Читать книгу A Lady of Consequence - Mary Nichols, Mary Nichols - Страница 6

1827

T he curtain came down on the last act to thunderous applause. The cast took several curtain calls, but everyone knew it was really Madeleine Charron the audience wanted. She had the theatre world at her feet; all the young men of the ton and several who were not so young were raving about her, including Duncan Stanmore, Marquis of Risley.

‘I don’t know which I admire more, her looks or her acting ability,’ he said to his friend, Benedict Willoughby, as he rose with everyone else to clap and call bravo. ‘Both are bang-up prime.’

‘If you’ve got your sights set on her, you will come home by weeping cross, don’t you know?’ Benedict said. ‘Unlike most of her kind, she is very particular.’

‘You only say that because she refused to go out to supper with you last week.’

‘Not at all,’ Benedict said huffily, as they made their way towards the exit. ‘I’m not the only disappointed one; she’s turned everyone down, though I did hear she went for a carriage ride in the park with Sir Percival Ponsonby last week, so she can’t be that fastidious.’

‘Sir Percy is a benign old gentleman who wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘I didn’t say he would, but you must admit he’s an old fogey. He must be sixty if he’s a day and those ridiculous clothes!’

‘He’s well-breeched and he knows how to treat a girl. And he has always had a liking for actresses, you know that. They appreciate his gallantry and they feel safe with him. It won’t last. Percy is a confirmed bachelor.’

‘Good God! You aren’t thinking of betting on the marriage stakes yourself, are you?’

‘Don’t be a fool, Willoughby. It is not to be thought of. My revered father would have a fit. But I will take her out to supper.’

‘Yes, you have only to wave your title and your fortune under her nose and she will fall at your feet.’

‘I’ll do it without mentioning either.’

‘When?’

‘In the next se’ennight. I’ll put a pony on it.’

‘Done.’

They wandered out into the street. A flower girl stood beside her basket, offering posies to the young men as they escorted their ladies to their carriages. Duncan stopped beside her, fished in his purse for a couple of guineas and rattled them in his palm. ‘I’ll buy the lot,’ he said, throwing the coins in her basket. ‘Take them round the stage door for Miss Charron.’

She gave him a wide grin. ‘Any message, sir?’

‘No. Just the flowers. And do the same tomorrow night and the night after that and every night for the rest of the week.’ He found some more coins and tossed them in with the others, before turning to Benedict. ‘Come on, Willoughby, I’ll buy you supper at White’s and we can have a hand of cards afterwards.’

‘Aren’t you going round to the stage door?’

‘What, and stand in line with all the other hopefuls, begging to be noticed? No fear!’

Benedict, who was used to his friend’s strange ways, shrugged his shoulders and followed him to their club.

At the end of the week, a small package was delivered to the theatre, addressed to Miss Madeleine Charron. It contained a single diamond ear drop and a note that simply said, ‘You may have its twin if you come out to supper with me on Monday. My carriage will be waiting outside the stage door after the performance.’ It was unsigned.

It was meant to intrigue her and it certainly succeeded. Maddy was used to being sent flowers, but they usually arrived with their donors, anxious for the privilege of taking her out, or accompanied by billets doux or excruciating love poems and definitely not penned incognito. But a whole florist’s stock, every night for a week, followed by a single ear drop of such exquisite beauty it brought a lump to her throat, was something else again. This latest admirer was different.

‘And rich,’ Marianne said, when she saw the trinket. Marianne Doubleday was her friend, an actress of middle years, but a very good one, who had once, not many years before, fooled the entire beau monde for a whole season into believing she was a lady and a very wealthy one at that. ‘Are you sure you have no idea who it might be?’

‘None at all.’

‘And will you go?’

‘I don’t know. He is undoubtedly very sure of himself.’

