The Stepsister's Triumph (4 page)

“And what about Lord Benedict?” Adele said. “You noticed him and Madelene at the exhibition, didn't you?”

“Adele!” Helene cried. “You said you'd leave it alone.”

“I never did.” Adele lifted her chin. “I said I wouldn't bring it up in front of Madelene.”

“Matchmaking is undignified and degrading to all parties concerned.”

“Girls,” interrupted Miss Sewell sternly. “We do not have the luxury of quarrelling among ourselves.”

Helene's eyes narrowed as she looked to Adele. “Adele believes that Madelene has feelings for Lord Benedict Pelham.”

“I suspect Adele is right,” Miss Sewell replied. “And that is why this idea of a painting is so perfect. It would work to help make the party a success, but more than that, if Madelene can be persuaded to be the subject, it will give her the opportunity to find out if her feelings, and Lord Benedict's, are genuine.”

“No,” declared Helene. “Absolutely not. Her cousin is one thing. I agree that reestablishing the family connection could be beneficial, but this other . . . I do not like it.”

“How about this?” said Adele. “I'll get my brother Marcus to talk to Lord Benedict. They're friends after all. That way if he refuses us, it's my fault, not hers.”

Helene waved the suggestion away. “It's still us pushing her at him. That is not just unseemly, it's unkind. I won't have any part of it.”

“But maybe they'll fall in love, Helene.” Adele's hand strayed to her gold necklace. “What could be better for Madelene than a loving marriage? James . . . Monsieur Beauclaire says Lord Benedict's a good man. He's honest, he doesn't drink to excess, or gamble, or anything of that kind. He's a bit older, of course . . .”

“Ten years older,” muttered Helene. “Not a point in his favor.”

“An older gentleman might suit Madelene,” Miss Sewell said.

“An older man who has already been married?” Helene snapped. “To an infamous woman who died under mysterious circumstances? Do we think that will suit her as well?”

“He was destroyed when his wife died,” Adele said. “That's what James says, anyway. He nearly . . . did himself an injury.”

“Which explains the crowd at the gallery,” Helene said. “Ghouls.”

“Probably, but there were some genuine connoisseurs as well,” Miss Sewell said. “I was counting noses. No, on balance, I think that Madelene sitting for Lord Benedict would be of benefit all around. However, I also think we may step back and let Madelene decide how she will proceed, if she will proceed.”

“How very kind of us,” sniffed Helene. Adele elbowed her sharply. Helene glared at her and, in a single motion, scooped up her pile of notebooks and stalked out of the room.

“Oh dear.” Adele jumped to her feet and made to go after her. “She's going to ruin everything.”

But Miss Sewell laid a restraining hand on her protégé's arm. “Helene will do the right thing. As she pointed out, she does know Madelene better than either of us.”

Adele bit her lip and stared stubbornly after her friend. But in the end, she just sighed and plunked herself down in the chair. “I know, I know. I just wish sometimes she weren't so, well, managing.”

“That's like wishing the sky weren't quite so blue,” Miss Sewell said, not unkindly. “And you must remember, all that management has helped bring you this far.”

“So you're saying we must simply trust her, and Madelene?”

“I'm very much afraid, Adele, you have no other choice.”

Madelene slipped quietly through the front door of the grand house Lady Reginald had rented for the season. She was halfway up the stairs before the maid came out of the drawing room.

“Lady Reginald has been asking for you, Miss Valmeyer,” the girl said, with a look of apology.

Madelene sighed. “All right, Rose. Will you take up my bonnet and coat?”

Madelene walked through the stiffly furnished rooms. There were no good, old things in this house, no homey comforts like beloved armchairs or familiar ornaments. Lady Reginald believed that a house must be completely refurnished every year or two to keep up with current fashions. This belief persisted no matter how much her husband might rage about the bills.

Glorietta, Madelene's youngest stepsister, who was poring over a set of fashion plates in the drawing room, looked up as she passed.

“Some-one's in trou-ble,” Glorietta said in a gleeful singsong. Madelene could only hope the girl didn't see how her hands shook.

The parlor doors were closed, but Madelene could still hear the voices rising and falling in the other room. It wasn't just Lady Reginald on the other side of the door. Lewis waited in there as well.

Get on with it
.
It will only be worse if you keep her waiting.

Madelene raised one trembling hand and knocked.

“Come in,” her stepmother called impatiently. “Ah, Madelene, here you are.”

Mama was sitting on the pink velveteen sofa. It contrasted beautifully with the burgundy walls, not to mention her tasteful claret dress. She looked as if she'd dressed specifically for her setting. No matter what she wore, though, Lady Reginald was a commanding presence. Tall and statuesque, with bright golden hair and eyes that were a unique shade of violet. It was rumored those extraordinary eyes had once captured the heart of one of the royal dukes. Of course, no one believed that captivation had been caused entirely by her eyes.

