The Madcap Page 4

The latter group expected her to eventually overstep the boundaries of acceptable behavior and be sent packing home as other American girls had been in the past. Many expected that such an eventuality wasn’t too far in the offing. The very items that made Marianne an Original were the same items that made her controversial.

  Whether she knew it or not, whether she cared or not, she walked a fine line between the freshness of her actions and the unacceptable nature of them. There were those who disapproved of her clear enjoyment of dancing. In addition, word of the duck pond incident had circulated around drawing rooms for a few days until it had been squelched by a well-placed remark from the Countess of Camberly, who’d said it proved hard to gossip negatively about someone doing a good deed.

  After that, those who were convinced Marianne Addison would not “take” in London didn’t dare voice such sentiments out loud in certain company for fear of reprisal. The prince liked high-flying American girls and Alasdair was the prince’s friend. Instead, the would-be naysayers would have to wait and let Marianne orchestrate her own fall, after which the handsome, eligible Viscount Pennington would surely turn his attention back to proper English girls.

  Alasdair was aware of these undercurrents even if Marianne wasn’t. Still, she was guilty of nothing more than vivacious dancing, saving a small boy’s boat, and having stolen the attentions of an eligible peer. Ironically, it was the last of these faults that caused Alasdair the most trouble. Before June had reached its midpoint, rumors of his attachment to the fascinating American parvenu brought his mother to town.

  Alasdair rounded the corner to his Bruton Street town house, whistling a lively tune that was indicative of his exceedingly good mood. He’d squired Marianne and her mother on a trip to Hatchards booksellers in Piccadilly that morning. Marianne had been amazed at the selection of books, doing nothing to disguise her unabashed excitement at exploring the establishment and commenting on its treasures. No English girl, especially not Sarah Stewart, who Alasdair doubted had read a whole book from cover to cover, would have displayed such satisfaction. Alasdair couldn’t recall a time he’d had a conversation with a woman about a book; yet he and Marianne had discussed not one book, but several, while they browsed the shelves.

  The tune and his good humor faded abruptly when he saw the black carriage parked outside his home. There was nothing like an unannounced visit from his mother to quash his high spirits.

  Alasdair squared his shoulders and mounted the steps. “How long as she been here?” he quietly asked a footman in the foyer.

  “A little over an hour, milord. She’s taking tea in the Yellow Salon,” the footman informed him.

  “Very good,” Alasdair said. He tugged at his waistcoat and strode down the hall to the Yellow Salon, one of the private rooms strictly for family use when they were in residence, which thankfully wasn’t often. Most of his extended family preferred their country homes to life in Town. Even his mother preferred to stay in Richmond during the Season.

  The Yellow Salon was a small, cozy chamber done in sunny shades of yellow and white striped wallpaper. The space was furnished with a sofa in jonquil brocade and a pair of matching winged chairs. Around the room, vases of blue violet gladioli decorated tabletops, adding a brilliant splash of color just the shade of Marianne’s eyes. The odd thought crossed his mind that Marianne would look stunning in this room.

  But Marianne wasn’t the woman sitting at the settee in the room’s center. His mother, Margaret Braden, the dowager Viscountess Pennington, set down her teacup and fixed him with her stare. “There you are at last”

  Alasdair’s jaw tightened. She made it sound as if he were an errant child, overdue from his adventures, when in fact, she was the unexpected guest. He tamped down on his desire to return the petty scold. “Mother, this is an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to Town? I didn’t think you were coming up until after the Derby” Alasdair settled himself casually in a winged chair facing the sofa. He reached for a lemon scone. If he had to deal with his mother, he might as well enjoy Cook’s excellent baking.

  “Pleasure has nothing to do with it,” she snapped. “What has brought me to Town is you. It has come to my attention that you’ve comported yourself poorly by attaching yourself to a wild American girl. It’s dreadfully insensitive of you when there are so many English girls available who would love to marry you. And really, Alasdair, there’s no need to do anything at all beyond the basic courtesies of fulfilling your social obligations. You have Sarah waiting for you at home. In fact, I could invite her up to stay in Town.”

