Yes, Madeline did have a superior understanding—for a woman who was obviously insane. She had to be. After almost four years of exile and adventure, she had succumbed to the very trap she had fled, and with barely a murmur of protest. She had thought she could manage seeing Gabriel, speaking to Gabriel, behaving in a civil and distant manner to Gabriel. After all, she had had four years to distance herself from that madness of passion, that surfeit of love. Instead, instead, she had allowed him to . . . to touch her.
What advice could she really give to Thomasin? Run away from love as quickly as ever you can? Don’t let love get its claws in you, else you suffer eternal anguish?
But no. Madeline had to be sensible. Her suffering wouldn’t necessarily translate to Thomasin. Not if Madeline had anything to do with it—and Madeline did. “You’ll dance every dance, play charades, ride and walk with the other young ladies and young men, but you and I know there’s no real satisfaction in such activities. Not in any way that matters. It’s the conversations that start from the heart that truly matter, and the long, quiet evenings with one’s loved ones.” Madeline couldn’t believe she was spouting such poppycock.
But she wasn’t surprised when Thomasin nodded vigorously. “That is what I think, too.”
“Just as a man’s wealth and title don’t lend him importance. Only a kind heart and a true nature can do that.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Thomasin’s enthusiasm was infectious.
“Nevertheless, during this house party, I wish you to do everything you can to flirt with gentlemen of money and consequence.”
Thomasin’s chin developed a surprisingly stubborn jut. “Not Mr. Rumbelow.”
“Absolutely not,” Madeline said decisively. “But other gentlemen will be here. Proper suitors, sons of the gamblers. You know who they are—lords and wealthy gentlemen.”
“Yes.” Thomasin nodded.
“Pick one. Charm him. See how easy it is. Once you’ve established that you’ve changed from surliness to vivaciousness, all will flock around you.” Thomasin’s expression started to lower again, and Madeline added hastily, “You won’t really enjoy yourself, of course, but you’ll give such a good imitation no one will realize it!”
Thomasin brightened. “That’s true.”
“Now put on your gloves, and let’s go to your stepmama.”
The two young ladies made their way across the corridor to Lord and Lady Tabard’s bedchamber, there to find the lady’s maid trussing Lady Tabard’s stoutness into a gown. The material consisted of overpoweringly large pink cabbage roses that reminded Madeline of the pattern on one of the chairs in Mr. Rumbelow’s drawing room. Discreetly, she averted her eyes.
Lady Tabard took one look at Thomasin and squawked like a chicken facing the farmer’s ax. “Thomasin Evelyn Mary Charlford, what happened to your new silk costume?”
The pretty color in Thomasin’s cheeks faded as she glanced down at her gown. “Don’t you like it? Miss de Lacy wanted to add a continental flare.”
“A continental flare?” Red suffused Lady Tabard’s plump neck and broad cheeks. “Miss de Lacy, I would hardly call this a continental flare!”
Assuming a pleased air, Madeline said, “You were testing me, I think, Lady Tabard, but I realized at once what you wished when I found so much silver ribbon among Lady Thomasin’s accoutrements.”
Lady Tabard’s eyes bulged as she stared at the ribbon flower on Thomasin’s knee. “What?”
“You were right, of course. Such an arrangement is all the rage in Europe, yet since I’ve returned, I haven’t seen one young lady wearing the style.”
“Zipporah, what do you think?” Lady Tabard blared.
Zipporah cowered. “Lady Tabard, I would never suggest such a thing!”
In a respectful tone, Madeline said, “Of course not. An accomplished lady’s maid like yourself knows that such an innovation is only for the newest debutante, not for the lady who has already established her style, as has Lady Tabard. And a very handsome style it is, too.” Briefly, Madeline wondered if she would be struck by lightning for lying. “Lady Thomasin will be the newest ton leader,” Madeline assured Lady Tabard.
Madeline had finally said the right thing, for Lady Tabard stepped back, looked the dress over once more, and made a humming noise. “Yes. Yes, I see what you mean. It is quite dashing.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Thomasin gave her stepmother a tentative smile.
