CHRISTINA DODD
Scandalous Again
Contents
To the Reader
Dedication
Chapter One“Now, Madeline, I realize you’ve only just arrived home . . .
Chapter Two“It looks as if the Red Robin has disintegrated . . .
Chapter ThreeSlowly, Eleanor rose. “Wh-what?”
Chapter Four“Miss de Lacy!”
Chapter FiveGabriel’s gaze skidded over Lady Tabard, over Thomasin, over Madeline . . .
Chapter SixMadeline strode down the empty corridor in search of something . . .
Chapter SevenMadeline jumped.
Chapter EightMadeline clasped her hands in pride as she surveyed her handiwork.
Chapter NineMadeline’s plan had been too simple.
Chapter Ten“My lord, you look lonely.”
Chapter ElevenIdly, Thomasin ran sand through her fingers and watched . . .
Chapter Twelve“Ye told her what?”
Chapter ThirteenThomasin snatched the hairbrush out of Madeline’s hand.
Chapter Fourteen“My dear Miss de Lacy, you were right!”
Chapter FifteenWhen Madeline’s eyes sprang open, the night candle had burned low.
Chapter SixteenAs Madeline caught her breath, the thought flashed through her mind—
Chapter Seventeen“Have you lost your mind?”
Chapter Eighteen“I am not a dish served for your delectation.”
Chapter NineteenGabriel commanded, “Then lie still and let me do what I want.”
Chapter TwentyGabriel’s chest heaved as he looked at Madeline sprawled beneath him.
Chapter Twenty-oneThe next afternoon, tray in hand, MacAllister paused and observed Madeline.
Chapter Twenty-twoMadeline clutched the wooden jewel box.
Chapter Twenty-threeGabriel went willingly, fascinated by the strength of Madeline’s intention,
Chapter Twenty-fourAll Madeline had to do was make her way back to her bedchamber.
Chapter Twenty-fiveAs the men laughed at Bill, Madeline and Thomasin hurried out,
Chapter Twenty-sixIt was after midnight when the Mademoiselles Vavasseur finished . . .
Chapter Twenty-seven“It is my considered opinion that Lord Campion has overreached . . .
Chapter Twenty-eightMadeline’s knees gave way.
Chapter Twenty-nine“I won. I won!”
Chapter ThirtyThat was the question Madeline should be asking herself.
Chapter Thirty-oneDid Gabriel love her?
Chapter Thirty-two“Gabriel!”
About the Author
Books by Christina Dodd
Copyright
About the Publisher
Dedication
To Heather MacAllister,
a dear friend and a great help.
You worked with me hand-in-glove
to give this plot the perfect touch.
Thank you!
Dear Reader,
It happens to all of us. We’re thrown into circumstances where we have to pretend to be someone else. Like when you graduate from high school, go to college, and pretend you’re a college student. Or you get married and pretend you’re a wife. Or you have a baby and pretend you’re a mother. You ask for the instruction manual and everybody chuckles.
You’re in dead earnest.
So you face the days, one at a time. First, you overcome the initial incompetence, the sense that you’re the wrong person in the wrong place and everyone’s going to know. Slowly you realize that people take you at face value and you learn how to do the tasks assigned to the new person you’re pretending to be. Sure, you fall on your face a few times, but gradually you discover your strengths. Maybe you’re not like all the other college students or the other wives or the other mothers, but as time goes on you fail less and less. Finally, you discover that while in the process of faking it, you’ve proved you’re just as smart, just as good, just as witty, just as accomplished as anyone in the world! It’s a great feeling, and it’s happened to me, maybe . . . twice. But that feeling is all the more significant for being rare.
Madeline de Lacy, duchess of Magnus, faces just such a situation when she changes places with her companion and cousin, Miss Eleanor de Lacy. Madeline has to pretend to be meek, humble and competent with an iron. She is, of course, none of those things. Just when she thinks matters couldn’t get worse, she meets her former fiancé, Gabriel Ansell, the earl of Campion—and they do.
