The Madcap (13 page)

“What is all this about?” his mother’s angry tones
demanded from the doorway, giving short warning of
her approach. She rattled a newspaper to emphasize her
words. A footman efficiently pulled out a chair for
her and started to ask about filling a breakfast plate.
She dismissed him with an imperious wave of her
hand. “Just tea, please” She turned to Alasdair, who
was feeling that his particularly good day had just become less so. “I can’t eat a bite considering what the
papers are writing about you,” she scolded.

Alasdair set down his fork, giving his mother all his
attention. “What are they writing, may I ask?”

She shoved the page under his nose. “More tripe
about you and the American girl. This columnist
seems very informed about your whereabouts: you sat with that American at the Radcliffe musicale, and you
escorted her to the theater. You have been officially
and publicly linked to her. Perhaps we could discard
the first mention in the papers as nothing more than
social speculation. But now, to have it done a second
time! Everyone will assume you have serious intentions toward her. You should have known better, Alasdair. This article even mentions poor Sarah again and
your previous understanding with her.”

Alasdair bore her tirade stoically. In the end, she
could rant all she wanted and he would do what he
preferred, he reminded himself.

“It’s absolutely scandalous to be the focus of so
much attention,” his mother huffed.

Alasdair read through the article, tuning out his
mother’s plans. The article was alarming to him, but not
for the reasons his mother itemized. The article wasn’t
so much about him as about Marianne-what she wore,
where she’d gone even without him. There was mention
of a comment she’d made at Mrs. Mackay’s tea that
suggested she might be mocking the English way of
things, and certainly illustrated her tendency toward
free speaking.

It occurred to Alasdair that Brantley likely had a
hand in directing the columnist’s ideas and information. Alasdair knew it was not uncommon for the financially pressed among his circles to discreetly sell
information about exclusive events to society pages in
order to make some pocket change. Nor was it beyond the pale, for those who could afford it, to pay a writer
to mention them in the column or link them to prestigious people.

But what disturbed him most was that Brantley had
someone helping him, likely a woman who would be
at primarily female events like Mrs. Mackay’s tea.
Such organization and planned malice affirmed the
level of wickedness to which Brantley would stoop
without a qualm.

Fighting his battle in the press gave Brantley an advantage as well as protection. He could hide behind
the columnist’s words. He was invisible while his
words were read by everyone, and thus did not have
to be accountable for his prejudice.

“I think we should announce your engagement
to Sarah Stewart immediately. That will set things to
rights. We can have an announcement made in the
Times,” his mother proclaimed loudly.

“No,” Alasdair said staunchly in a knee-jerk response. He’d been saying “no” for so long about the
Sarah Stewart situation that he responded on reflex.
He rose, leaving his plate of eggs and kippers mostly
untouched. The only way to win an argument with his
mother was simply to leave the room. “Please, excuse
me. I have work to see to”

Two hours later, Alasdair raked his hands through
his thick dark hair, ruffling it in frustration. His solicitor sat patiently across from him in the room that served as Alasdair’s office at the town house. The session hadn’t gone as well as Alasdair had hoped it
would. He’d planned the budget for the Season meticulously, down to the last pound. The country estate
was running with a skeleton staff and all the extra
wings of the house were closed so that the house could
function at maximum efficiency with minimal output.
Now, a note from the prince strongly hinted at his desire to have a house party there.

Alasdair groaned at the prospect. House parties
were inherently expensive regardless of who was invited. But hosting the prince was exorbitant. For
starters, he’d have to close the Richmond house where
his mother preferred to stay, coming into Town only on
occasion for special events, for the remainder of the
Season. Frankly, Alasdair preferred she stay there too.
They got along best at a distance. Now she would be
in his pockets for the rest of the Season, sharing the
town house. But there was no question of affording the
Richmond house and the London town house with
Bertie coming for a week. Of course, his mother would
understand. She always understood when it came to his
friendship with Bertie. One could not refuse the prince
without sacrificing the prince’s favor, and his mother
was very fond of his status in the prince’s circle of
friends. The prince was currently away at Brighton,
and so far Alasdair had avoided extra extravagances in
Town due to his absence.

