Page 29

Just as Moss, the butler, handed him a glass of champagne, there was a slight rustle of excitement in the room and Madeleine turned to see the most beautiful couple enter. Mr Shilton, with his ruffled gold curls, wearing his dark superfine coat and silver breeches and stockings, was always a picture of elegance, but now on his arm was a vision to match – Miss Payton as fair and blue-eyed as he was, and as beautifully dressed. The pairing drew all eyes.

Miss Payton caught sight of Madeleine and was quickly by her side. ‘Miss Rose, what a pleasure to see you again, and looking so well in that gown.’

Madeleine smiled, inclined her head and, glancing up, gazed straight into the eyes of Mr Shilton. They were amused and appraising and although he had the good manners not to mention the dress he had bought for her, he did bow and murmur, ‘Miss Rose, looking very well indeed, I’m glad to say.’

Miss Payton had been whisked away by an acquaintance wishing to congratulate her on her betrothal and Mr Shilton offered his arm to Madeleine and walked her into a window embrasure. He bent his head towards her so he could speak without being overheard.

‘That magical enfant, star of your story, would appreciate another visit, I’m sure. He continues to enchant everyone in my household, but you were his saviour.’

Madeleine blushed. Mention of her writing always seemed so conspiratorial. ‘I did not wish to importune you or your servants by visiting too often.’

‘My dear Miss Rose, I’ve told them to expect you at any time, whether I am in residence or not.’

‘I am grateful for that freedom, Sir. Thank you. I agree he’s a most appealing child.’

‘For sure, ’tis a remarkable sight to see my servants fall under his spell – except for Maltby of course, though even he is bending at the knees.’ He was laughing now and Madeleine could not help but join in.

She saw the Marquess and Miss Payton separately watching them and quickly extricated herself with a slight incline of her head. ‘Mr Shilton, forgive me, I should attend to my social duties, and fear it’s probably time for me to play this fiendish piece.’

Lady Lockhart was beginning to encourage her guests to sit in the fine gold chairs arranged in front of the pianoforte. ‘Madeleine! Oh there you are. Could you start the evening with the Clementi?’

Madeleine knew Aunt Lucinda well enough to know this was not a question but an order and, with her heart in her mouth, she sat down at the instrument and with a slightly tremulous hand, laid her musical score on the stand.

Suddenly, the Marquess’s tall frame was beside her and he said, ‘Would you like me to turn the pages of the score for you, Miss Rose? I know the music and often fulfilled this role for my wife.’

She looked up and nodded, surprised and gratified.

Everyone was seated and Madeleine was just about to begin when two latecomers slipped into the room. Lord Flambard, in his new persona as Lord Whiley, as preposterously handsome and rakish as ever, had on his arm the beauteous Mrs Payton, about whose name a certain notoriety still clung. Sitting next to Ferdinand Shilton, Miss Payton’s hand clutched at the silk of her skirt.

Outrage flared in Mr Shilton like a flame. How dare Flambard blatantly flout his agreement to keep his amours discreet! He had to restrain himself from leaping to his feet to stride across the room and bar his friend’s entry. How shocked he was by his Lordship’s flaunting of his liaison, in complete disregard for himself and Miss Payton’s sensibilities: how even more shocking to him was his own ungovernable feeling. Only concern for his betrothed sitting tensely beside him, and for Miss Rose about to begin her recital, prevented Ferdinand Shilton from making a public scene, something he had never done in his life before.

Unaware of this maelstrom surging through his blood, Hester Payton leaned across to whisper in his ear, ‘I had not thought Mama would be parading this new cavalier-servant in public quite so soon. She becomes impossibly skittish in his presence.’

Despite his own anger, he aimed to console her. ‘Don’t concern yourself, my dear. I’m sure it will pass.’

‘I’m not so sure. When I try to talk to her about setting the date for my wedding – I mean of course our wedding, dear Ferdinand – she refuses to commit herself. She hums to herself and skips around the house, it’s as if she has returned to her giddy girlhood!’ Her daughter’s voice was full of disapproval. Then a thought struck her and she asked with urgency, ‘What do you know of Lord Whiley? He seems to have come from nowhere.’

Mr Shilton’s heart plummeted. ‘I know he’s spent a long time in Paris,’ he said evasively, but was saved from having to answer more extensively by Lady Lockhart’s commanding voice introducing her niece and the music she was about to play.

All eyes were on the couple at the pianoforte. Most of the women were sizing up the Marquess of Kintbury, so recently bereaved and therefore unexpectedly back in the marriage lists. He had a venerable title, second only to a duke, an estate in Berkshire and, it was rumoured, a very fine Palladian mansion. The recent tragedy of his young wife’s death had left him with two daughters; it was obvious he was in need of a second wife, and an heir.

