Chapter Eight

Mr. Penny had worked very hard to regain his spirits on the way to his weekly meeting with The League . His spirits had always been so reliable. He had never imagined a circumstance when he would awake in the morning and wonder if he were still sunny Mr. John H. Penny or if he were slowly turning into Mr. Rennington, wringing his hands and beset by nerves and worries.

At this moment, the only thing that made him any different from the nervous Mr. Rennington was that he was not yet afraid of his own housekeeper!

Mrs. Belkey had laid the tea and shut the door behind her as the butlers sat silent and grave.

Mr. Browning cleared his throat. “I think we are all reflecting on the misstep of feeding that story to the newspapers.”

“We had to do something to deflect the blame from Lady Madeline,” Mr. Harkinson said. “Society would hardly accept that she had a line of men outside her house, done by her own hand!”

“The ton would have shunned her,” Mr. Rennington said.

“They would shun her for one or two men turning up,” Mr. Browning said. “Dozens would have marked her as not right in the head.”

“Nobody wants to bring madness into the family,” Mr. Feldstaffer muttered. “Worst thing you could do.”

“I believe where we went wrong,” Mr. Wilburn said, “was naming the author of Lady Madeline’s advertisement as Lord M in an attempt to blame somebody else without naming somebody else.”

“It was bound to go wrong some way,” Mr. Feldstaffer pointed out pointlessly.

“We could not have known that, somehow, the ton would leap to the conclusion that M must stand for marquess,” Mr. Browning said. “What were they thinking?”

“Mr. Penny,” Mr. Harkinson said, “perhaps you would enlighten us as to what has gone on in the house since the Join Forces rout? It is said that the earl fairly marched Lady Madeline from the event and looked in a fury. Can we suppose he has heard the rumors going round?”

Mr. Penny nodded sadly. “He heard it all from a friend while he attended the rout. He was entirely put out, I can tell you. He wondered why this line of men turning up had been kept a secret from him. Then he threatened to relocate the household to Brighton.”

“Relocate!” Mr. Rennington cried, as if relocating was a fate not to be faced.

Mr. Penny rather agreed with him. It would have been a palaver of the first order to uproot the household in the middle of a season. Never mind how little good it would have done.

“The countess counseled against it,” Mr. Penny said. “So for now, here we are. As for society, they are all feeling very solicitous of Lady Madeline, as they believe her the wronged party. Invitations have been battering the door like a flock of disoriented birds.”

“That is something, I suppose,” Mr. Browning said. “But we did hope for a match between Lady Madeline and the marquess. I do not see how that can be accomplished when he’s been painted the villain.”

Mr. Penny sighed long and deep. Now they had come to the part of this fiasco that disturbed him the most. Still, it must be told.

“Gentlemen, we all know how our lords and ladies can go off in wrong directions at times?”

They all nodded gravely, as of course they had all experienced attempting to guide their lords and ladies in right directions while they stubbornly insisted on going in wrong directions.

“What wrong direction is the earl going?” Mr. Harkinson asked, looking as if he were trying to hide being pleased about it.

“He is becoming more and more set on the idea of Lord Bumbledon being the right match for his daughter.”

“Bumbledon!” Mr. Rennington said, wringing his hands.

“I don’t know much about him,” Mr. Feldstaffer said, “but considering Mr. Rennington’s reaction, it sounds bad!”

“I rather think it is bad,” Mr. Penny admitted. “I cannot think that gentleman at all suitable. She does not like him, for one!”

“Why would she?” Mr. Wilburn asked. “Aside from his less than prepossessing looks, he’s got that dowager of his hanging about.”

“I’ve heard she manages him as if he were still in leading strings,” Mr. Browning said.

“And he is only a baron with not a particularly large holding,” Mr. Feldstaffer added. “I at least know that about him.”

Mr. Penny nodded at all these assessments, as he agreed with them all. On top of all that, he simply did not like Lord Bumbledon. He did not, as a regular thing, like to condemn anyone. But it must be faced that Lord Bumbledon was a blowhard and know-all.

He had been privy to plenty of conversations that had been had between the earl and Lord Bumbledon in the privacy of the earl’s library. Lord Bumbledon was forever telling the earl what his dowager had said he was good at. The earl, for his part, seemed blinded by his longstanding friendship with the lord’s deceased father.

“Is the earl taking any steps, though?” Mr. Rennington asked. “Is he pressuring the poor lady to accept Lord Bumbledon?”

“Not pressure, exactly,” Mr. Penny said. “But I believe Lord Bumbledon is taking steps. He’s sent an invitation to some evening lecture about Shakespeare and the earl has accepted on behalf of himself and his daughter. Somehow, the countess was not included in the invitation.”

“That verges on rudeness, to my mind,” Mr. Browning said.

