Society's Most Scandalous Rake

Carmela nodded silent approval and he continued persuasively, ‘The breeze will keep us cool and we should easily find sufficient shade to enjoy our meal.’

She said nothing, but her expression was downcast. Her father, though, was not to be defeated. ‘Just you and I,’ he coaxed.

She did not wish to disappoint him, but shrank at the idea of walking on the Downs, or indeed anywhere in the vicinity. What she wanted most was to hide away—from the duchess, from Moncaster and particularly from Joshua Marchmain. Every time she stepped outside the door, she risked meeting with one or other of them. Brighton was not a large town.

‘If that is too far for you, we could take a short walk through the Lanes.’ Alfredo would not be dissuaded, and she saw how concerned he was. ‘It’s not good, Domino, to be confined in these four walls for too long.’

She knew he was right. Eventually she would have to emerge from her refuge and face whatever or whoever came her way. She was compounding her folly at Steine House with even greater folly. And showing a drastic lack of spirit too, she castigated herself. She needed to regain her usual vitality and show the world that she was ashamed of nothing. She could do that, must do that. If she met Charlotte Severn, she would smile and curtsy and leave it to the other woman to set the tone. If she met Lord Moncaster, her father would be there to defend her. And if she met Joshua—but she would not, she was sure. She had been shut away in Marine Parade for nearly a week and had heard nothing of him. He had his own tight little circle and would not have noticed her absence from the social scene.

‘I need to change my books at the library, Papa,’ she offered, ‘and if you are agreeable we could walk there.’

The library she patronised, one of the many that were dotted across Brighton, was in the west of the town and would furnish a satisfying stroll. On the way, there was the distraction of any number of tempting shop windows filled with exquisite silks and laces, almost certainly smuggled from France. She chose her dress with care, searching for as plain a gown as possible, and ended by donning a simple but stylish jaconet muslin. Once out of the house, she kept her eyes lowered beneath the deep brim of her straw bonnet, but she need not have worried, for the ton were out of town that day it seemed, enjoying themselves elsewhere. They walked through near-deserted streets while her father told her of his trip to London and the worrying news from Spain.

‘A change of government usually means a change of everything else,’ he confided to her. ‘I am no longer certain of my position. It could be that I am recalled to Madrid very soon and perhaps reassigned elsewhere. I am sorry, if that happens, querida. Your holiday by the sea will come to an abrupt end.’

She squeezed his arm reassuringly, but felt a tremor of foreboding. Leaving Brighton would mean separation from her father when they had so recently been reunited. It would mean an inevitable return to Spain and the future that awaited her. The life she had agreed upon just a few weeks ago seemed increasingly dreary. Nothing had changed and yet everything seemed different. She was still pondering this paradox when they arrived at the fashionable new subscription library, which fronted the western end of the promenade.

Usually its coffee rooms and lounges were filled with residents and fashionable visitors but, as with the rest of the town today, it was nearly empty. A few ladies were browsing the bookshelves and a small card game was in play at one end of the smallest saloon. Another gentleman was busy sifting through music sheets, evidently keen to find something new for the musical evening he was planning.

‘All at the Race Ground,’ he explained succinctly when Alfredo mentioned the scarcity of people. ‘The Regent’s Cup today, y’ know. Big prize money.’

‘I wish we had known …’ her father turned to Domino ‘… you would have enjoyed the meeting. That’s what comes of staying too close to home.’

She could only feel gratitude that her father had not heard the news. At the race course she would have been sure to see everyone that she most wished to avoid.

Thirty minutes of browsing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves secured a neat pile of small volumes and they made ready to leave. They were almost out of the door when her father spied a tattered poster taped insecurely to the wall.

‘Look, Domino, Henry Angelo has set up a new fencing academy here in Brighton. I was tempted in London to try a lesson or two with him.’

She could not help but smile. Her father’s physique in middle age was hardly conducive to fencing.