I hope you enjoy Scandalous Again, and may all your dreams come true!
Warmly,
Chapter One
Suffolk, 1806
“Now, Madeline, I realize you’ve only just arrived home from your tour abroad, and you deserve to rest, but I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Madeline de Lacy, the Marchioness of Sheridan, the future duchess of Magnus, bit into the first good English beef she’d had in almost four years, chewed, swallowed and smiled beatifically across the sunny breakfast table at the bluff, red-cheeked bulldog of an Englishman. “Why is that, Papa?”
“I wagered you in a game of piquet and I lost.”
She stared. Placing her knife and fork carefully beside her plate, she glanced at the dumbfounded footman, frozen in place as he bent to pour Magnus his morning coffee. “That will do, Heaton. Place the carafe on the sideboard. We’ll call you if we need you.” When Heaton had left, she gazed at her father and repeated—for she wanted no misunderstanding—“You wagered me in a game of chance and lost.”
He continued eating steadily, silverware clinking and flashing. “No use trying to soften the blow, I say. Not with you, m’ dear. Sturdy girl. Sensible girl. Always said so. Glad of it.”
Drawing on that famed sensibility, she said, “Perhaps you could give me the details of this extraordinary bet.”
“Had the bad luck to play not knowing he had gained a pique, which reduced me to—”
Madeline took a fortifying breath. “No, Papa. I mean—why would you put me in a game as ante?”
“Well, he suggested it.”
“He being . . . ?”
“Mr. Knight.”
“And you agreed because . . . ?”
“I’d just lost our fortune and all our estates. You were the only thing left.”
Amazing how rational he made his actions sound. “So in a run of bad luck, you wagered everything we have—and your only child?”
“Yes. At the time, it seemed a wise move.”
Her brows rose. After the death of her mother seventeen years ago, when Madeline was five, her life had changed from that of a sheltered daughter to one of a girl dealing with the frequent disasters orchestrated by her beloved papa. By the time she was twelve, she knew how to direct a household, to plan a party, to deal with every kind of social disaster.
She was not prepared for this. Yet her heartbeat remained calm, her brow unwrinkled, her hands relaxed in her lap. She’d faced catastrophes of Olympian proportions before—almost all the result of her father’s careless disregard. Her composure would not be compromised now. “How so?”
“At least if he won you, you’d be assured of having our estates under your control, or at least the control of your husband.” Magnus chewed thoughtfully. “It’s almost the same as offering the estates as your dowry.”
“Except if the estates had been offered as a dowry, I would have the advantage of knowing my husband and agreeing to the match.” It seemed a point her father should concede, although she had little hope of that.
“There is that, but really, what difference would it make if you know the chap? You were already engaged once. You loved him. And that proved a disaster! What was his name? Brown-ha
ired fellow with those damned disturbing eyes.” Gazing up at the gilded, cherub-decorated ceiling, Magnus stroked his chin. “He was a hundred times more suitable than this Mr. Knight, but you jilted him. Rendered London speechless for at least”—he chuckled—“eight seconds. Until then, didn’t know you could lose your temper. What was his name?”
A crack appeared in her tranquillity; her hands curled into fists. “Gabriel Ansell, the earl of Campion.”
“That’s right. B’ God, I’ll never forget. Magnificent in your wrath! Reminded me of your mother on a rampage.”
Madeline didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t like to be reminded of her rage, or her loss of control, or that night and what followed. Afterward, for the first time in her life, she’d tossed decorum aside. She’d gone abroad to forget, and hadn’t come back until she’d achieved forgetfulness. She never thought of Gabriel anymore. She scarcely remembered his name.
“Your mother was just like you. Always level-headed except when she flew into the boughs, then the oceans quailed.” Turning toward the closed door, Magnus shouted, “More kippers!”
Picking up the bell at her elbow, Madeline rang it. The butler answered. Heaton had undoubtedly raced to the kitchen to share the extraordinary news with the household. She addressed Uppington in a composed manner. “His Grace would like more kippers.” Anything to fill his mouth and stop him from talking about Gabriel. About Lord Campion.
