Chapter 2
Two
Madelaine paused, tapping her pen against her lip.
The wretched plight of these children…
The plight of these unfortunate children…
The unbearably wretched plight of these unfortunately wretched children…
Her aunt would have used all the words, and underlined them too, but Madelaine was writing to a medical man who was presumably also a rational and scientifically minded man, and therefore a degree of restraint would probably do more good than a torrent of emotion.
Everyone already thought their cause ridiculous enough.
Madelaine sighed and took a break from her letter, getting up from the messy desk and walking to the window though the pen was still in her hand. She chewed the end absently, looking out on the unprepossessing view.
This large study in her aunt’s London house, the base of their administrative operations, was one floor up.
The window looked out of the back of the house, over the roofs of the kitchen outbuildings and to the small, muddy yard of the mews stables where her aunt kept her two carriage horses.
It was a view, therefore, of rooftops mainly; a view of slate tiles spotted with white lichens and greened with moss between their borders.
Further away was the back of a rather grand house, and between the two was a strip of garden, the tops of its trees visible over the stable roof.
The crests of the trees were white with blossom so thick it crowded out the twiggy branches.
And far up above it all, the sky had brightened to an angelic blue after yesterday’s sullen, feet-dragging grey.
April was a difficult time, both so pretty and so sad.
It was when Alfred had died; it was a month spent with her heart on eggshells, if she ever stopped to think about it…
and really, it was silly that the season affected her the way it did, because Alfred had died somewhere in the Caribbean ocean and his last views would have been nothing like an English spring.
She turned at the sound of the door. Her aunt’s ancient footman, Godfrey, an equally ancient yellowed and unpowdered wig upon his head, appeared in the doorway.
“The Viscount Cotereigh.”
That was all the warning she got. The footman was gone, and in his place was a tall, dark-haired man.
He was about the same age as her; she knew that for a fact.
She knew a great deal about Lord Cotereigh, the Earl of Arnon’s heir, just as she knew a great deal about all of society’s key figures.
She and her aunt had researched them all.
And, like most others in his social circle, Lord Cotereigh was firmly in the Hopeless column in her aunt’s ledger of potential supporters. He’d already been there eight years ago when Madelaine first began her seasonal visits to town, and he’d stayed there ever since.
So why on earth was he here?
Lord Cotereigh halted one step into the room.
He was dressed all in blacks and whites and palest cream, Beau Brummel’s maxims distilled into crystalline perfection, the crisp lines of his clothing sharp enough to cut cloth themselves.
His hair was almost black too, shorter than was fashionable and therefore a fashion all of its own.
Only his eyes ruined it. A society beau’s eyes ought to be bright and lively.
Lord Cotereigh’s were as black as his boots.
The distant drop of a dark lake… He stared coldly at her for a moment…
a memory of freezing water on a bare ankle…
A lifetime ago, she had swum and bathed off the shores of Sussex, where the flint shingle shores stretched for miles.
They shelved deeply, the land suddenly falling away beneath paddling feet, the brown, friendly sea turning icy and dangerous all in a moment.
She’d reached for Alfred when she found herself out of her depth…
She’d reached for strong arms, slippery with saltwater, and laughing brown eyes…
“Forgive me,” said Lord Cotereigh, searching the room with a glance and finding it one large aunt short. “I was under the impression I was being taken to Lady Pemberthy.”
Madelaine shook off her strange mood. The month of April had awkwardly grasping fingers. She stepped forward from the window, smiling. “And I’m a poor substitute, I know.”
Shifting her pen to her left hand, she held out her right. Lord Cotereigh looked at it as though it was a grisly museum exhibit before giving it a small, precise squeeze. He looked up at her then appeared slightly shocked all over again as his gaze tracked down to her mouth and quickly away.
He cleared his throat, Madelaine fighting back a very unaccustomed flush. But why had he looked at her so strangely?
“My aunt has gone out, Lord Cotereigh, but perhaps I can be of assistance?”
His fleeting expression suggested he found this very doubtful. “I thank you.” He turned back to the door. “But I think it best if I call some other time.”