“'Bout time you got home,” growled Lewis, who was standing in front of the fireplace. He looked even more disheveled than he had at the gallery, and Madelene couldn't help noticing one of his rings was missing. Had he lost it to a gamester or a pawnbroker? “Can't think what you're about, Mother, letting her out with that novelist person, not to mention the Fitzgerald bluestocking and the Endicott dumpling!”

“Lewis,” Lady Reginald said quietly.

“I'm sorry, Mother, but the girl's running positively wild! I practically had to call out that artist fellow this afternoon.” He drummed his fingers restlessly on the marble mantelpiece. “Would have, too, but, well, it'd probably mean leaving the country after, and I knew how that'd upset you.”

“It would, very much, dear,” his mother said indulgently.

Madelene dropped her gaze toward the carpet, her cheeks burning.

“Yes, you may very well blush, missy,” Lewis said loftily. “Home's the proper place for a young woman, not gadding about with artists!”

“I wasn't doing anything wrong, Mama,” Madelene said. Lady Reginald had insisted Madelene call her Mama from the moment she moved in. Madelene had tried to accustom herself to it and failed. “It was a public exhibition, and . . .”

“Huh. Only public exhibition
I
saw was the one you were making of yourself!”

“That's enough, Lewis,” Lady Reginald said, with that edge to her tone that seldom failed to silence her son. “I'll speak to your stepsister alone.”

“All right. All right,” he muttered. “I'm only the oldest
son
. Why should anyone want to hear what I have to say?”

But Lady Reginald's glance was as sharp as her tone. Lewis raised his nose as far in the air as it could go and withdrew, leaving Madelene facing her stepmother alone.

“Come by me, dear.” Lady Reginald patted the sofa.

A wave of cold swept over Madelene, but she had no choice except to do as instructed. She would have sat at the furthest end, but it would be a futile gesture. She'd just be asked to move closer and have to watch her stepmother waiting with cool patience while she did.

Mama laughed, a sound anyone else would have taken for fondness. “Now, dear Madelene, don't look so distressed. You know I don't believe a word Lewis says.”

Madelene made no answer.

“I know you're a good girl and entirely trustworthy. Lewis is just upset. It seems he's gotten himself into one of his little pickles over money again.”

Madelene swallowed.

“It is so difficult, isn't it, for a young man trying to make his way in the world? It's almost as bad as it is for a woman. So many appearances to be kept up! Clothes and carriages and of course play at the tables. But that's what the world expects! If I was on my own, I should much prefer a quiet life, but with your brother and sisters to think of . . . well, we must all make sacrifices, mustn't we?”

She paused and waited for Madelene to make polite agreement. And Madelene meant to, she was certain she did. When she opened her mouth, however, something quite different came out.

“How much does he need this time?”

Lady Reginald drew back. Her eyes narrowed. “Well. If the needs of your family have become that onerous, perhaps you should go to your new friends. I'm sure they'd be happy to shelter and protect you.”

Madelene looked at her hands, no longer neatly folded but tightly knotted together.

“After all, what are we to you?” Lady Reginald went on. “We're only your father's second family. There is no reason you should have any feeling for those who are no blood relation to you. I'm so sorry to have troubled you with my little problems. I never will again. I have jewels yet to sell. That will give Lewis what he needs. Go now, do not worry about any of us.”

Madelene looked up at her stepmother. A single tear trickled down Lady Reginald's lightly rouged cheek. Anger, old, thick, and exhausting, flowed through her. She wished she was more like Miss Sewell or Helene Fitzgerald. Miss Sewell would no doubt answer this outpouring with some cutting remark. Helene would just walk away and not listen to any of it. She might even pack up and go to Miss Sewell's to stay for good.

Except then there'd be a scandal, and a scandal would ruin any chance of the success they hoped for. If she left home, if she ran away . . . she'd ruin everything.

“I'm sorry, Mama,” she made herself say. “I should not have spoken as I did. Please forgive me.”

The words flowed easily. She'd said them so many times. Only this time she didn't feel the regret or the guilt. All she felt was tired.

Mama smiled, all gentle sorrow. She took Madelene's hand and pressed it. Did she feel how entirely cold Madelene was? If so, she gave no sign. “Madelene, you know how very much we depend on you.”

“I know.”

“It would be different if your father's business affairs were less complex at this time, or if Lewis were . . . well, he will grow out of it.”

“I'm sure he will, Mama.”

“Until then we must make do.” Lady Reginald sighed briskly and lifted her chin. “I know you do not want Lewis or your sisters to suffer because they do not have your advantages.”

“Of course not.”

“I know that in a year or two, when your father sees there is a real need, he will be able to understand that he must arrange the finances to ensure good dowries for both Glorietta and Maude.”

And when he doesn't? What then?

But she knew what then, because it would be the same as when Lewis lost more thousands and when Father's investments required just a little more capital.

“But that will come in its own good time,” Lady Reginald was saying. “Until then . . .”

“We must make do,” murmured Madelene.

It was another mistake. Her words had hit entirely too hard, and Mama's oh-so-brave smile drooped. “I'm sure I don't mean to go on. If you are so tired you cannot be polite, perhaps it would be better if you went to your room to rest. We can resume this conversation when you are feeling better able to be civil.”

