A Lady of Consequence. Mary Nichols
of, that is easily remedied,’ Lady Bulford said. ‘You may pack your bags and leave this instant. Your services are no longer required.’
‘But I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Making false accusations against my son is wrong and impudence to your betters is wrong and complaining about your work is wrong, when everyone knows I am the most benign of employers.’
‘And so is rushing about the house in your nightwear in the middle of the night,’ his lordship put in, eyeing her appreciatively from top to toe.
‘I only did it to escape.’
‘Then you may escape. Permanently. You may go back to bed, but I want you gone by the time I come down for my breakfast.’
‘But, my lord, where will I go?’
‘That is no concern of mine. Back where you came from, I suppose. And do not expect a character…’
‘My lord, I beg of you…’
‘Enough. I am not going to bandy words with you. Get out of my sight before I throw you out here and now.’
Maddy went back to her room, relieved to find her unwelcome visitor had gone, and flung herself on the bed, sobbing her heart out. Why didn’t they believe her? It was so unfair. Where could she go? How could she live? Who could she turn to? She couldn’t go back to the orphanage, she was too old for that now. Must it be the poorhouse?
If Henry Bulford had an ounce of shame, he would admit what he had done and exonerate her. But she knew he would not. He was one of the upper crust, people with more money than they could spend in a lifetime and they thought that meant they could do as they liked, just as the young dandy who had run down her mother thought he could do as he liked. People like her were the lowest of the low and didn’t matter.
But gradually her misery turned to anger and anger made her strong. She would not be cowed. She was as good as they were, better than they were, and one day she would prove she did matter. One day she would beat them. One day they would have to acknowledge her as their equal; if she trampled on a few aristocratic toes to get there, so be it. And if one of those aristocratic toes turned out to belong to the Honourable Henry Bulford, so much the better. She did not know how she would do it, nor how long it would take, but nothing and no one would stand in her way. She would make her dreams come true; she would be a lady.
Chapter One
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.