The Widow's Scandalous Affair

by Lucy Ashford

  Beth had been slightly shocked. She’d loved her husband dearly—he’d been a kind-hearted Hampshire landowner and she’d been devastated when he’d died of a fever two years ago. ‘Joanna,’ she’d protested. ‘You can’t mean it, surely? A rake?’

  ‘Oh, but I do mean it.’ Joanna had plied her fan. ‘Just give me a chance. Take the Marquis of Montpellier, for instance. I’d dance with him any day and more.’

  They’d all gone a little silent then because Monsieur Lefevre, though he’d only recently arrived in the country, had rather taken society by storm. And even Serena, who hadn’t yet had her fatal dance with him, had to admit to a certain interest in the man. Yes, that was the word. Interest. That was all.

  Soon the four of them were firm allies who enjoyed meeting every week with refreshments of wine and cake. They always paid close attention to Mary’s reports about the Spitalfields school’s progress, but there was also time to discuss society news: the marriages, the courtships and, of course, the latest scandals.

  Mary, with her sometimes acid wit, had once offended a ridiculous dandy who belonged to the Prince’s set and the dandy had promptly christened the four of them the ‘Wicked Widows’, a name that spread around town. ‘But we’re not wicked at all!’ Beth had exclaimed.

  Joanna, on the contrary, had found it amusing, as did Mary, who’d said to them all, ‘My dears, I take it as a great compliment that a fool like him sees us as a threat!’

  In fact, many people admired their spirit and, if anything, their invitations to society events increased. But now Serena had shocked herself and her friends with that kiss and she had to think of some way to explain it. She sipped the last of her delicately scented tea and drew a deep breath. The final eclair had disappeared, the footmen were leaving the room and she felt her remaining shreds of courage departing with them. Three pairs of eyes turned on her.

  ‘Well?’ said Joanna.

  * * *

  Serena’s attempts to explain were, in retrospect, quite feeble. Indeed, how could they be anything else? She couldn’t give the reason why she’d been in Covent Garden last night, all alone. And she could not deny that Raphael Lefevre had taken her in his arms and kissed her. Had she fought him off? On the contrary.

  Beth still looked utterly bewildered. ‘But what a terrible thing that he should take advantage of you when you were alone and unprotected, Serena! And, Joanna, how can you find it amusing?’

  ‘Beth, darling,’ chided Joanna, ‘you’re a lovely person, but sometimes you’re so naive. It occurs to me that our Serena may have had a secret assignation with Monsieur le Marquis. After all, we’re the Wicked Widows. Can’t we live up to our name just once in a while?’

  Beth flushed, touching the silver locket she wore that contained a miniature portrait of her husband. ‘I’m sure we’re not wicked in any way at all. And I, for one, don’t wish to be!’

  Mary put in calmly, ‘Nor do any of us.’ She turned to Serena. ‘My dear, you really must report Lefevre to the authorities. If the man believes he can insult a lady in public, you must make an example of him, for all our sakes.’

  Joanna had been watching Serena curiously. ‘Come now, Serena,’ she chided. ‘We’ve observed for weeks how you and the rather dashing Marquis have been sniping at one another. Could it be that for some reason you’ve decided to kiss and make up?’

  What could Serena say? She could tell them the truth—well, at least a portion of it. ‘I’d rather unwisely gone out on my own,’ she said.

  ‘To Covent Garden, at night?’ Mary sounded sceptical. ‘Surely your coachman didn’t agree to drive you there?’

  ‘I took a hackney cab,’ said Serena. ‘I didn’t intend to—well, I wasn’t really thinking where I was going.’ Oh, dear. All this sounded dreadfully lame. ‘I dismissed the cab and walked a little, but some rough men challenged me near the piazza. And Monsieur Lefevre happened to be passing by.’

  Mary pursed her lips. ‘And what was the Marquis doing in Covent Garden?’

  What did gentlemen usually do in that area? Visit the taverns and gaming dens. Consort with the ladies of the night. Oh, dear. She said, ‘I didn’t ask him why he was there, Mary.’

  ‘But Monsieur Lefevre arrived just in time to rescue you from these ruffians?’ asked Beth rather breathlessly.

