Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes

by Maya Rodale

  “I should call you out for that,” Alistair said hotly. Rupert raised a brow. Fox looked intrigued at the prospect of a fight.

  Darcy wasn’t the slightest bit ruffled. “Are you calling me out for a slight to your honor, as a gentleman? A gentleman who will not propose to a lady when a proposal is in order?”

  Alistair lunged for his friend. Fox was quick to hold him back.

  “What is your meaning with all this?”

  “I am trying to get you to see that you are throwing away true love for some stupid, cowardly reasons,” Darcy said.

  “If someone as reserved as Darcy is talking about true love and whatnot . . .” Fox said.

  “Darcy is beginning to get soft,” Rupert added. “The American influence . . .”

  Darcy gave his brother an annoyed glance.

  “See, even the Darcys of the world can fall in love and think of wedding one of those American Cavendishes.”

  “If I had Darcy’s status and reputation . . .” Alistair muttered, settling back into his seat.

  “Ah, and now we get to the heart of the matter,” Rupert said.

  “Lady Amelia is a scandal. I haven’t the reputation to protect her. I am not enough of a gentleman.”

  “But you went to Eton. And Oxford,” Fox said. “You know how to fence and can hold your brandy.”

  As if that was all it took to be an English gentleman.

  “You count among your friends an earl, a marquis, and a baron, among others. You are to inherit an English title yourself,” Darcy said.

  “You are drinking and wagering and brooding at White’s, for Lord’s sake. Why do you think you don’t belong?” Rupert asked.

  “I am only half English,” Alistair said. That other half Wrotham wouldn’t let him forget—and he didn’t want to forget it. But he didn’t want the circumstances of his birth to be an impediment to love and acceptance.

  “One’s ancestry doesn’t matter to people who matter,” Darcy said softly.

  Coming from Darcy, that was something. Hearing it spoken so plainly made him realize the truth. Alistair felt a swell of love for his friends—who loved and accepted him as he was. He even felt a surge of hope for his future with Amelia—who might love and accept him after all. He was a gentleman. And gentlemen proposed. And if she didn’t accept, it was because of mistakes he’d made, not because of who he was.

  And if the whole haute ton didn’t accept them? To hell with them—he knew an earl, a marquis, and a duke who would stand by them.

  “Is this the moment where we, uh, say something, professing, uh fondness for one’s friends?” Alistair asked, happy, but also uncomfortable with the feeling that he should profess some emotion.

  “God no, we’re English gentlemen,” Fox said. “We’ll raise a glass instead.”

  Alistair returned to his flat as a new man. One with a purpose.

  “Jenkins. We need to make me into a gentleman. I’ll need a new suit of clothes and some books on estate management. I shall probably need a betrothal ring as well.”

  Chapter 24

  In which disaster strikes.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a scandal will break at precisely the worst possible moment.

  Amelia was with child and without husband when Bridget’s diary went missing, which would not have been a problem if Bridget hadn’t faithfully detailed the family’s time in London, including, among other things, Amelia’s great adventure.

  Fortunately, Bridget didn’t know the worst of it—Amelia’s pregnancy was known only to her and the duchess and James. But nevertheless, Amelia saw her sister’s anguish at her actions potentially causing the social downfall of the entire family. She herself felt it deeply.

  It wasn’t just the social standing that was at stake, but the Cavendishes’ opportunity to marry well, or to marry for love. Rumors and scandal had a way of wrecking one’s options.

  It made Amelia think long and hard about her own situation. She would have to decide, soon, whether she should track down Alistair and demand that he wed her, or dupe some unsuspecting gentleman into a quick trip down the aisle. Or perhaps she should just give up and rusticate in the country.

  She didn’t know what to do. But she did know what she wanted: the best for her family, including the baby. She did not want to be the reason for anyone’s unhappiness.

  Little did she know, that ship might already have sailed.

  In which there is gossip. Delicious, scandalous, outrageous gossip.

  Lady Esterhazy’s Ball

  Later that evening

  Lady Esterhazy’s ball was a crush. And in that crush were members of the haute ton who had just witnessed Lady Bridget make quite a scene, as the Cavendishes were wont to do. Everyone was talking about her grand declaration of affection—how embarrassing, how American—for a certain English lord. They had also witnessed something else . . . and they were also talking about that something else . . .

  “Those Cavendishes . . . it’s just one scene and scandal after another with them,” Miss Randolph said to the two eligible gentlemen standing with her. She was going on her third season now, and really needed to snare a husband.

  “That was quite the display tonight from Lady Bridget,” Lord Fraser agreed. It should be noted that he was handsome, though deeply in debt.

  “Usually it’s Lady Amelia causing the embarrassing scene,” Miss Randolph added. “Remember the night she was discovered without her shoes? At a ball!”

  They all shared a laugh over that.

  “Why, just that coiffure alone is a scandal,” Fraser added.

  “Short hair on a woman. It’s insupportable!” Algernon added. He wasn’t as handsome or as smart. Or sober. But he was second in line for an earldom, so he was not to be ignored.

  Miss Randolph leaned in close to Fraser, with the smile of one about to divulge a secret. “My maid saw her getting it cut.”

