Mr Langley inhaled loudly.
Madeline’s face paled.
‘You’ll find out soon enough, Tregellas,’ said Cyril Farquharson, making his way towards the door. ‘And as for you, my sweet …’ his gaze lingered over Madeline ‘… you had better start praying. He’s not named the Wicked Earl for nothing. You’ll rue the day you cast me over for him.’ Farquharson peered round at Arthur Langley. ‘Come along, Mr Langley,’ he instructed. ‘There is nothing more than can be done this night.’
Mr Langley cast one last glance at his daughter and then followed. The last Madeline saw of her father was his face, pale and haggard and filled with hurt. The door banged and Mr Langley and Lord Farquharson were gone.
Lucien stood alone at the library window, the heavy burgundy curtains closed around his back. From the room behind came three chimes of the clock. The night sky was a clear inky blue; a waxing moon hung high amidst a smattering of tiny stars. The orangey-yellow glow of the street lamps showed the road to be empty aside from the sparkling coating of frost. Across the square the houses sat serene and dark, not even a chink of light escaping their windows. It seemed that all of London was asleep, all curled in their beds. The hectic humdrum of life had ceased—for now. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled; it was a lonely eerie sound that resonated all the way through to Lucien’s bones. It struck a chord. Lucien knew what it was to be lonely.
His thoughts shifted to the woman that lay upstairs: Lady Tregellas, his wife. It had been Madeline who had saved the evening, Madeline who had convinced Farquharson and her father that the marriage was real. He heard again her words, I married him because I love him. Such a quiet voice, but so strong in conviction that he had almost believed her himself. God only knew how much he wished it could be true. That any woman could love the man he had become: the man from whom God-fearing women fled, the man whose name was used to frighten naughty children into doing what they were told. It was something he would not ask of Madeline. He had promised her safety and that is exactly what he would give. The bargain they had agreed did not include anything else.
A marriage to ease the terrible guilt that had gnawed day and night at his soul these past five years. A marriage to bring Farquharson to his knees once and for all. That was all he wanted. The memory of Madeline’s small soft hand slipping into his, the sweet smell that surrounded her, the feel of that long silky hair beneath his fingers. Lucien shut his eyes against it. Such thoughts were not allowed. He could not. He would not. She deserved better than that. He parted the curtains to move back into the library, refilled his brandy glass, sat down in his favourite wing chair, and waited for the rest of the night to pass.
Madeline lay in the great four-poster bed in the bedchamber of the wife of Earl Tregellas. She had tossed and turned and sighed, and still sleep would not come. Wife. The word refused to enter her brain. Legally she was Lucien’s wife. In the eyes of God and the Church she was his wife. But she didn’t feel it. She still felt like plain Miss Madeline Langley, the same as she was yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. It was only the world around her that had changed. The threat of Farquharson had vanished. Mama, Papa and Angelina were fast asleep on the other side of town. Her own bed in the little bedchamber in Climington Street was empty while she lay here alone.
Her eyes travelled again to the mahogany door in the wall that separated her bedchamber from Lucien’s. Was he asleep? Did the fact that he was now married mean anything to him? Anything other than a means to bait Farquharson, and protect herself? She wondered why her safety and Farquharson’s demise meant so much to him, enough to marry a woman far beneath him, who was so plain as to have been unable to engage a single gentleman’s attention, save for Cyril Farquharson. But then again, Lucien barely knew her enough to stand up for a dance, let alone care if she suffered under Farquharson’s hands. And she barely knew him.
He had called Farquharson a murderer and said that her own life was at risk, so much so that he had been prepared to hold her hostage overnight to ensure her agreement to a marriage he promised would protect her. He had underestimated her loathing of Lord Farquharson if he thought that necessary. Madeline had the feeling that she had stepped inside something very dark where there were no answers to her questions. Maybe the answers lay with the woman that Farquharson had killed, if, indeed, Lucien had been telling the truth.
