A Lady of Consequence

by Mary Nichols

  His look of horror was enough to bring her back to sanity. He did nothing to stop her when she opened the door, flung herself from the carriage and rushed into the house.

  It was all over. Their love had never had time to blossom. It had never stood a chance. And she had brought her troubles on herself. She should never have invented the comte, never pretended to be other than what she was. This was her punishment, to love without hope, to be spurned by Society. Why had she been so foolish as to think she could get away with it?

  But as she toiled up the stairs to her room, thankful that Marianne was out and could not quiz her, she wondered why her mother had not told her about her father. If he was a soldier and had died on some foreign battlefield, surely that was something to be proud of? Would it help if she knew? She went to the window to look down into the street. Duncan’s carriage, driving away down the street, was a blur, seen through tears. ‘Fool!’ she berated herself. ‘Idiot!’

  She scrubbed at her face, undressed and climbed into bed, though she knew sleep was impossible. Something had to be done to cure the ache inside her. Somehow her life had to be changed. She thought of leaving town, finding work in a provincial theatre, but whatever she was, she was a professional and could not leave the play in the middle of a run. And nothing and no one could be allowed to affect her work, that must be paramount. It had taken years and years to reach the standing she enjoyed now and she would be a fool to throw it away. She was stuck.

  Having talked herself into a more positive frame of mind, she fell asleep at last.

  She woke the next morning still determined to make a new start. That afternoon she insisted on a fresh rehearsal to change one or two aspects of her performance she felt could be improved, one of which was her French accent. ‘I am supposed to be a Princess of France,’ she told Lancelot. ‘I don’t sound French at all.’

  He laughed. ‘And you with a French name and a French granddaddy! Very well, I’ll ask a friend of mine who speaks the language to coach you, but don’t overdo it, will you? You are playing to an English audience, they must be able to understand you.’

  Ironically, Pierre Valois, who arrived at the theatre the following afternoon, was the son of a French émigré, who had come to England in 1793 to escape the guillotine. Although Pierre had been born in London a year later and English was his native tongue, his father had insisted on bringing him up to speak French and now he earned his living teaching young ladies to speak the language. Though he was older than Madeleine by nine years, his background was so like the one she had invented for herself, that she could only wonder at the vagaries of fate which had brought them together.

  He was handsome and he knew it, but he was also charming company and he soon had her laughing at her attempts to put a French accent on Shakespeare’s English words. ‘Did your mama never speak French?’ he asked her.

  ‘Not that I know of. Why?’

  ‘I heard your papa was French. Or was it your grandpapa?’

  ‘I never knew either of them,’ she said, and closed her mouth firmly on the subject. But it made her realise the story had not gone away. Duncan had not seen fit to broadcast her deception, probably because it would make him look a fool. The comte was still dogging her footsteps.

  ‘Well never mind, even if you never knew your ancestors, I think there is something of the French-woman in you. You are so, so…je ne sais quoi…elegant and self-possessed. Your demeanour proclaims you every inch a Gallic princess.’

  She laughed. ‘That is the actress in me.’

  ‘Perhaps. But as the saying goes, “What’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh.’”

  ‘You are not the first person to say that to me,’ she said, thinking of Duncan. But Duncan knew the truth now and she must put him from her mind. ‘Now, do you think we can proceed? I want to try out my new accent at tonight’s performance.’

  She was an apt pupil; that evening she had a delightful French accent, which enchanted her audience. The applause at the end was a fitting tribute to her dedication and hard work and she acknowledged it by dropping into a full curtsy. This was what she had been born for and she would do well not to forget it. She took several curtain calls and accepted the many bouquets sent up to her with charming graciousness, but when she returned to her dressing room it was to the knowledge that nothing had really changed.

  Pierre was waiting for her, sitting at his elegant ease, talking to her dresser. He rose when she entered. ‘My congratulations, ma’amselle. You were magnificent.’

  She smiled. ‘I did not let you down, did I?’

  ‘I never thought you would. But I was not referring to your accent, but your whole performance. I was transported with delight.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

  ‘We must celebrate. Will you do me the honour of supping with me?’

  She paused, thinking of Duncan, but Duncan was gone, a small part of the past she had decided to turn her back on. And Pierre Valois had no connection with the haut monde or anyone from it. She would be safe with him. ‘I shall be delighted,’ she said. ‘Give me a minute to change.’ She disappeared behind the screen with her dresser and after a few minutes emerged dressed in the blue velvet dress she had worn to Vauxhall Gardens.

  ‘Magnifique!’ he said, stepping forward to take both her hands and hold her at arm’s length to look her up and down. ‘The brightest star in the firmament. I shall be the envy of the whole city, no, the whole country.’

  Laughing, she flung a cloak round her shoulders and declared herself ready to go.

  He took her to Stephen’s in Bond Street, an eating establishment much favoured by army officers, where the food was very good but not up to the Clarendon’s standards nor its prices, where a meal could cost as much as four pounds a head. She did not suppose for a minute he had the resources of Sir Percival Ponsonby and to be truthful she was glad not to be on show at the dining rooms frequented by the Marquis of Risley and his kind. No doubt they were still laughing over that parody of a duel.

