The Madcap

by Nikki Poppen

  Alasdair tried for levity, his tone lighthearted. “I have to tell you that the English consider it bad form to reject a proposal at this point in the game. Once we get to the `old pile’ part of the courting process, acceptance is considered a fait accompli.”

  Marianne laughed. “Oh Alasdair, no girl in her right mind would consider refusing you. Are you sure you want to do this, that I’m the one for all the right reasons?”

  Alasdair was all seriousness again. “This is not about money, Marianne. I didn’t come here and see the estate last week and think, ‘Marianne’s money would save me. I’ll propose and all will be well.’ I came here and I saw a cold, aging house with no life in it. I thought, `What a waste this pile of brick and pillars is. This is supposed to be a family seat. To me, that means the place should be alive, stuffed to the ceilings with the rowdiness of a family that likes to be together. It’s never felt that way to me, not even when my father was alive. But I’ve craved that in my bones for what seems forever. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t dream about the kind of family I wanted at Highborough.”

  Alasdair shook his head. “But when I started looking for a wife, and I was a man who looked in earnest, I couldn’t find a woman who could or would share those dreams with me. All they saw was my coronet and my title. So I stopped looking until the night I saw you at the ball. I knew immediately that you were the one” Alasdair drew a deep breath. “I’m rambling. I suppose it’s a sign of how desperate I am to have you say yes”

  He was teasing her again in his delightful way, in a way that she understood better now. It was something of a shock to realize that she had the ability to unnerve this most-confident of men. Sarah was right: Alasdair had a personality, an easy air, about him that drew others naturally. But Marianne recognized tonight that he was using that easy air to cover his nervousness. She felt it was quite a testament to the truth of his statement that this proposal wasn’t motivated by his need for a fortune, but by his sincere regard for her, a regard that she shared.

  “I must confess I’ve not proposed to anyone until tonight, as you may have inferred. Tell me, Marianne, have I made a muddle of my proposal?”

  “Not at all. I think it’s quite the finest proposal a girl could ever receive.” She was still trying to wrap her mind around the lovely image of transforming the cold house into a place of warmth and laughter. “I was just thinking that, with a little more beeswax, the banister would make a great slide.”

  Alasdair threw back his dark head and laughed wholeheartedly. “Redecorating already. Does this mean you’ll say yes?”

  Marianne pushed aside any remaining doubts and arguments she could conjure up that would demand she refuse. Those arguments and reasons had nothing to do with the two of them. She recognized now, in a flash of insight, that any of her objections and worries had stemmed from concern over what others thought. There would be people who would never admit that she could live up to a certain standard simply because they didn’t want her to. In many ways, she’d always be the outsider. But that was their problem. Alasdair loved her and she loved him-adored him, in fact. The two of them would build a good life together and that was what mattered most. Alasdair loved her for herself and she loved him for something more than his title. In this moment, it was all so simple, so straightforward, so obvious that it seemed silly to have worried about it at all.

  With the stars as her witnesses, on the terrace of Highborough, Marianne Addison said yes on the condition that Alasdair promised not tell anyone until the royal visit was over, so as not to take attention away from the prince.

  Alasdair agreed and sealed his promise with a kiss.

  As with many promises, there were some small infractions. News this exciting could not be kept entirely secret no matter how hard one tried. Marianne quietly confided the next morning to her mother in the morning room, and Alasdair asked for permission to send news of the announcement to the Times since the announcement wouldn’t reach London and the papers until later in the week.

  The prince’s arrival defused some of the excitement that burned between Marianne and Alasdair. Prince Albert was a gregarious, social creature, surprisingly affable in conversation. But he had monumental needs, as evidenced by the enormous entourage that traveled with him, and by his extensive wardrobe. “He has more clothes than you have Worth dresses,” Alasdair joked with Marianne privately as they watched the royal baggage parade in an unending stream up the staircase.

