by Mary Campisi
He wanted to do all of these things. And so many more.
“Maddie? Where are you, Maddie?” Gregory’s voice filtered through the library door, growing closer with each word.
Madeline switched from siren to she-wolf in two breaths, pushing him away with such force Douglas fell backward and banged his leg against the desk. “Damn it!”
Before he could recover, Madeline ran past him, skirts flying, hair askew. She thrust open the heavy door and disappeared down the dark hallway in the opposite direction of Gregory’s voice.
Chapter 7
The man had to go. Immediately. Harold Schilling’s nephew possessed none of the attributes which had endeared Harold to the Munrove household for seventeen years. Simon Schilling was rude, arrogant, and unmanageable. It was the last that threw her into such a foul mood.
The man had the audacity to crowd her person and press his lips upon her. It’s called a kiss, you ninny, say it. And then admit the rest—you kissed him back. He had no sense of propriety. Your behavior was less than ladylike. Even if they had been of equal station, and they most certainly were not, no honorable man would take advantage of an unmarried female as the beast had. Who took advantage of whom? Have you not always wondered what a man’s lips would feel like?
Madeline stuffed her feet into slippers and grabbed a hair ribbon. Oh, drat her conscience. Perhaps she had wondered a time or two, and perhaps she had taken this opportunity to experience what had been the source of those ridiculous poems and sonnets for ages. The Kiss. The Touch.
She’d tried it, for experimental purposes only and as a point of reference. How could she counsel poor Sarah when she had no idea what a simple kiss was? The counseling must end at a kiss, for Madeline had no desire to experience The Touch. Her stomach jumped and the fluttering started, as it did whenever she thought of Simon Schilling and his massive body parts.
Another reason to send him off. As for the kiss, she did not want to remember the warm pressure of his mouth, the taste of whisky on his tongue, the softness of his hair, or the tingle it sent to her belly. Madeline shook her head. “No. Good-bye and good riddance, Mr. Schilling.”
She made it to the bottom of the staircase when Regina raced toward her waving a letter in the air. “It’s from your brother!” Regina, Sarah, and Annabelle knew much about Weston while he had no idea they existed, and certainly not that they existed in his home. Time for that later. Would he even notice? That was the thing about Weston. He often missed the glaringly apparent and honed in on the details, which often proved incongruous with daily living. Madeline chalked it up to one more area where females reigned superior. She vowed Gregory would not be like most men. He would be astute, caring, honest. He would possess the capacity to love.
“Well, ‘tis high time Weston decided to write us.” Madeline reached for the post, then frowned. “That could only mean he is delaying his return.”
“Busy with the ladies and the cards, would be my guess.” Regina had lived in a bordello long enough to witness the goings on between men and women, and sadly, Madeline agreed.
“I tell him every time that one day Lady Luck will not shine on him and we will all be the worse for it.”
“He sounds much too crafty to lose,” Regina said.
“And if he did, he would talk his way out of it.” Persuasion was Weston’s charm. He could convince an angel to surrender her halo. Had he not told Madeline she would grow more independent if she mucked out the stalls? And gain her father’s deepest admiration if she managed the ledgers? All talk and Madeline had fallen for every line. She opened the letter, expecting more persuasion in one form or another. But what she read sent pricks of dread through her and a sickening fear. “Come, we must find Annabelle and Sarah at once.”
Within minutes, the other women were assembled in the green salon, equal amounts trepidation and concern on their faces. Annabelle wrung her hands in one continuous motion as though she were washing them while Regina yanked at her pony tail.
Sarah perched on the edge of the sofa and rubbed her belly in wide circles. “What is it Madeline? You look as though you’ve seen three ghosts.”
“Or ten.” This from Regina who sat cross-legged in an adjoining chair.
“Has Gerald’s family found me?” Annabelle’s alabaster skin grew even whiter. “They’re coming to take me, aren’t they?” she said in a defeated tone.
