by Lucy Ashford
But Lionel liked her money, which was clearly all he’d married her for. I will endure this, she’d resolved at the time. I must endure this. For a woman of her rank to leave her husband was unthinkable.
After he had died in battle she tried to mourn him, or at least to mourn the man he could have been. She blamed herself still for her rash and foolish marriage and resolved that from now on she would live her life in the way she chose. She’d felt free, almost happy—until Silas Mort had approached her in the park.
She should have challenged Mort to tell everyone, then relied on the hope that no one would have believed him. But she hadn’t, because she was too afraid that what he said was true and that others might come forward to verify the tale of Lionel’s cowardice. Her foolish pride had laid her wide open to blackmail and to Lefevre’s devious plans also; but Lefevre carried with him an extra threat.
She’d resolved never to take another husband. Told herself she did not need a man in her life—and her resolve was still steadfast. But when Raphael Lefevre was close, she felt her body was betraying her and always would. She must fight this terrible weakness. She had to fight it. And Lefevre must never, ever know her vulnerability—otherwise the mockery in his eyes during the coming weeks would be unendurable.
Chapter Ten
Once he’d taken Serena home, Raphael reached his own house to find Jacques waiting for him. After ordering a groom to put away the carriage and horses, Raphael listened in silence to what Jacques had to say.
‘I’ve been over to Clerkenwell, my lord. Near to where many of the poor French have settled, as you know. There’s an establishment in Laystall Street that might be worth you looking at.’
Raphael tensed. ‘Then I’ll go there. Now.’
‘At this hour? You do realise it’s almost midnight?’
‘Midnight might be a good time for my visit, I suspect.’
‘Very well.’ Jacques looked resigned. ‘Do you want me to drive you there, my lord?’
Raphael thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, that would draw too much attention. Find me a hackney cab, will you?’
Inside the house he was met by his English butler, Surtees, who’d worked for many years for the previous occupant. ‘My lord,’ Surtees said deferentially. ‘Do you require any refreshment? Food or brandy, maybe?’
Raphael found the man’s respectful manner a sharp contrast to the sometimes critical observations of Jacques. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m going out again.’
‘My lord.’ Surtees bowed and retreated, without a word of comment or rebuke.
* * *
Twenty minutes later Raphael, having exchanged his evening finery for a drab overcoat and low-crowned hat, was inside a cab and heading north-eastwards through the city until the driver pulled up in Clerkenwell. Raphael paid him and surveyed his surroundings, noting that the narrow, cobbled streets were lined with tall houses that were all in darkness at this hour—except for one, where candlelight glimmered from behind shuttered windows. Late though it was, two grimy-faced lads appeared as if from nowhere. ‘You after some pretty ladies, mister?’
‘Maybe,’ he answered.
They grinned knowingly and pointed to the shuttered house. ‘Lots of nice ones in there,’ the older one said. ‘Enjoy yourself, mister.’
Raphael went to rap hard on the door. It opened to reveal a big woman with a fierce face and stout arms folded across her ample bosom. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for someone,’ he said.
‘Female, I hope? Well, now. Pray come inside, sir. You like them fair or dark? Thin or plump?’
He followed her along a narrow, dimly lit hallway. And he said, ‘Have you any women here from Paris?’
‘Ha!’ She turned to face him. ‘Is that where your tastes lie? Let’s see what we can do for you, shall we?’
This place was like all the others he’d visited since arriving in London last year. It contained a series of small curtained chambers that smelled of cheap perfume, yet the madam in charge showed him round almost proudly, tugging back the curtains one by one. The women on display peered up at him, some curious and others bored. One tried to tempt him by tugging down her scanty bodice.
They weren’t French, any of them. ‘Don’t know about Paris,’ the madam said when he questioned her again. ‘But that one—’ she pointed ‘—knows quite a lot of Continental tricks—if that’s what you want.’
‘Are you ever offered French women?’ Raphael asked curtly.
‘I’m offered them from time to time, indeed.’ She shrugged. ‘But to be honest, I generally turn them down, see, because they’re usually scared and silly. Most of them don’t speak any English even. Trouble, they are, absolute trouble—believe me, you’d be far better with one of my ladies! Now, here’s Susan. She’ll keep a distinguished gent like you very happy—’
He cut in. ‘Do you know the names of the men who offer you these French women?’
‘I don’t ask their names, mister.’ She was looking defensive now. ‘But they’re doing those girls a favour, I’d say. Because surely those women are better off here than in their own God-forsaken country where innocent folks get murdered by the dozen every day!’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘So do you want any of my girls, or are you wasting my time?’
Raphael pressed his lips together. He said at last, ‘Maybe I’ve decided I’m not in the mood after all. Here’s money for your trouble.’
Her hard face softened only a little as he handed her the coins. She escorted him rather brusquely to the door and he set off towards Theobald’s Road in the hopes of finding another cab. ‘Imbécile. You should have paid your last driver to wait,’ he muttered grimly under his breath.
