Christina Hollis (24 page)

She dressed to spite Philip this time, not to please him. Ice-blue ribbons threading her curls matched her tiny dancing slippers and gloves exactly. A new Roman-style gown in the blue watered silk drifted about her form with delicate elegance. If not dressed to kill, then Madeleine intended to seriously disarm.

Betsy had to use a little more rouge on her than was usual. This alarmed Mistress Constance, who was concerned that her companion might also be ailing. Madeleine laughed off their questions, although she wasn’t in the least amused.

At seven o’clock, Mistress Constance gave the order for their carriage to be made ready.

They travelled to the ball at a jolly pace, but again Madeleine did not squeal with delight as they racketed over the bumps.

She spent the whole journey staring out of the window, and Mistress Constance became even more concerned.

One part of Madeleine was secretly hoping that Philip would catch them up on the road. Another part wished that she would never have to see him again.

It was impossible. The best Madeleine could hope for was the strength of will to be as flippant as she had been on that last morning, over breakfast.

Somehow, she knew that would elude her.

They reached the assembly rooms at twenty minutes past eight o’clock. Madeleine had her first chance to dazzle when they handed their stoles to the attendant. Always imagining Kitty’s excesses, Madeleine merely smiled in a winning way and thanked the staff graciously before floating off towards the ladies’ room.

‘An excellent entrance, my dear! Every head in the vestibule turned!’

Mistress Constance was delighted. It was all Madeleine could do to give her a faint smile, despite the compliment.

They entered the room set aside for the use of ladies, blinking in a brightness of candles. One brittle little voice chimed out over the noise and excitement.

‘Oh—Mistress Constance! And Madeleine!’ Kitty swept forward and greeted them both with theatrical kisses. To her surprise Madeleine actually felt a sudden pang of sorrow for Kitty. Philip would soon dash all her father’s plans into dust by marrying Leonora, and, unless Michael came to rescue her, Kitty would have nothing.

As Kitty fluttered kisses over Madeleine, she was hugged rather more meaningfully than usual. Unable to cope with her merry chatter, Madeleine bolted for the door and the safe companionship of Mistress Constance as soon as possible.

She could not face telling Kitty of the announcement to come, but Albert Pettigrew was not backward in coming forward to claim her for the first dance.

‘How delightful that Master Philip should choose the assembly ball to announce his intentions,’ she began. An unnaturally bright flush flooded into her cheeks as Pettigrew squeezed her far too tightly in a turn.

He beamed and perspired and held Madeleine even closer until her warmth and his were mingled uncomfortably.

‘What announcement’s that, then? Don’t say he’s scooting off to the colonies like his rascally brother?’

‘Why, no, sir. Quite the opposite. Tonight he is to announce his engagement to Miss Leonora Wright, I believe.’

Pettigrew’s expression froze. As the dance swept to a conclusion he was silent for the longest interval Madeleine had ever known. He even forgot to whisper his usual, supposedly witty request for French lessons.

Madeleine was grateful for that. If nothing else had come out of the sorry business, then perhaps Albert Pettigrew might stop pestering her. Then all she would have to worry about was the horrible Pickersgill.

Little did Madeleine know that revenge over spoiled plans was to be as dreadful as it was sudden.

Kitty did not emerge into the assembly. Madeleine wondered if she had been taken home after the news, but Albert Pettigrew was still haunting the outskirts of society at the refreshments table. Sizing up other men as prospective sons-in-law already? Madeleine wondered bitterly.

Her dance-card was full before Mistress Constance had introduced her to even half of the assembly, but all Madeleine could think of was the forthcoming announcement Philip was to make. That evening not even dancing managed to dull her pain. She smiled and skipped and clapped with the best of them, but it was all done to hide her brittle heart.

Every eligible young man—and some of the ones who were spoken for—danced with Madeleine, complimenting her on her appearance and dancing. She thanked them all prettily enough, but would have exchanged all the compliments in the whole world for a few of those precious moments alone with Philip in the orchard at Willowbury.

The dances swirled on, pastel shades of silk and muslin fondant-soft beneath the flickering candelabra. Only one of Madeleine’s partners had a topic of conversation other than that of Madeleine herself, and that was Sir Edwin Pickersgill.

