Scandalous Again: Switching Places #1

by Christina Dodd

  Thomasin considered Madeline in the mirror with a most odd expression.

  “I mean . . . yes. I feel as if I’m still training to be a companion.”

  “None too successfully.” Thomasin tugged at Madeline’s tresses. “I saw you. You failed to keep me in sight this afternoon. I was alone with Lord Hurth.”

  “Did he try anything?” It would sour Madeline’s stomach if she had allowed the ruin of such an innocent girl.

  Thomasin snorted. “He didn’t even notice you were missing. He was too busy expounding on the new chairs his mother is buying for the formal dining room at Hurth. He’s a mama’s boy.”

  Madeline grinned. “It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been horses.”

  “We had exhausted the subject of his horses,” Thomasin said chillingly.

  “When we caught up with you, I did tell Hurth it was time to turn back.”

  “You should have done that within the first fifteen minutes. But you were too busy talking to Lord Campion.” With her hands on Madeline’s shoulders, Thomasin made her swivel to face the room and twirled Madeline’s curls around her finger. “You two were at each other’s throats on the walk to the beach. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “He’s a lout?” Madeline offered.

  “No, he’s not. He has the reputation of being quite a gentleman, but rather distant. With you, he’s anything but distant. Indeed, even when the rest of us are present, he looks at no one but you, and in a manner most improper.” Thomasin cleared her throat. “Were you the reason why Her Grace broke off her betrothal to him?”

  “No! He gambled and won a fortune and his propensity for cards offended Her Grace so much—”

  “That’s nonsense! A minor offense at most, and not even true. That Woman says he hasn’t gambled since.”

  If that were true, what did it mean? That he deigned to come to this game, not because the longing to gamble had become too much, but because he considered Mr. Rumbelow a threat that needed to be eliminated? That made Gabriel a hero. That would be too much to bear. That would require an . . . apology.

  Madeline shuddered.

  Picking her words with care, Thomasin said, “So I think perhaps he loved you rather than her.”

  Madeline was speechless. When one was not in possession of all the facts, the theory made sense.

  “From your demeanor with him, I must assume you didn’t love him in return.”

  “No,” Madeline said faintly.

  “That’s good. I would have to have you broken-hearted at the end of this party, for a companion cannot marry an earl.” Turning her once more to face the mirror, Thomasin wrapped Madeline’s hair around her fist in a series of loops and began pinning it. “But you already knew that.”

  “Yes,” Madeline said even more faintly.

  “Of course, Her Grace is more attractive than you are, but from what he said today about her breaking her vow, she’s not as beautiful on the inside as on the out.” Thomasin shook her head sadly. “I had liked her, too. But one can never judge on first acquaintance, can one?”

  Irritated with Gabriel all over again, Madeline snapped, “The duchess had good reason for breaking her vow.”

  “I didn’t know there was ever a good enough reason. That Woman told me to carefully consider before I gave my word, for to break it is a grave wrongdoing.”

  Madeline wanted to snap again, but . . . she couldn’t. She’d been taught the same thing, and no matter how she tried to justify her own actions, she still suffered a vast disquiet and, yes, guilt. If Gabriel knew, he would be very happy.

  “But don’t worry about the comparison to the duchess,” Thomasin was saying. “You’re quite attractive, especially with this coiffure. I would simply advise that you maintain a little more distance when speaking to Lord Campion.”

  “If I had my way, I would never speak to him again.” If Madeline had her way, she wouldn’t pay his price for the tiara.

  “See? There you go again. I offer a little disinterested advice, and you snap out an antagonistic response. If you wish that people not notice and, more important, not gossip about you and Lord Campion, you’ll have to learn how to present a facade of indifference.”

  Not even Eleanor dared lecture Madeline like this.

  Thomasin twisted and pinned some more. “I can’t be the only one who’ll be able to guess you were the cause of the duchess’s scene at Almack’s.”

  Madeline didn’t know whether to deny or ignore. After all, if her father hadn’t appeared by the time the game started—and she was getting anxious that he hadn’t appeared—she would be gone from here and what Thomasin thought wouldn’t matter.