  “Town would make her uncomfortable,” Alasdair ground out in Sarah’s defense. He valued Sarah’s friendship; he just didn’t want to marry her if he could avoid it. Sarah was a country girl at heart, preferring the meadows and villages of Devonshire to the noise and havoc of London. Sarah would hate London, and London would intimidate her.

  “Well, you’ve certainly made me uncomfortable with all of these rumors about the American girl. I am sure you can’t imagine how I felt hearing this lurid gossip about you in the middle of a tea. I’d just taken a bite of scone when Lady Harmon said, `I hear Pennington has taken up the latest fad of falling for a rich American.’ I looked her squarely in the eye and denied it. I said, `I know of no such thing. He has an understanding with Miss Sarah Stewart.”’

  His mother leaned forward, gathering a full head of steam. “Then Lady Harmon stared at me with that falsely innocent gaze of hers and said, `Then I suppose it’s not true that the American has danced the waltz in scandalously close proximity to your son every night since they met, or that he took her driving in Hyde Park where she waded in a duck pond with her stockings on?’”

  “She’s not wild, Mother,” Alasdair broke in. “She waded in to retrieve a toy boat, and there’s nothing wrong with the Viennese waltz except that it’s not called the English waltz”

  His mother sucked in her breath, horrified. “Then you don’t deny it?”

  “There’s hardly anything worth denying, Mother.” Alasdair leaned back in his chair, a leg crossed over his knee.

  When it became obvious he wasn’t going to quarrel with her, Alasdair’s mother sighed and changed her tack. “I understand everyone’s doing it, these days: Marlborough and the Vanderbilt chit, Camberly and his American wife. Bertie’s penchant for the American girls doesn’t help. His own proclivity spurs the others on. The Carlton Club Set, the Marlborough Set, all have made a novelty out of American girls. I dare say it’s only their fortunes that make the girls so attractive to our men. If they didn’t have their money, I doubt anyone of merit would take them seriously,” she opined.

  Alasdair thought of Marianne’s joie de vivre and privately disagreed. In fact, he hadn’t thought once about Marianne’s financial background. Of course he knew, as did all of London, that she was heir to a staggeringly large fortune built on bread baking. She and her parents made no attempt to hide the fact. She wore a Worth gown every night, fully turned out with the proper accessories. The pearland-diamond choker she’d worn the first night was worth a small fortune alone. But such mundane matters had been quickly obscured by her natural vivacity.

  His mother studied him. “Perhaps I have misunderstood the situation. Is it the money? Is she quite rich?” His mother became somberly melodramatic. “Oh, my son, I see now that you’re doing this for the family-sacrificing yourself to the American dollar, all for the sake of our financial well-being.”

  It was obvious that she honestly believed it to be the case; her speech was so sincere. One would think her son was sacrificing himself on the altar of his country for some patriotic deed. If circumstances had been different, Alasdair would have laughed out loud. But she was serious and that was no laughing matter. He didn’t want his mother countermanding any rumors with her version of the truth.

  “No, Mother, that is not why I have been linked to Miss Addison,” Alasdair said flatly. “I rather like her and we get along splendidly. I’ve found we have many things in co
mmon.”

  She heaved a sigh, feigning resignation. But Alasdair was experienced enough with her shenanigans to know she was nowhere near as resigned to the situation as she pretended to be. “I suppose a man is entitled to one last fling, one last brush with scandal, before he settles down.”

  Alasdair rose, effectively putting an end to the conversation, it was going nowhere anyway. “This is not a `fling.’ Not even Bertie trifles with unwed girls, American or otherwise. Regardless of my relationship with Miss Addison, I have no intentions of marrying Sarah Stewart. I have made this clear to you in the past and I am making it clear once again.”

  A hand flew to her throat. “You can’t mean to marry the American girl! Sarah has enough money and she’s English.”

  “I don’t know what I intend, Mother, however I do know that I will not marry at anyone’s whim but my own.” The frustrating part about arguing with his mother was that he held his ground, spoke his mind without reservation, and it didn’t matter-she simply ignored his decisions.