  The eating house was a popular place, but a table was soon found for them. After consulting her, Pierre ordered sole bonne femme, saddle of lamb with several different vegetables, including salsify fried in butter and broiled mushrooms. ‘And champagne to go with it,’ he told the waiter. ‘We are celebrating.’

  ‘Why did you say that?’ she asked, as the waiter went away smiling.

  ‘Celebrating, you mean? We are, aren’t we? The success of a joint enterprise. And my delight in the part I played in it. I would rather teach you than half a dozen school misses, who simper and giggle and have no idea how a real lady conducts herself.’

  ‘And how does a real lady conduct herself?’

  ‘Like you do, my dear, with grace and charm.’

  She smiled at his gallantry. ‘Merci, monsieur.’

  Their food and wine arrived. The champagne was poured by the waiter who wished them ‘Bon appétit’ and left them.

  ‘To the most beautiful woman in England, who also happens to be an incomparable actress,’ Pierre said, raising his glass to her. ‘May she long continue to enchant us.’

  She laughed and picked up her glass. ‘To a French teacher par excellence who is also an accomplished flirt.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ he demanded. ‘How dull life would be if we could not enjoy a little flirtation now and again. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Oh, I agree.’

  ‘Then let us continue, shall we?’

  ‘Eating, drinking or flirting?’

  ‘Why, all three, my dear lady, all three.’

  She laughed. So long as the conversation did not flag, giving her time to think, she was almost content. He was outrageous in his comments about the latest on dit, paid her extravagant compliments, which she accepted in the spirit in which they were given, light-heartedly and with no undercurrents to trap her. She responded in kind and the evening passed very pleasantly.

  It was when they were getting ready to leave and he
was putting her burnoose about her shoulders that she noticed Major Greenaway, sitting at a table alone. He stood up as she passed him on her way out. ‘Miss Charron, your obedient,’ he said, bowing.

  ‘Major Greenaway. Good evening.’

  With her escort’s hand under her elbow to guide her, she continued past his table and out into the street where the cab Pierre had ordered was waiting for them. The presence of Major Greenaway had not exactly spoiled the evening, but it had brought a sharp reminder that she was not as tough as she liked to think and that Duncan Stanmore had been a presence at the table the whole way through the evening. It was very unfair on her companion, but she hoped he had not noticed.

  She had wondered if she might have to fight him off at the end of the evening, but he behaved perfectly, taking her to her door and kissing her hand with exaggerated courtesy. ‘I have had an enchanted evening, from the time the French princess came into view on the stage until this minute.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘And now, I suppose, it must come to an end.’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ she said, retrieving her hand. ‘But I thank you for your escort.’

  ‘Then take pity on me. Come out with me again.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘You know where to find me.’

  ‘Then I shall be in the audience again tomorrow night.’ He smiled and kissed the tips of his fingers to her. ‘A bientôt.’

  Had she meant that? she asked herself, as she went indoors. He had been very helpful over the French accent and an amusing supper companion, but did she really want to encourage him? She smiled to herself; his extravagant compliments meant no more to him than they did to her and where was the harm? If it helped to take her mind off a certain Marquis, then so much the better.

  ‘Stanmore, there you are.’

  Duncan, in the act of stripping off for a sparring bout at Jackson’s, turned to find Donald Greenaway at his elbow. ‘Hallo, Major. What brings you here?’

  ‘Bedevilled, my friend. I can make no headway with the Viscount’s commission and so I decided to turn my attention to the matter of Miss Charron’s grandfather. I thought I’d pursue the army connection, so I arranged to meet a friend from the Department of Military Knowledge at the Horse Guards last week at Stephen’s. He has access to the casualty lists. Strange I should see her there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Miss Charron. She was with a fellow I had never seen before. I asked the proprietor if he knew him. His name is Pierre Valois and he is the son of a French émigré who came over in the nineties, so it seems the lady is making her own enquiries.’

  ‘Making her own enquiries, why should she do that?’ Duncan demanded. She had taken him for a gull with her lies and pretence and he had simmered with anger and resentment for days before he could convince himself that she was not worth the heart-ache.

  ‘Why not? If you had never known your father and grandfather, wouldn’t you be curious about them? Especially if it makes a difference to how you are received in Society.’

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his friend that Madeleine had lied, but he decided to say nothing. She would be the object of scorn and derision and he could not do that to her, whatever she had done. ‘Yes, I suppose I would, but as she seems to be managing very well on her own, there is no need for us to pursue the matter.’

  ‘Not pursue it?’

  ‘That’s what I said. I have decided not to proceed. I’ll pay for what you have already done, of course.’

  Donald looked closely at his friend, wondering what had brought on his change of mind, but decided not to comment. ‘Apart from a little golden grease to smooth my path at Whitehall, I haven’t done much, been too busy with the Viscount’s problem.’ He paused. ‘How long are you going to be here?’

  ‘An hour or so, why?’

  ‘I thought we might go together to visit Lady Loscoe. She promised to try and find that portrait of Viscount Armitage’s daughter, if you remember.’

  ‘Wait for me then. Or strip off and go a few rounds.’

