by Sara Ramsey
“I do hope his temper has improved,” said one matron doubtfully.
“A splendid match, I’m sure, although I told Lady Sefton that I would not have leapt so soon after his father’s unfortunate demise,” remarked another.
“You’ll be wanting a stout lock on your door in case he goes mad like his brother,” a third lady said, no doubt thinking her advanced age excused her bluntness.
The rumors about his brother — and the possibility that Ferguson might also be tainted — surprised her. She knew he wasn’t mad, but she didn’t expect others to view him with such suspicion. Would it always be like this for her, spending the rest of her life watching the ton scrutinize Ferguson for any hint of encroaching insanity?
But when he emerged from the crowd to stand beside her, her doubts vanished. It might almost be amusing to hear the ton’s gossip if he was beside her to enjoy it.
And if it wasn’t amusing, at least he could make it up to her when they were alone.
“How are you this evening, my love?” he asked.
As he greeted her, he picked up her hand and kissed the ring he had given her. She smiled at the gesture, feeling warmth spread through all the places tonight’s foray into society had frozen. “I shall be better when we are married, I believe.”
His thumb slid down to caress the pulse point in her wrist — a gesture she never would have guessed as erotic, but all the more of a tease since she could not kiss him that night, let alone take him into her bed.
“It is only a month away — surely we can survive,” he said, not sounding sure at all.
Madeleine would have married him within the week, but her aunt refused to plan a wedding with such unseemly haste. Augusta was thrilled with their match, already shopping for Madeleine’s trousseau — but she still insisted on Madeleine being chaperoned when he called, even though the twinkle in her eyes said she knew it was already too late for that. Augusta had never minded the girls’ unconventional pursuits as long as they were discreet; now that Madeleine was safe from scandal, she had returned to the calm understanding she always displayed.
So unless some miracle occurred, they would only have stolen moments at parties such as these for the next month — and it felt like being sent to a nunnery, after all she had experienced at Ferguson’s hands.
He pulled her onto the dance floor, claiming one of the waltzes she now always saved for him. In the only act that betrayed his autocratic tendencies, Ferguson demanded that she only waltz with him — a promise she kept eagerly, since no other partner would satisfy her.
“The twins said you went on a shopping excursion today?” Ferguson asked as they settled into the rhythm of the dance.
“Yes, and they were eager to bankrupt you,” Madeleine said. “Not that I can fault them — they’ve dressed only in mourning for nearly four years.”
“Just remember they will soon be spending you into Fleet Prison too,” Ferguson laughed.
She thought the laugh sounded forced. There was a tightness to his jaw that worried her. Perhaps he felt the additional eyes upon him tonight as well — they were being given an oddly wide berth by their fellow dancers.
She didn’t remark on it, though. She kept her tone light and fixed a smile on her face.
“I will tire of the shopping long before we are paupered. They could have finished hours earlier, but you should have seen them — like little girls in a sweet shop. I do not believe they had been to a modiste’s salon before. Kate said your father had dressmakers come to them.”
“Father tried beating Henry and Richard, and verbally flaying me and Ellie. By the time the twins grew older, he must have thought it easier to just keep them penned up.”
He said it so matter of factly, still staring slightly over her head to survey the crowd, that her heart broke a little for him. “They are improving, though — they were civil to me today. And they are thrilled that you are marrying and staying in England. It will be good for them to have us to help them navigate the ton.”
The sudden frost in his eyes was almost imperceptible, but she heard it in his voice. “Where did they hear that we are staying in England?”
She faltered slightly, but his grip was too tight to let her fall. “I assured them of it. They are so lonely, after all, and you did say you would stay in England.”
“You forget that my remaining in England was contingent on finding a reason to stay.”
She sucked in a breath. “I thought I was a reason.”
His face was impassive, his voice dispassionate, almost bored. “If you wish to stay in London, we shall discuss it. But I’m sure you will love Scotland, given enough time.”
The autocrat slipped out from under his mask and stared her in the face. She had expected it to make an appearance someday, though, and she refused to back down. “We most certainly will discuss it. You’ve never said a pleasant word about your life in Scotland, other than that it is where your father wasn’t. Now that he is dead, what are you still running from?”
For the briefest moment, the autocrat looked almost tortured, twisted into a display of guilt and grief, before all of his emotions disappeared again behind a careful, expressionless façade. “This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation, Lady Madeleine,” he said, the formal title cutting into her just as it always wounded him. “But I will thank you for not filling my sisters’ heads with more promises until we discuss our arrangements.”
She couldn’t give in to the desire to scream at him, to shake him and demand to know why he had turned so cold. She also couldn’t leave him, not when everyone would see and assume the worst. So she forced herself to watch her steps, instead of his eyes, and to count off the minutes until he would release her.
He maintained his silence too, and while his grip on her never wavered, it also never veered into the sensual realm she was used to with him. He conducted their waltz with military precision, like she was an objective to be conquered.
When the waltz finally ended, he ushered her out of the dancers and deposited her at the side of the room. As the last strains of music faded, he stared hard at her, meeting her gaze for the first time. The guilt and grief was back.
