Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  “Damned stupid bet, Campion,” Mr. Greene said. “He could take Campion Court.”

  “He has to win first.” Gabriel cast his gaze over the other gamblers. “What man has ever bragged he had beat me?” Snapping his fingers at one of Rumbelow’s ruffian footmen, he commanded, “Open the window. Let’s get some air in here.”

  “Are we going to chat, or are we going to play cards?” Lord Achard glared at Gabriel.

  “Indeed, let us play cards.” Gabriel dealt another hand.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  It was after midnight when the Mademoiselles Vavasseur finished their song, curtsied and received their applause.

  Lady Tabard spoke slowly and loudly to Madame Vavasseur, sure that, despite proof otherwise, Madame couldn’t understand English spoken in any other manner. “How excessively talented your daughters are.”

  Madame Vavasseur’s eyes twinkled merrily and in accented, but excellent, English replied, “Thank you, my lady. Your own daughter, the charming Lady Thomasin, plays the pianoforte most excellently for them.”

  “Lady Thomasin is indeed endowed with great gifts, and you know”—Lady Tabard leaned close to Madame Vavasseur, but Madeline heard every word quite clearly—“today she received an offer from Lord Hurth.”

  Madeline wanted to groan aloud. Glancing around the crowded music room, she saw more than one person had eavesdropped on Lady Tabard’s announcement. Not that they didn’t want society to know that Thomasin had made such an important conquest, but the matter should be handled subtly, and after Thomasin had rejected him—which, despite Lady Tabard’s hopes, Madeline knew would inevitably occur.

  Lady Tabard didn’t know the meaning of subtle.

  Lady Achard clapped her gloved hands to get everyone’s attention. “Which lovely girl shall we hear from next?”

  “Josephine, you play the harp gloriously,” Mrs. Greene said. “Gift us with a tune.”

  Lady Achard blushed becomingly, made the proper protestations and, on being begged to perform, removed her gloves and commanded the servants to place the harp in front of the huge black marble mantelpiece.

  Madeline chewed her lower lip and listened to the wind that rattled the windows. How soon would MacAllister be back with the men? Though Madeline felt grief at Gabriel’s rejection, she feared for him, alone in the dowager’s house with Mr. Rumbelow and the other gamblers. Would Mr. Rumbelow even allow the game to be played? Was he even now robbing the men, beating them . . . killing them?

  But no. That made no sense. He could have done that anytime these last few days. His plan was more intricate than that, and Madeline did believe Gabriel was more than a match for him . . . but Gabriel needed reinforcements.

  Yet everywhere Madeline gazed, Mr. Rumbelow’s disreputable footmen lurked about the music room, dressed in elegant livery but looking coarse and out of place. No one else noticed, except Thomasin, and from the way she eyed the villain by the door, Madeline feared she was close to bursting forth with the tale of their flight and Big Bill’s maltreatment. Madeline thought the only thing that had stopped her thus far was the evening of lighthearted gaiety, arranged by Mr. Rumbelow so the young ladies could display their musical talents.

  But even among the other guests, an undercurrent of intensity ran beneath the cheerfulness. Everyone was waiting for a report of the game.

  As Thomasin walked away from the pianoforte, she was stopped every few feet to receive whispered congratulations and praise for her talent. She was a properly raised young lady, and disclaimed and blushed, but Madeline saw the panicked expression in her eyes and rose to intercept her, Big Bill’s warning ringing in her ears.

  Hurth got there first. Resplendent in a waistcoat of quilted lavender silk and a jacket of light blue velvet, he bowed and smiled, and indicated he would like to speak to Thomasin in private.

  She shook her head, but Lady Tabard boomed, “Go with him, girl! You have my permission.” She cast a coy smirk around at the other ladies.

  As Lady Achard seated herself to play, Hurth tucked Thomasin’s hand into his arm and led her into the corridor.

  She cast an anguished glance at Madeline.

  Madeline hurried out after them, and slipped into the library before he could close the door.

  He glared.

  She curtsied and went to sit in a dim corner. She had a right and a duty to be here. She was, after all, the companion.