  But she would run into Thomasin in society, and Lord and Lady Tabard, too. They’d recognize her. They’d realize she had made fools of them, and they—especially Thomasin—would be hurt. Madeline frowned at her own reflection. Eleanor had warned her about this, but she hadn’t listened.

  Very well. Before the next time they met, she would seek out Thomasin and explain everything. No—first she would confirm that Jeffy was not an appropriate husband. She would arrange that Thomasin receive an offer from Hurth—that shouldn’t be difficult, he was as infatuated as ever a Hurth could be. The girl would refuse, which would set the stage for more offers and more refusals. Then Madeline would find Thomasin the proper mate and urge them toward matrimony, Thomasin would forget any lingering animosity toward Madeline and all would be well. Yes, Madeline had Thomasin’s life well in hand.

  If only she had her own life so well in hand. She had . . . before she joined this party. Now she desperately needed a different plan for acquiring the tiara other than giving herself in sin to Gabriel. Again.

  “Are you cold?” Thomasin asked. “You’ve got goose bumps.”

  “Someone must have walked on my grave.” Madeline answered with the old bromide, and thought more desperately that she needed a plan. Yet what with returning to the house, bringing Thomasin her bathwater, tentatively ironing her ball gown, and helping her to dress, Madeline hadn’t had a moment to herself. When did companions ever rest? Eleanor was not as sturdy as Madeline, nor as outspoken. Madeline frowned harder. When next she spoke to Eleanor, she was going to give her a stern lecture about the importance of never overextending herself in Madeline’s service.

  “Will you stop frowning?” Thomasin snapped. “It’s impossible to finish this when you’re tugging your face every which way, and we want to finish before—”

  From the doorway, Lady Tabard said in awful tones, “Thomasin Evelyn Mary Charlford, what are you doing?”

  For one moment, Madeline closed her eyes against the blazing gold feathered turban and matching gown, which gave Lady Tabard the appearance of a large, round pat of butter. Yet Madeline discovered if she squinted, Lady Tabard’s appearance was bearable. Sinking back into the well-known role as duchess, she waved her in. “Lady Tabard, please come and see what Thomasin has just shown me. The most marvelous—Ouch!” Madeline rubbed the spot in her scalp where a pin had been placed with rather more force than she thought necessary. “That hurt!” Catching Thomasin’s narrowed gaze in the mirror, Madeline abruptly realized Lady Tabard might not view Thomasin’s service to her favorably.

  Briskly, Thomasin finished and gestured Madeline up. “Now you may show me the style you favor.” As Madeline slid out of the chair, Thomasin slid in, explaining, “My pardon, Mama, for dawdling, but I had a style I wished to show Miss de Lacy, and she has a style she wishes to show me.”

  “Dawdling?” Lady Tabard’s voice hit an ear-piercing note. “You are indeed dawdling. Indeed you are.” Bustling forward, she snatched the brush from Madeline’s hand. “Miss de Lacy has no hairstyles to show us. She is unable to do even her own.” Vigorously, she brushed at Thomasin’s hair, then pulled it so tight that Thomasin’s eyes slanted.

  “Miss de Lacy wears her hair in the Italian style, disheveled and windblown.”

  Madeline couldn’t believe Thomasin could inven
t such tales.

  “Italian style?” Right before Madeline’s astonished eyes, Lady Tabard performed miracles with hairpins and a ribbon. “That’s a polite way of saying ineptly done.”

  “I think it’s attractive,” Thomasin said.

  Snatching up the curling iron, Lady Tabard curled the hair around Thomasin’s face with amazing efficiency. “Today, if not for her bonnet, Miss de Lacy’s hair would have been falling about her shoulders.”

  Madeline silently admitted the justice in that, but deemed it right she keep her silence.

  “There.” Lady Tabard pinched Thomasin’s cheeks, then hauled her to her feet. Dragging her toward the door, she said, “Hurry, girl, get your gloves and your fan. We’re already late!”

  “No!” Both Lady Tabard and Thomasin stopped in astonishment at Madeline’s boldness, but about this matter Madeline was quite confident, and she spoke with authority. “You shall be the last one to the ball, Lady Thomasin, and you shall make an entrance.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Lady Tabard sputtered, “the other young ladies have already gotten Mr. Rumbelow’s attention!”

