All's Fair in Love and Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  Douglas ignored the slight to himself. Yes, he meant to warn Albright to keep far away from her, but he also wanted to know what Spence had told the man, and what Albright might have learned about Madeline. He told himself it was to help her, not to spy on her. His intentions were far more honorable than anything Spence or Albright might plan. “Quite aside from the fact that he’s trying to play us against each other—how much did he offer you, by the by?”

  “Half of Chesterton’s bounty.” Now that he’d been found out, Albright seemed to have no inclination to hide anything.

  “Only half?” Douglas raised his brows. “When you’re putting in all the effort? That’s a poor bargain.”

  Albright frowned. “How much . . . ?”

  “Three quarters.” He flicked one hand. “Which is still too generous to him, in my opinion . . . if the lady turns out to be the one he suspects, which I highly doubt will happen.”

  Now Albright smirked. “Too generous it might be, but you know Spence. He plays to win. He must have a damned good idea that she’s the one, if he went to the trouble of setting us both on it.” He peered closer at Douglas. “Tell me true, Bennet—are you asking because you also intend to win, or because you’ve taken an actual interest in her? If it’s the first, then our conversation is over; every man for himself and all that. But if it’s the latter . . .”

  He had a split second to decide how much he trusted Albright. They’d been friendly since university, frequent opponents in the boxing ring and occasional companions in gaming and general carousing. Albright was a decent companion, not a cheat, and relatively upstanding. He wasn’t above making wagers on a lark, but Douglas had never known him to be dishonorable. “The latter,” he said in a low voice. “If Spence tries to ruin her, I’ll kill him.”

  Something in the other man’s posture eased. “I thought it might be that way. Never seen you look so enthralled by a woman. You didn’t even notice when I tipped my hat, did you?”

  Douglas blinked. “When?”

  “Outside Gunter’s.” Albright was amused. “She saw me.”

  “I know. It gave her a fright. How long have you been following her?”

  “Nearly a month now.”

  At least a fortnight longer than Douglas had been seeing her. Spence must have grown impatient. “Will you stop?”

  Albright nodded. “If you like.” He shook his head ruefully. “It seemed long odds, but a thousand quid would have been welcome. I’ll tell Spence to bugger off.”

  “Right. No, wait—don’t do that.” Douglas thought rapidly. If Albright announced he was out, Spence would probably find someone else to follow Madeline. Albright at least was a gentleman; he might make her nervous but he’d never hurt her or try to terrify her. Some of Spence’s other associates weren’t as nice in their manners. On no account did Douglas want Spence to send one of them after Madeline. There simply had to be a way to make this rebound on him . . . “Are you willing to turn the tables on him?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Spence thinks she’s Lady Constance. I’m rather sure she’s not.” Douglas dismissed the fact that he was sure of no such thing, and focused on his main object, which was protecting Madeline—and the best way to help her would be to thwart Spence’s plans. He’d never thought himself particularly intelligent, but he had engineered a number of entertaining pranks in his day. Surely this couldn’t be that different. And if he played it right, he might come off as rather heroic, which he wouldn’t mind at all. “I don’t give a damn about the money, but there’s no reason you can’t make a few pounds off his bloody bargain.”

  Philip Albright shot him a long, questioning look. For a moment Douglas thought he might laugh or walk away, too distrustful or doubtful, but then Albright said, “All right. Tell me how.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  For more than two weeks, Mr. Bennet kept up his insistence that they were friends.

  He called on her regularly—not every day, but often enough that she began expecting him. He called her Madeline, and wore down her resistance to calling him Douglas by correcting her every time she said “Mr. Bennet.” He brought gifts: fresh oranges, a book of poetry, and a beautiful set of swan quill pens. “To fill all those pages of paper,” he’d said with a gleam of laughter lurking in his eye. As with all his gifts, she accepted it with thanks. None verged on intimate or romantic, after all, and she’d learned that arguing with him was guaranteed to leave her still in possession of the gift and—despite herself—highly amused. Besides, Constance made a perfectly delicious orange marmalade.

