by Tamara Gill
Arthur shouted a thank you, and barreled up the steps. His heart galloped, his legs burned, and he pounded on the door of 203.
“Madeline? Darling?”
A squeak sounded. It was so faint, the door was thick, but it was the loveliest sound in the world.
“What on earth are you doing?” a voice shouted.
He recognized Admiral Fitzroy’s baritone, and grinned.
This was a start.
He’d found her.
All he had to do was—
The door was bolted, and he grabbed a side table and slammed it against the entrance until the door gave way.
He rushed into the room.
Madeline sat in a chair. Her hands were tied behind her. Her hair was wild, her perfect locks tangled, but she was still the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
He’d been worried she might be transported off to some French prison in some unknown location or to New South Wales.
But she was here. In this room. And soon—in his arms.
He rushed toward her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Admiral Fitzroy shouted.
Arthur didn’t hesitate. He still rushed to Madeline and cut off the ties.
“I’m taking my wife back home,” he said.
“But,” Admiral Fitzroy stammered. “She tricked you. She tricked us all. Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Of course I did,” Arthur said. “That’s how I knew that you’d taken her.”
“Your wife is a criminal.”
“My wife was helping families who’d had their life savings stolen from them. Yes, what she did was illegal in France. But it was very much appreciated by the people she gave their savings back to.”
“Still illegal,” Admiral Fitzroy said.
“You think it was legal for the French to steal prized heirlooms?”
“It was a battle, Carmichael. You know that. The rules are different.”
“And in peacetime you get to make the rules that benefit you. Well I think that’s nonsense. As did Madeline. And I’m proud of Madeline for taking them back.”
Madeline blinked.
“I’m—I’m sorry I never told you that,” Arthur said.
He kneeled beside her, smoothing her wrists. The skin was still red from the rope.
“France expects us to send her to them. She can be tried in a French court, and perhaps if what you say is true—”
Arthur laughed. “Don’t send her. France does not want to admit to anyone that they stole so much. Some stories are in their interest to minimize.”
“But the people she stole from—”
“Were wealthy before, and are still wealthy. They didn’t even pay for the jewels. They were given them.”
“Well,” Admiral Fitzroy frowned. “That might be the case, but for Anglo-French relations.”
“Blast Anglo-French relations,” Arthur said.
Admiral Fitzroy’s eyebrows rose.
Arthur didn’t care if he was shocking the man. He only cared about Madeline.
“You realize you’re ruining any chance of a political career,” the admiral said.
“I don’t care,” Arthur said.
Madeline’s eyes widened. “You mustn’t—”
“It’s fine, darling,” Arthur said quickly. “I think I’ve contributed enough to the British government over the years to earn a favor.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Perhaps the prime minister cares about the man who foiled assassination attempts on him.”
Admiral Fitzroy shifted in his seat. “Well…”
“I thought so,” Arthur said.
“I am offering you the political career you told me you wanted, and you are throwing it away on a criminal,” Admiral Fitzroy said slowly. “You were not having a relationship with her. When you visited her cottage, you were simply following her from the scene of the crime. Do you really want to throw everything away? I am offering you an annulment. I urge you to accept it.”
“I am happily giving it up for the love of my life.” He grasped Madeline’s hands. “Sweetheart, I love you. I—I should have told you before. I was scared. And so foolish. I—” He inhaled. “I understand if you don’t love me back but I just thought you should know.”
Madeline squeezed his hands. “Darling, I love you as well.”
Happiness soared through him.
He pulled her into his arms and marched from the inn.
“You’ll need to pay for the jewels,” the admiral shouted after him.
“Show me their proof of purchase.”
He could pay for them. If it was necessary, he would. Even if he had to give up every material thing in the world to do so.
As long as he had Madeline by his side, in his arms, in his heart—it would all be fine.
Clapping sounded as he descended the steps and the patrons cheered.
“I have her,” he called out, and some of the patrons hollered enthusiasm.
“I have him,” Madeline said, and right then before all of them she reached up and kissed him.
More cheers sounded, and Arthur was consumed with happiness.
*
“You came for me,” Madeline said.
“Naturally.”
“And you gave up everything to do it.”
Arthur stroked her hair, and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “The only thing worthwhile for me to ever give up would be you.”
“You have me,” she said again and they kissed.
He lifted her up onto his horse and then he pulled himself up behind her.
The horse trotted away from the public house toward their manor house and all the dreams they would have together.
“I was so worried,” Arthur confessed.
He pulled her toward him, trying to comfort her.
Madeline shivered, even though the rare English sun had finally made an appearance and was beaming down on them in full force.
“They took me,” she said. “Admiral Fitzroy’s men. They grabbed me in the garden and told me they would send me back to France.”
“But I found you,” Arthur said.
“Yes.” Madeline was silent. “When you said—that. Did you mean it?”
