The Madcap (6 page)

He was not alone in his attention or attraction to
Marianne. Marianne Addison, openly known now
among the ton as the Sourdough Heiress, was fast becoming London’s latest cause celebre. There were
some who labeled her an Original for her loveliness and
exuberance, and others who labeled her merely the latest American novelty.

The latter group expected her to eventually overstep the boundaries of acceptable behavior and be sent
packing home as other American girls had been in the
past. Many expected that such an eventuality wasn’t
too far in the offing. The very items that made Marianne an Original were the same items that made her
controversial.

Whether she knew it or not, whether she cared or not,
she walked a fine line between the freshness of her
actions and the unacceptable nature of them. There
were those who disapproved of her clear enjoyment of
dancing. In addition, word of the duck pond incident
had circulated around drawing rooms for a few days
until it had been squelched by a well-placed remark
from the Countess of Camberly, who’d said it proved
hard to gossip negatively about someone doing a good
deed.

After that, those who were convinced Marianne
Addison would not “take” in London didn’t dare voice
such sentiments out loud in certain company for fear of
reprisal. The prince liked high-flying American girls
and Alasdair was the prince’s friend. Instead, the
would-be naysayers would have to wait and let Marianne orchestrate her own fall, after which the handsome, eligible Viscount Pennington would surely turn
his attention back to proper English girls.

Alasdair was aware of these undercurrents even if
Marianne wasn’t. Still, she was guilty of nothing more
than vivacious dancing, saving a small boy’s boat, and having stolen the attentions of an eligible peer. Ironically, it was the last of these faults that caused Alasdair
the most trouble. Before June had reached its midpoint,
rumors of his attachment to the fascinating American
parvenu brought his mother to town.

Alasdair rounded the corner to his Bruton Street
town house, whistling a lively tune that was indicative
of his exceedingly good mood. He’d squired Marianne
and her mother on a trip to Hatchards booksellers in
Piccadilly that morning. Marianne had been amazed
at the selection of books, doing nothing to disguise her
unabashed excitement at exploring the establishment
and commenting on its treasures. No English girl, especially not Sarah Stewart, who Alasdair doubted had
read a whole book from cover to cover, would have
displayed such satisfaction. Alasdair couldn’t recall a
time he’d had a conversation with a woman about a
book; yet he and Marianne had discussed not one
book, but several, while they browsed the shelves.

The tune and his good humor faded abruptly when he saw the black carriage parked outside his home.
There was nothing like an unannounced visit from his
mother to quash his high spirits.

Alasdair squared his shoulders and mounted the
steps. “How long as she been here?” he quietly asked
a footman in the foyer.

“A little over an hour, milord. She’s taking tea in
the Yellow Salon,” the footman informed him.

“Very good,” Alasdair said. He tugged at his waistcoat and strode down the hall to the Yellow Salon, one
of the private rooms strictly for family use when they
were in residence, which thankfully wasn’t often. Most
of his extended family preferred their country homes to
life in Town. Even his mother preferred to stay in Richmond during the Season.

The Yellow Salon was a small, cozy chamber done
in sunny shades of yellow and white striped wallpaper.
The space was furnished with a sofa in jonquil brocade and a pair of matching winged chairs. Around
the room, vases of blue violet gladioli decorated tabletops, adding a brilliant splash of color just the shade
of Marianne’s eyes. The odd thought crossed his mind
that Marianne would look stunning in this room.

But Marianne wasn’t the woman sitting at the settee
in the room’s center. His mother, Margaret Braden, the
dowager Viscountess Pennington, set down her teacup
and fixed him with her stare. “There you are at last”

Alasdair’s jaw tightened. She made it sound as if
he were an errant child, overdue from his adventures, when in fact, she was the unexpected guest. He tamped
down on his desire to return the petty scold. “Mother,
this is an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to
Town? I didn’t think you were coming up until after the
Derby” Alasdair settled himself casually in a winged
chair facing the sofa. He reached for a lemon scone. If
he had to deal with his mother, he might as well enjoy
Cook’s excellent baking.