  Joking aside, Marianne could tell that the monarch had a genuine affection for Alasdair and Alasdair for him. Although there was plenty of catering to the man’s needs, the relationship between Alasdair and the prince was not based solely on sycophantic kowtowing and the currying of favor. Audrey had kept the guest list small, inviting only the closest of friends. Marianne saw the reason for that now. The prince was polite to all those around him but he enjoyed time alone with Alasdair, walking the grounds or riding out with him.

  For Alasdair’s part, Marianne noted that he played the host to perfection. With affable ease, he dismissed his efforts behind the scenes in the month prior to the visit. He had all of the prince’s favorite delicacies on hand for tea. If Marianne hadn’t known better she would not have guessed what an effort it had been to arrange for the cases of Heidsieck champagne and crates of lobster for patties and salads. The amount of food the house party went through astonished Marianne. She couldn’t help but wonder if Alasdair kept a mental tally in his head of what his largesse was costing. Not that it mattered. When she married him, she would see that he wanted for nothing, that he never had to think twice about certain economies. He’d said he didn’t want her money, but that made her all the more determined to see that he had it. For the first time in a long while, Marianne was glad to be an heiress. Once the announcement was formalized, her father would settle a respectable sum on them and one of Alasdair’s worries would be eased.

  Although Marianne was eager to announce the engagement, the week of the house party flew by. A wealth of activities had been planned to keep the guests entertained, and the weather cooperated beautifully, allowing all types of outdoor excursions to follies, to the village and to other scenic points of interest. Alasdair had even planned a few “American” activities in honor of the Americans present as well as Bertie’s penchant for American pastimes.

  At Alasdair’s encouragement, Marianne paired up with her father in a team rifle-shooting competition. The prince exclaimed over her prowess with the American guns with which her father traveled. She partnered with Alasdair in the archery tournament and acquitted herself well in the riding demonstration, using a western-style saddle.

  “It’s so unwieldy,” the prince remarked, running his hands over the wide leather expanse of the western saddle. “This saddle horn is enormous”

  “It allows a cowboy to carry rope over it for easy access,” Marianne explained. Indeed, the saddle did look gigantic compared to the smaller, sculpted English variation.

  “The style is more comfortable too,” her father put in, joining the group that surrounded Marianne’s horse. “Cattlemen spend hours a day in the saddle”

  In the evenings, Marianne and the other ladies took turns at the piano. At the prince’s insistence, Marianne played band music from America. On some nights, there was dancing. Marianne loved these nights the best since they provided her with a few moments in Alasdair’s arms.

  At the end of the week, Prince Albert invited the Addison family to join him on his yacht at Cowes. He’d expressed interest in seeing her father’s yacht, which was awaiting their arrival for a week of racing there. In short, Marianne thought the house party represented one of the best weeks she’d ever experienced. Alasdair’s mother had been too busy fussing over the prince to pay any attention to her. Even if she had turned her attentions toward Marianne, Marianne doubted that Lady Pennington would have dared to voice any level of disapproval when the prince had so clearly given the young woman his favor.

  On the last da
y of the party, Marianne stood with Audrey and Alasdair and the others on the wide front steps of Highborough, waving off the royal carriages with promises to see the prince the following week in Cowes. Beside her, Alasdair managed a secret squeeze of her hand. She didn’t dare risk looking at him, but she smiled, not caring who saw the smile or to what they attributed it. The week had been a triumph, and she’d triumphed along with it.

  Lord Brantley threw down his copy of the Times with thorough disgust. Pennington had proposed and been accepted. Pennington had been in the countryside entertaining an elite few and the prince while he, Brantley, slaved away in London amid the infinite maze of social events and restrictions, hoping to find enough funds to keep going.

  The tables at the gaming hells and card parties had only been marginally lucrative these past weeks and his pockets were feeling the pinch. Pennington’s pockets were definitely not feeling the pinch these days. With the assurance of the heiress’ fortune behind him, Pennington could entertain the prince without worry.

