Scandalous Again: Switching Places #1

by Christina Dodd

  Standing at the top of the stairs, Thomasin looked around as if expecting the carriage. “What do we do now?”

  “We go to the stables—”

  “The stables?”

  “And instruct the hostler to prepare one of Mr. Rumbelow’s carriages to drive us to London.”

  Thomasin stared at Madeline doubtfully. “Go all the way to the stables, carrying this bag?”

  “Don’t worry,” Madeline assured her. “You have more strength than you give yourself credit for, and I’ve traveled all over the continent. Hostlers do as they’re told.”

  But she was wrong.

  In the stables, the lanterns had been lit, the horses were brushed and in their stalls, but when Madeline announced she wanted a carriage, Mr. Rumbelow’s hostler shook his head. “Can’t.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Madeline couldn’t believe the cheek of the man. Placing her carpetbag beside her feet, she rubbed her aching arm. “Lady Thomasin Charlford wishes to leave.”

  “Can’t,” he said again.

  Madeline spoke in a firm tone meant to calm Thomasin. “My good man! You are the hostler, are you not? You do order the horses brought around, do you not? Do so at once!”

  The hostler snapped his fingers, and when the stableboy came running, told him, “Run and get the master.”

  The master? “Mr. Rumbelow?”

  “Nay. Me master.”

  Madeline had a bad feeling about this.

  Thomasin put her bag down, too, and moved nervously beside her, looking around as if she’d never been inside a stable—which was certainly possible.

  “I’ll speak to your supervisor,” Madeline said to the hostler. “We’ll get this taken care of.”

  “Ye’re goin’ t’ speak t’ me, are ye?” Big Bill swaggered out of the shadows. “What are ye goin’ t’ tell me, Miss Swell Cove?”

  Madeline’s heart sank.

  In the dim light of the stable, his thin, long face looked like a cadaver’s, with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. His bow-shaped mouth sneered, black beard stubbled his chin and his body odor proved he hadn’t bathed since they’d last met.

  Tucking his thumbs into his suspenders, he spit a long stream of tobacco close enough to Madeline that some of the brown liquid splattered her skirt.

  Sometime between yesterday’s walk and tonight’s escapade, Big Bill seemed to have lost his affection for Madeline.

  Thomasin stepped in front of Madeline. “Watch what you’re doing, you . . . man!”

  Big Bill looked her up and down. “Aren’t ye a ‘andsome thing? Running away from yer folks, are ye?”

  Thomasin shrank away from his insolence, but she boldly said, “What I do is none of your concern. You don’t know your place.”

  Madeline put her hand on Thomasin’s arm to restrain her. Thomasin, after all, thought him an insolent servant. Madeline knew him to be a murderer. “I’m Lady Thomasin’s companion. I’m escorting her to London.”

  “No, ye’re not, because ye’re not goin’. Neither one of ye.”

  That was bluntness indeed. “You’re not in charge of the guests’ travel,” Madeline said.

  He snapped his suspenders. “I guess I am. Orders are no one’s t’ leave ’ere until Rumbelow says so, and ’e ain’t said so.”

  This was worse than Madeline could have imagined. She glanced around. The hostler watched, wide-eyed, and behind him a ring of grinning thugs waited on Big Bill’s orders. Madeline had lingered too late to escape. Or perhaps they’d all been trapped from the first moment they’d arrived.

  “That’s ludicrous,” Thomasin said. “Mr. Rumbelow wouldn’t keep us here against our wishes.”

  “Ye don’t want t’ go anywhere with this piece anyways.” Big Bill’s gaze drilled into Madeline. “She’s not a proper companion fer an innocent like yerself. She’s gettin’ above ’erself, swivin’ a lord, when she could ‘ave someone like me.”

  Obviously, Thomasin didn’t understand what swiving was, or she would have been horrified. As it was, she strained at Madeline’s grip. “She wouldn’t have anything to do with you. She’s really a duchess!”

  “Thomasin, no!” Oh, no. That was the last thing Big Bill needed to know. Big Bill—and Mr. Rumbelow.

  “A doochess? Is that wot she told ye?” Big Bill threw back his head and laughed, and all around them the other men laughed, too.

