The Proud Viscount (7 page)

Once he told her of a dream he’d had where a woman dressed only in a sheer muslin slip had ridden up to him on a white horse and held her hand out, beckoning him to follow her. He’d forgotten all about the dream when Madeline set an appointment to meet him in a secluded area of Richmond Park. He was there ahead of time, leaning against a tree, when he heard the soft sound of hoofbeats. They drew closer and he watched for the horse to emerge from the woods at a spot where there was no trail.

And there she was, her dazzling red hair flowing loose down over her shoulders, riding a white horse and wearing a wisp of material he could easily see through. She said nothing, but beckoned to him as she slowly guided the horse back into the trees. Mesmerized, he followed through the tangle of undergrowth, never losing sight of the horse and rider. Finally they came to a glade where a bower had been improvised. Madeline had already dismounted and lay on the waiting cushions. Rossmere joined her there, intoxicated by the living out of a fantasy.

Gradually she claimed a larger part of his thoughts until she became almost an obsession. He had never met anyone who was so adroit at accommodating his moods. She seemed to know him better than he knew himself. And she consequently became immensely important to him, a necessary part of his life. It was only a step to thoughts of marrying her. Certainly she was not accepted into the inner circles of society, and never would be. But did he care? Wouldn’t it be better to live a life filled with the kind of excitement she offered than to accept the stuffy existence his contemporaries wedged themselves into? This argument continually battled for supremacy in him, and it seemed, for a while, to be gaining ground.

It was a visit to Richard that had begun Rossmere‘s recovery. Though Richard was sturdily sane when not in the grip of his occasional madness, he had a sensitivity to disturbances in others that was almost uncanny. Before Rossmere had spent half a day with him, Richard said, “You’ve allowed this woman to become an obsession, Stephen. You don’t love her; you’re consumed by her. Which tells me she’s diabolically clever, since you’re not ordinarily gullible.”

Rossmere had at first indignantly ignored this wise counsel, and then he had argued against it. But his very resistance to the idea began to work its way into an understanding that there was something terribly wrong. Richard was relentless in making him trace the course of the association between Rossmere and Madeline. They sat for hours over glasses of small beer or Madeira, with Richard pointing out the steps by which he had been ensnared. Rossmere had hated every minute of it, like undergoing a particularly painful course of medical treatment. At the time it hadn’t mattered that it was necessary for his health; it had simply hurt. But Richard insisted.

And then it was over. Knowing how a magician does his tricks may leave one with a respect for his skill, but it leaves one with no illusions about the authenticity of the tricks. Madeline was no longer a goddess. She was a clever woman, a genius as a seductress, but she was not the possessor of his heart. Rossmere learned from that experience, and one of the things he learned was that women were not to be trusted.

Shortly afterward, when his father gambled away the Rossmere fortune, he learned that it wasn’t only women who weren’t to be trusted.

Forced to become self-sufficient, he had also become a little cynical, but intrigued by the machinations of his fellow man. His curiosity had been aroused now by two very different circumstances at Willow End: John Parnham’s unlikely tales of Nancy’s behavior, and Madeline Fulton’s presence in a village the size of Lockley. During the course of his month’s promised stay at Willow End, he had every intention of finding out what was going on.

Chapter 6

As always, the gallop on Ascot was a rewarding experience. When Rossmere had satisfied his need to feel unrestrained, he slowed the horse to a trot and headed for Lockley. It was only necessary to ask one person, a lad of ten or so, where the Bentwick cottage was located. In the country even the children knew where everyone lived.

The cottage sat at the edge of a small wood and slightly separated from the rest of the village. Everything about the place was well-maintained: the walk, the grass, the paint, the curtains in the windows. It looked wholly respectable, the dwelling of gentlefolk who would shop in the village shops and walk the length of the High Street nodding to their neighbors.

Rossmere never doubted that Madeline’s rented home would be anything other than such a decorous cottage. He dismounted, tying Ascot’s reins to an iron ring near the gate. The gravel walk had a flower border of roses and pansies, columbine and pinks. A flowering vine twisted up the side of the cottage and along the roofline. The air was fragrant with the perfume of sweet pea, a scent familiar to Rossmere from his boyhood at Longborough Park.

