Lucien Tregellas (15 page)

Madeline was left with reassurances from Betsy that she only needed to ring and the maid would be straight there. If Betsy and Mrs Babcock were anything to judge by, it seemed that perhaps Trethevyn's staff were a great deal more welcoming than its master. ‘Betsy, please can you send up some—'

But Betsy had gone.

Madeline jumped up and half-ran out the door to catch the maid, but of Betsy there was no sign. She'd drink her tea and then ring for warm water to wash in, giving poor Betsy time to catch her breath. She left the door ajar and went to pour the tea. A hot cup of tea and she would feel much better…perhaps.

 

‘Max, come back here at once,' Lucien bellowed. ‘Confound that blasted dog!' Lucien strode out of the library, dressed casually in only his shirt and waistcoat. The superfine black coat lay disregarded upon the library chair. ‘Back five minutes and the hound deserts me,' he told an amused-looking Mrs Babcock, who just happened to be hobbling past the library at the time.

‘Dear, oh, dear,' she said, casting a beady eye over the dark circles beneath his lordship's eyes and the stubborn tilt to his chin. ‘Whyever that might be I just wouldn't know.' She surveyed the new leanness to his face and the tiny worry line that always appeared between his brows when he was at his most aggrieved…and wondered. ‘Savin' that you look like you've been suckin' lemons. Bad journey down from London, was it?'

Lucien's glare would have had most other women beating a hasty and apologetic retreat.

Mrs Babcock was made of sterner stuff. ‘Surprised you haven't frightened that poor girl to death if you've been glarin' at her like that.'

‘Mrs Babcock…' began Lucien with indignant pomposity.

Obviously a raw nerve had been touched if his lordship had abandoned the use of her pet name in favour of full formality. Mrs Babcock placed her hands on her ample hips and sniffed. ‘Now, don't you Mrs Babcock me, m'lord. That dog's not daft. Knows a sourpuss when he sees one and seeks out better company up them stairs.' Mrs Babcock shook her head. ‘Cook's down there makin' you your favourite apple puddin' an' all and you're up here with a face like thunder.'

‘Did you say Max ran upstairs?'

‘Disappearin' up there like he'd caught the scent of a rabbit, he was.'

Lucien raked a hand through his hair. ‘But Madeline's up there and you know how Max hates strangers.'

Mrs Babcock chuckled, ‘Nearly took Lady Radford's hand off the last time she called.' She delivered Lucien a hefty pat on the arm. ‘Now don't you worry, her ladyship's door will be shut. He won't get into her room. And besides, don't you think we would have heard by now if it wasn't?'

Earl Tregellas's face was still creased into a frown. ‘True. But the dog's too quiet. No doubt up to something he shouldn't be. I'd best find him.'

‘Dinner at five, m'lord,' said Mrs Babcock, and limped off in the direction of the kitchen.

Blasted dog. Probably chewing on his favourite top boots. Ten years hadn't diminished Max's taste for good-quality leather. Lucien took the stairs two at a time, reaching the upper landing in a matter of seconds. He scanned the corridor running in both directions. Thankfully the door to his own room appeared to be closed. Indeed, every other door along both passageways seemed to be in the same position, save for one. And that was the door that led into the bedchamber of the Countess Tregellas. A sudden trepidation gripped Lucien. ‘Max!' he shouted and hurried down the length of the hallway to reach the room. He thrust the door open and barged in, fully expecting to find his wife backed into a corner by a snarling Max. Really, the dog could be a bad-tempered brute at times.

The sight that greeted his eyes could not have been more different. His jaw dropped. For there on the sofa was Madeline with the great black dog lying docilely across her lap, angling himself so that she could scratch his head in just the right spot. Lucien's entry brought only the most casual of glances from Max. Madeline looked up with a start.

‘Lucien? Is something wrong?' She tried to stand, but Max showed no inclination to move from the warm comfort of her lap.

Lucien cleared his throat, feeling a turnip for dashing in to solve a crisis that did not exist. He fixed Max with an accusatory stare. ‘I thought that Max might have found his way in here, and he can be somewhat…aggressive with those he doesn't know.'