  ‘Yes. He did. And he apologised afterwards for his—his somewhat forward behaviour.’

  ‘The kiss, you mean?’ Her friends’ eyes were widening, but Serena struggled on.

  ‘Yes. The kiss. Monsieur Lefevre pointed out, you see, that he needed to make it absolutely obvious I was under his protection. Otherwise, those men would never have believed him.’

  Silence reigned and Serena’s heart sank still further, especially when Mary said a little crisply, ‘Such a shame you had to let that man humiliate you so.’

  But Beth came to her rescue. ‘Mary,’ she protested, ‘it doesn’t sound as if poor Serena actually had much choice! She was in mortal danger. Whatever else could she have done? And I’ve never heard any tales claiming the Marquis mistreats women. Indeed, he’s very popular with them, isn’t he?’

  ‘Popular? I should think so!’ Joanna’s eyes suddenly sparkled. ‘Why, I heard from a lady who knew him in Paris that when he makes love to you, he uses his—’

  ‘Joanna!’ Beth had looked scandalised and Joanna sighed.

  ‘Darling Beth, don’t be so strait-laced. We’ve all been married so we know the reality. I’m sure we’ve all suffered a husband’s drunken fumbling, so aren’t we allowed just a few delicious fantasies about the Marquis?’

  Mary frowned her disapproval. As for Serena, she just sat there because she knew this was only the start of it. She would have to face these insinuations from all corners of society now, from her enemies as well as her friends. And always at the back of her mind, she would hear Lefevre’s ominous final warning: Blackmailers always want more.

  The thought terrified her. But who could she turn to for help? To her brother George? Even if he could track down Silas Mort, he would do it in such a righteous, heavy-handed way that there might well be a formal prosecution and a court case. The newspapers would leap on the story and the full reason for her meeting with Mort would be salaciously exposed.

  ‘Dead War Hero Actually A Coward’, the headlines would run. Yes, Silas Mort would be punished—but it was Serena who would have to live with the shame of it, for ever.

  Last night Raphael Lefevre had suggested he could keep her blackmailer at bay and she’d done nothing but think about his ominous offer half the night and all this morning. Yet to rely on him for help was inconceivable. What exactly would he do to silence Mort? And what price would she, Serena, have to pay?

  It was impossible for her to accept his offer. Impossible!

  She realised Mary was talking once more. ‘Serena, you really must show the Marquis that you’re in charge. But you’ll have to decide quickly on your plan of action, because I’m afraid other people are going to be questioning you about this. The story of last night’s incident will be all around the town by now.’

  As if Serena didn’t realise that. ‘Surely people will just as quickly forget,’ she said as lightly as possible. ‘After all, there’s always some new scandal coming along.’ Though not as good as this, she told herself with a sinking heart. Oh, no. Not nearly as good as this one.

  ‘But, Serena,’ Beth pointed out, ‘since Monsieur Lefevre rescued you from dreadful danger, surely you will have to be nice to him from now on?’

  ‘I don’t think,’ she began, ‘that I could ever bring myself to actually be nice to him—’

  ‘I could,’ murmured Joanna. ‘Oh, indeed I could.’

  Serena endeavoured to ignore her. ‘Although last night, naturally, I had to admit I was grateful to him—’

  ‘For the rescue?’ broke in Joanna archly, wagging one finger. ‘Or for t
he now famous kiss? Just tell us, darling. What was it like to be in the arms of Raphael Lefevre? Did you simply melt with longing? Because I’m sure I would!’

  Mary turned on Joanna. ‘Really! This is no time for levity!’ Beth, too, was shaking her head in disapproval. As for Serena, she reached for her glass of wine, because her throat had gone suddenly dry.

  How had it felt, to be kissed by the notorious Marquis?

  It had felt like heaven, something deep and shocking inside her replied. Yes, the answer was...heaven. She stamped the treacherous inner voice down and looked round at them all with something like desperation. ‘Listen. Last night was an entirely unpleasant experience which I really don’t wish to talk about any further. So please may we turn to the subject of the school?’

  At which they all took pity on her, even Mary, who said, ‘Of course.’ She reached for her spectacles. ‘And, Serena, we ask these questions only because we’re concerned about you. It must have been an absolutely shocking experience!’

