Chapter Ten

Mr. Penny was speedily becoming cognizant of a new idea. He was realizing that when one dabbled in a ruse, as he had done with the ridiculous story about Lord M, one had better be ready for consequences.

And then more consequences.

The first consequence was that the ton had decided that Lord M was a marquess. Therefore, it must be Lord Souderton. It was supposed to remain mysterious!

The second consequence was that it appeared Lord Souderton was determined to discover the author of the story about Lord M.

He was the author! Mr. John H. Penny was at the bottom of it all!

Lord Souderton had said he had his suspicions. Did he suspect a nearby butler? What did he know?

If he was suspected, he had not helped his case by dropping the teapot as soon as it was mentioned. It would have made him look guilty. It would have made him appear frightened of being caught out. Which was true on both counts!

Then, one of the footmen had reported to him that Lord Souderton had gone as far as going to The Morning Post’s offices—what had he found out? The footman didn’t know.

The new story The League had invented, swapping Lord M for Lord B, was poised to come out on the morrow. What would be the consequences? He should have thought of consequences.

But that seemed to be the problem with consequences, one could not guess what they might be.

He was not built for these sorts of cloak and dagger machinations. He saw that now.

“Mr. Penny?” Lady Madeline asked from her position on the sofa.

He whipped round, cognizant of the fact that he’d been blindly staring out the drawing room windows for some time.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Forgive me if I step too far into your personal business,” Lady Madeline said, “but I cannot think these literary society meetings you attend on Thursday afternoons do you any good at all. You seem not quite yourself ever since you began attending them. I suppose discussing literature is a more fraught business than I would have imagined.”

Mr. Penny nodded sadly. “Very fraught indeed, my lady.”

“Ought you not to consider giving it up, Mr. Penny?”

“If only I could! At least, temporarily!”

With that, he hurried from the room lest he give himself away.

If there were anything good coming out of his new habit of hurrying from place to place, it was that Lady Madeline’s diabolical Pomeranian could not keep up. That canine had tumbled off the sofa in pursuit, but was fast running out of steam.

Was the heavy breathing in his ears coming from him or the dog? Probably both of them.

He reached the servants’ stairs, opened the door, and slammed it behind him just in time to hear the blasted dog’s nails slide across the polished marble floor.

Not today, you devil. John H. Penny has bigger problems just now than an aging Pomeranian with a bad temper.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bumbledon paced the drawing room of his rented house on the teetering edge of Mayfair. It was not a large drawing room and so he found himself turning and turning and turning.

“You ought to sit down,” the dowager said. “Else you’ll make yourself dizzy.”

“I am already dizzy. And distraught for that matter. What am I to do about that duel!”

“Yes, well, as to that, I do not know why you agreed to it.”

Bumbledon looked with incredulity at his mother. “You made me agree to it!”

“By all that blather about Liddlingtons refusing to be insulted? That was just for show. Keep up the family name and all that.”

For show. What show?

“Mother, what am I to do? How am I to face Lord Souderton on a green?”

“I suppose the first thing is to choose the weapons. I do not advise swords—you won’t want to be so up close to him.”

“I should say not! I’ve never wielded a sword in my life.”

The dowager nodded. “I expect it will be too late to start with it now. You’ll have to go with pistols.”

“I have not fired a gun in years, and that was only when father you used to drag me out for the shooting. I never wanted to shoot a bird out of the sky! I am the sort of gentleman who wishes to see his pheasant dressed and cooked and on a plate. Not hurtling from overhead to land at one’s feet.”

“Very sensible, to my mind. One can hire fellows to go shooting round the place.”

“Again, if I am not skilled with a sword or a pistol, what am I to do? How am I to avoid being dead at the end of it?”

“Hmm. Now that you are laying things out, it does not sound as if your chances are very good.”

Bumbledon stared at his mother. She had always been a fount of wisdom, she’d always known the correct way to turn. But now, he was beginning to wonder if she were suffering some sort of disease of the mind that afflicted the elderly.

She had pushed him into a duel and now she did not think his chances were very good. He could have told her that from the start!

“I know what we’ll do,” the dowager said, laughing to herself. “I will write Sir Jonathan with the sad news that you have broken your right arm. The duel will have to wait until you are fully recovered.”

Bumbledon clutched at the idea as if it were a wisp of a cloud that must be got hold of before it disappeared.