“Lady Madeline does not particularly wish to go,” Mr. Penny said, “but has agreed to it. I believe she just looks upon it as an onerous duty to her father. After what he’s been through, she wishes to humor him.”

“Gracious!” Mr. Wilburn suddenly cried. “The dinner! What’s to happen about the dinner at Lord Souderton’s house? I cannot imagine his duke would still wish to see Lady Madeline there after his son has been unjustly denounced for taking his revenge on her.”

“We do not know,” Mr. Penny admitted. “I checked the post this morning with some trepidation, looking for the letter that would disinvite the family. So far, none has come.”

“What are we to do?” Mr. Browning asked. “We have, after all, been the authors of this ghastly situation, though we were only trying to protect Lady Madeline.”

“I was thinking,” Mr. Penny said cautiously, “that we might feed another story to the newspaper to absolve Lord Souderton.”

“Excellent idea,” Mr. Wilburn said. “But what would the story be?”

“We might claim we had made an error. It was misprinted. It was never Lord M, but rather Lord B,” Mr. Penny said.

He was filled with trepidation over the idea, as he had always had the opinion that if one had dug themselves into a hole, one ought to stop digging. He just did not see what else was to be done to correct their mistake.

Mr. Harkinson suddenly laughed. “Oh I see! The ton will be free to guess that Lord B is Lord Bumbledon!”

“Very clever, Mr. Penny,” Mr. Wilburn said, nodding enthusiastically. “Kill two birds with one stone, as it were. That ought to move Lord Bumbledon off the stage.”

“But what if it all goes wrong again?” Mr. Feldstaffer asked. “What if they don’t guess Lord Bumbledon? You never know what these lords and ladies will think—rationality cannot be assumed!”

“This is nerve-wracking,” Mr. Rennington said, mopping his brow.

“Do not you see, gentlemen?” Mr. Harkinson said. “If they make the same mistake they did before, they will imagine that B stands for baron—which is still Lord Bumbledon!”

“Ah yes, Baron Bumbledon, two B’s,” Mr. Wilburn said. “Not even a lord or lady could miss that !”

And so it was settled. The League’s newfound career in the gossip rags would continue.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Madeline had been up for hours after the Join Forces rout, her thoughts roiling like high seas in a storm. Then, like a storm at sea, things slowly calmed and she was left adrift and wondering how she’d ever allowed herself to sail into a storm to begin. She hadn’t read the signs; she hadn’t paid attention to the changing conditions, and now she was left with shredded sails.

She had always placed much confidence in her judgment, but now she began to see things a bit differently. At home, she had not had to judge much, so it was no surprise that she’d never gone too far wrong. She’d been very much contained and her decisions had been very small and of no consequence to anybody.

Madeline saw very clearly that she’d been far too confident of her ability to judge and now that she’d been let loose into the wider world, it showed.

If her judgment had been at all up to snuff, she would have solicited advice regarding advertisements, rather than going headstrong into something she knew nothing about. She would have gathered information, the foremost being not to put one’s own address to it.

Even if she’d not understood that, she would have seen, after she’d made the misstep, that the gossip going round would be grave.

Of course, she was not certain anyone could have predicted that Lord Souderton would be blamed for the whole debacle.

And, considering her first meeting with that gentleman, where he had been rather disdainful of her ideas, she could not have foreseen his reaction to being pulled into the story.

He’d been so kind at the rout, before she even knew the extent of what had happened. It had been endearing, really.

But how endearing would the lord’s father find it to discover his son dragged into such a story? The duke was bound to be enraged.

She well knew Mr. Penny had anxiously watched for the post that morning, as she had herself. Both of them waited for the letter that contained some excuse about the dinner at the duke’s house—some way to foist them off the guest list.

The duchess would not write that they were not to come because Lady Madeline had damaged her son’s reputation and was not welcome. No, that was not how it would be done. She would write some thin excuse—perhaps relations had unexpectedly come to stay and there was no more room at table, because of course they must be accommodated. The duchess would prevail upon the earl’s goodwill to excuse this late cancellation. It would be said politely, but firmly.

The morning post had come, but no foisting off had been in it.

Madeline sighed as she pretended to embroider, the rumpled piece of fabric hanging rather limp in her hands.

She had been exceedingly foolish. She had been carried away by her own enthusiasm and single-mindedness. Particularly her single-mindedness. There was something of a conceit in it. The marquess had detected it at Almack’s and had been irritated by it.

Why should he not have been? Gracious, she had said everybody must justify their existence. She had been very opinionated and full of herself.

It was time to correct that. Certainly, one could operate a charity without making a cake of oneself.

She’d brooded on it all morning. Now, Mr. Penny had returned from his weekly literary society meeting.

During the season, like clockwork, he set off every Thursday afternoon to attend it. Her mother told her that last season there was even a moment when an emergency literary society meeting was called.

