by Sheila Walsh
‘And so he sends you away?’
Madalena brushed an impatient hand across her eyes. ‘Yes, monseigneur ‒ and I very much fear that when the Emperor learns of it, he will be further enraged.’
Devereux said with deliberate matter-of-factness, ‘You are singularly well-informed about your country’s affairs, mademoiselle.’
It had the required effect. Madalena said with some of her old spirit, ‘Lady Fleet would not think it becoming in a girl, I am sure, but Papa has always encouraged us to take an interest and to question everything. It is not easy here, for Tante Vernon says “Yes dear”, but she does not really listen ‒ and the Brigadier thinks only of his memoirs.’
She grinned suddenly. ‘Eh bien, I am growing morbid. It is not so bad, for I have Armand ‒ and Phoebe is very nice, I think ‒ and in truth I am having a splendid time in London. It is only sometimes …’ There was a fierce look in her eye, a determination not to give way to her feeling of desolation. ‘Papa will not write … we do not expect it … but to know nothing … to say nothing … it is not easy.’
‘You may talk to me, if you wish,’ Devereux offered unexpectedly. ‘I cannot pretend I have ever visualized myself as a father-figure, but …’
Madalena gurgled irrepressibly. ‘You will perhaps discover a hidden talent!’
‘Who knows?’ he agreed with a faint answering smile. ‘And now I think we must join the others. Kit is throwing us black looks.’
They broke into a canter and as they rode several heads turned in surprise to see the arrogant Duke in such unlikely company.
‘You must visit my mother when you return to Lytten Tracy.’
Madalena turned on him a look of pure astonishment and when he queried its cause, she confessed, ‘It is that one does not think of you with a mother.’
Devereux eyed her quizzically. ‘Your opinion of me is now distressingly revealed, mademoiselle. But I assure you I did not materialize one night in a thunderclap.’
She chuckled.
‘Unfortunately my mother does not have good health.’ His voice had changed so abruptly as to be almost unrecognizable. ‘She is now wholly confined to the house.’
‘Oh, that is sad!’ At once Madelena’s warm heart was stirred.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She too is French. I think you would like one another.’
‘Then of course I must call ‒ I should of all things enjoy it!’
It was only much later that Madalena realized the Duke had never really answered her query ‒ about the smuggling.
Chapter Three
‘I am sure I don’t know what to do for the best.’ Mrs Vernon’s round amiable face was pinker than usual and creased with concern as she peered short-sightedly into the severe countenance of her brother’s wife. ‘One must rule out coincidence. Wherever we choose to go, Lytten is there. Madalena is scarcely out of his company!’
‘You should have adopted a much stronger line at the outset, Esme.’ Lady Fleet’s black bombazine skirts rustled ominously. ‘The familiarity between them at the play last evening was a disgrace! It is bad enough that we must endure publicly the spectacle of William Lamb’s wife cavorting with that disgusting poet …’
‘Oh no, Hortense! You cannot compare Madalena’s case with Lady Caroline Lamb’s. To be sure, Lytten is no Lord Byron. I believe he sees Madalena simply as an engaging child.’
‘Hmp! You were always a gullible creature, Esme.’ Lady Fleet was a stiff, angular woman, used to ruling her own family with an implacable will. ‘As I see it, you have only one course; you must forbid the connection. You stand, as it were, in loco parentis; the child is therefore bound to attend to you.’
Mrs Vernon wished she could share her sister-in-law’s confidence. All very well for Hortense to lay down rules for her own family, but then Roger had always been as wet as a peagoose even as a child ‒ and their offspring, still at the schoolroom stage, were an insipid set with not an ounce of spirit between them.
She said with a touch of asperity, ‘It is not so simple, Hortense. The Duke is our close neighbour ‒ I am quite well acquainted with his mother ‒ a dear creature and an invalid. To give offence could cause embarrassment. He has, after all, behaved with perfect propriety ‒ one cannot say otherwise. What reason am I to offer to Madalena?’
Lady Fleet expressed astonishment that Mrs Vernon should feel obliged to offer reasons. ‘Surely the Duke’s reputation is sufficient reason,’ she stated in her thin, hard voice. ‘Though your word in itself must be reason enough.’
