“Yes, please.” Madeline craned her neck and scanned the tables, crowded with men of the type she recognized from her travels. Rough men, mercenaries, who loved to fight, to drink, to whore.
“This way.” With scarcely a pause, Mr. Forsyth snatched up a candle and led them down the narrow corridor.
He didn’t want them to linger in the common room, and in Madeline’s opinion, that showed good sense on his part. “You’ll care for my people?”
“Indeed I will, ma’am. Ye can depend on me and the missus, just like always.” He cast a harassed glance behind him. “They promise t’ be gone in the morning, an’ that’s none too soon fer me. I’ve got me daughter hidden in our bedroom with the lock turned, and begging yer pardon, ma’am, not that I want t’ tell a lady o’ yer quality how to behave, but I’ll ask that ye remain in the parlor and when ye’ve finished yer supper, go right to yer chamber by the back stairway an’ lock the door tight.”
“Are they guests who are none too welcome?” Eleanor ventured.
“It’s not as if I could have turned them away, an’ they’re paying very well, but they’ve been here four days an’ they’ve made a pigsty out o’ everything.” Flinging open the door, he stood back to allow the women to precede him.
A merry fire burned on the hearth, with a comfortable chair and a bench before it. If only Mrs. Forsyth set a good supper on the table, everything would be flawless.
“What do you mean, you couldn’t have turned them away?” Madeline prowled toward the fire, towing Eleanor with her.
“They came in early to work for Mr. Thurston Rumbelow, the gentleman who has rented Chalice Hall for the year. They’re to make sure nothing goes wrong at the Game of the Century.”
Madeline turned swiftly on Mr. Forsyth. “The Game of the Century? Whatever do you mean?”
“Haven’t ye heard, m’lady?” Pleased with the chance to impart such juicy gossip, Mr. Forsyth said, “It’s all the talk, so I’ve been told.”
Grimly, Madeline answered, “I’ve been out of the country.”
“Gambling! A magnificent game o’ piquet. It’s exclusive. The players are allowed in by invitation only, an’ must pay ten thousand pounds’ ante. Everyone who is great an’ who games is coming. Ambassadors, merchants, exiled French noblemen—rumor says even the highest of English noblemen! I suspect the prince himself, but others say different.”
The highest of English nobleman? The prince was royalty, not nobility. The highest title for an English nobleman was that of duke, and dukes were rare indeed. There were Prinney’s brothers, and a few ancient titles scattered about the country—and Madeline’s father’s, the duke of Magnus. Her heart sank. Worse, her father had said he had a scheme to rescue her from Mr. Knight. . . .
Well aware of Madeline’s consternation, Eleanor helped Madeline remove her cloak, hat and gloves and said, “Mr. Forsyth, I’m not familiar with this Mr. Rumbelow.”
Mr. Forsyth lit a branch of candles as he chatted merrily on. “Mr. Rumbelow is a rich gentleman—well, ye know he must have a fortune to lease Chalice Hall. ‘Tis the largest house in the district!”
“But who are his people?” Madeline seated herself. “Where does he come from?”
“Quite the mystery, is Mr. Rumbelow.” Mr. Forsyth stirred up the fire. “But a generous gentleman with the blunt. He’s spared no expense for this party, laying in barrels of ale and wine, and buying through the local merchants instead of sending to London. He’s hired village lasses to help the resident staff clean the hall—been a couple of years since it’s been leased—and although I’m not happy with these men he’s lodged here, he’s making good—and some—on the damage they do.”
“An enigmatic gentleman charges ten thousand pounds to enter a game at his house, and without knowing who he is, the gamblers are willing to pay him, and trust him to hold their ante safe.” Madeline smiled with sphinxlike superiority. “I will never understand a gambler’s faith in honor.”
Mr. Forsyth looked disconcerted. Like every other man in the world, he wanted the fable of easy money to be true. “Well . . . but . . . he’s invited the families, too.”
Taken aback, Madeline said, “Really?”