  Constance, in fact, found everything about Mr. Bennet perfectly delicious. “Well done, madam,” the cheeky maid murmured after one of his calls. “He’ll do nicely until Mr. Steele arrives.”

  “Who is Mr. Steele?” Madeline asked in surprise.

  “The butler you ought to hire.” Constance tidied the tea tray. “Although his position is in jeopardy now that Mr. Bennet drives you home every night.”

  That was true, although it left Madeline with conflicting feelings. Douglas attended most of the same events she did, and he invariably insisted on seeing her safely home. It was far more convenient than taking hired hacks, and he always had her laughing by the time they reached her door. He never once asked to come in, or even made an attempt to kiss her. It was all very friendly, so much so Madeline was beginning to wonder if she had imagined his earlier, unmistakable attraction to her.

  She gave herself a shake. “There’s no position to jeopardize.”

  “Yet,” put in Constance.

  “Who is this Mr. Steele? You haven’t promised someone a position, have you?”

  The maid looked wounded. “Never, madam!”

  Madeline frowned in suspicion. “Is Mr. Steele a real person, Constance?”

  “Not yet.” She lifted the tray and got a faraway look in her eyes. “I’ve pictured him, though; tall enough to reach the top shelves of the larder, and strong enough to carry a lass up the stairs if she should turn her ankle. Fair, I think—fair men are so handsome—with green eyes and a naughty sense of humor. I do admire that in a man, along with broad shoulders and plenty of muscles. His Christian name will be James, or Geoffrey, or something else manly that rolls off a girl’s tongue.”

  “Are you certain it’s a butler you picture?” she asked wryly. “He sounds far superior to most butlers.”

  “I want nothing but the best for you, madam. Mr. Steele should be the top butler in London. But there’s no reason he can’t be tall, handsome, and strong to boot.” The maid grinned and took the tray from the room.

  Still smiling in exasperation, Madeline went to the window. The two small boys from next door were chasing a hoop across the grass while their nursemaid watched, and a carriage with two ladies was turning the corner. Brunswick Square was sedate and quiet, with genteel and respectable inhabitants.

  And no one else. The man who had once been a regular feature, lingering at the corner or reading a newspaper at the iron fence, was nowhere to be seen. At first she’d been relieved, telling herself she must have been imagining things, but lately she couldn’t help wondering if Douglas’s frequent visits had anything to do with it.

  Well, good, she thought. Let it serve some purpose she could defend to Liam. He knew about Douglas’s attentions. Twice he’d asked if she wasn’t coming to enjoy it, despite her dismissive words. It was harder and harder to deny it, although she maintained that Douglas was no threat. He’s merely my friend, she imagined telling Liam—and then grimaced as she pictured his reaction to that claim. He probably wouldn’t believe it if she told him Douglas was her new guardian, but she thought she could persuade him that she’d been left in peace by everyone else while Douglas was with her.

  And yet . . . that was the part that left her conflicted. She should be pleased—elated!—that an amusing, considerate man had decided to befriend her. It was the next
best thing to having a brother, who could offer her some protection without requiring her to surrender her freedom. If only she could think of Douglas in a sisterly way.

  She realized she was glaring out the window. It was herself she found frustrating, although Douglas was a close second. He must know what he was doing; he knew he was handsome and charming and too entertaining by half. He must be trying to make her mad for him, with this torturous, courteous friendship. Surely if she encouraged him he would sweep her off to bed this very evening and make love to her all night long.

  No. Madeline shook her head to dislodge the thought. That was not her goal—not having him naked in her arms, with his glib and impertinent tongue doing wicked things to her skin while his hands drove her wild. Not waking up to his lazy grin and thrilling company. Not seeing him cross a crowded ballroom to take her in his arms and demonstrate that she wasn’t an icy widow but a woman who had been lonely for far too long . . .

