Scandalous Again: Switching Places #1

by Christina Dodd

  Campion didn’t blink. Didn’t say another word.

  What was he doing here? Did he have an ulterior motive? Rumbelow’s gaze slid to Lady Magnus. Besides her?

  Campion bore watching. In fact, Rumbelow would make sure he was watched very closely indeed.

  Chapter Nine

  Madeline’s plan had been too simple. She realized it now.

  As she walked along the wooded road toward the ocean cliffs the next afternoon, the wind blew. The grass rippled. The sun shone. And she brooded on the difficulties that had complicated her life. When she’d made her plan to retrieve her father, she’d failed to take into account the many unknowns: the myriad of people at the party, the schedule that Mr. Rumbelow had set up . . . her father’s inability to do as expected.

  Why hadn’t he shown up yet? Would he let the tiara go so easily?

  Would she always have to fix her father’s muddles?

  The aristocrats walked in the front of the party, and Madeline was almost glad to be left back with the servants and companions. This left her free to stare at Gabriel resentfully. Gabriel, who strode among the guests, speaking to everyone, settling with no one. He wore a broad beaver hat, a costume of green cloth threaded with black, and carried a walking cane with a large gold knob. He appeared to be indifferent to the dust that coated his polished boots . . . indifferent to her. This morning, he hadn’t glanced at her once. Thank heavens.

  Madeline walked alone, fitting in nowhere.

  Even after Gabriel betrayed her, she had still thought him an intelligent man. Now she knew he had blithely handed over ten thousand pounds into another man’s keeping. What a fool.

  She cared only because his lapse indicated a lapse in her own good judgment.

  A lapse compounded yesterday by her visit to his bedchamber. In the space of a few moments, Gabriel had banished her resolve to confront him with dignity and good sense. Under his whiplash tongue, all her old resentments had come roaring back, carrying her like a riptide into deeper waters. She shuddered to think what would have happened if MacAllister hadn’t arrived when he did. She had walked away from that room determined not to let Campion near her ever again . . . until she heard what Mr. Rumbelow had said last night.

  The tiara. She had to retrieve the queen’s tiara. Why, oh, why had she trusted her father when he said he hadn’t yet wagered it?

  How could he send a precious tiara, a family heirloom, presented by Queen Elizabeth the First, ahead to a gambling party with no guarantee his host was reliable? Unwarranted trust appeared to be a failing for all of these gamblers.

  And why hadn’t she checked to make sure the tiara was still securely housed in the safe at home, taken it and concealed it? Instead, if her father didn’t appear by tomorrow at noon, she would have to ask—no, beg—Gabriel to win it back for her.

  Never had she so heartily wished she could walk away from her duty.

  A rough, masculine voice hailed her. “Miss de Lacy! Wait up, miss.”

  She turned to see the man she’d seen yesterday in Mr. Rumbelow’s drive, the man who had stared so rudely at her.

  He strode up beside her.

  Astonished and a little unsettled at being singled out, she asked, “Yes? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’s wrong, miss, just thought ye and I might walk together fer a bit.” His broad lips tilted up and his blue eyes crinkled in what he might have hoped was a charming smile.

  His teeth were stained brown, and as she watched, he spit a stream of tobacco out of the corner of his mouth onto the grass on the side of the road. Disgusted, she wondered if that was his version of company manners—spit toward your subordinates, spit away from the ladies.

  She remembered only too well his sharp glance the day before, and today she’d seen him watching the guests with the weighing gaze of a cutpurse—and she had no doubt he had indulged in that practice at some not-so-distant moment in his past.

  “Like wot ye see, miss?” he laughed, and gin-laden breath blasted her face.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go away, but she glanced up and down the long line of guests strung out in little groups down the road. She could see Thomasin, flirting vivaciously with one of the young men. She could see Gabriel walking, hands clasped behind his back in his habitual pose, listening to Mr. Payborn. Far ahead, she could see Mr. Rumbelow’s golden hair glowing in the sun.