“Yes, that could work! Nobody can go to a duel with a broken arm. Souderton would be bound as a gentleman to put the whole thing off. Then, we could think of something else later.”

The dowager nodded. “Much later. After you are wed to Lady Madeline. You’ll have to make a very good impression tonight. Show her your intellectual prowess and do what you can about the physical side of things.”

Bumbledon did not answer. This was the second time his mother had hinted that his looks might not be up to snuff.

“Hair powder, calf pads, and a corset pulled tight ought to do it,” the dowager said. “I’ve had it all sent to your bedchamber. Have Edmond pull the corset very tight, you’ve gone a bit overboard with the cakes and meats recently.”

Bumbledon’s eyes drifted down toward his midsection.

“Of course, the sling won’t do much for you, but that cannot be helped.”

“The sling?”

“For your broken arm?” the dowager said, looking at him as if he could not keep up.

Bumbledon sighed. For his broken arm.

Then an idea occurred to him. He felt excitement running through him like a lightning strike. He rarely had an idea that did not come from his mother. He was very good at reading books and remembering what he’d read, but those were other people’s ideas. He was not so skilled at pulling things out of the air, which it seemed to him was where ideas came from.

“I ought to have done something heroic to break my arm,” he said, launching the idea. “What if I say I rescued a little mite of a street urchin from the galloping hooves of an oncoming carriage?”

The dowager looked up in surprise. “Very good, Ignatius! Very good indeed.”

Bumbledon beamed with pride. He’d had an idea, and it was a good one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Owen had been in conference with his father for over an hour before escaping the house. The duke had settled on the idea that he would send a note of regret to the Earl and Countess of Winthrop, and their daughter, Lady Scoldy-Skirts. He would explain that distant relations had turned up unexpectedly and must be accommodated. He would count on the earl’s and countess’ goodwill regarding the late cancellation.

He had no intention of allowing his father to disinvite Lady Madeline.

The duke argued that he should not be forced to host a family that had involved his son in the ridiculous rumor of Lord M. As if his son would ever be a rejected suitor! As if his son would take the low and ungentlemanly revenge of causing a line of strange men to line up in front of Lady Madeline’s house! It was outrageous.

Owen had quite the answer to that. He’d not made it a habit to study The Morning Post until now, but he had this morning. And what a read it had been.

It seemed there was a correction published. Whoever had submitted the story about Lord M claimed it had been misprinted. The real culprit was all along a certain Lord B.

B. It had not taken him a moment to work it out.

It was further confirmation that the villain was Bumbledon. He’d known it in his bones and here was the truth. The ton could not help but see that it was Bumbledon.

He’d shown the notice to his father, who was somewhat mollified by it. Not even the duke could blame anybody for a misprint. However, he was still inclined to disinvite them, as he did not care to be lectured by the earl’s daughter.

Owen argued that she was much changed, though the duke was not convinced. He was firm in the opinion that anybody setting up a charity to educate farmers was not right in the head and had not the smallest grasp of history.

Finally, Owen pulled out his last weapon. If the earl, countess, and Lady Madeline were disinvited at this late date, he would find it an embarrassment and would refuse to attend the dinner himself.

As the entire point of the dinner was to bring him into company with eligible ladies, the duke finally acquiesced to his wishes, albeit grudgingly.

Owen had since set off for Sir Rodger’s evening of an intellectual lecture on Shakespeare or some such nonsense.

He’d not been invited, nor did he know the gentleman, but he’d sent Sir Rodger a note. He claimed to be vastly interested in the subject and took the liberty of wishing to be included.

Perhaps one of the best advantages of being a marquess was the doors flying open if he even looked at them. Sir Rodger would wish to casually comment to his friends that the marquess had insisted on attending him.

That was just what happened. Within the hour, Sir Rodger had sent a rather flowery acceptance of his suggestion. It had ended with the idea that “The Marquess of Souderton has just engaged himself to an elevated evening full of intellectual ideas.”

He’d do his best not to fall asleep while these elevated ideas were floating round the room like a soporific, working to make his eyes close.

Owen supposed Lady Madeline would be surprised to see him. Bumbledon would be even more surprised.

Sir Rodger’s house was on Oxford Street, and it was not a particularly fashionable address. However, the house itself was of a decent size and looked to be well-maintained. It was precisely what one would expect from a baronet who spent all his time with his nose in books.

