Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  Eleanor looked reproachfully at Madeline.

  Lady Tabard gestured into the corridor and in that penetrating voice commanded, “Come on, girl, come on, let us get a look at you!”

  The daughter stepped in. A diamond of the first water, Lord Magnus would have called her, and he would have been right. She was no more than eighteen, petite, blond, and blessed with a flagrant beauty that put Eleanor and Madeline in the shade. Yet her shoulders slumped and her complexion was gray with weariness.

  Eleanor looked again at Madeline, who mouthed, What would I do?

  While Madeline watched with interest, Eleanor visibly struggled before at last, as always, she gave way to Madeline’s stronger will. “Mr. Forsyth is bringing us supper.” Eleanor indicated the table. “Join us.”

  “Mr. Forsyth!” Madeline called.

  Stepping inside, Mr. Forsyth bowed stiffly toward Madeline. “I apologize, m’ lady.”

  “No apology needed,” Madeline said gaily. “Would you set two more places?”

  “Aye, as ye command.” With a single irritated glance at Lady Tabard’s back, he hurried off to finish preparing their supper.

  “What a vulgar man. And to not wait and help me with my garments!” Tossing her cloak on a chair, Lady Tabard revealed a well-upholstered figure in a gold-sprigged muslin gown with a wrapping front. Her hair was fashionably cropped around her face, and Madeline thought the profoundly black color to be suspicious. Shoe polish or soot? Or some dreadful chemical that stank and corroded the skin? Lady Tabard’s straight and narrow nose quivered as she considered her surroundings, her nostrils flaring in fine disdain. Her lips were so undersized as to be nonexistent, and the opening of her mouth was tight and small, lending her a smug expression.

  Lady Tabard indicated the young lady who was slowly removing her bonnet. “Lady Eleanor—or should I call you Your Grace?”

  Madeline quickly intervened. “The duchess is called by both names.”

  It was true. Because of Madeline’s unique postion of being a duchess in her own right, members of the ton frequently addressed her as Your Grace. Sometimes they did so in flattery, sometimes in respect, and sometimes in sarcasm, although she swore she wouldn’t think of Gabriel again today.

  “Well, then, Your Grace”—Lady Tabard was clearly one of the flatterers—“may I introduce my stepdaughter, Lady Thomasin Charlford?”

  Eleanor started, then did the honors. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Thomasin, and I’m pleased to introduce my companion and cousin—”

  “Madeline de Lacy.” Madeline saw no reason to abandon her first name. She had barely been into her first season when she made such a fool of herself, and the ton, of course, had always addressed her by her title. Besides, she would wager not one of them would recognize her now with her modish hairstyle and the tan she’d acquired during travel.

  Lady Tabard gave a brief nod that both acknowledged and dismissed her. “It is so hard to get good help these days.”

  It took Madeline a moment to comprehend Lady Tabard spoke of her, in front of her. What did the woman mean? How dare she discuss Madeline that way? True, Madeline had taken charge, but Lady Tabard didn’t comprehend the circumstances.

  In blatant imitation of Madeline’s voice and manner, Eleanor agreed. “It is impossible, but Madeline is my cousin, so of course I keep her on. I find it lends me consequence to have one of my own family waiting on me.”

  Madeline bit hard on her lip to refrain from laughing. As if she’d ever needed anyone to lend her consequence. Yes, Eleanor would punish her for putting her in such an awkward position.

  Eleanor added, “The de Lacys are incredibly noble, you see.”

  “Really?” Lady Tabard moved into the room and appropriated the most comfortable chair closest to the fire. “I don’t recall the family.”

  The female had definitely married into her title if she didn’t know the de Lacys. Everyone knew the de Lacys—just as everyone knew one didn’t sit down before a marchioness and future duchess.

  Certainly Lady Thomasin Charlford knew, and winced at her stepmother’s faux pas.

  Going to the fire, Madeline dusted the settee with her handkerchief. In a meek tone quite unlike her own, she asked, “Lady Eleanor, won’t you be seated?”

  Grandly, Eleanor swept forward and seated herself with a flourish to equal Lady Tabard’s. “The de Lacy family came over with the Conqueror.”

  On her mettle, Lady Tabard answered, “My husband’s family served as chancellor to some king or another.”

