Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  An amazed chatter broke out.

  Big Bill held up his hand. “One more thing. The entertainment tomorrow in the village ‘as been canceled due t’ the fact Mr. Rumbelow thinks it might could possibly ‘ave inclement weather, and he don’t want any of ‘is guests t’ catch their deaths of cold. So until Mr. Rumbelow tells ye any different, ye’re not t’ try and leave Chalice Hall. None o’ ye. After all”—his beady black eyes narrowed on Madeline—“we don’t want ye t’ get sick. We don’t want ye t’ die.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “It is my considered opinion that Lord Campion has overreached his confidence with this nefarious wager,” Lady Tabard announced as she puffed toward the dowager’s house. The other guests—all of the other guests—walked with her, and most nodded their heads in agreement. “Ten thousand pounds against anything he owns. I can’t imagine what is in his mind.”

  Madeline thought she knew. Gabriel wanted Rumbelow off balance, desperate to win—and here. For MacAllister hadn’t yet arrived with the reinforcements, and he’d left more than thirty-six hours ago. Thirty-six hours of gusting wind, of intermittent rain . . . of constant worry. Madeline had listened to the servants’ gossip, hoping to hear if MacAllister had been captured, but no one spoke of him. No one noticed he was gone.

  Yesterday, during the long daylight hours, everyone had lamented the fact they couldn’t go into the village and eat at the Two Friends Tearoom. A few of the younger gentlemen wished to take their chances with the weather; they had been rather rudely dissuaded by the footmen. That put a strain on the company, one they didn’t comprehend, but one that cast a gloom over the house.

  Mr. Rumbelow had arranged for traveling actors to perform King Lear, a poor choice of entertainment in Madeline’s opinion. All in all, last night had been subdued, and after Big Bill came in with his report of the game, everyone had gone to bed.

  “Is Papa really eliminated from the play?” one of the younger Lady Achards asked plaintively. “Because if he is, I don’t understand why we can’t leave. I don’t like it here anymore.”

  Glancing toward Thomasin, Madeline caught the young lady watching her. She gave her an encouraging nod, and Thomasin, unsmiling, gave her one back. Thomasin had grown up in these last few days.

  Madeline wondered if someone might say she herself had, too.

  “I presume your father wants us to watch the last of the gaming so we can tell the tale of the Game of the Century.” But Lady Achard’s brow puckered in a puzzled frown as she tucked her shawl tighter around her hair and struggled against the wind.

  Madeline found herself wanting to run toward the dowager’s house to see that Gabriel was alive and well. A hunger gnawed at her. How had she imagined she could leave him here, alone and facing an army of felons?

  Just because he rejected her . . .

  But Thomasin said he hadn’t. Thomasin suggested Madeline could change and become what he wished—a woman who was utterly his.

  “But why do all of us have to go?” Mademoiselle Vavasseur wailed. “And so early? I could have slept another two hours.”

  It was true. The call to come to the dowager’s house had arrived at nine in the morning, a time when most of the guests had not yet opened their eyes. The demand that they attend had been quite stringent, and quite specific. All the families were to come to view the end of the game.

  “So it’s down to Mr. Rumbelow and Lord Campion?” Hurth sniffed, and used his handkerchief to blot his dripping nose. “Mr. Rumbelow hasn’t a chance against Lord Campion. Everyone knows Lord Campion has the devil’s own luck, and the skill to go with it. I don’t know why we didn’t just give him the money and forget about the game.”

  “Spoken like a man who cares nothing for gambling,” Thomasin observed.

  Hurth gazed on her as if she were some sort of vermin beneath his notice, but he never passed up the opportunity to break into speech. “Not about cards, of course not.” He sniffed again.

  His mother said loftily, “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to match a wager on a good horse race.”

  “Of course not,” Thomasin said faintly.

  Taking a deep breath of the brisk air, Madeline assured herself trusting Gabriel was not so much a matter of dependence, but of courage. Her own. Gabriel called her a coward. Perhaps she had been, but no longer. He generously gave of himself; she had to learn to do the same. Perhaps it wasn’t fair for him to take all the chances in this love affair.