Max turned his best sad expression towards Madeline and gave a pathetic little whimper.

‘Oh, poor old boy,' said Madeline, tickling the dog's ears. ‘Do you hear what he's saying about you? Look at those eyes.' The innocence in Max's liquid brown eyes intensified. ‘As if he could even know what aggression was.' Max's tail set up a thumping wag against the pink brocade of the sofa and he laid his head on Madeline's thigh, looking up at Lucien with as smug an expression as is possible for an old dog to give.

‘I assure you, he can be a brute at times,' said Lucien.

‘Really?' said Madeline, raising her clear brown eyes to his.

Lucien had the feeling that they were talking about something else altogether. A small silence stretched between them. He made an abrupt change of subject. ‘Is the room to your liking? If not, you have free rein to change it as you see fit. The same goes for the rest of the house, excepting the library, which is my…which I would prefer to remain as it is.'

First he ignores her for the whole day's coach travel, then he tells her she might redecorate his entire house if she wants! ‘I love this room,' she said. ‘I will not change it.' Her fingers scratched a massage against Max's head.

Lucien found his eyes drawn to the slender white fingers moving rhythmically against the dog's sleek black coat. He felt mesmerised, a strange relaxation creeping across his scalp.

‘Your mother's paintings are beautiful.'

Lucien dragged his gaze away. ‘Yes, they are. I'm glad you like them.' Her face was raised to his. Not angry. Not afraid. Just peaceful.

‘Madeline…'

‘There you are, you naughty boy!' Mrs Babcock heaved herself into the room.

Both Lucien and Madeline's heads shot round, unsure whether the housekeeper was referring to the master of the house or his dog.

‘Ah, would you look at that,' cooed Mrs Babcock. ‘I believe he's fallen in love.'

Lucien felt the tips of his ears begin to burn. ‘Mrs Babcock,' he said coolly, ‘was there something that you wanted?'

‘Oh, don't mind me,' the housekeeper said. ‘I just popped up to tell her ladyship that Betsy will bring her up some warm water to freshen herself in, shortly. I'll be off then.' And she promptly disappeared.

The moment was lost. ‘I'll leave you to enjoy your tea in peace,' said Lucien. ‘Come on, Max.' Then, to Madeline, ‘I don't know what's got into him. He's normally so obedient.'

Max yawned and snuggled closer into Madeline.

‘Max,' Lucien persevered. ‘Come on, boy!'

Max shot him a speaking look. It said, loud and clear,
Are you mad?

‘Can't he stay?' asked Madeline.

One last-ditch attempt from Lucien. ‘He'll cast hairs all over your dress.'

‘I don't mind a few hairs,' said Madeline.

‘Well, in that case…'

Max gave a little grunt of triumph.

Traitor!
Lucien turned and walked alone from the room.

 

Lucien dozed fitfully, his dreams interspersed with Farquharson and the ever-present past. The muted sound of a woman's voice pulled him free of the torture. He knew the words beneath that hushed mumble, had heard them every night over the past weeks since the journey down from London. Correction, every night save for when he had…That was something Lucien could not bring himself to think about. Guilt was not assuaged by the desire that burned low and steady for the woman who was his wife. He had not thought that he, Lucien Tregellas, could have lowered himself to the base level of Farquharson. It seemed that he was wrong. He had taken Madeline to save her from a fate that had befallen another young woman not so very different from herself. That, and as part of his scheme to deliver retribution to Farquharson.

He'd thought he could control that carnal part of himself. He had not slept with a woman in five long years. Since meeting Madeline, Lucien had found himself suddenly obsessed with the longing. Try as he might to deny it, he wanted his wife in his bed. He pushed the thought away, just as he had on every other occasion, and lay listening to her muffled cries.