  She was about to launch another round of argument. Alasdair raised his hand to forestall it. “Excuse me, Mother. I have appointments to keep this afternoon.”

  Alasdair’s so-called appointments were nothing more than a meeting with Lionel and Gannon at White’s. He was early, but arriving ahead of schedule was preferable to listening to his mother’s arguments. He sank into a deep chair, prepared to enjoy a freshly pressed edition of the Times. He hadn’t gotten far into the financial news when Lord Brantley approached, flanked by two of his gambling cronies.

  “I am starting to think it was no accident you spilled champagne on my shirt,” Brantley began without preamble, taking a chair uninvited. “I was rather suspect that night, and seeing how things have turned out, I’m quite convinced I was right. You spilled on purpose”

  “Accidents are accidents, Brantley, because they don’t have causes or explanations,” Alasdair remarked, not setting aside his paper and thus hoping to make the message clear that he wanted to be left alone. “I do hope the stain came out, at any rate”

  Brantley didn’t take the hint. He settled into the chair comfortably, giving the impression of committing himself to a lengthy conversation. Alasdair had never spoken with Brantley for more than a span of minutes. He couldn’t guess what the man had to discuss with him now.

  “Oh, the stain came out as did the news that my intended partner for that dance is a bonafide heiress to a multimillion-dollar fortune. Did you know that night? I think you did,” Brantley said coldly. “I should have been the one dancing with her. But instead it was you, and now you’ve been seen everywhere with her. Both the World and the Morning Post have noticed you’ve made a regular habit of dancing with her.” Brantley tossed a newspaper at him, the paper folded back to the appropriate page.

  Alasdair took a moment to scan the article. It was the usual social news, one-line mentions of who had been seen where and with whom. He scanned a few lines before one section leapt out at him: “A certain Viscount P has been seen in the company of the newest American heiress to visit London. The said American, Miss A, is the daughter of a sourdough bread baker from San Francisco. Her father is reported to be worth millions. This author wonders if her main attraction for Viscount P is her bank account. While it is not known for certain, it would not be beyond the realm of possibility that Viscount P is looking for a way to bolster flagging family coffers before the situation becomes dire.”

  Alasdair fought his rising temper. It would serve no purpose for Brantley to sense his frustration. Showing his anger would only be seen as a validation that the rumors about his finances were true, something he’d worked hard to keep away from prying gossips.

  “What’s your point, Brantley? The social columns are full of half-truths. The writer even admits it is all speculation.” Alasdair gave a cynical chuckle. “Surely you don’t believe everything you read?”

  Brantley leaned forward, his voice low and menacing. “The point is that she should have been dancing with me. You stole my chance. Like any other rich American, she’s probably hanging out for a title. Mine would do just as well as yours in that case. She probably doesn’t even know the difference between a baron and a viscount. You wanted her for yourself and you deliberately undermined my attempts”

  “As I recall, you didn’t seem overly disappointed,” Alasdair shot back, his temper rising now at the disparaging remark about Marianne.

  “I have my pride,” Brantley said coldly. “What else was Ito do that night?”

  “I see” Alasdair did see. Brantley had feigned ennui over the prospect of dancing with the American to save face, as he’d suspected. Of course the man couldn’t look desperate in front of his friends.

  But hearing the man slander Marianne and talk so crassly about her motives caused Alasdair’s protective hackles to rise. He was doubly glad he’d spilled the champagne on Brantley. He only wished it had been more. The blasted man saw Marianne as a financial remedy. He saw none of the qualities Alasdair had come to appreciate about her: her quick wit, her sharp insights, the joy she took in each day.

  It was something of an irony that finances were now the reason he, himself, was being cited for an interest in Marianne, a reason that had never initially crossed his mind.

