‘Be honest with me, Harding. In recognition of all the years we share, if nothing else.’ Maldon leaned forward. ‘Am I going to make any headway here? Or am I fitfully pushing my prow against a tidal wave?’
‘A tidal wave is the very least of it.’ Harding looked briefly at the fire, before turning away from its heat. ‘Believe me.’
‘… Fine.’ Maldon was angry, there was no escaping it - but he also seemed to accept it. All Harding needed from his friend was acceptance of any kind. ‘Fine, Harding. Am I at least allowed to say that you will very probably regret it?’
‘Yes.’ Harding leaned forward, pinning Maldon with the weight of his gaze. ‘But not as much as you will regret repeating such a sentiment.’
With a disbelieving shake of the head, Maldon leaned back in his chair. After several long seconds, sighing, he nodded.
‘Then there is no point in me staying here. Is there?’
Harding smiled. ‘None whatsoever.’
He watched Maldon go, his fingers idly drifting over the arm of the chair. There was anger there, certainly—but it was the anger of a businessman, not the anger of a friend. Harding was determined not to consider the particulars of Matilda’s work, or the money that she had no doubt brought Maldon over the years. He knew that if he thought about it too deeply, he would feel a rage towards his friend that would never abate.
Matilda could keep working, if she wanted. Matilda could do anything she wanted. She could keep every pleasure, every friend, every…
… Yes. Friends. Harding waited in the silent room, knowing that the most difficult interview with one of his fellow dukes was yet to come.
It wasn’t long before Selby arrived. The man slipped into the room in complete, disquieting silence; Harding watched him, not wanting to interrupt. Observing Selby as he moved was always an education in athletic economy; wherever the man placed a limb, wherever he moved his head, was exactly where it needed to be.
The two men looked at everything in the room but one another for several careful minutes. Harding eventually cleared his throat, preparing to speak, before Selby opened his mouth.
‘I had some very strange news yesterday. Some of my eyes on the street saw something a little peculiar.’ Selby examined his nails, his voice determinedly light. ‘The gentleman who announced your proposal yesterday. Lord Featherstone. Something rather nasty happened to him, after the ball.’
‘Goodness.’ Harding turned to look at the fire, his tone so casual as to be dismissive. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. The poor chap was left in a terrible state. It looks as if he was set upon as he exited his carriage, and thrown bodily down the stairs at the back entrance to his town house. One leg broken, two broken ribs suspected… the man will be confined to his bed for a month. All because of some unseen attacker.’ Selby paused, a slight sigh in his throat. ‘It would be quite the scandal, if you hadn’t pipped him to the post.’
‘Yes. I imagine so.’ Harding looked back at Selby. ‘The ton will talk of anything.’
‘Yes. They will.’ Selby’s tone was considerably more knowing now. ‘Sometimes they talk too much. Perhaps Lord Featherstone was too… talkative.’
‘Perhaps.’ Harding reached for his glass of whisky, taking a short sip. ‘And perhaps, after this mishap, he will be a little less talkative.’
‘I have no doubt.’ Selby’s pause was significant. ‘And… and am I to share Lord Featherstone’s fate?’
The idea of speaking to Selby about Matilda, of requesting particulars of any kind, was far too painful to even contemplate. Harding waited, looking steadily at his old friend, hoping against hope that Selby’s legendary perception would win the day.
Selby smiled. Harding, even if he didn’t wanted to, let out a small sigh of relief.
‘Never a single spark, old man. Never a glimmer of a fragment of a flame. Like a younger sister to me—or better, a younger brother. We scheme, and concoct, and say terrible things about one another’s clothes.’ Selby slowly settled into his chair, cracking his knuckles as he relaxed. ‘A rare friendship. A comradeship, really. I have never wanted to bed her, and I think she would rather die before bedding me.’
‘Such a friendship is almost unheard of between a gentleman and… well… a lady like Matilda.’ Harding closed his eyes, trying to still his rapidly beating heart. ‘What caused you to seek such a friendship?’
‘Boredom. Maldon’s wedding was so frightfully loving in every respect—it made me want to do something unwise.’ Selby smiled, hesitating. ‘And… well… I imagine you are aware of what I do. Are you not?’