‘So what is that to the point? No doubt it means he’s an aristocrat. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

Years ago, when she had first joined the company as a wardrobe seamstress, Marianne had befriended her and later, when Maddy had been given small parts, had taught her how to act, how to project her voice so that a whisper could be heard in the gods, how to move gracefully, how to use her hands and her eyes to express herself and still conceal her innermost thoughts, how to listen and understand the undercurrents in a conversation, the innuendo behind the way a word was said, the ways of the worldly-wise, everything to bring her to the standing she now enjoyed.

In return Maddy had confided her secret ambition to be a lady. Marianne had not mocked it; after all, noblemen sometimes did marry actresses, but she had told her how difficult it would be, how they were usually ostracised by Polite Society and that being a lady was not all it was cracked up to be, that with wealth and status came responsibilities.

‘Besides, you’ll find all manner of obstacles put in your way by the young man’s parents,’ she had said. ‘If they have any standing in Society, they’ll fight you tooth and nail. They’ll have a bride all picked out for him, unless, of course you set your cap at someone old, but then he’s like to be a widower with a readymade family.’

Maddy had grimaced at the idea. ‘No, that won’t do. I want people to envy me, to look up to me, to take what I say seriously. I want to have a grand house, a carriage and servants. No one, no one at all, will dare look down on me or take me for granted ever again…’

‘A tall order, Maddy. My advice is to take what is offered and enjoy it without wishing for the moon.’

Although Marianne knew about her ambition, she did not know the reason for it. She did not know the inner fury that still beset Maddy every time she thought of Henry Bulford and his uncaring parents. It had not diminished over the years. All through her early struggles, she had nursed her desire for…what was it? Revenge? No, it could not be that, for Henry Bulford had inherited the title and was married and she did not envy his top-lofty wife one bit. They had attended the same theatrical party once and he had not even recognised her. But then why would he connect the skinny, pale-faced kitchen maid he had tried to rape with the beautiful actress who had taken London by storm?

A great deal of water had flowed under London Bridge since then, some of it so dreadful she wished she could forget it, but it would not go away and only strengthened her resolve. She had risen above every kick dealt her by an unkind fate, but sometimes it had been touch and go. She had nearly starved, had begged and even stolen—and she was not proud of that—until she had found a job as a seamstress. Hours and hours of close work, living in dingy lodgings, quite literally working her fingers to the bone and all for a pittance.

Her ambition was smothered by the sheer weight of having to earn a living, but it did not die altogether and one day in 1820—she remembered the year well because it was the year the King had tried to divorce his wife and become the butt of everyone’s ribaldry—she found herself delivering a theatrical costume to the Covent Garden theatre. Her employer sometimes helped out when they had a big production and this was wanted urgently. She had told Maddy to take it round there on her way home.

On this occasion, the whole company was carousing, having just pulled off a great performance at a large aristocratic mansion. The troupe was led by a colourful character called Lancelot Greatorex, who fascinated her with his strange clothes and extravagant gestures. Seeing her ill-concealed curiosity, he demanded to know if she were an actress.

‘Oh, no,’ she said.

‘How do you know you are not?’

‘Why, sir,’ she had said, laughing, ‘I have never been on a stage in my life.’

‘That’s of no account. You don’t need to tread the boards to play a part, we all do it from time to time. Do you tell me you have never had a fantasy, never pretended to be other than you are?’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘You speak up well. What do you do to earn a crust?’

He may have been speaking metaphorically, but to her a crust was all she did earn, and sometimes a little butter to put on it. ‘I am a seamstress,’ she said.

‘Are you good at it?’

‘Yes, sir. I did most of the stitching on the costume I have just delivered.’

‘Quick, are you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How much do you earn?’

‘Six pounds a year, sir.’

He laughed. ‘I can double that.’

‘Oh, I do not think I can act, sir.’

‘I am not asking you to. Actresses are ten a penny, but good seamstresses are like gold dust. Would you like to join my troupe as a seamstress? Having work done outside is not always convenient.’

Maddy had not hesitated. The flamboyant life among stage folk appealed to her and, somewhere in the back of her mind, her sleeping ambition revived. If she wanted to better herself, to act a part for which she had not been born, then where better to learn it?