“We’d best start with a list,” Alasdair instructed his
solicitor. A list didn’t begin to cover it. There would
be new linens to purchase, rooms to restore, and gardens to tend just to get ready. Then there were the guest
lists to assemble and the menus to plan. The prince
had an expensive penchant for lobster salad and other
delicacies including Charles Heidsieck’s champagne.
He’d need help. Perhaps Audrey and Stella could assist.
One good piece of news about the house party was that
he could use it to introduce Marianne to the prince.
Brantley would never dare to cross Bertie.

After giving instructions and the rudimentary elements of a list to his solicitor, Alasdair decided it was
time for a walk. He needed to talk with Camberly, and
he had a visit to pay a particular journalist at the Morning Post who would soon be writing a lot less about him
and Marianne Addison.

Alasdair immediately forgot his troubles when he
sighted Marianne in the town house garden on Portland Square that afternoon. He was used to finding her
in the garden now. She sat on a low bench near the
fountain, engaged in a book and entirely unaware of
his presence. He stood silently for a moment, taking in
her unrestrained beauty. She was dressed in a palenougat-and-pink-striped carriage gown for their drive.
The soft palette of colors evoked the mood of an innocent summer day and set off her ivory complexion and golden curls-an intoxicating combination to be sure.
He appreciated that there was no artifice about her loveliness. She was simply herself.

Alasdair walked stealthily up behind her, careful
not to let the gravel of the path crunch beneath his
feet. No one was around, so he slipped his hands over
her eyes. “Guess who”

Marianne laughed. “I can smell lavender and sage.
It must be Alasdair.”

“You can smell me?” Alasdair removed his hands
and stepped back, intrigued by her comment. “I don’t
think anyone has ever `smelled’ me before” Indeed,
he couldn’t think of a single woman he’d ever been involved with who had mentioned smelling him.

“Well, it’s such a lovely smell, all that sage and
lavender-I can’t imagine how anyone could overlook
it,” Marianne said in her own defense.

“Don’t forget the artemisia,” Alasdair teased.

“Artemisia, of course” Marianne smiled. “I knew
I smelled something else. But it’s been keeping me
guessing.” She stood up and closed her book. “Are we
ready to go? I’ve been looking forward to this all day”

Alasdair hoped the drive lived up to her expectations. He worried about the reactions of others now that
the second article had been published. In an attempt to
avoid exposing Marianne to any hostility, he’d arranged
for Camberly and Lionel to join them in the park, and
he had hopes that with the buffer of her friends about
her, Marianne wouldn’t notice the difference. It was starting to cross Alasdair’s mind that he would have to
explain everything to her very soon.

Marianne waited until they’d strolled a slight distance away from Camberly and Lionel and their wives
to bring up the tender subject. “Do you mind explaining
what is going on?” she asked quietly once they were out
of earshot.

“Going on?” Alasdair answered vaguely, hoping to
play the obtuse fellow.

“What’s Camberly doing here? People seemed different today, less friendly in their greetings. Does it
have to do with the article? I saw that we were mentioned in the social column again, and I assume it is
distressing for you. I apologize for having caused any
trouble, but I didn’t think about the implications of my
comment at the tea. I never dreamed it would end up
in a newspaper for the world to see”

Alasdair shook his head. “No, you’ve not caused
any trouble.” He took her hand and pulled her behind
a tree. Her blue eyes were earnest and concerned. He
couldn’t bear for her to think that she’d failed him in
some way.

He had not meant to tell her, here in the middle of
the park, but the words came tumbling out. “I am
afraid my spilling of the champagne wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all. I underestimated how much Brantley wanted to dance with you and I fear I’ve put you in
the middle of his plans to bring me down a peg.

“He’s made himself your enemy, Marianne, all in an attempt to get back at me. There’s a wager he’s
placed in the betting book at White’s. He and another
of his cronies, Hamsford, have bet how long you’ll last
in London before you’re ousted”

Marianne’s smile faded. Her glance fell to her feet.
“I’ve made it fairly easy for him with my remark at
the tea. How long have you known?” She brought her
gaze back up, peering at him from beneath the wide
brim of her hat.

