of some kind?’
The Marchioness shook her head, fair tendrils shaking.
‘Is it your husband? Has he hurt you in some way?’ Madeleine would not put it past that man to be cold and cruel to his wife, not after his treatment of Devlin and, above all, his eagerness to steal a child.
The Marchioness’s head shot up. ‘My husband is the best of men. There is no more honourable a man on this earth. He is nothing but good to me, always.’ Her face crumbled again. ‘It is I who am at fault. I am a poor wife. I cannot please him in the most basic of ways.’ She dissolved into tears again.
Madeleine went to her and, crouching next to her chair, took her hand. ‘Now, you mustn’t cry. Whatever it is, I am sure Devlin can help put it to rights. He will be home shortly.’
The lady’s eyes flashed pain. ‘No, not Devlin. You.’
‘I?’
‘There is no one else I can ask. You are the only one I know who can help me.’
Madeleine stared at her in confusion. ‘It is not my position to help a lady. I am the lowest of creatures, I assure you. What could I possibly do to help you?’