Madeline shivered. She thought of those ice-blue eyes and the cold handsome perfection of his looks. Thought, too, of the heat of his touch and the warmth in his voice. And of how his relief had washed over her as he wrapped her in his arms out in the hallway, and the gratitude in his eyes when he faced her after Farquharson and her papa had gone. No, Madeline thought, she had not escaped unchanged at all. Lucien Tregellas had awakened something deep within her. And that something was not part of their arrangement. A marriage of convenience, he had called it. A marriage to suit them both. Better this a thousand times over than facing Farquharson. It was the escape of which she could only have dreamt. She should have been basking in cosy contentment. But she wasn’t. When she finally found sleep, it was with the thought of the strong dark man who had made himself her husband.
The following morning Madeline and Lucien sat at opposite sides of the round breakfast table in the morning room. Sunshine flooded in through the windows, lighting the room with a clear pale clarity. The smells of eggs and ham, chops and warm bread rolls pervaded the air. Lucien poured a strong brown liquid into her cup, added a dash of cream, and soon the aroma of coffee was all that filled Madeline’s nostrils.
‘Did you sleep well?’ The answer was plain to see in her wan cheeks and the dark circles below her eyes, but he asked the question anyway.
Madeline nodded politely. ‘Yes, thank you. And you?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ he lied.
An awkward little silence followed.
‘Would you care for some eggs, or a chop, perhaps?’
‘No, thank you. The coffee will suffice.’ She gave a small half-smile and looked around the room, unsure of what to say next.
Lucien helped himself to some ham and rolls. ‘I was thinking,’ he said.
Madeline’s eyes wandered back to him.
‘Perhaps it would be better if we went away for a short while. It would let the worst of the gossip die down and allow your parents to grow accustomed to the idea of our marriage.’
‘Go away where?’ she asked.
Steam rose from Lucien’s coffee cup. ‘I have an estate in Cornwall. The house is close to Bodmin Moor and not so very far from the coast. There is not much shopping, but you could have a mantua maker take your measurements before we leave and have whatever you wish sent down from London.’ Lucien paused, trying to think of something else with which to make Cornwall sound enticing to a woman. ‘There is also the latest fashion for sea bathing in which you might care to indulge, and a very pretty beach at Whitesand Bay.’ He omitted to mention the positively arctic temperature of the sea at this time of year.
Shopping? Sea bathing? Madeline tried to look pleased. ‘It sounds very nice.’
Lucien continued, ‘There are frequent house parties in the locality and assembly rooms in the town of Bodmin some few miles away.’ Fourteen miles to be precise, but he did not want to put Madeline off.
‘For how long would we be away?’ She sipped at her coffee, cradling the cup between her hands as if it were some small delicate bird.
Lucien gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. ‘A few weeks,’ he said nonchalantly.
‘Very well.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I have nothing to take with me save the clothes I am wearing.’ She smoothed her hand a little self-consciously over the skirt of the evening dress she had been wearing at Almack’s last night; the dress in which he had married her.
Then he remembered what had happened to the tapes in his haste to remove that same dress. Something inside him tightened. Surreptitiously his eyes travelled to her neckline and sleeves. Nothing seemed to be amiss. He wondered if he ought to make an excuse to view the back of her, and thought better of it. ‘That can soon be remedied. Buy anything that you like, as much as you want, whatever the cost. Two days should suffice to make your purchases. We’ll leave the day after.’
‘I was not … I didn’t mean that you should …’ A delicate pink washed her cheeks.
A slight frown marred Lucien’s brow. ‘Then you do not wish to go?’
‘Yes,’ she said looking at him a little embarrassed. ‘I want to go to Cornwall. It’s just that … my requirements are not what you seem to think. I would like—’
‘More days to shop?’
‘Oh, no.’ Heaven forbid.
‘Then what?’
She bit at her bottom lip. ‘Nothing.’
Nothing? He looked at her expectantly.