Uppington bowed. In his rush to handle yet another of Magnus’s “situations,” he had buttoned his tailed jacket askew. “Aye, my lady.” He refilled their plates.
Madeline bent her attention to her meal. A less formidable woman would have had her appetite destroyed by Magnus, but if Madeline allowed her father to destroy her appetite every time he scrambled their fortunes, she would be a wraith. She saw no wisdom in that.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?” Uppington asked.
“Not . . . yet.” Although, she reflected, perhaps she should ask for a cricket bat or any blunt object with which to beat sense into her parent. Actually, it was far too late. She knew that . . . or she might have tried it. She was accounted to have a good swing. “Papa, did you lose the queen’s tiara?”
“No! Not mine to lose.” Magnus actually looked alarmed. “It belongs to you, who will be a duchess in her own right. Your mother wore it in her wedding portrait. Elizabeth herself would come back and haunt me if I wagered the tiara.”
The queen’s tiara had been given to one of Madeline’s ancestors, a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth the First, for saving Elizabeth’s life. Solid gold and encrusted with jewels, the tiara was worth a fortune in cash and sentiment, and the queen decreed that, regardless of their gender, the eldest child of the family would inherit the title. Thus, in the last two hundred and twenty-two years, there had been dukes of Magnus, of course. But there had also been three duchesses of Magnus—girls born first in the family and who were thus duchesses in their own right.
She couldn’t help it. She had to ask. “Do you swear it’s in the safe?”
He huffed. “I swear it’s in the safe, and the dukes—and duchesses—of Magnus always keep their word.”
She hadn’t.
“Don’t know how I got along without you while you were gone, my dear.” Magnus provided a brief pat on her arm. “What shall we do today? Good day for hunting. Or perhaps you’d like to ride into the village and visit your old governess, Mrs. Watting.”
“Watling,” Madeline corrected. “I’d like to hear more about this wager.”
Sincerely puzzled, he asked, “What else is there to know?”
“Perhaps the name of my new . . . husband? Or am I to be a mistress?”
“Mistress?” Magnus harrumphed indignantly. “Good God, daughter, do you think me totally without prudence and sensibility?”
Madeline refrained from answering that.
“Of course you’re not to be his mistress! Chap is to marry you, or nothing!”
“Such a relief.” She marveled at her father’s equanimity in the face of what was economic and social disaster. “Do I know him?”
“No. He’s an American, or at least he hailed from the Colonies.”
“I believe they’ve achieved their independence,” Madeline said dryly.
Magnus dismissed that fact with an airy wave. “It’ll never last. No, Knight’s family originated here, and he arrived in London last year. Been making a name for himself in the clubs. Not popular, but I had to play him. Couldn’t resist.”
And that was the problem. Magnus couldn’t resist any kind of gaming challenge.
Magnus frowned. “He has the devil’s own luck with the cards.” He said nothing more, as if that settled every curiosity she might have.
If one were unacquainted with Magnus, one might have thought him a monster of parental disinterest. Madeline knew better. He loved her as best his shallow personality could love, but he lacked both an attention span and a sense of responsibility. Fortuitously, Madeline had always been a strong-willed female of unusual prudence. “Is he old, young, a professional gambler, a merchant?”
“Well. Not worthy of a duke’s daughter and a duchess in her own right, but damned hard to find anyone worthy of us, isn’t there? Even your mother, God rest her soul, was only the daughter of a marquess.”
“So he is a . . . gentleman? Or as much of a gentleman as any American can be?”
“Unexceptional. Dresses well, coats by Worth, cloisonné snuffbox, keeps a townhouse in Berkeley Square, handsome, popular with the ladies.” Magnus dabbed a bit of yolk off his mustache. “Got that damnable accent, but men respect him.”
Madeline correctly interpreted the last comment. “He can use his fists.”
“Boxes. Punishing left. Good defense. Punched the hell out of Oldfield, and Oldfield can fight.”