  With a toss of his curled, coiffed head, Hurth indicated a low sofa. “Please, Lady Thomasin, if you would have a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand, thank you,” Thomasin said truculently.

  Bound up in his own importance, Hurth didn’t notice the truculence, or the way she watched him, as if he were a dentist and she a patient with a toothache. “Please, I insist.” He gestured at the sofa again.

  Sighing loudly, Thomasin seated herself with a flounce.

  Madeline bit her lip to hold back her grin. If she weren’t so worried about Gabriel and MacAllister and death and disaster, this would be one of the comic highlights of her life.

  With a creak of his corset, Hurth lowered himself onto one knee. He arranged his trousers to sit correctly over his knee, then tried once more to take one of Thomasin’s hands.

  She sat on them.

  Undeterred, Hurth launched into speech. “First, I wish to assure you that I spoke to your father today, and I have his permission for this discourse which must otherwise seem like the greatest of brashness in your eyes.”

  Thomasin hurried into speech. “Lord Hurth, I’ve been told of your suit, and I wish to save us both pain and—”

  He interrupted as if she had never spoken. “Despite the fact your stepmother is an undesirable connection, I find myself drawn to you.”

  Thomasin stiffened.

  Madeline wondered how any man could be so bad at courtship. It was as if he’d taken a class on how to infuriate and repulse a woman.

  “The attentions I’ve paid to you, marked as they are, have undoubtedly flattered you and made you aware of my deepest regard.”

  “Flattered me? Lord Hurth, I am not—”

  “I would like to make you my wife.” He blinked rapidly and settled back, waiting for Thomasin’s exclamations of rapture.

  Yet Thomasin didn’t speak. She barely seemed to breathe. Madeline suspected she was grinding her teeth.

  Finally, when Lord Hurth began to show signs of discomfort, Thomasin managed, “Your attentions are indeed flattering, my lord, and it is with the deepest regret that I must refuse your gratifying proposal.”

  Hurth shook his head slightly as if he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Lady Thomasin, you are perhaps overwhelmed at the chance to wed into my family, but I assure you, your manners are impeccable—well, except for an occasional unseemly exuberance which daily exposure to my mother would cure—and you have a fine bloodline. In short, you are worthy to bear the next Hurth heir.”

  “Would you like to check the state of my teeth?” Thomasin asked frostily.

  Madeline snorted. When both sets of eyes turned her way, one set reproachful, the other disapproving, she whipped out her handkerchief and lowered her face into it. Laughing at such a momentous occasion was perhaps a faux pas.

  With a lowering brow, Hurth said, “Lady Thomasin, you also suffer from occasional bouts of levity. It is those bouts which made my mother question my choice of bride, but I assured her you had a superior understanding and would easily learn your place.”

  Thomasin rose. “Would, in fact, be broken to bridle with ease?”

  The references to horses were too much for Madeline’s gravity, and she had to stifle her giggles in her handkerchief.

  Hurth rose also, but he groaned a little as he straightened his knee. “I suspect you’re once again using your humor to deal with what is a very crucial decision. Remembering that your father gave his blessing to my suit and, perhaps more important, that my parents have also agreed you would be acceptable, will you be my wife?”


  “Lord Hurth, I already gave you my answer,” Thomasin snapped. “No, thank you. I will not be your wife.”

  Indignation brought a mottled color to his cheeks. “Don’t I deserve more of an explanation than a simple denial?”

  Thomasin’s eyes narrowed; her fists clenched and rose. Madeline recognized the signs. Thomasin was about to lose her temper.

  Hastily coming to her feet, Madeline said, “Lady Thomasin!”

  With a glance at Madeline, Thomasin controlled herself and turned back to Hurth. “We do not suit, my lord. We have nothing in common.”

  He pulled a long face. “We don’t need to have anything in common. What a vulgar idea. We’re going to be married!”

  Madeline brought the handkerchief to her mouth again.

  This time, Thomasin dimpled with amusement, too. “I don’t love you,” she said with some finality.

  “I blame your stepmother for such notions,” Hurth said. “Love is for peasants!”

  “Then I am a peasant, for I’ll have love when I wed or I won’t wed at all,” Thomasin retorted.

