“Clothing can alter a person’s perceptions of the wearer…”
Yes, Lord Cotereigh had proved that point, she supposed. She would wear coral ribbons and her coral necklace, and Tom would be a gentleman’s son. The past could not be changed, but the future could. The future—she smiled to herself—for Tom, the future tasted of cinnamon.
It was good. It was enough. Perhaps she wished she could have suffered less, but to have set up the society and to have saved Tom… That was a decent sum of work for her time in London.
She settled back against the plump seat, having waved her last goodbye to her aunt. She would not cry. There had been enough of that. She brushed the velvet again, concentrating on that, the changing textures beneath her fingertips, back and forth, light and dark, determined to think of London as success, not failure.
Here she was, whisked away from the capital in the finest elegance…and the fact she owed it to Lord Cotereigh only made her more grimly determined to hold onto her smile.
Her aunt had arranged the chaise. Her aunt had insisted she travel post. When Madelaine had protested the cost, her aunt had anxiously revealed the letter she’d received.
A bankers draft from Lord Cotereigh. It was for twelve thousand pounds. His winnings from the wager. And, though she was no expert on the costs of such things, at least ten times the value of everything she’d returned to him.
His note, addressed to her aunt, had stated the sum was to be spent or invested ‘however she saw fit.’
For the society, of course, both women agreed it must be that. Just as both women silently knew that by addressing his note to Lady Pemberthy, by instructing her man of business via his own, this money was nowhore’s trinket. It was nothing to dowith Madelaine at all. His actions said it, loud and clear. He just happened to be philanthropic all of a sudden.
Well, let him, if it eased his conscience. Whatever spiked emotions the gesture had produced inher—so many sharp, complicated, painful things, like shards of glass in a thick lawn, impossible to get out—she felt no guilt. She would not let guilt be one of the things she felt when making use of this money to speed her journey.
His wealth took her from him.
It seemed a fitting justice.
Twenty-Six
The visit to LadyFrances was overdue. He ought to have gone the day after the ball, made amends for his distraction, for leaving her on the dance floor.
He’d heard she’d danced with his uncle after he’d left. Beckford had told him. He and Handley had paid a visit when he failed to turn up at the dinner arranged to commemorate the wager’s end.
He was ill, he said, when his friends found him at home, shocked to find him unshaven and pale, in shirt sleeves and banyan. Beckford had almost choked. Handley had looked pleased, as though this was fair punishment for his success. Both gentlemen’s reactions might have amused him. Perhaps they had. He could barely remember the meeting.
It was five days since the ball. Four days since he’d seen her. It had taken him that long to scrape enough of himself together to don a respectable outfit and step out into the street.
Had it always been so damned loud? So blinding? But he was bolstered by brandy, warm in his veins. It was a soothing hand on his shoulder, a numbing draught, laudanum for the nerves.
He began to understand his father. Not thathewould ever be weak enough to fall prey to the substance. No. He used it like medicine. He was entirely in control. A little in the morning to let him face the day. A little before dinner to fortify him for company. A little before bed to help him sleep.
There was no harm in that. It was what he needed.
The marquess’s porter admitted him at once, clearly a man who knew how things stood. Sebastian was in the hall, removing his hat and gloves when a footman hurried in, flustered. “I beg pardon, Lord Cotereigh. But…but Lady Frances is not at home.”
Sebastian eyed him for a moment, the lift of his eyebrow sufficient to make colour flood the young man’s face.
“Your porter seemed to believe otherwise.”
“Y-yes, my lord. But…but Lady Frances had to go out. Suddenly.”
“Suddenly,” repeated Lord Cotereigh, making the footman shrink another inch.
Behind him, the porter came over, officious and glaring at the young footman. “What’s this, Frederick? What do you mean by this?”
The poor man, trembling now, was saved by the arrival of the marquess himself, Lady Frances’s father. The footman paled.
“Cotereigh,” the marquess greeted him, smiling and affable, casting a confused look at the collected servants. “Welcome, welcome, how do you do? Here for my daughter, are you? Well, Frederick,” he turned to the terrified footman, “fetch her down, fetch her down.”
“My-my lord, I—”
“Your footman here seems to believe Lady Frances is not at home,” said Sebastian. He had no interest in getting the footmaninto trouble, but his patience was as thin as the rein he held on his shattered mood. “Perhaps I should call another time.”