Harding slowly nodded. He hadn’t expected this conversation to stray into uncharted waters, namely Selby’s hidden career as a spy, but he supposed it made a queer sort of sense. With everything already violently upended when it came to the social order, Selby’s missions for the Crown were apparently up for open discussion. ‘I have certainly had an inkling. I doubt the other Bads have.’
‘They have not. Believe me.’ Selby seemed to relax further. ‘But Matilda knew straight away. Knew about as quickly as you did, in fact. And given her… her work…’
‘You can mention it, Selby.’ Harding smiled a little. ‘I am hardly unaware.’
‘Well. It brings her into contact with a great number of highly located gentlemen.’ Selby had the decency to look a little ashamed. ‘Gentlemen who could let certain things slip, when the whisky is flowing and a cool pillow is beneath their heads.’
‘Selby.’ Harding rolled his eyes, secretly relieved beyond measure. ‘Are you telling me that you are friends with Matilda because she may be able to provide you with incriminating information?’
‘Not precisely. Our friendship began for this reason—and I would very much like you not to reveal that to her.’ Selby looked uncomfortable. ‘But it has flourished, Harding, and deepened into a true meeting of allies. Determinedly platonic—although, if you wish to set limits on when and how we meet, I am more than willing to—’
‘No. I trust you implicitly.’ Harding nodded at Selby, who seemed to understand the true weight of the sentiment behind his words. ‘… Thank you.’
‘Thank you for listening to me.’ Selby smiled slightly. ‘And if you will permit me to say so, Harding… I congratulate you on your excellent match.’
Harding couldn’t help but smile. ‘You are the first person to congratulate me.’
‘The first, and the wisest.’ Selby’s smile grew wider. ‘You have made an excellent choice of bride.’
‘I thank you again.’ Harding bowed his head. ‘Now…’
‘Yes. I shall leave you alone.’ Selby rose to his feet, heading for the door. ‘And I will inform the rest of the Bads that we are to decamp to a chop-house for the night.’
Harding could only nod gratefully as his friend left the room. He had no appetite for company this evening; there was too much to mull over, to think and plan and worry… and to dream. Even though it was painful, he felt the need to dream a little.
Three of his household staff had given notice that morning, citing the moral laxity of their master as the primary reason for leaving. Harding had paid them the week’s wages, even writing glowing references for two of them despite his valet’s clear confusion. Everyone seemed confused about every aspect of his conduct… well, it was not his job to enlighten them, or make them feel better about the actions he took.
It was his job, he supposed, to think about Matilda. Matilda Weatherbrooke… soon to be Matilda Harding. His wife.
His second wife. But then, Harding rarely thought about his first wife. Elsa had certainly never wanted him to consider her when she was alive; she had loathed every one of his attentions, both physical and mental, preferring to find her pleasures elsewhere.
Matilda… Matilda. He had finally been able to protect her. To offer her something that could improve her life, or at least save her from ruin. A way of ensuring that her comforts and friends were safe, utterly safe, from the poisonous flood
of rumour.
Rumours would fall upon him, of course, but he almost welcomed them. The ton had never cared about his marriage to Elsa, even though the things she had said and done would have kept them occupied for centuries.
He had saved Matilda. Any other man would view this as a most fortunate transaction; a gain of a beautiful young woman in exchange for a meagre loss of reputation. A way of guaranteeing access to that beauty, and that warm, giving nature… but Harding was not any other man.
He drained his glass of whisky. As he placed the empty glass on the small table by the fire, a throb of dark, shameful agony ran through him.
He had indeed saved Matilda. In doing so, he had condemned himself. Condemned himself to being close to a woman he was violently infatuated with, without being able to take advantage of it.
He would never, ever, expect some sort of carnal reward from Matilda… and he would never, ever, take the obscene liberty of requesting it. He had watched her for so long. Wanted her for so long. And by finally getting her, he had given her up forever.
Softly shaking his head, Harding went looking for a fresh glass of whisky. Torture was going to be much more bearable, at least for the afternoon, if he remained mildly but persistently drunk.