  Gratitude, Madeline mouthed to her.

  Thomasin nodded, then turned to Hurth. “If you’ll excuse my companion and I, we’ll repair to the ladies’ retiring chamber, where I’ll try to deal with the blow of having done what I know is the right thing.” Placing the back of her hand to her forehead, Thomasin said in dramatic tones, “Someday, my lord, when you’re married to the right lady, you’ll thank me for this.”

  His rouged lips thinned with irritation. “What poppycock!”

  As if to say, I tried, Thomasin shrugged slightly at Madeline and strode toward the door.

  With another quick curtsy at the choleric Hurth, Madeline hurried after her. They walked into the retiring chamber, looked at each other and burst into laughter.

  When Thomasin had gained control of herself, she seated herself before the mirror and buried her head in her hands. “That was so dreadful. And That Woman will be livid with me for turning him down.”

  Remembering how Lady Tabard had revealed her affection for Thomasin, Madeline said, “Oh, Lady Tabard isn’t so dreadful as you imagine.”

  Thomasin’s head came up. “She’s a merchant’s daughter.”

  “With a good heart.”

  “And a bold, brassy manner.”

  “There are worse things. I’ve seen stepmothers who turn their stepdaughters into drudges, who beat their stepdaughters with a rod and feed them bread and water . . . who try to force them to marry the first man who proposes.”

  “You’re making that up.” Thomasin half laughed. “That’s a fairy tale.”

  “It’s not, I assure you,” Madeline said. “Lady Tabard does have your best interests at heart. She simply expresses herself poorly.”

  “That she does.”

  “I think if you try, you’ll find you can talk to her. She’s a powerful personality. She’ll help you achieve whatever you wish.”

  Thomasin viewed Madeline thoughtfully. “She is powerful.”

  An uneasiness stirred in Madeline. What was Thomasin thinking?

  Then, in a normal tone of voice, Thomasin asked, “Why do girls like receiving proposals?”

  “Most proposals aren’t that dreadful.” Madeline seated herself beside Thomasin and patted her hand. “Most of the time, the gentleman talks about how much he adores you, not how you should feel privileged to adore him.”

  “Is that what your proposal was like from Lord Campion?”

  Madeline tried to remember that first proposal, four years ago, but the events of earlier today kept intruding. She’d proposed to him, and he’d spurned her. Spurned her, and now she suffered a deep-seated ache that never left her. Not when she laughed, not when she concentrated on Thomasin, not when she listened to Lady Tabard. Never.

  Would the pain ever leave her again?

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reminded you.” Wetting a towel, Thomasin handed it to Madeline. “You’re so unhappy. Can’t you change yourself to be what he wants? It seems he wants so little. A chance to labor for you. A wife he knows will give herself wholly into his keeping.”

  Hopelessly, Madeline dabbed her face. “He shouldn’t expect me to change.”

  “You expect him to change.”

  “Yes, well, but . . . but for the better. I want him to eschew gambling.”

  Thomasin sailed on, undeterred by Madeline’s feeble protestation. “You expect him to never accept any responsibility on your estates, and I think he’s a man who takes his responsibilities seriously.” She stared hard at Madeline. “Isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Thomasin waited for Madeline to finish, but this time Madeline couldn’t even think of a retort.

  “Perhaps you could change for him, because you know you truly can trust him?” Thomasin insisted.

  “It’s too hard.” Yet how easily Madeline had trusted that Gabriel would get justice for Jerry, dispose of Mr. Rumbelow and keep the guests safe.

  “So is being a companion, but you’ve made a triumph of that,” Thomasin said shrewdly.

  Madeline blinked at Thomasin. “That’s true. I have been a triumph, haven’t I?”

  “You’ve done wonders with me.”

  “Maybe—”

  But before Madeline could complete her thought, Lady Tabard rolled in like a great, ornate mail coach. Fixing her eye on Thomasin, she said, “There you are, young lady.”

  Thomasin came to her feet. “Mama, I need to tell you something.” Casting a defiant glance at Madeline, she added, “About what happened earlier today.”

  What had Madeline told Thomasin? Lady Tabard is a powerful personality. She’ll help you achieve whatever you wish.

