Lucien Tregellas (22 page)

Madeline bowed her head and tried not to be glad.

‘She was a very quiet and reserved young girl. Even though it was agreed that we would marry, Sarah had always longed to go to London and be presented for the Season. I saw no reason why she shouldn't do so. The winter had been hard that year and none of the family knew that my father's heart had weakened. I'd been in London only a fortnight when I received the news of his death.'

Madeline squeezed his hand. ‘I'm so sorry.'

Lucien gave a barely perceptible nod of the head and continued in the same controlled tone as before. ‘My parents didn't care for the town, preferring to spend their time here at Trethevyn. Naturally Guy and I returned with haste. My mother was distraught.' He glanced at her then. ‘Theirs had been a love match, you see.'

Madeline briefly touched her cheek to the back of the hand that was still wrapped around hers.

‘Sarah didn't return to Cornwall. She sent a letter expressing her condolences and carried on as before.'

‘Did you not mind?'

‘Not really. She was young and enjoying all that London had to offer.'

Sarah Wyatt also sounded to be a rather selfish young lady to Madeline's mind, but she held her tongue and did not offer her opinion.

‘It was two weeks after the funeral when the first rumours reached us. Cyril Farquharson had been seen too frequently in Sarah's company. Their behaviour was giving London something to gossip over. My mother insisted that she would manage and bade me return to London to speak to Sarah.'

‘So you went back.'

‘Yes, I went back to find that Sarah had been beguiled by Farquharson and was set upon marrying him.'

Madeline shivered. ‘She would willingly have wed him?' Her voice rang high with incredulity.

‘Indeed, yes,' replied Lucien with surprising calm. ‘She told me that I might sue her all I wished, but it would not convince her to marry me or stop her loving Farquharson.'

Madeline's jaw dropped open, her eyes opening wide. ‘Love? How could anyone love such a man?'

Lucien shrugged. ‘She barely knew him. It was not Farquharson that she loved, but the false image that he played her.'

‘What happened?' she whispered the question, wondering what was to follow. Sarah Wyatt was dead, of that she was sure. But by what means and had Lucien played any role in that terrible event?

The stark blue eyes moved to hers. ‘The time comes when I must confess my guilt, Madeline, for had I acted differently that night, things would not have unfolded in the same manner. Both Sarah and my mother would still be alive.'

Cold dread crept up Madeline's spine. Her teeth nipped at her bottom lip. She waited for what he would say.

The firelight flickered upon Lucien's face, casting sinister shadows across its hard angular planes. And still he said nothing. A log crackled, sending a cascade of sparks out on to the marble slabs.

‘What did you do?' Her throat was hoarse with aridity. It was the question she most feared to ask, and the one question she knew that she must.

‘I killed her,' he said softly.

Madeline's heart stopped. Breath trapped in her throat. Time shattered. Her eyes slid to him, gaped in horror at the stillness of his profile.

‘Or as good as,' he said, still staring into the flames as if he were locked into some nightmare of the past.

As good as?
A sigh of relief.
Then he hadn't, he didn't…
‘Tell me, Lucien,' and she pulled him round to face her. ‘Tell me,' she said again.

His eyes held hers. ‘I cast her out. Sent her to him, willingly. Told her that I would not sue her because I did not want her.' And still he faced her with defiance. ‘I didn't even call Farquharson out over it.'

‘But you shot him. I thought—'

He shook his head in denial. ‘That was later, after I knew what he had done to her.' The pain was clear upon his face. ‘I sent her to her death, Madeline. The guilt is mine.'

‘No! She loved him. She wanted to marry him. You did nothing wrong.'

‘She was a foolish, innocent young girl. What chance did she have against Farquharson? She couldn't have known what manner of man he was.'

‘Did you?'

‘There was always something unsavoury about him. But I did not know the extent of it. Not then.'

‘Lucien, what else could you have done? You couldn't have pushed her to a wedding she did not desire.' Clear honey eyes stared into pale blue. Both knowing that the conversation was overlapping on to more recent events.

‘Not even to protect her?' he said with a harsh cynical tone. ‘To save her life?'

The heavy beat of Madeline's heart thudded in her chest. ‘Like you did me,' she whispered.

‘Yes.' He raked a hand wearily through his hair. ‘Exactly like I did you.'

Only the slow ticks of the clock punctuated the silence.

‘How did she die?'

‘Horribly.'

The single word hung between them.

‘I don't understand.'

‘It's better that you don't.'

‘Lucien…' a wrinkle crept across her brow ‘…I should know it all, however bad it is.'

He sighed, and opened his palm beneath her hand. ‘Madeline, once you know there's no going back.'

‘Tell me,' she said again and laid her hand over his. ‘I'm your wife, Lucien, and nothing is going to change that.'

