A Lady of Consequence. Mary Nichols

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