  Thomasin was going to tell her about Big Bill. Coming to her feet, Madeline said, “Thomasin, no!”

  Thomasin ignored her. “Mama, earlier Madeline and I were outside—”

  “Is that when you decided to refuse Lord Hurth’s suit?” Lady Tabard flapped her hands at Thomasin as if dismissing her. “I am most grieved with you, Thomasin. Most grieved. Any other young lady would recognize the chance she had to be a great lady.”

  “Mama, that’s not important right now. What is important is—”

  “Not important! What else is important, but a chance to wed a rich man who has a title and dresses well, too. But no, not you. You love your Jeffy.” Lady Tabard imbued his name with such scorn, even Madeline cringed and wished herself elsewhere. “Jeffy. A more worthless, silly, unfaithful young man you could never find. For him, you gave up a man who’ll someday be a marquess.”

  All of Thomasin’s burning intent died under the barrage of Lady Tabard’s disapproval, and anger took its place. “I didn’t give up Lord Hurth for Jeffy. I gave him up because I don’t like him, and I won’t marry a man I don’t like.”

  Lady Tabard seethed with impatience. “Why not, girl?”

  “Because my mother did, and she and my father were miserable every day of their lives.” Thomasin stared right at Lady Tabard. “That’s why Papa took you as his mistress and, when my mother died, as his wife. Is it not?”

  Madeline watched in fascination as Lady Tabard shriveled into a white-faced, middle-aged woman of no particular appeal and a shamefaced expression. “Young lady, that’s not a matter for you . . . to . . .” Taking a quivering breath, Lady Tabard searched for, and found, her dignity. “Lady Thomasin, what did you want to tell me?”

  With no expression whatsoever, Thomasin said, “Nothing, ma’am. Absolutely nothing.”

  In relief, Madeline collapsed into the chair and watched Lady Tabard leave the retiring chamber. Into the silence that crackled with Thomasin’s temper, she said, “You were very hard on her.”

  “She deserves it.” Thomasin’s bosom heaved. “She took my mother’s place and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know.”

  “Your father is equally guilty.”

  Rubbing her forehead, Thomasin said, “I know. I know. But he doesn’t bother with me much.
”

  “So you can’t hurt him, because he isn’t there to hurt.” Madeline understood that. Her own father was just like that—and where was he now? It was not that she wanted him involved in this game, but now she worried about him because he allowed a game to take place without him. Where was he?

  “That Woman is a fool,” Thomasin said.

  “Yes, she is.” And Madeline was grateful, for now Thomasin would never tell her stepmother what had happened in the stables. “Shall we go back to the party?”

  Thomasin bristled with hostility. “Must we?”

  Madeline thought about rallying Thomasin with an appeal to her pride, but the young lady had suffered through enough challenges today. “I beg that you go with me. Mr. Rumbelow promised us a report on the game, and I’d like to know how it is going.”

  “You mean—whether Lord Campion is winning.”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean.”

  With a nod, Thomasin led the way back into the music room.

  It was very late. The party was ready to break up. Everyone waited on only one thing—the same thing Madeline wished to hear. The report on the game.

  At last, Big Bill stepped into the music room, fortified by an air of importance. Clearing his throat, he waited while the clamor died. In a formal manner quite at odds with his street accent and his prizefighter face, he said, “Mr. Rumbelow sends ‘is respects, and ’ere’s the first night report. Mr. Payborn lost ‘is first partie. Lord Achard lost. Mr. Rumbelow won. Lord Campion won. Mr. Greene won. Mr. Darnel won. Monsieur Vavasseur lost.” The chamber grew deathly silent as he recited the names and their positions on the list. Finally, he grinned, showing brown teeth that too forcibly reminded Madeline of yesterday, and tonight. “Mr. Rumbelow begs t’ tell ye there ‘as been a side wager between ‘imself and Lord Campion. If Lord Campion wins the final round, Mr. Rumbelow shall pay ‘im an additional ten thousand pounds. If Mr. Rumbelow wins, Lord Campion shall give ‘im any one o’ Lord Campion’s possessions that Mr. Rumbelow desires.”