Her cheeks flamed. She shouldn’t have asked him. She should have been content with the fact that he’d rescued her.
When he’d come for her in France, he’d kissed her before Admiral Fitzroy and declared his intentions to marry her.
Perhaps this had been the same: something to make the admiral release him, despite the possible fury of France.
Perhaps he would still want to spend long weeks in London by himself, just as Maxwell had.
But she still asked the question. She still asked if the statement that he loved her was true, because if it was—it was the most amazing thing in the world.
And she would risk all sorts of humiliation if there was even a chance that that was correct.
Arthur was silent, and her heart sped up.
Then she noticed that he was stroking her waist. The gesture seemed tender, almost self-conscious, as if he were deep in thought.
“Madeline,” he said finally. “Of course I love you. You are the bravest, most intelligent, most beautiful woman I have ever met.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed,” he said firmly, and this time he pulled her even closer. He flitted kisses over her cheeks and then she turned and he kissed her on her mouth and all was bliss, all was wonderful.
“I love you too,” Madeline murmured. “I think I loved you my first season.”
He stroked her hair. “Then you, my dear, are quite silly to have told your uncle you didn’t want me to court you anymore.”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t tell anyone that.”
“But Sir Seymour—”
She closed her eyes. “Never pay attention to anything that man says.”
“He told me you couldn’t bear the thought of telling me yourself—”
/> “So you left.” Understanding dawned on Madeline. Her heart tumbled downward, and she felt queasy.
“Yes.”
“You truly wanted to—”
“I would have proposed,” Arthur said. “I loved you.”
“To think of the years we wasted,” Madeline said.
Uncle Seymour.
He’d destroyed her growing happiness with his meddling. If only he hadn’t been in London that season. If only Arthur hadn’t taken her uncle seriously. If only she had confronted Arthur, written him, instead of assuming his disappearance could be explained away by his masculinity, as the Matchmaking for Wallflowers articles warned.
An unfamiliar rage coursed through her body, and tears prickled her eyes.
She’d lost so many years with him. She’d spent so long being unhappy.
“I’m so sorry.” Arthur squeezed her more tightly to him.
She inhaled. “Let’s think of the years we have left.”
After all, he loved her.
The sun moved downward, casting everything in delicious pink and lilac light, as if all the world were celebrating with them.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The faint unease that had trickled through Madeline when they’d first moved to Rose Point Park dissipated. She didn’t heed any instinct to be careful of expressing her emotions to Arthur, even when they had breakfast together, and her lady’s maid had not dressed her in the elaborate manner most associated with a marchioness. For some reason Arthur never seemed to mind if she blinked sleepily at him as she gripped her coffee.
“What are your plans for today?” Arthur asked one day.
“Besides avoiding being kidnapped?”
He grimaced. “I don’t think you should worry—”
“I don’t,” she said firmly. “I saw the admiral’s face.”
Arthur laughed.
“But I have other plans.” She inhaled. Voice wobbling was unideal when making announcements. “I am going to stop discovering books written by the late Lord Mulbourne.”
Arthur set aside his broadsheet. “Are you certain? Everyone seems to believe that you keep on finding new, perfectly written books in odd nooks from him.”
She smiled. “If you can give up your career, I can certainly do the same for mine.”
“I would never want you to do so,” Arthur said. “Though I am fully supportive.”
“I thought you would be,” Madeline said. “I don’t want to hide behind his name anymore.”
“Sweetheart,” Arthur said. “I am proud of you. People will be proud too.”
She doubted the latter, though she still appreciated his confidence in her.
Every time she attended a ball, every time she called on somebody’s house, she knew people would be thinking of her deception.
That night she sent letters to the art journals declaring that she’d been behind all of Lord Mulbourne’s criticism.
She waited for the inundation of disapproval.
She’d lied to everyone, and she deserved their disapproval. Still, she couldn’t continue her life not letting people know who she truly was. Art was important to her, and she wanted to be involved in it.
She wanted to use her own name to write articles about the art thefts that had happened in the Napoleonic Wars. Perhaps even the scandal that happened would make people talk about that cause.
The art circles were not silent.
Some art critics announced that they’d never actually found the baron’s work appealing, noting an “overly female interpretation.” They’d been wrong, they wrote, to find Lord Mulbourne’s work of much interest at all.
Others refused to believe that Madeline had indeed been writing as the baron all along. “It’s preposterous,” one art journal wrote, “and a sign of the sad state of affairs we are in now, where some women, led by people like the Duchess of Alfriston and the Duchess of Belmonte seem determined to prove their equality to that of men. They would be better served,” the newspaper continued, “to remember that such a state was impossible. A woman’s mind was simply smaller than a man’s and more prone to emotion as this gross exaggeration and disparaging of a man who cannot defend himself indicates. Never fear,” the column continued. “At least women are prettier than men, and we are content that the vast majority of our little wives have not succumbed to strange urges to do male tasks. Perhaps one day Madeline will realize that the beauty of her own appearance is more useful than any analysis of cupids painted on aged canvas or Roman vases.”