She had become a seamstress, sewing, mending and pressing costumes and from that had progressed to becoming a dresser for Marianne Doubleday, chatting to her in her dressing room, learning, learning all the time. She was quick and eager and when they discovered she could read, they gave her the job of prompter, so that when one of the cast fell ill, who better to take her place but Maddy, who already knew the lines? And so Madeleine Charron, actress, had been born.

But was it enough? Did it fulfil her dream? Was she still burning with that desire to be a lady? A real one, not a fantasy. Could she pull it off? Was she, as Marianne suggested, wishing for the moon? She smiled at her friend. ‘So you don’t think I should go?’

Marianne shrugged. ‘It is up to you. You do not have to commit yourself, do you? The invitation is to supper, nothing more.’

‘And nothing more will be offered, I assure you.’

She had been out to supper with countless young men before and enjoyed their company, each time wondering before she went if this was the one who would fulfil her dream, but before the night was over, she had known he was not.

There were so many reasons: these sycophants did not have the title she craved; they were too young or too old; they were ugly and would give her ugly children; their conversation was a little too exuberant, or not exuberant enough. Some were fools, some gave every appearance of doing her a favour in spending money on a supper for her, some were married and expecting more than she was prepared to give. She did not intend to be anyone’s light o’ love.

‘But do have a care, Maddy, that you are not branded a tease.’

‘Have no fear, dear Marianne, you have taught me well.’

Maddy lingered over her toilette the following Monday night, spending more time than usual sitting before her mirror, removing the greasepaint from her face and brushing out her dark hair before coiling it up into a Grecian knot, before choosing a gown to wear. She prided herself on her good taste, and being a seamstress and a very good one meant that her clothes, though not numerous, were superbly made of the finest materials she could afford. It made her feel good to know that she could stand comparison with those who considered themselves her social superiors.

She slipped into a blue silk, whose fitted bodice and cross-cut skirt flowed smoothly over her curves. It had short puffed sleeves and a low neckline outlined with a cape collar which showed off her creamy shoulders and neck. She hesitated over wearing a necklace but, as most of her jewellery was paste, decided against it and fastened the odd ear drop in her ear before throwing a dark blue velvet burnoose over her shoulders and venturing out into the street.

Everyone but the night watchman had left and she half expected to find the road empty. It was her own fault if it was, she had kept him waiting and she could hardly complain if he had given up and gone home. But there was a carriage waiting. It was a glossy affair, though its colour she could not determine in the weak light from the street lamp. There was no sign of an occupant. Perhaps her admirer had simply sent the carriage to fetch her to wherever he was. She was not sure she liked that idea; it put her at a disadvantage. She stood, pulling her cloak closer round her, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

A hand came out of the door of the carriage, dangling an ear drop, the twin of the one she was wearing, and she heard a low chuckle. ‘If you come over here, my dear, I will fasten the other one for you. Beautiful as you are, you look slightly lopsided.’

‘Are you afraid to show your face, sir?’ she demanded.

‘Not at all.’ The door opened wide and a man jumped down and strode over to her. Young, but not juvenile, he was about five and twenty, she judged, and fashionably dressed for evening in a black tail-coat, a purple velvet waistcoat and a white shirt, whose lace cuffs fell from beneath his coat sleeves. A diamond pin glittered in the folds of his cravat. As he doffed his tall hat and bowed to her, she saw dark curls, and then, when he straightened again, humorous brown eyes beneath a pair of winged brows. His nose was long and straight and his mouth firm. He smiled, revealing even white teeth. ‘Here I am, your slave, ready to do your bidding.’

‘And does my slave have a name?’

‘Stanmore, Miss Charron. Duncan Stanmore, at your service.’

The name was familiar, and though she teased her brain, the when and where of it eluded her. She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Mr Stanmore.’

‘I thought Reid’s for supper,’ he said. ‘Does that suit?’

‘And if I agree to that, I suppose I am to be rewarded with an ear drop.’

‘Oh, that is yours whether you come or no,’ he said lightly. ‘It would not be fair to dangle that in front of you like a carrot. That is not my way.’ He bowed. ‘But I would deem it an honour if you would have supper with me.’