  “Horsemaster,” Thomasin said. “To King Charles the Second.”

  Swelling like a toad, Lady Tabard turned on her stepdaughter, who still stood near the door. “Did I ask you, my girl? Lady Eleanor doesn’t care what our family did.”

  Thomasin didn’t move. Didn’t lift her gaze.

  Didn’t apologize.

  Madeline thought she now had Lady Tabard’s measure—and perhaps her daughter’s, also.

  Madeline also knew how Eleanor hated rudeness, and wasn’t surprised when Eleanor hastily said, “Madeline is a wonder with hairdressing.”

  “Really?” Lady Tabard darted a glance at Eleanor’s neat coiffure with its discreet curls around her face and the elegant upsweep of long hair in the back. “Yes, I see.”

  “Madeline always knows next year’s style three months before it’s au courant.”

  Lady Tabard sniffed as she openly examined Eleanor’s gown. “Are dark colors in, then, for unmarried young ladies?”

  “For travel.” Getting the bit in her teeth, Eleanor embroidered on the tale. “I’m afraid I am quite a trial for dear Madeline. She wishes to dress me in the newest styles, but I prefer comfortable clothing.”

  It was a source of dissension between the cousins that Madeline preferred comfort over style, and Eleanor cast her a glance brimful of mischief.

  “Lady Tabard cannot be in accord with you,” Madeline said, “for she’s dressed in the height of fashion.”

  Her tiny lips upswept in a condescending smile, Lady Tabard smoothed her skirt. “Yes, I am.” She examined Madeline as she might a horse she was considering buying. “I select all of Thomasin’s gowns, too, but keep them simple. Poor child, she hasn’t the panache to carry off true elegance.”

  That statement was so blatantly untrue both Madeline and Eleanor turned to Thomasin. The girl had the crystal-clear skin and softly rounded cheeks of a baby’s. Her mouth was a soft pink bow, her eyes as wide and brown as a woodland creature’s. Her blond hair was done in the same style as her stepmother’s, but on her the look was ethereal. Madeline could read nothing in her blank stare—Thomasin guarded her thoughts well.

  With her heavy hand on the arm of the chair, Lady Tabard shifted uncomfortably. “Well, well, girl, don’t stand there gawking. Sit down!”

  “Yes, Mother.” Thomasin sidled forward and seated herself on the bench.

  Lady Tabard confided loud enough for everyone to hear, “I married her father, the earl of Tabard, a mere three years ago, and still she is impertinent.” She nodded, obviously pleased with herself for injecting her husband’s title into the conversation. “He sent us on ahead to rest before the party starts.”

  Madeline leaned forward. “The party?” They were going to the party?

  Lady Tabard flicked her an ill-favored glance, but spoke to Eleanor. “You’re young, Your Grace, so perhaps you’ll allow me to give you a piece of advice. Companions, no matter how closely related, should be seen and not heard.”

  She didn’t lower her voice, and Madeline flushed. She began to see why Eleanor said she wouldn’t do well as a servant, for she longed to box Lady Tabard’s ears.

  Eleanor eyed her. “What party is that, Lady Tabard?”

  “Why, a party at Mr. Rumbelow’s!” Lady Tabard smacked her narrow lips. “He is quite the wealthy gentleman, you know.”

  “I’ve been out of the country,” Eleanor said.

  “He is most generous and most handsome, and very much the
bachelor.” Lady Tabard’s narrow eyes narrowed on her stepdaughter. “He gives the best parties in London, and he has rented Chalice Hall especially to make a splash.”

  Madeline longed to lead the questioning, and at Eleanor’s languid inquiry, she almost twitched with anticipation.

  “Where did he come from? He wasn’t in society when I left.”

  “He arrived at the beginning of the year, from South Africa, I think. Or India. I never can keep them apart. But never mind that! Ever since he came, the routs we have had! The parties, the balls!” Lady Tabard clasped her hands over her large bosom. “He has quite singled out my little Thomasin for his attentions, and we are coming to the party to fix his attentions.”

  Thomasin stared at the door as if hoping some miracle would release her from the purgatory of her stepmother’s voice.

  Indeed, there was a sharp rap of knuckles.

  Thomasin started to her feet.