She sighed. It was worth it to reveal the truth.
Matchmaking for Wallflowers was perhaps unusually brutal in its assessment.
It is with great bafflement that London society has learned that Lady Bancroft, wife of the late Baron, Lord Mulbourne, has claimed that she authored not only the late art critic’s recently discovered work but that she has in fact authored much of the work when he was still with us.
Debates rage whether Lord Mulbourne would ever have permitted his wife to use his name in this manner, even for the supposed advancement of art criticism.
We do know that Lord Mulbourne’s name has been forever tainted, and we wonder at the motivations behind his wife.
Though Matchmaking for Wallflowers has praised Lady Bancroft’s skills at hostessing in the past, we doubt the skill of pairing wine and food together in any manner replicates the difficult work of a scholar.
Arthur pulled the magazine from Madeline’s hands and tossed it into the fire.
“You mustn’t,” Madeline said.
“I won’t have you reading anything that criticizes you.”
“Unfortunately I am sure the ton are also criticizing me. I knew they wouldn’t be happy.”
“Do you regret it?” Arthur asked.
She shook her head. She didn’t need to think. “Perhaps some women will not believe this version. Perhaps, despite any humiliation, I’ve helped them.”
“I’m certain,” Arthur said. “Will you miss it?”
“Of course.”
She would still write art theory now, but she wondered whether she could find a publication for it. Art journals had a tendency toward snobbery, and publishing a woman, when women’s writing was relegated to tawdry penny dreadful stories, seemed unlikely.
“Not all critics will dismiss you.”
She tried to laugh. “At least the number will be easy to count.”
The world belonged to men. It always had. Some men apologized for it, but they all benefited from it.
“My stepsister’s husband has a new publishing company for nonfiction books. I think you might find him less prejudiced.”
“Because he knows me?”
“Because you’re wonderful.” He shrugged. “You can always submit anonymously.”
She laughed. “Those days are over.”
He squeezed her hand and smiled, and then he leaned toward her and his lips seemed occupied with doing something quite different from smiling.
But very pleasant.
He wrapped his arms about her, and she felt safe. She’d thought her life fulfilled before, but his presence enhanced everything.
“We wasted too many years,” he murmured.
“I don’t think I could have tolerated you going away on your missions if we had been married then.”
“My darling,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would have taken you with me. The excellent thief that you are, you would have made an incredible spy.”
Epilogue
Slate green water, still visible in the fog, lapped against the gondola as the gondolier guided them toward the Grand Canal.
The now familiar cerulean palazzo had never been easier to spot. Throngs of well attired people queued on the thin pavement outside the building.
“So many people came,” Madeline murmured in awe.
Arthur grinned. “I am not surprised. Though it might be difficult to move through the crowd. Shall we enter by the roof?”
Madeline
giggled. “Those days are behind me.”
“Good.”
The gondola stopped, and Arthur led her off. It was nice to be on his arm.
“Pity about the weather,” Arthur said. “It’s far too foggy.”
She smiled. “There’s only one direction I want to look in.”
“Oh?” The sun might be hidden behind the swathes of fog had crept over the sky, clouds might threaten a downpour, but all that mattered to Madeline was that Arthur was there beside her.
“Lord Bancroft! Lady Bancroft!”
Men and women waved toward them, and they maneuvered past the crush of people.
“I think they’ve definitely forgiven you for your days of writing under your late husband’s pen name,” Arthur said.
Madeline laughed. “I think they think Englishwomen eccentric.”
“I doubt the Costantinis have been silent on their eagerness for the speech,” Arthur said.
Madeline smiled. It had been nice seeing Gabriella again.
It wasn’t the first time her work had been read aloud, but it was the first time she was the person doing the reading.
“It’s time for you to speak,” Arthur said.
Madeline strode to the stage.
A few art critics in the front row still murmured dubiously, confused at her ability to offer anything of worth after they’d confirmed that she hadn’t actually been educated at Oxford, or even at Cambridge, a place which remained dubious to them given the pleasures students derived from gliding on the River Cam.
Tonight she would speak to the public about the paintings in her gallery, and tomorrow Arthur and she would begin their journey to Rome. He’d received a position leading a company there.
It might not be a position in the cabinet at Whitehall, but Arthur was excited to be abroad again and he would have more freedom in how he directed things.
She smiled.
It was odd to think there’d ever been a time when she’d worried about marrying Arthur. All the finely composed paintings in the world and all the most exquisite jewels, couldn’t compare to the pleasure she received from being Arthur’s wife.
Even if she’d come to realize, somewhere on their many travels, that their marriage might not be completely convenient.
*
