The Madcap

by Nikki Poppen

  “It’s absolutely scandalous to be the focus of so much attention,” his mother huffed.

  Alasdair read through the article, tuning out his mother’s plans. The article was alarming to him, but not for the reasons his mother itemized. The article wasn’t so much about him as about Marianne-what she wore, where she’d gone even without him. There was mention of a comment she’d made at Mrs. Mackay’s tea that suggested she might be mocking the English way of things, and certainly illustrated her tendency toward free speaking.

  It occurred to Alasdair that Brantley likely had a hand in directing the columnist’s ideas and information. Alasdair knew it was not uncommon for the financially pressed among his circles to discreetly sell information about exclusive events to society pages in order to make some pocket change. Nor was it beyond the pale, for those who could afford it, to pay a writer to mention them in the column or link them to prestigious people.

  But what disturbed him most was that Brantley had someone helping him, likely a woman who would be at primarily female events like Mrs. Mackay’s tea. Such organization and planned malice affirmed the level of wickedness to which Brantley would stoop without a qualm.

  Fighting his battle in the press gave Brantley an advantage as well as protection. He could hide behind the columnist’s words. He was invisible while his words were read by everyone, and thus did not have to be accountable for his prejudice.

  “I think we should announce your engagement to Sarah Stewart immediately. That will set things to rights. We can have an announcement made in the Times,” his mother proclaimed loudly.

  “No,” Alasdair said staunchly in a knee-jerk response. He’d been saying “no” for so long about the Sarah Stewart situation that he responded on reflex. He rose, leaving his plate of eggs and kippers mostly untouched. The only way to win an argument with his mother was simply to leave the room. “Please, excuse me. I have work to see to”

  Two hours later, Alasdair raked his hands through his thick dark hair, ruffling it in frustration. His solicitor sat patiently across from him in the room that served as Alasdair’s office at the town house. The session hadn’t gone as well as Alasdair had hoped it would. He’d planned the budget for the Season meticulously, down to the last pound. The country estate was running with a skeleton staff and all the extra wings of the house were closed so that the house could function at maximum efficiency with minimal output. Now, a note from the prince strongly hinted at his desire to have a house party there.

  Alasdair groaned at the prospect. House parties were inherently expensive regardless of who was invited. But hosting the prince was exorbitant. For starters, he’d have to close the Richmond house where his mother preferred to stay, coming into Town only on occasion for special events, for the remainder of the Season. Frankly, Alasdair preferred she stay there too. They got along best at a distance. Now she would be in his pockets for the rest of the Season, sharing the town house. But there was no question of affording the Richmond house and the London town house with Bertie coming for a week. Of course, his mother would understand. She always understood when it came to his friendship with Bertie. One could not refuse the prince without sacrificing the prince’s favor, and his mother was very fond of his status in the prince’s circle of friends. The prince was currently away at Brighton, and so far Alasdair had avoided extra extravagances in Town due to his absence.

  “We’d best start with a list,” Alasdair instructed his solicitor. A list didn’t begin to cover it. There would be new linens to purchase, rooms to restore, and gardens to tend just to get ready. Then there were the guest lists to assemble and the menus to plan. The prince had an expensive penchant for lobster salad and other delicacies including Charles Heidsieck’s champagne. He’d need help. Perhaps Audrey and Stella could assist. One good piece of news about the house party was that he could use it to introduce Marianne to the prince. Brantley would never dare to cross Bertie.

  After giving instructions and the rudimentary elements of a list to his solicitor, Alasdair decided it was time for a walk. He needed to talk with Camberly, and he had a visit to pay a particular journalist at the Morning Post who would soon be writing a lot less about him and Marianne Addison.

  Alasdair immediately forgot his troubles when he sighted Marianne in the town house garden on Portland Square that afternoon. He was used to finding her in the garden now. She sat on a low bench near the fountain, engaged in a book and entirely unaware of his presence. He stood silently for a moment, taking in her unrestrained beauty. She was dressed in a palenougat-and-pink-striped carriage gown for their drive. The soft palette of colors evoked the mood of an innocent summer day and set off her ivory complexion and golden curls-an intoxicating combination to be sure. He appreciated that there was no artifice about her loveliness. She was simply herself.

