Lucien Tregellas. Margaret McPhee
Lord Farquharson’s arms. What she did not understand was why Lord Tregellas should care. She kept her thoughts to herself and shook her head at her father’s question.
Mrs Langley snorted in the background. ‘Quiet and unassuming?’ she echoed. ‘It is clear you have spent little time of late in your daughter’s company!’
Mr Langley chose to ignore this comment. ‘Madeline,’ he said as carefully as he could, ‘Lord Tregellas is a gentleman of some renown. He may be an earl and in receipt of a large fortune, but…’ He hesitated, unsure how best to phrase the next words. ‘He has a rather dubious reputation, my dear—’
‘Everyone knows what he is reputed to have done,’ cut in her mother.
‘What did he do?’ asked Madeline.
Mrs Langley’s mouth opened. ‘He is a murderer of the very worst kind. Why do you think he’s called the Wicked Earl? He killed the—’
‘We shall not lower ourselves to become gossip-mongers, Mrs Langley,’ said her father reprovingly.
Madeline looked from one parent to the other. Even she, prim and proper Miss Madeline Langley, had heard talk of Lord Tregellas. He was said to have committed some heinous crime in the past. That fact alone made him strangely fascinating to half the women across London, although he was reputed to treat them all with a cold contempt. Madeline knew that, and still it did not matter. The man that had forced Lord Farquharson to leave her safe in the Theatre Royal, who had warned her against that fiend, and had saved her again at this evening’s ball, was not someone she could fear. He had, after all, given her every reason to trust him. ‘It was only one dance,’ she said in defence of Lord Tregellas and herself.
‘It was the waltz!’ sobbed her mother. ‘Madeline is quite ruined after this evening’s fiasco.’
Mr Langley said patiently, ‘Come now, my dear, she’s hardly ruined. It was, as she said, only a dance.’
The sobbing burst forth into a wail. ‘Oh, you understand nothing, Mr Langley!’
Mr Langley wore the weary air of a man who knew exactly what the forthcoming weeks would hold if he did nothing to resolve the situation. ‘Perhaps I could have a word with Farquharson.’
‘He’ll have nothing to do with Madeline now. All my plans lie in ruins.’
‘He’s a stout fellow. He’ll listen to reason,’ said Mr Langley.
Her mother stopped wailing and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Do you really think so?’ she hiccupped.
‘Of course,’ her father replied. ‘I’ll go round there tomorrow and explain that Madeline had no notion to dance with Tregellas, that she was taken unawares, and, as a young and inexperienced lady, had no say in the matter. Perhaps I could invite him to dinner.’
Madeline could not believe what she was hearing. Her father thought Farquharson a stout fellow? ‘Papa,’ she said. ‘Please do not. If you knew Lord Farquharson’s true nature, you would not suggest such a thing. He is not an honourable man.’
‘Mr Langley,’ said her mother, ‘pray do not heed her. She’s taken a set against Lord Farquharson and is determined to thwart my plans. He’s a wealthy and respected member of the aristocracy, a war hero and more. And he’s worth ten thousand a year. Does that sound like a dishonourable man?’
‘Papa, if you knew what he had done—’
‘Then tell me, child,’ encouraged her father.
‘Arthur!’ her mother whined.
But Mr Langley made no sign of having heard his wife’s complaint. ‘Madeline, what has happened?’
Madeline sighed. Papa would listen. He would not make excuses for Lord Farquharson or, worse still, encourage the man’s attentions. Once Papa knew the truth, she would be free of Lord Farquharson for ever. It did not matter that she would never marry. Rather that, than wedded to Lord Farquharson. No man other than that villain had ever expressed so much as an interest in her. She was four-and-twenty years old, with a string of failed Seasons behind her. She did not blame her mother and father for not sending her out on to the circuit last year. In fact, it was a blessed relief, and they did, after all, have Angelina to think about. Surely Angelina would more than compensate them for Madeline’s failings?
‘Madeline?’ her father prompted.
Madeline shook the fluttering thoughts from her head. The truth must be told—just without any mention of Lord Tregellas. Taking a deep breath, she relayed what Lord Farquharson had been about, both in the Theatre Royal and at Lady Gilmour’s ball. There was no embellishment, no dramatics, just plain facts, minus a certain earl’s involvement.
By the end of it Mr Langley was no longer looking his usual mild-mannered self. He fixed a stern eye upon his wife. ‘You knew of this, Amelia?’ Incredulity edged his voice.
‘Only about the theatre. But he did not kiss her, Arthur.’ Mrs Langley cast imploring eyes up to her husband. ‘I knew nothing of this evening. She said not one word of being alone in a bedchamber with Lord Farquharson. Had I but known…’ Mrs Langley pressed her tiny lace handkerchief to her mouth and fell silent.
A small cynical part of Madeline wondered as to her mother’s claim. Would she still have had her daughter dance with Lord Farquharson, knowing all that he had done? Mama had been unwilling to hear Madeline speak against the Baron. And social standing and money were so very important to Mrs Langley. It was a pointless question.
‘We shall discuss this further, Mrs Langley, once the matter has been satisfactorily resolved.’
Madeline had never seen her father like this before. There was a determined glare in his normally kind brown eyes, a tension in his usually relaxed stance. He rang the bell and requested that the carriage be brought back round. ‘Papa?’ said Madeline. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To see Lord Farquharson.’
Madeline felt the blood drain from her face. Visions of duelling pistols and her father lying wounded, or worse, swam in her head. She prayed that he would not do anything so foolish as call out Lord Farquharson. Not her papa, not her mild-mannered, gentle papa. ‘Please, Papa, do not go.’
‘I must, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’
‘Arthur?’ Mrs Langley raised a trembling voice.
‘Do not wait up, I may be some time,’ said Mr Langley and walked from the parlour.
The clock on the mantel struck midnight as the front door slammed behind him.
‘So you waltzed with Miss Langley just to prevent Farquharson from doing so?’ Guy, Viscount Varington, raised a cynical brow.
The library was quiet; only the slow rhythmic ticking of the clock and the occasional spit from the fire punctuated the silence.
‘Why else?’ Lucien Tregellas didn’t even glance round at his brother, just stood by the carved marble fireplace looking into the dancing yellow flames. They glowed golden in the darkness of the library, reminding him of the lights in Madeline Langley’s eyes. Such warmth and honesty as he had not seen in any other woman’s eyes. Long dark lashes and that straight little nose…and a clean pleasant smell that reminded him of…It came to him then exactly what Miss Langley smelled of—oranges!
‘You’ve done far more damage to her reputation just by dancing with her than Farquharson ever could.’ Guy leaned across the small drum table and captured the decanter.
‘Hell’s teeth, Guy! I only danced with the girl. Farquharson would have done a damned sight worse. It wasn’t as if I ravished her.’
‘Might as well have, old chap,’ said his brother. ‘You haven’t danced in the last five years. And when you decide to take again to the dance floor, after such a long absence, you don’t choose just any old dance, but the waltz.’
‘So?’