  Brantley rose and brushed at his trousers. “Well, I doubt she’ll last long. Already, her behavior is catching up to her. She’s too wild by half. It’s quite shocking really, all that hand shaking and that stunt at the duck pond. Some people can’t be brought up to snuff no matter the size of their wardrobe and of their daddy’s bank account,” Brantley said derisively. The two men with him laughed in agreement. “In fact, I’d wager she’ll be gone before the Season ends. Miss Addison won’t last until August before London casts her aside. Anyone willing to take the wager? Pennington, you’ve been her champion thus far,” Brantley suggested.

  Alasdair looked coldly at Brantley and shook his newspaper open. He would not be a party to such a bet nor would he rise to Brantley’s rather obvious bait. He turned his attentions to an article on American wheat. But the damage was in no way mitigated by his absence from the conversation.

  “I’ll take your bet. Sounds rather interesting,” said one of the men with Brantley, Lord Hamsford, a dissipated individual whom Alasdair knew only by name. “You say she’ll be ousted by the end of July, by the Cowes Regatta. I’ll say August fifth for good measure. Perhaps we can even help the cause along”

  The men strolled over to the famed betting book and entered their contract. Alasdair was disgusted. More than disgusted, he was genuinely worried for Marianne. The last comment Hamsford made was truly alarming. The depths to which Brantley would sink in order to win a bet knew no bounds. There was no doubting that her naivete and her outgoing nature would continue to land her at the center of London’s attention for better or for worse. Alasdair did not want to see that used against her in a destructive manner. He had not wanted to be part of Brantley’s crass wager but his concern for Marianne drew him in, regardless.

  There was only one way she’d escape Brantley’s petty revenge and that was if someone brought her up to standard. Alasdair would do what he could. But ultimately, Marianne would need more than him. Alasdair put aside the newspaper and glanced at his pocket watch. Camberly would not have left his house yet. There was still time to catch him. Hastily, Alasdair scribbled a note for Lionel telling him to meet them at Camberly’s town house. If there was anyone who knew how to be an acceptable American among the English it was Camberly’s wife, Audrey St. Clair.

  “Brantley is a scoundrel,” Lionel remarked an hour later in Camberly’s music room where the three were assembled with Audrey. Lionel made no attempt to hide his displeasure over the latest development. “He must realize that the wager alone is enough to cause a scandal. No decent woman is named in White’s betting book”

  “He understands perfectly well what he’s done.” Alasdair paced the length of the room, hands shoved deep into his trouse
r pockets. “What’s worse is that his friends are determined to play along. One of them even suggested trying to `help things along.”’

  Audrey’s temper flared. “They mean to compromise her on purpose simply to win a bet?”

  Alasdair turned to Audrey. “I’m not sure they intend to go that far but they do intend to see her set up for failure.”

  “That hardly seems fair.”

  “Men like Brantley don’t have to consider fairness, Aud” Camberly spoke from his chair. He’d been relatively silent, content to let the others vent their frustration. “His reputation as an honorable man was shredded long ago. He cares for nothing beyond money and his own self-importance.” The room fell silent.

  “I’m not sure we can protect her, Dair,” Lionel said at last.

  “There must be a way. She doesn’t deserve to be the butt of Brantley’s scheme. She’s quite the unwilling pawn in all of this. None of it’s her fault. She’s merely been singled out because she’s different and because of me”

  “It’s happened before,” Audrey said quietly from the settee.

  “What’s happened before?” Alasdair stopped pacing in front of the fire place mantel.

  “Marianne has been singled out before, in New York, the winter we were there. It wasn’t pleasant but she survived. She’s here, after all. Then, too, it wasn’t her fault.” Audrey tapped her chin with her finger. “Lionel is right-we can’t protect her. But we can make sure she succeeds. It will be the campaign of the Season. We’ll start tonight.”

  The Radcliffe Musicale had the unique distinction of being a musical evening that actually produced quality musical talent compared to several other such evenings that showcased the mediocre talents of this year’s crop of debutantes. Over the years, it had become the unstated norm that only the best musicians among them would volunteer their talents for the Radcliffe Musicale. Those with lesser skills were expected to hold themselves in check that evening and become part of the audience.