Isabelle Goddard - Society's Most Scandalous Rake

A wind had sprung up by this time, blowing from the west, and Domino was forced to pay attention to her attire, hanging on with one hand to the Angoulême bonnet with its fetching decoration of golden acorns, while with the other she strove to keep under control the delicate confection of peach sarsenet and creamy tulle that billowed around her legs. They walked briskly, her father enumerating his plans for the week while she listened, but all the time her mind was busy elsewhere.

‘Papa,’ she said suddenly, when he fell silent for a moment, ‘what do you know of Mr Marchmain?’

‘Only a very little. He is one of the Regent’s court, I understand, so no doubt expensive, idle, possibly dissolute.’

She felt dismay at her father’s description. Marchmain was certainly persistent in his unwanted attentions, but dissolute!

‘Do not concern yourself, my dear.’ Her father patted her hand. ‘Members of the Prince Regent’s entourage are a law unto themselves. We will have dealings with them only when we must.’

She tried another tack. ‘How is it that Joshua Marchmain is only a plain mister? Surely if he belongs to the Regent’s company, he should have a title.’

‘I believe the young man is related in one way or another to any number of the nobility and has inherited a wealthy estate, which he will certainly need if he keeps company with the Regent for long. But why this interest, querida ?’

‘No real interest, Papa,’ she said stoutly. ‘He just seemed an odd person to be attending the reception, a fish out of water.’

‘I think we can say that Mr Marchmain’s appearance at our small entertainment was the Regent’s overture to Spain. We must accept the overture politely, but still maintain a distance.’

He took her arm firmly in his. ‘Come, we should step out smartly if we are not to be shamed by our lateness at church.’

They walked quickly on, the summer wind skirling around their feet and sending up dust and abandoned news sheets into a choking cloud. Brighton was a fashionable resort—almost too fashionable, she reflected—and Marine Parade was a less-than-ideal residence. It was too near the centre of town and attracted promenading society far too readily. She had quickly realised that lodgings close to the Pavilion were in general reserved for young bucks, looking forward to a lively few months by the sea, and for the sprinkling of dandies with their pencilled eyebrows and curled mustachios who were always ready to ogle any stray female who crossed their path. She had come to wish that her father had chosen a house on the outskirts of town but, this morning, proximity meant they had only a short way to travel before they arrived at the church a few minutes before the last bell ceased tolling.

The Chapel Royal was a square building in the classical style with rounded sash windows and a row of Doric columns flanking the main door. It was the custom for visitors without their own pew to be charged an entrance fee and Domino and her father obediently joined a straggling line of people, all waiting to pay their shilling. The queue was moving slowly and they waited for some while to disburse their fee, but as they neared the imposing front door of the church, there was a sudden commotion behind them, a servant pushing his way forwards to clear a pathway for his employer. She turned to discover who this grand personage might be and received a terrible shock; she found herself staring into the eyes of the man she had come to loathe when last she was in England.

Leo Moncaster smiled grimly at her. ‘Miss de Silva? Imagine that. And there was I thinking never to see you again.’

Her father had turned around and was looking with surprise at the sneering stranger. ‘Is this gentleman annoying you, Domino?’ he asked her quietly. She was quick to reassure him and he turned back to pay their shillings.

‘I see you have brought reinforcements with you this time.’ The sneer became even more pronounced. ‘And is your aunt here also, ready to come to your defence at any moment?’

‘Lady Blythe remains in London, sir, although I see no reason why that should interest you.’

‘On the contrary, Miss de Silva, everything to do with you interests me. I have a long memory, even if you do not.’

And with that he pushed past beneath the pediment displaying the Prince Regent’s coat of arms and into the church. She was left trembling from the encounter, but anxious that her father should not suspect anything amiss. She linked arms with him and smiled as bravely as she could.

‘Shall we go in?’

Seeing Leo Moncaster had been a crippling blow. When she had agreed to play hostess for her father, she had never for a moment imagined that she would meet the man who had done her so much harm. If she had been thinking sensibly, she might have known he could well be here and living at the Pavilion. Moncaster was an inveterate gambler and it was said that fortunes were won and lost on a nightly basis at the Regent’s tables. Where better for such a man to spend his summer? It was clear that his malevolence was unabated despite Lady Blythe having paid her niece’s gambling debt in full. Of course, he had not wanted the money. It was herself, or rather her body, that he had wanted. That was the prize of which he’d been cheated. But how could she ever have thought him attractive? A shudder ran through her as though she were tiptoeing over a grave, fearful of disturbing dark layers of memory. Her only comfort was her father’s assertion that they need have little to do with the Prince Regent or any of his cronies.

Certainly the Prince would not be in evidence this morning. Although he had laid the church’s foundation stone some twenty-five years ago, he had stopped worshipping at the Chapel Royal when a sermon on immorality had offended him. But there was some compensation to be had. An enormous man with creaking corsets was heaving himself into the pews reserved for the Royal Family a few rows in front of her: the Regent’s brother, the Duke of York. He kept up a constant muttering, hardly audible, but nevertheless highly embarrassing to his companions. Their attempts to stifle him made her smile; for the moment she forgot the dreadful meeting she had just endured and was emboldened to look about her. The galleried church was filled with decoration, its supporting columns and pulpit highly embellished, while a large organ in burnished copper thundered from above the altar. It was a rich man’s building.

She looked sideways across the aisle, scanning a busy canvas of faces, hoping to keep out of Moncaster’s sight. Immediately beneath one of the galleries a countenance she was beginning to know well swam into view. Joshua’s gaze was on her, sporting an appreciative smile as he took in her situation just behind the noisy Duke. She noticed that he was dressed more soberly this morning, but the familiar lock of fair hair trailed over his brow and his sprawling figure exuded his customary confidence. Her glance moved on to the woman who sat next to him; there was something proprietorial in her posture. She was richly dressed in an ensemble of emerald-green Venetian silk and her hair was covered with a headpiece of ostrich feathers. The feathers swayed slightly in the current of air and their height ensured that those who sat immediately behind could see little of the service at the altar.

Domino did not profit from the parson’s homily that morning. She was too conscious of both the men she wished to avoid and was relieved when the final hymn reverberated through the rafters and she was able to walk from the church into a burst of sunshine. The rector was at the door to greet his parishioners and once again they were forced to wait patiently in line before they could pass through the narrow entrance.