‘Then supper it shall be.’

He gave a delighted laugh, which revealed the boy in him without in the least diminishing his stature, and led the way to the carriage, which she noticed, as she drew closer, had a crest upon its door. So Marianne had been right; he was not a commoner.

He handed her up into the carriage and made sure she was comfortable on the velvet seats before jumping up beside her. ‘Reid’s, Dobson,’ he told the driver.

The hotel was noted for its cuisine and was a favourite place of stage people and theatregoers alike, so it was busy, but as soon as the waiter saw her escort, he came forward with a broad smile. ‘Good evening, my lord. Your table is ready.’

Duncan smiled. ‘Thank you, Bundy. I knew I could rely on you.’

Her previous experience told her to expect a private room, or, at the very least, a table tucked away in some ill-lit corner where they would not be noticed and where her swain could bombard her with compliments and ply her with wine in the hope of his reward, but Duncan Stanmore obviously did not know the rules of the game. They were conducted to a small table to one side of the room, which, though discreet, gave a good view of all the other patrons and meant they could also be seen.

‘He addressed you as “my lord”,’ she said, when they were seated and the waiter had gone to fetch the champagne Duncan ordered.

He smiled. ‘Slip of the tongue, I expect. He knows better than that.’

‘You prefer to be incognito?’

He laughed. ‘That, my dear Miss Charron, would be impossible—in London, anyway. It is of no consequence. I do not expect you to address me formally. It would quite spoil the evening.’

He paused as the waiter returned with the wine, which he proceeded to pour for them. ‘The chef says he has a roast of beef as succulent as you’re likely to taste anywhere,’ the man said. ‘And there’s turbot in a shrimp sauce and suckling pig and ham what’ll melt in your mouth, not to mention sweetmeats and puddings—’

‘Goodness, I am not that hungry,’ Maddy said. She was laughing, but underneath the laughter were memories of a time when she had been starving and a tiny portion of the food the waiter was offering would have been a feast. Why could she never forget that? ‘A little of the fish removed with the beef will be quite sufficient, thank you.’

‘Then I will have the same,’ Duncan said.

‘Oh, please do not stint yourself because of me, my lord,’ Maddy said. ‘I will be quite content to watch you eat.’

‘I would rather talk than eat. And you forget, I am Duncan Stanmore, not Lord anything.’ He held up his wine to her. ‘To a beautiful companion.’ He took a mouthful, looking at her over the rim of his glass. She was beautiful, and not in the artful way of most actresses, achieved with paint and powder, a certain knowing expression and an exaggerated way of carrying themselves that commanded attention. Her loveliness was entirely natural. Her skin was flawless and her eyes, the deep blue of a woodland violet, were bright with intelligence and full of humour, though he detected just a hint of an underlying sadness about her lovely mouth. Was that why she was such a great actress?

‘Thank you.’

‘Tell me about yourself,’ he commanded, as the food was brought and served. ‘Is Charron a French name?’

‘It was originally. My grandfather fled from France with his wife and son, during the Reign of Terror and never went back. My father looked upon himself as English and fought on England’s side in the war against Napoleon. He was killed on some secret mission, very early on. Even my mother did not know what it was.’ The lies she had told so many times tripped easily from her tongue as if she had come to believe them herself.

‘I am sorry if talking of it is painful,’ he said. ‘I should not have asked, but I thought there was something about you that was not usual for an actress…’

‘And you, I collect, must have met many.’

He laughed. ‘A few, but none like you.’

‘Fustian!’

‘It is true. There is something about you that proclaims you a woman of breeding. Your grandfather would have been an aristocrat if he had to flee the Terror, and that accounts for it.’

She smiled. Her mother had taught her well and Marianne Doubleday had completed her education. She could play the lady to perfection. But playing the lady was not what she wanted. What did she want? Seven years before she could have given the answer to that promptly enough, but now she was not so sure. Her life was good as it was. She was adored from across the footlights, should she not be satisfied with that?