  “Here we are.” Lady Tabard stepped into the foyer of the dowager’s house and threw back her shawl. Looking around, she said in surprise, “Quite a pleasant place, this is, after the oppressive decorations of Chalice House.” Then she glanced sideways at Madeline, as if expecting her to point out that, when they had first driven up, Lady Tabard had declared Chalice House to be grand.

  Madeline was too busy peeling off her pelisse and handing it to one of those rough-looking footmen. She wanted to see Gabriel. She wanted to see him now.

  Another footman held the door and nodded toward the gaming room. Madeline recognized nothing; last time she’d been here it had been dark. She’d come in the back door. And when she left in the early dawn, she’d been dizzy with the residuals of passion.

  “The families, Mr. Rumbelow,” one of the tallest footmen announced.

  “Thank you, Lorne,” Mr. Rumbelow answered.

  The ladies and their children filed into the room and saw the gray, tired faces of the gamblers. Madeline suspected most of them had gone without sleep the whole time, surviving on brandy and excitement until they were eliminated. Now they sat around the room in armchairs, silently watching the middle of the room, where one remaining table had been placed.

  There, at the center of attention, Gabriel and Mr. Rumbelow faced each other, cards in hand.

  Madeline drank in the sight of Gabriel, noting the casual posture, the calm expression, the steady hand. He must have taken a break at some point, for his white cravat appeared to be crisp and his black coat pressed. He wore only one ring, his signet ring, and that focused her attention on his hands—long-fingered, precise, and steady. He played for one hundred thousand pounds in the same manner in which he played for ten shillings: coolly, without visible signs of strain.

  He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at anyone. But she knew he was aware of her, of all of them, as they filed into the room.

  Looking at him, being in the same room as him, brought such a wave of love through her body she could barely refrain from going to him, throwing her arms around him and declaring he was hers.

  A dozen footmen followed the guests in, and stationed themselves about the room like guards at Newgate.

  Madeline’s uneasiness gathered strength. This moment, this finale, was the reason why Mr. Rumbelow had insisted no one leave the estate, but what did he have planned? Simple robbery? Or gruesome murder?

  Within the gaming chamber, the drapes and carpets muffled every sound. The players sat quietly. The gamblers were hushed. As the families made their way to their men, a profound silence fell.

  The wives leaned down and kissed their husbands, and murmured a pretense that it mattered not that they’d wagered a year or more’s income on a single game. The subdued offspring gathered around the chairs, and all eyes turned to the players.

  The atmosphere in the gaming chamber was brittle with tension. The onlookers leaned forward with every play, watching, counting. Madeline saw the other gamblers’ hands twitch every time a card was thrown, their lips move every time they added a point.

  She hated it when her father gambled, when he abandoned the real world for a place where glory and riches hovered elusively out of reach. Magnus wasn’t here, but she observed the same greed and desperation in each of these men, and she knew, she knew danger lurked right under their noses, and they were too involved to notice. Too absorbed to care.

  Madeline thought . . . it now seemed . . . she might have no choice but to give Gabriel her trust, for she did
n’t know if she could live without him. Which sounded dramatic, but, in this case, she’d already tried the alternative. She’d found it was not living, but merely surviving.

  She waited for a signal from Gabriel, indicating she should approach him.

  He never looked in her direction, but lolled in his chair as if indifferent to her presence.

  Big Bill wasn’t indifferent to her presence. He brought up the rear of the crowd, shut the door behind them and stood, arms crossed, guarding the entrance. He watched her with a hostility that made her want to reach for her pistol—but her pistol was still in her valise. She had encouraged him on their walk, then rejected him in the most evident manner possible, by taking another lover. She had smacked him under the chin and made him a laughingstock among his peers.

  Satisfying, but definitely unwise. In his hostile gaze, she saw her fate should he get his hands on her. He would hurt her. He would enjoy hurting her.

  “Madeline!” Thomasin called her in a low, strained voice. “Come and stand with us.”

  Madeline obeyed, and Thomasin deliberately placed Madeline behind Lady Tabard’s ample form, out of Big Bill’s sight.