Raphael had never been particularly proud of himself. Born the younger son of a hugely privileged family, he’d risen in rank in the French army without having to fight a single battle. Together with his fellow officers, most of them aristocrats also, he’d been a dissolute pleasure-seeker—until the Revolution overturned the world he’d known. Two years ago he’d travelled home to Montpellier and arrived in time to see his family’s chateau engulfed by flames. Jacques, who’d been his servant in the army, had travelled with him; indeed, it was Jacques who had held him back from charging the brutes who’d fired the house.
‘No use, milord,’ Jacques had hissed in his ear. ‘There’s too many of the devils, even for you.’
Two long years ago—and still the memories cut through him like a knife. Those devils called themselves Revolutionaries, but they’d been naught but a drunken mob and, after beating his brother without pity, they’d left him to die amid the still-burning ruins.
Last autumn Raphael had arrived in London to be welcomed into the upper ranks of English society; or by most of its members at any rate, since he gave every appearance of being committed to a life of pleasure. He’d pretended not to care one jot for the violence engulfing his own homeland—indeed, he’d let it be assumed that he’d avoided the Revolution’s bloody aftermath by travelling through Europe and enjoying the high life in Vienna before moving on to London. Many of his new English friends, rakehells like Beaumaris, chuckled in agreement. ‘Wise of you, Lefevre. Very wise.’
Lady Serena had taken a different view, especially after that fateful dance. It was Jacques who’d first warned Raphael that she’d been openly criticising his conduct and asking questions about his past. ‘Has the man truly abandoned his responsibilities to his fellow countrymen?’ she’d declared. ‘Has he no shame?’
That was the moment he realised he had to act. To warn her he would tolerate her troublemaking no longer; hence his resolve to force her into this mockery of an alliance. He knew she would find it humiliating and he’d assured himself she deserved nothing less. But as his plan progressed, he felt several quite unexpected emotions. Sympathy. Admiration for her, even. And...desire?
No,
he told himself. Impossible, because Lady Serena’s chilly kind of beauty was, he assured himself, something he could easily resist. The fact that she hated him should even afford him some amusement. Lady Serena! people would chuckle. Lefevre, the rogue, has succeeded in charming the ice-cold Lady Serena!
Four weeks only. Yet as he finally managed to hail a cab and settled himself inside, he once more felt that tug of regret that they had to be enemies and she would end up hating him more than ever. But he warned himself to dismiss any such concerns as mere emotional nonsense, that a man who’d sworn a vow to his dying brother simply could not afford.
So the cab took him homewards through the midnight streets and he thought not of Serena, but of girls being brought to London unable to speak a word of English and ending up...where? In places like the house he’d just visited. The thought was unendurable. His resolve was renewed: he had to press on with his quest and Lady Serena, like anyone else who stood in his way, could have no hold whatsoever upon his emotions.
* * *
The morning after the ball Serena came downstairs to be greeted by flowers. Not just any flowers, either—it was as if a whole florist’s shop had been raided for its choicest, most exotic specimens. ‘Oh, ma’am,’ Mrs Penney and Martha exclaimed in delight as they arranged the jungle of blooms in various vases. ‘Aren’t they just beautiful? They must have cost a fortune!’
Serena felt as though her heart was beating rather unsteadily. ‘Yes. I suppose they must.’
‘And look, ma’am—here’s a note. Don’t you want to know who they’re from?’
Not really. Reading the note without expression, she put it down again. Raphael Lefevre, of course. ‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.’ The note was merely folded, not sealed, which was a deliberate ploy she was sure. He would know that all her servants would be aware the gift was from him and the news would spread swiftly around Mayfair.
Last night at the ball he’d said, ‘Everyone will come to the same conclusion—which is, of course, that the two of us can’t wait to get into bed together.’ The flowers would be yet another public confirmation of their mutual desire. Desperately Serena tried to rally herself. She would tell him when he next called that, although she had to endure his company, she didn’t want his gifts. She would point out that she disliked the strong perfume of hothouse flowers.
But he didn’t call, that day or the next. She had received several invitations for those evenings, but she refused all of them, telling herself she was all too happy to be on her own. Free of him. But she thought about him far too much. All the time, in fact.
That damnable, damnable man. What a tangle she was in. How difficult it was to think of anything—anyone—except Raphael Lefevre.
* * *
On Sunday she attended church in her brother’s company as usual. But as the two of them left after the service, George was side-tracked by the vicar and she realised that Jeremy Wolverton, who attended the same church, was making straight for her.
‘Lady Serena,’ he began, ‘I hope I didn’t upset you the other night at the Duke of Hamilton’s ball. But believe me, I was only thinking of your welfare! That man...’
‘I presume,’ she said, putting up her parasol against the midday sun, ‘that you are referring to the Marquis of Montpellier?’
‘Indeed. Who else? I apologise for briefly losing my self-control. But to see him in your company! Don’t you realise the risk you’re running?’
‘I thought,’ she replied, ‘that you might have heard by now how generous he’s recently been to our school.’
‘I did! But doesn’t this mean you are letting Lefevre buy your approval?’ Wolverton must have seen the sudden frostiness in her eyes because he went on quickly, ‘I’m sorry. I apologise. It’s only because my own feelings are involved that I—’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘At the risk of offending you yet again, I feel duty-bound to tell you that I consider Lefevre is not worthy to be seen in your company!’