Lady Tabard’s eyebrows shot up. Her mouth twitched for a second in what looked like a startled return smile. Then her eyebrows lowered, and she said severely, “Don’t get above yourself, my lady daughter. To be a ton leader is a big responsibility for such a youngster as yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Thomasin answered with suitable meekness.
Lady Tabard inspected Madeline’s costume, an evening gown of a green so dark to be almost black and trimmed in nothing more than a bit of green braid around the modest neckline. Madeline had scolded Eleanor for having it made. Eleanor had retorted it was suitable for a lady’s companion.
Apparently Lady Tabard agreed, for she nodded. “That’s more like it. Quite acceptable. I think you’ll find, Miss de Lacy, that if you practice maintaining your proper position and dressing appropriately, you shall be with Lady Thomasin for a long, long time.”
No force on earth could persuade Madeline to stay any longer than it took her to see her father and persuade him to return home. Not after her own behavior in Gabriel’s bedchamber.
Unfortunately, she had to see him this evening. Pray God her father hurried to get here.
But nothing about her properly meek posture gave any indication of her furiously churning thoughts. “I thank you for your generosity, Lady Tabard.”
“Now.” Lady Tabard picked up her fan. “Let us go down to dinner.”
Rumbelow, as he now called himself, could almost taste sweet gratification as he surveyed his drawing room. The chamber was large, candlelit and comfortable. In it, he had assembled nine men so dedicated to the game they were blind to any danger to their families. On Rumbelow’s command, they had brought their wives and their children of marriageable age to the “house party” for a bit of country fun.
Rumbelow was constantly amazed by the rich and their gullibility.
The elderly Lord Achard sat in an easy chair, his gouty leg propped up on an ottoman, his walking stick clutched firmly in his knobby fingers. He and Lord Haseltine, good friends indeed, were hotly debating a hand of whist played thirty years ago at Hampton Court. Haseltine’s heir, a pimply, unsocial young man of seventeen, sat close, listening intently.
The two daughters of Lord and Lady Achard hung back against the wall, their eyes huge as they watched handsome, well-turned-out Mr. Darnel converse with the eldest Mademoiselle Vavasseur. Apparently the Ladies Achard had developed a longing for Mr. Darnel, a longing fated to be thwarted, for Mr. Darnel was interested only in gambling—and in his dear valet, Norgrove. He was quite in love with Norgrove, which would have been a scandal if anyone else knew of the matter. No one did—except Rumbelow, who made it his business to know everyone’s secrets.
The marquess of Margerison and his imperious wife watched fondly as their only son and heir, Lord Hurth, droned on to one of the bored Mademoiselles Vavasseur about his horses.
Rumbelow’s scornful gaze lingered on Hurth’s costume. A young man of ever-increasing girth should not be wearing a coat of silver cloth with a nipped-in waist and padded shoulders. That entire family consisted of bores and fools, and none more indulged than Hurth.
Baron Whittard’s oldest son, Bernard, was ignoring the wiles of Miss Jennifer Payborn, the only child of Mr. Fred Payborn, a coal merchant known for his bad skill at gambling and his ability to make up his losses in no time at all in his business. Mr. Payborn might have dreadful luck at cards, but he had the Midas touch when it came to making money, and he was very fond of his darling daughter.
He would buy her Bernard if she wished.
He
would buy her life when he had to.
As far as Rumbelow was concerned, Mr. and Mrs. Greene were amiable fools, good for nothing except producing daughters and smiling inanely—and gambling. This time, only Mr. Greene was playing—Rumbelow wanted no romantic distractions at the gaming table, so he had invited only men—but Mrs. Greene had been known to bet an estate on the turn of a card.
The younger people were conversing and flirting, doing everything in their power to find a rich and titled mate from among their peers. The older ladies, mothers and matrons, sat together, teacups balanced in hand, assessing their offspring with sharp eyes and discussing their prospects.
Lord Tabard had arrived during dinner and now sat listening to his vulgar, lowborn wife as she berated him for his daughter’s ingratitude. It appeared that the insipid blond Lady Thomasin Charlford did not wish to pursue Rumbelow as her stepmama demanded. His gaze lingered on the girl. When he escaped, he would take her if he wished—but he didn’t wish. Not when he could have—he smiled—the future duchess of Magnus.