  The American chit had even garnered the prince’s affections. That was no surprise-the girl was lovely and the prince was enchanted with American girls. Logically, it all added up. But that didn’t stop Brantley from feeling a stab of jealousy. The American would be joining His Royal Highness on his yacht at Cowes, one of the most coveted social invitations one could receive. Of course her father had a yacht. Brantley recalled hearing that he was having one commissioned in Cherbourg especially for the racing.

  Brantley snorted and reached for his coffee. The American girl had been plenty smart. She’d planned her campaign. He could see that now. The large town house in a prestigious neighborhood, the endless train of impeccable, formfitting Worth gowns, the sponsorship from the American Countess of Camberly. With her natural beauty and liveliness, it had been too easy to assume the girl had simply fallen into all her good luck and social acceptance by accident. But Brantley thought otherwise. The yacht was the clincher. She or her family had known ahead of time how partial the prince would be to another sporting man if they could just get a chance to meet him.

  Paired with the purchase of a yacht ready just in time for the regatta at Cowes, the reasons Marianne Addison had come to London in the first place seemed blatantly obvious. She had been title-hunting in an attempt to get back at, or to escape, the stigma with which she’d been branded in New York for her escapades there.

  Brantley had yet to let that bit of information come to light. The time to do so was upon him, he thought. Pennington’s mother couldn’t be pleased about the announcement of the engagement between her son and the nouveau riche American chit, since she’d been an overt champion of Sarah Stewart for years. She’d be eager to thwart her son’s alliance with Marianne Addison, especially if it meant avoiding a scandal.

  Cowes seemed the perfect place to do it. There would be several Americans there, eager to show off their yachts. They would not be warm to the idea that a country woman of theirs who had been snubbed by Mrs. Astor and hadn’t managed to gain admittance to the revered Four Hundred Club was now finding success at the highest levels of British society. That alone would start the tongues wagging and Pennington’s mother thundering.

  But that was all a contingency plan. Brantley didn’t truly expect the scandal to break, although he was prepared to go that far. He’d try blackmail first. Pennington was not a stupid man. The viscount would understand the ramifications of this scandal breaking. Pennington would want to take all measures necessary to prevent word from getting out. He wouldn’t want to risk the prince’s displeasure at having been associated with the Addisons through him, and heaven help him, if Pennington had actually fallen in love with his intended bride, he’d want to protect her too.

  Brantley pushed back from the table and headed for his writing desk. He had a letter to write and a trip to plan. He was going to win the wager. Marianne would not last the regatta.

  Cowes, the Isle of Wight

  In the privacy of the room serving as an office at the rented house in Cowes, Alasdair’s hand made a fist and crushed the plain white stationery that contained the hateful letter.

  He’d been foolish to think that they would remain unscathed. There were only two weeks of the Season left, counting the regatta week, and he’d been too optimistic. He’d also misjudged Brantley. He’d hoped his engagement to Marianne would have signaled to Brantley, as it would have to any other gentleman, that the chase was off. Marianne was officially committed to another. A gentleman knew the rules. It was not acceptable to poach on another’s territory. Of course, he couldn’t explain it to Marianne in those terms. She would cringe at such a barbaric idea as women being property. But the idea was solid.

  Apparently, Brantley wasn’t playing by those rules. The man must be more desperate for funds than he’d imagined if Brantley was willing to play such a deep and vile game. This was blatant extortion: three thousand pounds in order to keep Marianne’s scandalous escapade from becoming public, whatever that escapade was.

  Alasdair didn’t know what to think. Audrey had only alluded to it once. He’d never brought it up with Marianne and she had never brought it into the realm of their conversations. Not knowing made it difficult to ascertain the reasonability of Brantley’s price. Had she done something minor that had been blown out of proportion, or had she done something truly upsetting? Knowing Marianne as he did, he rather believed the former.