“Pleasure has nothing to do with it,” she snapped.
“What has brought me to Town is you. It has come to
my attention that you’ve comported yourself poorly
by attaching yourself to a wild American girl. It’s
dreadfully insensitive of you when there are so many
English girls available who would love to marry you.
And really, Alasdair, there’s no need to do anything at
all beyond the basic courtesies of fulfilling your social
obligations. You have Sarah waiting for you at home.
In fact, I could invite her up to stay in Town.”

“Town would make her uncomfortable,” Alasdair
ground out in Sarah’s defense. He valued Sarah’s
friendship; he just didn’t want to marry her if he could
avoid it. Sarah was a country girl at heart, preferring
the meadows and villages of Devonshire to the noise
and havoc of London. Sarah would hate London, and
London would intimidate her.

“Well, you’ve certainly made me uncomfortable
with all of these rumors about the American girl. I am
sure you can’t imagine how I felt hearing this lurid gossip about you in the middle of a tea. I’d just taken a
bite of scone when Lady Harmon said, `I hear Pennington has taken up the latest fad of falling for a rich
American.’ I looked her squarely in the eye and denied
it. I said, `I know of no such thing. He has an understanding with Miss Sarah Stewart.”’

His mother leaned forward, gathering a full head
of steam. “Then Lady Harmon stared at me with that
falsely innocent gaze of hers and said, `Then I suppose
it’s not true that the American has danced the waltz in
scandalously close proximity to your son every night
since they met, or that he took her driving in Hyde
Park where she waded in a duck pond with her stockings on?’”

“She’s not wild, Mother,” Alasdair broke in. “She
waded in to retrieve a toy boat, and there’s nothing
wrong with the Viennese waltz except that it’s not
called the English waltz”

His mother sucked in her breath, horrified. “Then
you don’t deny it?”

“There’s hardly anything worth denying, Mother.”
Alasdair leaned back in his chair, a leg crossed over
his knee.

When it became obvious he wasn’t going to quarrel
with her, Alasdair’s mother sighed and changed her
tack. “I understand everyone’s doing it, these days:
Marlborough and the Vanderbilt chit, Camberly and his
American wife. Bertie’s penchant for the American girls doesn’t help. His own proclivity spurs the others
on. The Carlton Club Set, the Marlborough Set, all
have made a novelty out of American girls. I dare say
it’s only their fortunes that make the girls so attractive
to our men. If they didn’t have their money, I doubt anyone of merit would take them seriously,” she opined.

Alasdair thought of Marianne’s joie de vivre and privately disagreed. In fact, he hadn’t thought once about
Marianne’s financial background. Of course he knew,
as did all of London, that she was heir to a staggeringly large fortune built on bread baking. She and her
parents made no attempt to hide the fact. She wore
a Worth gown every night, fully turned out with the
proper accessories. The pearland-diamond choker
she’d worn the first night was worth a small fortune
alone. But such mundane matters had been quickly
obscured by her natural vivacity.

His mother studied him. “Perhaps I have misunderstood the situation. Is it the money? Is she quite rich?”
His mother became somberly melodramatic. “Oh,
my son, I see now that you’re doing this for the
family-sacrificing yourself to the American dollar,
all for the sake of our financial well-being.”

It was obvious that she honestly believed it to be the
case; her speech was so sincere. One would think her
son was sacrificing himself on the altar of his country
for some patriotic deed. If circumstances had been
different, Alasdair would have laughed out loud. But
she was serious and that was no laughing matter. He didn’t want his mother countermanding any rumors
with her version of the truth.

“No, Mother, that is not why I have been linked to
Miss Addison,” Alasdair said flatly. “I rather like her
and we get along splendidly. I’ve found we have many
things in common.”