Ah, yes, Her Grace, Madeline de Lacy, sat in the corner, dressed in plain clothes and trying hard to be meek, quiet . . . a proper companion. It was a delicious amusement to see her feeble attempt to fit into the role. A greater amusement to manipulate her to his own delight. He wondered why she was here. Was this a mischief, a dare? Or was she chasing after Lord Campion, her lost love? Lost, from all accounts, through her own fault. Rumbelow would enjoy finding out, and he did not worry that she would recognize him. Why would she? An English duchess in her own right paid no attention to a manservant in a Belgian spa.
And manservant in a Belgian spa had been only one of the many roles Rumbelow had played in his time. It was always best, he found, to slip into a servile role after pulling off a heist, for the very rich ignored servants with a serenity that bordered on foolishness. Often, criminals lived right under their very noses. It was a rare lord who observed what happened under his nose.
Which turned Rumbelow’s attention to Lord Campion.
Campion leaned an elbow on the mantel, staring into the fire and sipping a brandy, looking like a man who cared not a whit that his former fiancée sat less than twenty feet from him.
Rumbelow’s gaze narrowed on him. When he’d first learned that Campion had accepted his invitation, he’d been jubilant. For the last four years, no one had managed to lure the reclusive gambler into a game, and Campion’s presence assured that everyone else who had received an invitation would accept. Now he was here, his ante of ten thousand pounds had been counted and was locked away in the safe—and Rumbelow couldn’t shake the niggling feeling he had overlooked something.
But as he’d done with everyone else here, he’d had Campion thoroughly investigated. Campion had no family. His younger half-brother had died at Trafalgar. His fiancée had jilted him. Now he lived alone on his estate, using his fortune to build a yet greater one.
Rumbelow’s plan was coming to fruition. His insurances were in place. When this was over, he would take ship to France and present himself to Bonaparte with a few prime secrets he’d managed to obtain during a sojourn as secretary for the Home Office. It was good to have a myriad of skills to fall back on, skills that would assure him a safe place to live and much honor.
The clock chimed nine. Standing, he clapped his hands. “Attention! Attention, please!”
Immediately everyone quieted and turned to face him, their expressions alive with anticipation. They treated him as one of themselves, and for a man born in the muddy Liverpool slums, their respect was a particular triumph.
“I wish to tell you about the events for our house party.” He glanced around the room, touching on each of the females briefly, providing an illusion of interest that later, he flattered himself, they would hotly debate. “Tomorrow, breakfast will be served in the dining chamber, and I would advise you attend by eleven, for you’ll not want to miss out on our excursion. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ve arranged for games and frivolities . . . on the cliffs overlooking the sea!” He paused for the oohs and ahs. “We’ll play tennis and croquet. My cook is even now working on a fabulous repast to be packed in baskets and served under the tents. I myself will walk to the events. I invite you all to join me, but I’ve arranged for carriages for those who wish to ride. I promise a festive afternoon, to be followed by . . . a ball tomorrow night!”
More oohs and ahs.
“A ball in Chalice Hall’s magnificent blue ballroom. I dare not show you the chamber yet, but I promise it’s decorated in a manner sure to please. I can’t wait to see our beautiful ladies clothed in their best.”
Mr. Darnel lifted his monocle and examined the young ladies with a faintly ridiculous, bogus interest.
So he didn’t want anyone to recognize his predilection.
Too late. Rumbelow knew.
“The next day, we’ll prepare”—Rumbelow gestured grandly—“for the Game of the Century.”
Everyone broke into applause.
“The gaming shall start at nine o’clock in the evening in the dowager’s house not far from Chalice Hall. Those of you who are housed in the South Wing can view it from your windows. I’ve had bedrooms made up for those who must rest.”
“I won’t need it,” Mr. Darnel said heartily. “I once gambled for three days straight!”
