The Madcap (12 page)

Mrs. Mackay’s well-earned reputation as a premier
London hostess over the last decade did not disappoint. Her elegantly appointed town house contained a
rare garden in Town, a garden that was large enough
to host a tea. This afternoon, white canopies dotted the
space. Tea tables and chairs for groups of eight were
set beneath them, adorned in white cloths and vases of
pink rosebuds. Even the weather conspired to assist in
creating an ideal setting.

Quite unintentionally, Marianne had chosen the perfect dress for the occasion: a white dress of Egyptian cotton trimmed in pink silk ribbon at the hem and full falls
of lace that reached her elbow-length gloves from her
puffed sleeves. Her mother beamed proudly at her from
across the table. “London agrees with you, Marianne.”

“Or perhaps it’s the Viscount Pennington,” one young
debutante sitting at the table offered with a giggle she
quickly stifled after a not-so-subtle pinch from her
mother.

“Are we talking about Pennington?” a familiar voice said, stepping into the canopied area from the gravel
path.

Marianne immediately recognized Roberta Famwick and her mother. She exchanged polite pleasantries
with them, hiding her dismay that they were seated with
them. She had not seen Roberta since the Radcliffe
musicale and she did not relish the idea of discussing
anything about Alasdair with her after the last time
she had done so.

Their hostess, Mrs. Mackay, passed by the table to
inquire after their comfort, lingering long enough to exclaim over Marianne’s gown.

“Louise Mackay is an enormous success story about
overcoming scandal,” Roberta’s mother, Constance
Farnwick, said with a knowledgeable air as she flipped
open a black-lacquer fan with an Oriental design
painted on its panels. She was a stylish woman with a
worldly quality to her, tall and well dressed, yet she was
not a friendly woman. Marianne could not imagine dissembling to her.

The others at the table leaned forward, interested.
The statement was surely a prelude to a much larger on
dit. A few of the older women at the table nodded their
heads. Apparently the news wasn’t all that fresh. Still,
it was clear from the expectant looks on everyone’s
faces that even old gossip carried a certain thrilling cachet to it.

“You wouldn’t know, of course, Miss Addison, being new to London” Constance offered her and her
mother a smile that managed to be both benevolent
and condescending at once. “Mrs. Mackay used to live
in a Nevada mining town. She made money by giving
piano lessons, although some say she gave more than
music instruction.” She looked meaningfully around
the table to reinforce her barely veiled implications.
“She’s what we call a woman who has `translated’
herself quite well into London society.”

Marianne shot her mother a look. Was there a double
meaning there? Had Mrs. Farnwick meant to suggest
that the Addisons would need to “translate” themselves,
as well, or was Mrs. Farnwick exhibiting excessively
bad form in gossiping about their hostess?

Her mother returned her questioning look with a
quiet smile before turning her attention to Mrs. Famwick. “She should be applauded for her successes if
they make her happy. Life in a mining town can be most
difficult.” Elizabeth Addison raised a hand to gesture to
the grand garden about them. “Who has more right to
make oneself over than the individuals themselves? No
one has to live with our choices but us” Marianne
silently applauded her mother’s calm tenacity. Never, in
her knowledge, had Marianne known her mother to let
a slight to another stand when it was in her power to
correct it.

“And our husbands,” Mrs. Farnwick retorted, unwilling to lose the center of the group’s attention. “Mr. Mackay was reported, last year, to have punched
a Charles Bonynge in the nose, in the middle of a
bank, for maligning his wife’s honor.”

“A ghastly sign of the times.” A woman Marianne
did not know sighed heavily over her tea cup.

“Why is that?” Marianne asked.

The woman looked startled. She had not expected
anyone to question her comment. “Why? My dear girl, a
decent wifely candidate does not have to be defended
against malicious rumors because she doesn’t bring
any questionable experiences into the marriage.”

Another woman added her voice to the conversation. “It’s all changing now that the queen doesn’t rein
in the prince. The prince tolerates all nature of entertainments. Even Mrs. Mackay can claim him on her
guest lists. It’s all about entertainment and money these
days. It’s all very gauche how our young men feel compelled to sell themselves to the highest bidder in order
to keep their estates running.” The woman feigned a
shudder that rocked the feathers on her wide-brimmed
hat.

Marianne let the comment pass. Surely whatever
innuendo might be implied, it wasn’t aimed at her or
Alasdair. But the void in the conversation left the perfect opportunity for Roberta to jump in.

“There was even speculation a few days ago that
Pennington’s interest in our dear Miss Addison was
merely based on her fortune” Roberta’s comment had
been wrapped in tones of shock and dismay, no doubt meant to communicate stalwart support of a friend
who’d been maligned in the latest rumors circulating,
but Marianne strongly questioned the sincerity of the
tone. Roberta was not someone Marianne intuitively
felt she could trust. It seemed odd that someone who
didn’t know her well at all would seem inclined to defend her publicly or to share information of a private
matter with her as Roberta had done the last time they’d
talked.

Marianne’s mother was ready to respond to the dubious comment, but Marianne would fight her own
battles. She sat up straighter in her chair and fixed her
fellow tablemates with a strong stare. “Pennington has
been a delightful friend to our family, nothing more.
We have a mutual friend in the Countess of Camberly,
whom my mother and I had the good opportunity to
meet while we were in New York last year.”

Roberta made an exaggerated moue. “Then he’s not
courting you? I had so hoped he was, for your sake,
Miss Addison. . ” Her voice, imitating all kindness
itself, trailed off.