“Since the Radcliffe musicale.”

He watched Marianne’s mind working through the
events of the past weeks. “I see,” she said a quietly. “I
never suspected a thing. You were quite clever, insinuating me into your group of friends, lending me their
protection without actually telling me, letting me believe they were my friends too”

Alasdair sucked in a deep breath. He’d not thought
of his actions from that point of view. He’d never once
wanted her to feel betrayed or manipulated, but in trying to avoid those circumstances he’d caused them
to occur anyway. “Camberly and Audrey, Lionel and
Stella, all like you. They respect you. Their friendship
is genuine,” Alasdair argued, wanting to alleviate the
hurt and the doubt in her eyes.

“Very well,” Marianne said, but in a tone that indicated she didn’t quite believe him.

They were out of other people’s view. Alasdair
reached for her hand. “I did not mean for any of this
to hurt you. I went to the journalist’s workplace today and asked him not to write about us in quite so much
detail. I hope I succeeded in being more persuasive
than Brantley was”

“Brantley?”

“I am sure he’s the one giving the information to the
journalists, although I’m not sure where he’s getting it.
If he stops, the negative press should stop,” Alasdair
reasoned. His mouth quirked up into a smile. “Of
course, I told the journalist I wasn’t opposed to him
writing about me, only about the lurid, unsubstantiated
analysis that tends to accompany the reports”

Alasdair had to give Marianne credit. She was taking the news well; she could have been far more dismayed. “I do have good news too,” Alasdair said,
turning the conversation away from Brantley’s attempt
to instigate a scandal. “The prince is coming to a house
party at my estate before Cowes. It will be a fabulous
time for you to meet him.”

Marianne was suitably impressed enough to make
him believe the cost would be worth it just to see her
smile.

He wanted to kiss that smile. He’d thought of little
else when he had the choice; the memory of that one
quick kiss in the rowboat had lingered powerfully.
Alasdair leaned in, hands resting on either side of the
tree trunk, framing her lovely face. He bent his lips to
hers, finding them already parted, already anticipating
his kiss. This was the hard part, Alasdair thought. She
was eager and beautiful, and she understood him even if she didn’t know him yet. She might not know his favorite color or how he took his tea, but she understood
the things that drove him. Their conversation at the
Tower had proved as much. He could propose and put
his money worries to rest forever, but to do that so soon
would make him the very villain the papers were making him out to be. Marianne deserved a legitimate
courtship, a real chance to decide if he was right for
her. Besides, he would not give Brantley the satisfaction of painting him with the fortune-hunter’s brush.

Brantley lifted the note, placed facedown on a salver
so that no one could see the address or direction of the
sender. He smiled while he read it. The note wasn’t
from Roberta, as he’d suspected it would be. It was
from the journalist he’d paid to draw attention to the
unsavory undertones of Pennington’s association with
Miss Addison. The journalist was nervous. Pennington
had paid him a visit that included a bloody nose.

Such behavior was telling. Pennington must have
developed quite a tendre for the pretty American to risk
a ruckus. Pennington’s fist might have stopped the machine of British media, Brantley mused, but it couldn’t
squelch the scandal altogether. Word of mouth among
the ton could be just as deadly as the printed word, especially with the juicy tidbit Miss Farnwick had delivered to him earlier that afternoon: Miss Addison had
been given the cut direct in New York for attending a
Champagne Sunday. It was too delicious to idly let it drop in casual conversation. He would wait and watch
for the right moment when its effect could be most devastating.

Brantley had no concerns about how devastating it
would be. It would be shattering to Pennington, who’d
already demonstrated that he’d opt to try and protect
Miss Addison, no doubt believing she was innocent in
the ways of social intrigues. Pennington would be
crushed by the news that his trust in Miss Addison’s
virtue was misplaced. No man liked to feel that his
more-chivalrous sentiments were betrayed. But first,
Brantley thought, there might be some financial gains
to be made with this latest bit of leverage.