“Not everyone has your stamina, Mr. Darnel. Of course there’ll be refreshments available at all times. We’ll play until we have our winner. I anticipate that will take more than a day, so”—Rumbelow gestured again, and everyone leaned forward—“while we game, I’ve hired carriages to take the families to Crinkle Downs. The town is quaint and there’s quite a handsome church, as well as a tea room which serves the best cakes I’ve ever had the pleasure to taste. Indeed, it is the cakes at the Two Friends Tearoom which convinced me to take Chalice Hall for this occasion!”
The ladies nodded, especially stout Lady Tabard, who enjoyed her food with a little more gusto than was decorous.
Rumbelow concentrated on looking boyishly roguish. “It’s not proper, but I admit I hope I win.”
Everyone laughed, and Monsieur Vavasseur shook his finger at him. “Non, non, that is not proper for the host to have such longings!”
“A man must be insane—or a liar—not to wish to win one hundred thousand pounds.” Rumbelow observed as the gamblers drew in a collective breath, as their eyes lit up and their fingers twitched. Yes, he was doing the right thing by holding them off, by building the excitement. They’d be so focused on the game, Rumbelow could steal their clothes off their backs and they wouldn’t realize it. “Those of you who are here may hold your ante until noon on gaming day. At that time you can personally place it in the safe in the dowager’s house, and there your ante will remain until someone wins all at the end of the game.”
Campion crossed his legs and looked for all the world as if he were bored.
Rumbelow knew how to catch his interest. “We are yet missing one of our gamblers. As you all know, the rules stated that if you were likely to be late, you could reserve your place by forwarding your ante, and that gentleman has done so. But the game will start in two days from this very hour”—he indicated the tall clock—“and if the gentleman hasn’t arrived by noon on gaming day, when everyone places their ten thousand pounds in the safe his ante is forfeit.”
A collective sigh went through the crowd.
The duchess of Magnus sat up straighter in her chair, and her paltry illusion of meekness fell away.
“So—if our gambler has not appeared by the appointed time, I declare that at noon on our gaming day, the gamblers shall play a preliminary round for that ante.” A babble of excitement and pleasure broke out, one that Rumbelow halted with an upraised finger. “The ante is not ten thousand pounds. It is, instead, an object worth more than ten thousand pounds. In fact, it has been appraised at over thirteen thousand pounds.”
The women gasped. The men murmured greedily.
“So we hope this unknown gam
bler remains away,” Lord Tabard called.
“An uncharitable thought . . . but yes.” Rumbelow brushed at his mustache. “May I say . . . the ladies would be happy to own this object.”
“Please, Mr. Rumbelow, won’t you tell us what it is?” The second oldest Vavasseur daughter batted her luxurious lashes at him.
“I should not.”
A chorus of pleading rose from the girls.
Rumbelow held up his hands. “All right, all right! I can’t refuse so much feminine pulchritude.” He hesitated, building the tension. “It is a tiara.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Magnus jump. She was certainly interested. “A tiara? I misspoke. It is a crown, a crown of unusual beauty and age. Any woman could imagine herself a queen when she wore it.”
“Oh, Papa!” Miss Payborn clasped her hands at her bosom. “Won’t you win it for me?”
“Of course I will, little missie.” Mr. Payborn smiled affectionately at his daughter and assured her he could perform a feat he had no chance of completing.
“I think not!” Lord Achard said crisply. “I will win it for my daughters.”
The two shy girls put their heads together and giggled.
Their father smiled benevolently at them.
“Enough. Enough!” Rumbelow laughed indulgently, quite as if these displays of affection charmed him. In fact, these men and their famed devotion to their families had been the impetus to invite them. Love, wielded in the proper hands, could prove a weapon. “I have invited the best gamblers in the world here, and only one of you can have the crown—that is, if the owner hasn’t shown up. And only one of you will win the fortune.”
Campion spoke up. “The crown is already here, you say. Where, and how is it guarded?”
Interesting. Why would he wish to know that? And what game did he play, that he allowed Rumbelow to see his interest?
But if Campion wished to steal the crown, he should be encouraged to try. It would add to the excitement of the house party, and confuse matters when the time came for the grand finale. “It is already in the safe in the dowager’s house. I promise, the crown is perfectly safe. My men are patrolling the grounds.”
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