The gentleman himself greeted him with enthusiasm at the door, and waxed on about the wonders of acquiring knowledge for some minutes before Owen could make his way in.

He found Sir Rodger’s drawing room set up with rows of chairs, and a lectern set up at the front.

Owen searched the room for Lady Madeline, though he did not see that she had arrived yet. Then his eyes settled on Bumbledon.

The fellow was deep in conversation with a few cronies. And his right arm was in a sling.

Owen laughed to himself. So that was how Bumbledon was choosing to extricate himself from the duel. He supposed Sir Jonathan would shortly receive a letter of regret, strongly worded and making clear that Bumbledon was in the depths of disappointment over it. Very convenient for both of them.

He made his way to the sideboard and poured himself a large glass of Canary from Sir Rodger’s rather middling offerings.

“What are you doing here?” a voice said behind him.

The voice grated, as he knew exactly who it was. He turned. “Dowager, as I mentioned yesterday, you do not direct my calendar.”

“You know my meaning. Why did you come? You were not invited.”

“I asked for an invitation, and I speedily got one.”

“This is my son’s moment to shine, this is his milieu,” the dowager said.

“His milieu , is it?” Owen said. “I suppose where his milieu would not be found is on a green, as he’s managed to damage his arm to avoid it. Or at least, pretend he has.”

“I’ll have you know, he was recuing a waif from being run over by a carriage! It was exceedingly dangerous and brave. The doctor said he is lucky to have survived it.”

“Is that the story?”

“The bone is broken in several places.”

“Is it now? Very tiresome for him, then. He’ll be in that sling for months.”

That idea seemed to take the wind out of the dowager’s sails. Owen was certain neither one of them had considered how long they’d have to maintain the ruse.

Of course, the dowager did not remain long luffing in the breeze. She trimmed her sails and went on to outline her son’s heroics. It was to be supposed that there was a street urchin somewhere in London who remained living on Bumbledon’s account.

Owen did not for a moment believe that fellow had put himself in danger for anybody. If the queen was moments away from being run down, he’d dive out of the way.

As he took another look at Bumbledon, he could swear the fellow had calf pads on. One had shifted, which made it appear as if his leg muscles were in the wrong place.

“By the by, Dowager,” he said, interrupting her diatribe, “did you see The Morning Post today?”

“After my encounter with Mr. Byrne, I will not deign to put one farthing in that odious man’s pocket.”

“I see. Well, you missed quite the correction in the paper. It seems the villain who attempted to sully Lady Madeline’s reputation was never Lord M. All along, it was Lord B. Now, let’s see—B, who do we know whose name begins with B? Could it be Baron? Could it be Bumbledon? Could it be Baron Bumbledon? Very interesting to think about.”

Owen had amused himself with watching the dowager’s changing expressions, until she landed on the final feeling of outrage.

“Liar!” she hissed.

“Get a copy of the paper yourself, then.”

“If it is even as you say, my boy has been unjustly accused!”

Owen shrugged. “I sympathize with the feeling.”

Then he saw her. Lady Madeline. She was smashing. She was a rose among a room of dried-up weeds. She wore an elegantly simple aubergine silk dress, complimented by a restrained gold chain round her pretty little neck. She was perfect.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this and the author of it will pay dearly!”

“Natter on to yourself, Dowager,” he said, and set off across the room.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Madeline had not been expecting much of this evening. She smiled and nodded to her father in the carriage, cognizant of her duty to him. She even stopped herself from making any negative comment when the earl praised Lord Bumbledon’s intellect to the skies.

Her father was so convinced that she and Lord Bumbledon were suited, but it was not so.

And then, quite out of the blue, she spotted a miracle of sorts. Lord Souderton was in Sir Rodger’s drawing room. How he came to be there, she did not know. Though, she must suspect that he’d wrestled an invitation to it because he understood she would be there. This could only be confirmed by the haste in which he made his way over to her.

“Souderton,” the earl said, “how do?”

“Earl. Lady Madeline.”

Madeline curtsied. The marquess said, “I wonder, Earl, if I might escort Lady Madeline to the sideboard? Meantime, I understand Lord Bumbledon was looking for you to discuss some matter.”

The earl seemed surprised to hear that Lord Bumbledon was looking for him. Almost worried, really. Madeline could not make it out.

She did not need to make it out, though. She only needed to make off with the marquess.