  Beth was nodding earnestly. ‘Serena, we all love you. Whatever life throws at you—and last night was surely one of your worst ever ordeals—you always set us such a strong example!’ She rose to hug Serena, then the other two came over to embrace her as well.

  ‘So now,’ Mary continued, returning to her chair and rustling her papers purposefully, ‘on with our business. I’m still endeavouring to renew the school’s lease, which expires in three months. But unfortunately the landowner, Lord Gardner, is proving a little difficult.’

  Joanna spoke up. ‘Is it a question of money? If so, I’m sure I can help.’

  ‘Money isn’t the issue, Joanna. No, I’m afraid it’s pure arrogance on Lord Gardner’s part. He’s been heard publicly saying he doesn’t see the point of educating the lower classes—and he isn’t alone.’ Mary looked round at them all. ‘We need people of influence to speak up for our cause. Mr Jeremy Wolverton has recently spoken to Lord Gardner on our behalf, but with no success, I’m afraid.’

  Serena and Joanna exchanged glances. ‘Your fervent admirer,’ Joanna whispered.

  Serena shook her head hastily. She knew that the rich Jeremy Wolverton donated regularly to their cause and his success as a businessman gave him considerable influence, but his tendency to sermonise on the value of hard work was tedious.

  ‘Poor Wolverton. He’s smitten with you,’ Joanna had recently warned her. ‘There’ll be a proposal some day soon.’

  Serena had laughed. ‘At least I’ll have no problem in declining. He is so very...worthy.’

  Once again Mary was summoning their attention. ‘So, ladies, we need as much public support as we can get. And, on a much happier note, you’ll be pleased to hear that the new teacher I appointed, Miss Murphy, has settled into her duties very well.’

  ‘The French children,’ Beth burst in. ‘How are those poor French children, the ones whose families have only just arrived in the area?’

  ‘You mean the refugees? Poor things. There are seven children so far and fortunately Miss Murphy speaks some French so she’s making every effort to help them feel at home. Now—’ and Mary adjusted her spectacles ʻ—let us proceed with the monthly accounts...’

  To Serena’s relief, Lefevre appeared to have been forgotten—but not by her, because the clock on the mantel told her it was well past four o’clock. The hour at which Lefevre said he would call at her house. And so? she told herself defiantly. He would find her gone. He’d be angry, but her absence would speak for itself. He had to learn that she was not his to be manipulated. She was just beginning to breathe a little more easily when a footman entered with a note on a silver salver.

  ‘A foreign personage called at the front door just now, ma’am,’ he announced to Joanna. ‘A man dressed like a lackey. I told him that if he was a tradesman he should have used the side door. But he insisted he had a message to be delivered.’

  Joanna held out her hand. ‘For me, I assume?’

  ‘No, ma’am. He requested that this missive be delivered to Lady Serena.’

  Joanna frowned. ‘This sounds most odd. Let me see this letter. It could be a trick—’

  But Serena had registered one word—foreign. ‘No,’ she broke in. ‘No, Joanna. I will read it.’ As the footman handed it to her, Serena took one look at the bold masculine handwriting declaring her name and she knew. Swiftly she opened and read it.

  You no doubt remember I promised to call on you this afternoon at four. Your servants told me where you could be found and at this precise moment I’m waiting in my carriage a little way down the road. You will oblige me by joining me.

  It was from Lefevre, of course. His faithful manservant, whom everyone knew as Jacques the Breton, had delivered it. A fresh flood of panic almost made her feel sick. If she didn’t obey, the Marquis might well come here directly and shame her in front of her friends. What on earth was she to do?

  Rather stupidly, she decided to lie.

  ‘I’m afraid I must take my leave,’ she announced. She tried to laugh. ‘So foolish of me! You see, I almost forgot that I have an appointment with my costumier. She sent her messenger to my house and the servants directed him here.’

  ‘Of course,’ they chorused, her kind, lovely friends, as she headed for the door. ‘But we’ll see you on Thursday night at the Duke of Hamilton’s ball, won’t we, Serena?’

  She stopped in her tracks. No. Lefevre would be going. His friends, Beaumaris and the others, would be going... ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Unfortunately, I have other plans for that evening!’