  But no one was close. There was no one to rescue her. In truth, the fellow presented no real danger, and Madeline de Lacy prided herself on being a woman who recognized opportunity when it was presented to her, and this was an opportunity. The lout was a little drunk. He was walking well. He was talking without a slur. But perhaps he was befuddled by the liquor. Perhaps, if she interrogated him with the correct amount of finesse, she could discover a little of Mr. Rumbelow’s background and plans. “You may walk with me if you wish.”

  The lout’s laugh became a grin, one that showed a gap where he’d lost a tooth. “Ye’ve got an air about ye, ye know that? Like ye’re a princess or somethin’. That’s why I plucked ye out from among the other girls.”

  And, she surmised, she was supposed to be flattered. “Thank you. It’s not every day a girl like me attracts a man like you.” An understatement. “How did you know my name?”

  “I asted around. Some o’ the lads ‘ad already cast their eyes on ye, but I put them straight in a ‘urry.” His long black coat flapped as he walked, revealing knee breeches, knee boots and a grimy blue shirt.

  “I see.” Madeline couldn’t wait to tell Eleanor what she’d missed.

  “I got t’ walk today anyway. I got t’ follow that chap.” Mr. Rumbelow’s man pointed toward . . . it looked as if he’d pointed toward Gabriel.

  Startled, Madeline asked, “Why?”

  “ ’E’s a puzzle, ’e is. We got us suspicions about ‘im.” The fellow nodded as if he owned a tract of mystery.

  “Why?” she insisted.

  “Ye’re a nosy parker, aren’t ye?” His red-veined nose crinkled, and he got a mean look in his eyes. “ ‘Ave ye got an interest in ‘im? Because it won’t do ye no good. E’s a nobleman, ’e is, and all noblemen are good fer t’ a girl like ye is t’ put a bun in yer oven, then toss ye out on yer ear.”

  Evidently, it was time to stop asking about Gabriel and start asking about the fellow walking beside her. And how did one talk to a man like this?

  Silly question. Just as one talked to a man of the ton—with a liberal dose of flattery. “What’s your name?”

  Sticking his thumb in the waistband of hispants, he hitched them up, wiggled his eyebrows, and in an artificially deep voice said, “Big Bill.”

  It took her a few seconds to understand the significance of his moniker, but that did explain his confidence and boldness. “Well, Big Bill . . . do you have a surname?” When his brow crinkled in puzzlement, she said, “A family name. One that is the same as your father’s.”

  “Me father didn’t stick around long enough t’ give me a name.”

  “I see.” Not that she was a snob—one of her friends had inherited money from three different noblemen, none of whom had married her mother—but she suspected Big Bill’s circumstances were much different. “It sounds as if you’ve had a difficult life, yet you’ve done well for yourself.”

  “Aye, that I ‘ave.” He scowled ferociously. “Some people—I don’t want to name names, but it’s that blond gent up there charming the bigwigs—think they’ve done all the work t’ get us so far, but that’s not the truth. Not a-tall.”

  He was speaking of Mr. Rumbelow. How fascinating! “I can see you’re a clever man.”

  Big Bill tucked his thumbs into his suspenders and swerved closer. “And ye’re a clever girl.”

  She hoped so. She hoped she could get information out of Big Bill without landing in hot water. Edging away, she said, “So you’ve been with Mr. Rumbelow for a long time?”

  “Rumbelow.” Big Bill cackled. “Rumbelow.” He laughed again.r />
  “Why do you laugh?”

  “Rumbelow kind o’ sounds like the name o’ a town, don’t it?” Big Bill broadly winked at her.

  “Oh.” Madeline had been suspicious of Mr. Rumbelow, and it appeared her suspicions were correct. “You mean it’s not his real name.”

  “Ye never ’eard me say that.”

  “No. I didn’t.” Although she was listening so hard, her ears were burning. “You’ve been with him for a long time?”

  “Aye. Me and ‘im go way back. Mind ye, I’m not saying ’e’s not a smart one.” Big Bill’s brow puckered and he stared fixedly at his feet. “ ’E is. But if ’e’s the brains, I’m the muscle, and what’s a brain without yer muscle, eh?”

  “You’re very wise.” She brushed her hair back from her face. Despite her best efforts to fix it, tresses persisted in falling down from beneath her straw bonnet.

  “I am.”

  “How long have you known Mr. Rumbelow?”

  “Since we were lads. Forever, I guess ye’d say.”