His knock at the door was answered by a fresh-faced girl wearing a maid’s apron. He was surprised that Madeline would have a local girl privy to her secrets, but when the girl opened her mouth to speak, it was pure cockney that flowed from her tongue. Obviously Madeline had found this fresh-faced one in London.

"‘Ow can I help ya?” she asked.

Rossmere handed her his card, but the girl barely glanced at it. “I’ve come to call on Mrs. Fulton. Is she receiving?”

“I don’t know as ‘ow she is. ‘Oo should I tell her is here?”

“Rossmere. I’m an old acquaintance of hers from London.”

“Are you now?” The girl regarded him suspiciously. “I ain’t never seed you before.”

“Were you with her when she lived on the Edgeware Road?”

She didn’t answer, but rubbed the card between her fingers. “Wait ‘ere.” She closed the door, leaving him on the stoop.

Rossmere studied the situation of the house. A very handy place, when one came to consider the matter. Anyone wishing to visit Madeline had no need to appear by way of the front door in sight of all the village residents. One could come over the Ridgely Road to the back of the tiny wood, tie one’s horse to a tree inside the stand, and knock at the rear door (there always was one) without being seen by a soul. Very clever.

The maid reappeared and beckoned the viscount inside. There was a short hallway with several doors off it, plus a stairway leading above. Rossmere hesitated as the girl opened the first door on her right. “Mr. Rossmere,” she announced carefully, if inaccurately.

“Do come in.” Madeline stood by a writing desk, her hair piled lavishly on top of her head, with bright ringlets falling about her face. “I’d hoped you would call. Imagine meeting you in this part of the world, Rossmere.”

“That’s precisely what I thought,” he said, lifting the hand she offered to his lips. “You look charming, as usual.”

“How kind of you to say so.” She waved him to the sofa and seated herself beside him. “It’s been several years. You don’t spend much time in London, I gather.”

“As little as possible. Is Mrs. Smith no longer with you?”

“No. She’s gone to live with her sister. In the country one can manage without a chaperone, I find. A few servants do much more nicely.”

“Don’t you miss London?”

“London is for the young and the rich,” she temporized. “And I am neither.”

“It’s also for the beautiful,” he replied with a gallantry he’d forgotten he possessed. “And you have beauty.”

Madeline thanked him with a slight mocking smile. “Not to compare with the younger women, dear Rossmere. You forget that each year a new crop of desperately pretty girls arrives on the scene. A smart woman knows when to retire from the competition.”

He didn’t believe her for a minute. If she was in Lockley, it was not because she couldn’t find a protector in London. There were few signs of aging on her lovely face, but it struck him suddenly that she must be of an age with Lady Jane. How very astonishing! And he had thought of the earl’s daughter as quite old, for someone his godmother was pushing as a potential wife.

Madeline elaborated on her tale of retirement. “I have friends in the neighborhood. Oh, no one you would know, my dear fellow. Quite beneath your notice. And it is so much less expensive to live in the country; I’m sure you’ve found that yourself.”

If this was a jab at his own poverty, he chose to ignore it.      

“But there’s so little to do here, for a woman of your energies.”

“Pooh! The delights of the countryside are underrated by those living dissipated lives in town. Think of the walks in the fresh air! The shopping at uncrowded stores in the High Street! The freshness of the fruits and vegetables! There’s no limit to such pleasures.”

Rossmere laughed, as she had expected him to do. “And what if you wish to ride or drive? You don’t appear to keep a carriage.”

“There’s a livery service at the inn on the Ridgely Road. I have only to send a message and a carriage arrives at my door. So much more sensible that housing a pair, with all their expense.”

“But there are no masquerades, no breakfasts, no excursions to Astley’s or Vauxhall. What do you do with yourself all day?”

“There are a thousand things to do,” she said, dismissing his concern. “Reading and drawing and walking and eating. Really, there is scarcely time for everything I wish to accomplish. One wearies of the constant round of entertainments in the city. A little quiet seems more conducive to genuine happiness.”