Madeline finished her meal in silence, thinking hard all the while. She had no intention of marrying . . . anyone. Her one venture into romance had ended disastrously. Glancing up, she saw Magnus watching her with a worried frown.
“See here, Mad, if you really object to marrying this fellow, you don’t have to. I have a scheme—”
Well acquainted with her father’s schemes, which usually involved gambling and ensuing disaster, Madeline exclaimed, “Heavens, no!” Realizing she had been less than tactful, and possibly had waved the red flag at her bull of a father, she added, “I have a plan, too. I’m going to go to London and explain to Mr. Knight it would be ridiculous for us to wed.”
Chapter Two
“It looks as if the Red Robin has disintegrated since last we stayed here.” Miss Eleanor de Lacy, Madeline’s companion—and cousin—said as she peered out of the luxurious, well-sprung coach. Her voice quavered.
March’s promise of daylight had faded with the onset of ocean fog, and the light that shone from the inn’s windows blurred in the mist. Men’s voices blared from the open door. From what Madeline could see, the yard was awash with filth. Yet her coachman wasn’t shouting imprecations at the post boys, so they must be handling the cattle well.
That was really all the mattered. That their horses be well cared for so they could travel on to London the next morning. “We might have made the trip in one day if we hadn’t had such a late start.”
“We needed to pack the proper clothing,” Eleanor answered, serene in her conviction. “Mr. Knight will listen to a handsome lady with more favor than a hoyden, and that’s what you would look like if we don’t mind our business.”
“I suppose,” Madeline admitted grudgingly. Eleanor was the expert about all matters feminine.
At the age of twenty-four, Eleanor was pretty, much prettier than Madeline herself. With shining black hair, a porcelain complexion and languishing blue eyes, Eleanor looked like a princess out of a fairy tale. Madeline shared the black hair, but her skin was tanned from a careless disregard for her bonnet, and her blue eyes did not languish, they danced. Yet the cousins were reputed to look alike, especially when bot
h were dressed in dark traveling costumes as they were tonight.
Unfortunately, an early life spent in grinding poverty, coupled with the loss of her mother and her father’s unfortunate remarriage, had made Eleanor timid and uncertain of herself.
Yet Madeline loved her dearly. Patting Eleanor briskly on the shoulder, Madeline said, “Chin up, dear! Compare this to that smuggler’s inn in Portugal.” Madeline gave her hand to her footman and descended the step.
“Oh, definitely.” Eleanor followed. “But we had no expectations of that inn.”
“And our lack of expectations were met.”
For one moment, in the doorway of that run-down inn, the two cousins exchanged a grin. What else could one do, when one remembered an agonizing night spent with bedbugs, knowing all the while that the French troops downstairs might decide to take English prisoners? Though the cousins were completely different personalities, they understood each other. After spending four years almost constantly in each other’s company in some of the most dangerous conditions ever known to an Englishperson of either gender, they had found their already sturdy bonds strengthened.
Dickie Driscoll, Madeline’s groom and the man who had escorted them throughout Europe, hurried to her side. “Looks rough, Miss Madeline.”
“Yes, but it’s too far to proceed and too dark, too.” Madeline glanced back at the coach. She had come in full ducal splendor, with a well-sprung coach, outriders, two footmen, her father’s best coachman—and Dickie. That would assure her safety. That, and the loaded pistol tucked in her black velvet reticule.
She patted him on the shoulder. “Take the lads, go around to the kitchen and get yourselves a hot meal. It’s four hours to London. We’ll get an early start.”
The women stepped into the common room. A blast of song and the stench of unwashed bodies made Eleanor quail, but Madeline caught her by the arm and hauled her forward into the chamber.
Mr. Forsyth, the innkeeper, hurried toward them through a cloud of blue tobacco smoke. “M’ lady.” He bowed cursorily, and spoke rapidly, blocking the sight of them from the room. “How good t’ see ye again after so many years! May I urge you t’ go back t’ our private parlor?”
Scandalous Again: Switching Places #1 Page 1
