Chapter Thirteen

The ladies had retired to the drawing room, leaving Owen with Lady Madeline’s father, his own father, Viscount Hedwig and Baron Muncy.

It was rather uncomfortable to be surrounded by all these fathers. Particularly fathers who might have an interest in pushing a daughter forward.

Perhaps even more uncomfortable, Lady Madeline’s father seemed to be the only gentleman not looking to push his daughter forward.

“I only say, I will not rush Madeline. Marriage is a momentous and lifelong commitment,” the earl said. “I would not wish her to go headlong into a thing based on what may be merely a shallow and transient attraction.”

Owen’s eyes widened just a little bit. Was he supposed to be the shallow and transient attraction? Or if not he, was there someone else the earl was thinking of? He was certainly not thinking of Bumbledon with that comment—nobody would ever be momentarily bowled over by that fellow’s person, corset or not.

“I say, though, Winthrop,” Baron Muncy said, “do you not fear a daughter ending on the shelf? I’d like my daughter settled so I do not have to worry about that eventuality.”

Viscount Hedwig nodded in agreement. “Nothing worse than a daughter crossed over into spinsterhood. What is one to do with such a person? No, I agree with Muncy—get daughters properly settled with all speed.”

This conversation was going forward as if Owen were not even in the room. They were flat out admitting they’d brought their daughters this evening with some specific hopes in their pockets.

“What are your views, Duke?” Viscount Hedwig asked.

Owen turned to his father. The duke said, “Well, it’s true, nobody likes a lingerer. How long has Lady Marie been banging around Town? It must be her fourth season by now. It’s beginning to look rather grim for the lady. On the other hand, the earl knows Lady Madeline best and if he views the present time as too soon, I dare say he must be right.”

Owen presumed his duke would like it very much if Lady Madeline were not to consider a wedding this season. The duke would like it very much if Owen wed a lady who was up to nothing more alarming than pulling gold threads from fabric. There was no danger of inspiring farmers and shopkeepers to follow in the footsteps of France from a lady so employed.

There was no danger of being at all entertained either.

But why was the earl in agreement? Why did he wish his daughter to wait for another season? Did the old gentleman have something against him?

“Well, you know how young people are these days,” the baron said. “Up to their eyes in romantic notions. In my day, we thought a bit more rationally about the practicalities.”

“So true, Muncy,” Viscount Hedwig said. “After the first blush of the thing, what is left? A good dowry and a sensible lady, that’s what’s to be hoped for.”

“Try telling that to young people these days,” the baron said.

Owen got the idea that the baron had tried telling that very thing to his daughter, without much success.

“Oh yes,” the viscount said, “I have been hard pressed not to throw a plate each time I hear the oft-repeated refrain in my house—she will know it in her heart, she says. Balderdash!”

“That is nothing!” the baron cried, taking a great gulp of his port. “How about this, she says love is feeling as if one is about to faint on the carpet when you see the gentleman. Can you fathom that? I told her in no uncertain terms, she is forbidden to faint on any carpets outside of our own house.”

“I think it’s the novels they’re reading,” the viscount said gravely.

“Especially the gothic ones,” the baron said, nodding vigorously. “I said, you are a baron’s daughter, not some tragic figure kept prisoner in a castle. And then I said, by the by, you practically faint over your own shadow—is it to be supposed you would survive long in that castle?”

“I bet she had no answer to that,” the viscount said. “They never do, they just flounce off, looking for their mother.”

“That’s exactly what they do!” Baron Muncy cried, staring at his port glass as if it were the enemy.

“Well now,” the duke said, “young ladies can be full of…full of something.”

Owen drank his port and had a great wish to simply disappear from the table. It would be very convenient to fade away like a specter.

He supposed he could only be grateful that the subject of The Morning Post had not been raised. He was all but certain that every person sitting down to dine this evening had seen the notice that a certain Lord S was responsible for Lady Madeline’s troubles.

Of course, societal rules did come in handy from time to time. Nobody would have dared to mention it.

“I suppose we ought not leave the ladies alone for much longer,” the duke said, seeming shaken that he’d just announced that young ladies were full of...something. “My duchess is very disapproving of extended times over port.”