Mrs. Farnwick patted Roberta’s hand. “You are so
kind to worry for your friend’s well-being.” She addressed her next comment to the table at large. “It’s
refreshing to see girls befriend one another instead of
become catty competitors on the marriage mart” Her
gaze landed on Marianne. “Still, it’s for the best
Pennington isn’t courting you. News is going around
that his finances aren’t stable. No real trouble yet, not like Marlborough a few years ago, but concern is
starting to rise.” She waved her fan. “Marlborough
fought the debt as best he could, selling art and his library, even the enamels, before he capitulated and
married the American girl.”

Marianne heard the multiple meanings embedded
in the message: an Englishman worth his merit would
sell everything before he’d consider swallowing his
pride and marrying an American for her millions. That
was the criterion for Alasdair. One should not give in
too early to the financial allure of an American wife.

A white-aproned servant brought a tray of tea sweets
to the table, saving Marianne from the need to respond.
“Ah, lemon scones! Louise’s cook has the most delicious recipe I’ve ever tasted,” Mrs. Farnwick gushed,
reaching for one of the delicacies as if she’d not slandered the hostess minutes before with the same relish
with which she was now eating that hostess’ food.

The library of Waltham House was dark and empty,
save for the lamp burning low on the carved mantelpiece and the man and the woman conversing in hushed
tones. Everyone else was in the ballroom, oblivious to
the chicanery being planned down the hall.

“Did you learn anything useful at the tea today?”
Lord Brantley began without prelude. Time was of the
essence. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered
with Roberta Farnwick in a compromising setting. Who knew who would come through the door in hopes
of finding a place for a quick rendezvous?

“She met Pennington through the Countess of Camberly,” Roberta said. “Pennington didn’t pick her out
randomly. He had an introduction.” She and Brantley
had both originally suspected Pennington had approached her on his own.

“Hmmm. There are too many Americans in London
these days,” Brantley scoffed. “They’re all so busy
helping each other to our titles. It’s pathetic, really, their
attempts to Anglicize themselves.”

Roberta smiled sweetly, no doubt trying to remind
him that a willing English rose stood right in front of
him ready for the plucking as long as a wedding ring
went with it. Brantley toyed with a curl lying over
Roberta’s shoulder and smiled meaningfully at her. He
had to give the girl something to string her along. Without Roberta, he’d lose his meager entree into Marianne
Addison’s world. He wanted to know what she did,
where she went, and what the status of Pennington’s intentions were so he could better plan his own strategies.

“How did she meet the countess?” Brantley wondered aloud, going over the earlier comments in his
head.

“In New York. Apparently they were there at the
same time.”

“Hmmm. I don’t recall the countess saying anything about the visit, or meeting her prior to Miss Addison’s arriving on our doorstep. Roberta dear, see
what you can find out about Miss Addison’s trip to
New York. Perhaps there’s something hiding there we
can unearth and use” He dropped the curl, letting it
fall against her breast. “You’ve done well, my dear.
Now, go quickly so that you are not noticed. Send me
a message when you know anything.”

Alone in the room, Brantley stretched out on the
long sofa. Miss Addison of San Francisco had been in
New York, and yet the countess had not mentioned it
except in passing reference. Goodness knew the countess had plenty of opportunities to expand upon that
acquaintance. But he sensed that the countess was
being deliberately vague in that regard.

Additionally, he’d not been joking when he’d said
there were too many Americans in London. Americans had been coming to London for years looking for
a title, something to add to their bourgeois collection
of things. He’d been in his twenties when the first of
them had come, women with daughters who’d not
been accepted in New York. San Francisco was a long
way from London. It was not a journey one would
elect to make without good reason.

What would compel an heiress from the far west to
make the trip when surely there were other centers of
culture that would do just as nicely and at a shorter
distance? Nothing that rivaled London, mind you, but
there were numerous elite spas in America, and there
was Newport for those who had the access and the money. In fact, many Americans departed London by
June, setting aside the zenith of the London Season in
lieu of getting to Newport.

Brantley folded his hands behind his head. He
smelled a secret. Miss Addison had something to hide,
and he was confident in his abilities to ferret out that secret and expose it to the light. Once the secret was out,
it would be interesting to see what Pennington would
do. Would he walk away from the girl and claim to do
his duty by marrying Miss Stewart, or would he attempt
to defend the pretty American and justify her secret? It
was always interesting, although not always surprising,
to see what men would do for money. He would get an
inkling of how far Pennington was willing to go tomorrow when he launched his next sally.

Alasdair helped himself to a hearty plateful of
breakfast from the sideboard in the morning room. He
heaped sausage links next to his kippers and eggs.
There was nothing like a good breakfast to start off a
great day. He was in high spirits. The sun was out for a
second day in a row, he was taking Marianne driving
in the park later in the afternoon, and she had been a
smashing success at the theater. Whatever vindictive
recourse Brantley hoped to wreak in accordance with
his bet to see her ousted from London by late July
looked to be effectively thwarted.

The man could bluster all he wanted. Marianne was
taking well, thanks to the efforts of Camberly and Audrey. Alasdair knew that where Audrey led others
would follow, especially with Stella heading up the vanguard. Alasdair doubted that Brantley wanted to
take on the Camberly prestige once it was firmly established that Marianne had Audrey’s sponsorship.

Alasdair set down his plate and took his seat at the
empty table, ready to congratulate himself on a hand
well played when it came to his strategy with Marianne. Between him and Camberly, they had skillfully
managed to buffer her from Brantley’s cruel intentions without worrying her over them or calling her attention to Audrey’s sponsorship. It had all been neatly
negotiated without discussing a thing.

Alasdair forked a sausage and bit deep into it, savoring its spicy juices. Ah, it was a particularly good
day.