A legion of ghosts and all of Gerald’s ancestors would be preferable to the contents of the letter. “‘Tis none of those.” Madeline flicked open the paper and read:
Dear Maddie:
I am sorry to be the bearer of such dreadful news, but I fear you will soon be intruded upon by the barbarous American who has stolen the deed to Lingionine. The brute’s name is Douglas Fontaine and though he may look and speak like an English gentleman, I assure you, he is nothing more than a scoundrel and a thief. The man befriended me in London, shared glass after glass of port, and when I was foggy-brained, Fontaine coaxed me to an alley and proceeded to pound me with the skill of a pugilist. I awoke from a state of unconsciousness some time later, bloodied and bruised, my pockets bare, the deed gone.
You might wonder why I had such a valuable document in my possession. I had need to discuss certain business with our solicitor, to secure your future, and Gregory’s. Do not ask what that might be as I am now too distraught to speak of it. Know only that your best interests were close to my heart. I am in despair and angered that we must exist in a society with criminals such as Douglas Fontaine.
I expect Fontaine is making his way to Lingionine as I write this post. Please, be careful, and no matter how he presents himself or what he says, remember, he is a golden-tongued liar. You must find a way to retrieve the deed. I have faith in you, Maddie. You will use your cunning and intelligence to outwit this fox. You will save Lingionine for all of us.
I remain ever faithful.
Your loving brother,
Weston
“Good heavens, we’re doomed,” Sarah whispered, rubbing her belly as though to protect the babe from the tragic news. “The monster will boot you out and us with it. Oh, if only my dear Lucien were here he would rescue us from this dreadful situation.”
Regina snorted and stared at the bulge beneath Sarah’s left hand. “Your dear Lucien has done enough.”
“You don’t know him,” Sarah said, her voice a tremble of conviction. “He is kind and caring.”
“And gone.” Regina’s long braid swayed like a horse’s tail as she shook her head. “They’re all like that. Charming. Full of airs. And about as trustworthy as a snake.”
“Lucien isn’t like that.”
“Enough.” Madeline did not want to waste one extra second expounding on some absent lover’s virtues or lack thereof. The arrival of Weston’s letter cast them in a most dire situation which required immediate, calculated action. The future of Lingionine depended on it.
“Oh, what will you do?” Sarah heaved a gigantic sigh. “I cannot bear to think what will happen to the baby if we are forced out.”
“Hush,” Madeline said. “There will be no talk of leaving. I shall devise a plan to steal the deed. I am very good at strategizing and with the benefit of forewarning, which we have thanks to Weston’s letter, we shall be victorious.” She warmed to the idea of a good fight. “We shall mete out justice over this most untrustworthy opponent.”
“What kind of plan?” Annabelle’s brow furrowed.
“What kind of justice?” Regina’s eyes grew wide and curious. “Will we tie him up? I am quite capable of making a very secure knot using any manner of material. Silk. Lace.” She paused. “There was much tying up at Madame Lechane’s and the girls taught me several different methods.” She grinned. “I am quite good at it.”
Hopefully, Madame Lechane’s girls had not demonstrated what they did with those silk ties. “There will be no need for tying anyone up,” Madeline said. At least she did not think there would be a need but Regina’s expertise might
prove handy. One never knew what situation might arise when thrust in battle with an unsavory character such as this Mr. Fontaine appeared to be. At present, she would rely on that which she had always relied on. “We shall use intelligence and cunning to take back what Mr. Fontaine stole.”
Regina cast them all a sly look and wiggled her fingers. “I know all about transferring what-nots from one location to another. I could get it for you.”
No doubt she could but Madeline had another tactic. “Thank you for offering such a variety of services, Regina. I may call upon you at some point, but at present, we must concentrate on methods to rid ourselves of Mr. Fontaine permanently.”
Annabelle inched closer and whispered. “Do you speak of murder?”
“Good heavens, no. Think now. Weston said the man spoke and acted like an Englishman but was anything but. The man might be bent on engaging in a bit of trickery and conniving himself. Therefore, we shall engage in our own bit of tomfoolery and delight in every second of it.” An idea took root and spread through her with urgency, spilling out in a rush of excitement. “We shall welcome Mr. Douglas Fontaine to Lingionine and show great hospitality. If he is acting the gentleman, he will try to win our trust and then deliver the blow, thus making him appear the victim and therefore eliciting sympathy.”