At the Maldon family’s handsome London residence, more specifically in their modest but impeccably furnished drawing room, Matilda looked awkwardly at Poppy Grancourt. Ellen Maldon, whose smile was being held back with what looked like a considerable amount of difficulty, watched Matilda as she settled back on one of the plumped cushions of the sofa.
‘Do not worry. I had the most terrible trouble feeling comfortable in grand spaces after I first married Richard.’ She patted Matilda’s hand. ‘It just seemed foolish, going to speak in the kitchens as we always do.’
‘I am very happy that we do not have to keep speaking in kitchens.’ Poppy spoke bravely, but Matilda could tell that the poor young woman had no idea what to say. As a Maldon, she had been born much richer than both Ellen and Matilda had ever thought to aspire to. ‘If… there is anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable, dearest, do tell me.’
‘Nothing, dear Poppy. I am quite used to being in rooms as delightful as this.’ Matilda didn’t wish to add that she had normally seen such rooms in erotic contexts, most notably as a part of the infamous masked balls that the pleasure-house had become famous for, but she imagined that Poppy could make that mental leap on her own. ‘It… it is simply all most confoundedly odd.’
Odd was not the word for it. There were no words that had been invented for the situation in which she now found herself… but from the pile of newspapers on the small table in front of her, every writer in London had attempted to use all the words at their disposal. There were plenty of words that jumped out at Matilda as she quickly perused the text… widowed… ballerina… garden proposal…
Duchess. That was a word that caught her eye, chilling her to the bone. It was eclipsed, though, by the word that every writer had managed to use.
Scandal.
This was, in no uncertain terms, an absolutely enormous scandal.
‘Oh, Lord.’ Matilda covered her eyes with a cry of pure horror. ‘I shall never be able to leave this house.’
‘Now, now. You are exaggerating.’ Ellen eyed the pile of similar scandal sheets with a slight frown. ‘Although perhaps a month on the Continent would be a good idea.’
‘We would never be able to make our way to the ship. We would be besieged on every side by gossip-mongers of the worst kind.’ Matilda put a hand to her mouth, hardly realising that she was biting her thumbnail until Ellen gently stopped her. ‘The jokes, and the laughter, and the snide comments… oh, Lord. I have ruined the poor man without opening my mouth.’
‘You are worried about Harding’s reputation, and not yours?’ There was a slight twinkle in Ellen’s eye. ‘That is unusual for you.’
‘This is a decidedly unusual situation.’
‘Oh, yes. Undoubtedly. One month on the Continent should probably be three.’ Ellen pushed away the pile of scandal sheets with a decisive nod. ‘But remember that Harding is hardly the type to frequent London during the Season. Or frequent London at all, apart from spending time at his Club. The man leads a very quiet life.’
‘A dull life. You are trying to say a dull life.’ Matilda managed to summon up a rueful smile. ‘And yet, he has managed to twin himself with London’s most scandalous woman. A less perfect match cannot be imagined.’
‘Well… perhaps.’ There was a twinkle in Ellen’s eye that Matilda didn’t particularly like. ‘You know the old adage about opposites attracting.’
‘There are opposites, and there are people so profoundly different that they are practically different species.’ Matilda sighed. ‘I am surprised this hasn’t driven the poor man into an early grave.’
‘My goodness.’ Poppy rose from her chair, a note of concern in her voice. ‘Do you hear someone at the door?’
Matilda bit her lip. It couldn’t be a gossip-monger, or a curious friend; to all intents and purposes, she was meant to be on the other side of London. She had told the women at the Mayfair pleasure-house to spread the word far and wide that she was hidden away at her private lodgings, not at the Maldon townhouse. But a slip of the tongue was very common when money and scandal were involved… oh, Lord, she had managed to pull Poppy into this infernal mess as well…
‘Keep back.’ Ellen spoke warningly as they rose. ‘Let us see who it is before they can see you.’
Matilda nodded. Still, despite knowing that the reputation of the house was at stake, she couldn’t resist creeping behind her friends as they made their way to the entrance hall. Half-hiding behind a pillar, she watched the butler open the door… and step back, bowing slightly, as Brenda Hartwell entered.