  The door swung open to reveal Mrs. Forsyth and the scullery maid, both weighed down with dinner and its accoutrements. In moments they had set the table, placed the tureen of stew in the middle, the stout loaf of bread, the wheel of Stilton and the mulled wine.

  Lady Tabard inspected the table from her seat. “I must protest, this is poor fare for nobility, poor fare indeed.”

  “But as good as a feast in circumstances such as these,” Eleanor interposed. “We thank you, Mrs. Forsyth. We’ll call if we need anything more.”

  Mrs. Forsyth bobbed a grateful curtsy to Madeline, half of a curtsy to Lady Tabard, and as she beat a hasty retreat, she cast a sympathetic glance toward Thomasin.

  Lady Tabard heaved herself out of the chair. The cousins cast each other an amused glance as Lady Tabard tried to decide where the head of a round table would be. At last she settled herself at the place closest to the tureen.

  Thomasin took the seat at Lady Tabard’s left hand, which surprised Madeline. She had thought the girl would sit as far away from her stepmother as possible. But perhaps it was better if they didn’t see each other. Madeline remembered to hold Eleanor’s chair, and took the seat farthest from the fire.

  “Mr. Forsyth gave us to understand the party entertainment was to be a grand piquet game.”

  “Indeed it is, Lady Eleanor. By invitation only, ten thousand pounds apiece for ante. Only a select few get to play. Oh, it is an honor that we have been selected. An honor, indeed. One we will take advantage of, eh, Thomasin?” Lady Tabard patted Thomasin’s hand, but it looked more like a stricture than a gesture of affection. “We haven’t had luck with our companions, but then, they’ve not been from such a good family as yours, Lady Eleanor.”

  “I have been fortunate.” Eleanor looked meaningfully at Madeline. “Few companions would have stayed with me as I racketed about Europe, being chased by Napoleon’s army, sleeping in flea-infested inns, drinking brackish water, almost dying in Italy of a fever.”

  Madeline watched in awe as Eleanor opened like a flower beneath the demands of conversation.

  “Yes,” Eleanor continued, “the duchess of Magnus counts herself lucky to have such a wonderful companion.”

  Later that night, Madeline discovered exactly how persuasive Eleanor had been.

  “What do you mean, Lady Tabard hired you to be Thomasin’s companion?” Eleanor’s tone held sheer, sharp panic—and she was loud.

  “Shhh.” Madeline glanced around the narrow upstairs corridor, and in a low voice said, “You sold her on my services. You said I did wonderful hair.”

  Eleanor whispered frantically, “The only time you tried to use a curling iron, you singed your forehead.”

  “You said I knew everything about fashion.”

  “You pay no attention to style. You depend totally on my advice.”

  “I know that. But she doesn’t!”

  “They brought a lady’s maid!”

  “But Lady Tabard does not wish to share her lady’s maid, not when she can hire a companion from an important family and have the cousin of the duchess of Magnus at her daughter’s beck and call.” Madeline grinned at Eleanor’s dismay. “Imagine how impressed her friends will be!”

  “You are doomed to failure!” Eleanor predicted.

  “I only have to manage for a day or two, until Papa shows up. I want to retrieve Papa before he can gamble away . . . everything.” That, she knew, Eleanor would understand. Madeline steered her down the stairs. “When compelled to perform socially, you acquit yourself admirably. Last night, as I watched your behavior when you had been proclaimed duchess, I realized that perhaps I’d done you a disservice by forcing you to stay always in my shadow.”

  Eleanor jerked her arm free. “You did not force me, I prefer it!”

  Madeline pressed relentlessly on. “This turn of events is nothing less than fate. I’m to be Thomasin’s companion. Reading between the lines of Lady Tabard’s constant presumption and incredible rudeness, I gathered the tale of Thomasin.”

  “Poor girl,” Eleanor muttered.

  “Yes. Thomasin’s beautiful, she’s wellborn—apparently her real mother was the daughter of the Grevilles of Yorkshire—she comes with an impressive dowry, and she is the season’s biggest wallflower. She won’t make a push to secure a man’s interest.”

  It was easy to touch Eleanor’s soft heart. “Of course not, poor thing! If she secures someone’s interest, then they’re going to have to deal with Lady Tabard.”