‘I had better go and get ready. Such a long day ahead.’ She flashed a brief smile and escaped out of the morning room in a flurry of steps.
It was only when she had gone that it dawned on Lucien that Madeline was as ready as she would ever be, for she didn’t even have a pelisse or a bonnet in which to dress before facing the world.
Madeline sat across from the maid and the footman in the Tregellas carriage on the way back from a truly horrendous day’s shopping. It seemed that either Mama or Lord Farquharson had lost no time in ensuring that all of London had been apprised of the fact that she had eloped with Earl Tregellas. No one else had known and the notice of their marriage would not be published in The Times until tomorrow. Not that anyone had actually said anything directly to her face. Indeed, most people did not know who she was. But even so there were several speculative glances, a few hushed whispers and one episode of finger pointing. Mrs Griffiths in Little Ryder Street, studiously polite, gave no hint of knowing that her customer was at the centre of the latest scandal sweeping the city and furnished her with the bulk of her clothing requirements very happily. Brief visits to the perfumery in St James’s Street and Mr Fox’s in King Street went in much the same way. Only when in Mr Rowtcliff’s, the shoemaker, did she actually hear anything that was being said. Two robustly large ladies were deep in conversation as she arrived.
‘Abducted a girl clean from beneath her mother’s nose,’ said the shorter and ruddier of the two.
‘And forced her to a wedding,’ nodded the other. ‘He has a soul as black as Lucifer’s, that one.’
The smaller woman screwed up her face. ‘Who is she? Does anyone know yet?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied her friend. ‘Plain little thing by the name of Miss Langley. That is, Miss Langley the elder. Got a pretty sister by all accounts. Heaven knows why he didn’t take her instead. Not quite the thing, the Langleys. House in Climington Street.’
The women exchanged a knowing look before continuing on their way, none the wiser that Madeline Langley had just witnessed every word that passed their lips.
Mr Rowtcliff and his assistant Mrs Phipps hurried back through, each with an armful of shoes and boots. ‘Of course, my lady, once we make your own shoes up they will fit like a glove. These are just some that we have that may pass in the meantime.’
Madeline bit down hard on her lip, pushed the women’s cruel words from her mind and chose some footwear as quickly as she could.
The clock struck three and still Cyril Farquharson had not roused himself from his bed. It was not that he was sleeping. Indeed, he had not slept at all since returning home from Tregellas’s townhouse last night. Anger had ensured that. The boiling of his blood had diminished to a simmer. At least now he could think beyond the desire to grind Tregellas’s face into the dirt. The Earl had outwitted him, snatching the girl to an elopement before Farquharson had realised his intent. And Farquharson’s best-laid plans lay in ruins. Madeline Langley would not be his. Her tender innocent flesh belonged to Tregellas now.
He had dismissed his initial instinct to call Tregellas out and kill him. Farquharson was no fool. Tregellas was bigger, stronger, his aim truer, his shot straighter. In a one-on-one confrontation, Tregellas would always win, just as he had won their duel five years ago. Farquharson’s leg still carried the scars to prove it. But one victory did not win the war. There were better means to that, underhand means that involved stealth and bribery and corruption. Farquharson had ever relied on others’ stupidity and greed.
Stealing Farquharson’s betrothed from beneath her mama’s nose at Almack’s was a stroke of genius. Even through his anger, Farquharson had to admire Tregellas’s move. It was an action worthy of Farquharson himself. And it sent a message loud and clear. Farquharson knew what this was about. Hadn’t he always known? A mirror of past events. Farquharson smiled. No, he would not call Tregellas out. There were easier ways to catch the Earl. He thought of Madeline Langley and the way that her hand trembled beneath his. He thought too of the fear in her pretty amber eyes and how she struggled within his grip. He wanted her and he would have her, and the fact she was Tregellas’s wife would serve to make the experience all the sweeter. After five long years, the game had begun in earnest once more.