Lucien Tregellas (7 page)

‘Had?' queried Guy with an expression that bellied innocence.

‘Had, have, what's the difference?'

‘You tell me,' came Guy's rejoinder.

Lucien took a large swig of brandy. The liquid burned a satisfying trail down to his stomach. ‘I made my meaning clear enough to Farquharson.'

‘And what of Miss Langley? Did you make your meaning clear to her, too? Perhaps she has expectations following her waltz this evening. A girl like that can't have too many men hanging after her.'

Lucien took another gulp of brandy. ‘Miss Langley has no expectations of me.' He thought momentarily of Madeline Langley's clear nonjudgemental gaze, and a touch of tenderness twitched at his lips. The girl didn't have a conniving bone in her body.

‘News of your waltz with Miss Langley will be all over town by tomorrow afternoon, and you know what people will think.' Guy paused to take a delicate sip from his glass. ‘Dallying with a respectable girl can only mean one thing in their tawdry little minds—that you have finally decided to take a wife and beget an heir.'

‘Let them think what they will,' Lucien shrugged. ‘We both know that I have no intention of marrying, and as for the Tregellas heir…' Lucien raised his glass in the direction of his brother ‘…I'm looking at him. Hell will freeze over before I find myself in parson's trap.'

A peculiar smile hovered around Guy's mouth. ‘We'll see,' he said softly. ‘Only the devil or a fool tempts fate.'

 

Not so very far away in Brooks's Club on St James's Street, Cyril Farquharson was also sipping brandy. His attention was not on the small circle of fashionable gentlemen with whom he was sitting. Indeed, Lord Farquharson's thoughts were concerned with someone else entirely; and that someone was Miss Madeline Langley. The whores at Madame Fouet's had been meagre rations to feed his appetite. Five years was a long time to starve. He had grown tired of them. They were too willing, too coarse and worldly wise, and, even though they role-played otherwise, that fact detracted something from the experience for Farquharson. And he was tired too of Tregellas's constant watching, his constant waiting. Damn the man for curtailing the best of his pleasures. But Farquharson would be held in check no longer. He hungered for a gentlewoman, someone young and innocent and fearful, someone with that unique
je ne sais quoi;
in short, someone like Madeline Langley.

She had taken years in the finding, but Farquharson had known that Madeline was the one from the moment he had seen her. She was quiet and reserved and afraid of him, all the things he liked in a woman. He played with her, like a cat played with a mouse. He liked to see her discomfort when he stepped too close or lingered too long over her hand. He liked the way she tried to hide her fear and her futile efforts to avoid him. Dear, sweet, fearful Madeline. He meant to take his pleasure of her…in the worst possible way. If the empty-headed Mrs Langley was determined to dangle her delicious daughter before him in the hope of trapping him in marriage, who was he to refuse the bait? Cyril Farquharson was far too cunning to be caught. So he had enjoyed his game with Madeline Langley until Tregellas had entered the scene.

The interruption in the Theatre Royal during the play had been an irritation. Tregellas's dance with the girl at Lady Gilmour's ball went beyond that. It smacked of more than a desire to thwart Farquharson. Tregellas had not looked at a female in years, and now he had waltzed with the very woman that Farquharson held within his sights. Perhaps Tregellas had an interest in Miss Langley. There was an irony in that thought. Lord Farquharson mulled the matter over. By the time that he finished his brandy and headed for home, he knew just what he was going to do. In one fell swoop, not only would he secure Miss Langley to do with whatsoever he might please, but he would also effectively thwart any move that Tregellas might mean to make. And that idea appealed very much to Cyril Farquharson. He smiled at his own ingenuity and looked forward to Madeline Langley's reaction when she learned what he meant to do.

M
adeline did not see her father again until the next morning. All the night through she had lain awake, unable to find sleep; tossing and turning beneath the bedcovers, until her cheeks burned red with the worry of it all. Papa was well meaning, but he had no real appreciation of the malice contained in a man like Lord Farquharson. It seemed that Madeline could see the cruel grey eyes and the sneer stretched across Lord Farquharson's lips. Dear Lord in heaven, Papa didn't stand a chance! Lord Farquharson would dispense with her gentle father before Mr Langley had so much as taken his second breath. What good did Papa think that complaining would do? None, as far as Madeline could see. And God forbid that he took it into his head to challenge Lord Farquharson! She did not even know if her father owned a pair of duelling pistols. Papa was far too sensible to call Lord Farquharson out. Wasn't he?

The bed linen was very crumpled and Madeline very tired by the time morning came. The foggy dullness of her brain contrasted with the tense agitation of her body. She rose early, washed, dressed, took only the smallest cup of coffee and waited in the quiet little dining room, ignoring the heated salvers of ham and eggs. Her stomach was squeezed so tight by anxiety that even the smell of the food stirred a wave of nausea. It was not until after nine o'clock that her father finally appeared, with her mother in tow.

