The Madcap (19 page)

Alasdair agreed and sealed his promise with a kiss.

As with many promises, there were some small infractions. News this exciting could not be kept entirely secret no matter how hard one tried. Marianne quietly confided the next morning to her mother in the
morning room, and Alasdair asked for permission to
send news of the announcement to the Times since the
announcement wouldn’t reach London and the papers
until later in the week.

The prince’s arrival defused some of the excitement
that burned between Marianne and Alasdair. Prince
Albert was a gregarious, social creature, surprisingly
affable in conversation. But he had monumental needs,
as evidenced by the enormous entourage that traveled
with him, and by his extensive wardrobe. “He has more
clothes than you have Worth dresses,” Alasdair joked
with Marianne privately as they watched the royal baggage parade in an unending stream up the staircase.

Joking aside, Marianne could tell that the monarch
had a genuine affection for Alasdair and Alasdair for
him. Although there was plenty of catering to the
man’s needs, the relationship between Alasdair and the
prince was not based solely on sycophantic kowtowing
and the currying of favor. Audrey had kept the guest
list small, inviting only the closest of friends. Marianne saw the reason for that now. The prince was polite
to all those around him but he enjoyed time alone with
Alasdair, walking the grounds or riding out with him.

For Alasdair’s part, Marianne noted that he played
the host to perfection. With affable ease, he dismissed
his efforts behind the scenes in the month prior to the
visit. He had all of the prince’s favorite delicacies on
hand for tea. If Marianne hadn’t known better she would not have guessed what an effort it had been to
arrange for the cases of Heidsieck champagne and
crates of lobster for patties and salads. The amount of
food the house party went through astonished Marianne. She couldn’t help but wonder if Alasdair kept a
mental tally in his head of what his largesse was costing. Not that it mattered. When she married him, she
would see that he wanted for nothing, that he never had
to think twice about certain economies. He’d said he
didn’t want her money, but that made her all the more
determined to see that he had it. For the first time in a
long while, Marianne was glad to be an heiress. Once
the announcement was formalized, her father would
settle a respectable sum on them and one of Alasdair’s
worries would be eased.

Although Marianne was eager to announce the
engagement, the week of the house party flew by. A
wealth of activities had been planned to keep the guests
entertained, and the weather cooperated beautifully,
allowing all types of outdoor excursions to follies, to
the village and to other scenic points of interest. Alasdair had even planned a few “American” activities in
honor of the Americans present as well as Bertie’s
penchant for American pastimes.

At Alasdair’s encouragement, Marianne paired up
with her father in a team rifle-shooting competition.
The prince exclaimed over her prowess with the
American guns with which her father traveled. She partnered with Alasdair in the archery tournament and
acquitted herself well in the riding demonstration, using a western-style saddle.

“It’s so unwieldy,” the prince remarked, running his
hands over the wide leather expanse of the western
saddle. “This saddle horn is enormous”

“It allows a cowboy to carry rope over it for easy
access,” Marianne explained. Indeed, the saddle did
look gigantic compared to the smaller, sculpted English variation.

“The style is more comfortable too,” her father put
in, joining the group that surrounded Marianne’s horse.
“Cattlemen spend hours a day in the saddle”

In the evenings, Marianne and the other ladies took
turns at the piano. At the prince’s insistence, Marianne
played band music from America. On some nights,
there was dancing. Marianne loved these nights the best
since they provided her with a few moments in Alasdair’s arms.

At the end of the week, Prince Albert invited the Addison family to join him on his yacht at Cowes. He’d expressed interest in seeing her father’s yacht, which was
awaiting their arrival for a week of racing there. In short,
Marianne thought the house party represented one of
the best weeks she’d ever experienced. Alasdair’s
mother had been too busy fussing over the prince to pay
any attention to her. Even if she had turned her attentions toward Marianne, Marianne doubted that Lady Pennington would have dared to voice any level of disapproval when the prince had so clearly given the young
woman his favor.

On the last day of the party, Marianne stood with
Audrey and Alasdair and the others on the wide front
steps of Highborough, waving off the royal carriages
with promises to see the prince the following week in
Cowes. Beside her, Alasdair managed a secret squeeze
of her hand. She didn’t dare risk looking at him, but she
smiled, not caring who saw the smile or to what they attributed it. The week had been a triumph, and she’d triumphed along with it.

Lord Brantley threw down his copy of the Times
with thorough disgust. Pennington had proposed and
been accepted. Pennington had been in the countryside entertaining an elite few and the prince while he,
Brantley, slaved away in London amid the infinite maze
of social events and restrictions, hoping to find enough
funds to keep going.

The tables at the gaming hells and card parties had
only been marginally lucrative these past weeks and his
pockets were feeling the pinch. Pennington’s pockets
were definitely not feeling the pinch these days. With
the assurance of the heiress’ fortune behind him, Pennington could entertain the prince without worry.

The American chit had even garnered the prince’s
affections. That was no surprise-the girl was lovely and the prince was enchanted with American girls.
Logically, it all added up. But that didn’t stop Brantley
from feeling a stab of jealousy. The American would
be joining His Royal Highness on his yacht at Cowes,
one of the most coveted social invitations one could
receive. Of course her father had a yacht. Brantley recalled hearing that he was having one commissioned
in Cherbourg especially for the racing.

Brantley snorted and reached for his coffee. The
American girl had been plenty smart. She’d planned
her campaign. He could see that now. The large town
house in a prestigious neighborhood, the endless train
of impeccable, formfitting Worth gowns, the sponsorship from the American Countess of Camberly. With
her natural beauty and liveliness, it had been too easy
to assume the girl had simply fallen into all her good
luck and social acceptance by accident. But Brantley
thought otherwise. The yacht was the clincher. She or
her family had known ahead of time how partial the
prince would be to another sporting man if they could
just get a chance to meet him.