‘Not, I fear, where Madalena is concerned.’
Her ladyship oozed disapproval. ‘You know my views on that head. Those children have been shockingly overindulged! The girl in particular. To educate a girl so highly is a dangerous, sinful waste; it positively encourages the worst excesses of vanity and argumentativeness ‒ indeed, I should be surprised if it does not, in fact, breed outright rebellion! I believe their father to have been much at fault!’
These strictures impelled Mrs Vernon to rush at once into a defence of her niece and family. ‘At least I do not have to worry about Armand ‒ aside from his health, that is. He is become friendly with that nice Merchent boy. He is just enough older to be a steadying influence.’
‘I suppose Mr Merchent must be considered quite unexceptionable,’ the thin voice droned on. ‘His connections on his mother’s side are impeccable ‒ she was a Morton of Brantwell, you know. He will inherit a considerable fortune there one day. I seem to recall some hint of scandal concerning his father, but of course, he, too was French!’ Lady Fleet's tone managed to convey that any flaw in the unfortunate man’s character stemmed entirely from his unhappy accident of birth.
Mrs Vernon, by now out of all patience, suddenly discovered a pressing engagement elsewhere.
It would have astonished her to learn that the Duke in some measure shared her doubts about his unsuitability as a companion for her niece; indeed nothing had been further from his thoughts at the outset. Madalena’s midnight escapade had certainly aroused his initial interest, but when they met again, he thought her an amusing child ‒ no more.
And yet he found himself drawn back again and again to this half-child, half-woman who was so incredibly worldly wise for her years. He had no illusions about women, and had used them quite dispassionately as and when it pleased him, finding few, with the exception of Serena Fairfax, who did not bore him to distraction within a very short space of time.
But Madalena was different. He found her witty, intelligent and well-read; he enjoyed her company, enjoyed drawing her out, sometimes to the point of passionate argument.
To Madalena he was Grand Seigneur and teasing companion; she was soon so much at ease in his company as to be without any guile. She had long since abandoned any ideas of teaching him a lesson.
Kit Vernon was worried ‒ he could see the way things were heading, and he knew his friend. But when he tried to warn Madalena she only patted his hand and said serenely, ‘You are very kind, dear Kit, but you must not worry about me. I know very well what Dev is like, for I am not a fool.’
It was true that she did not always understand Devereux ‒ there was a dark and secret side to him that would not be drawn, like the day in the Park when they were all riding and a strange, thin little man had attempted to engage his attention. He had been in a cold rage and had signalled for them all to ride on while he remained behind.
Madalena was sure that he knew the man and the odd few words that floated back to her were in her own tongue. It had troubled her greatly, yet when she had later ventured a query about the incident, Dev had cut her off quite curtly and changed the subject.
But mostly he was teasing and indulgent and the days slipped by until there were only a few remaining ‒ and one of these was to be wasted upon a dull musical soiree to be given by one of Lady Fleet’s cronies, Mrs Arbuthnott.
The rooms were already crowded when they arrived. Phoebe’s fiancé had come up to town and was there to meet the
m. Madalena liked John Brownlow at once; he was of medium height and almost as fair as Phoebe ‒ and he had a nice smile.
Madalena had resigned herself to an evening of boredom without Devereux; one could not expect him to attend such a gathering, even to indulge her. And yet, just before the music commenced, there was a stir in the doorway ‒ and there he was, eyeglass raised to survey the scene, while a flustered hostess rushed forward to greet him.
Lady Fleet, incensed by his unwelcome presence, went to great lengths to keep Madalena away from him, a piece of interference which did not sit too well with Mrs Vernon, who considered herself quite capable of chaperoning her charge.
During one of the intervals in a tedious programme however, Lady Fleet intercepted a wry exchange of glances between Madalena and the Duke, and decided that more positive action was needed. This came in the form of Lord Ponsford, a god-son of her mama’s, who had most earnestly solicited an introduction to Madalena.