Quite innocent of the hold he had over Philip, Mistress Constance was only too eager to have Madeleine dance with their neighbour. As he jostled her toward the lines of dancers, Madeleine had to suffer a great many clumsily disguised caresses. She wondered how long it would be before Pickersgill suggested one particular way she might reduce Philip’s debt to him.

When it came, the amazing thing was that Pickersgill considered it a novel idea, and was quite put out at her refusal.

‘I—could make things very—uncomfortable for young Adamson...’ he wheezed, an evil grin distorting his already grotesque features. Madeleine skipped around him in the dance, taking care not to be too light on his feet as she did so.

‘Why?’

Others dancers swung between them. When Madeleine was next within reach, a now purple-faced Pickersgill hissed like a kettle with fury.

‘Why? I’ll tell you why, miss! Not only do I know all about your nocturnal carryings-on, but he owes me a great deal of money. Unless you and I come to some arrangement...’ Here he leered at her, and Madeleine didn’t need to be told what sort of an arrangement Pickersgill had in mind.

‘Go on, Sir Edwin. I’m all ears!’

For a moment Pickersgill was taken aback. Perspiration was streaming down his sagging jowls. Madeleine worried that he might go off pop with the exertion of dancing. Much as she hated him, she didn’t like to think of waistcoat buttons flying in all directions like shot from a fowling piece.

‘Would you be very offended if I asked to be excused the rest of this dance, sir?’ She fluttered her fan delicately, hoping to get rid of him. ‘I fear with all this heat and excitement...’

Unfortunately, Sir Edwin only scented victory close at hand. He followed her from the dance-floor, one hand stuck to the small of her back.

He allowed himself to be generous now his plan was running smoothly. ‘There’s a good girl. We’ll take some lemonade out on to the terrace, and I’ll show you how you can be of help to your—er—”friend” Mr Adamson...’

Madeleine accepted the lemonade, but to Pickersgill’s dismay would not venture out into the gardens.

‘Oh, I’d rather stay in here, sir!’ she said brightly as he persisted. ‘After all, it isn’t as though you have anything to say that could possibly offend the company, is it?’

Fingering his waistcoat buttons, Sir Edwin Pickersgill huffed and puffed. Mopping his brow ostentatiously, he complained of the heat. Madeleine would not be tempted.

There was a disgruntled pause as Pickersgill waited for the crowds about them to thin out. Suddenly he seized Madeleine by the arm so savagely, she had to stifle a cry. Several people turned at the small sound, but Sir Edwin obscured his hold on her by turning her arm behind her back.

‘I don’t know why you’re playing the innocent. I’ll finish Adamson unless you do as I say—what are you, anyway? Nothing but a wanton, I’ll be bound!’

Madeleine tried to twist from his grasp, but the thought of making a scene and shaming Mistress Constance was worse than anything Pickersgill could do. She held out but he persisted, pouring hot, spirit-soaked breath all over her.

‘Everybody knows! All you foreign women are the same—harlots!’

A disturbance over at the doorway disrupted his flow. It was the arrival of the Reverend Mr Wright, Leonora and Philip. Madeleine looked away pointedly as the three newcomers became the centre of an excited knot of merrymakers.

‘Seems young Adamson prefers the company of a country parson and his girl tonight. Gives himself a powerful lot of airs and graces for a man that owes as much as he does to Pettigrew and me! Damn it—I’ve got a good mind to ruin him here and now! I could, and you with him too. Unless...’ His grip on Madeleine’s arm loosened a little. ‘Unless you were to be a good girl... What do you say, mademoiselle?’

The prickling of tears in Madeleine’s eyes and at the back of her throat made speech almost impossible. A figure materialised before her. It was her partner for the next dance, and Pickersgill realised he could restrain her no longer without making a scene. She could escape.

Shaking off his hand, Madeleine looked down at her dance-card. The names blurred and swam before her eyes.

‘Can’t you see the lady’s in distress, boy?’ Sir Edwin growled at Madeleine’s prospective partner, trying to frighten him off. Slipping his arm about Madeleine, he gave her a sly squeeze. ‘Come along, my pet. Let me take your mind off that wretched Adamson. Taking up with that mousy little Wright girl—he’s just toying with your affections! He’s using you—but we can sort him out, you and I. You can tell me all about it.’