  She closed her eyes. She couldn’t be falling for him. She’d be the biggest fool in London. He was a gambler, a rogue, a charming rake who was only still interested in her because she hadn’t swooned into his arms immediately. The fact that he’d been very decent, even gallant, was only an act. The way he made her laugh was only part of his plot to seduce her.

  Surely it was.

  After another sleepless night Madeline rose early, dressed, and went out. There was only one person she could turn to for advice on such a subject, only one person who would listen without judgment and never breathe a word about it to anyone. After a brisk walk, she turned into Berwick Street and rapped the knocker at a handsome house of brick.

  Her mother was still at breakfast. “Darling,” said Adele Dantes, rising from the table with a delighted smile. “How charming to see you.”

  “You’re looking very well, Mama.”

  “Thank you, darling, you are so kind to an old lady’s vanity.”

  Madeline laughed. “Vain, yes, but not old.” She kissed her mother’s cheek in greeting.

  Adele took her hands and kissed her back, then maintained her grip. She studied Madeline for a moment. “You look preoccupied.”

  She smiled wryly. “You never miss anything.”

  “I did not mean to say you look haggard, darling. The shadows are in your eyes, not on your face.” Her mother waved her into a seat. “Cecile, bring something for Mrs. Wilde.”

  As soon as the maid had brought another pot of tea and a place setting for Madeline, Adele dismissed her from the room. “Have you come to talk about it, or to escape it?”

  “You know me well, Mama.” It was true; she could go weeks without seeing her mother, yet Adele would instantly sense when something bothered her.

  Adele gave her a reproachful glance. “I am your mother. I have known your every mood since you were a child.”

  Madeline stirred a drop of milk into her tea, watching it swirl through the pale amber liquid. Her mother still favored French china, so thin one could see the light shine through it. “I wish it were a simple, childish problem that vexed me now.”

  “Ah. What is his name?”

  She put down the spoon. “Why must it always be a man?”

  Adele made a grimace. “It seems to be their nature. What has he done to you? Shall I send Canton to shoot him?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Her mother raised one brow. “He does not deserve to be shot, or you prefer to do it yourself?”

  She was saved from a reply to that question when the door opened, and the Duke of Canton himself came in. He was broad and bluff, with thinning hair and an expanding belly. He wasn’t a very handsome man, but he was exceedingly good-natured. “Ah, Madeline! Good morning, my dear.”

  She raised her cheek for his affectionate kiss. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  “What a rare treat for me, breakfast with two beautiful women.” He winked and turned to give Adele a more passionate kiss. Madeline watched her mother’s face shift, becoming more radiant and peaceful. She’d seen that a hundred times before, but for some reason it caught her eye this morning.

  The duke circled the room and began lifting lids on the sideboard. “Are there kippers?”

  “There are always kippers,” said Adele.

  He lifted another lid. “Oho! So there are.” He glanced at Madeline as he filled a plate. “Have you come to tempt your mama into spending the winter in Hampshire?” The duke’s principal seat, Linton Hall, was in Hampshire, a vast estate of bucolic beauty. Every year for as long as Madeline could remember, the duke had been trying to persuade Adele to make an extended visit, and every year he failed. Adele was at home in the city, with its shops and theaters. Every time she gave in to Canton’s pleas and went to Hampshire, she found a reason to return to London within weeks, if not days.

  “Never say such a thing,” replied Adele before Madeline could speak. “How could you tear me away from my only child for the solitude of Linton Hall? I would waste away.”

  Canton scoffed. “Never! I wouldn’t allow it. Come for the Christmas festival, and you’ll change your mind, my dear.”

  Adele waved one hand. “You say that every year, and every year it is so cold and too damp. At least in town one can attend the theater in the rain.”

  “I’ll install a troupe of players just for your amusement. Will you come then?” he cajoled.

  She pursed her lips. “I would have to pack every gown I own.”