“He shall have no sympathy from me,” Sarah said.
“Me neither,” Regina vowed.
“We must be on our best behavior. I’ll have Mrs. Fowler prepare the ham we’ve been saving and the peach preserves.”
“What about the cock that’s been struttin’ in the yard every morning? I can tie him up and—”
“No!” Visions of Simon Schilling tied spread eagle flashed through her head. “No,” she repeated. “There’s no need for that.”
“But he’s a nuisance.”
True, but he did not deserve what Regina had in mind. “You must ignore him and leave him to his own self-importance. Men like that wither when ignored.”
Regina scrunched her pointy nose. “Men? I was talking about the rooster.”
Heat rushed from Madeline’s chest and burst onto her face. “Yes, the rooster who I also refer to as—” she paused, cleared her throat and hoped she sounded believable “—Mr. Peacock. I call him that because he’s a dandy and one of the few remaining males at Lingionine.”
Sarah laughed and clapped her hands. “Very clever.”
Annabelle did not share in her amusement. Rather, her gaze narrowed for a brief moment as though she had caught Madeline in a grand fib, which of course, she had.
“Speaking of peacocks, Mr. Schilling was up and about early this morning.”
Madeline made a great production of folding Weston’s letter. “I believe Gregory is helping him with the fence.”
“Perhaps Mr. Schilling could help us rout Mr. Fontaine.”
All eyes turned to Sarah, who shrugged and offered a timid smile. “If you think of it logically, most would be intimidated by his sheer size. He is quite the tallest and perhaps most muscular man I have ever seen. And there’s his voice, deep and commanding when he chooses, and his eyes which I am certain could freeze the Thames if they had a mind to do so. I believe Mr. Schilling would be a most fearsome match for the likes of Mr. Fontaine.”
“Ohhh.” Regina’s eyes sparkled. “They could fight it out, brawn against brawn.”
Madeline shook her head. “Absolutely not. Mr. Schilling has no business in our affairs.” As if she would ask the man for a favor. Hmmph. She did not need any man’s help, most specifically, the likes of a man such as Simon Schilling.
Annabelle cleared her throat and spoke. “He could be a welcome ally in your strategy.” She gnawed on her bottom lip as if considering her next words. “If Mr. Fontaine is a cheat and a swindler then he most likely has little regard for the fairer sex.” She eyed each of them before continuing, “But if he believes there is a man in residence, one who will not sit by and meekly permit a stranger to claim his home, well then, we will have not only right on our side, but power.”
Why were they stringing Simon Schilling’s name with power and right? It did not sit well, not at all. The man was a commoner with an arrogance that was unfounded and she would do well to put an end to further speculation. Immediately. “I will devise a plan and it will not include Mr. Schilling.”
“But it must.” Annabelle clutched Madeline’s hand and spoke with more emotion than she’d exhibited since her arrival at Lingionine. “Cruel men can be brutal. They have little care for propriety. Or women. If Mr. Fontaine is as horrible as your brother says, when his persuasion fails, he may well demand we leave at once. If we refuse, he could elicit the authorities.” Regina gasped. “We can ill afford that.” Annabelle clasped Madeline’s hand. “Please. Mr. Schilling is our only hope. Something about the man exudes power and Mr. Fontaine is most likely not anticipating such an adversary.”
She had a point there. Mr. Fontaine may have knowledge of the rag-tag affairs of Lingionine, especially if Weston imbibed too much and his words flowed too freely. Why Mr. Fontaine could well believe he would walk in and pluck them from their home like bits of lint.
Indeed. She would like to see him pluck Simon Schilling. Mayhap Mr. Schilling could prove helpful in a similar manner, as one utilizes dogs for protection and fierceness. Madeline would orchestrate the plan and enlist the man’s help. Certainly he should be capable of following a few orders.