Paired with the purchase of a yacht ready just in time
for the regatta at Cowes, the reasons Marianne Addison
had come to London in the first place seemed blatantly
obvious. She had been title-hunting in an attempt to get
back at, or to escape, the stigma with which she’d been
branded in New York for her escapades there.

Brantley had yet to let that bit of information come to light. The time to do so was upon him, he thought.
Pennington’s mother couldn’t be pleased about the announcement of the engagement between her son and
the nouveau riche American chit, since she’d been
an overt champion of Sarah Stewart for years. She’d be
eager to thwart her son’s alliance with Marianne Addison, especially if it meant avoiding a scandal.

Cowes seemed the perfect place to do it. There would
be several Americans there, eager to show off their
yachts. They would not be warm to the idea that a country woman of theirs who had been snubbed by Mrs. Astor and hadn’t managed to gain admittance to the
revered Four Hundred Club was now finding success at
the highest levels of British society. That alone would
start the tongues wagging and Pennington’s mother
thundering.

But that was all a contingency plan. Brantley didn’t
truly expect the scandal to break, although he was
prepared to go that far. He’d try blackmail first. Pennington was not a stupid man. The viscount would understand the ramifications of this scandal breaking.
Pennington would want to take all measures necessary
to prevent word from getting out. He wouldn’t want to
risk the prince’s displeasure at having been associated
with the Addisons through him, and heaven help him,
if Pennington had actually fallen in love with his intended bride, he’d want to protect her too.

Brantley pushed back from the table and headed for
his writing desk. He had a letter to write and a trip to plan. He was going to win the wager. Marianne would
not last the regatta.

Cowes, the Isle of Wight

In the privacy of the room serving as an office at the
rented house in Cowes, Alasdair’s hand made a fist
and crushed the plain white stationery that contained
the hateful letter.

He’d been foolish to think that they would remain
unscathed. There were only two weeks of the Season
left, counting the regatta week, and he’d been too optimistic. He’d also misjudged Brantley. He’d hoped
his engagement to Marianne would have signaled to
Brantley, as it would have to any other gentleman, that
the chase was off. Marianne was officially committed
to another. A gentleman knew the rules. It was not acceptable to poach on another’s territory. Of course, he
couldn’t explain it to Marianne in those terms. She
would cringe at such a barbaric idea as women being
property. But the idea was solid.

Apparently, Brantley wasn’t playing by those rules.
The man must be more desperate for funds than he’d
imagined if Brantley was willing to play such a deep
and vile game. This was blatant extortion: three thousand pounds in order to keep Marianne’s scandalous escapade from becoming public, whatever that escapade
was.

Alasdair didn’t know what to think. Audrey had
only alluded to it once. He’d never brought it up with Marianne and she had never brought it into the realm
of their conversations. Not knowing made it difficult
to ascertain the reasonability of Brantley’s price. Had
she done something minor that had been blown out of
proportion, or had she done something truly upsetting? Knowing Marianne as he did, he rather believed
the former.

There was no question of whether or not he should
pay the fee. Blackmail had no end once someone gave
in, and Brantley would not let it go. If he dared to importune them once, he’d dare it again. Alasdair would
not have his marriage plagued by such a shadow, unless the scandal was so horrific that it bore considering such a sacrifice.

Alasdair unfolded the crumpled paper and smoothed
it on the surface of his desk. He couldn’t go to the authorities. Brantley had been too careful in his choice
of words. The threat was veiled, and one would only
understand the implication of the words if one knew
all the private history and angles between the two of
them. Alasdair could sense the dark humor with which
Brantley had penned the letter, knowing very well he
couldn’t go to the authorities and say, “This man is mad
at me for spilling champagne on his shirt and stealing a
dance”

No, he couldn’t go to the authorities. But he could
go to Marianne. Before he took any action, he had to
know what had happened in New York. He didn’t relish the thought of asking her about it any more than he relished the thought of knowing what it was. He
couldn’t imagine it would be significant enough to alter
the way he felt about her. But the whole situation would
inherently bring tension into an already fragile relationship where they were still getting to know one another.
Perhaps Brantley had known that would be the outcome
and this was just one more tactic to drive a wedge between Marianne and Alasdair.

Well, bad news didn’t get better by being put off.
Alasdair left the office, the note tucked in his pocket,
to search out Marianne. The house he’d rented along
with Camberly and Lionel and the Addisons was large,
large enough to accommodate the three groups without their stepping all over each other. Right now,
though, he was cursing the enormous spaces. Marianne wasn’t in the conservatory with Audrey. She
wasn’t in the garden with her mother. She wasn’t
shooting billiards with Lionel and Camberly, although
he hadn’t really thought she would be.

The last place he checked was the library, where he
found Stella penning letters. “She’s not here, Dair.”
Stella looked up from her stationery. “She was, though.
We were going through the correspondence together.
She got up suddenly and said something about going to
the kitchen.” Stella paused. “I hope that makes sense? I
don’t know what she’s up to, but I rather thought a letter
upset her, although she didn’t say anything specific.”

Alasdair’s heart pounded. Had the bastard Brantley
threatened her too? The blackguard couldn’t leave well enough alone and simply blackmail him, one
man to another? To threaten Marianne was reprehensible, entirely beyond any gentleman’s code of conduct no matter how loosely written.

Alasdair flew down the stairs to the kitchen, worry
and anger in every stride. If Brantley had threatened
Marianne directly, the man would live to sorely regret
it. When he got done with Brantley, the bloody nose
he’d given the journalist would look like a minor
infraction.