And with that, this cursed moment in time had come to an end.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As the ladies had left the gentlemen to their port and gone into the drawing room, they’d naturally separated into two groups. The duchess entertained their mothers round the tea tray while Madeline, Miss Smollen, and Miss Welter settled in a cozy corner.

Miss Welter leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Lady Madeline, I hope I am not too bold in asking, but something did occur to me at dinner.”

Miss Welter then paused, as if waiting for permission to proceed.

“Ask away, Miss Welter,” she said.

“Well, I was thinking of what was in the newspaper, about it being Lord S who caused your troubles. And then I thought, wait a moment, Lord Souderton’s name begins with S. Are they blaming him for sending that horde of men to your house?”

Of course, Madeline thought it likely, but she would never admit that to anyone outside her own house. Further, she did not have the first idea who they were.

“I think horde of men might be describing it too strong. It was a very orderly line,” she said. “I cannot think why anyone would blame Lord Souderton. After all, S is such a usual letter, there must be no end of Lord S gentlemen.”

“You are right,” Miss Welter said, appearing as if the clouds were parting in her mind, “S is such a usual letter. I hadn’t thought.”

“Do you have any guesses yourself?” Miss Smollen asked Madeline.

“I do not, and I do not suppose it is worth even thinking about,” Madeline said, as a gentle hint that the subject was now closed.

There was a moment of silence, then Miss Smollen said, “My father said I must do everything to make a good impression this evening. He says all my thoughts ought to be directed at marrying well and I ought not tarry over it.”

Miss Welter bobbed her head up and down. “ My father says my romantic notions are ridiculous. Though, I suppose if I were really struck by some gentleman I very well would faint on the carpet.”

Madeline pressed her lips together. She did not see how a courtship could go forward if one of the party were laying with eyes closed on the floor.

“ My father,” Miss Smollen continued, “is forever painting bleak pictures of me becoming a spinster. He says nobody knows what to do with such a person.”

“Oh yes,” Miss Welter said, “Mine keeps bringing up Lady Marie. I do not even know the lady! He says she’s on her fourth season and her parents must be shaking in their shoes. I get so upset over it that I have to run and find my mama!”

“Lady Madeline,” Miss Smollen said, “what does your father say?”

“Oh, well, he is very kind, really. He has had perhaps some less than ideal notions about which gentleman might suit, but he does not scold me.”

“I suppose one of us is meant to bag Lord Souderton,” Miss Smollen said.

Madeline’s eyes widened a bit over the idea of anybody bagging the marquess. She supposed Miss Smollen was very much a country girl, so comparing gentlemen to pheasants was not so far to reach.

“If he asked, I would be bound to accept," Miss Welter said. What I mean is, it would be rather stupid to turn down a marquess, would it not?”

“I must think so,” Miss Smollen said. “I cannot imagine my father, were I to turn down a marquess. And then, Lord Souderton is not unpleasant.”

“That’s right, he really is not,” Miss Welter said. “Though, I would prefer a gentleman who seemed easier to manage. Lord Souderton appears to have a mind of his own. As well, his family does not seem to have any properties by the sea, which is a dream of mine.”

Aside from Miss Welter's odd requirements, Madeline was rather galled to understand that both of these ladies would accept Lord Souderton if he were to ask. How many other ladies were out there, thinking precisely the same thing?

“Lady Madeline? What is your stance on Lord Souderton?” Miss Welter asked. “Would you accept him if he asked?”

Madeline had no difficulty in divining her answer, though it was not for the same reason these two ladies had.

“Yes,” she said, “I believe I would.”

Just then, the gentlemen came into the drawing room. They had not stayed long over their port and Madeline was hopeful that Lord Souderton had somehow hurried them along.

The duchess rose and said to the party, “I thought we might have some music, if the young ladies would consent to play.”

They all nodded dutifully.

Miss Welter whispered, “Oh please, somebody else do go first. I get rather faint when I am nervous and my father has forbidden me to faint outside of our own house.”

Miss Smollen said, “Lady Madeline, will you? I am not very good, actually.”

Madeline sighed. “Yes, of course,” she said.

She made her way to the pianoforte and began to look through the available sheets of music. Madeline selected an obscure piano piece by Rossini that she happened to have in her own music library. It was always best, in these situations, to choose a piece one already knew very well.

Lord Souderton came to stand by her and said, “May I turn the pages?”