  Madeline could scarcely breathe for excitement. This was information indeed! “You grew up together? Where?”

  “In Liverpool.”

  “Liverpool? Not the Lake District?”

  “ ‘Ow’d ye get that idea?”

  “It was an impression I got.” One Mr. Rumbelow had taken care to foster.

  “From Liverpool, we are. We’re no country rubes from no Lake District.” Another long stream of tobacco juice darkened the grass along the road. Jerking his thumb toward Mr. Rumbelow, whose golden head was clearly visible above the ladies crowded around him, Big Bill said, “ ’E was smart even then. Couldn’t ’elp but brag on ‘im, at least until the magistrate got ‘im. Then I barely snatched ‘im away in time. Got a rope burn from that, ’e does.”

  “A rope burn. Where?” Enlightenment dawned, and she whispered, “Do you mean he was hanged?”

  Big Bill cast her a crafty glance. “Guess not. ’E’s still ’ere, ain’t ’e?”

  Madeline had had her doubts about Mr. Rumbelow’s background, but to know he had run afoul of the law and almost been executed put a different complexion on the whole affair. This was no longer a stupid game from which she had to rescue her father—and the queen’s tiara. This game could result in . . . murder.

  Despite the warm sunshine, a chill ran over her skin. She would have to tell Gabriel.

  No. Wait. She could handle the situation on her own.

  With a sigh, she conceded that was nothing but a wistful desire. She needed Gabriel to retrieve the queen’s tiara, and she needed him to take action to stop this so-called Game of the Century before something deadly occurred. She didn’t question why she thought Gabriel could fix everything; Gabriel had always had an air of capability that made her trust him.

  To assist him she would unearth as much information from Big Bill as possible.

  Yet she couldn’t help a momentary delight when she considered pointing out Gabriel’s imprudence in placing his trust, and his ante, into a character as shady as Mr. Rumbelow. “Big Bill, you’re obviously a man of great resources.”

  Big Bill grinned again. “Where did ye learn t’ talk like that?”

  “Like what?” Like what?

  “Like ye’re grander than the grandest doochess.” He gazed at her in frank admiration.

  “Imperiousness runs in the family.” She didn’t give him time to comprehend. “Does Mr. Rumbelow often set up games like this one? Games with such stakes?”

  “ ’E’s a good one fer grand stakes, but this is the grandest ever. ’E’ll pull it off, though, ye’ll see. ’E’s spent years perfecting his plan.”

  His words raised goose bumps again. “His plan?”

  “Aye, there’ll be blunt when it’s over.” He snapped his suspenders. “In a few days, I could afford a fancy piece like yerself.”

  Madeline knew for a fact she’d never before been described as a fancy piece. She didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged. She did know she should be quashing his pretensions, but he was giving her so very much information, information that might save fortunes. That might save lives. “You know that Mr. Rumbelow is going to win the game? But it’s a game of chance.”

  Big Bill laughed long and loud. “Let me tell ye, we don’t leave nothin’ t’ chance. Nothin’.”

  Madeline caught her breath.

  “Not after that one time in Scoffield when we had a corpse on our ‘ands, not that I didn’t get rid o’ it, but Rumbelow said that made things messy.”

  A corpse. Did Big Bill mean he’d killed someone? Madeline looked at his stained fingers, his wide lips, his greasy hair, and knew she couldn’t control a man like this. Like it or not, it was time to retreat.

  With a sense of relief, Madeline saw Mr. Rumbelow had extricated himself from the young ladies and was gesturing insistently. “I believe Mr. Rumbelow desires your attendance.”

  “What does ’e want now?” Big Bill spat the whole wad of tobacco out of his mouth, then fished a flask out of his pocket and took a long swallow. “ ’E looks like ’e inhaled a hot poker.”

  I’ll wager he worries about your discretion—and your drinking.

  Big Bill offered the flask to Madeline.

  She refused with an inner shudder of revulsion. She couldn’t smile at him. Not after that comment about the corpse. Stiffly, she said, “I’ve enjoyed speaking with you.”

  Big Bill snatched her hand. “So I’ll see ye tonight after ye’re done fixin’ yer mistress?”