He paused, considering her face, and finally leaned in to say, “Avoid the gaming tables tonight, love. Lady Greville is holding court there, and you would not find her conversation pleasant.”
She only had time for a startled nod before he stalked away into the crowd. She stood adrift, twisting her ring on her finger as she watched him pass through the crowd. No one stopped to converse with him, and she wondered if he felt just as alone in the ton as she always had.
But why was he considering Scotland? Had Caro finally found a threat that could sway him? The only secret that could ruin him was Madeleine’s — and bile rose in her throat as she speculated about what Caro might have learned.
“My dear, are you feeling well?” Lady Harcastle asked. Ferguson had accidentally led her directly to Prudence’s mother. Madeleine rarely wished to see her in most circumstances, and she did not want to see her now.
“Perfectly well, Lady Harcastle,” Madeleine said, swallowing hard to combat her nausea. “The duke has some business to attend to.”
Lady Harcastle raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Did you believe that? Or, worse, do you think I believe that? You are usually more astute, despite your ancestry.”
Madeleine bit her tongue. Lady Harcastle’s family had been devastated by the Peninsular War, and unlike most of the ton she absolutely loathed the French. It would do no good to mention that her mother was English — and she couldn’t have interjected it anyway, since Lady Harcastle continued to speak.
“I must say I am pleased to see you. I’ve heard something that cannot wait for my next call at your house.”
She looked both grim and sympathetic — a look Madeleine had never received from her before. Madeleine felt her stomach drop, the color fleeing her cheeks as dread replaced it.
Caro must have found her
out.
It was the only rumor that would cause this reaction. Ferguson’s other exploits were all known and tolerated, and Madeleine had no other secrets.
They had been so close — safe, in fact, with the playhouse shuttered and Marguerite’s retirement announced to the world. But apparently they weren’t safe enough.
“What do you wish to say?” Madeleine asked, feigning innocent curiosity as though it could change whatever Lady Harcastle had heard.
But it wasn’t what she expected. “You have heard the rumors about the previous duke’s death?”
“The carriage accident?” Madeleine asked blankly, too stunned by the unexpected turn in the conversation to follow Lady Harcastle’s thoughts.
“Don’t say you believe that too,” she said with an ugly, barking laugh. “Everyone knows Richard shot him.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Madeleine asked, exhaling as she felt some of her fear evaporate — she wasn’t discovered after all.
Lady Harcastle lowered her voice. “They say such madness runs in families.”
“Ferguson isn’t mad,” Madeleine said impatiently.
“Do you know for sure?” Lady Harcastle countered.
“No more than I can be sure of your sanity.”
“Don’t be pert. It’s unbecoming even if you are to be a duchess,” Lady Harcastle snapped. “Mind you, I don’t say I believe a word of this, but you need to know what the ton is saying, preferably before you are stuck with him. And if no one else will tell you, it is my duty to.”
“Tell me what?” Madeleine asked, wanting to shake the woman and see the ridiculous toque she was wearing shed its feathers on the floor.
“You do remember that he took a mistress — that actress in Seven Dials?”
Her stomach dropped again, this time feeling like it had fled entirely. “It isn’t proper for me to discuss such things.”
“I’ve never known you to be missish — but it’s worse than that. She hasn’t been seen anywhere in days.”
“I heard she retired,” Madeleine said carefully. “Perhaps she left town.”
“Likely that’s all it is. But with his brother’s madness, and witnesses claiming he forced her into his carriage after her last play — people are talking. And the prevailing rumor is that he murdered her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
She was the most acclaimed actress of the season, but Madeleine could not catch her breath. Lady Harcastle’s words punched it out of her. And before Madeleine could think to leave the ballroom, someone asked her to dance.
She had to submit to a quadrille, two reels and a country dance before she could dance with Ferguson again — and while she waited, her body was in open rebellion. The endless dancing snatched away any remaining air in her lungs, leaving her winded and lightheaded, like she had just run a footrace in a too-tight corset. Her stays pressed against her ribs, her heart beat in her throat, and stars flickered at the edges of her vision. And she had never been more thankful for her gloves — she could feel her palms turning slick within the soft kid, but her latest partner, Mr. Frederick Scolfield, appeared unaware of her distress. The man was her least favorite of Augusta’s cousins. He was likely accustomed to girls looking unhappy and nauseated in his arms.
She finally saw Ferguson again as she stood at the top waiting to go down to the end of the figure. He leaned against a wall, watching her — but where the move had left her weak-kneed with anticipation when he used to materialize out of the crowd for her alone, now it only worried her more. Had he heard the rumors?
She wished she felt as calm as he looked. The brilliant light of the chandeliers threw no shadows on his face, and his easy smile was bright, not deadly.
How could anyone think he was a killer?
The end of the dance cast her and her odious cousin Frederick out on the side of the ballroom nearest the stairs, far from where she had last seen Ferguson, and she longingly glanced at the exit. Surely Augusta had heard the rumors, but she wouldn’t seek Madeleine out — taking her home early would only confirm that the Stauntons were concerned about Ferguson’s sanity. She sucked in a breath, ignoring her cousin’s conversational gambits as she focused on keeping her lungs filled. If she could lie as still as death on the floor of Legrand’s Theatre during the climax of every play, she could surely feign boredom until she could escape.