  “We’ll import a small village of modistes and milliners. They can set up in the great gallery.” Canton looked hopefully at Madeline. “And your daughter is always welcome in any home of mine. Surely she would like some country air?”

  Madeline couldn’t help smiling at him. “Perhaps.”

  Adele threw up her hands, but Madeline could tell she was trying not to smile, too. “I must reconsider my allies, I see.”

  “I choose to consider that a prelude to victory,” announced the duke. “To Christmastide in Hampshire!” He raised his coffee cup in salute, and they all laughed.

  Madeline watched her mother banter with the duke as he ate breakfast and the ladies drank their tea. She’d known Canton her entire life; he had always been there, kind and jovial. When she was a girl, he always had sweets in his pocket for her. As she grew older, he brought her hair ribbons or arranged visits to the menagerie, and when she married he gave her a magnificent pair of diamond earrings. He’d been more like a father to her than her real father, whom she hardly remembered. Henri Dantes had died when she was only six, and her memories of him were limited to a few songs and one time when he took her to fly a kite in the park.

  No—that wasn’t right. She remembered her father’s arguments with her mother. Henri had been a gambler, hardly able to keep a guinea in his fist without staking it in some wager or another. And he’d lost many of them, which had caused the arguments; even as a child she had known that. She remembered hiding behind a chair while her mother screamed at him, a furious stream of French that ended with dishes being thrown. She remembered the night her mother barred the door and refused to admit him when he returned home late at night, drunk and loud. She’d heard him shouting in the street, even with the blankets over her head. After Henri died, Madeline had never heard her mother scream again, and she hardly ever spoke French, either. With his death had come peace, and Canton, and Englishness.

  She’d never asked much about it. Her mother never mentioned Henri, but neither did she explain much about the duke. He had been there before Henri died, and he only became a more frequent visitor afterward. He was welcome in Adele’s house at all hours, and came and went as if he owned it—which, Madeline suspected, he very likely did. Her mother lived well but discreetly, and any question of money she dismissed as vulgar. Still, Madeline knew what was whispered about her. For years she had heard the rumors, although she had never spoken a word about her family to anyone else. Since c
hildhood her mother had taught her not to acknowledge anything, and she had kept to that. In fact, her ability to keep her own counsel had served her very well.

  But watching the two of them this morning made her wonder. Adele had been a widow for nearly twenty years. Canton had never married. There was obviously love and affection between them. There were times when she caught a private glance between them, and she knew there was passion, too. They were rumored to have been lovers for decades, so their marriage would hardly surprise anyone. What kept them apart?

  “Tell me about him,” said Adele again, when the duke had finished his meal, kissed them both again, and taken himself off, whistling to the dogs who loped at his heels.

  Madeline took her time replying. She had come for advice, but now didn’t know what to say. How could she describe Douglas? “I was thinking about my father,” she said, only realizing when she heard the words that she had wondered about him for a long time.

  “He died nineteen years ago, God rest his soul,” said her mother evenly. “Who is the man who vexes you?”

  She played with her teaspoon. “He’s a gambler, like Papa.”

  “I advise you to drop him at once.” Adele’s voice had cooled noticeably. “And under no circumstances should you allow him to persuade you he will give it up. If he tries, he is a liar.”

  She nodded. It was sound advice. All the gossip she heard about Douglas pointed toward, at best, a torrid affair of a few weeks’ duration. He was brash and charming and could be very amusing, but he was a rogue. For all she knew, his attention to her could be merely in pursuit of some wager. He’d already admitted wagering on whether he could persuade her to dance with him.

  And yet . . . She’d known more than a few unrepentant gamblers in her life, and he wasn’t like them. She couldn’t picture him in a rage over losing. The rumors of his losses were frequent, but never extreme; in fact, he’d lost several small wagers to her in the last few weeks, and not once had anything darkened his humor. Was it possible for a man to gamble persistently but stay within his means? Had his family covered his losses to spare him the ignominy? Or had he merely been fortunate to have won more than he lost—so far?