  His boldness made her skin crawl. “No.”

  “Feisty. I like that. Look out.” He steered her toward the side of the road.

  The carriages carrying the baskets of food and those guests too indolent to walk barreled by.

  “Oops, there’s yer mistress, and she’s glaring knife blades at ye. Guess I’d better go afore I get ye in trouble.”

  “Guess you’d better.” Not that Madeline couldn’t handle Lady Tabard when the time came, but the time was not yet.

  At another gesture from Mr. Rumbelow, Big Bill took off at a trot.

  Lady Tabard was indeed glaring, but Madeline waved to her, nodded toward Thomasin and indicated she was doing well.

  As indeed she was. The young lady had taken Madeline’s instructions to heart and flirted like a woman born to the sport. For the younger men, it had taken nothing more than an inviting glance from her limpid eyes. At once, all her past transgressions were forgotten and they were at her beck and call. The rakes had taken a little more attention, but right now she was walking side by side with Mr. Darnel while Madeline kept her within sight.

  Lady Tabard stopped glaring and deigned to relax against the seat, speaking volubly to Lord Tabard and pointing to Thomasin. He nodded with approval, and the carriages drove on.

  Scanning the long line of people strung out along the road, Madeline managed to locate Gabriel not far ahead. She had to speak to him. Tell him he had to do something about this nefarious game and—

  With a chuckle, Thomasin came back, snatched Madeline’s arm and squeezed it. “Madeline, all the gentlemen like me, and I scarcely have to do more than smile and behave as if they were interesting.”

  “What?” Madeline wrenched her attention from Gabriel. “Oh. Yes. Of course. You’re just what they want.”

  “Pretty, young and blessed with a fortune,” Thomasin recited. With a last, flirtatious wave at Mr. Darnel, she observed, “Mr. Darnel’s nice, and he said my dress last night was the most stylish thing he’s ever seen. I told him you had designed it, and he’s most impressed. Perhaps you could catch his interest and marry him!”

  “I’m not here to catch a man’s interest. I’m here to help you.” Madeline knew that Mr. Darnel wasn’t interested in females—she’d met his valet this morning and realized the affection between them was more than a mutual affinity for fine clothing.

  “But you were talking to that coarse serving man of Mr. Rumbelow’s.” Thomasin’s bowlike mouth turned down
in a reproving frown. “You can do better than that.”

  Madeline couldn’t believe the girl’s impudence. In her best, superior tone, she said, “I believe I’m advising you on the propriety of your suitors.”

  “And I believe you need advice on your suitors if you’re willing to stoop so low as that rough, disgusting fellow.”

  Madeline blinked at Thomasin’s roundly expressed opinion. She hadn’t realized the girl could sound so forceful. “I didn’t speak to him with the intention of securing his interest.”

  “Perhaps not, but whenever a woman speaks to a man, the man always thinks she is fascinated by him.”

  Startled by this piece of wisdom from one who was little more than a child, Madeline asked, “Who told you that?”

  With obvious pride, Thomasin said, “Jeffy. Jeffy is extremely wise.”

  Madeline had to agree. In this instance, at least, Jeffy was definitely wise. “Jeffy’s right—and you’re right.”

  “I am?” Thomasin looked startled. “Yes, I am.”

  “I won’t speak with Big Bill anymore.” Unless she needed more information.

  “Good. Look.” Thomasin waved a hand. “Mr. Rumbelow is scolding him for talking to you.”

  “I’m sure he is.” Big Bill was shuffling along beside Mr. Rumbelow, looking mutinous and disgruntled, but Madeline had plainly heard the admiration Big Bill felt for his cohort. Big Bill wouldn’t rebel against Mr. Rumbelow’s strictures. Too bad, for Madeline had learned a great deal from Big Bill in a few short minutes. At the same time, her years on the continent had taught her situations existed that required she bring in a specialist. Her gaze shifted to Gabriel. She chafed at every moment that slid by when she couldn’t speak with him.

  But Thomasin required Madeline’s guidance. “Never mind Big Bill. You’re doing very well for someone who has never flirted before. Your parents are ecstatic.”

  Thomasin smiled smugly. “They’ll be so surprised when, after all this, I declare my intention to wed my true love.”