“Aye, the wives and the daughters and sons. He’s promised them entertainment, hunting and dancing. The orchestra is coming on tomorrow’s post. ‘Twill be a real house party, one like we’ve not seen here fer too many years.” Mr. Forsyth offered a tentative grin.
Madeline had made him worry, and he was not to blame for her difficulties. “A good thing, then. What has Mrs. Forsyth prepared for dinner?”
Obviously relieved, Mr. Forsyth said, “ ‘Tis not fancy, fer we are feeding the great mob out there, but still a fine lamb stew with a white bread and a wheel of Stilton. Will ye have mulled wine?”
“Yes, thank you.” Madeline waited until Mr. Forsyth had bowed his way out before leaping to her feet and pacing across the room. “The nobleman is Papa!”
In her most comforting manner, Eleanor said, “Now, Maddie, you don’t know that.”
“Who else can it be?”
“Someone else, for where would Magnus get ten thousand pounds?”
“Papa told me he had a scheme to remedy matters. All he knows how to do is gamble.”
“And break your heart,” Eleanor said in a low voice.
Madeline lifted her eyebrows. Eleanor seldom spoke her mind, and never had she indicated anything but the greatest of respect for Magnus. In a humorous tone, Madeline said, “A bit melodramatic, I think.”
“Perhaps, but that’s only because he hurt you so much in the past with his indifference. You’re like a turtle, who sticks your head out only when it’s safe.”
Torn between amazement and astonishment, Madeline asked, “Are you calling me a coward?”
“Only about love, dear cousin.” Eleanor bit her lip. “But I do beg your pardon. I had no right to speak so about your father. He has been most kind in allowing you to keep me with you for so many years.” Her indignation broke forth again. “But—to wager you away! For shame!”
“You didn’t say that to him, did you?” At Eleanor’s guilty expression, Madeline said, “Oh, no. He’ll consider that a challenge, too! Of course he’ll be at the game of the century.” She hardly knew what to think about Eleanor’s accusation of cowardice. She hadn’t thought herself protected against love. Why, only four years ago she had given herself wholeheartedly to a man reputed to be a fortune hunter. Surely that qualified as an act of courage.
Yet Madeline experienced a prickle of self-consciousness, and why would she feel that way unless Eleanor’s accusation was true?
“Forget what I said,” Eleanor begged. “I had no right to speak so about you.”
“I have forgotten already.” Or Madeline would, if she didn’t know Eleanor had spoken from a depth of caring that went beyond the bonds of mere kinship. They were closer than sisters, for they could depend only on each other. Now Madeline realized she didn’t comprehend the depths of Eleanor’s mind.
Dimly they could hear the rumpus from the common room. “Who is this Mr. Rumbelow, and why must he hire such ruffians to patrol his party?” Madeline asked.
“I don’t know, but perhaps he’s respectable.” Eleanor spread both of their cloaks before the fire.
“So many gamblers are—until they lose everything and have to flee their debtors.” Madeline passed a restless hand over her hair. “I wonder if I shall be among them.”
Putting her hands on her hips, Eleanor said, “Lord Campion could help us.”
Madeline caught her breath to hear his name spoken aloud. “No.”
With a doggedness rare for Eleanor, she said, “I always thought he would come after you.”
“He didn’t.”
“He couldn’t. Napoleon’s blockade cut us off—”
“You always liked him.” That sounded like an accusation.
“Yes, I liked him. He was kind.” Eleanor’s eyes flashed in a rare temper. “But yo
u loved him!”
“Not anymore. Why are we talking about Gabriel?” With an assumption of cheerfulness, Madeline said, “For all I know he’s married with three children and another on the way.”
“No.” Eleanor sounded very sure.
No. Madeline didn’t believe so, either, perhaps only because she couldn’t stand to imagine such a thing.
With uncharacteristic frankness, Eleanor said, “Every time I walked in on you two, you were kissing and . . . Maddie, I feared for your virtue!”
Madeline winced.
“You wanted him so much, whenever you two were together I could almost smell”—Eleanor waved a hand in vague circles—“passion in the air.”
Madeline tried a feeble jest. “What do you know about passion?”