  “When? And where?”

  “Oh it was . . . a fortnight ago, or so. Something like that. My maid saw her down near St. James’s Park.”

  “Wasn’t that when she was ill?” Fraser asked. His brain did that thing where it synthesized disparate pieces of information to arrive at conclusions. Hard work, that.

  “I haven’t the slightest,” Miss Randolph said. “Perhaps.”

  “Then it makes more sense . . .” Fraser said. Then he smacked Algernon on the arm and said, “Remember that morning we were in St. James’s park and saw someone who we thought looked like Lady Amelia?”

  “No.”

  “You were still drunk, most likely,” Fraser said. “Wastrel, this one. Not like me. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now that you mention it, that must have been her.”

  “But why would she be getting her hair cut off down at St. James’s Park?” Algernon asked.

  “I beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help but overhear you discussing Lady Amelia Cavendish and the date she became ill.” The conversation widened to include Lady Carsington. “The date was June third. I know this because the entire Cavendish family failed to attend the ball I was hosting that night, owing to Lady Amelia’s mysterious illness.”

  Lady Carsington was clearly still bitter about this.

  The group conferred and concluded these events had all taken place on the same day.

  There were gasps and murmurs as the implications of this were considered. Lady Amelia Cavendish was in big trouble. Ruinous trouble.

  “Now that I think about it, it was shortly after that day that my neighbor, Lady Boswell, came to tea with Lady Somerset and told me about the most curious thing,” Lady Carsington continued. “There had been a brawl at Vauxhall, where she had taken her granddaughter, and she could have sworn that she saw someone looking like Lady Amelia running away from it. But the duchess would never allow that, so we thought it must be nothing.”

  “That brawl was mentioned in The London Weekly, just the other day!” Miss Randolph exclaimed. Everyone already knew this. But now three p
eople had seen Lady Amelia out on the same day that she was supposed to be at home, ill. One person could be dismissed, two could be ignored. But three . . . then Miss Randolph spied someone she knew: “Oh, Lady Francesca! There you are. We were just talking about Lady Amelia Cavendish.”

  “I’m not in the mood for any more Cavendishes this evening.”

  “I don’t understand,” Algernon said. Francesca rolled her eyes and started to walk away, but doubled back when she heard Fraser’s explanation:

  “So it seems that a woman matching Lady Amelia’s description was seen around town on the very day that she was supposed to be at home, ill.”

  “I daresay you have the right of it,” Lady Francesca said with a malicious smile.

  “And she was seen with a gentleman,” Miss Randolph added.

  That got everyone’s attention.

  “Why are you only telling me this now?” Lady Francesca grumbled. “Who was it?”

  “My maid didn’t know—he was of slightly above average height. Dark hair.”

  “Well that could be anybody,” Algernon said, thoroughly exasperated by the whole conversation now.

  Fraser, who was also of above-average height, with dark hair and debts in need of a bride’s dowry, agreed.

  It could be anyone.

  Even him.

  In which gentlemen are idiots. Or are they?

  Even later that evening

  White’s

  Fraser and Algernon followed the crowd of gentlemen from the ball, onward to White’s, where the evening would continue with more drinking, gaming, and wagering—this time without young ladies and their chaperones around to ruin the fun.

  Fraser leaned against the wall in White’s, sipped his brandy.

  “Why are you so quiet?” Algernon asked.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Lord help us.”

  “Lady Amelia is unwed.”

  “Last I heard.”

  “If what we learned about Lady Amelia is true—that she was out, unchaperoned, with a gentleman who has not wed her—then she is in desperate need of a husband.”

  “Yes but she’s American,” Algernon said skeptically. “She doesn’t wear shoes to parties.”

  “Yes but she’s a rich American. And now that Darcy is connected with the family . . .” Darcy had recently attached himself to the family, via Lady Bridget. Darcy was the living embodiment of a perfect English gentleman who was probably born wearing a perfectly starched cravat. Respectability for the scandalous Cavendish clan was sure to follow.

  “So you have your eye on her do you?” Algernon asked, taking a sip of his brandy.

  They were interrupted by Lord Burbrooke.

  “Who do you have your eye on, Fraser?”

  “No one.”

  “Lady Amelia Cavendish,” Algernon said loudly. Heads turned. Other people listened.

  “The American?”

  “Shut the hell up, Algernon.”

  Fraser’s idiot friend did not listen. His insistence on silence only intrigued more people.

  “The American who was seen out a fortnight earlier with a gentleman of above average height and dark hair,” Algernon explained.

  “Well that could be anyone,” Burbrooke said.

  Fraser groaned as comprehension dawned around the room. An heiress. Potentially ruined by a man who could have been anyone in this room. Except for Burbrooke, who was ginger. And Lord Patton, who was short.

  Suddenly, things like a lack of shoes or a grating American accent seemed to matter less to the group of men who saw an easily attainable fortune.

  Fraser quit the club immediately. He would have to be the first one to call the next day.

  Chapter 25

  In which our hero is too late.

