The Stepsister's Triumph (3 page)

He should never have told Haggerty he was keeping the painting. He should get it away from him as quickly as possible. He needed to concentrate on his other work -- his fresh, polite, unstartling, safe, fashionable work. He needed to make a living and a life for himself this time. His heart had been broken and the shards laid away. He could not bring it back.

“Well, I think we can now say with confidence you girls have made an excellent beginning,” Miss Sewell told her protégés. “The remarks I overheard at the exhibition were highly favorable.”

Madelene, along with Lady Adele and Lady Helene, gathered in Deborah Sewell's green parlor at No. 48 Wimpole Street, as they now did most days. Madelene and the other girls had many points in common. One was an uneasy relationship with their families. So when they'd embarked on their scheme to create a mutual triumph, one of the first things they needed was somewhere they could talk without any chance of being overheard by their relations. But Miss Sewell's cozy residence had become more than just a convenient place to discuss their plans. Adele called it their smuggler's cave of hopes and dreams, but Adele had been very happy of late and said many fanciful things. Helene, with her dust-dry sense of humor, stated this was a common symptom that manifested when one fell in love with a Frenchman, and then they'd bickered while Miss Sewell sat back with her distant, benevolent smile.

That smile sometimes still made Madelene uneasy. Miss Sewell had been very kind to them all, but she was a writer of fashionable fiction. Her sensational three-volume novel,
The Matchless
, was full of sharp caricatures of society matrons and not a few of their daughters. Sometimes Madelene wondered if Miss Sewell was observing her protégés for inclusion in its sequel.

“I got an invitation from Mrs. Wallingford to call this week,” Adele was saying.

“That's new, isn't it?” Helene flipped through one of the many notebooks she had begun keeping since they had embarked on their ambitious project. “Did she say anything about why she asked you?”

Madelene knew she should be paying closer attention to the conversation, but she could not seem to keep her thoughts fixed on which matron or which girl had said what to whom. Her mind kept straying back to the exhibition.

She had never believed she would see Benedict Pelham again. Adele told her he seldom went out into society. That he'd agreed to come to the Windford's house party at all was a minor miracle. There, she had relished the opportunity to watch him work, to drink her fill of the sight of his lean shoulders and his handsome, serious face. She liked the way his expression shifted and softened as his hands so dexterously sketched the scenes in front of him.

No matter how often she told herself it was entirely wicked, she had not been able to keep herself from imagining what it would be like to have those hands—to have Benedict—touch her.

And today he
had
touched her. Just for a moment, to help her when she stumbled, but that one light, polite touch had brought all those fantasies flooding back.

“I have been looking into the question of how to accomplish our ultimate goal of a thorough success,” Helene was saying. “My research has confirmed what I believed at the beginning. We need to give a ball.”

“That's a risk, Helene,” Adele said. “If we try to present a large entertainment and it falls flat, we'll be laughingstocks, again,” she added. “Aren't we doing well enough as we are?”

“
Well enough
is lukewarm,” Helene said. “The point of our plans was not just to improve but to triumph.” She leveled her very direct gaze at Adele. “And to show the world that we can. For that, we need to make a grand show. Now, you are correct that none of us has direct experience with organizing a ball. Fortunately, it is a problem that yields to analysis and thorough organization. We have your plans, Adele . . .”

“My entirely theoretical plans,” Adele put in. “Written up when I was daydreaming at roughly sixteen years old.”

Helene ignored this. “I have made inquiries. To have a party that is not just notable but entirely successful, we will need several things: exceptional food, an exceptional setting, and exceptional music. These can be purchased. First and foremost, however, we will need exceptional guests.”

“We've just been congratulating ourselves over one matron's invitation to call,” Adele reminded her. “How can three relative nobodies go about securing even one exceptional guest?”

“We have Miss Sewell,” Madelene said.

