Lucien Tregellas (24 page)

She flinched at his cruelty. ‘Stop it, Lucien.'

‘Or perhaps I never would have survived that long.' His eyes darkened to something she had never seen before. ‘Are you his mistress?' His fingers tightened against the skin of her arms.

‘You've run mad!' Fear snaked up her spine. All the old doubts flooded back.

His face lowered to hers so that their lips were all but touching. ‘How could you do it, Madeline?' he whispered before his mouth swooped over hers, lips sliding in hard possession. She felt the light insistent nip of his teeth and held herself rigid against the onslaught. There was nothing of giving and everything of taking. His hands slid from her arms, moving to claim her breasts, thumbing at her nipples, pulling her close, hard against him. Her lips parted in a gasp, allowing his tongue to raid within, possessing her mouth with what started as a fervour, but soon gentled. The taste of brandy lapped against her tongue with his. She felt his fingers cup her buttocks, lifting her against the hard bulge in his pantaloons.

‘No, Lucien! It's not what you think.'

He seemed to hear her. Ceased his actions. Pulled back to look into her face. Stared for what seemed to be an eternity. His grip slackened. But she could still feel the tension throughout his body pressed against hers. His voice when it came was quiet and harsh and ragged. ‘Damn you, Madeline.' With that he released her.

She staggered back, unable to comprehend what was happening.

‘Pack your bags. You wished to travel to London to visit your mother. I have arranged for you to leave at the end of the week. Guy will accompany you on your journey to the city.'

‘And what of you?

‘I'll stay here as you suggested.' He heard the soft intake of breath and saw the confusion upon her face. The brandy lent him courage to continue. ‘But before you go, Madeline, tell me just one thing. Did Farquharson tell you what he did to Sarah?'

A little gasp escaped her.

Lucien ignored it. ‘Somehow, I doubt very much that he did. If you knew the truth, you wouldn't be standing here right now, you would never have danced to his tune. Ask him one day, when you're feeling brave. I warrant you'll not like what he has to say.' His gaze held hers directly. ‘Goodbye, Madeline.'

Her face glowed white beneath the moon, and her eyes were huge dark pools of wounded disbelief. If she did not go soon, he knew he would weaken, give in to the urge to gather her back into her arms and lavish gentle kisses upon her mouth. She waited only a moment more, long enough for him to see the tremble of her lip before her teeth gripped it in a fury, long enough to see the glisten of moisture in her eyes. Then a flurry of white and she was gone, leaving him alone to remind himself that what he had just witnessed was a piece of consummate acting.

M
adeline fled through the darkness, unseeing, uncaring, until she reached the safe haven of her bedchamber. The door shut forcibly behind her and, for the first time since arriving at Trethevyn, she turned the key within the lock. His words still echoed in her mind. Cruel words, words that never should have spilled from Lucien's tongue, and yet they had, all too readily. It was a nightmare from which there was no waking. Tension gripped her muscles so that they contracted hard and tight. Her heart was thudding too fast, too loud in her chest following her hurried flight from the library. Her mouth was dry, and what had started as a faint hint of nausea was rapidly expanding.

Such was her agitation that she paced the floor of the bedchamber, a small white ghost lit only by the transient light of the cloud cast moon. A scratching came from the connecting door. She moved to the spot, heard Max's muted whimpers, and let the dog back into her own room before locking the door. As if sensing something was wrong, Max looked up at her with a saddened expression. His tongue licked his reassurance over her fingers.

‘Oh, Max!' Madeline crouched and clutched the warm black body of fur to her. ‘What has happened to make him so angry and suspicious? He must truly have run mad.' She stroked the dog's head, lingering over the silky softness of his ears.

Max looked up at her, eyes dark within the muted nocturnal light, and whined.

Madeline could not bring herself to climb back into the bed she had left with such hopes. Lucien's gentle kisses and whispered promise seemed a lifetime ago. What could have wrought such a change in her husband? Then she remembered that he had gone to meet with his brother and that Lord Varington's sudden appearance probably meant that he conveyed news of great importance, news that had turned her husband against her. Madeline curled herself up on the sofa. Max clambered up next to her and laid his head across her legs. And there they stayed for what remained of the night, until the darkness paled to grey and a new dawn had broken. Never asleep. Just thinking, of a love so newly found and now lost.

 

By the time Betsy tried the door the next morning the faint outline of a plan had formed in Madeline's mind. If Lucien had no mind to discuss his brother's news rationally with her, then she would seek out the Viscount and ask him herself. She might as well know what had happened to bring about such a change in Lucien. If matters had not changed by the end of the week, she had no other choice than to travel to London with Lord Varington, as directed, and deal with the matter as best she could from there. As gently as she could she dislodged Max's heavy weight, finding that the cost of the great beast's warming presence was a numbing sensation in her left leg.

