by Darcie Wilde
No matter how often she told herself it was entirely wicked, she had not been able to keep herself from imagining what it would be like to have those hands—to have Benedict—touch her.
And today he had touched her. Just for a moment, to help her when she stumbled, but that one light, polite touch had brought all those fantasies flooding back.
“I have been looking into the question of how to accomplish our ultimate goal of a thorough success,” Helene was saying. “My research has confirmed what I believed at the beginning. We need to give a ball.”
“That’s a risk, Helene,” Adele said. “If we try to present a large entertainment and it falls flat, we’ll be laughingstocks, again,” she added. “Aren’t we doing well enough as we are?”
“Well enough is lukewarm,” Helene said. “The point of our plans was not just to improve but to triumph.” She leveled her very direct gaze at Adele. “And to show the world that we can. For that, we need to make a grand show. Now, you are correct that none of us has direct experience with organizing a ball. Fortunately, it is a problem that yields to analysis and thorough organization. We have your plans, Adele . . .”
“My entirely theoretical plans,” Adele put in. “Written up when I was daydreaming at roughly sixteen years old.”
Helene ignored this. “I have made inquiries. To have a party that is not just notable but entirely successful, we will need several things: exceptional food, an exceptional setting, and exceptional music. These can be purchased. First and foremost, however, we will need exceptional guests.”
“We’ve just been congratulating ourselves over one matron’s invitation to call,” Adele reminded her. “How can three relative nobodies go about securing even one exceptional guest?”
“We have Miss Sewell,” Madelene said.
“Thank you.” Miss Sewell nodded solemnly. “However, I will have to be the one acting as hostess for the ball in honor of my protégés.” She spread her hands to indicate the three of them. As unmarried girls who still lived at home, they could not give even a card party under their own auspices. “Since I am directly involved with you girls, I cannot be revealed as a surprising and enticing guest.”
“Some of your literary friends, then?” suggested Madelene. An idea was forming in the back of her mind, but it was dangerous. She rubbed her hands together and looked toward the clock on the mantel. She should go, and soon, before she forgot how dangerous.
Helene tapped her pencil against her chin, considering. “I don’t suppose, Miss Sewell, that you know Lord Byron?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Madelene tried not to shift her weight uneasily as silence descended over her friends. Her fingers twisted together, and she tried to smooth them.
Better to keep silent. Besides, if Mama finds out, the scenes will be dreadful.
“What about Benedict Pelham?” asked Helene, and Madelene jumped as if she’d been pinched, a fact none of the others failed to notice. “Everyone was admiring his paintings at the exhibition.”
“That is a possibility,” Miss Sewell said thoughtfully.
Don’t look at me. Please don’t say anything about me, or the painting. Panic was rising, and the old terror of discovery. She tried to tell herself she was among friends. They would not mock her, or worse, tell her stepmother on her. She knew this was true, but the fear would not loosen its grip.
When Miss Sewell turned, though, it was toward Adele. “Lord Benedict is friends with your brother, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” Adele said. “It would be difficult to persuade Marcus to ask Lord Benedict to come to a party, though. It’s not the sort of thing he likes to get involved in.” This was probably putting it mildly. The Duke of Windford was notoriously aloof and unbending. “And there’s another problem.” Adele wasn’t looking at Helene anymore. She was watching Madelene. and Madelene felt her cheeks burn. “Lord Benedict’s first wife.”
Wife? He’s married? Madelene’s hands clenched tightly. No, no, she said first wife. He must be a widower.
“Does anybody even remember that business?” Helene frowned, her brows pulling together in an attitude that would have had Madelene’s stepmother scolding her for a week.
“Yes,” said Adele. “I heard plenty of whispers about it during the exhibition.”
“What . . . what happened to his first wife?” asked Madelene.
“Oh, it was horrible,” said Adele. “She was the toast of society for a while. Beautiful, young, exotic. Italian—either a countess or an opera singer, no one seemed to be sure which it really was. He painted all sorts of pictures of her, and they were famous together. The artist and his muse. Then . . . well, she died, very suddenly. There were rumors that she was poisoned and that . . .”
“No,” Madelene cut her off. “You’re going to say Lord Benedict was suspected, and that’s not possible. He wouldn’t do such a terrible thing.”
Now they were all staring at her, and Madelene waited for the familiar shrinking and shriveling inside. But it didn’t come. She would not believe that the man who stood beside her today, who had spoken to her with such sympathy, could have harmed his wife, and she would not let anyone, even Adele, say he had.
Adele’s eyebrows arched. “My brother agrees, but you know how people talk, and how they love to believe the worst.”
“If we make him our exceptional guest, he might frighten off as many matrons as he’d lure in,” added Helene crossly.
“It’s not fair,” Madelene said.
“No,” agreed Miss Sewell. “But it is reality, and you cannot ignore it. It also touches on a point I meant to raise with you all.”
“What?” demanded Helene, flipping furiously through her book. “Have I missed something?”