  “Exactly. They’ve rushed down there as if they have nothing better to do than to fawn on him. A man doesn’t value a woman unless she’s difficult to obtain.” Madeline observed Lady Tabard’s openmouthed wonder. “Don’t tell me you didn’t play hard to catch with Lord Tabard.”

  Lady Tabard’s mouth snapped shut. “Oh. Well.” She fussed with the gathers in her skirt. “There is that.”

  Satisfied she had squelched any more objections, Madeline turned to Lady Thomasin. “You shall pause in the doorway until people notice you, then you shall smile—you have a marvelous smile—and glide in.”

  “But I can’t glide in,” Thomasin said. “If I pause in the doorway until people notice me, I’ll be nervous.”

  “You’ll pretend to be calm.” Madeline created a rippling motion with her hand. “Think of a swan, who glides serenely along the surface of a pond, while beneath the water, its feet are paddling furiously.”

  Brow puckered, Thomasin thought about it, then nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Of course you can. As you make your entrance, you’ll wave to the other ladies, just a friendly little flutter of the fingers, and glance coyly at the gentlemen.”

  Thomasin practiced the flutter and the glance.

  “Very good,” Madeline approved. “You’ll at once be inundated with invitations to dance, and you’ll have to make wise choices.”

  “She’s never been inundated with invitations before,” Lady Tabard said sourly.

  “She’s never before had me advising her.” With crushing certainty, Madeline answered, “I may not know hairstyles, Lady Tabard, but I do know society.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “My dear Miss de Lacy, you were right!” Lady Tabard paused beside Madeline’s chair, set behind the wallflowers, behind the matrons and against the far wall of the ballroom. “Thomasin is the belle of the ball.”

  Madeline didn’t underestimate the concession Lady Tabard made. She would be willing to wager that Lady Tabard said You were right! very infrequently. With what Madeline hoped was proper humility, she replied, “Thank you, my lady. I was happy to help.”

  Lady Tabard gestured toward the dance floor, where couples curtsied and circled in a country dance. “Mr. Rumbelow is looking on her very favorably, I believe. That is his second dance with my dear daughter.”

  “Lord Hurth is looking on her favorably, too, and he comes from an ancient and well-respected family.” The lively music made Madeline’s toe tap beneath her skirt. “Lady Thomasin professes dedication to a young man . . . I can’t recall his name . . .” She feigned ignorance.

  “Mr. Jeff Radley,” Lady Tabard said in tones of doom. “A young Lothario.”

  “Thomasin sings his praises.”

  “Of course.” Lady Tabard lowered her voice. “He’s handsome and dances well. He also flirts with any young lady who crosses his path and has professed his love for three different girls in the past year. That’s why we brought Thomasin away. The connection will not do.”

  Just as Madeline had suspected. Generously, she returned the compliment to Lady Tabard. “If that’s the case, then you’re right, of course.”

  “Generous of you to say so,” Lady Tabard said acerbically.

  Madeline had to stop slipping into the role of duchess. She was giving Lady Tabard heartburn.

  “On the other hand, Mr. Rumbelow is immensely wealthy.” With obvious relish, Lady Tabard indicated the emphatically blue ballroom, filled with flowers and alive with the chatter of thirty-five guests and melodies played by cello, violin and recorder. “It’s rumored he has twenty thousand a year!”

  Madeline pursed her mouth. “Really?” She drew out the word, drew out her doubt, until Lady Tabard had no choice but to notice.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “I’ve never heard of him before, and I’m a de Lacy.”

  “Well . . . yes, but . . .” Lady Tabard plumped her bosom like an old biddy plumping its breast feathers. “He puts on a show of amiable wealth, and he is hosting this game!”

  “A show, indeed, but how many men do we know who made such a show and who are now done up?” Before Lady Tabard could retort, Madeline held up her hand. “I could be wrong. But I do wish I knew who his people were.”