“I know I’m a stick and a prude, but I hated being your companion then. I was your chaperone, and you were always sending me off on some ridiculous errand so you could sneak off into the gardens and . . . kiss.” Eleanor raised a defiant chin. “And a great deal of other activities, I fear.”
Remorseful, for Eleanor had never expressed such reservations, Madeline said, “I beg your pardon, it was too bad of me to be so careless of you.”
“I’m not looking for an apology, I’m telling you why I think you should find Lord Campion and ask his help!”
“No.” Eleanor didn’t know all the truth, or she wouldn’t urge such a course. “I can’t ask him for anything. We must wish him well.”
“I do.”
“And handle the situation ourselves.” Thinking of Gabriel would avail her nothing. Leaning her hands on the table, Madeline stared into the fire. “Papa has to ante up ten thousand dollars or its equivalent, and he’s retained only one thing.”
Eleanor’s composure faltered. “The queen’s tiara.”
“My mother made him vow he would retain that.” Madeline placed her hand over her aching heart. “I can’t let him wager that away. I can’t.”
“No. Of course you can’t.” Eleanor’s support was swift and resolute. She perched on the bench and declared, “We shall do something to prevent him.”
“Yes.” Madeline’s mind skittered from plan to plan. “But Mr. Remington Knight is waiting, and he’ll cause a scandal if I don’t show up at the proper time.”
“Will you be able to convince him of the foolishness of this marriage?”
“I’m very persuasive and it would be craven not to try.”
“I . . . I could travel on without you and make your excuses.”
Madeline knew how Eleanor hated traveling on her own. Eleanor hated meeting new people. Most of all, she hated tirades, and she comprehended how likely it was that Mr. Knight would stage just such a scene. With sincere admiration, she said, “That’s very brave of you, but I may have to . . .” Inspiration blazed suddenly; she straightened so quickly, she almost snapped her corset strings. “No! No, that’s not at all what you’ll do!”
“I think I must.” Eleanor straightened her shoulders. “I promise to do my best by you in this mission. You’ve done so much for me over the years.”
“I’m about to do more.” Madeline could scarcely breathe from excitement. “I’m about to make you a duchess.”
Chapter Three
Slowly, Eleanor rose. “Wh-what?”
“You shall go to London in my place—as me.”
Eleanor stumbled backward and almost fell over the bench. “Claim I’m you—Madeline de Lacy—to the very man who would wed you? That’s impossible! What would that accomplish? I couldn’t!”
“Yes, you could.” Madeline enthusiastically embraced Eleanor. “We look alike, and I haven’t been in society for almost four years.”
“And I have never been in society, and don’t have the pluck to carry off such a masquerade,” Eleanor retorted.
“All you’d have to do is hold Mr. Knight off for a few days until I can dissuade Papa from this wild scheme.” Madeline could see she wasn’t convincing Eleanor, and she needed to persuade her cousin. “You would be a wonderful duchess. Your manners are impeccable, much better than mine.”
“I’m a dreadful coward,” Eleanor countered. “I can’t talk to men.”
“Nonsense. All you lack is a little practice.”
“Practice? When I must speak to a man, I stammer and stutter. And since Mr. Knight thinks you’re getting married, he might . . . flirt.”
“He might do a great deal more than that.” Madeline caught Eleanor’s wrist as she tried to get away. “I’m teasing! All you have to do is bat those big blue eyes at him and you can wind him around your little finger.”
“Now who’s being ridiculous?” Eleanor sighed. “When you come to London, will you announce it was all a jest? Mr. Knight will be insulted and infuriated.”
“Not as insulted and infuriated as if I don’t show up. It will be good for you to have an adventure.”
Eleanor twisted her long fingers. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
Bracingly, Madeline said, “Whenever you are in doubt, you think, What would Madeline do in this situation? And do it.”
“I can’t . . . and what if someone from the gambling party met you, left, came to London, and identified me as an imposter?”
“Identified me as an imposter, you mean. I’ll send you in the coach with Dickie Driscoll and the servants. You’ll be splendid!”
“Dickie Driscoll won’t do it.”
“Dickie Drisoll will do as he’s told.”
