Chapter Fourteen

It had been two days since the dinner at Lord Souderton’s house. So much of the season was days filled with this or that appointment or ball or party. These two days, though, had not had anything planned.

The first night, Madeline, the earl, and the countess had stayed at home and acted just as they would in the country. They’d had a simple and early dinner and gone out to the back garden for a short stroll. Then they’d come indoors and the countess had read to them in the drawing room. The household was all abed by ten o’clock.

Madeline had not minded too much. It gave her a lot of time to think.

Not surprisingly, her thoughts were all about the marquess. His father so clearly did not approve of her. Did Lord Souderton like her enough to cross him?

Did he like her enough for anything at all? Had he been flattered by Miss Welter's and Miss Smollen's attentions?

She did not know. He had not said anything particular. She had been carried along with the feeling between them. What if she imagined more than what was there? What if what was there were not enough?

Worse, what if the duke were to discover that she had caused the whole scandal that seemed to go on and on? Nobody knew that it had been she who had summoned all those men to the house. It had been a mistake, but mistakes by one approved of were speedily forgiven while mistakes by those disapproved of were not.

So far, the ton had looked upon her with sympathy, as the poor victim of some deranged plan.

But what if it were discovered that she was the author of the deranged plan?

And then, she must admit that Lord Souderton had not taken any of the steps one might in a courtship. He'd not said anything that was direct. There had been no flowers, which was particular to note. There was nothing she could positively point to.

It was well that they’d determined to go to the theater on the following evening, as her thoughts were inclined to travel ever darker roads.

She had hoped that the fates might smile upon her and she would see Lord Souderton there, but it had been a rather wild hope and he had not been in attendance.

The duke and his duchess had been there, though. They had acknowledged her and her parents from their box, but they had made no move to do more than that.

Now, it was their at-home day and Madeline sat in the drawing room as a string of the countess’ acquaintances came and went. She had hoped to see Lord Souderton, but he was conspicuously absent.

Twice, she had noticed a lady pulling her mother aside for a confidential conversation of some sort. One of those times, the lady had glanced at her while talking.

Did it get out? Did people know that it was she who had put that advertisement in the newspaper?

She’d been momentarily distracted by a footman bringing her a just arrived letter.

It was from the Duchess of Ralston.

Madeline sighed as she opened it, knowing very well what it was.

Dear Lady Madeline—

You have been selected as one of my twenty ladies for my Secrets Exposed party. On the morrow, please be at your house. The details will be revealed to you, should one of my gentlemen choose to call on you.

Margaret Ralston

Madeline supposed that every lady who’d ever received such a missive from the duchess felt the same thing. One at once hoped no gentlemen would come, and also lived in horror that no gentlemen would come. It was an embarrassment to participate, but then a colossal failure to be entirely ignored.

She did not at all wish to write her thoughts on any gentleman, not even if Miss Welter was right and they were to be a type of carriage. She rather hoped Miss Welter was right—every gentleman could be named a phaeton and be done with it.

Of course, that was assuming Lord Bumbledon was not one of the duchess’ gentlemen, as naming him a phaeton would likely cause laughter. He really would be more of a mail coach if one were forced to be honest.

The thought of Lord Bumbledon turning up made her face go red. It was so embarrassing, why could he not just go away? She realized that he’d been unfortunately encouraged by her father, but could he not read her attitude?

And what if Lord Souderton were to come, which was far more likely. She did not really think the duchess would invite Lord Bumbledon, but of course she had recruited the marquess. Madeline had been out and out told it at the dinner.

If he came, she must write something. She must say something before he had said anything. If he did not come, if she were ignored, she must know something she really did not wish to know.

She was growing very tired of vagaries and veils—Lord Bumbledon could not understand her disinterest because she could not say it, and she could not understand Lord Souderton’s interest because he would not say it.

Finally, Lady Anne, the last of the visitors, took her leave. The drawing room grew quiet once more.

The countess turned to Madeline. “My dear, I have heard something regarding the marquess, I’m afraid. From several people just now.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Owen found Sir Jonathan in the quiet corner of White’s they usually commandeered, unless rascally old Lord Gerrington had beat them to it. It was tucked away and nowhere near the bow windows—neither of them were interested in the tedious habit of observing and being observed.

"Did you attend Lady Madeline's at-home day?" Sir Jonathan asked.