  Alasdair walked stealthily up behind her, careful not to let the gravel of the path crunch beneath his feet. No one was around, so he slipped his hands over her eyes. “Guess who”

  Marianne laughed. “I can smell lavender and sage. It must be Alasdair.”

  “You can smell me?” Alasdair removed his hands and stepped back, intrigued by her comment. “I don’t think anyone has ever `smelled’ me before” Indeed, he couldn’t think of a single woman he’d ever been involved with who had mentioned smelling him.

  “Well, it’s such a lovely smell, all that sage and lavender-I can’t imagine how anyone could overlook it,” Marianne said in her own defense.

  “Don’t forget the artemisia,” Alasdair teased.

  “Artemisia, of course” Marianne smiled. “I knew I smelled something else. But it’s been keeping me guessing.” She stood up and closed her book. “Are we ready to go? I’ve been looking forward to this all day”

  Alasdair hoped the drive lived up to her expectations. He worried about the reactions of others now that the second article had been published. In an attempt to avoid exposing Marianne to any hostility, he’d arranged for Camberly and Lionel to join them in the park, and he had hopes that with the buffer of her friends about her, Marianne wouldn’t notice the difference. It was starting to cross Alasdair’s mind that he would have to explain everything to her very soon.

  Marianne waited until they’d strolled a slight distance away from Camberly and Lionel and their wives to bring up the tender subject. “Do you mind explaining what is going on?” she asked quietly once they were out of earshot.

  “Going on?” Alasdair answered vaguely, hoping to play the obtuse fellow.

  “What’s Camberly doing here? People seemed different today, less friendly in their greetings. Does it have to do with the article? I saw that we were mentioned in the social column again, and I assume it is distressing for you. I apologize for having caused any trouble, but I didn’t think about the implications of my comment at the tea. I never dreamed it would end up in a newspaper for the world to see”

  Alasdair shook his head. “No, you’ve not caused any trouble.” He took her hand and pulled her behind a tree. Her blue eyes were earnest and concerned. He couldn’t bear for her to think that she’d failed him in some way.

  He had not meant to tell her, here in the middle of the park, but the words came tumbling out. “I am afraid my spilling of the champagne wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all. I underestimated how much Brantley wanted to dance with you and I fear I’ve put you in the middle of his plans to bring me down a peg.

  “He’s made himself your enemy, Marianne, all in an attempt to get back at me. There’s a wager he’s placed in the betting book at White’s. He and another of his cronies, Hamsford, have bet how long you’ll last in London before you’re ousted”

  Marianne’s smile faded. Her glance fell to her feet. “I’ve made it fairly easy for him with my remark at the tea. How long have you known?” She brought her gaze back up, peering at him from beneath the wide brim of her hat.

  “Since the Radcliffe musicale.”

  He watched Marianne’s mind working through the e
vents of the past weeks. “I see,” she said a quietly. “I never suspected a thing. You were quite clever, insinuating me into your group of friends, lending me their protection without actually telling me, letting me believe they were my friends too”

  Alasdair sucked in a deep breath. He’d not thought of his actions from that point of view. He’d never once wanted her to feel betrayed or manipulated, but in trying to avoid those circumstances he’d caused them to occur anyway. “Camberly and Audrey, Lionel and Stella, all like you. They respect you. Their friendship is genuine,” Alasdair argued, wanting to alleviate the hurt and the doubt in her eyes.

  “Very well,” Marianne said, but in a tone that indicated she didn’t quite believe him.

  They were out of other people’s view. Alasdair reached for her hand. “I did not mean for any of this to hurt you. I went to the journalist’s workplace today and asked him not to write about us in quite so much detail. I hope I succeeded in being more persuasive than Brantley was”

  “Brantley?”