He gave a slight nod. ‘Very well. Cyril Farquharson—'

A knock sounded.

Madeline jumped. Lucien glanced round at the library door.

Another knock, slightly louder than the last.

‘Come in.'

The door opened to reveal Norton. ‘My apologies, m'lord. I know you didn't wish to be disturbed, but Lord Varington has just arrived. I've taken the liberty of placing him in the drawing room.' The butler gave a mild clearing-of-the-throat noise. ‘If I may be so bold as to observe that Lord Varington has come only with his man, and that his horses have been ridden long and hard.'

A prickle of foreboding traversed Lucien's scalp. ‘I'll come immediately,' was all that he said before turning to Madeline. ‘It appears that we must postpone our…conversation until another time.' He waited until the butler's footsteps receded into the distance. ‘Guy wouldn't have arrived unannounced, on horseback and at this time of night, if something wasn't wrong. Perhaps it would be better if you waited upstairs.'

He could see the look of hurt in her eyes. ‘My brother will not speak bluntly in front of you and I need to discover what's happened to bring him down here at such speed.' His fingers squeezed hers in a gesture of reassurance. ‘Guy hates the country. I can't remember the last time he left London.' He stood.

Madeline got to her feet. ‘Then matters must be serious.'

‘That's what I'm afraid of. Go up to your room…' he spoke gently, his hand still intertwined with hers ‘…I'll come to you later. We should finish what we've started this evening.' He stared into her eyes. ‘There will be time later to speak of it in full.'

‘Lucien.' She raised her face to his. ‘You will come…tonight, won't you?'

He traced the outline of her cheek with his thumb, regarding her with something akin to wonder.

‘Are you sure that you want me to? Perhaps it would be better kept until another time.'

She shook her head and, standing on the tips of her toes, reached up to place a shy kiss upon his mouth. ‘No. What happened with Farquharson wasn't your fault.' The thrum of her heart pulsed in her chest. ‘Tonight.' She pulled back to look into the cool blue pools of his eyes. ‘Please.'

‘I'll come to you tonight.'

Their lips touched, lingered together, parted reluctantly. Both knowing that it was not only the end of the story for which she was asking.

He followed her out, watched while the slender figure mounted the stairs. Subtle sway of her hips and rustle of silk. He breathed in the subtle scent of oranges that surrounded him, felt his heart swell with a long-forgotten tenderness, acknowledged that he wanted her, every last inch of her, from the heavy dark gold of her hair to the tips of her toes. Not only her body, but also her respect, her affection, her love. She did not blame him for the terror from across the years. Would she, once she knew it all? Lucien did not think so. Her belief in him eased the heavy burden of guilt. Her warmth thawed the ice in which he had been frozen. And the realisation that she wanted him was a salve to his soul. After tonight, the possibility of a divorce
a vinculo matrimonii
would be no more. A consummated marriage could not be nullified. But first there was the small matter of his brother.

‘W
hat were you doing speaking to him?' Lucien raked a hand through his hair, oblivious to the mayhem he was wreaking upon his valet's hard work.

Guy lounged back in the wing chair, swinging a muddy booted leg over the arm. ‘Your concentration seems to be elsewhere, Lucien,' he said. ‘I already told you, he approached me in White's. I couldn't very well break the bastard's jaw without drawing a smidgen of attention to the fact. Believe me when I say that I was tempted in the extreme. But I didn't want to give that snake any further fuel to burn upon the fire he's stoking.' Guy looked at his brother's face and took a swig of brandy. ‘You'd best prepare yourself, Lucien. The matter's not over.'

‘I never believed it was. I've been waiting for him to strike, watching closer with each passing day.'

‘Farquharson was ever the coward, Lucien. He's coming after you, all right, but not in the way that you think. He means to convince all of London that Madeline was an unwilling party in your marriage. He's been working on it since you left.'

Lucien paced the length of the small library. ‘Let him. Arthur Langley will vouch for his daughter's story. Madeline spoke before Farquharson and her father. She assured them of her willingness in the matter and confirmed the validity of the marriage.' A vision of a tousled-haired Madeline wrapped in his dressing-gown, asserting before both her father and Farquharson that she had married and bedded him because she loved him, swam into his mind. His heart swelled with tenderness. He'd be damned if he would let either man take her from him by whatever means.

Guy's leg ceased its lazy swing. ‘That may have been what she
said.
It's what she has
written
that is the problem.'

A sinking feeling started in Lucien's chest. ‘Go on.'

A short silence. Brother looked at brother. And Lucien knew that what Guy was about to say would change everything.

‘How certain are you of your wife, Lucien?'

‘What do you mean?' A dark frown drew his brows close. ‘She's the innocent in all of this mess.'

‘Is she really?' asked Guy softly.

‘What the hell are you getting at? Farquharson had her in his sights. I married her to protect her.'