‘Why do you smile, little one? You think I couldn’t do it?’

‘No, Papa, I am sure you could, but wouldn’t you prefer to watch rather than participate?’

‘Perhaps you are right, though in my youth I was a match for anyone.’

‘Yes?’

‘I actually beat the legendary Don Roderiguez.’

She looked questioningly.

‘You wouldn’t know of him. It was well before you were born, but he was worshipped in Madrid for his skill. I took him on as a wager and nobody expected me to win, but I did.’

‘And Don Roderiguez?’

‘I have to admit that he was probably not quite himself. I managed to fight him after a particularly boisterous party.’

They both laughed and she said wistfully, ‘Gentlemen are so lucky; they have many channels for their energy. All we have is embroidery or the pianoforte.’

‘I don’t notice either of those featuring heavily in your life, my dear.’

‘Exactly, Papa, that is just what I mean. Fencing would be far more enjoyable.’

And it would get rid of some of my restlessness, she thought, even perhaps beat the blue-devils that have been plaguing me. Yes, men were lucky. A woman had simply to sit, to watch and to wait.

Unbeknown to her, Alfredo had taken note of his daughter’s interest and promptly committed to memory the address of the new fencing school. He would arrange a small treat for her. Lately she had seemed unusually dejected. He knew the evening at Steine House had not gone to plan, but he was in the dark about his daughter’s true state of mind. Anything that would distract her could only be good.

So it was that Henry Angelo had an early morning visitor the next day. The request was unusual and certainly unconventional, but he had a business to establish and an ambassador was too important a personage to offend in these early days. His school had already attracted the attention of those members of the ton spending the summer in Brighton, but Señor de Silva could prove useful in bringing new clients from the diplomatic circles in which he moved.

Summoned to an early breakfast, Domino found her father already at the table, seething with barely suppressed excitement.

‘What have you been doing, Papa?’ she asked guardedly. ‘You look like a naughty schoolboy.’

‘This morning I have important papers to clear, but this afternoon, Domino, we are to play truant together!’

‘And Carmela?’ Her cousin had not yet put in an appearance.

‘Carmela and playing truant are not compatible, I think.’ Señor de Silva smiled happily. ‘This is just for you and me.’

‘Not a picnic on the Downs?’ she asked in some alarm. Despite her resolve to be brave, she still feared places where she risked meeting the world and his wife.

‘No, no picnic. The wind today is far too strong even for the English to eat outdoors.’

Through the windows she saw the grey surf breaking harshly on the sea wall and spilling through the iron railings that defended the promenade. A few hardy souls, determined to complete their daily constitutional, were making their slow progress along the seafront. They were bent nearly double as they headed into the fierce wind, clutching wildly at flying garments.

‘Then indoors somewhere?’

‘Indeed. But you must probe no further. It is to be a great surprise!’

She had hoped to spend the day curled on the sofa reading some of the library’s offerings, but it was evident that Alfredo had made special plans and she was sufficiently intrigued to hurry upstairs after a modest nuncheon and change her dress. Choosing suitable raiment proved difficult, for she had no idea where she was going. Eventually she settled on a primrose sarsenet flounced with French trimmings: modest enough for an informal outing, yet not too plain. She quickly threaded a matching primrose ribbon through a tangle of black curls and joined her father in the hall.

‘We will go by carriage,’ he announced as Marston battled to hold the front door ajar. ‘The weather is far too rough to walk.’

Soon they were bowling past fishermen painting boats that had been pulled high on to the beach, past their women tending the nets and then past Mahomed’s much-patronised Vapour Baths, until they reached the end of East Cliff. The imposing mansions that lined the road gradually became far less in number as they travelled eastwards, but just before they reached open countryside the carriage pulled up at a small establishment tucked between two much larger white-washed dwellings. An arched wooden door painted in luminescent green beckoned a greeting and, even before they had taken a step out of the vehicle, a sprightly, dark-haired man bounded out to greet them.