  Looking around, Madeline realized she wasn’t the only family retainer in the gaming chamber. It had never occurred to her she shouldn’t come; it had never occurred to anyone to forbid her. But why was Mr. Darnel’s valet in here? The young man looked troubled and out of place, and spoke to Mr. Darnel in a low, urgent voice. Mr. Darnel stared at Mr. Rumbelow with narrowed eyes, as if displeased.

  Mr. Rumbelow took no notice. Why should he? No one could touch him here.

  The steady slap of cards resumed. Unlike Gabriel, Mr. Rumbelow showed wear from the extended game. His blond hair was damp on his forehead. A fine sheen of grayish sweat covered his face. His blue coat showed damp rings under the armpits.

  Madeline was glad. She hoped he suffered for each point he lost. She hoped he agonized over each play. She hoped . . . She glanced around at the footmen. At Lorne, hulking and ominous. At Big Bill, who had moved enough to watch her. Reality slapped her in the face.

  It didn’t matter what she hoped. It didn’t matter if Mr. Rumbelow really lost. Somehow, he had plotted to win all, and she feared to imagine how.

  Gabriel had a plan, but that plan had included a company of men under MacAllister’s command moving in to take prisoners. What was Gabriel going to do now?

  What could she do to help?

  Gabriel laid down his hand.

  Mr. Rumbelow did the same.

  Mr. Greene counted the score, then added up the total. With a quiver of excitement, he announced, “We have only the last hand to play, and they’re tied!”

  “Incredible.” “Unusual.” “Amazing.” The whispers swept the room.

  “Demmed impossible,” Lord Tabard muttered. “Campion was ahead the whole time. Either his luck has changed, or . . .”

  Madeline didn’t know what the or meant, but an air of expectation now permeated the stuffy room. The gamblers leaned forward, watching intently as Gabriel shuffled the cards.

  “Is this where the auxiliary wager is played?” Thomasin asked her father.

  He nodded. “An extra ten thousand from Rumbelow, or anything that Campion owns.”

  Placing the deck of cards face down, Gabriel lifted them, then let them shower back onto the table—and into a perfect deck once more. His voice mocked the lines of strain on Mr. Rumbelow’s face, the intensity of his concentration. “It’s time to declare what your winnings shall be.”

  Mr. Rumbelow stared at Gabriel, and for the briefest moment, Madeline saw the ravenous wolf beneath his civilized exterior. Then his charming smile flashed out. It was the smile that had beguiled her on her arrival, and he lavished it on each of the ladies in the room.

  But it didn’t beguile now. Each of the ladies shrank back as if sensing an uncleanness beneath the geniality. At last, his gaze reached Madeline, and came to rest. “Ah, Campion, you know what I want.”

  “Indeed I do. I’ll see your ten thousand, and raise you one duchess.” As Madeline watched, incredulous, Gabriel took her glove from his coat pocket. He flung it on the table between him and Mr. Rumbelow. “If you win her, she’s yours.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Madeline’s knees gave way. She caught Thomasin’s arm for support.

  Just like her father. Gabriel was just like her father, tossing her into a game as if she were no more than a coin or a jewel.

  When he’d refused her proposal, when he’d shredded her character, not viciously but sorrowfully, she’d thought she would perish from the torment. But that pain was nothing compared to this. This was the worst thing that could ever happen to her.

  Her lover had betrayed her.

  Thomasin put her arm around her. “What is it?” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”

  Neither did anyone else. A murmur of confusion swept the room.

  At the table, Gabriel waited, back straight, expression disinterested.

  He waited for her.

  But Gabriel had said he was not like her father. He demanded that she trust him. And she had promised him she was his, to do with as he wished.

  Did she trust him? Would she honor her promise?

  How could she not? Whether or not he really wanted her, she was the duchess of Magnus. She had given her word.

  She couldn’t break it again. She wouldn’t.

  “It’s my glove.” Madeline could scarcely get the words out, and Thomasin had to lean close to hear her. More loudly, Madeline said, “It’s my glove. Lord Campion bet me against the ten thousand pounds.”

  A murmur of surprise swept the room.

