Page 90 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
She looked left, then right, for they were alone without a chaperone. “Lisbelle is going to kill me. I shouldn’t be here talking with you.”
“Speak your heart, Madeline.”
She looked him in the eye, remembering what the girl had told her, and then looked away. “Peter, there was someone I met with yesterday. She told me some things.”
“What things?”
“Things ... about you.”
“About me? Who was this person?”
She turned to face him. “A girl. She is a familiar face in the publick house. She is a sinful woman. And vulgar. And she trades in the flesh.”
Peter’s eyes grew wide.
“Your face,” said Madeline. “It betrays your thoughts.”
Now it was Peter who turned away. “What did this person have to say?”
“She told me about your life among the common people. How you consort with some truly base sorts ... like her. Is this true?”
“Madeline,” he said, then shook his head. “’Tis true.”
Her heart nearly froze.
“I enjoy life amongst the people of the pub, Madeline. I enjoy parties and revelry. That is, Ididenjoy those things. But I am a man now and have a man’s responsibilities—to my father and to myself. I cannot serve these ends and be a carousing fool at the same time.”
She watched his face. “’Tis time to part, Lord Peter. I do not believe that to be a full renunciation of your—forgive me—sordid proclivities. And so, I do not wish to consort with a man who has given up such a lifeand misses it.”
“You, Lady Madeline, are an insolent brat.”
She felt as though she had been struck across the cheek. “And you, sir, are a blackguard of the lowest order!”
It was a moment before he spoke, filled with an eternity of sorrow. “Then I really must take my leave. Apologise to Her Ladyship on my behalf, if you would, Madeline.”
With this, he descended the stairs without her and exited Aspendale House.
Chapter 63
She sat down at the pianoforte and laid her hands upon the keys. She began a Prelude of Bach’s in C Major. Its beauty destroyed her and soon, her fingers were tangling up along the keyboard. She stopped, breathed deeply, and started again from the top. Again, her fingers tangled. She balled both hands into fists and slammed them on the keyboard, accompanying the ghastly sound with a guttural grunt of her own.
To the Devil with them all, she thought. All these men in her life.
Papa was a good man. A decent man. Why couldn’t they be like him? On the heels of that question came another: Why should she put so much stock in her father’s wishes?
My, the look in the old man’s eyes as he beheld the great and courageous Lord Peter Lytton, soon to be Duke of Briarmere. She half-thought Papa would leap from his bed, tears in his eyes, and kiss the young Lord’s ring in supplication. If he only knew what Lord Peter really was at his core. All that talk of love was all tosh. She knew what Lord Peter really wanted from her. It disgusted her to her core to think on it. She put it out of her mind.
Yes, her father was a good man, and she would protect him from the dastardly, conniving, lecherous, and lustful Lord Peter.
She put her arms on the top of the pianoforte and rested her head on them.
Oliver ...
She was sure now. He was the one. He had to be.
There came the voice of Lisbelle from behind her. “Are you alright, M’Lady?”
She sprang up. “Lizzy, darling, you gave me a fright. Try not to do that in future.”