Madeline could not imagine what went on at those meetings. Mr. Penny seemed to always come back so shaken from them. It was striking, as it took quite a lot to shake Mr. Penny. She supposed analyzing literary works must be a grueling business.

Their butler had since regrouped and had set out a marvelous sideboard in the event that they had any callers for their at-home day.

Madeline rather hoped they wouldn’t have visitors, except if Lord Souderton thought to venture it.

She reminded herself that she could not control who came or did not. All she could control was her own behavior. From now on, she would speak on very usual topics and appear very modest and be a credit to her parents.

As she should have done from the outset.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Owen had collected Sir Jonathan and they’d set off for The Morning Post. He was determined to wrestle out of somebody the information regarding who had paid for that advertisement that sent dozens of men to Lady Madeline’s house. Who was the real Lord M?

He gave the coachman the direction of the Strand, number 346, as Sir Jonathan climbed into the carriage.

“You owe me a debt, Souderton,” Sir Jonathan said. “It was no easy task to disengage from Lady Michaels.”

“Was she put out that you were to leave her side?” Owen asked.

“No, I was put out to leave her side. I left that lovely creature debating between two dresses and I can tell you, it was a very charming debate.”

Owen supposed it would be. Any lady debating between two dresses had likely neither one of them on her person, though it was one o’clock in the afternoon. Perhaps wedded life was not as staid as he’d imagined.

“I do not plan to keep you from your bride for long,” he said. “All we need do is storm in there keeping our best lords-of-the-realm faces on and shake the information out of somebody.”

Sir Jonathan nodded. “They’re bound to put up a fuss about it, though. They will cry to high heaven that if they cannot guarantee their clients’ confidentiality they are sunk.”

“They can guarantee confidentiality. Just not in this case.”

“I am certain they will be overcome with that bit of logic.”

“As long as they are overcome,” Owen said, ignoring Sir Jonathan’s attempt at a joke. Really, he’d not been so determined to accomplish a thing in his life.

“Do you have any suspicions about who is responsible, aside from Bumbledon and Gentry?” Sir Jonathan asked.

“I suppose it could be anyone,” Owen admitted. “I cannot know what sort of encounters Lady Madeline has had while she’s been out in society. She is a very original sort of lady, so she may have inadvertently enraged somebody. Who else has she asked to justify their existence? A fellow might take that very badly.”

“As you did,” Sir Jonathan said with a snort.

“As I did. Initially.”

“Regardless of whatever insult the lady may have delivered, it was a very low thing to do.”

“Precisely, which is why the culprit must be exposed.”

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of The Morning Post’s offices. It would have been hard to miss, as the arch over the door was emblazoned with large iron letters spelling out Morning Post .

As Owen reached for the carriage door, Sir Jonathan laid a hand on his sleeve. “Hold on a minute. Is that Bumbledon?”

Owen peered out from behind the window curtain. There was Bumbledon, helping along an elderly lady floating in voluminous black bombazine.

“It is,” he said curtly. “I expect that’s his mother, brought to prop him up. I think we can conclude he is the devil responsible for all this. I suppose he’s come to pay his bill or plant some other advertisement or story.”

“Let’s go and find out,” Sir Jonathan said, seeming amused by the turn of events.

They hurried from the carriage as Bumbledon and his dowager disappeared through the doors.

Following him in, they did not at first see where the rogue had gone. The large foyer was crowded with men running this way and that, waving papers over their heads and shouting at each other. Owen had never seen such a place.

“This is madness,” Sir Jonathan said.

“There they are, going up the stairs,” Owen said. The dowager was expertly clearing the way with her cane. She seemed surprisingly energetic for her age.

He and Sir Jonathan pushed their way through the crowd. Bumbledon had disappeared somewhere above.

The crowds of men thinned out a little on the stairs, but there were still people going up and coming down and they were forced to dodge and weave their way up.

Nobody seemed the least concerned that they were elegantly dressed. Nobody moved out of their way in a deferential fashion. Nobody seemed to notice that they were lords-of-the-realm.

Owen got a sinking feeling that, outside of the society he traveled in, nobody viewed lords-of-the-realm as being of any consequence. He’d never believed his father’s tirades about how they were a hop, skip, and jump from the fate of the French nobility, but perhaps it was true? There was a whole world of busy and unconcerned men outside of his sphere. Of course, he’d seen them on the streets of London, always hurrying to some unknown destination, but seeing them at their work was somehow different.

Perhaps he’d been deluded by all the bowing and scraping the servants in his world did. Maybe they only did it because they were paid. These people were not paid and did not seem to give a toss for his existence. According to some of the glances they got, these men might even resent his existence.

It was a sobering thought.

They reached the top of the staircase and Bumbledon was nowhere to be seen. Where did one go when one wished to throttle information out of a newspaper man?

Owen searched the various names etched on the glass of the doors lining a long corridor. Then, at the very end, he saw it.

Nicholas Byrne, Publisher.