The Widow's Scandalous Affair

by Lucy Ashford

  ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. As you asked, I’ve been searching for businesses that take on foreign workers—French workers, you specified. And I discovered there’s a garment factory in Mundy Street, Shoreditch, that makes clothes on the cheap. You know the kind of place.’

  Raphael certainly did. Those grim brick buildings spread themselves year by year across the north of the city to the fields beyond. They were built with the intention of making goods at the least possible cost and for the maximum profit of the owner.

  ‘And I’ve heard things about this factory,’ went on Dominic. ‘It seems the manager—his name is Turnbull—is particularly eager to hire poor French women who arrive in the city looking for work. Many of them are already skilled in needlework and he says that if they don’t speak English, they can’t cause any trouble. He also pays scandalously low wages. It might well be worth a visit.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning found Raphael standing outside the factory in Mundy Street. Several foundries and a large brick-making yard stood close by and beyond them were rows of workers’ cottages. Carts laden with raw materials filled the road and Raphael watched them a moment before heading inside the factory, where he approached a clerk who sat at a large desk.

  ‘Yes?’ The clerk rose to his feet. ‘May I assist you?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Raphael replied. ‘I’d like to know how swiftly this establishment could provide me with coats for the men who work in my offices in the city.’

  ‘Would that be many coats, sir?’

  ‘Three dozen? Maybe four?’

  The clerk was all ears. ‘In that case, I’ll take you to Mr Turnbull right away. Follow me.’

  Raphael found himself being led up some stairs to a huge open workroom, at the far end of which men were cutting out pieces of fabric with large shears, while nearer to him were rows of women stitching intently, never looking up from their work tables. Their concentration, he noted, was aided by the presence of three burly overseers who walked up and down the aisles, watching to make sure no one dared to pause in their labour.

  A rather stout man with a florid face and small, suspicious eyes came marching towards him. ‘I’m Elias Turnbull,’ he said. ‘Manager of this place. What’s your business?’

  Turnbull was as rough and ready in his speech as he was in his appearance. The clerk who’d accompanied Raphael spoke to him with nervous eagerness. ‘Mr Turnbull, this gentleman is enquiring if he can place an order for quite a number of gentlemen’s coats.’

  Turnbull’s expression softened, but only slightly. ‘Depends when you want them, of course. And what quality of cloth and so forth. Any order could take upwards of three to four weeks, since we’re mighty busy here. Though I suppose I could get these sluts to work a little harder.’

  Raphael looked at the women he was pointing to, bent over their sewing tables while those men tramped up and down making sure they never rested. The sluts. He guessed they’d be paid pennies for long hours of working their fingers to the bone. They were absolutely silent now, but as he’d come in he’d heard them whispering to each other—until the overseers marched up to them and brusquely told them to get on with their work.

  Which they did. But for just those few moments, he’d noted their speech.

  He said casually to Turnbull, ‘I see you have some French women working for you. So they come knocking at your door, do they? For work like this?’

  The man’s expression changed instantly. ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘None whatsoever. I was merely commenting on the fact that you employ foreigners.’

  ‘And they’re glad of the work! These Frenchies, they spend their last coins on their passage to England. Then they reach London with no money and nowhere to live and they’re mighty grateful, you understand?’

  ‘Is that why you feel justified in offering them starvation wages?’

  The hovering clerk shrank back in dismay. Turnbull squared up to Raphael. ‘Are you a government man? Or some other kind of busybody? They get honest wages for an honest day’s work!’ He looked over at the women and snorted with contempt before turning back to Raphael. ‘Now, do you want to place this order of yours or not? I tell you, you won’t get a better price!’

  Raphael took one last look at the women bent over their sewing tables. ‘Perhaps I don’t want to place my custom here after all.’

  ‘Give me patience. As if I’m not busy enough without time-wasting tricks like yours...’

  Turnbull’s voice faded as Raphael drew closer. ‘Are you saying, perhaps, that you want further dealings with me?’