His crude threats might have worked on a real lady, but Madeleine knew all about Sir Edwin Pickersgill’s type. She knew better than to cave in to his demands or wheedling words. Blackmailers were never content when they had once tasted success.

Shaking off his grasp, Madeleine knuckled her eyes, dampening her blue lace mittens. She no longer cared. Looking up at puny Augustus Urchfont, who had come to claim her company for the next dance, she smiled and extended her hand to him.

‘Wait, mademoiselle!’

Urchfont jumped back as Pickersgill lurched forward.

‘It will soon be common knowledge that Adamson has ruined you,’ he whispered slyly. ‘If you want to strike the first blow against him to save your reputation, I can help you. I’m a lawyer.’

His voice dropped still further. ‘My charges are exorbitant, sweetheart, but you and I might still come to some little arrangement of our own...’

Madeleine looked across to where her dear Philip was enjoying a joke with Leonora and her father. Yes, Philip Adamson has ruined me, Madeleine thought. But not in the base way that Sir Edwin Pickersgill thinks. He’s prevented me from being free to love anyone else, ever again.

Still Pickersgill persisted.

‘My sources say that he thinks of you as his wife in all but name.’

Madeleine laughed bitterly. ‘Then your sources are mistaken, sir. Why, he never thinks of me at all!’ Then her expression turned to one of pure hatred. ‘And as for making any “arrangements” with you, sir—I’d rather lie down and die!’

She pinned on a brave face and stepped forward to join her waiting partner.

Augustus Urchfont had been unable to hear the exchange, but he could sense Madeleine’s distress. Generally accepted as being chaos unleashed on the dance-floor, he was already apprehensive. When he added this to the fact that all eyes were on his attractive partner, he was reduced to near panic.

Madeleine had to forget her own distress and try to help Urchfont out of his.

She managed to wrestle him through a minuet without inflicting too much damage upon their companions, but all were relieved when the ordeal was over.

Brushing aside Urchfont’s stammered apologies, Madeleine wondered how to get rid of him while still avoiding Pickersgill. Mistress Constance was chattering away to Leonora. Casting about the room, Madeleine realised that there were very few people there she knew well enough to talk to, and two of them were Pickersgill and Pettigrew.

Jack was to be her next partner, and with sudden relief Madeleine saw him forging across the dance-floor to join her. He was all smiles, which increased as Philip appeared from nowhere to stand at her side. He was glaring at Urchfont, who wilted visibly.

‘Is this person annoying you, Mademoiselle Madeleine?’ Philip said.

‘Not at all. Sir Edwin was managing that quite nicely earlier on, sir, but you were involved with Miss Leonora at the time,’ she said meaningfully.

Madeleine and Philip looked at each other. He has no soul, she thought in despair, to stand here tormenting me so.

He cleared his throat and inclined his head stiffly.

‘In a dress like that you must receive a thousand compliments.’ He glanced at the dance-card suspended from her wrist. ‘And nearly as many partners.’

Madeleine snapped, brittle at the thought of losing him before she had ever gained him, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, my dear mademoiselle!’ He held up his hands, white waterfalls of lace foaming brightly against the black linen of his jacket. A new, unusually fashionable waistcoat glittered mockingly in the candlelight. ‘Only that I had intended to claim you for the next dance.’

Jack arrived with smiles to edge the gaping Augustus Urchfont away from the danger area.

Madeleine could not take her eyes from Philip’s face.

‘You never dance,’ she said slowly.

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘Jack’s booked for the new minuet.’ Madeleine was becoming uncomfortably flustered. Why didn’t Philip dance with Leonora if he felt so lively?

‘Oh—if you’re willing, Mademoiselle Madeleine, I think I’ll let Phil get away with stealing my partner just this once!’

Jack took her hand and placed it solemnly into the care of his friend.

‘Master Jack! I haven’t said I’ll—’

The orchestra struck a chord.

‘That’s what friends are for,’ Philp said smugly. He was grinning at Jack, who replied in kind.

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I only want to see what sort of a fool you’re going to make of yourself on the dance-floor, friend!’

They took their places, and the dance began. Quietly, Madeleine tried to warn Philip of the mood Pickersgill was in, while still smiling prettily at the other dancers. It was very difficult. Even if her heart had not been breaking already, Philip’s stiff and silent attitude would have upset her concentration.