“Indeed, yes, that would be helpful,” she said, very much gratified that he’d made an effort to be by her side.

Madeline began to softly play. Lord Souderton said, “I suppose you’ve seen the newspaper, with Lord S being pointed to.”

“I have,” she said. “Do you really think it is Lord Bumbledon doing it?”

“I do, though I have yet to gather proof. But it is no matter as, on the morrow, the ton will find themselves entirely confused.”

Madeline glanced up, her fingers finding the keys without her eyes’ assistance.

“It will once more point back to Lord B.”

“You haven’t…”

“I have,” Lord Souderton said.

“Gracious, it has gone from Lord M, to B, to S, now back to B? It is really getting ridiculous, and all because I did not know how to place an advertisement.”

Before Lord Souderton could answer, he was called away by Miss Smollen.

It was entirely frustrating. It seemed that their conversation would have progressed much further than it had, something momentous might have been said. But they had spent too much time talking of this absurd war of words in the newspaper.

She might know that the finger-pointing coming out on the morrow was from Lord Souderton’s hand, but who had put in the other notices? Why did they involve themselves in it? What were they after?

She wished they would stop, whoever they were. She wished to be done talking about it, so she and Lord Souderton could talk of something else. Something much more interesting.

As Madeline played on, she could not help but notice Miss Smollen and Miss Welter leaning forward in conversation with Lord Souderton. They seemed to hang upon his every word.

Was she making a mistake in not doing the same?

She was not certain. Though, the gentle laughter coming from that quarter did give her pause.

Her mother had once told her that a gentleman requires feeling as if he is the most important man in the room. She said that women were filled with love in abundance and could pass it round freely, but men were more of an empty glass that needed to be filled.

The countess theorized it was due to the distance between father and son. A mother might wrap her daughters in her arms at all hours of the day. A son was left to hope for a nod of approval from his father. Therefore, it left men turning to women for admiration and affection. On top of that, their feelings were hurt far more than they ever let on.

Madeline had not understood it, nor had been sure she believed it. But then, she did not have brothers so could not consider how her father would have treated a son. As well, Lord Souderton was looking pretty comfortable being fawned over just now.

She was getting a headache just thinking about it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bumbledon was in the breakfast room of his rented house. It was a very small breakfast room and it was probably for the best that there were not more than two people in the house who ever needed to eat in it.

He’d left his sling on the table so that he might put his arm back in it when he set out for the day. He was getting rather fed up with it—it was no convenient thing to go round with one’s arm tied up.

Nevertheless, he must stick to it, else he end up on a green facing one of Lord Souderton’s pistols.

At the moment, things were going as well as could be expected. It seemed nobody knew the real cause of his faint at Sir Rodger’s lecture. He had roundly scolded his valet about how tight it had been tied. Marker had the audacity to point out that it had been the dowager who kept saying, “Tighter, pull it tighter!” Did the fellow think Bumbledon would blame his own mother? Certainly not, and therefore the only other person who’d been in the room must be blamed.

The important thing was, the ton had not heard of a corset.

Bumbledon was further buoyed by remembering that yesterday had seen the notice printed in the papers accusing Lord S of being Lady Madeline’s villain.

He chuckled to himself as he imagined the discomfort of Lord Souderton’s dinner the evening before. Perhaps Lady Madeline had even refused to go after seeing that it was Lord S named as the gentleman causing her so much trouble.

That pleasant reverie was shattered by his mother. The dowager stormed into the breakfast room and slammed the newspaper on the table in front of him.

“Read it!”

Bumbledon cautiously picked up the paper and scanned it. Then he located what had set the dowager into a high dudgeon.

Though he struggles to shirk off the blame, it is and has always been Lord B.

“That devil,” he muttered.

“Yes, I’m sure Souderton is to blame and yes, he’s the devil. But the real point is, what are we going to do about it?”

Bumbledon sighed, as all of this upset was really wearing him down. He had a great urge to go to bed and stay there, though he had so recently risen. “Perhaps it is time to look elsewhere? Set our sights on another lady with an equally consequential dowry?”

The dowager snorted. “Who else could we get? We have all along counted on the friendship between your father and the earl to carry us through. Why cannot that girl do as she is directed?”

Bumbledon missed the last part of her speech, as he was stuck on “who else could we get.”