  ‘No,’ the man stuttered. ‘No offence meant, sir, I’m sure.’

  ‘Wise of you,’ Raphael answered softly. ‘I’m leaving now. But before I go...’ He walked purposefully towards the women at their sewing tables, ignoring the menacing overseers. ‘Mesdames.’ He spoke in French. ‘Do any of you know anything at all about a French lady called Madeleine, who I believe arrived in London a year ago and may have been looking for work? She’s around twenty-five and slim, with long dark hair and blue eyes.’

  One of the older women looked up. ‘Monsieur. There was indeed a Madeleine. She came to work here last summer, but she was taken away—because she was very pretty, you see.’

  Raphael found his pulse was thumping. ‘Taken where? And by whom?’

  ‘By some men. They visit regularly, to look over any new girls and pick out the pretty ones. And then, poor things, we never see them again.’

  Turnbull had come up behind him and Raphael headed out, his brain whirling.

  * * *

  The following Sunday Serena went to church as usual. Since George had travelled up to the Yorkshire estate for a few days, she took lunch on her own and afterwards settled in her first-floor sitting room, supposedly studying some household bills that her steward had presented to her. But in reality, she was gazing out of the window that overlooked her rose-filled back garden and daydreaming—until Mrs Penney came hurrying upstairs, all of a bustle.

  ‘My lady, it’s the Marquis! Oh, my goodness, and you weren’t expecting him—’

  She broke off, because Raphael had followed Mrs Penney into the room. And after making a polite bow, he said, ‘My lady. You told me the other day you would love to visit Richmond Park again. I wondered if you might enjoy a drive out there this afternoon?’

  He’s remembered, she thought rather breathlessly. He’s remembered. The blue sky had been taunting her all morning. The thought of green open spaces and rural pathways made her heart leap. As did he, she warned herself, for he looked ridiculously handsome in his caped driving coat of dark grey and for once, that mocking look appeared to have vanished from his eyes. Yes, he looked as calm and confident as usual, but his expression was almost warm as he waited for her answer. Mrs Penney had beaten a hasty retreat, closing the door behind her. It was four days since that visit to the school and it dismayed her how much she’d missed him.

  ‘I rather think I would enjoy the drive, Monsieur Lefevre,’ she answered at last. ‘Would you give me a few minutes to prepare myself?’

  * * *

  Soon they were heading out of London under a sparkling blue sky. Raphael was driving the curricle himself and Serena resolved to let all her cares evaporate for the moment. She had always adored Richmond Park, but to Lionel rural scenes were only of interest if you were either shooting game or riding with the hunt.

  Forget Lionel. Her spirits rose as they left London’s busy streets behind and when the grassy slopes and majestic woodlands of the park came into view, she leaned forward and clasped her hands in delight.

  She could see that Raphael was smiling. ‘Like Yorkshire, I think you said?’

  ‘Indeed.’ She glanced at him shyly. ‘Only a little warmer. And what about you? Where you grew up, in France—there must have been countryside?’

  �
�Oh, acres of it,’ he said casually. ‘But I can’t say I yearn after it. Which is just as well.’

  After that he was silent and Serena asked no questions, because she didn’t want to break the spell that had somehow descended on them. The sun glittered on the birch saplings and fronds of unfurling bracken. The ancient groves with their bright new leaves were alive with the sounds of birdsong and in the distance a herd of deer were moving like a ripple of light along a ridge of higher ground.

  Then suddenly, as the track led them out of a dusky copse, she heard a scrabbling sound to her left and caught sight of something struggling in a thicket of brambles. ‘Raphael. Stop. Please! There’s an animal trapped in there. I think it might be a young deer!’

  He’d already pulled up and was putting the reins in her hands. ‘Hold them steady,’ he said as he climbed down to head for the stricken animal. Her heart in her mouth, she watched as he carefully drew away the tangle of brambles with his gloved hands and calmed the fawn’s desperate struggles. At last it was free and, when Raphael set it on safer ground, it scampered off towards the distant herd.