  Thomasin glanced nervously from Big Bill to Madeline, out toward the others, and back to Madeline. “He’s insolent,” she said. “He’s just a servant. He can’t keep us here. That would be imprisonment, and he would be a criminal.”

  One of Big Bill’s eyes drooped and twitched.

  Madeline kept a close watch on him and said softly, “So he would.”

  “Rumbelow’s orders,” Big Bill repeated.

  Still incredulous, Thomasin said, “But Madeline, that’s impossible. This person must be mistaken. For Mr. Rumbelow to give such a command, he would have to be mad.”

  “Or also a criminal,” Madeline said.

  “Or both,” Big Bill added helpfully.

  “But . . . oh!” Thomasin put her hand over her mouth, and her large eyes stared between Big Bill and Madeline.

  “Run back t’ the ‘ouse, now, and ye”—he pointed at Madeline—“make sure the little girl keeps her yap shut. Or I’ll ‘ave t’ come after ye, and ye won’t like that.” Big Bill spit again, and this time he spit almost on Madeline’s shoes.

  Thomasin squealed and leaped back.

  Madeline’s usually quiescent temper stirred. She stared directly at him and didn’t move.

  When the disgusting brown had settled, she stepped up to Big Bill.

  Much to the amusement of his compatriots, he grinned and made kissing sounds.

  With a single swift gesture, she hit him under the chin with the flat of her hand.

  His head snapped back. He swallowed the whole, disgusting wad of tobacco.

  She leaped back.

  He clutched his stomach and gagged.

  Grabbing up both of their carpetbags, she handed one to Thomasin and said, “Come on, dear. We need to get back to the house before we’re missed.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  As the men laughed at Bill, Madeline and Thomasin hurried out, shoulder to shoulder.

  As soon as they were free of the stable, Madeline said, “Merde! I shouldn’t have done that. Big Bill will be . . . vicious. More vicious.”

  “You can’t be sorry. He’s a dreadful man. He spoke ill of you, and imagined himself on your level, and—what did he mean? When he said he’d come after us, what did he mean?” Thomasin stomped toward the house. “I need to tell my papa, right now!”

  “No.” Madeline glanced behind her, but didn’t slow down. “You can’t. That would ruin everything.”

  “Ruin what? Mr. Rumbelow’s party? I hate to tell you this, but it’s already ruined for me.” Thomasin had developed a sturdy backbone. “Am I supposed to dance and laugh for the next two days knowing that man has virtually declared I cannot leave? I’m a guest. I’m an aristocrat. He can’t do that.”

  “Yet he seems to have.”

  The sky had faded to a silver-gray in the west, leaving the landscape shrouded in shadow. A wind kicked up off the sea, and the groaning of the trees masked any sound from behind them. Thomasin stumbled over a tuft of grass; Madeline caught her arm and helped her get her balance, but they never slowed. Danger lurked behind them.

  “And why should you make sure I keep my . . . my yap shut?” Thomasin was breathing hard, from indignation and exercise. “Are you in charge?”

  “He means if you or I raise the alarm, he’ll hurt me.”

  “He can’t do that.”

  Exasperated, Madeline said, “Thomasin, did you look around in there? There were a great many men holding a great many guns, and none of them were huntsmen who had lost the fox.” She waited while that sank in. “We’re isolated. The game has started. None of the ladies or the sons and daughters are
going to believe us if we tell them what happened. They’ll want to know why we were trying to leave.”

  Thomasin was struck dumb by the logic. “But we can’t just let Mr. Rumbelow hold us here. He must be planning a mischief.” She struck her fist in her palm. “I never did trust him!”

  Madeline wanted to laugh, but the situation was too serious. “If you will trust me, I’ll tell someone who’ll know what to do.” She hoped.

  “Who? All the gentlemen are in the game.”

  “Lord Campion’s valet. He’ll believe me.” If she had to pound the truth into his head.

  They mounted the stairs and opened the front door. “In the meantime . . .”

  “In the meantime, you and I shall go and enjoy the gathering Mr. Rumbelow has arranged for the wives and children.”

  Thomasin looked down at her crumpled day dress, then up at Madeline.

  “Before, you were fashionably late.” They hurried up to their bedchamber and thrust their bags beneath the bed. “Tonight, we shall be very fashionably late.”

