Fallen Angel (29 page)

She spent the next two hours reviewing the progress of her courtship with Deveryn. The shadow of her father seemed to haunt her reflections. At one point, she turned her head into the cold, misted windowpane and cried softly, "What have I done? Oh what have I done?"

Memories flooded her mind, intensifying her sense of guilt and shame. She remembered her father taking her up in front of his mount before she was old enough for her first pony; she remembered learning to swim in the Forth with her father's strong, dependable hands holding her up; she remembered her father's pride when she took her first fence, and his presence in the sickroom when a bout with pneumonia threatened her life. Later, there were other less happy memories, but she did not dwell on those. She consoled herself with the thought that no one was perfect. She never pretended that her father was. But she would permit no one to speak ill of him.

Her own sorry predicament she blamed on herself, though, to be sure, Lord Deveryn did not escape his share of censure.

Habitually used to having his own way in everything, he had, she decided, taken advantage of her inexperience. He was odious, selfish, arrogant and . . . old. No doubt he would try to rule her with a rod of iron. He would never be given the opportunity, she promised herself.

Pleasant reveries floated at random through her- mind, relieving, in some small part, her feelings of impotent rage. She imagined herself saddling Banshee and melting into the hills until such time as Deveryn and her stepmother removed their hateful presence from Drumoak; she saw herself conferring with her solicitor demanding that he procure an annullment of her odious marriage; she pretended that she was eloping with Malcolm to the Continent where they would live happily ever after and thumb their noses at Lord Deveryn across the safe distance of the English Channel.

The outcome of this fanciful form of cognition was predictable. Maddie arrived home in a state of acute nervous exhaustion. She longed to confide in someone. It was not in her power. Deveryn had constrained her to silence. In the privacy of her own chamber, frustrated anger gave way to despair.

A sleepless night did nothing to restore her equilibrium or assuage her feelings of ill usage. On the contrary, the evasions she was forced to practise on her aunt intensified her shame. The marriage to all intents and purposes might never have taken place. She did not even have a ring to show for it. Deveryn, Maddie decided, might very well be an unprincipled rogue. She'd heard of men of that ilk from the girls at school.

Towards noon, after a listless morning of packing her few belongings, Maddie was called to' the front hall. And into her hand, unexpectedly, fortuitously, fell the power, in some small measure, to decide her own fate.

Within the hour, under the escort of her grandfather's emissary, Maddie was en route to London.

The small, restless sounds of the audience as they made themselves comfortable for the duration gradually faded. The conductor raised one arm imperceptibly. The baton descended and the opening strains of Handel's Water Music, measured, graceful, a perfect complement to the elegant and spacious Georgian interior slowly wafted through the ground floor rooms of the Earl of Bessborough's commodious town house in Cavendish Square.

Under the brilliant glare of the crystal chandelier, Lady Bessborough surveyed her guests with unmitigated pleasure. Her husband, the earl, was expected to put in an appearance later in the evening when the House retired for the night. She caught the eye of her second son, Freddie. He was deep in conversation with a very pleasant looking young woman— Samuel Spencer's granddaughter, as she remembered. She supposed that Freddie was regaling the girl with the gory details of his near demise at Waterloo. He and his friend, Captain Gronow, had dined out for the last several months on the stories of their alarming though sometimes amusing exploits while serving with Wellington. Her ladyship smiled fondly at the favourite of her brood. A moment later, her eyes were anxiously scanning the room. Thankfully, Lady Caroline Lamb, her ill-starred daughter, was nowhere in evidence. The girl's disastrous affair with Lord Byron was long over, though not forgotten. That degenerate, fortunately, was safely married, though to be sure, rumour was rife that all was not well in Byron's household. She shuddered to think what
mischief Lady Caro might get into if Byron should ever give her the nod again. The Countess silently deplored the blatant indiscretions of the younger generation, conveniently forgetting that in her salad days she herself had set the ton on its ear. Her long-standing affair with Lord Granville, sadly now at an end, had been conducted with far more circumspection than she was formerly wont to employ.

Her eyes wandered to the Duke of Raeburn. She eyed him speculatively. Now
this
was something. What, she wondered, could have dragged such a recluse from Raeburn Abbey? Matchmaking, of course. He'd been a widower for all of two years and was but newly come into the title. Now who . . . ? Surely not Spencer's granddaughter? Poor Freddie! He looked to be completely captivated.

His Grace, the Duke of Raeburn, negligently crossed one silk stockinged ankle over the other and made a mental note to reprimand his valet for the something less than mirror shine on his best pair of evening pumps. He did not think that the trifling awkwardness of not having paid his retainer for some few months merited such lackadaisical service. After all, he reasoned, his pecuniary embarrassment was of a temporary nature. His eyes travelled to the pretty little thing who was to be the source of his future prosperity. His spirits flagged.

Madeleina, he refused to call her by the undignified diminutive, was wrapped up in the music. It took very little to please the child, so he had discovered—a posy of flowers, a book of poems, a drive in his carriage. Her delight in such trifles was gratifying. Still, there was something obscene in a man of his years, he could not say experience, offering for a girl who was of an age with his own daughters. Thankfully, they were still in the schoolroom with their younger brother, the heir, a boy of fifteen.