There was a suspicious twinkle deep in her green eyes, but she refused to be led by any avenue of conversation he attempted to explore. According to Madeline Fulton, she had settled here for the benefits of country living and she was more than happy with her choice. Certainly she looked content enough. One other possibility occurred to Rossmere.

“You’re not
enceinte,
by chance?”

Her delighted laughter broke the quiet of the room. “With child? Oh, my dear, no. Whatever gave you that idea? As you can see, my figure is as slender as ever.”

It was quite true, but rather discouraging, because Rossmere hadn’t really learned a thing from her. He felt certain there was an important reason for her being in the country, and yet he couldn’t learn the first thing about it. Whether she had had to leave London on the tail of some scandal (a duel? an embarrassing dismissal by a protector?), or had come to Lockley with a specific purpose, he was no closer to discovering.

He didn’t dare stay longer. In a village the size of Lockley, there would be gossip if he failed to reappear and claim Ascot within a very short period of time. As he dismissed himself and wished her well, she said, “You must come again. But it’s wise of you not to stay long. I have a reputation to protect here. Are you staying at Lord Barlow’s seat?”

“Yes, my godmother is his sister."

“Lady Jane is an attractive young woman. I’m surprised she’s not married.”

“I believe it is a matter of choice with her.”

Madeline raised a brow. “Never believe such a thing, Rossmere. Marriage is a lady’s only choice.”

A rather odd thing for her to say, surely, he reflected as he bowed and strode from the cottage. Of course, he realized that she had hoped once that he would marry her, in spite of her tenuous position in society. All her clever planning had not been aimed at maintaining the extravagant allowance she received as his mistress. Her ultimate intention had been to convince him that she was more than just a mistress to him, that his own life was unorthodox enough not to be destroyed by making her his wife.

Had she some hope that sequestering herself in the country would lead to a permanent arrangement with some naive country gentleman? There would be no one here to recollect her London reputation, no one to deny her account of her being the genteel widow of a war hero. Except himself. And his calling on her today might have set that fear to rest. That, or the knowledge that he wouldn’t be around for long.

Ascot danced restlessly as Rossmere mounted. The viscount allowed him his head again on their way back to Willow End. Even in the exhilaration of the ride, though, something nagged at his mind. Something about Madeline. Well, there was no sense in trying to grasp a wispy thought like that. It would come to him in time.

At the stables he dismounted and handed Ascot over to the wary groom. On the way to the house he passed no one and slipped through a rear door that took him to the entry hall by the least public corridor. Though he was anxious for some word from Longborough Park, he was in no mood to encounter any of the family just at present.

He found the post on the silver tray Winters always left on the mantel. There was, finally, a letter from Jim Wardy, the local man who had agreed to manage the estate in Rossmere’s absence. Rossmere broke the seal and read the brief letter where he stood. Wardy was a man of few words: he needed Rossmere to send fifty pounds for unanticipated expenditures; otherwise all was fine on the estate and with the tenant farmers. It would have pleased Rossmere to hear of the progress of the crops, or the local gossip, but he had to content himself with what he’d received. And find a way to broach the subject of another loan pretty quickly to his godmother.

“Ah, there you are,” Mabel said as she appeared suddenly across the hall from him. “Could I have a word with you?”

“I’ve just been riding Ascot and I fear I reek of the stables. I was on my way to change.”

Mabel’s nose twitched slightly. “Yes, indeed. Perhaps you’d have a moment before dinner. It’s a matter of some importance.”

Rossmere slipped the letter into his pocket with an inaudible sigh. “Of course. I could meet you in the north drawing room in half an hour.”

“Excellent.” Mabel dabbed unconsciously at her nose with a tiny lace handkerchief. “Such a nice day for a ride,” she murmured as she turned away.

When he joined her later, she was frowning at a copy of the
Ladies’ Magazine.
“I’m not at all certain it’s a good thing that we’re able to travel on the Continent again,” she remarked. “So many astonishing things happen there.”

“I daresay they think the same about us.” He took a chair opposite her and arranged one long pantalooned leg over the other.