She could command a good wage, could afford to dress well, was the recipient of countless fripperies she could sell or wear, whichever she chose, and she had many friends among her fellow thespians who, contrary to popular belief, were not always at each other’s throats. She could flirt with the young men who besieged the stage door after each performance, go to supper with them and gently send them on their way without hurting their pride. So what had she been waiting for? This moment? This man?

‘Can you tell breeding on so short an acquaintance?’ she asked.

‘Of course. How did someone like you come to be an actress?’

‘My mother was run down by a speeding carriage when I was nine years old,’ she said. ‘I had no other relatives…’

‘What about your grandparents?’

‘My father’s parents both died some time before. They never got over the loss of their son, so my mother told me. I think my mother’s parents must have died too, for she never spoke of them. I was alone in the world.’

‘Oh, you poor, dear girl.’ His sympathy seemed truly genuine and she began to have the first feeling of unease for deceiving him.

‘What happened then?’

The rest was easy. The rest was the truth, or very nearly. She told him she had been sent to an orphanage for the children of army officers, (she had long ago upgraded the orphanage to one specifically for officers’ orphans) where she stayed until she was old enough to work, but nothing at all about the Bulfords. That did not bear speaking about. ‘There you have my history in a nutshell,’ she said, laughing. ‘Now you must tell me yours.’

‘Oh, I have nothing at all interesting to report. I was born, I went to school, I became a man…’

‘And married?’ She was surprised that question had not crossed her mind until now.

‘No, not yet, but undoubtedly my father will have me shackled before much longer. I am his heir, you see. I have a half-brother, a bantling by the name of Freddie, who will, no doubt, carry on the family name if I do not have a son, but he is very young still. That is all there is to tell.’

It was all he wanted to tell, she decided. ‘So you do not have to earn a living?’

He laughed. He had an infectious laugh and she found herself smiling back at him. ‘If you mean I live a life of idleness, that is far from the truth,’ he said. ‘My father would not allow it. I have to work on our estate, see that it is running smoothly, look after the tenants…’ He stopped, on the verge of telling her that he did have another mission in life, but decided it would introduce a sombre note to the proceedings and stopped short.

‘And that is work?’

‘It is harder work than you might think. But I come to London for the Season, as you see.’

‘To look for a bride?’

‘That is the accepted way of doing it, though I am not so sure it will work in my case. My father despairs of me, says I am too particular.’

‘And are you?’ She was slightly breathless, as if his answer was important to her. His name was Stanmore, he had said. Lord Stanmore, she supposed, but she could not remember any of the girls in the troupe mentioning a Lord Stanmore and they knew the names of everyone who was anyone in town; gossip was meat and drink to them.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I am.’ This conversation was not going at all the way he had expected it to. It was not the light, teasing banter he usually employed when talking to the little bits of muslin he chose to dally with. She had more about her than they did, much more. He had not been joking when he said she had the bearing of an aristocrat. It showed itself in the proud way she held her head, the way she used her cutlery, the way she sipped her wine, the way she spoke, without that silly simpering voice young women of the lower orders used when trying to impress him. Madeleine Charron saw no need to impress him; she considered herself his equal.

‘How in particular?’ she asked.

‘That’s just it, I do not know,’ he said. ‘I have never troubled to analyse it. I suppose what I mean, is that I shall recognise her when I meet her.’

She laughed. ‘So you have not yet met her?’

‘I think I might have.’ Even as he spoke, he knew the idea was preposterous, outlandish, laughable. But it would not go away.

‘When did you meet her?’

‘About an hour ago.’

She stared at him for a moment, then sat back in her chair and burst out laughing. ‘I have heard many a proposition, but that is a new one, it really is.’

He frowned. ‘You laugh.’

‘Am I meant to take you seriously?’

His mind suddenly produced an image of his illustrious father, of his stepmother and his sister, Lavinia, as he presented Madeleine Charron to them as his intended wife and knew she had been right to laugh. ‘We could pretend, just for one night,’ he said lightly. ‘It might be fun.’