Betsy's knocking became louder. She whispered hesitantly through the thick oaken door. ‘M'lady? It's Betsy. I have your water here.'

Madeline hobbled faster towards the door, the key turning easily beneath her fingers. ‘Forgive me, Betsy, I had forgotten that it was locked.'

The maid stared wide-eyed at her mistress, taking in the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the ashen hue of her complexion, and the fact that she appeared to be having difficulty in walking. ‘M'lady!' she whispered in shock. Betsy set the basin down on the nearest table and rushed to Madeline's side. ‘What has happened?'

‘I slept poorly, that's all,' Madeline sought to reassure the girl.

‘But your leg?'

Madeline attempted a smile. ‘Max was lying on it and has given me pins and needles. He's rather heavy, must be eating too much.'

Betsy did not look convinced.

‘I think I might just take a little breakfast here this morning, Betsy. Please could you bring up some coffee and a bread roll.'

Betsy stared some more. Madeline's next words confirmed in the maid's mind that something strange was going on.

‘Oh, and can you find out if Lord Varington is up yet.'

‘Yes, m'lady.' Betsy beat a hasty retreat to inform Mrs Babcock that Lady Tregellas was not at all herself this morning.

 

It was Mrs Babcock herself who returned with Madeline's breakfast on a tray. Red-cheeked and panting with quite an alarming volume, the housekeeper hobbled into the room.

‘Babbie! I wasn't expecting you to carry that tray all the way up here. I would have come down to the morning room to save you the trouble.'

‘It's no trouble, m'lady,' puffed Mrs Babcock. She peered at Madeline's face. ‘Feelin' a bit under the weather, are you, doe?'

‘No. I'm quite well, thank you,' lied Madeline.

Mrs Babcock sniffed suspiciously. ‘Lord Varington is still abed. Always was a slug in the mornings. Won't see him until this afternoon. Used to keepin' London hours, he is. At least, that's a polite way of puttin' it.' Her lips pursed in disapproval. ‘Wayward young puppy!'

Madeline sipped at her coffee. The prospect of waiting for several hours until LordVarington managed to extract himself from bed was sure only to set Madeline's nerves even more on edge. ‘In that case, I think I might spend the morning visiting Tintagel Castle. I've been hoping to see it for some time and I shouldn't like to leave Cornwall without visiting it.'

‘Bit of mornin' mist out there, m'lady. It'll be worse on the coast. Best wait until later in the day.

Madeline poked at her bread roll, but found that her appetite had deserted her. ‘Perhaps I could wait a little, but I'd like to be back by this afternoon.' She looked up into the housekeeper's blackcurrant eyes. ‘It's likely that I'm to leave Trethevyn at the end of the week.'

‘His lordship didn't mention nothin' 'bout leavin' so soon.' Mrs Babcock crossed her arms over her ample bosom.

‘No,' said Madeline with the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Lucien shall stay here. I'm to travel with…with Lord Varington.'

Mrs Babcock's beady eyes missed nothing, from the bleakness in Madeline's eyes to the embarrassment warming her otherwise pale cheeks. ‘I'll ask the master to make ready for your trip to Tintagel, then?'

‘No!' Madeline almost shouted the word. ‘I mean, no, thank you. I would rather that you didn't disturb Lucien.'

‘He won't be best pleased. Told me in no uncertain terms that you weren't to leave this place without him.'

‘I think you'll find that he's changed his mind,' said Madeline softly.

The older woman looked at her strangely. ‘As you wish. Betsy will be up shortly.' Mrs Babcock had almost reached the door when she faltered and looked back at the slim figure standing by the newly lit fire. ‘It's not my place to speak out, but I'm going to anyway. I've loved Master Lucien since he was a baby and I don't want to see any more unhappiness for him. I don't know what the two of you have had words about, and I won't ask. All I do ask is that you don't just leave him, m'lady. I know he's been a bit, well, high-handed, of late, but then I reckon he's got good reason with Lord Farquharson likely to appear at any minute.'

Madeline saw the opportunity rise before her eyes. ‘Farquharson stole Sarah Wyatt from Lucien. Did he…? What happened to her?'

‘He killed her.'

A heartbeat, then Madeline asked, ‘Who killed her?'

Mrs Babcock looked her straight in the eye, knowing the traitorous thought that lurked beneath the question. ‘Why, Lord Farquharson, m'lady. Who else did you think it might have been?'

Their gazes locked, golden on black.

‘I had to be sure,' said Madeline. ‘Farquharson told me that Lucien was responsible for her death.'

Mrs Babcock's upper lip curled in disgust. ‘And you believed him?'