Lord Ponsford was not above five and twenty, but he seemed much older; already he was developing a paunch and he worried incessantly about his health.
‘Do not dare to leave me alone with him!’ Madalena beseeched her cousin.
Try as they might however, they could not shift his lordship and at the end of the interval he informed Madalena that he would be pleased to sit beside her if she should like it, and he could then extend to her the full benefit of his quite comprehensive knowledge of the works to be performed. There was no escape, and Phoebe and John led the way back into the concert chamber. Madalena insisted that they sat near the back, having seen Lady Fleet and Mrs Vernon already seated on the front row.
‘You are indeed fortunate, mademoiselle, to be invited to a concert of such quality!’ Lord Ponsford was uttering in hushed tones.
Madalena turned her uncompromising stare upon him. ‘Oh, do you think so, Lord Ponsford?’
‘Indeed yes, dear young lady. The soprano we are hearing is very fine ‒ very fine! My music teacher was used to tell me I had almost perfect pitch, and I can assure you that Miss Adelina Rossi is quite superb.’
Madalena glanced about her in despair and saw Devereux leaning against the rear wall. He raised an eyebrow in mock sympathy.
‘I make no doubt you are finding this a great treat,’ the silly man bored on, occasionally lapsing into very bad French. ‘The cultural life of your poor country must have suffered much in that dreadful Revolution ‒ and now, of course, you have that uncouth Corsican upon the throne …’
Mon Dieu, no! This was too much! Madalena turned in her seat. ‘You are quite mistaken, monseigneur,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘Our culture is of the very highest ‒ and far superior to this, I may tell you!’
Lord Ponsford gaped.
As the pianist played a cadenza and the large, full-bosomed soprano prepared to regale them once more, she whispered wickedly, ‘And I will also tell you, monseigneur, that me ‒ I do have perfect pitch and I say that woman’s voice is flat. And now I am going into the conservatory because it has suddenly become much too hot in here.’
She stepped past him before he could recover his senses. Phoebe stared, horrified, and several heads nearby turned with curiosity or irritation as she walked quickly through the doors at the back of the room.
Devereux watched her departure with a gleam of amused admiration. After a few moments he followed her out and closed the door quietly behind him.
He found Madalena sitting dejectedly beside a giant flowering shrub gazing into a fountain where a brightly coloured tail-fin flashed occasionally, picked out in the light flooding through the windows of the music room. The disembodied voice of the soprano echoed on the scented air.
Devereux watched her in silence for some moments before chiding gently, ‘You are unhappy, ma mie? You have surely not fallen out with your gallant beau?’
Madalena’s head shot up and he saw the glint of angry tears. ‘Parbleu! Do not speak to me of Lord Ponsford! He bores me to death with his delicate constitution, which does not in the least concern me ‒ and his talk of music, of which he knows nothing. Do you know, he thinks my people are a race of savages, and yet he has the impertinence to practise his atrocious French on me!’
‘Dear me! You have taken against his lordship! That’s a pity. I believe Lady Fleet was considering him as a possible suitor for your hand. He is very wealthy, I’m told.’
Madalena sprang up in alarm. ‘No! This is not possible …’ Too late she glimpsed the laughter in his eyes ‒ and flew at him.
‘Hush, little one!’ He held her off. ‘Do you want to bring Lord Ponsford down on us? He may feel obliged to call me out.’
‘Peste!’ An expression of horror crossed her face and then the huge grin flashed out. ‘Oh, but you are wicked!’ she whispered. ‘Always I say I will not allow you to tease. I mean to stay quite calm ‒ and then ‒ Poof!’ She threw up her hands.
He ruffled her curls. ‘Couleur de diable!’ he murmured. Her face was turned up to him and the diffused light lent her mouth a tantalizing allure. His fingers stilled and spread to cup her head. Without taking his eyes from hers, he slowly bent and kissed the softly parted lips, feeling an immediate leaping response.
He raised his head at last and said in a carefully controlled voice, ‘That should never have happened ‒ I am sorry.’
‘I am not.’ Madalena smiled a small, secret smile. ‘I very much enjoyed it.’
‘Nevertheless, it won’t do!’