  ‘No, thanks. Like your friend, Willoughby, I’m no pugilist.’

  ‘Oh, you heard about that, did you?’

  Donald grinned. ‘Who hasn’t? The whole of London knows.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘That it was capital sport and a very fitting end to Willoughby’s pretensions.’

  ‘What are they saying about the reasons for the challenge?’

  ‘Oh, that there is sure to be a lady in the case, but as to her identity, they are only guessing.’

  ‘Then they may go on guessing.’

  Duncan’s sparring partner arrived and he left Donald to watch while he weaved and ducked and threw punches with practised ease. Donald, whose knowledge of the noble art was limited to acting as a sparring partner to the Duke of Loscoe when they were both much younger, was full of admiration for the speed of Duncan’s footwork and the way he defended himself against his opponent’s onslaught, while finding his target himself. At the end of the bout Duncan came over to him, rubbing himself with a towel. His body was gleaming and he was breathing quite heavily, but there wasn’t a mark on him.

  ‘I can see why Willoughby did not want to meet you in the ring,’ Donald said. ‘When did you first take up pugilism?’

  ‘Oh, years ago. My father introduced me to it when I was no more than a bantling.’

  ‘And he was one of the best, as I can vouch. I’ve had bumps and bruises by the score given in the cause of friendship. That’s when I decided the sport was not for me.’

  Duncan smiled. ‘I’ve had a few myself. If you give me a few minutes to bathe and dress, I’ll be ready to go.’

  They walked in companionable silence, but Duncan was thinking about Madeleine dining with the Frenchman. Who was he? Where had she met him? She wasn’t trying to find out about her grandfather, because she had admitted he never existed, so what was she up to? And why did he feel like finding the man and tapping his claret for him? He smiled inwardly. He had done that to Benedict and look what had happened. And next time, the result might not be so amenable. Besides, she was not worth it.

  ‘Did you find out anything about Charron from the army casualty lists?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

  Donald turned towards him, smiling. ‘Thought you didn’t want to know?’

  ‘Curious, that’s all.’

  ‘Nothing. No Charron on the lists as far as my friend could tell.’

  ‘He might not have been a casualty. Could have come home in one piece.’

  ‘Not on the strength either. At least not under that name.’

  ‘Oh. Could he have been in one of the German regiments?’

  ‘Possible, I suppose. That’s why I thought she might know something she has omitted to tell anyone. It could be something important like a change of name or some little thing like a dim memory of a place or something said by her mama. I thought you might have learned more…’

  ‘No, afraid not. But it’s of no consequence now, since my interest in the lady has waned.’

  ‘Then I must go back to the Viscount’s problem. I wish I could help the old man, he is getting weaker all the time and I hate having nothing to tell him.’

  ‘He should not have turned his daughter out. I could never do that. Children are precious…’

  The Major laughed. ‘And there speaks someone who has never known the joys or the responsibilities of fatherhood!’

  Duncan gave a wry smile at his friend’s teasing. If he did not make a push towards matrimony, he never would know. The thought of spending the rest of his life as a bachelor with no young people, like his nephew and niece, around him, was not to be contemplated. He loved children and Vinny had been right; he ought to have some of his own. ‘One day,’ he said. ‘Give me time.’

  They arrived at Stanmore House and were shown into the drawing room, which was crowded with the Duchess’s friends. ‘Oh, goodness, I had forgot it was one of Stepmama’s at-homes,’ he said. ‘Now we shall have to
act the agreeable until they have all gone.’

  The two men went forward to greet the Duchess and then began to circulate as was expected of them. It did not take them long to discover that Lady Bulford was present with Miss Bulford and Miss Annabel.

  ‘Why, how agreeable we are met again so soon,’ Lady Bulford said, fluttering her fan at him. ‘Annabel, is that not so?’

  ‘Oh, indeed yes.’ Annabel blushed to the roots of her fair hair and refused to meet Duncan’s eyes.

  ‘May I present my friend, Major Greenaway?’ Duncan said. ‘Major, this is Lady Bulford and her sisters-in-law, Miss Bulford and Miss Annabel Bulford.’

  They acknowledged him and he bowed formally. ‘Your servant, ladies.’

  ‘I am trying to place you,’ Lady Bulford said. ‘I do not seem able to recall the name. From the country, are you?’

  ‘Major Greenaway is an old friend of my family,’ Duncan put in, afraid that Donald was about to give the lady a put down.

  ‘Any friend of the dear Duke is a friend of mine,’ she said, recovering herself quickly.

  ‘I heard you had been in a scrape since we last met,’ Hortense said to Duncan.

  ‘Scrape?’

  ‘Oh, Hortense, you must not quiz the Marquis about it,’ Annabel put in. ‘It is only tattle, after all, and we do not want him to think we put any store by it.’

  ‘Tattle?’ he queried, pretending innocence. ‘About me?’

  ‘Oh, it is nothing,’ Annabel said. ‘They say Mr Benedict Willoughby challenged you to a duel and you fought with…’

  ‘Fought with what?’ Duncan could not prevent the smile which played about his lips. ‘Pistols or swords? I am considered a prime hand with both.’