“I am certain,” the dowager continued, “that the earl has done all in his power to put you forward, and still that girl seems to be going her own way.”

“When you say, who else could we get,” Bumbledon said, “do you imply that no lady would have me without an inducement?”

The dowager threw her hands up. “Well, look at you. You’ve a receding hairline and a paunch. You don’t box, or drive a smart phaeton, or do anything else the ladies swoon over. You can be rather too fragrant when you’ve overdone the cheeseboard. All of that might be got over if we held vast properties, but we’ve only got our little patch. What’s the allurement?”

Bumbledon was rather shaken. While his father was alive, the dowager had held her son far superior. And here she was, all along, thinking about his hair and his stomach and how too much cheese never did agree with him.

The dowager seemed to notice that perhaps too much truth had been spoken at once. She patted his shoulder. “Do not surrender just yet. It occurs to me that we have been playing a children’s game when we should have been waging a war.”

Bumbledon gulped his tea. He was not certain he was up to being a soldier. It sounded like it could be dangerous and he already had one arm in a sling.

“Ah yes, I see where we have gone wrong,” the dowager continued. “Cryptic messages in the newspaper were woefully insufficient. What we need is to throw some fire on the rumor mill. Something that is bound to cause Lady Madeline to turn away from Souderton. And who will be standing behind her as she turns? Reliable Lord Bumbledon, that’s who.”

Bumbledon could not make heads nor tails of what his mother was trying to explain. He was still consumed with thinking about “who else could we get.”

“Now, Lady Madeline has gone to that dinner at the lord’s house last evening. She is not stupid, she must have comprehended why Miss Smollen and Miss Welter were invited too.”

“I was hoping she did not go to the dinner,” Bumbledon said weakly.

“Of course she went. Her mother, the countess, is a sly one. She would not let such a chance sail by.”

Bumbledon had not considered the countess. That lady was not privy to the loan between him and the earl. She would not know that there was an unspoken understanding between them.

“We simply start a rumor that the marquess prefers one of the other ladies. Yes, indeed, that Miss Welter. That girl is as dumb as a post.”

“But why should that matter? That she is as dumb as a post?”

“Because she is also in the habit of carrying a drizzling box with her wherever she goes. That’s how I know she is an idiot—what a way to spend one’s time, I ask you.”

Though the dowager had said, “I ask you,” Bumbledon knew from experience she was not actually asking him.

“All we need do is start a rumor that the duke’s dinner was a success and there seems to be something in the works, as the marquess…can you guess what I am going to say?”

“Who else could we get?”

“No. I am going to say, there seems to be something in the works, as the marquess has sent Miss Welter a drizzling box!”

“Oh. Well then, maybe I should send a drizzling box to Lady Madeline too.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

Bumbledon did not actually know. It just seemed as if they were going to send drizzling boxes, one ought to go to Lady Madeline.

“I know just how we’ll do it,” the dowager went on. “Miss Smollen lives on Bedford Square. I’ll send Martha to pretend at a connection with her lady’s maid. A distant cousin or some such. I’ll get Kenroy to discover the girl’s name.”

“But what if the maid doesn’t believe it? What if she already knows who all her cousins are?”

“If the maid does not believe it, Martha can just claim she was mistaken. It hardly matters, because what will happen?”

“What?”

“They will chat. What does chat always lead to?”

“Friendliness?”

“Gossip. Once Miss Smollen’s maid is apprised of the drizzling box sent to Miss Welter she will fly to her mistress. Her mistress, being one of the two ladies not chosen by the marquess, will fly to Lady Madeline to commiserate. And all along, nobody can trace it back to us!”

Bumbledon felt his head spinning.

“If that doesn’t work, we’ll find some other way to alert Lady Madeline to the drizzling box. One way or another, that girl will come to understand that the marquess sent a gift of some significance to another lady.”

“But…but won’t Miss Welter just say that she never got a drizzling box?”

“We’re going to send her one, why would she say she did not get one?”

Bumbledon did not know. His mind was too off kilter to keep track of the details.

“Do try to keep up, Ignatius.”

He would try, though he was not certain he could, what with the news that his mother did not know who else they could get. He began to get the creeping suspicion that he might have had more sympathy for his father.

“Mark me, before the week is out, Lady Madeline will be poised to turn from Lord Souderton.”