In another year or two, the girls would be of marriageable age and angling for a Season. Worse, a Court presentation was obligatory, and the expense of such a venture was mind- boggling, especially when the treasury was empty. With a
moue of
distaste, His Grace thought fleetingly of his departed father. If only the old sod had gone to his just reward before he had time to empty the Raeburn coffers. A taste for fast horses, faster women and deep play with the Devonshire set had been

his ruination. And it stood to him, George Darnley, as head of his House, to rectify matters. Since the death of his dear lady • wife two years before, his fate had been predictable—marriage to some heiress or other.

But damn if he wanted to get shackled! Women were intimidating. Beautiful women even more so. A comprehensive glance in the girl's direction confirmed his suspicion. In a year or two, Madeleina was destined to be one of the beauties.

The dismal prospect of life with a beauty passed before his eyes—balls, routs, soirees at Carlton House, musical evenings such as the present boring affair at Lady Bessborough's, the Opera, the theatre, a full calendar of social engagements during the Season, for what beauty could forego the pleasure of displaying her one claim to fame? None of his acquaintance. And it went without saying that for every public appearance, there would be a visit to some fashionable and expensive mantua maker. Good God! In all probability, the girl would expect
him
to turn into a fashion plate.

He raised his quizzing glass and sadly surveyed the occupants of the room, particularly the gentlemen. Egad! But he didn't know what the younger generation was coming to! It was all Weston tailoring and those damned pantaloons, a relic of Wellington and his armies which the Corinthian set had taken up. "Trousers," some called them. Before Waterloo, a gentleman would not be caught dead in such casual attire in a lady's drawing room. Breeches and silk stockings were
de rigeur,
now, regretfully, worn only at court or Almack's Assembly rooms, or by ancient relics such as himself. Even Wellington had adopted the current mode.

He let the quizzing glass drop to his chest and gave his attention to the music, his expression stoic. When the last few bars of the overture came to an end, he applauded with gusto. Duty served, he did not remain for the rest of the programme, but made his apologies to his neighbours as he scraped back his gilt-edged chair, and made for the library on the heels of several other retreating gentlemen.

Maddie watched the departure of the gentlemen with a derisory twitch of her lips. Napoleon had disposed of the angry mob with one burst of grapeshot. In England, a few bars of Handel, and the rout was equally effective. She said as much to

Freddie Ponsonby, and was rewarded with an appreciative chuckle. His mother, Lady Bessborough, riveted her son with a stern eye and the young man sobered.

The musical programme came to an end. The great doors were thrown open by liveried footmen, and by degrees the guests began to idle their way in small groups to the supper room. Freddie made his excuses to Maddie. In the absence of his father, he was acting as host and his mother had signaled that it was time to inform the gentlemen that their presence was required.

As
Maddie
rose from her place, she said in an amused undertone, "We've lost our escort. Raeburn has deserted us."

Miss Spencer acknowledged Maddie's words with an unladylike snort. "And so has every other gentleman in the room."

"Where have all the gentlemen got to?"

"The library, I've no doubt. It's not uncommon at this kind of do. If our hostess had engaged to have an opera singer to do the honours, especially one with a pretty face, the gentlemen would have stuck to their places like glue."

"What has the library got that's so attractive?"

"Not books. Of that you may be certain. Now, my dear, I think it's time to circulate. Ah, here comes Raeburn to do the honours."

Maddie smiled shyly as His Grace made his way toward them. In his beige satin breeches and matching waistcoat with plum coloured brocade cutaway coat, she thought him very elegant for an older gentleman. She judged him to be something under fifty, though she knew herself to be shockingly inept at placing the ages of those she numbered among the elderly. Youth made her blind to what other ladies present were not slow to remark. The Duke was of athletic build, carried himself well, had a healthy crop of dark brown hair distinguished with grey at the temples, and possessed an uncommonly handsome pair of intelligent hazel eyes. Maddie looked unseeingly at the aristocratic features and thought merely that the hooded eyes gave His Grace an air of one who was either perpetually bored or sleepy.

She angled a sideways glance at her aunt. That lady's expression was inscrutable. For that matter, the Duke's
expression was equally bland. She thought the two of them were perfect for each
other.
Her grandfather had told her that Raeburn was a widower and on the lookout for a wife. In the week since she had been in London, he had been a frequent visitor at the house and an attentive escort. Only one thing could account for it. He had fallen in love with her aunt on the long, wearying coach ride from Drumoak to London.

The thought of her precipitous flight from Drumoak made her smile slip a fraction, and though she was careful to respond to her companions' desultory comments on the room and its appointments, her mind was miles away.

On that morning almost a fortnight before, when she had descended Drumoak's long staircase, the Duke of Raeburn had seemed like a godsend. He had come, he had informed her, at her grandfather's behest to escort the ladies to London. His offer had been accepted with alacrity. Within the hour they had been on their way, taking a polite but distant farewell of Cynthia, who looked glad to see the back of them, and a prolonged and affectionate farewell of Janet, who was not. From Duncan, Maddie would not be parted, nor he from her. He had acted as one of the outriders and now found employment in Samuel Spencer's stables. She suspected that Duncan was no happier than she in the unfamiliar and strangely impersonal environment in which they found themselves.

Her reception by her grandfather had not been an affectionate one. She had not expected affection. They were, after all, strangers to each other. He was everything that was solicitous. And if she now regretted a lack of warmth in his demeanour, she soon perceived that there was nothing personal in it. Samuel Spencer was by nature a cold man. Moreover, he was preoccupied. As a connoisseur and collector of some note, to which fact the house on Curzon Street with its fine furnishings and elegant appointments amply attested, he was frequently away on foraging expeditions. House sales and auctions in and around London, and even farther afield, drew him like a magnet.