  Armed only with a silver-backed garment brush, MacAllister stood in Gabriel’s bedroom and looked dumbstruck at Madeline’s news. “How in bluidy hell did ye find that out?”

  “I tried to leave, as Gabriel instructed.”

  “Couldn’t ye have tried a wee bit sooner, before his lordship went int’ the dowager’s house?” MacAllister tapped his palm with the brush. “Ye’re sure that’s what they meant? Rumbelow won’t let anyone leave withoot his permission?”

  Madeline enunciated clearly and with exasperation. “The men had guns.”

  “Ach, I’ve wanted t’ shoot ye a time or two myself.”

  “This is no time for jests.”

  “That it is na’. I wish I could tell his lordship, but there’s no stopping the game now.”

  “Can you deliver a message to him?” If MacAllister didn’t do something, she would.

  “Rumbelow’s na’ allowing the gentlemen’s own servants t’ wait on him. He says so there’ll be no cheating, but we know better.” MacAllister stroked his chin. “So I ken I’d best start hoofing it toward the village where his lordship’s men are waiting.”

  “He has men waiting to come in?” For the first time in hours, Madeline relaxed. “Thank heavens.”

  “Ye didn’t think he’d try t’ capture a scoundrel like that by himself, did ye? A scoundrel with his own private army?” MacAllister snorted. “His lordship’s na’ so big a fool.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” Madeline said tartly.

  “Aye, missie, he’s na’ happy with ye. What did ye do now?”

  Stung by the injustice, Madeline replied, “He doesn’t wish to marry me.”

  “Nay, ‘tisn’t true.”

  “I assure you, it is very true.”

  “Four years of moping after ye, and just today I give him my blessing—and now he dunna want ye?” MacAllister pulled a long, disbelieving face. “Ye must have done something wrong.”

  “Apparently I did a great many things wrong, including—” Abruptly, the pain caught at her again. For a few moments, in the barn and in her rush to inform MacAllister of this new development, she had forgotten Gabriel’s rebuff. Now the memory swamped her, and she turned her head away.

  “Here, now. Ye’re na’ weeping, are ye?” MacAllister walked around to view the evidence.

  She glared at him defiantly, and wiped her cheeks. “I’m just leaking a little bit.”

  “So ye finally grew a woman’s heart.”

  “What did you think?” she snapped. “That I had a dog’s heart?”

  “Nay, dogs are true. Thought yer heart was more possibly a badger’s.”

  No one dared talk to Madeline that way—except MacAllister. The old man was incorrigible, interfering, cantankerous—and right now, the only hope of everyone here at this party.

  He examined her as if she were an unusual specimen of fungus and he a botanist. “I wonder what madness has possessed his lordship now.”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not discussing the matter with his valet.” She put MacAllister firmly in his place, not that he seemed to notice. “Do you have a way of protecting yourself if you meet with any of Mr. Rumbelow’s men?”

  “I’ve got my knives.”

  “Gabriel has knives, too.”

  “Who do ye think taught him how t’ use them?” MacAllister shook his head. “Daft female. Ye dinna know nothing.”

  * * *

  Five tables, placed close together. Ten hardback chairs.

  Four footmen of disreputable origins.

  Claret-colored walls. Bottle-green drapes, closed over the tall windows. Bookshelves empty of contents.

  Ten gentlemen, gamblers all, who noticed neither the isolation nor the fact that the footmen stood before the doors like prison guards.

  A Turkish carpet of green and black. Smoke rising from the occasional cigar. The gaming room silent, the air still.

  The clock striking midnight.

  Gabriel could hear the wind gusting outside as a storm moved in off the sea.

  In the gaming room, the gentlemen sat, hunched over their cards and concentrating as if their lives depended upon it. Only the occasional expletive or exclamation of triumph broke the quiet.

  Even Rumbelow focused totally on his hand, remaining absolutely still and never speaking unnecessarily.

  So Gabriel spoke. He had to. He was a man who gambled to win, and winning involved strategy. Not just card strategy, but the kind of strategy that interrupted the other men’s concentration.

  Actually, it was rather fun to make them writhe in annoyance. It was a break from the deliberation involved in winning the game. And he had to win the game.

  Or not. He would decide as the stakes, and the circumstances, became clear.