‘It depends what you expect of me,’ she said, and she was not laughing now. ‘I am an actress, pretending is second nature to me, but if you mean what I think you mean, I am afraid you have quite misunderstood my role.’

He sat back and rocked with laughter. ‘Oh, the lady is the aristocrat and no doubt about it. What rank was that grandfather of yours, a comte, a marquis or a duke, perhaps?’

‘A comte,’ she said. Marquises and dukes would be too easy to trace.

She was not naturally a liar and suddenly she found it all very hard going. He was too nice to deceive, too much the gentleman. She knew he would not coerce her or force himself upon her as Henry Bulford had done, but if she were determined enough, she could make him fall in love with her, make him defy his stiff-necked father to marry her. The ball was in her court. Why, then, was she so reluctant to pass it back? Why, when she had the opportunity to further her long-term goal, had she lost her courage? Only the memory of her humiliation at the hands of another aristocrat kept her from confessing her perfidy.

‘And one does not lightly roast a comte’s daughter,’ he said, unaware of her tumultuous thoughts.

‘I am sorry,’ she said, suddenly serious.

‘Sorry? Sorry for what?’

‘If you have deluded yourself that I would easily succumb…’

‘If I had, you have soon put me in my place,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let us begin again, shall we?’

‘How so?’

‘Tell me about being an actress. I once acted in a play my sister put on for a charity my stepmother favours and I found it quite hard work.’

‘It is. What part did you play?’

‘Oberon. It was A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

‘I know it well.’

It was easier after that. They spent the remainder of the evening talking pleasantly, laughing together, comparing their likes and dislikes and Maddy found she could forget he was one of the hated aristocracy, could forget her schemes and just be herself. He was a charming and attentive companion and she paid him the compliment of genuinely enjoying his company.

At two o’clock in the morning, they found themselves alone in the dining room and the waiters hovering to clear the table. Reluctantly they stood up to leave. ‘My, how the time has flown by,’ he said. ‘I have never been so well entertained in my life. Thank you, sweet Madeleine.’

‘It has been a pleasure,’ she said, allowing him to drape her cloak about her shoulders and escort her to the door.

They had almost reached it when the proprietor came, bowing deferentially. ‘I hope everything was to your satisfaction, my lord?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘You may send the reckoning to Stanmore House. It will be paid promptly.’

Stanmore House. Maddy knew where that mansion was and who it belonged to. Sir Percival Ponsonby had pointed it out only the week before when he had taken her out in his carriage and regaled her with who was who among the many people they had seen in the park. Why hadn’t she made the connection when Duncan Stanmore had first introduced himself?

She had been having supper with the Marquis of Risley, the Duke of Loscoe’s heir. The Duke was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom, so it stood to reason his son wanted for nothing. He had entertained her for several hours, and not once had he hinted of his illustrious background. Why? In her experience, most young men were boastful and would not have been able to keep quiet about having a duke for a father. Was he, too, playing a part?

He put his hand beneath her elbow to escort her to his waiting carriage and helped her inside. ‘Tell me where you want to go and I will see you safely there,’ he said.

He was being studiously polite now, as if the contract he had made to give her supper in exchange for her company had been fulfilled and that was the end of it. She admitted to a tiny feeling of disappointment. And telling herself she was being more than inconsistent did nothing to appease her. She had made it clear he could expect nothing else and he, like the gentleman he was, had accepted that. But he might have put up more of an argument!

She told him the address of her lodgings at the bottom end of Oxford Street, which she shared with several others in the company. He passed it on to his coachman and they sat in silence as the coach rattled through the almost deserted streets. There was a constraint between them now, as if they had run out of things to say and did not know how to proceed.

It was unlike Duncan to be tongue-tied, but she had bewitched him, not only with her good looks and her curvaceous figure, but also with the way she spoke, the way she held her head, the way her expressive hands drew pictures in the air, her humour. He could see that speeding coach, could see the childlike figure weeping over a dead mother, could feel her pain. And no one to comfort her, no father, no grandparents, no one except an orphanage such as his stepmother supported. It was a wonder she had not become bitter.