Once Mr. Fontaine was inside Lingionine, they would not permit him to leave until they had the deed, no matter if they had to tie him up with one of Regina’s knots and dangle him by his feet.
“Let us begin our planning,” Madeline said as the idea of battle tingled her senses. Her soldiers stood at attention, awaiting their command. “I will speak with Mr. Schilling at once and enlist his body—” she stumbled over the last word and corrected it with “—his brawn. I mean his help.”
“Madeline?” Annabelle’s expression tensed. “The effectiveness of this plan depends on making Mr. Fontaine believe what he sees is real.”
“I intend to do just that.” Though she was not quite certain what she would tell Mr. Schilling. Obviously, she could not tell him the truth, not even a far-fetched version of it.
“And the only way to make him believe it is real…” Annabelle ran out of steam or maybe she simply did not want to finish what she had started.
“Annabelle?”
Sarah stepped forward, face beaming as though she had seen her lover and said, “The only way to make the man believe it is real is to pretend you and Mr. Schilling are husband and wife.”
* * *
Douglas grabbed the threadbare towel and wiped his face. He had not been this sore since he and Ethan rode on horseback to North Carolina. On a dare. Fools they’d been but youth had a way of outweighing common sense, especially if a brunette and a redhead were involved and waiting at the destination with oiled hands and red-stained lips.
No supple mistress awaited the assuagement of Douglas’s weary bones save a bucket of cold water and a threadbare towel. Who could have guessed manual labor would be so…well, damn it, manual? He’d risen early to feed the animals, muck out the stalls, and examine the list of items in need of repair. Gregory had brought him a book from the library titled Man and the Simple Machine which Douglas said might hold pictures that would lend a new method of repair. Pictures indeed. The last picture book he’d required had been that of the boat. He’d been two. Nevertheless, he must not divulge his voracious reading aptitude as much could be learned when others thought they were speaking to idiots.
Douglas and Gregory had worked side by side with Douglas utilizing the previous night’s reading to instruct the boy in the how-to of repairs. What was not in the book could be gleaned from observation and a thorough evaluation. Douglas need only play with the broken lock on the gate, opening and closing it, listening for a click, to determine the tool and hardware necessary for repair.
Lingionine needed much work. Water-sta
ined ceilings, faded wallpaper, creaking floorboards. He would gift his bride the estate and an open purse to have it torn apart and put together again as she saw fit and in accordance with the latest style.
Had there truly been no coin to update the place? Madeline in her makeshift drapery gown sprung into his head. She had worn the gown with dignity but it was still a drapery. What could bring a family to such depths of misfortune? Had the scoundrel brother gambled away all opportunity, leaving her no choice but to live in reduced conditions? Surely she could have married and brought relief to the dire situation. He recalled the minx’s wicked tongue. Then again, perhaps marriage had not been an option.
He hung the towel on a hook next to the stall and reached for his shirt. They had brought their situation on themselves—the brother with his cheating ways and Madeline with her uncensored mouth. They were responsible for their current predicament and Douglas would do well to remember that. Why then, did guilt prick him like a constant case of ague? He was not the sort of man to kick a family out on its behind with no place to go, but he was also not a man to be double-crossed. He supposed he could locate a small residence for the lot of them, brother excluded, which would help abate the gnawing in his gut. There, it was settled. When Ethan arrived, he would send him looking for a nearby bungalow to rent. He would not think on this further or Madeline’s response to it.
“Mr. Schilling?”
Speak of the minx. Douglas finished buttoning his shirt and turned. “Simon,” he corrected, only because it never ceased to draw lively discourse from her.
She pursed her lips. “Simon.”
“Hello, Madeline.” He leaned against the stall door and offered her a lazy smile. He would not permit any indication that his body groaned from the day’s work or she would think him a fragile ninny. He was neither fragile nor a ninny, but rather a man of means accustomed to using his brain as opposed to his back and legs and arms, all of which wished for a warm bath and warmer oils. Since he was fairly certain Madeline had not come to offer a bath or oils, he asked, “Have you another list for me?”