  “Well . . . yes, that would be good. However, I’m sure he’s a pink of the ton.” But Lady Tabard had a frown line between her brows as she watched Thomasin circle the room in Mr. Rumbelow’s arms. “Lord Hurth, you say?” She hurried off, her gaze fixed purposefully on her husband.

  Madeline relaxed and watched the dancers. Lady Tabard was not quite the dreadful woman she’d first thought. Her vulgarity was undiminished, but she had a shrewd eye for a prospect and perhaps a lurking fondness for Thomasin. That was good. Madeline would hate to try and offset the effect of a wicked stepmother. What with establishing Lady Tabard on the right track, Madeline had fulfilled her responsibility to Thomasin.

  Now she could worry about herself. Gloomily she watched as Gabriel made his way across the ballroom toward her, plate in hand. She hadn’t yet been able to think of another way to win the tiara than to have Gabriel do it for her, nor had she been able to think of another thing to offer him that would satisfy him the way—she took a deep breath—she could.

  “Miss de Lacy, I thought you might like a few of the delicacies our host has so thoughtfully provided us.” With a bow, Gabriel presented a napkin and the plate, filled with a selection of foods selected specifically to tempt her appetite. It would appear he remembered all of her preferences, and with devilish good timing, he appeared when hunger clawed at her belly.

  A matter of indifference to the members of society, for she, as companion, wouldn’t be allowed to go in to dinner later, nor to obtain a glass of punch, or even to visit the ladies’ retiring room, although she had already disobliged Lady Tabard in that manner. Her job was to sit quietly and observe Thomasin, to be available if Thomasin needed help with her gown, to make sure no rampaging male tried to make unwanted advances. The task bored and tired her, especially since the gathering was small and Thomasin was on her best behavior.

  So it was Madeline’s great misfortune to have Gabriel appear, looking so handsome and enticing her with provisions. Ignoring the scandalized glances of the matrons, she accepted the plate. Projecting both her voice and great formality, she said, “I thank you, Lord Campion.”

  His response was sardonically ceremonial. “You’re very welcome, Miss de Lacy. May I have the pleasure of your company while you dine?” He indicated the chair next to hers.

  She saw the matrons crane their heads around to stare, and her manners disintegrated. Lowering her voice, she hissed, “Yes, yes, seat yourself and stop hovering. You’re attracting attention.”

  A slight smile twitched at his lips as he performed as ordered. “When you’re hungry, you’re always grouchy.”

&
nbsp; “I am not.” She bit into a tea cake. Her breath caught at the flavorful twist of lemon, and she gave a sigh of pleasure.

  “Obviously, I was wrong.” He watched her lick the frosting off of her finger with a dark intensity that made her spread her napkin in her lap and utilize it daintily.

  There was a reason why women didn’t lick anything while a man was present; she just hadn’t realized it before. “It’s your infamous proposition which has made me unhappy.”

  Lifting an eyebrow, he tipped his head toward the curious ladies in front of them. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

  She hated when he was right almost as much as she hated having to be discreet. Taking a restraining breath, she asked, “Are you enjoying the ball?”

  “It’s a blasted bore.”

  Madeline grinned. She’d seen him trot every young lady in the room onto the floor for the obligatory promenade. He danced with the two young Lady Achards, with the three Misses Greene and with all four of the Vavasseur daughters. The list had seemed endless, stocked as this party was with young ladies dressed in pale gowns that fluttered and clung. Madeline was glad he hadn’t enjoyed himself. Yet if he fell in love with someone else, he wouldn’t be interested in her.

  She didn’t question her own irrationality.

  He watched her chew a macaroon with as much intensity as he had the tea cake. “You ought to know: Monsieur Vavasseur has claimed he recognizes you, and identifies you as the duchess.”

  Madeline swallowed, choked and coughed into her napkin. When she had recovered, she said, “I thought I had sufficiently avoided him.”

  “Apparently he took note of you this afternoon while you were scolding me to hell and back on the walk to the beach.”

  “I was not scolding you to hell and back!” Nor should she be using such language, and his accusation had distracted her from the main point, which was, “How widespread is the tale?”

  “I heard him making the claim when I returned his fair daughter after our dance.”