Mrs Langley was surprisingly calm in the light of what had yesterday been cited as the biggest catastrophe of the century. In fact, Madeline might even have gone so far as to say that her mother was looking rather pleased. At least Papa did not seem to have taken any hurts. His arm was not in a sling nor did he limp. His eyes were bagged with tiredness, but were not blackened from bruising. Indeed, he had not one visible scratch upon him. Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. Tension's hold slackened a little. ‘Papa!' she breathed. ‘Thank goodness you're safe.' She ran to him and placed her arms around him in a grateful embrace. ‘I was so worried.'

Mr Langley did not return Madeline's tremulous smile. Rather, he reached out a tired old hand and pulled her gently to him. ‘Madeline,' he said, and there was sadness in his voice.

Something was wrong. Madeline felt it immediately. She started back and stared up into his eyes. ‘What is it, Papa? What has happened?' It did not make sense. He was home, returned safely, hurt, it seemed, by nothing more than Farquharson's words. The first hint of apprehension wriggled down Madeline's spine. What had Lord Farquharson said? And then a worse thought made itself known. ‘You have not…killed him, have you?' she asked.

‘No, child.' Mr Langley shook his grizzled head. ‘Although, I begin to think that I would be better placed if I had.'

‘Then what…?'

Mrs Langley touched a hand to her husband's arm; she could no longer hide her smile. ‘Pray tell Madeline the good news, Mr Langley,' she said.

Madeline looked up into her father's face and waited for the words to fall.

‘Lord Farquharson apologised for his lapse of control. He said that his normal behaviour was overcome by the magnitude of his feelings for you.'

The first tentacles of dread enclosed around Madeline's heart. ‘And?' Her voice was nothing more than a cracked whisper.

‘He has offered to do the decent thing. Lord Farquharson wishes to marry you, Madeline.'

His words clattered harsh against the ensuing silence.

She stared at her father, resisting the enormity of what he had just said.

Mr Langley's palm dabbed against Madeline's back as if to salve the hurt he had just dealt her. ‘As a gentleman he should never have tried to compromise you. But the deed is done and he would redeem himself by making you his wife. He said it was ever his wish since first he saw you. I believe he does care for you, my dear. Perhaps in time you will come to be happy together.'

‘No.' Madeline shook her head. ‘No!' The word reverberated around the room. ‘I cannot marry him, Papa. I will not!'

Mrs Langley came forward then. ‘Your father has already agreed it. Lord Farquharson is already organising a party at which your betrothal will be announced. The invitations are to be written and sent today.'

‘The party can be cancelled.'

The smile wiped from Mrs Langley's face. ‘You see how she tortures me, Mr Langley!' she cried. ‘She would rather make fools of us before all of London than do as she is bid.'

None of it seemed real. They were but players upon a stage, mouthing lines that would wreck her life for ever. Madeline struggled to shake the thick fleece that clouded her thoughts. ‘Papa, please, I cannot do this.'

‘Madeline,' he said gently, and it seemed as if his heart were breaking. ‘If you really cannot bear to marry Lord Farquharson, then I am obliged to take other steps. He has impugned your honour. As your father, I cannot just sit back and let that happen. If word were to get out of your meeting with Farquharson in Lady Gilmour's bedchamber, then your reputation would be utterly tarnished, and even Angelina would not remain unharmed.' His eyes shuttered in anguish, and prised open again. ‘Either he marries you or I must call him out. The guilt is Farquharson's, not yours, never doubt that, my dear, but we both know that society will not view it that way, and I cannot let you suffer their persecution should the matter come to light.' His fingers fluttered against her hair, drawing her face up to look at him. ‘I will not force you to this marriage, Madeline. The choice is yours to make. If you truly cannot bear to have Farquharson as your husband, then so be it.'

Mrs Langley gripped at her husband's arm, pulling it away from Madeline. ‘Oh, Mr Langley, you cannot seriously mean to challenge his lordship?' Her voice rose in a panic. ‘Duelling is illegal…and dangerous. You might be killed!' She clung to him, tears springing to her eyes. ‘And what good would it do? Madeline's reputation will be ruined if she does not marry him, regardless of the outcome of any duel. I beg of you, Mr Langley, do not give her the choice. Madeline must wed him and be done with it.'

‘It is a matter of honour, Mrs Langley, and I shall not force her to wed against her will,' said Mr Langley.

Madeline's teeth clung to her lower lip. Her throat constricted ready to choke her. She would not cry. She would not.

‘You may have some little time to think on your decision, but if you decide against the marriage, Madeline, speed might yet prevent the sending of the invitations.'

Mrs Langley was tugging at her husband's hand. ‘No, Arthur, no, please!'

For Madeline there was, of course, no decision to be made. Marry Lord Farquharson, or have her father risk his life. The choice was not a difficult one, and in its making, a cold calm settled upon her. Tears and fear and anger would come later. For now, Madeline moved like an automaton.

Mr Langley turned to go.

‘Wait, Papa…' Madeline stayed him with a hand ‘…I've made my choice.'

Her father's kindly brown eyes looked down into hers.

‘I will marry Lord Farquharson.'

Mrs Langley's face uncrinkled.

‘Are you certain, my dear?' he asked.

‘Yes.' Such a little word to tilt the axis of the world.