  The next day

  Alistair was wearing his finest coat. His finest everything. He climbed into a curricle and picked up the reins. His heart was pounding. He was nervous, plain and simple. It wasn’t every day that a man proposed to a woman.

  Especially one whom he had left in the lurch.

  There was a good chance that she would be angry, or refuse him. But that was a chance Alistair would have to take.

  He loved her. He wanted to spend his life with her. Make a family with her. Just . . . love her. And that was the reason why he was going to propose. This time, neither Wrotham nor the past had anything to do with it. Alistair was ready for the future and he wanted a future with Miss Amy Dish or Lady Amelia Cavendish or whomever she chose to be.

  With a snap of the reins he urged the horses to walk. A few minutes later, having given the matter extensive consideration, they acquiesced and started plodding their way toward Durham House.

  Upon arrival, Alistair saw he was too late.

  There was a pack of carriages parked before the house. He had to leave his own curricle and horses halfway down the block.

  A visibly exasperated butler answered his knock—the merest sliver of emotion on a butler’s face was never a good sign.

  Alistair was shown into the drawing room. Amelia was there, along with her family. The room was packed with just about every known fortune-hunting rake in London.

  And flowers. Good God, the flower arrangements. They were outrageous and numerous. And Alistair held a mere posy of violets.

  It was, Alistair noted ironically, exactly the situation he had hoped to avoid: he was just another undistinguished man in a room full of fortune-hunting scoundrels. Only now it was worse: he had deceived Amelia and broken her heart and publicly humiliated her.

  In which our heroine receives a proposal. Or four. Or more.

  Meanwhile, in the basement

  Amelia and her family were celebrating Bridget’s recent betrothal to Darcy in the kitchens, because that is where the Cavendish siblings were often to be found—because that is where the cake was.

  They were just toasting to the future happiness of Bridget and Darcy when Pendleton interrupted.

  “There is a caller for Lady Amelia.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, there are several.”

  “Define several,” the duchess requested.

  “A half dozen, at least.”

  Amelia exchanged confused looks with her siblings. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, I have no idea, because truly she had no idea why on earth more than one gentleman had decided to come calling.

  There were more than a dozen by the time she made herself presentable and found her way to the drawing room.

  “What have you done now, Amelia?” the duchess murmured.

  “I honestly have no idea,” she replied.

  “Do you want me to get rid of them all?” James asked. He flexed his fists, ready to throw punches. Brothers.

  Before she could answer, a gentleman she didn’t recall ever having met flung himself at her feet.

  “Lady Amelia, ever since we spent that magical day together in St. James’s park, I have been dying to make our love official. Marry me.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “Oh my God,” her sisters gasped.

  “Oh dear God,” the duchess said.

  Amelia had been seen. Her secrets had been discovered. The scandal had broken. She glanced at the duchess, who had her I-don’t-care-for-this-behavior expression. As if it were a mere lapse in etiquette and not the entire world crashing down around Amelia.

  Amelia was jilted, with child, and about to be so thoroughly ruined she’d have to return to America.

  Unless one of these men—she looked around the room warily at all these men—was her salvation.

  “Oh get up, Fraser. It wasn’t you,” another gentleman said. “’Twas I who enjoyed an enchanting excursion with Lady Amelia and ’tis I would like nothing more than to make an honest woman out of her.”

  What the devil?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told the men before her on bended knee. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Darling . . .” one of them murmured as he reached for
her hand.

  “It was me . . .” another one said.

  “It was me!” some other corkbrain yelled out.

  Amelia glanced around the room, from one shouting gentleman to another. Many were strangers to her; quite a few she remembered as having snubbed her.

  One of them was Alistair.

  Her heart leapt upon seeing him among the crowd. And her heart leapt again when she remembered something he once told her: he seized the opportunity to spend the day with her because otherwise he would just be one of a dozen or more fortune hunters seeking her hand. He would have been indistinguishable from the rest. He wouldn’t have stood a chance otherwise.

  She had dismissed his concerns then, but now she saw what he had feared. Here he was in a room with a dozen or more fortune hunters, all of above-average height with brown hair, seeking her hand. He was taking a chance anyway.

  “It was me,” he said, loud and clear. Half the men ignored him and insisted they were the one to have squired her around all day.

  She smiled, recognizing the truth of this farcical situation. With all these proposals, Amelia had a choice in her future. She had options.

  She could marry any of one these dolts and salvage her reputation and that of her family. There was surely an earl or impoverished marquis in the bunch. Maybe even a duke’s brother. What they lacked in funds, they would certainly make up for in social connections.

  Or she could, as the duchess suggested, live in a castle in the country.

  Or she could marry Alistair because he was here and her heart skipped a beat when she saw him.

  “It was me,” he said again, eyes gazing deeply into hers.

  “Finlay-Jones, you hadn’t even returned from the Continent then,” one of them retorted, before she could reply.

  It was then that the brawl broke out. Fists flying, punches thrown, glass things shattering. The duchess immediately ushered the girls out of the room—alas!—and James and the footmen set out to stop the brawl.

  Later, as Amelia toured the drawing room—which had been left in shambles—she found the violets Alistair had left behind. But where had he gone?