“My clothes aren’t appropriate.”
In this, at least, Eleanor was right. She wore gowns of modest cut and cloth, in dark, matronly colors. Not because Madeline demanded such humility from her companion, oh, no! But because Eleanor insisted such clothing was “suitable.”
Seeing Madeline’s hesitation, Eleanor pressed her point. “You must admit such an action is impossible. It would be best if you quietly sneaked into Chalice Hall, dissuaded your father from his mad wager, while I go to London to explain to Mr. Knight why you are late.”
“You’re right. It is imprudent to take the chance that someone would report me in two places. Mr. Knight will more likely forgive us our deception if he isn’t made to look a fool in front of everyone. We’re the same size.” Both five-foot-seven, both slender and well formed. “You’ll take my clothes, I’ll take yours. I’ll go to Chalice Hall. I’ll get myself hired on as a servant of some kind. It’s a perfect disguise, for no one ever looks at the servants.”
In a tone of patient exasperation, Eleanor said, “I have been your companion of five years, and in those five years, you have involved me in a lot of mad schemes, but this one is the most outrageous. I cannot be a duchess, and you most certainly cannot be a servant.”
“What?” On her mettle now, Madeline asked, “How hard can it be to be a companion?”
“Not hard at all, if one has the habit of being modest and self-effacing.” Eleanor seated herself on the bench. “If one is not prompted to give one’s opinion on every subject. If one is not moved to arrange things and people, if one is not given to the habit of command!”
Madeline stood over the top of her. “Are you saying I’m officious?”
“Dear cousin, you understand me at last!”
The worst part was—Eleanor wasn’t being mean. She was giving an honest reading of Madeline’s character, and she expected Madeline to accept it.
But Madeline would not. “I can be a servant.”
At once Eleanor realized her mistake. “I wasn’t trying to challenge you!”
“But you did! I know I occasionally have an imperious manner—”
Eleanor lowered her head to hide—unsuccessfully—her grin of genuine amusement.
“But I’m not obnoxious.”
“I didn’t mean that you were! Only . . . for the kindest of reasons, you are sometimes . . . managing.”
Madeline stiffened. Gabriel had said that. Said it in a low, dreadful voice. He’d said she needed to have respect for others’ opinions, others’ ab
ilities. He said she rampaged over the top of people’s feelings without consideration. But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t!
“I suspect, with the right staff, you could organize the world.” Catching a glimpse of Madeline’s face, Eleanor cried, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong.” Except Madeline had thought her heart had healed, and she found being in England, knowing Gabriel was on the same island, accessible with only a day’s travel, made her sensitive. Made her remember.
“You look pale and . . .” Eleanor put her palm on Madeline’s forehead. “You haven’t got a fever. You’re tired. We should have rested for one more day.”
“Don’t fuss, Ellie. I’m fine.” They had traveled farther and harder these last three years, but somehow having had such a brief homecoming had thrown them off balance. Yes, that had to be it. For no other reason would Madeline, on her first night home, have had a dream of Gabriel. “So it’s settled. I’ll be a companion, and you’ll be the duchess.”
“No,” Eleanor said in an agony of denial. “No, please, Madeline!”
From the corridor, they heard the sound of voices. A woman’s and Mr. Forsyth’s, speaking at once.
Content to cut off the discussion, Madeline stood. “It sounds like other guests too genteel for the taproom. We’re going to be asked to share our parlor.” She teased, “Will you let me manage this, cousin?”
“Please.” Eleanor rose.
Mr. Forsyth flung open the door, and a fashionably dressed, middle-aged female pushed him aside and swept in. In a voice both shrill and demanding, she said, “I am Lady Tabard, wife of the earl of Tabard. I apologize for invading your privacy, but the common room is just too common. I trust you don’t mind if my daughter and I share your parlor?”
Without hesitation, Madeline curtsied. “This is the marchioness of Sheridan and the future duchess of Magnus.”
“Oh . . . my.” Lady Tabard’s eyes rounded, and her hand fluttered to her chest.
Scandalous Again: Switching Places #1 Page 2