‘And lure Farquharson to a confrontation.'

‘Yes, I admit it, that as well. None of us are safe until he's dead.'

‘And Farquharson isn't safe until you're out of the way either. You've never left him alone in all of these years. Everywhere he's gone you've dogged his steps, waiting for your chance.'

‘Ensuring that there would never be a repetition of what happened to us five years ago.'

‘You knew what you'd do if he found another woman, a woman like Sarah.'

‘You know that I did.'

‘While you were watching and waiting all those years, did it never occur to you that Farquharson might be hatching his own plan, to rid himself of you?'

Lucien looked into the eyes that were so like his own.

‘That he might use an “innocent little victim” to lure
you?
'

‘Are you saying that Farquharson never had any intention of marrying Madeline? That he deliberately set matters up to make it appear that he meant to?'

Guy's lip curled. ‘Knowing full well that you would rush to her rescue, even if it meant marrying her yourself.'

The coldness started in his toes and spread up through the core of his body. ‘Even if it was all a ploy, I still won't yield her to him. She's my wife now. He may have used her. I have no intention of doing the same.'

‘Even if she accuses you of abduction and begs him to rescue her.'

‘Don't be absurd! Madeline would never do such a thing.'

Guy set the empty glass down carefully on the table before standing to face his brother. ‘She already has,' he said quietly; retrieving the letter from his pocket, he handed it to his brother. ‘Farquharson has a copy and means to publish it unless you come to some kind of agreement with him within the next two weeks.' He placed a hand on Lucien's shoulder. ‘I'm sorry, but, with Madeline's assistance, Farquharson cannot fail to make you the villain of the piece while he comes out as the unfairly wronged victim of the whole affair, just as he did before.'

‘It's not possible.'

‘Oh, I assure you that not only is it possible, but that Farquharson and Madeline have their little plan well under way.'

‘Are you suggesting that Madeline is somehow complicit in this absurdity?' Lucien's eyes narrowed and everything about him stilled: the calm before the storm.

Guy squeezed Lucien's shoulder, his fingers conveying the sympathies that he knew his brother would never let him voice. ‘Farquharson bade me ask you if you appreciate her acting skills. Said he trained her himself. She's tricked you, Lucien. She's in league with that devil.'

‘You would believe
his
word?' Aggression snarled as Lucien batted Guy's hand away.

Guy dropped his hand loosely to his side. ‘Look at the letter, Lucien. It bears the Tregellas name and crest at the top of the paper. Even though the seal is broken, it is clear that it is yours. Unless you are in the habit of allowing Farquharson to use your writing desk, I fail to see how he could have faked such things.'

Guy refilled two glasses; the brandy spilled down the decanter, splashing unnoticed against the cherrywood of the table and over the base of the branched candlestick that sat behind it on the table. ‘Is the writing from Madeline's hand? Have you nothing against which you can compare it?'

‘No.' Then he remembered the letter lying on his desk to be sent; the letter she had written to her mother. Woodenly he moved towards the desk, taking the neatly folded paper up in his hands, dread and disbelief eating at him in equal measure. ‘A letter she would have me dispatch to Mrs Langley.'

Guy brought the branched candlestick close.

The two men looked from the incriminating letter to the neatly penned address on the letter to be franked. A short silence. The words did not need to be said—it was quite clear to see that the writing was identical in both cases.

Guy looked with saddened eyes towards his brother and nodded. ‘You had best check that the letter within is indeed to her mother.'

Lucien broke the seal, unfolded the paper, scanned the lines of small neat words that stacked tidily, one row upon another. ‘It's to Amelia Langley all right. Nothing in it that I would not expect her to say.'

A log crackled upon the fire.

‘She must have sneaked her letters to Farquharson through the village post. Your servants are loyal. It should be easy enough to find if anyone carried such a letter in recent weeks.' Guy emptied the contents of the glass down his throat. ‘I'm sorry, Lucien.'

‘Not as damned sorry as I am,' came the reply, as he settled down to read exactly what his wife had written to Cyril Farquharson.

 

He sat by the fire for an hour after Guy had gone to bed, trying to make sense of the words, following every avenue of hope, exploring alternative explanations for a letter written in his wife's hand, on his crested paper, and bearing his own seal. A letter that spoke of mistakes and distrust; that accused him of obsessive hate, verging on insanity. A letter that begged Farquharson's forgiveness and pleaded with him to rescue her from the clutches of a madman who held her prisoner. Had she not voiced the very same doubts on his honesty and his sanity earlier that evening? Lucien felt like his ribcage had been levered open and his heart ripped out. Surely Madeline's response to him, her passion, her warmth, could not have been feigned? Could it?