An uncertain smile blossomed on Mrs Langley's face. ‘It will not be so bad, Madeline. You'll see. His lordship will make up for his mistakes, I'm sure he will.' She patted at her daughter's arm. ‘And he
is
a baron.'

Madeline barely felt her touch. Yes, Lord Farquharson would more than make up for his mistakes, just not in the way her mother thought. There had been nothing of care or affection in his eyes. Whatever he meant to do, Madeline knew that it would not be with her welfare or her wishes in mind. Neither would matter once she was his wife. He could do what he pleased with her then, and no one would mind in the slightest. Farquharson's wife. The ball of nausea within her stomach started to grow. ‘Please excuse me, Mama, Papa. I feel suddenly rather…tired.'

‘Of course, my dearest,' said Mrs Langley.

Her father looked drained, wrung out. ‘It's for the best,' he said.

Madeline tried to smile, tried to give him some small measure of false assurance, but her lips would do nothing but waver. ‘Yes,' she said again, and slipped quietly from the room.

 

‘Hell!' Earl Tregellas's curse drew the attention of several of the surrounding gentlemen dotted around the room.

‘Lucien?' Guy watched the rigidity grip Lucien's jaw and saw the telltale tightening of his lips. He leaned forward from his chair, all previous lounging forgotten, keen to know exactly what was printed in today's copy of
The Morning Post
that had wrought such a reaction from his brother. Lucien normally preferred to keep his emotions tightly in check in public.

Lucien Tregellas threw an insolent stare at those gentlemen in White's lounge area who were fool enough to be still expressing an interest. The grandfather clock over by the door ticked its languorous pace. A few newspapers rustled. The chink of porcelain and glass sounded. And the normal quiet drone of conversation resumed. ‘Come, Guy, I've a mind to get out of here.' He folded the newspaper in half and threw it nonchalantly on to the small occasional table by his elbow.

Both men rose, and, with their coffee still unfinished on the table, left the premises of White's gentlemen's club without so much as a backward glance.

Lucien's curricle was waiting outside, the horses impatiently striking up dust from the street. ‘Do you mind if we walk?'

Guy shook his head. Things must be bad.

A brief word to his tiger and Lucien's curricle was gone, leaving the brothers alone in the late winter's pale sunlight.

They walked off down St James's Street. ‘Well?' said Guy.

Lucien made no reply, just clenched his jaw tighter to check the unleashing of the rage that threatened to explode. To any that passed it would seem that Earl Tregellas was just out for a casual morning stroll with his brother. There was nothing in his demeanour to suggest that anything might be awry in his usual lifestyle. Lucien might disguise it well, but Guy was not indifferent to the tension simmering below the surface of his brother's relaxed exterior. That Lucien had failed to prevent his outburst in White's was not a good sign.

‘Are you going to tell me just what has you biting down on your jaw as if you were having a bullet extracted?'

Lucien's long stride faltered momentarily and then recovered. ‘Lord Farquharson entertained a small party last evening in Bloomsbury Square to announce his betrothal to Miss Madeline Langley, elder daughter of Mr Arthur Langley and Mrs Amelia Langley of Climington Street.'

Guy stopped dead on the spot. ‘He means to
marry
her?'

‘It would appear so.' There was a harshness in Lucien's features, an anger that would not be suppressed for long.

‘But why?' Guy turned a baffled expression upon Lucien.

‘Keep walking, Guy.' Lucien touched a hand briefly to his brother's arm.

‘Why not just turn his attention to another, easier target? By Hades, I would not have thought him to be so desperate for Miss Langley above all others. The girl has nothing particular to recommend her. She doesn't even look like—' Guy caught himself just in time. ‘Sorry, Lucien, didn't mean to…'

‘I warned him if he ever tried to strike again that I would be waiting. Perhaps he thought that I was bluffing, that I would just sit back and let him take Madeline Langley. I did not think he would resort to marriage to get his hands on her.'

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Guy slowly said, ‘Or he may have misinterpreted your defence of Miss Langley.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' snapped Lucien. ‘Why on earth would he think that I have any interest in the girl?'

Guy raised a wry eyebrow. ‘For the same reason that half of London did only yesterday.'

‘What else was I supposed to do? Watch him run his lecherous hands all over her? Let him force her to a dance she did not want…and more?'

‘It seems that Miss Langley has changed her opinion of Farquharson. She might not have wanted to dance then, but she wants to marry him now.'

Lucien thought of the fear and revulsion on Miss Langley's face as that brute had tried to force himself upon her; of her terror when she'd quite literally run straight into him on that servants' stairwell; and her loathing at the prospect of waltzing with Farquharson. ‘I cannot believe that it is so.'

‘There's nothing so fickle as women. You should know that, Lucien. Saying one thing, then changing their minds at the drop of a hat. It's amazing what the odd bauble or two can buy these days.'

‘Madeline Langley isn't like that. You've seen her, Guy. She isn't that sort of woman.'

‘Plain and puritanical maybe, Lucien, but still as likely to yield to temptation as any other. The Langleys are not wealthy. The pretty golden looks of the younger Langley chit are bound to catch her a husband. Not so with the elder Miss Langley. Perhaps she decided Farquharson was preferable to life as an old maid.'