‘No.' The word was like a sigh in the room.

‘But you asked all the same.' Mrs Babcock turned and limped from the room. The quiet click of the bedchamber door closing behind her was louder than any slam could have been.

Madeline calmly pushed the uneaten bread roll away and drained the cooled dregs of her coffee. Time sounded with the steady strokes of the clock's pendulum. A small shaft of sunlight flooded the room, shining a golden spotlight upon the painting of two small boys from which Madeline had worked her embroidery. Outside in the garden, a blackbird whistled. And inside, Madeline knew she had just lost a friend.

 

Lucien awoke some time the wrong side of noon. His head ached like it had been cleaved with a wood axe and his mouth tasted as if he had been licking the soles of filth-encrusted boots. Sunlight streamed in through the library window, burning at his eyeballs. He moved the discomfort of his back and the pounding in his head intensified. The reek of stale brandy assailed his nostrils and he noticed the empty decanter and broken glass on the floor by his feet. Tentative fingers probed at his scalp and he winced.

God in heaven, it had been a long time since he'd felt this bad as a result of drink. He pushed himself up out of the wing chair in which he'd spent the night and walked gingerly forward, gripping the edge of the desk as his head thumped worse than ever. He had just focused himself enough to make it to the bell pull, when his eye alighted on two objects that should not have been on his desk. The memory of the night's dealings returned with a cruel and battering clarity. Madeline. Her words played loudly through his poor aching head,
I finished my book and came to borrow one of yours…I was looking for a candle and tinderbox.
And there before his very eyes was the evidence of what she had said. A rather battered copy of
Pride and Prejudice
and a single candleholder, complete with the stubby remains of a long-expired candle.

A knock sounded against the door and Guy walked into the library. ‘Thought I might find you here, old chap.'

Lucien peered round, his head suffering from the speed of his movement. ‘What the hell are you doing up so early?'

‘Good afternoon to you, too. From the state that you're in, I would hazard a guess that you drank the rest of the brandy and spent a cold and miserable night in that chair.'

No reply was forthcoming from Lucien.

‘I'm sorry to have been the bearer of bad tidings, but I thought it best that you knew.' He looked at his brother's redlined eyes and the haggard expression upon his face, knowing that the news had affected Lucien far worse than even he had expected. He tried to salve the hurt as best he could. ‘Perhaps there's some other explanation lying beneath all of this. Perhaps Madeline didn't send the letter to Farquharson at all. Have you enquired of your staff yet?'

Lucien turned a jaundiced eye in his direction. ‘I've spoken to them all right, and it seems that my wife has been writing to him.'

‘Oh.' Guy shut the door firmly behind him. ‘Then the matter is proven.'

‘No, Guy, it is not.' Lucien ran a hand through the dishevelment of his hair. ‘She came here last night. Had the chair turned out to face the window, she couldn't see me, didn't know that I was here. Heard her searching around on the desk.'

‘Good God! It's worse than I thought.'

‘Said she'd finished her book and came down in search of another.'

‘In the middle of the night?' Guy raised a cynical eyebrow.

‘Couldn't sleep, apparently.'

‘A likely story.'

‘I believe she was telling the truth.' Lucien raised bloodshot eyes towards his brother.

A silence stretched between them.

Guy shook his head.

‘Look.' Lucien gestured towards the well-thumbed book and the candleholder resting not so far from where his hands leant against the mahogany desk top. ‘Madeline isn't stupid. Had she come here with the intent of searching my papers, she would have had a decent candle, one that could at least stay alight long enough for her to see what she was doing. She said that the candle had expired and she was looking for a tinderbox on the desk.'

‘It's a lame excuse and you know it. The book could have been a cover in the eventuality that she was discovered rifling through your desk in the middle of the night.'

‘If you could have seen the expression on her face…shock, horror, disbelief all rolled into one.'

‘Farquharson himself told me that she's an actress. She's playing you, Lucien.'

Lucien looked at his brother. ‘But we know Farquharson to be a liar.'

‘That doesn't mean that Madeline is innocent.'

‘I didn't even give her a chance to defend herself against the accusations. Just judged her as guilty.' The hand raked his hair again. ‘I shouldn't have been so harsh, but the brandy clouded my judgement. Hell, I haven't felt so angry since I discovered what Farquharson did to Sarah.' He levelled his brother a direct look. ‘I was a brute, Guy. Madeline didn't deserve that.'

‘Oh, come on, Lucien. Farquharson is brandishing a particularly loathsome letter, written by her own hand, around all of London. You have proof that she dispatched a letter to him from this very house, and to cap it all you catch her rifling through your desk in the middle of the night! What do you think you should have done? Clapped her on the back? Congratulated her? The evidence is stacked against her.'