  “I am sure he’s the one giving the information to the journalists, although I’m not sure where he’s getting it. If he stops, the negative press should stop,” Alasdair reasoned. His mouth quirked up into a smile. “Of course, I told the journalist I wasn’t opposed to him writing about me, only about the lurid, unsubstantiated analysis that tends to accompany the reports”

  Alasdair had to give Marianne credit. She was taking the news well; she could have been far more dismayed. “I do have good news too,” Alasdair said, turning the conversation away from Brantley’s attempt to instigate a scandal. “The prince is coming to a house party at my estate before Cowes. It will be a fabulous time for you to meet him.”

  Marianne was suitably impressed enough to make him believe the cost would be worth it just to see her smile.

  He wanted to kiss that smile. He’d thought of little else when he had the choice; the memory of that one quick kiss in the rowboat had lingered powerfully. Alasdair leaned in, hands resting on either side of the tree trunk, framing her lovely face. He bent his lips to hers, finding them already parted, already anticipating his kiss. This was the hard part, Alasdair thought. She was eager and beautiful, and she understood him even if she didn’t know him yet. She might not know his favorite color or how he took his tea, but she understood the things that drove him. Their conversation at the Tower had proved as much. He could propose and put his money worries to rest forever, but to do that so soon would make him the very villain the papers were making him out to be. Marianne deserved a legitimate courtship, a real chance to decide if he was right for her. Besides, he would not give Brantley the satisfaction of painting him with the fortune-hunter’s brush.

  Brantley lifted the note, placed facedown on a salver so that no one could see the address or direction of the sender. He smiled while he read it. The note wasn’t from Roberta, as he’d suspected it would be. It was from the journalist he’d paid to draw attention to the unsavory undertones of Pennington’s association with Miss Addison. The journalist was nervous. Pennington had paid him a visit that included a bloody nose.

  Such behavior was telling. Pennington must have developed quite a tendre for the pretty American to risk a ruckus. Pennington’s fist might have stopped the machine of British media, Brantley mused, but it couldn’t squelch the scandal altogether. Word of mouth among the ton could be just as deadly as the printed word, especially with the juicy tidbit Miss Farnwick had delivered to him earlier that afternoon: Miss Addison had been given the cut direct in New York for attending a Champagne Sunday. It was too delicious to idly let it drop in casual conversation. He would wait and watch for the right moment when its effect could be most devastating.

  Brantley had no concerns about how devastating it would be. It would be shattering to Pennington, who’d already demonstrated that he’d opt to try and protect Miss Addison, no doubt believing she was innocent in the ways of social intrigues. Pennington would be crushed by the news that his trust in Miss Addison’s virtue was misplaced. No man liked to feel that his more-chivalrous sentiments were betrayed. But first, Brantley thought, there might be some financial gains to be made with this latest bit of leverage.

  Alasdair checked his watch yet another time. Three o’clock. His friends and Marianne should be arriving at any time. He’d been thinking that since noon. He paced the length of his study, too impatient to work. He’d come down early in the week with his mother to oversee the general readiness for the house party, and he’d missed Marianne terribly, far more than he’d anticipated.

  He was tempted to ride out and see if he could meet the carriages but that would only add fuel to his mother’s growing resentment toward Marianne. They’d fought twice, in regard to his affections for Marianne, within the past seven days-once at dinner the first night, and then later when he’d informed his mother that he’d called on Sarah Stewart and told her in no uncertain terms that there would not be a proposal from him.

  It had been a difficult week. There had been the house to prepare, and wings to open, and there’d been relationships to prepare as well. Alasdair wanted everything perfect for Marianne as much as he wanted everything ready for his friend the prince. He’d felt it was important that he clear up his situation with Sarah before Marianne arrived.

  The conversation with Sarah had gone well. He had discussed nullifying the arrangement with her. She was not surprised, and even seemed a bit relieved that at last she could put an end to the waiting and wondering. He’d also told her about Marianne. It was an unlookedfor boon that Sarah had become the one person he could talk to about Marianne that week. Alasdair knew he could count on her to help buffer Marianne from his mother’s acerbic comments.