"I'd planned to, but my father waylaid me for a meeting with our solicitor on some business matters," Owen said. He was quite aggravated over it and did not know if the duke had done it knowingly.

“Ah well, there is always next week. How did you fare at your father’s dinner,” Sir Jonathan asked, as a waiter set down two coffees. “Were Miss Welter and Miss Smollen everything your father dreamed that you would dream they would be?”

“They are two perfectly acceptable young ladies.” Owen paused. “Though I got the feeling that Miss Welter does her fair share of fainting. At least, she’s given thought to assuring herself that she is on a carpet during the event.”

Sir Jonathan laughed. “My wife has met her on numerous occasions, likes her very well, and thinks all that talk of fainting is a bit of a performance. Lady Michaels thinks Miss Welter is made of metal, but that she’s somehow got it into her head that gentlemen prefer a drooping flower.”

“How do women know so much?” Owen asked. “What I mean is, Lady Michaels has told you all this by simply surmising it.”

Sir Jonathan shrugged. “I can only tell you of my experience. In the mornings, we generally breakfast abed as it would be the lady’s purview to do so and my wife finds it lonely. Over breakfast, she relates to me everything she has heard or guessed at the previous day. I tell you, Souderton, we have been blithely walking round with blinders on, perceiving nothing.”

Owen would not be surprised to know it. He'd always thought that as women were not given the same physical strength as men, they must have been given something else. Something secret from the world of men.

“I suppose Lady Madeline was looking as well as ever,” Sir Jonathan said. “Has your father warmed to the lady?”

“She was looking well and he has not in the least warmed,” Owen said ruefully. “I am not certain the duke will ever be able to get over the idea that she wishes to educate those who he is adamant should not be educated too much. In his mind, it is his neck on a slippery slope right into a guillotine.”

Sir Jonathan nodded in sympathy. “Nevertheless, if you go forward and ask the question, I do not suppose he will stand in your way. It would cause a scandal and he would not like that anymore than a guillotine.”

“Probably true. He’ll have some kind of outburst about it and then put a smile on his face. He would never wish to insult the earl and, even if he wished to, my mother would take him in hand.”

“Well then? How have you moved things forward? What have you done?”

“Done?”

“Have you sent flowers? Anonymously sent a book on a subject of interest she mentioned to you? Dropped any direct hints?”

Owen’s eyes widened just the littlest bit over those questions. He had not done any of that. It had seemed to him that things were understood between them. In a general way.

“You’ve not done anything, have you?”

“What did you do? When you were wooing Lady Michaels?” Owen asked, fairly disgusted with the defensiveness of his tone.

“All of that and more. I even went so far as to send her an India shawl to complement her new wardrobe. You might not recall it but when she first arrived to Town, she had been the victim of an over-enthusiastic dressmaker who emptied everything in her shop onto Lady Michaels’ person. Lady Juniper sorted her out.”

Of course, Owen did remember that perfectly well, though he would never have mentioned it. Lady Michaels had been rather hilariously decorated until one day she turned up all elegance. He had not known Lady Juniper had taken things in hand.

“You’d better get going and do something,” Sir Jonathan said. “You cannot expect a lady to guess at your inclinations and I am sure Lady Madeline has other admirers. Aside from Bumbledon, who is not much of a threat.”

Owen nodded, as he thought it was good advice. What was wrong with him? He knew well enough what should have been done—why hadn’t he done any of it yet? He’d somehow had the idea that he and Lady Madeline just…understood each other.

That had been idiotic. He would rectify it.

“Nothing further turning up in the newspapers?” Sir Jonathan asked. “The last was Lord B is named the villain?”

“So it seems,” Owen said, “though I’ll keep an eye on it in case whoever is accusing me tries it again. It has to be Bumbledon, but maybe he’s decided he cannot win. He’s already walking round with his arm in a sling I am certain he does not need.”

“All for the best, though. I do not care how that duel was called off, I am only glad that it was.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Just then, Lord Gerrington turned the corner and glared at them, annoyed. He was always annoyed when he could not have his preferred table. However, it was Owen and Sir Jonathan’s preferred table too, and so the race to acquire it went on season to season.

“Shouldn’t you be mooning over your drizzler?” he asked, staring at Owen.

“My drizzler?” Owen asked. He was beginning to think old Lord Gerrington was going senile.

“Ha! You think the word has not got out?” he asked. “Baron Muncy has been all over Town and back bragging about it.”