God, but it rent at his soul! He found himself standing by the door that connected his room with hers. Hand resting on the doorknob, cheek pressed against the smoothness of the wood, listening and listening, fighting his every instinct to stride right in there and take her into his arms. He wanted to kiss away the worry and the fear, to tell her it was only a nightmare and that he would protect her. But who then would protect her from him?
I do trust you, Lucien,
she had said. He had taken that trust and destroyed it, like everything else in his life. So he stood and listened until there was silence once more and he knew that the nightmare had passed.

Every night was a torture. Every day, too. They dined together. Nothing else. The strain of keeping such a rigid formality between them wore at him. To make matters worse, Guy had written to say that Farquharson was still in London, feeding the
ton
a story that the Wicked Earl had abducted Farquharson's bride-to-be and forced a marriage upon her. Little wonder that sleep evaded him. Lucien pulled on his dressing gown and quietly made his way down to his library, and the bottle of brandy that would deaden the sting of his thoughts.

 

‘Gravy soup, skate with caper sauce, kidney pudding, boiled potatoes, leeks, and apple pie on Wednesday. Onion soup, jugged hare, baked ham, turnips in white sauce, and sago pudding on Thursday. And on Friday, lentil soup, roast beef, pork pie, roast potatoes, carrots and stewed prunes. Good. Well, now that we've sorted them menus there's the linen mendin' to think about.' Mrs Babcock swept on regardless. ‘But I shall fetch us a nice cup of tea and some scones to sustain us.' Mrs Babcock never missed an opportunity to attempt to fatten up her mistress.

‘Thank you, Mrs Babcock, I don't know what I would do without you.'

‘Get away with you, doe!' cried Mrs Babcock, beaming a face full of pleasure. ‘I've been meanin' to ask you,' she said. ‘Are you plannin' anythin' for his lordship's birthday?'

‘His birthday?' echoed Madeline in surprise.

‘Didn't he tell you? What a man he is! Would try the patience of a saint, he would.'

Madeline shook her head. ‘It must have slipped his mind. He is very busy with the estate work.'

Mrs Babcock snorted at that. ‘Never too busy for birthdays,' she said. ‘ Always loved 'em when he was a boy. Apple puddin' and spice biscuits, lemonade an' presents. We used to set a treasure hunt for him and young Guy to follow. Like two little scamps they were. Babbie this, Babbie that, tryin' to get me to help them solve the clues. Little rascals!' The housekeeper chuckled. ‘You just let me know if you want a special dinner or the like, m'lady.' Mrs Babcock beamed a smile of reassurance at Madeline. ‘I'll be off, then.'

‘Mrs Babcock,' Madeline said before she could think better of it.

‘Yes, m'lady.'

Madeline nipped at her lip with her teeth and then asked, ‘Would you be able to organise one of those treasure hunts again?'

‘Me? Heavens, no!' said Mrs Babcock. ‘I was a fine children's nurse, and I'm a fine housekeeper, but I could never set them there clues. Was her ladyship that saw to all that. I wouldn't know where to start, doe.'

‘I could help you.'

Mrs Babcock didn't look too convinced. ‘It's a lot of work.'

‘I'm sure that we would manage if we worked together,' said Madeline.

‘Very well, then, m'lady.'

‘Thank you.' Madeline smiled.

Mrs Babcock gave Madeline an affectionate pat on the arm and then she was off and exiting the parlour at a speed surprising for a lady quite so plagued by infirmities.

Madeline was left alone in the small drawing room, wondering what on earth she had just got herself into.

 

The days passed and Madeline found herself busy planning the treasure hunt for Lucien. He ate breakfast and dinner with her every day like clockwork, enquired about her welfare, and gave her copious amounts of pin money. But that was the extent of their relationship. Lucien kept a distance even when he was only seated at the other end of the table. Farquharson's name was never mentioned, and neither was a return to London. Madeline had to confess that she was happy in Trethevyn—well, as happy as a woman could be whose husband did not love her. She missed Angelina and her parents. She wondered how they were managing amidst the scandal she had left behind, and wrote to them each week. No replies were ever forthcoming. Madeline had to accept that her family had yet to forgive her. But with spring in the air, and the secret excitement surrounding Lucien's treasure hunt, Madeline could not be blue-devilled for long.