‘I think your sense of duty is exceeding the bounds of civility,’ she answered. ‘Mr Wolverton, I really must move on, since I see my brother is waiting by his carriage to take me home. So unless there’s anything else...?’
He bowed. ‘My lady, I only wanted to assure you of my ardent friendship. Please remember that you can turn to me any time. Any time at all.’
She was aware of him watching her as she walked steadily over to George’s town carriage. Often she took Sunday lunch at her brother’s house, but today she asked him to take her straight home. ‘I hope you’re not seeing that fellow Lefevre this afternoon,’ said George as he settled inside the carriage with her.
‘No.’ She spoke tightly. ‘No, George, I’m not seeing him today.’
‘Or ever again, I hope.’ He was easing himself into his seat, then looked directly at her. ‘I heard some news about your friend the Marquis. He is, as I suspected, a cheat and a liar.’
Please, no. First Wolverton, now her brother. Her heart sank, but she managed to lift her eyebrows in mock amusement. ‘Why, George, isn’t that exactly what you’ve always thought him to be? This is hardly news, surely?’
George pointed a finger at her. ‘Listen, sister mine. Have you ever asked the man what kind of life he was living before he arrived in London last year? He abandoned his family estate years ago—everyone knows that.’
‘He was enjoying himself, I presume,’ she answered lightly. ‘I’ve heard that he spent some time living the high life in Vienna.’
George shook his head. ‘Not true!’
‘And how do you know that, pray?’
‘Because I was talking last night to a prominent Austrian nobleman, von Heidig, who’s here at present as a guest of Austria’s ambassador. He said that although many French aristocrats sought refuge in Vienna after the Revolution, the Marquis of Montpellier was definitely not among them. “Such a distinguished gentleman,” he said to me, “would surely not have escaped my notice.” Distinguished! Ha! So where was he, Serena? What other lies has he told everyone? How can you fall for his tricks?’
‘George,’ she said with a great effort at calmness, ‘I’ve no intention of falling for any man’s tricks, let alone Lefevre’s. He amuses me, that’s all.’
‘Very well. But I must express my strongest concern that you are associating with such a rogue and in my opinion—’
‘What is this?’ she broke in. ‘Why assume that the time Lefevre was supposed to be in Vienna was spent in knavery?’
‘Because the man is a scoundrel!’
‘I’ve seen no sign of it myself,’ she said quietly. She folded her hands over the reticule in her lap. ‘In addition to which, he’s been most generous to our school.’
‘Oh, so that’s how he’s getting around you, is it? I can’t believe you’re defending the man.’
She found she was trembling slightly. ‘I’d rather not speak of him any more. Please, George?’
George pressed his lips together and the rest of the journey to Curzon Street passed in silence. Serena was secretly horrified. Defending the Marquis. Was she really? She could hardly believe it. First Jeremy Wolverton and now her brother had told her this morning that she must not associate with Lefevre—and she’d defended him to both of them. She had to, she told herself rather shakily. She was in his power, because he knew about Mort’s blackmail and the reason for it. But there was something else.
She’d come to believe that she could reject any man’s advances without a second thought, but the Marquis was different. His kiss that night in Covent Garden had kindled something deep inside her, stirring up feelings of confusion and heat and, yes—need. At the ball, just his lightest caress had made her all too aware of the kinds of things she knew a woman should want from a man. And from the mocking curl of his lips whenever he looked at her, it was as if he knew it.
She reminded herself that she would survive this h
umiliation. She had faced worse, after all, thanks to the mistake of her marriage, which she’d endured for two long years without anyone except her closest friends guessing how unhappy she was. Lefevre told her she was too proud, but her pride was also her strength. So accustomed was she to guarding her emotions that she’d come to believe she was unassailable as far as men were concerned.
Until Raphael Lefevre had come into her life.
As soon as her own front door was closed behind her, she told Mrs Penney and Grinling, ‘Please inform anyone else who calls that I have a headache.’ But no one did call. The afternoon passed slowly; she found she could settle to nothing. And all day, the scent of those wretched flowers seemed to mock her.
* * *
The next morning she settled in her sunny front parlour and began the usual task of opening the day’s invitations, but her heart bumped to a stop when she opened a thick cream envelope and found inside a note from Raphael Lefevre. I trust you will accompany me to an exclusive event on Wednesday afternoon. Make sure you look your very best. I shall call for you at two.
She put it down on the table with a sharp snap. So he planned on another all too public display of their supposed infatuation, did he? And he was commanding her to look her best? She rose from her chair and walked fretfully to the window, then rang the bell for a servant. It was Grinling who arrived. ‘Ma’am?’
‘All those flowers that arrived the other day. Please have them taken to the local almshouse and ask if they would like them.’
‘But, ma’am...’
‘The scent is too strong, Grinling. I find they give me a headache.’
‘Ma’am.’ Her butler bowed.
‘Oh, and, Grinling! I shall not be in to any callers this afternoon.’
He looked surprised. ‘Ma’am. Had you forgotten your friends are due to arrive this afternoon?’