  She couldn’t help it. When he climbed back into the driver’s seat she clasped his hand and blurted out, ‘Oh, my goodness. Thank you! The poor thing might have died if you hadn’t saved it!’

  He shrugged. ‘Anyone else would have done the same. Wouldn’t they?’

  She let go of his hand and said, in a different voice, ‘Certainly, Lionel would have freed it. But only because he’d think it would make good sport for the huntsmen once it was grown.’

  Raphael was still watching her. ‘I’ve no time for hunting myself.’

  ‘No?’ She was surprised—it was such a popular pastime with men of all ranks.

  ‘No. My father was obsessed. He and his friends would hunt or shoot any creature that moved. I prefer a more equal battle myself.’ He pointed into the distance. ‘There’s the little fellow now, see? Back with the others. He’ll have forgotten all about his adventure soon.’

  ‘But I won’t,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Shall we drive on?’

  And so they completed their tour of the park while Serena tried to occupy her mind with the lush scenery. But her heart was full of emotion. If only. If only he and I had not become enemies from the start.

  What Raphael was thinking she had no idea, because again he was almost silent except to point out any wild creature or bird that might be of interest to her. Only once did he make a more personal comment, when they were setting off home. The sun was losing just a little of its warmth by then and he halted the carriage so he could help her to wrap her silk shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘Forgive me for mentioning it,’ he said, his hands lingering on her arms just for a moment. ‘But I can’t help thinking your husband was an almighty fool to value you so lightly.’

  A sudden, bone-deep longing crushed her. If only, she thought again. She shook her head firmly. ‘No. Perhaps Lionel was right.’ She looked up at Raphael. ‘I was so very young when I married him, you see. I fear I was quite foolish.’ And still am, she told herself in anguish. Because what did she want at that very moment? What had she been thinking of during this idyllic afternoon?

  She wanted him to kiss her. And something stupidly impulsive inside her made her say, ‘Raphael, I’ve truly enjoyed this afternoon. And I want you to know that I find it hard to believe all the things that are said about you.’

  A shadow crossed his face then. ‘Lady Serena, I took you to Richmond this afternoon as a way of thanking you for the patience with which you’ve borne my deeply unchivalrous conduct towards you since that night in Covent Garden. But I’m afraid you would be wise to believe everything—and I mean everything—that’s said about me.’

  Her heart plummeted. Now, there was a warning indeed. ‘Oh, but I do believe everything,’ she said lightly. ‘Don’t worry, Monsieur Lefevre. I’m not in any danger of joining the ranks of your female admirers, numerous though they are.’

  He bowed his head, giving that slightly sardonic smile of his.

  * * *

  From then on their conversation was light. Trivial. He drove them back through the crowded streets of London and pulled the carriage up outside her door. ‘I won’t come in,’ he told her.

  Already one of her footmen was emerging to assist her. She stepped down from the curricle and a moment later it was setting off down the road. She stood there just for a moment before at last turning to go inside. I am quite calm, she told herself as Mrs Penney and Martha fussed over her, taking her pelisse and bonnet and exclaiming over what a lovely outing she must have had. I know he is using me. I know he feels nothing for me.

  But she had begun to hope and perhaps to dream; though now, thanks to his warning to believe everything that was said about him, the whole golden afternoon was tarnished. Her emotions were in turmoil. She liked to think she was stronger by far than the girl who’d married Lionel; she’d vowed to herself that never again would she fall under the spell of any man. Yet what had happened?

  She’d believed that Raphael Lefevre bore exactly the same faults as her dead husband. He was arrogant, he was vain and he expected women to fall at his feet. She’d thought he was someone she could easily despise. But more and more he was weaving his dark magic over her body and her mind. She knew he was merely amusing himself by having her in his power. Getting his revenge for her insults. But goodness, how her treacherous body longed for him. How she longed to be kissed by him, and wickedly caressed...