The brandy burned at his throat, searing a path down to his stomach, but did nothing to numb the pain. It was a raw pulsating hurt beyond anything that he ever thought to allow himself to feel again. This had to be Farquharson stirring trouble, seeking some way to blacken Madeline's name. What better way to damage both her and the man who had been his nemesis for so long? Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed it. The writing was that of Madeline's hand. But writing could be copied, words faked. The seal and paper were that of Tregellas. There were only two Tregellas seals: one adorned the ring fitted firmly on the third finger on Lucien's right hand, the other lay within the top drawer of his desk by the window. Damn Farquharson's eyes! Damn his soul! Guy was right. Quizzing of his staff would soon determine if a letter to Farquharson had left the house. With a heavy heart he pulled the bell and waited for Norton to appear.

 

Madeline curled her legs beneath her on the sofa and stared into the flickering flames in the centre of the fireplace. He would tell her the truth, she knew it instinctively. The story of how Sarah Wyatt had died. Madeline shuddered at the thought. But then again, Sarah had chosen Farquharson over Lucien. Quite how any woman could have come to make that choice was beyond her.

Lord Farquharson and Lord Tregellas. Two men at opposing ends of the spectrum. One gifted with pretty polished words that tripped too readily from his tongue. Red hair, creamy pale skin peppered with freckles, sharp grey eyes and a slim face that some considered handsome. Madeline could not agree. He reminded her of a fox, all slyness and cunning. The other man, a contrast of dark and light. White skin and pale blue eyes that could not fail to pierce the reserve of that upon which he fixed his focus. Classically sculpted features as handsome and as cold as those of the marble Greek god that represented the ideal of manly beauty. Scant of words. Austere. Hair as black as midnight and, if London was to be believed, a soul to match.

But therein lay the problem. Madeline could not believe it, indeed, had never believed the whispered rumours that fanned in his wake. The Wicked Earl, they called him, but when she looked into his eyes it was not wickedness that she saw, but pain and passion, kindness and consideration. Hidden deep behind his cold façade, but there all the same. Whatever Lucien Tregellas would have the world believe, he was a man who felt things deeply. Hadn't she seen the evidence with her own eyes? Felt the warmth of his arms around her, the strength of his determination, the tenderness in his eyes and the burning heat of his lips? It seemed that for all he said, her husband was not indifferent to her, that he didn't just want the unemotional bargain that he had set out that night in his coach in London, any more than she did. She remembered his words,
I'll come to you tonight.

Excitement tingled through her. He would tell her the truth and then he would kiss her. Without disgust. Without guilt. Only with gentle possession. He would kiss her until she felt hot and all of a tremble. Madeline smiled, knowing that there was a truth of her own to be told. She loved him. No matter what lies Farquharson sought to spread about him, no matter the chill of his veneer, she knew the warm tenderness of the man beneath it. She loved him. Tonight she would tell him. With a smile she picked up the discarded novel by her side and was soon immersed in the description of Mr Darcy proposing to Miss Elizabeth Bennett at the parsonage in Kent.

 

‘Are you certain, Norton? Might the boy not be mistaken as to the addressee? Can he even read?' Lucien thought he saw the hint of a flush touch the old butler's cheeks.

Mr Norton folded his hands behind his back and regarded his employer with his usual servile superiority. ‘Hayley is illiterate, m'lord. Lady Tregellas asked him to take the letter to the post office in the village right away. Hayley is sweet on her ladyship's maid, Betsy Porter, and he spent a few minutes in saying his farewells to her before attending to his errand.' Two silver-grey eyebrows raised marginally. ‘I noticed the letter lying upon the kitchen table on account of the person to whom it was addressed. Farquharson is a name I'm not likely ever to forget for the rest of my days, m'lord.'

Lucien touched a solitary finger to the hard square line of his jaw. ‘Did my wife ask anything else of Hayley with regard to the letter? Not to speak of it before me, for example?'

‘No, m'lord.' The old butler shook his head. ‘Nothing like that, but she did give him half a crown for his trouble.'

‘I see.'

‘Will that be all, m'lord?' Mr Norton did not like the dark brooding look that had settled upon his master's face.

‘Yes, thank you, Norton. You may retire for the night.'

Only when the butler had gone and the library door was firmly closed did Lucien allow himself to fully contemplate the impact of Madeline's dishonesty.

 

Madeline closed the last page of the book, well contented with the happy ending. Stretching out her back, she snuggled lower beneath the covers and watched the low flickering flame of her bedside candle. The clock struck midnight and a little furrow of worry creased between her brows. Guy's news must be bad indeed to keep Lucien so late. Momentarily she wondered what had brought LordVarington to Trethevyn with such speed. Lucien would tell her soon enough, when he came to her as he had promised. Madeline smiled at the thought. Soon he would lie beside her in the bed and tell her the rest of his story. She would kiss him and tell him that he was not to blame, that she loved him, that she would love him for ever.