The Madcap (7 page)

“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 trouser 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.

To reinforce the high standards of the night, the
Radcliffe home on Curzon Street was turned out in all
its glory. The chandelier in the main foyer cast brilliant light up the grand staircase to the ballroom that
had been partitioned into a slightly smaller venue for the evening. Inside the ballroom, potted plants and
gilt screens had been set up to minimize the enormity
of the room, as the event had outgrown the music
room in which it had been originally hosted. Chairs
were set up in neat rows around a temporary stage
that had been erected for the evening. The piano had
been moved from the music room to the impromptu
dais and other instruments were propped up along the
edge.

It was very impressive to behold, Marianne thought,
as she walked through the door with her parents, her
father having just arrived back from a quick trip to
Cherbourg. They had been invited to the event by
Camberly himself, but since the earl’s wife was playing the piano that evening and had to be present earlier, the Addisons arrived on their own.

Marianne and her mother greeted a few of the people
to whom they’d been introduced over the past weeks
but the larger span of Marianne’s attention was spent
searching the room with her eyes for a sign of Alasdair.
She had not encountered him yet today at any of the
places she’d gone. It was the first time in several days
she had not seen or heard from him in some way, and
the day seemed incomplete, unbalanced in some indistinguishable way without him.

She was aware of how odd such a realization was.
She’d only known Alasdair for a few weeks. Yet in that
time she’d become accustomed to his presence. If she’d been asked who she’d acquired as a friend during her
time in London, she would have said him.

Mrs. Farnwick and her daughter, Roberta, stopped to
say hello. Roberta smiled knowingly, catching Marianne’s distraction. She linked her arm through Marianne’s and drew her aside. “The viscount will be here,
don’t worry. He’ll want to hear the countess play the
piano.”

Marianne cast her eyes downward. She’d best be
careful not to give herself away so completely. It wasn’t
proper for a girl to seek out the attentions of a gentleman even if he was just a friend. In America, it had
been far more common for young men and women to
mix socially than it was here. She’d gone on any number of picnics with other young people of her social
station in San Francisco. But here, Marianne had been
surprised to learn just how cloistered girls were until
they came of age.

“Would you care to stroll with me around the room,
Miss Addison?” Roberta asked. “We can walk past the
refreshment table. I’ve heard the Radcliffes have a
carved-ice swan for the centerpiece that’s supposed to
be magnificent.”

Several other young women strolled the perimeter
of the room with their friends, heads close together as
they chatted. It was the perfect ruse for sharing gossip
and showing off one’s lovely gown all at the same time.
Marianne sensed that Roberta Farnwick was disposed to use the activity for the same reason, although she
couldn’t imagine what Roberta would want to gossip
about with her. After all, Roberta was not a close acquaintance.

They passed the long tables of refreshments set
against the far wall out of the way of the performance
area and made the obligatory comments about the ice
swan. A length of silence fell as their conversation diminished. Marianne had no idea how she’d fill the
time until their walk was completed. She didn’t know
Roberta all that well and she’d exhausted her store of
small talk. She needn’t have worried.

Roberta had things to say. “Miss Addison, you are
new to London, and as such is the case, I feel I must
inform you of some bad news,” Roberta said, her voice
so quiet that Marianne had to lean quite close to pick
up the other girl’s words. “The viscount is not exactly
an eligible parti, my dear.” Roberta fussed with the
fan hanging from her left wrist. “This is so difficult to
say, but you must know. He’s all but betrothed to a
Miss Sarah Stewart, who prefers to stay in the country. It’s not official but everyone knows his mother and
her father have been promoting this match for eons.
Their estates share a border.”

A cold pit formed in Marianne’s stomach. Alasdair
was to marry another? Everyone knew? It did come as
something of a shock. Surely he would have mentioned
it. Then again, mentioning it may not have crossed his
mind. If everyone knew, he probably felt there was no reason to bring it up. It could be easy to forget that
newcomers wouldn’t know something that had become de rigueur for everyone else.

And why bring it up when it wasn’t relevant to their
friendship? If she was disappointed by the news, it was
her fault. He’d not spoken outright of any desire to
court her, nor had he spoken any inappropriate words
of love. There were no expectations except the ones
she’d created in her head, and even those certainly had
not gone as far as marriage. She simply enjoyed being
with him. She’d come to count on his friendship-that
was all. Roberta Farnwick simply misunderstood the
situation.

“I am happy for him, then,” Marianne replied. “I
didn’t know, of course, being so new to Town. The viscount has been a good friend to me during our brief acquaintance. I would wish nothing but the best for him.”
She wanted to be clear with Roberta as to exactly
what the status of her relationship to Pennington was.
Perhaps she also wanted to be clear with herself, just
so her heart and mind didn’t misunderstand one another.

Roberta stifled a laugh. “Friend? My dear, since
when have men and women been friends? It’s simply
not done. What’s the point anyway? After one marries, one has to give up their friends. No husband keeps
female friends and no wife I know of keeps any male
friends, if she had any in the first place. Hardly makes
it worthwhile.” She looked slyly at Marianne. “Besides, I don’t believe the `friend’ bit and neither do the social
columns. Have you seen the latest World?”

Marianne looked puzzled. She occasionally read
the Society papers upon her mother’s recommendation
that she keep up with the goings-on about Town, but she
hadn’t gotten into the habit of reading them daily. She
had, however, met some ladies who waited earnestly for
the new editions to arrive.

Roberta dug into the reticule she carried. “I clipped
this out for you, in case you hadn’t seen it.” She handed
Marianne a small piece of newsprint.

Marianne scanned the little scrap of paper. Such a
scrap shouldn’t matter so much. But it did. The suggestions were horrifying. Against the backdrop of Alasdair’s engagement to another, the insinuation that he
was after Marianne’s money and possibly willing to
jilt another for it was positively lurid. Roberta was
studying her intently, waiting for a reaction. Marianne
carefully schooled her features, forcing them into
blandness in order to not give herself away.

“I felt you should know,” Roberta said with a sincerity Marianne didn’t quite believe. Instinctively,
something about Roberta bothered Marianne, compelling her to believe this “bosom-bow” act was just
that. Marianne was convinced that Roberta hadn’t told
her this news out of a genuine desire to protect a
friend; they didn’t know each other well enough for
such confidences. There was another reason, a hidden
reason, for these disclosures; and yet, whatever her reason for sharing these things, it didn’t make the items
untrue. The article in the paper wasn’t a fabrication. It
had been printed and read by countless people.