“Oh, Papa, do say yes. I am so thirsty I am almost weak in the knees.”

The truth was, she did feel weak in the knees, though thirst was not at all the cause.

“Yes, yes, proper enough, I suppose,” the earl said distractedly.

Lord Souderton led her away. They passed by an old matron who stared at her rather more directly than would be polite.

“I expect the Canary is the best thing going on this sideboard.”

Madeline nodded. Canary would certainly be fortifying. She could use some fortifying just now—she had been rather thrown by encountering the marquess at Sir Rodger’s lecture.

“Did you see The Morning Post?” the marquess asked.

Madeline shook her head. “My father refuses to buy it after…the unfortunate advertisement.”

“In this morning’s edition, there was a claim that Lord M was a misprint, it was all along a Lord B.”

Madeline was startled to hear it. “I do not understand,” she said. “Who keeps putting these things in the papers? It was nobody at all but myself causing the mischief. Who keeps attempting to blame other people?”

“I do not think it is the same person. My suspicion is that Bumbledon put in that it was Lord M and now someone else has decided to punish him by turning the tables.”

“Do you think Lord Bumbledon would do that?” Madeline asked. “It seems rather…energetic for him. And then who in his circle would wish to betray him if he did do it?”

Before Lord Souderton could answer either of those questions, they were interrupted. “Madeline, my dear,” her father said. “Here is Lord Bumbledon, and I am pleased to introduce you to the Dowager Baroness.”

Madeline was surprised that the lady who had almost rudely stared at her minutes ago was Lord Bumbledon’s mother. She was also surprised to find Lord Bumbledon’s arm in a sling. And then, there was something not quite right about the look of him.

He seemed to have more hair than he had yesterday. And lost a few inches in his circumference. She did not see how it was possible.

“Lady Madeline,” the dowager said, “how I have longed to meet you. My son expounds your charms at all hours.”

Madeline was rather alarmed by that idea. She would prefer Lord Bumbledon expounded on her charms at no hours.

“I see you’ve noticed my poor boy’s arm. He will not tell you himself, as he is very modest, but he saved a child from going under carriage wheels, thereby acquiring the injury.”

“Gracious,” Madeline said. She felt it was a suitable response to a story she did not quite believe. It was very hard to imagine Lord Bumbledon in the midst of any sort of derring-do.

From the front of the room, Sir Rodger called out, “Esteemed gentlemen, gracious ladies, if you would be seated we are ready to begin.”

“Ah, Sir Rodger signals to you, Lord Bumbledon,” Lord Souderton said.

As Lord Bumbledon turned, the marquess said, “Just this way, Lady Madeline.” He guided her by the arm to a pair of seats before anything could be done about it.

It was very clever of him. He led her to the last two seats in a row. It was bounded on the other side by an elderly couple, both with canes propped by their sides, who could never be asked for the inconvenience of moving.

Madeline supposed Lord Bumbledon might be put out about her being whisked off by the marquess. Her father might be too. She, however, was not put out in the least.

The elderly lady on her other side looked over at Lord Souderton and then patted Madeline’s hand. “There’s a handsome buck you’ve caught for yourself. What’s his rank?”

Madeline was beyond surprised. In a low voice, she said, “Marquess.”

The old woman nodded enthusiastically. “Clever girl,” she said approvingly.

Madeline supposed she’d gone as red as a summer sunset. She was beginning to think that intellectual people could be very odd.

“Now,” Sir Rodger said from his lectern, “we will dive right into it. Who did Shakespeare collaborate with, on which plays, what was his real involvement, and where do we note his influence? Those are the questions we will examine in minute detail.”

Madeline heard a small groan come from Lord Souderton and suppressed her laughter over it. She rather felt like groaning herself. She did not know what Sir Rodger would have to say for himself, but she was confident that it would be quite a bit.

She was also rather flattered that Lord Souderton would have decided to put himself through such an evening on her account. She must assume it was on her account as there did not seem to be any other reason he would have come.

Madeline contented herself with the idea that though the evening would be long, she would be sitting next to Lord Souderton through all of it. She would examine his hands while appearing to look at her own. She would notice the heat of him, the temperature on her right side feeling the slightest bit warmer than the left. She would inhale the scent of him—a subtle hint of bergamot and fresh laundered linen. She would subtly lean toward the right, just a little, until their arms were only inches apart.

With all that to notice, Sir Rodger could blather on as much as he liked.