Instead she had risen above it and the result was perfection. He had never been so captivated. Not that any liaison other than that of lover and chère amie was possible. She was not wifely material, at least not for him, and suddenly he could not bring himself to spoil that perfection by suggesting they continue the evening elsewhere.

When the coach stopped at her door, he jumped down to help her to alight. ‘Thank you for a truly delightful evening,’ he said, raising her hand to his lips.

Dozens of young men had done the same thing, but none had made her shiver as she was shivering now. It was not a shiver of cold, but of heat. His touch was like a lick of flame that spread from her hand, up her arm and down to the pit of her stomach and from there it found its way to her groin. She had never experienced anything like it before, but she recognised it as weakness. She shook herself angrily for being a traitor to herself. This was not the way, she berated herself, allowing herself to fall under his spell was not part of the plan. He was supposed to fall under hers!

‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, putting his hand in his pocket and extracting the diamond ear drop. ‘You must have this to remind you of the delightful time we spent together.’

‘Thank you.’

‘May I put it in?’

Gently he took her earlobe and hooked the jewel into it. Then he bent and put his lips to her ear, kissed it and whispered, ‘I shall always remember it.’ Now he was the stage-door admirer that she was used to, paying extravagant compliments and meaning none of them.

She found herself smiling. ‘You are too generous, my lord Marquis.’

‘Drat it, you have seen through me,’ he said, laughing and breaking the stiff atmosphere that had suddenly developed between them.

‘Did you think I did not know the Marquis of Risley?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ he said, with a theatrical sigh. ‘And I thought you loved me for myself alone.’

There was no answer to that and she did not give him one. She turned and went into the house and closed the door behind her, leaning her back on it, hearing his carriage roll away. She had had her chance and she had let it go. All those years nursing a hate, all those years working towards her goal and she had fallen at the first hurdle. What a ninny she had been!

Beautiful he had called her, aristocratic, he had said, different. Oh, she was different all right. She was a fraud, a tease, for all she had told Marianne she was not. And she had been given her just reward: supper and a pair of diamond ear drops. She supposed she should be flattered that he thought her worth that much, but then diamonds were commonplace to him and would hardly make a dint in his fortune. The pin in his cravat had been worth many times his gift to her.

She toiled wearily up to her room, to find Marianne sitting on her bed, waiting for her, clad in an undress robe in peacock colours and her hair in a nightcap. ‘Well?’ her friend demanded.

‘Well, what?’ She sank on to the bed and kicked off her shoes.

‘What happened? Did you find out who he was?’

‘Oh, yes, I found out.’

‘And? Come on, don’t keep me in suspense. I was right, he is an aristocrat, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. None other than the Marquis of Risley.’

‘The Duke of Loscoe’s heir! I am impressed. What happened?’

‘He bought me supper at Reid’s, entertained me with anecdotes, brought me home and left me with the other ear drop.’

‘That’s all? He didn’t suggest a private room?’

‘No. He was amiable and generous and a perfect gentleman.’

Marianne laughed. ‘Oh dear, and you are disappointed.’

‘Not at all.’ She could not tell Marianne of her doubts. ‘I had no intention of falling at his feet or even encouraging him. I need to be more subtle than that.’

‘More subtle,’ Marianne repeated, looking into Maddy’s bright eyes. ‘Oh, Maddy I do hope you have not developed a tendre for him. The Duke will never allow his son to become attached to an actress.’

‘But if that actress also happens to be the granddaughter of a French comte, he might condescend to overlook her faults.’

‘You never told him that tale of the French émigré, did you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, Maddy, you will be in a serious coil, if you persist. Tell him the truth, make a jest of it before he finds out for himself.’

‘I didn’t know who he was when I told it. He was pretending to be a nobody while I was doing my best pretending to be a somebody, so we were both at fault. It was only harmless fun, not to be taken seriously at all. I am sure his lordship did not do so.’ And that was what rankled. He had not asked to see her again and she would not be given another opportunity to demonstrate her ascendancy over him. He had been the one to draw back, as if he had suddenly remembered who he was and what she was. An actress.