Madeleine commanded attention too. Her nerves seemed to disperse as she played the first chords and became immersed in the music. Mr Shilton, too, found music deeply affecting and in any other company, would have allowed himself to be carried away by Miss Rose’s expressive playing, but tonight he barely heard a note. His febrile attention was on the performer. Her profile had a delicate regularity with a small fine nose, curling lips and the high angle of her cheekbone. All pleased Ferdy’s eye. Madeleine appeared radiant with beauty and life, aglow with the pleasure of the music and her part in creating it, as a stream of mellifluous notes spun from her flying fingers. Her dress shimmered in the candlelight, the skin of her décolletage, her slender arms and shoulders gleamed golden. She had a certain tenderness of expression as she glanced up at the Marquess in recognition of the pages he turned in perfect time.

The blue Shilton eyes were fixed on her and they were not happy. Indeed, a frown, so seldom seen on the man’s refined features, revealed his inner unease. To his fury with Lord Flambard was added this new irritation. Ferdinand Shilton did not like the way the Marquess stood so close to Madeleine and turned the pages of her score as his fingers caressed the paper, in a sublimation of his true intent. He seemed proprietorial, gazing down at her, nodding and smiling in a self-satisfied way when she completed any particularly complex arpeggio. She glanced up fleetingly at these moments and met her companion’s eyes as if they had a secret communication through the music.

If white rage had taken him by surprise, Ferdy Shilton now felt the creeping tentacles of a previously unknown and more insidious emotion – could it be jealousy? His whole life until now had been a gilded one, filled with love, admiration and good fortune; he had never envied anyone or felt even a shiver of covetousness, for he had everything he could possibly need. But suddenly, he was in the grip of something that was primitive, uncomfortable and quite outside his control. For the first time, he understood the dark sexual springs of Othello. But, he thought to himself with some self-mockery, it was not Madeleine’s white throat his fingers itched to close around but rather the sinewy windpipe of the Marquess.

Mr Shilton knew he was sitting beside the prettiest woman in the room and yet she had never provoked any disturbance of his heartbeat or throbbing in his blood. He had chosen to marry Hester Payton for this very reason, knowing she would not alter the tenor of his life. She would be his partner in that charmed existence, assuring the unruffled continuation of the carefree pleasures of the past.

But here before him was a girl with mouse-brown hair and an undistinguished appearance, but for the radiance of her soul and the mesmerising beauty of her flecked grey eyes. They were full of dreams and feelings and outrageous imaginings, often flashing with spirit and mischief and concern for others. In fact, Madeleine’s face grew in beauty the more familiar it became. Her looks were as fascinating and various as her character. Casting a hard look at the Marquess, Mr Shilton realised he wished it were him, standing beside Miss Rose, bound in some intimate understanding that the rest of the world could never share.

As if sensing his mind was elsewhere, Miss Payton put a possessive hand on the arm of her betrothed. He smiled down at her, but his thoughts were still on puzzling out the conundrum of his life. How had his confidence been so shaken, his clarity clouded, how had it all changed? He had never sought the approbation of others, but since rescuing Miss Rose from the thief in Vauxhall Gardens, her gaze had altered his aspect to the sun. She saw him as her man of action, a brave-heart, and he had been ashamed to admit how much he wished her to see him in that light: how much he wished to see himself through her eyes as an archetypal figure of gallantry and valour.

Ferdinand Shilton knew she had written him into her novel and was curious as to the characteristics she may have given his fictional self. He really hoped it was not just her open admiration of him that excited him and made her company such a delight. He could not bear the thought of being merely a vain man in search of a rose-coloured looking glass. Nor could he countenance the thought that he was an amoral opportunist like Flambard, prepared to blur the truth to achieve his ends.

As the audience in the room concentrated on the waterfall of music building to a climax through Miss Rose’s skilful hands, Mr Shilton was buffeted by the climax in his own thoughts. How could he continue to be satisfied with the life he had made for himself? What best to do? Dishonouring himself and humiliating Miss Payton by ending the betrothal was unconscionable. The very idea made him shudder. The rules of honour and etiquette were written in stone and he would not be the man to break his word.

‘Oh dammit, dammit, dammit!’ he said under his breath, his words masked by the music. The torrent of musical notes played by Miss Rose matched the torrent of thoughts that tortured him. Marry Miss Payton he must, but he could not then court Miss Rose as his mistress in the comfortable arrangement that had suited men for centuries, and would fit with Lord Flambard’s view of the world. Miss Rose deserved so much more. But would he ever be happy again if he could only be her friend? If he could never declare his feelings nor take her in his arms?