She chuckled and slid her arms up round his neck, touching his hair where it swept in elegant wings from his face. ‘I had not noticed until now ‒ there is silver in your hair. It gives you a look most distingué!’
‘It is proof that I am too old for you,’ he said sharply. He endeavoured to pull her hands down, but she only locked them tighter. ‘Stop it, Madalena! Be sensible, for God’s sake!’
Her eyes were alight with laughter ‒ and with love. ‘Oh pooh! Me – I do not care for very young men. They are silly and gauche!’
‘They are also more fitting companions for you,’ he reasoned, despairing. ‘You are too acute an infant to be ignorant of how I have used my years. I am not for you, my dear.’
‘But yes ‒ I understand very well,’ Madalena insisted gently, ‘and I would not have you any different, my dear friend. And now you may kiss me properly, for I must return to that awful concert before Lord Ponsford comes looking for me.’
Devereux groaned and swept her into his arms. This time there was nothing gentle in his kiss; he crushed her savagely to him ‒ and she responded with a depth of passion which astonished him.
At last she gasped breathlessly, ‘I must go ‒ but oh, I do not want to! I would so much, rather stay here with you. You will be at Lady Sefton’s levée tomorrow?’
Devereux now had himself well in hand. ‘I shall be there, God help me! But if you look at me like that; I shall carry you off on the spot!’
All the way home in the carriage, Madalena endured a long tirade from Lady Fleet, who had discovered the whole of her disgraceful conduct; not content with slighting Lord Ponsford, a young man of irreproachable gentility, she had deliberately flaunted her assignation with that rake ‒ that libertine! On and on she ranted whilst Phoebe cringed; but Mrs Vernon, observing her niece closely, was dismayed to find that she sat serenely oblivious, hardly hearing a single word.
At home in her room, Phoebe was bursting with curiosity, but found her cousin for once strangely reticent.
‘But what happened, Madalena ‒ in the conservatory?’
‘Oh, we talked.’
This did not satisfy. Phoebe’s eyes widened. ‘Did he … kiss you? Oh Maddie, what was it like?’
Recollection curved Madalena’s mouth in a dreamy smile. ‘It was like … Oh, I cannot describe!’
Phoebe, ever practical, foresaw trouble. ‘But what will happen? The Duke is not … well, you know! Would your papa permit you to marry such a man, even supposing …’ she stopped, embarrassed.
; ‘Even supposing he wishes to marry me,’ Madalena finished the sentence for her. She shrugged her elegant little shoulders. ‘I do not for one moment think it, but it is unimportant.’
‘Maddie ‒ you don’t mean …!’
Madalena laughed at the look of horror on her cousin’s face. ‘Poor Phoebe. You find me very hard to understand, do you not? But to me it is very simple. If Dev asked me to go with him tomorrow, I would not hesitate. Does that shock you?’
‘I don’t know how you can even contemplate such a step,’ Phoebe whispered in awe.
Madalena patted her hand kindly. ‘That is how we are different, chérie. But do not let it distress you.’
Lady Fleet was strongly of the opinion that for Madalena to attend Lady Sefton’s levée was to court disaster, but Sir Roger, when appealed to, muttered vaguely that it seemed a great deal of fuss about nothing and Mrs Vernon, conscious of the distress such a ban would cause, stifled her qualms and for once agreed with her brother.
There was an added glow about Madalena on the following evening. Daniel Merchent noticed and remarked upon it to Armand who glanced across the ballroom in surprise.
His sister was wearing her favourite dress ‒ of silver-white gauze over satin ‒ high waisted, with little puff sleeves and floating panels. In the complete absence of jewellery, the only colour was in the vivid, expressive face and short copper curls teased into a fringe across her brow. The result was a chic and stunning simplicity that many a more beautiful girl might envy without ever learning how to achieve.
To Armand, however, she was just his sister.
‘Maddie? She looks well enough I suppose.’
Daniel Merchent raised an amused eyebrow. He was a pleasant, easy-mannered young man, well-dressed without any of the more flamboyant showiness of his other companion, a regular bang-up dandy.