But would he? There was something awkward in his manner, as though he regretted having come at all. And why had he come? It had to be about their cause, surely?
He’d been there at Mrs Fishbourne’s saloon party; he—she cringed inwardly at the memory—he’d heard that laughter. Perhaps, sitting there, coolly watching the whole, he’d been curious enough to enquire what it was about.
That dreamy-eyed boy, Alastair Beckford, the Marquis of Pembroke’s young brother, had been at his table.
And his mother was in her aunt’s Possible column.
Might Mr Beckford have been an advocate?
It surely wouldn’t have been either of the others.
Sir Nathan Handley cared for nothing but hunting and gaming.
And as for Lord Cotereigh’s uncle, Major Tait, he’d probably sooner flay a child than save one.
No, there were very few of Lord Cotereigh’s associates who might have convinced him to come.
It was beyond strange that he was here himself.
Whatever his reason, she was certain it was an impulse visit, probably never to be repeated—his stiff, awkward manner convinced her of that.
And now he was glancing at the door, about to escape…
She couldn’t let him. His support…his support would be miraculous.
Where the Viscount Cotereigh led, all society followed—or the highest, proudest, richest parts of it.
And however unlikely it was that he might actually choose to lead them here, it wasn’t a chance she could let slip through her fingers.
“Of course, you are welcome to repeat your visit at any time.” She smiled lightly, hoping she kept the desperation from her voice. “But please, try me, and see if I might not do. My aunt and I are equal partners in our work. At the very least, let me take a message from you.”
The viscount paused, his gaze glancing off her.
“It is…kind of you, but not right that I take up so much of your time. Alone.”
“Oh, I see.” That final word, pronounced with such censorious significance, almost made her smile. He felt it improper to be alone with her, did he? And so it might be, if she were a young, unmarried, greenish girl.
She made her smile very polite and proper.
“You needn’t worry, Lord Cotereigh. I am forever receiving visitors by myself.
Either I or my aunt, or both of us, are so frequently out and about, that dear Godfrey has long taken to taking visitors to whomever is at home—beggars not being choosers and all that.
Indeed, to most callers, we’re entirely indistinguishable.
As I said, my aunt and I are equal partners in this enterprise of ours—well, in the months I come to stay with her in town, at least. And at all other times, we correspond so frequently that I’m kept up to date with the whole. ”
Lord Cotereigh smiled. Or certainly, his lips moved in a smile-ish manner. It was even more polite and proper than her own.
“I don’t doubt your qualifications, Miss Clements, but nevertheless, I feel it prudent to call another day.”
The name froze her. He was almost at the door before she shook herself. She smiled, though a shiver still crept down her spine, bone by bone.
“It is Ardingly, my lord. Mrs Ardingly. Not Miss Clements.”
For the third time he looked startled—a wider crack in the ice this time, wide enough to let the faintest blush tinge his cheekbones. The sound of her maiden name, and the cold ghost of death it brought with it, was almost worth it, just for that.
It would be amusing to shock this man, to make the cool and perfect Lord Cotereigh stumble. She suppressed a smile at the thought—unbecoming to a parson’s daughter—as a small, mischievous part of her flickered briefly into life.
That almost seemed a ghost too. But that spark of mischief had once soared free and far, a songlark trilling in the endless marsh skies as she ran barefoot over sheep-grazed grass down to the waiting sea…
It seemed the past was heavy today.
“Forgive me.” His eyes flicked over her then away. “I was told your family name was Clements. I did not realise you had married.”
See, my lord? She suppressed another smile. No need to fret over my maidenly virtue.
“Well, now we are properly introduced, we may as well be comfortable. Come to the sitting room, and I will call for some tea.”
She walked past him, leading the way before he could protest. This was a trick she’d learnt from her aunt—be bustling and always talking, and you could browbeat anyone too well-mannered to interrupt. Her aunt did it unintentionally. Madelaine deployed it at will.
It would be just as well to move rooms anyway.
Lord Cotereigh had already been giving the study a doubting look.
It was crowded with books and pamphlets, the walls near-papered with the work of caricaturists, the vulgar prints either appropriately bolstering or just outright amusing.
Not a single one of them was favourable to the Regent.