  “Quite. Lady Tabard’s father was in trade.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  They stepped outside into the morning fog. There the Magnus equipage waited, footmen in place, coachmen controlling the restive horses, and Dickie climbing down from the groom’s box, his mouth puckered and disapproving.

  “Thomasin’s stepmama is in despair, and that’s the real reason they are here for the game. They have great hopes of snagging the biggest prize of all, Mr. Rumbelow.”

  “I am coming to hate his name.”

  “I’ve explained everything to Dickie Driscoll.”

  Eleanor appealed to Dickie. “Surely you don’t approve.”

  “That I do na’, miss, but m’ lady is as stubborn as Joann the auld donkey aboot this.”

  “That’s right,” Madeline spoke to them both. “Dickie knows if there is any problem with Mr. Knight, he’s to whisk you away.” Madeline pushed Eleanor up the stairs into the coach. “I’m going to the game as Lady Thomasin’s companion. You’re going to London to meet Mr. Knight. Don’t worry, dear. You’ll have a grand adventure! What can possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter Four

  “Miss de Lacy!”

  Madeline realized she was being addressed, and in a tone that indicated disapproval and reprimand.

  Lady Tabard stared into the traveling coach, her rabbity nose quivering with indignation. “Miss de Lacy, I do not know what kind of tricks you were apt to play on the duchess in the name of family, but you’ll find I’m not as gullible as she. Thomasin and I will ride forward.”

  Madeline gazed around at the luxuriously appointed coach, with its velvet curtains and its leather seats, and said, “Oh.” Of course. For the first time in her life, the duchess of Magnus would take the backward seat. “My apologies, Lady Tabard.” She moved quickly, tucking in her toes as Lady Tabard shoved her way in.

  Thomasin followed, the door was shut, and Madeline jolted forward as the coachman sprang the horses.

  Lady Tabard eyed Madeline evilly. “In the future, please remember I am to enter the coach first.”

  “Of course you should.” Madeline felt foolish, and that was a sentiment almost unknown to her.

  “And about that gown . . .”

  Madeline looked down at the sky-blue muslin skirt. It was Eleanor’s, and the plain, modest style she favored, so Madeline couldn’t imagine Lady Tabard’s objection. “Yes?”

  “It makes your eyes look so excessively blue, it’s almost vulgar. When you accompany Lady Thomasin, you’ll wear something else.”

  “When I’m wi
th Lady Thomasin, no one will even notice me. She is very beautiful.” Without an ounce of vanity, Madeline smiled at Thomasin.

  In the watery morning light, framed by a simple straw bonnet, Thomasin’s face looked even prettier. Yet she didn’t smile back. She turned her head and looked out of the window at the passing woods.

  So Thomasin wasn’t vain. But she was, obviously, unhappy—and unsociable.

  Madeline resolved to make friends.

  “Nevertheless, Miss de Lacy, you’ll do as I demand.”

  Madeline returned her attention to Lady Tabard, wondering if Lady Tabard was the root of all Thomasin’s discontent, or if some deeper sadness weighed on her. “I’ll try, my lady, but my wardrobe is not extensive”—she had sent most of Eleanor’s clothes on with Eleanor—“and I will be forced to rely on this gown occasionally.”

  “When we return to London, I’ll replace it with something more appropriate for a companion.” Lady Tabard studied Madeline. “A brown, I think, or rust.”

  Both colors guaranteed to make Madeline’s complexion turn sallow.

  “Look!” Lady Tabard pointed. “There’s the lake. We must be getting close to Chalice Hall.”

  The park was extensive, not well tended, but with that ruggedness one expected of an estate close to the Channel, exposed to the winds and storms that battered the coast. To rent such a place took a great deal of money, indeed, and Madeline inquired, “Who is Mr. Rumbelow?” When Lady Tabard bent her disapproving gaze on her, she realized that Lady Tabard must think her impertinent, and added, “Her Grace didn’t recognize his name.”

  Apparently, the mention of the duchess made Madeline’s inquiry acceptable. “Mr. Rumbelow . . .” Lady Tabard clasped her hands at her chest and beamed. “A very wealthy man of unexceptional background.”

  “Indeed? What background is that?”

  “He is from the Lake District, where his family has lived for years. Good stock, the descendants of one of the late king’s knights.” Lady Tabard nudged Thomasin. “Which king?”