Frederick’s voice turned petulant. He had enough money and connections that people rarely ignored him outright, even if his partners were not always eager to talk to him. He was still young enough to be an eligible match, but with his weak chin and vapid conversation, a woman would have to be desperate for his funds to consider him. “If you are this cold with the duke, cousin, you won’t have a hope of keeping him in your bed,” he sneered.
Madeleine did not look at him, positioning herself to watch the crowd. “My marriage is no concern of yours,” she said with a sneer of her own.
She heard his sharp inhale as he took a pinch of snuff. “I did wonder how you managed to snare a coronet, but ‘tis no surprise now that the truth about his sanity is coming out.”
She did turn on him then, the fast whip of her shawl as she came around brushing half the snuff out of his box. He started to protest, but he took a single look at her face and shut his mouth.
“Ferguson is the sanest man I know,” she snapped, in a low voice with a hint of menace she had never known she possessed. “I will thank you for not spreading rumors that have no basis in fact.”
He held up a hand in mocking surrender. “As you wish, cousin. But when he abandons you for another prize, do not look to me to dance with you.”
Frederick flounced off then, all wounded vanity and pricked ego. Madeleine’s thoughts were dark. If Frederick, who rarely knew any news beyond the latest fashion in waistcoats, had heard the rumors, then they were all over London.
She wanted to kill Caro. The rumors must have started with her — the woman was determined to keep Ferguson from finding happiness. But she couldn’t seek the woman out in public — and imagine the scandal if she and Ferguson were tried for different murders at the same time?
Ferguson emerged from the crowd, his blue eyes sparking with temper. He had seemed calm from a distance, but perhaps it was the same façade she was trying to maintain. “Please tell me that when we are married, we may refrain from parties for at least a decade,” Ferguson said, lifting her hand to kiss it as he greeted her. He didn’t acknowledge the way he had left her earlier, and she didn’t mention it; their problems were much bigger than she had thought.
On any other night she would have laughed, agreed with him even though his title and the responsibilities he should take up in the Lords would make parties a necessity. But she froze, her fingers wrapping around his.
If the rumors continued, there might not be any hostesses left who would receive them.
“What is it, Mad?” he asked. “Are you unwell?”
Another crest of nausea rose in her throat. Without the distraction of her argument with Frederick, all the nerves came rushing back. “Do you mind if we do not dance? I would far rather talk if it were only possible to be alone.”
He took her hand and led her to an alcove, where a bay window overlooked Lady Andover’s garden. They were still in sight of the ballroom, but no one would overhear them unless they approached — and from the way the path cleared before them, she guessed no one would dare to interrupt.
As he settled her on the alcove bench and leaned against the wall to protect them from intruders, she saw the shadows he had hidden while dancing — he didn’t look like the devil-may-care rake he played for the masses. He looked like a great duke of old, one prepared to do battle to keep his claims.
She shivered, her thin silk dress no match for the chill stealing through her. The intensity in his eyes reminded her of the night he had saved her from Westbrook in the theatre. The warrior was back.
And she was the prize he would battle for.
He stripped
off her gloves in an efficient gesture that said nothing of seduction, even if it was vastly improper. As he chafed her hands in his, he said, “What happened, Mad? If I had not been in the same room as you for the last hour, I would have guessed someone died at your feet.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your breath is ragged, your eyes are wide, your skin is chilled — you show every sign of having received a great shock.”
He looked so concerned for her that she felt tears start to gather in her eyes. It was so absurd that anyone could think him a murderer — but now that the rumor had spread, she felt incapable of swaying opinion.
“Tell me,” he commanded softly.
The panic rose again. She couldn’t remember any other time in her life when things had been so unmanageable — perhaps when her parents died, but she was too young then to strive for control. She closed her eyes, unable to look at him as she said, “I heard the most awful rumor — people are saying that you killed Marguerite.”
She swallowed convulsively, willing herself not to cry. He cursed under his breath and dropped her hands. She retrieved her gloves and slowly pulled them on again. His touch was all she wanted, but it was out of place in the ballroom. “I thought the old tabbies would have more discretion than to tell you directly,” Ferguson said.
“You knew and didn’t say anything?” she asked, annoyance clearing away just enough of her panic that her hands stopped shaking.
“I saw no reason to worry you yet.” His voice was soft, with an underbelly of iron. “If the rumor had died on its own, you need never have heard it.”
There was no apology in those words. She bristled as she said, “This affects both of us now. I realize you may not have shared such things with the scores of women who have come before, but I deserve more.”
“Is that what this is about? How many women I’ve bedded? I thought you might throw it in my face eventually, but not now.”
“There are bigger issues than that,” Madeleine said, “although I can’t help but wonder if this rumor would have gained legs if you hadn’t made so many enemies in the ton. Lady Greville, for one, plans to make your life a misery.”