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Marianne stood up, prepared to leave. ‘Now, I suggest you go to bed. You will be fit for nothing later today if you do not.’

When Marianne had taken her leave Madeleine undressed and climbed into bed, knowing, late as it was and tired as she was, she would not sleep. Her evening out, which had been so enjoyable in one way, had been a disaster in another. Sometimes for days, even weeks, at a time she managed to forget her past and her enmity towards the aristocracy, but tonight had brought it all back and she was feeling decidedly vulnerable.

The fact that the Marquis had appeared to believe her story of her French grandfather, and had said he had known she was a lady of good breeding, made her wonder about her unknown father. She racked her brains, trying to think of anything her mother might have said to throw some light on who he could have been, but there was nothing. She could not remember Mama even mentioning him.

Her grandfather was certainly not a French émigré, she had invented him, but supposing the fictional character could give her an entrée into Society? And in the dark watches of the night when anything seems possible, a plan began to form in her mind, a plan so audacious it made her shiver. But she needed the help of her friend Marianne.

‘Well, do I owe you twenty-five pounds or not?’ Benedict asked Duncan the following morning when he came upon him at Humbold’s coffee house, blowing a cloud and amusing himself watching the people passing the window. ‘A week has gone by and no news of the citadel being stormed.’

‘Citadel?’

‘The lovely Madeleine Charron.’

‘Supper we agreed and supper it was,’ Duncan said, sitting down opposite his friend and beckoning to the waiter to bring a dish of coffee to him. ‘Taken at Reid’s with plenty of witnesses, so pay up and look cheerful about it.’

Benedict dug in his tail pocket and produced his purse. ‘And?’ He carefully counted out the twenty-five sovereigns in five neat heaps. ‘You are going to refine upon that, I hope.’

‘Nothing to refine upon.’

‘You are bamming me.’

‘No. What happened and what was said between us is our private business and nothing to do with the wager.’

‘She turned you down!’ It was said almost triumphantly.

‘Not at all.’ Benedict was annoying him and he was damned if he would tell him anything. ‘But, unlike you, I do not rush in where angels fear to tread. I prefer to deal gently with the fair sex. It pays in the end.’

‘Ah, the assault goes on. You want another wager?’ His hand hovered over the coins. ‘Double or quits?’

‘For what?’

‘For a night in her bed.’

Duncan should have refused. He should have scooped up his winnings and told his friend that he had no intention of even trying, when he realised that Benedict would take that as weakness or a lack of self-confidence at the very least and would offer to do the deed himself. The thought of his clumsy friend going anywhere near Madeleine filled him with a kind of desperate fury. He smiled. ‘Done, my friend.’

‘Done to the wager or done to the deed?’ Benedict queried, grinning.

‘The wager, you bufflehead.’

Benedict retrieved the coins and replaced them in his purse with evident relief. ‘Another se’nnight?’

‘No, give me credit for more finesse than that. Make it a fortnight.’

He could have bitten his tongue out. If the object of the wager had been anyone else but the lovely Madeleine Charron, he would not have given it another thought. As it was, he was consumed with shame. She had endured so much in her short life, he had no right to play with her as if she were a toy. She deserved his respect. He flung the contents of the coffee cup down his throat and with a curt, ‘I will see you later,’ stood up and left the premises.

He knew he ought not to see Madeleine again, but he also knew it would be impossible to stay away. He had been ensnared. It was not a condition he was comfortable with and he set off for Bond Street, where he took out his frustration, anger and guilt on his sparring partner at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon, until that gentleman called out to him to stop if he didn’t want to be done for murder. He apologised and decided there was nothing for it but to go home and pretend nothing had happened. He had enjoyed an evening out with a pretty actress; nothing out of the ordinary in that, nothing to lose another night’s sleep over.

He would pay Benedict his fifty pounds and be done with it.