She heaved a sigh, feigning resignation. But Alasdair was experienced enough with her shenanigans to
know she was nowhere near as resigned to the situation as she pretended to be. “I suppose a man is entitled
to one last fling, one last brush with scandal, before he
settles down.”

Alasdair rose, effectively putting an end to the conversation, it was going nowhere anyway. “This is not a
`fling.’ Not even Bertie trifles with unwed girls, American or otherwise. Regardless of my relationship with
Miss Addison, I have no intentions of marrying Sarah
Stewart. I have made this clear to you in the past and I
am making it clear once again.”

A hand flew to her throat. “You can’t mean to marry
the American girl! Sarah has enough money and she’s
English.”

“I don’t know what I intend, Mother, however I do
know that I will not marry at anyone’s whim but my
own.” The frustrating part about arguing with his
mother was that he held his ground, spoke his mind
without reservation, and it didn’t matter-she simply
ignored his decisions.

She was about to launch another round of argument. Alasdair raised his hand to forestall it. “Excuse me,
Mother. I have appointments to keep this afternoon.”

Alasdair’s so-called appointments were nothing
more than a meeting with Lionel and Gannon at
White’s. He was early, but arriving ahead of schedule
was preferable to listening to his mother’s arguments.
He sank into a deep chair, prepared to enjoy a freshly
pressed edition of the Times. He hadn’t gotten far into
the financial news when Lord Brantley approached,
flanked by two of his gambling cronies.

“I am starting to think it was no accident you spilled
champagne on my shirt,” Brantley began without preamble, taking a chair uninvited. “I was rather suspect
that night, and seeing how things have turned out, I’m
quite convinced I was right. You spilled on purpose”

“Accidents are accidents, Brantley, because they
don’t have causes or explanations,” Alasdair remarked,
not setting aside his paper and thus hoping to make
the message clear that he wanted to be left alone. “I do
hope the stain came out, at any rate”

Brantley didn’t take the hint. He settled into the
chair comfortably, giving the impression of committing himself to a lengthy conversation. Alasdair had
never spoken with Brantley for more than a span of
minutes. He couldn’t guess what the man had to discuss with him now.

“Oh, the stain came out as did the news that my intended partner for that dance is a bonafide heiress to a multimillion-dollar fortune. Did you know that night?
I think you did,” Brantley said coldly. “I should have
been the one dancing with her. But instead it was you,
and now you’ve been seen everywhere with her. Both
the World and the Morning Post have noticed you’ve
made a regular habit of dancing with her.” Brantley
tossed a newspaper at him, the paper folded back to the
appropriate page.

Alasdair took a moment to scan the article. It was
the usual social news, one-line mentions of who had
been seen where and with whom. He scanned a few
lines before one section leapt out at him: “A certain
Viscount P has been seen in the company of the
newest American heiress to visit London. The said
American, Miss A, is the daughter of a sourdough
bread baker from San Francisco. Her father is reported to be worth millions. This author wonders if
her main attraction for Viscount P is her bank account. While it is not known for certain, it would not
be beyond the realm of possibility that Viscount P
is looking for a way to bolster flagging family coffers
before the situation becomes dire.”

Alasdair fought his rising temper. It would serve no
purpose for Brantley to sense his frustration. Showing
his anger would only be seen as a validation that the
rumors about his finances were true, something he’d
worked hard to keep away from prying gossips.

“What’s your point, Brantley? The social columns
are full of half-truths. The writer even admits it is all speculation.” Alasdair gave a cynical chuckle. “Surely
you don’t believe everything you read?”

Brantley leaned forward, his voice low and menacing. “The point is that she should have been dancing
with me. You stole my chance. Like any other rich
American, she’s probably hanging out for a title. Mine
would do just as well as yours in that case. She probably doesn’t even know the difference between a baron
and a viscount. You wanted her for yourself and you
deliberately undermined my attempts”