  “What do you mean?” Lady Tabard asked. “Miss de Lacy, that’s absurd. Why would either one of them be interested in you?”

  Thomasin shot Gabriel an outraged glance. “He can’t do that.”

  “He can if I let him.” Madeline used all of her strength to remain calm, but her hands trembled, and so did her voice.

  Mr. Rumbelow’s gaze lingered on her, and that overpowering smile made Madeline’s scalp crawl. With the flare of a Vauxhall magician, he announced, “I have long known we had an imposter in our midst, and have watched with much amusement as she tried to fit the mold of Lady Thomasin’s companion. Yes, my friends, it’s true. Miss de Lacy is a de Lacy, but in addition, she is the marchioness of Sheridan and the future duchess of Magnus.”

  Every eye in the room turned on Madeline. The whispers started, thin, hissing sounds she recognized from the first time she’d created a scandal. This time it was worse. This time she didn’t have her fury to buffer the embarrassment. Her skin heated, took fire, until she felt her cheeks turn red and splotchy.

  “I knew it!” Monsieur Vavasseur turned to his wife. “Didn’t I tell you she was the duchess of Magnus?”

  Madame Vavasseur gave a murmur of agreement.

  Madeline couldn’t tear her gaze away from Gabriel’s profile. She could almost hear his voice give the command. Come to me.

  Lady Tabard craned around to stare at Madeline. “She is not! She’s the cousin of . . .” Something struck her: the events of the last few days, Madeline’s demeanor, Gabriel’s absolute stillness. Lady Tabard’s eyes popped as she realized who she had so roundly abused.

  Did Madeline trust Gabriel to take care of her, be her lover, be her husband . . . be her partner in all things? Because if she did, she had to trust he had a higher purpose in mind than to hurt her. She had to trust this wasn’t the act of vindictiveness or, worse, thoughtlessness, but a well-thought-out strategy. For what reason, she couldn’t guess. But trust was without reason, without logic.

  Big Bill straightened away from the door. “What’re ye doin’, Thurston? Play fer the ten thousand, don’t play fer ’er. She’s no doochess.”

  The ladies and gentlemen goggled at the servant who dared chide his master, and Madeline saw the waves of uneasiness wash over them.

  Did she trust Gabriel? For if she did
n’t trust now, she knew she would never get another chance.

  Mr. Rumbelow held up his hands like a priest giving a blessing. “I assure you, she is the duchess of Magnus. I recognized her at once. If she had recognized me, she would have saved everyone here a great deal of grief.”

  The families murmured and pulled closer together, viewing Madeline with suspicion or pity—or horror.

  Mr. Darnel spoke up. “See here. If she’s really the duchess of Magnus, you can’t play for her as if she were a . . . a guinea.”

  “Why not?” Mr. Rumbelow asked. “Her father did.”

  Another thrust of pain, almost as great as the moment when she realized Gabriel had wagered her . . . but fading quickly. Only Gabriel mattered now. Did she trust him?

  “Yes, that’s another thing. She’s betrothed to that American.” Mr. Payborn was indignant as only a true gambler could be. “If we are agreed Her Grace is a piece of property, Campion doesn’t . . . doesn’t own her, Knight does. And if Knight relinquished his claim, her father’s claim would once more be in effect.”

  “She’s here now, and Campion made his claim on her two nights ago in that bedchamber where some of you gentlemen washed and changed.” Mr. Rumbelow smiled at her with all the charm of a collector viewing a particularly fine snuffbox.

  Madeline’s teeth snapped together. How good of Mr. Rumbelow to tell everyone that.

  The Mademoiselles Vavasseur started giggling and couldn’t stop, despite their mother’s attempt to hush them. Nervous giggles.

  Lady Tabard snapped, “I hope that is an untruth, Your Grace, for you had charge of my daughter!”

  Lord and Lady Achard were whispering furiously to each other, and murmurs of outrage sped through the room.

  At last Gabriel turned his head to gaze on Madeline. His features were still indifferent, his gaze heavy-lidded. Without the slightest tone of affection, he said, “Madeline, come to me.”

  Come to me.