“Despite your recent social strides, you girls are still unknown quantities. When we give out our invitations, the matrons will be scrutinizing your behavior to decide if they should accept on behalf of their daughters. Until then, you will need to tread with extra caution. One breath, one hint of scandal, and they will have their excuse to stay away in droves.”
Adele’s hand strayed to the gold chain she always wore about her neck. None of them were supposed to know, but on the end hung the ring James Beauclaire had given her before he went to join his father in Paris. Helene also was looking unusually ill at ease. Helene recently had a most uncomfortable and uncharacteristically dramatic encounter with the Marquis of Broadheathe, to whom she’d once been engaged.
But Madelene was sure Miss Sewell wasn’t talking about either of them. Miss Sewell was talking to her, warning her about what had happened in the gallery. She was saying there could not be another such incident.
Not that there was any chance of it, Madelene told herself. She was hardly likely to encounter Lord Benedict again. They didn’t move in anything like the same circles.
“You are right, of course, Miss Sewell. We will all need to be extra cautious.” Helene picked up her pencil and made some additional notes. “It occurs to me that we wouldn’t need Lord Benedict himself to come to the party if we had a new painting of his to exhibit.”
“An unveiling would make a fine point of interest and amusement,” agreed Miss Sewell. “Lord Benedict has always been known for his portrayal of classical subjects. If he could be persuaded to paint one of you in the classical style, it would raise a great deal of excitement.”
Madelene remembered the feeling of Lord Benedict’s gaze on her, how she was sure he could see right through to her heart and how wonderful and how terrible that had seemed. What would it be like to be alone with him looking at her that way? When either of them might say or do anything?
I’m going to faint, she thought, desperately.
Fortunately, none of the others seemed to notice anything was wrong. Miss Sewell just raised one finger to indicate she had an additional point to add. “You cannot, howeve
r, count on the strength of a painting alone to bring in the notables. You would still need your guest.” Now Miss Sewell did turn toward her. “Do you know anyone, Madelene?”
Madelene glanced about the room. She couldn’t do it.
But if you do, you’ll be helping your friends, said the daring voice in the back of her mind. Really helping, not just handing over more money.
The more familiar and far more frightened voice whispered back, And when Mama finds out?
“There’s my cousin Henry,” she heard herself say. “Henry Cross.”
Adele’s eyes went round as saucers. “Not Henry Cross the actor! You can’t mean it!”
“You never told me you were related to Mister Cross,” Helene said.
“I’m not supposed to mention him. My stepmother forbade me to communicate with him after she and father married.”
“And your father agreed?” cried Adele, clearly shocked.
“I think Father was glad of the excuse to cut him. They never got along. Mother was the only person in the family to acknowledge Cousin Henry once he took to the stage. They wrote volumes of letters. He used to send me presents from his European tours.” Madelene smiled at the memory of the lively, gossiping letters that came with those gifts. Then she remembered the shouting matches between Mother and Father when the letters and the gifts arrived; all the long nights trying to remain small and still in her nursery bed while the sound of angry voices rose up through the floor. All those hours spent hoping no one would remember she was there and begin shouting at her.
“He would be a marvelous guest,” Miss Sewell said.
“He’d be perfect,” Helene agreed. “He is without doubt the most famous actor in England. Some women are supposed to have fainted during his performance in Stand and Deliver. Which is ridiculous, but it does create the right sort of sensation.”
“And he never goes to society parties,” Miss Sewell added. “It would be quite the coup if he came to yours.” Her eyes, thought Madelene, were unusually distant as she spoke. But neither Adele nor Helene seemed to notice. They were looking at Madelene, eagerly, expectantly.
“Well, Madelene?” Miss Sewell said. “Will you ask him? He is just who you need.”
“I . . .” began Madelene. “I . . .” Her eye caught the clock, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh. I’m late. I need to get home. Please. I’m sorry.”
Without another word, Madelene jumped to her feet and rushed from the room, leaving her friends’ surprise and silence trailing behind her.
* * *
When the door swung shut, Helene turned to Miss Sewell, anger shining in her amber eyes.
“That was unnecessary. You pushed her too far.”
Miss Sewell remained entirely unruffled by the younger woman’s reproof. “I know Madelene is your best friend, Helene, but you try to shelter her too much. You must let her take her own chances.”
Helene did not back down one inch. “If Henry Cross declines the invitation and we’re left begging for a guest, Madelene will think it’s her fault. I won’t see her put in that position. I’ve known her longer than either of you. You have no idea how hard any of this is for her. To make the success of the whole ball depend on her might be too much.”
Miss Sewell sighed and looked from Adele to Helene. “I do know something about Madelene’s family and her circumstances. I have certainly seen how her father’s family treats her when they are in public together. I can’t help but believe it would be a very good thing if she renewed her relationship with her cousin. Then she would have a close connection who cares about her, not her money.”
“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.”
IV
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 ma
tter 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.”