  There was no question of whether or not he should pay the fee. Blackmail had no end once someone gave in, and Brantley would not let it go. If he dared to importune them once, he’d dare it again. Alasdair would not have his marriage plagued by such a shadow, unless the scandal was so horrific that it bore considering such a sacrifice.

  Alasdair unfolded the crumpled paper and smoothed it on the surface of his desk. He couldn’t go to the authorities. Brantley had been too careful in his choice of words. The threat was veiled, and one would only understand the implication of the words if one knew all the private history and angles between the two of them. Alasdair could sense the dark humor with which Brantley had penned the letter, knowing very well he couldn’t go to the authorities and say, “This man is mad at me for spilling champagne on his shirt and stealing a dance”

  No, he couldn’t go to the authorities. But he could go to Marianne. Before he took any action, he had to know what had happened in New York. He didn’t relish the thought of asking her about it any more than he relished the thought of knowing what it was. He couldn’t imagine it would be significant enough to alter the way he felt about her. But the whole situation would inherently bring tension into an already fragile relationship where they were still getting to know one another. Perhaps Brantley had known that would be the outcome and this was just one more tactic to drive a wedge between Marianne and Alasdair.

  Well, bad news didn’t get better by being put off. Alasdair left the office, the note tucked in his pocket, to search out Marianne. The house he’d rented along with Camberly and Lionel and the Addisons was large, large enough to accommodate the three groups without their stepping all over each other. Right now, though, he was cursing the enormous spaces. Marianne wasn’t in the conservatory with Audrey. She wasn’t in the garden with her mother. She wasn’t shooting billiards with Lionel and Camberly, although he hadn’t really thought she would be.

  The last place he checked was the library, where he found Stella penning letters. “She’s not here, Dair.” Stella looked up from her stationery. “She was, though. We were going through the correspondence together. She got up suddenly and said something about going to the kitchen.” Stella paused. “I hope that makes sense? I don’t know what she’s up to, but I rather thought a letter upset her, although she didn’t say anything specific.”

  Alasdair’s heart pounded. Had the bastard Brantley threatened her too? The blackguard couldn’t leave well enough alone and simply blackmail him, one man to another? To threaten Marianne was reprehensible, entirely beyond any gentleman’s code of condu
ct no matter how loosely written.

  Alasdair flew down the stairs to the kitchen, worry and anger in every stride. If Brantley had threatened Marianne directly, the man would live to sorely regret it. When he got done with Brantley, the bloody nose he’d given the journalist would look like a minor infraction.

  The sight that greeted Alasdair in the kitchen caused him to pause in the doorway and stare in amazement. Marianne stood at the long worktable, hands immersed in a deep pile of dough, flour dusting her hair and streaking her face. If it had been anyone else, Alasdair would have thought the scene ridiculous in the extreme. But it was Marianne, and the sight of her baking bread when there were countless other servants who could do the task seemed perfectly natural. He would expect nothing less from his future countess.

  In spite of his worry over the current situation, a smile spread across his face at the unorthodox idea of finding Marianne in his kitchens, baking bread, surrounded at some point by their children perched on high stools learning to do the same. Reluctantly, he pushed aside the coveted image of that family. That would be in the future. Right now he had to take care of the present.

  Marianne pummeled the round of dough in front of her. The stern concentration etched on her face suggested he’d been right in his initial assumption. Brantley had sent her a letter as well.

  Alasdair pushed off the door frame and made his presence known with a little cough. “What are you doing, Marianne?” he asked in friendly tones although he knew perfectly well what she was doing.

  Marianne looked up, startled at the intrusion. “I’m making bread” Alasdair heard the wariness in her tone. “It’s what I do when I have a problem to solve or something that bothers me”

  Alasdair pulled up a tall wooden stool and sat at the counter. “Lord Brantley has sent me a note and I am guessing that he sent one to you too.”