  She was so angry with herself she wanted to cry.

  Raphael was a blue-blooded aristocrat who’d escaped France with his fortune intact, enabling him to lead a life devoted to pleasure. But remembering his gentleness with that trapped deer had driven a fresh arrow deep into her heart. The Marquis, some kind of hero? Impossible! Yet this afternoon—like at the charity school—she could have sworn she was in the company not of a philanderer, but someone of honesty, of integrity, who occasionally revealed an inner sadness in his soul that made her ache to comfort him. Ridiculous of her, because he was still the man who’d forced her into four weeks of...what? Of hell, she’d thought at first. Of utter humiliation. Yet now all she could think was how empty her life would be after the four weeks were over.

  * * *

  As for Raphael, he drove home in a state of cold rage with himself. You must tell her soon, he kept saying under his breath. You must explain to her what your true purpose is in London. But it was still impossible. There were good reasons why he hadn’t yet confided in anyone except Jacques and Dominic. He could not let anyone else in on his secrets, until Madeleine was found. Until Madeleine was truly safe.

  * * *

  As the days went by, Serena found that Raphael’s behaviour towards her was meticulously polite and he always kept his distance. But try as she might, she found she was beginning to await his arrival at her house with a sense of tingling anticipation and was starting to miss him when he left. It’s because he makes me feel alive, she told herself—and perhaps anything was better than the emptiness she’d endured as her marriage took its weary toll.

  In the evenings they attended parties together, while on fine afternoons he drove her round Hyde Park. When it rained, they visited more galleries or attended chamber music concerts and soon people grew used to seeing them together; indeed, Serena almost persuaded herself that she was playing her part with skill, listening to Raphael’s words with close attention in public, even teasing him lightly now and then over some point he’d made.

  When they were surrounded by company, she was able to banish any dangerous thoughts, especially since he never touched her except to lightly hold her as they danced at some grand ball. But at night when she was in her bed, she would think of him in other ways. Dangerous ways, which reflected the yearning she experienced when she found herself looking at his strong hands or his tantalising lips,
imagining them touching her and caressing her in ways she shouldn’t be thinking of. Imagining that powerful, all too male body close to hers, intimate with hers even...

  She reminded herself that of course Raphael must find her unattractive, as her husband had done. Prim. Tight-laced. Those were just some of the words Lionel had used. And as she’d heard them, day after day, she’d come to believe they must be true. But in Raphael’s company, she felt as if her senses had been woken from a deep, deep slumber—though it was to no avail whatsoever, because soon, their brief alliance would be over.

  As the month of May came to an end and June took over, golden sunshine and cerulean blue skies greeted Londoners day after day. Prominent figures of the ton gathered in the Park each afternoon and whenever she was there with Raphael, they were welcomed as London’s newest, most fashionable couple. ‘Lady Serena! Monsieur le Marquis! A fine day today, is it not? How very well you look, Lady Serena!’

  She did—she knew she did—her mirror told her so—and it was because he was casting his spell over her.

  In public, she could cope. In private it was another story, because as soon as she was alone she couldn’t help but sink her head in her hands in despair. How could the lightest touch of his hand have the power to shake her so badly? How could the way he looked at her sometimes—thoughtful, almost regretful—arouse in her a longing that almost forced her to recognise her secret yearning for their relationship to be something other than mere play-acting? More and more she was starting to think, Surely he cannot be the rakehell everyone thinks him to be?

  But of course he was, she reminded herself bitterly. He’d pushed her into this charade of a relationship in order to get his revenge for the many stupid ways in which she’d tried to denigrate him in the past. Dear God, the physical desire she felt for him was muddling her brain. She had to keep believing he was a worthless pleasure seeker, because to let the relationship go any further made her shockingly vulnerable to yet more heartache. Only her friend Joanna guessed at the torment she was in.