  She barely had time to register her friends’ astonished faces before she was hurrying down the stairs to the hall, where a footman waited with her pelisse and bonnet. Telling lies to her dearest companions. Whatever next? Raphael Lefevre’s voice from last night curled through her veins, rich and husky. I still believe you might need my help. One way or another.

  She’d resolutely refused. ‘Never,’ she’d declared. But last night Silas Mort had been outside her house, watching. Gloating.

  Lefevre and Mort—my God, she was truly caught between the devil and the deep blue sea this time. She took a deep breath and braced herself to face the man who was quite possibly the more dangerous of the two.

  Chapter Six

  Lefevre was standing beside a curricle a little way down Brook Street. As she might have expected, his vehicle was of the finest quality, made of polished ebony with buttoned seats of dark red leather.

  ‘Lefevre’s rigs are always the best in town,’ she’d heard her brother, George, say with reluctant admiration, ‘even if the man himself is a scoundrel.’

  Lefevre’s small but burly French manservant was holding the heads of the pair of matched bays and the look he gave her was hostile. Serena remembered he was rumoured to always carry a pistol beneath that shabby coat of his—as if the Marquis needed protecting from anyone! She felt her stomach pitch a little as Lefevre strolled casually towards her, looking effortlessly elegant in his dark green topcoat and buckskin breeches. His white cravat was carelessly tied, but its loose folds dramatically emphasised the chiselled perfection of his suntanned face—dagger-sharp cheekbones, square jaw, piercing grey eyes and thick black hair.

  For a moment she felt like a debutante facing her first dancing partner at some grand ball, except that her nerves were in no way softened by any anticipation of pleasure. It was her misfortune that her enemy was so ridiculously handsome. It was even more disastrous that his sardonically curved mouth reminded her all too vividly of last night’s kiss.

  He took her hand and bowed. ‘Lady Serena,’ he murmured. ‘Good day to you.’

  It was not only his looks, she realised, but his voice that always shook her to her core. His command of the English language was all but perfect—his years at Eton had seen to that. But there were still those undertones of his native French that curled their way through her like some seducti
ve perfume.

  She hated this man. Yes, he’d saved her from Silas Mort last night, but at such a cost! Yet somehow she managed to answer calmly, ‘I wish it were a good day, Monsieur Lefevre, but it has not been made any the better by seeing you here. You will oblige me by stating your business, since my own carriage will be arriving to collect me in half an hour, and—’

  ‘It won’t,’ he said.

  Then he smiled. That smile played about his firm yet sensual mouth, but didn’t touch his eyes. ‘You needn’t worry about your carriage,’ he continued. ‘You see, I informed one of your grooms that I would be bringing you home, so there was no need for him to send it.’

  For a moment she was speechless. ‘You informed... And my groom obeyed you?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He was casually pulling on a pair of elegant leather driving gloves over his long, supple fingers. ‘People usually do, you know. In fact, it was your groom who told me I’d find you here. Tell me, did you and your Wicked Widows enjoy tearing my reputation to shreds at your weekly gossip session?’

  Her reply was coldly furious. ‘Fortunately, we had more worthwhile matters to consider!’

  The man actually chuckled. ‘Dear me. I really have offended you, haven’t I? But there are several matters we need to discuss, you and I. And I decided a short drive in my curricle would give us the necessary opportunity.’ He gestured towards the vehicle with a slight bow.

  Serena stood exactly where she was. ‘You mean, I assume, that a drive with you will give you the opportunity to remind me once more of the humiliation you inflicted on me last night?’

  ‘Come now, madame.’ He shook his head in reprimand. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, it was actually you who laid yourself open to humiliation by planning to meet with that gang of ruffians. You have no doubt been regretting your decision ever since.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Lefevre. You cannot imagine how much!’

  ‘Since it led you to become obliged to me?’ She saw a flash of something rather dangerous in those strange silver-grey eyes, but instantly his languid smile was back in place again. ‘Maybe I can imagine it,’ he went on. ‘After all, I’ve heard you announcing your opinion of me often enough—in fact, I appear to have become something of a preoccupation of yours. And you must admit that you have, after last night’s encounter, landed yourself in a rather awkward situation.’