“Bragging about what?” Owen asked warily.

Lord Gerrington briefly glanced at the ceiling, as if requesting help from God. “Lord Souderton was most impressed with Miss Welter at a dinner at the duke’s house and has expressed his interest via a drizzling box sent to the lady.”

“I have not sent anybody a drizzling box,” Owen said.

Lord Gerrington snorted. “Tell Muncy that.” He turned on his heel and shuffled away to find his second preferred table.

Owen and Sir Jonathan stared at each other.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“This is exceedingly disturbing, Mr. Penny,” Mr. Browning said.

An emergency meeting of The League had been called by that gentleman and Mr. Penny had reluctantly answered the summons.

“Exceedingly!” Mr. Harkinson said, appearing to make attempts at hiding his delight.

“It was one thing for us to put a notice in the newspaper to protect Lady Madeline from her own unwise actions,” Mr. Browning said. “And then the second one pointing to Lord B after the first one went awry and implicated the marquess.”

“But now other people are doing it too!” Mr. Rennington said.

Mr. Penny knew all about it. First Lord M, then Lord B, then Lord S, then back to Lord B. He hardly needed anybody to tell him that it was exceedingly disturbing.

What was even more disturbing was that it appeared the budding romance between Lady Madeline and Lord Souderton had very suddenly shipwrecked on a rocky shoal.

“I am very afraid, Mr. Penny,” Mr. Wilburn said, “that Lord Souderton, or his father the duke, might look askance at all these anonymous accusations flying back and forth.”

“I believe he has already looked askance,” Mr. Penny said reluctantly.

“I knew it,” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “Of course he’s looked askance. Any lord worth his salt would look askance. Or even worse than askance.”

“What are the details, though?” Mr. Browning asked, ignoring Mr. Feldstaffer’s usual satisfaction in finding he’d been right in predicting a thing gone wrong.

“I cannot be certain,” Mr. Penny said. “The countess told Lady Madeline something that upset her mightily.”

“But you do not know what?” Mr. Harkinson asked.

“No, I do not. We all know they can speak in inconvenient low tones when they wish to have a confidential conversation.”

They all nodded in agreement. It was rather confounding, but their lords and ladies would lower their voices at times. One might linger, pretending to check this or that thing, but if the conversation had dropped to whispers, they would not hear it.

“The countess was told something about the marquess. From several people,” Mr. Penny said.

The butlers all looked round at each other in confusion.

“But what?” Mr. Harkinson asked. “How could she have heard something significant from several people and we do not know anything about it?”

“This is indeed concerning,” Mr. Browning said. “We have always congratulated ourselves on having our ears rather close to the ground. Now we find a vital piece of information being passed among the ton has got by us.”

“We must discover what it is,” Mr. Wilburn said. “What did the countess hear about Lord Souderton? Mr. Penny, do you suppose you might discover it from Lady Madeline’s maid?”

Mr. Penny shook his head sadly. “Meggy is an obstinate little creature, I am afraid. She has convinced herself that, as she says, conversations between a lady and her maid are inviolate.”

All the gentlemen quietly sighed. They’d heard of this idea before and found it a confounding one. If there were any soul in a household who should be privy to any and all information, it must be the butler.

“Well,” Mr. Penny said, attempting to sound his usual cheerful self, “perhaps we ought to look on the bright side. Or hope for the best. Or keep our fingers crossed. Or keep our chins up. Or take heart. Or keep faith. After all, things might all work themselves out. In the end.”

To a man, each gentleman looked down at their hands.

“Oh, Mr. Penny,” Mr. Browning whispered.

Mr. Penny worked to keep the smile on his face, though he supposed “Oh, Mr. Penny” summed it all up.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

If ever a conversation would haunt Madeline forever, it had been with her mother in their drawing room. As clouds gathered outside the windows and a spattering of raindrops tapped on them, the countess told her what she’d heard about the marquess.

It seemed that Lord Souderton had sent Miss Welter a drizzling box. It seemed Lord Souderton was admiring of Miss Welter’s girlish simplicity.

The countess had sighed and said, “There is no denying that bit of the story—I did find the girl rather simple.”

But why should Lord Souderton be allured by girlish simplicity? What had he and Miss Welter talked about while she’d been stuck playing the pianoforte? Had he somehow become admiring of a lady who claimed her highest interest was drizzling?