Brenda Hartwell? What on earth was the most priggish, snobbish girl in London doing at the Maldon residence? Matilda stared at the girl with intense curiosity, noting the slightly disordered appearance of her clothes and hair, before ducking out of sight as Brenda turned.
‘Miss Hartwell.’ Ellen and Poppy both seemed as confused as Matilda did. ‘This… this is an unexpected pleasure.’
Matilda began to peek again as Brenda nodded tightly, her face full of a tension as odd as it was concerning. ‘I thank you, Your… Your Grace.’It clearly still offended Brenda’s sensibilities, using the title for Ellen. She looked about her, hands clenched tightly in her skirts—and stopped dead as she caught Matilda’s eye.
There was a moment of deeply portentous silence. Matilda wondered if the best thing to do would be to stridently bear any hurled slings and arrows, even if she felt like weeping. Brenda could be extremely cutting; she had said terrible things about Isabella Thurgood, a duchess, merely because she had felt slighted by the public nature of Isabella’s engagement…
When Brenda spoke, it was with a tone of surprising calm.
‘May… may I sit down?’
‘Of course. We were about to take tea in the drawing room.’ Gesturing at the curious butler, mouthing at him to bring another cup and saucer, Ellen and Poppy gently ushered Brenda into the gaily-decorated room as Matilda sat awkwardly in her chair. ‘Miss Hartwell… are you well?’
‘I…’ Brenda sat rigid in the chair, looking about her as if she couldn’t quite believe where she was. ‘Well, I… I…’
Matilda leaned forward, Ellen and Poppy doing the same. It was as if a storm was building in the localised atmosphere of the drawing room, thunder and lightning and rain, all behind the slightly unusual expression in Brenda Hartwell’s eyes.
Poppy’s voice shook. ‘Should I call a doctor, Miss Hartwell, or make a herbal preparation, or—’
‘How!’ Brenda’s exclamation rattled the window panes, her voice uncomfortably loud. ‘How did you all do it?’
‘Call a doctor? We have not called one yet.’ Matilda looked at Ellen, who shrugged. ‘There is an excellent physician two streets away, who—’
; ‘No! Not a doctor!’ Brenda was breathing hard, as if placed in a situation of great distress. ‘How… how on earth did all three of you find dukes?’
In the brief silence that followed, you could have heard a pin drop. Brenda, eventually speaking in a great, hurried rush, half-rose from her chair as she gestured wildly.
‘You were a governess!’ She pointed dramatically at Ellen, who blinked at the outburst of rudeness. ‘A governess! You were staff! Lady Abington says you were not even a particularly good governess! You were near thirty when His Grace saw you! You were working in a—in a house of ill-repute!’ Her shaking finger moved to Matilda, who leaned back in her chair. ‘You are working in the same house as her, in a decidedly illicit capacity! Everyone knows that the ballerina story is nonsense—you had been to two balls, in total, before His Grace found you last night! Lord knows what you did to him to secure an offer of marriage! And you…’ Her finger moved to Poppy, whose wide eyes seemed to speak for both Matilda and Ellen as well. ‘Well, you are slightly more explainable. You are the sister of a duke. But you had barely begun your second Season! You are all either unsuitable, or outclassed, or unpractised, or… or…’
Matilda leaned forward again. She realised, with a throb of pity, that Brenda was weeping. She saw Ellen gently rise, reaching for an embroidered napkin that sat on the tea-table.
‘... Why have I found no-one?’ Brenda was speaking more softly now, as if to herself alone. ‘I was thrown over, heartlessly… why have you all found someone, and I have found no-one at all? It… it is why I exist, to find someone, and… and…’
Her head falling forward, she began to sob in earnest. Matilda immediately stood, moving over to her; Poppy poured some tea into a cup, making it as milky as possible as Ellen offered the distraught woman the napkin. Brenda, apparently far beyond every appearance of decorum, cried noisily into the starched cloth as Poppy gently pressed the tea into her hands.
Private Passions Page 104