  At the end of his hand with Mr. Payborn—Gabriel won, of course, and he’d be surprised if Payborn hadn’t lost everything by the morning—he said, “We should open the window. The wind will clear some of the stuffiness from the room.”

  No one responded. A few men shifted their cards in their hands. Lord Tabard sucked on his cigar.

  “Rumbelow, is it all right with you if I have the window opened?” Gabriel insisted.

  Seated at a nearby table, Rumbelow waved a negligent hand. “Yes, yes, do whatever you wish.”

  Ah. Rumbelow didn’t like to be interrupted when he was playing cards. “I hesitate to command your servant. May I?” Gabriel asked.

  “Yes! For God’s sake, whatever you wish!” Raising his head, Rumbelow glared.

  Gabriel scrutinized him; the heightened color, the tight lips, the flared nostrils, all proof that Rumbelow could be prodded into revealing his feelings, and possibly his cards.

  Then Rumbelow caught himself. Relaxing, he smiled, using all his charm. “You’re a sly one, Campion, but you shan’t provoke me again.”

  The table with Lord Tabard and Monsieur Vavasseur ignored the ruckus, slapping cards down in blatant disgust at this interruption.

  “Yes. I will.” Gabriel challenged Rumbelow with his gaze, and again wondered: What drove Rumbelow to play these hands when he planned to abscond with the ante? Did he seek a challenge? He’d always outsmarted the best lawmen in England. Did he want to brag he’d outplayed the best gamblers in England, too?

  Had he grown arrogant?

  Rumbelow glanced down at his hand, then back at Gabriel. “No one catches Thurston Rumbelow.”

  If Rumbelow was seeking a challenge, Gabriel was willing to give it to him. With one hand, Gabriel expertly shuffled the deck—a show-off gesture, but one that served its purpose. “Until now.”

  Rumbelow observed the expert precision Gabriel used with the cards. He saw the other men looking at him, and at Gabriel. “Talk’s cheap,” he said. “When we play, we’ll see who catches who—if you’re not eliminated by one of these fine gamblers before I have a chance to play you.”

  In a gesture of indolence, Gabriel crossed his boot across his knee
and watched his own hand work the cards. “Or if you don’t throw a game and run away to escape humiliation first.” A challenge. One he thought Rumbelow would accept.

  “Perhaps there’s a way to make this more interesting,” Rumbelow said. “A side wager, between you and me.”

  Gabriel’s gaze flicked to the safe, black, metal, heavy and sealed with a padlock. “A side wager. But I haven’t yet seen proof that your part of the wager exists.”

  “What?” Rumbelow snapped. “Are you calling me a cheat? Are you saying I didn’t deposit my ten thousand pounds in the safe with yours?”

  “I would like to see the cash. I find I concentrate on my game with more acumen if I’m assured I will have what I win.” Gabriel enjoyed the rise of color in Rumbelow’s cheeks. A thief, a swindler and he wasn’t impervious to insult. Fascinating.

  By now everyone was watching with interest, and a few of the men were tactless enough to nod.

  Rumbelow put down his hand in precise, irritated motions. Rising to his feet, he strode to the safe. He showed them the key that hung around his belt. “There’s one other key, but it’s in London in my bank.” He knelt beside the safe, opened it and inside Gabriel saw nine stacks, each tied in string. Rumbelow removed one and showed them the thousand-pound note on either end. “Satisfied?” he asked Gabriel.

  Forgery, perhaps? Or a real note to camouflage the sheaves of blank paper cut precisely to pound-note size? “I am satisfied.” And if his men were here, and if the ship that waited to take Rumbelow away was waiting, he would challenge him now. “A side wager is an excellent idea.” He nodded toward the stacks of bills. “I like the look of those. So—we wager ten thousand pounds more.”

  “That’s what you want. I want something different. Something unique.” Rumbelow’s gaze spoke only too eloquently. “Something you . . . own.”

  Gabriel shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. Something he owned?

  Oh. He knew what Rumbelow wanted.

  Yet he didn’t hesitate. “Whatever you name is yours. I will deliver my possession into your hands, regardless of the anguish such an improbable loss would present.” He needed to think about this new development. Would this give him an advantage? Or not?