Had Miss Welter and Miss Smollen bamboozled her into playing the pianoforte so they might have the opportunity to speak to Lord Souderton with her out of the way? And then, had Miss Welter somehow presented drizzling in a charming light? Or fainting on the carpet in a charming light?

She, Madeline Cole, had far more serious ambitions than drizzling. She was to be in the business of recognizing and realizing all human potential. How could pulling gold threads ever compare to that?

Then the why of it came down on her like an avalanche of bricks collapsing on her head.

She had been far too much trouble to be considered. He had only been amusing himself before the serious work of marriage. He liked her, she knew he did, but that was not enough. He was to be a duke; inclinations could never be enough.

How had she not seen he would not attach himself to a lady prone to cause scandalous talk? A lady so lacking in judgment that she had caused talk so unnecessarily? Certainly, he had wondered if this particular situation was the last situation she would cause. Perhaps he’d decided it would not be.

How had she imagined that Lord Souderton would choose her when his father so clearly did not like her?

It was natural that Lord Souderton would be mightily swayed by the duke’s opinion. It was sensible that the duke would prefer a lady who would do nothing more to raise eyebrows than wile away her life pulling gold threads from fabric and occasionally fainting on the carpet.

That was why Lord Souderton had not said anything direct to her or sent her flowers. He’d all along avoided doing anything a person could point to. He’d all along been careful not to go too far, careful not to commit himself in any particular manner.

Along with that crushing realization was a simmering rage that she’d been played with, flirted with, and toyed with in some manner. She had been led to believe that there was some understanding between them. It had not been spoken, but it had been…there.

She had not imagined it. And she had not deserved it.

Madeline knew well enough that she’d been rather stupid in putting that advertisement in the newspaper, she’d allowed her enthusiasm to overpower patience and rational action. For all that, though, she had not deserved to have her heart tampered with.

There was the further humiliation of likely being looked upon as a lady with disappointed hopes. Not a thing got by the ton , and so it would not be at all surprising that their encounters had been noted.

Her heart was broken and hardened, all at the same time.

Now, she had closeted herself away in the music room. It was the day of the Duchess of Ralston’s Secrets Exposed party. She must be at home in case any gentleman came with a missive from the duchess. However, the duchess had not directed what room she must be in while she waited.

Whoever turned up, if anyone turned up, she would stay hidden away. She could not face anyone just now. She could hardly face herself.

She did not expect Lord Souderton to arrive now that he’d made his preference for Miss Welter clearly known via drizzling box. But there might be others. She knew it was sensible to hope for others arriving—she had no wish to be the lady with disappointed hopes who also could not attract a single gentleman to her door.

Meggy sat with her, and Cook had sent in quite the array of cakes. Mr. Cresskill had known her since she was a babe and seemed to always perceive when she needed cheering up. His method of cheering was always comprised of ample honey, candied fruits, and spreading icing on everything that could hold it. He’d even go so far as to coat almond biscuits with lemon icing, which was messy and delicious. Calming her worries with desserts had worked wonderfully well when she’d been a girl, though perhaps less so now.

It seemed to still work wonderfully for Meggy though. She had scraped off and eaten the icing from her third almond biscuit. The actual biscuit left over was given to Mr. Mandrake. That sweet little dog sat at Meggy’s feet, tongue lolling out of his mouth and waiting for the next morsel to drop.

The countess was in the drawing room and would meet anyone arriving and serve them tea while they waited. Meggy was to be the messenger going back and forth.

Mr. Penny had suggested he might act as a go-between, carrying the messages, but Madeline had insisted on womanly company. Poor Mr. Penny could not claim he was familiar with procedures of providing womanly company.

Already, they’d heard a knock on the door and Meggy had slipped out to get a look at who had arrived. It had only been the solicitor for her father, though.

The door knocker was heard again and Meggy hopped up. “I’ll be back in a tick,” she said, before hurrying out of the room.

Madeline was not certain what Meggy’s idea of a tick was, but the minutes passed by, and then a full quarter hour. She began to be concerned about what was happening in the drawing room. Mr. Mandrake looked equally concerned, as he’d been counting on Meggy attacking another biscuit’s icing with her spoon and then leaving him to eat the rest of it.

Finally, her maid returned. Her hands were empty so it could not have been any gentleman sent from the Duchess of Ralston.

Meggy shook her head. “It was Lord Bumbledon coming to call.”