Dismissed like an unruly child, Madelene rose and curtsied. She walked out of the room and past Glorietta, who giggled to see that her prediction had been entirely fulfilled.

*   *   *

It had taken every bit of Madelene's tact to get Lady Reginald to agree to let her bring her own bedroom furnishings when they came to town for the season. Of course, it also took convincing Mr. Thorpe, the chairman of her trustees, to advance several hundred pounds extra toward the cost of Glorietta's and Maude's, and Lady Reginald's, new wardrobes.

The furnishings were an older style, too heavy and too dark for current fashion, but Madelene loved the polished wood and the carvings of flowers and birds on her bed's head and footboard. She looked forward to the moment every night when she could draw the blue velvet curtains and lie in her private darkness and dream.

This time, though, when she hurried into her room, it was to find a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine sitting on the bench at the end of her bed.

“What on earth . . . ?” Madelene murmured.

“It came in the afternoon post, Miss Valmeyer.” It was Rose in the corridor behind her. “Phillip got it up here without anybody seeing.” The servants were of course fully aware of how matters stood between Madelene and her father's family. More than one of them expressed their sympathy in small ways, like this.

“I . . . Thank Phillip for me.” Madelene's mouth had gone dry. She touched the package and felt the sharp corner and the complex series of bumps that could well be a carved picture frame.

But it couldn't possibly be. Could it?

“Here's the note that came with it.” Rose pulled the sealed square of paper out of her apron pocket. “Would you like me to open your present, Miss Valmeyer?”

“No, thank you. Just, please close the door behind you.”

The maid did, and Madelene turned the key in the lock before she hurried to her dressing table for a pair of scissors.

It can't be.
She cut the string on the package and pushed the paper open.

It was.

It was
The Prelude
, with its beautiful colors and its rendering of a private moment Madelene never would have believed anyone, let alone such a man as Lord Benedict, could understand.

She opened the note without looking at her own hands. It was as if she believed that looking away from the painting would cause it to vanish. When she could finally stand to tear her eyes away, she read:

You are not alone. The door is open.

B.

Madelene ran her fingers across the words. She lifted the paper to her and breathed deeply, imagining she could smell the scent of him again, the sharp, clean, masculine fragrance. Oh, she was making a fool of herself.

She couldn't keep it, of course. She was an unmarried girl, and, marquis's son or not, Benedict Pelham was an unmarried man. Worse, he was an artist, which raised expectations of the most unruly sorts of behavior. He had no business sending her a painting of any kind, let alone one that could be considered of questionable decency.

But she didn't call for Rose to come take the thing away. She stared at it, drinking in the colors, the delicate brushwork, and most of all, that sliver of light that shone through the open door.

You are not alone. The door is open.

A firm step sounded in the hallway outside. Madelene jumped and slapped her hand over her mouth to cover the shocked cry. A knock sounded, and her heart beat out of control.
What do I do? Where can I hide it?

But then came Helene's voice. “Madelene? It's me. May I come in?”

Madelene rushed to unlock the door. Helene marched in, her eyes sweeping the room. When she spotted the painting, she closed and locked the door before Madelene could even reach for the key.

“Oh, Helene,” murmured Madelene. “You startled me. I was afraid. I...” But Helene wasn't listening. She crossed the room and, without waiting for permission picked up the painting. Her brows lowered, which in Helene was an indication of surprise and strong consternation. Madelene felt her cheeks heating up, because she knew Helene did not miss the similarity between herself and the girl in the picture.

“Where did this come from?” Helene asked as she carefully placed the painting in Madelene's dressing room and shut that door.

“Lord Benedict sent it.” Madelene passed Helene the note. Helene read it and frowned.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know.” Madelene folded the note back up and tucked it into her sleeve. “I can't keep it.”

“Not here,” agreed Helene thoughtfully. “I'm sure Miss Sewell would keep it for you if you wanted.”

“I don't know what I want.” Madelene smoothed her hair back from her forehead. She'd been through too many wild swings of emotion; from the desperate hope when she sat among her friends, to the anger and exhaustion and the endless wearing worry that swamped her when she came home, to this . . . this grand, beautiful gesture from a man she barely knew, a dangerous man with dark eyes whose lightest touch set her mind wandering down the most wicked paths.

“I expect you do know,” Helene said. “And better than you're ready to admit.”

Madelene didn't answer that. “Sit down, Helene. Tell me why you've come.”

Helene took one of the round-backed chairs by Madelene's small hearth. “I came to make sure you were all right after all that talk at Miss Sewell's.”

“Oh yes, I'm fine . . .”

“Madelene,” Helene cut her off firmly. “You know you don't have to be polite at me.”

“Polite at me,” Madelene repeated. “You're the only person I know who talks like that.”

“Once we're successes I shall set a new fashion in language. Please, Madelene,” Helene added softly. “I'm sorry if we upset you. You don't have to write your cousin or do anything about Lord Benedict. Send back the painting, and the note if that's what you want. I'll help you.”