  All that remained was for Marianne to arrive. Alasdair idly fiddled with an inkwell on the wide cherrywood desk. As much as he missed her, as much as he’d waited all week for her to join him at Highborough, the family seat, he was anxious now that the hour of her arrival was drawing near. What would she think of Highborough? Would she think, as he did, that Highborough was an empty tomb of a house, all cold stone and high walls?

  Alasdair detested the family seat. All of its elegance, all of its portraits and expensive collections could not bring warmth to its cavernous halls. A family would do all that -a real family with children who yelled and ran through the house flying kites, who tried to slide down bannisters and filch biscuits from the kitchens.

  Alasdair sighed. The potential had always been there to make Highborough something more than it was. Would Marianne see it? Or would she see a majestic house, a showplace, that was starting to age, its expensive carpets starting to fade and fray after generations, its furniture having a slightly careworn quality to its upholstery, and its roof tending to leak during a heavy rain? He very much feared she’d take one look at Highborough and see a house that needed her fortune to maintain itself.

  That wasn’t what he wanted her to see. He wanted her to see the potential for something more. He wanted her to share his dream of putting a lively family in these halls and making it a true home. He’d waited a long time for a woman who could share that dream. He thought he’d found that woman in Marianne. Alasdair flipped open his watch again and stared ruefully at the time. They should have been here by now.

  Four carriages made a grand procession down the Devonshire country road that led to the parklands preceding the Pennington family seat. It had taken four days to make the journey from London to the Pennington estate. Good weather and the general merriment of the group had broken up the tedium of travel. The carriages often stopped at sights of interest to show off the striking landscape for Marianne’s benefit. The afternoons were marked by picnics that allowed the travelers a chance to walk and stretch their legs. The journey could have been accomplished in three days, but the group had chosen to enjoy the travel rather than to make a misery of it.

  For her part, Marianne was glad for the respite. In the weeks since the papers had mentioned her outspoken remark at Mr
s. Mackay’s tea, no further issues had cropped up. Brantley’s threats seemed to have been effectively managed by Alasdair’s visit to the unfortunate journalist, although there had been a bit of a stir once others got wind of the story.

  The stir-up hadn’t lasted long. Another bit of gossip about a girl who had eloped quickly took precedent. Marianne was more than happy to relinquish the spotlight to another unfortunate. As a result, the weeks had been filled with nothing but the social whir of the Season. Even Roberta Farnwick had stepped to the fringes of her social circle, which made the busyness of the Season much more palatable; Marianne was certain she had Audrey to thank for that. Roberta Famwick and her mother did not dare to move in the exalted circles frequented by Camberly and Pennington.

  The only item that would have made the last few weeks more enjoyable would have been a chance to see more of Alasdair. By no means had he abandoned her, but the ensuing house party for the prince had taken up a considerable amount of his time. He’d left Town last week to see to the final preparations.

  Marianne was eager to see him again. Although Audrey and Stella had kept her too busy to dwell on Alasdair’s absence, the parties and routs had seemed duller without Alasdair’s quick wit and easy smile beside her.

  Her eagerness to see Alasdair competed with her nerves over attending her first-ever house party. The prince would be there. So would Alasdair’s mother and, Marianne assumed, the woman Alasdair was expected to marry, Sarah Stewart. No one had said as much to her. Marianne expected Audrey and Stella were trying to be polite in omitting such a reference. But it only made sense that the woman would be there. She was a neighbor, after all, and a longtime family friend. Marianne thought it would be the worst type of snub to simply ignore her and not extend an invitation. Alasdair would not be small-minded enough to behave in such a manner.

  The carriage rounded a corner and Audrey leaned toward her, excitement in her voice. “Alasdair’s home is beautiful. You should be able to see it come into view any moment now. There it is. Do you see it through the trees?”