“Thank you.” Miss Sewell nodded solemnly. “However, I will have to be the one acting as hostess for the ball in honor of my protégés.” She spread her hands to indicate the three of them. As unmarried girls who still lived at home, they could not give even a card party under their own auspices. “Since I am directly involved with you girls, I cannot be revealed as a surprising and enticing guest.”

“Some of your literary friends, then?” suggested Madelene. An idea was forming in the back of her mind, but it was dangerous. She rubbed her hands together and looked toward the clock on the mantel. She should go, and soon, before she forgot how dangerous.

Helene tapped her pencil against her chin, considering. “I don't suppose, Miss Sewell, that you know Lord Byron?”

“No, I'm sorry.”

Madelene tried not to shift her weight uneasily as silence descended over her friends. Her fingers twisted together, and she tried to smooth them.

Better to keep silent. Besides, if Mama finds out, the scenes will be dreadful.

“What about Benedict Pelham?” asked Helene, and Madelene jumped as if she'd been pinched, a fact none of the others failed to notice. “Everyone was admiring his paintings at the exhibition.”

“That is a possibility,” Miss Sewell said thoughtfully.

Don't look at me. Please don't say anything about me, or the painting.
Panic was rising, and the old terror of discovery. She tried to tell herself she was among friends. They would not mock her, or worse, tell her stepmother on her. She knew this was true, but the fear would not loosen its grip.

When Miss Sewell turned, though, it was toward Adele. “Lord Benedict is friends with your brother, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is,” Adele said. “It would be difficult to persuade Marcus to ask Lord Benedict to come to a party, though. It's not the sort of thing he likes to get involved in.” This was probably putting it mildly. The Duke of Windford was notoriously aloof and unbending. “And there's another problem.” Adele wasn't looking at Helene anymore. She was watching Madelene. and Madelene felt her cheeks burn. “Lord Benedict's first wife.”

Wife? He's
married
?
Madelene's hands clenched tightly.
No, no, she said first wife. He must be a widower.

“Does anybody even remember that business?” Helene frowned, her brows pulling together in an attitude that would have had Madelene's stepmother scolding her for a week.

“Yes,” said Adele. “I heard plenty of whispers about it during the exhibition.”

“What . . . what happened to his first wife?” asked Madelene.

“Oh, it was horrible,” said Adele. “She was the toast of society for a while. Beautiful, young, exotic. Italian—either a countess or an opera singer, no one seemed to be sure which it really was. He painted all sorts of pictures of her, and they were famous together. The artist and his muse. Then . . . well, she died, very suddenly. There were rumors that she was poisoned and that . . .”

“No,” Madelene cut her off. “You're going to say Lord Benedict was suspected, and that's not possible. He wouldn't do such a terrible thing.”

Now they were all staring at her, and Madelene waited for the familiar shrinking and shriveling inside. But it didn't come. She would not believe that the man who stood beside her today, who had spoken to her with such sympathy, could have harmed his wife, and she would not let anyone, even Adele, say he had.

Adele's eyebrows arched. “My brother agrees, but you know how people talk, and how they love to believe the worst.”

“If we make him our exceptional guest, he might frighten off as many matrons as he'd lure in,” added Helene crossly.

“It's not fair,” Madelene said.

“No,” agreed Miss Sewell. “But it is reality, and you cannot ignore it. It also touches on a point I meant to raise with you all.”

“What?” demanded Helene, flipping furiously through her book. “Have I missed something?”

“Despite your recent social strides, you girls are still unknown quantities. When we give out our invitations, the matrons will be scrutinizing your behavior to decide if they should accept on behalf of their daughters. Until then, you will need to tread with extra caution. One breath, one hint of scandal, and they will have their excuse to stay away in droves.”

Adele's hand strayed to the gold chain she always wore about her neck. None of them were supposed to know, but on the end hung the ring James Beauclaire had given her before he went to join his father in Paris. Helene also was looking unusually ill at ease. Helene recently had a most uncomfortable and uncharacteristically dramatic encounter with the Marquis of Broadheathe, to whom she'd once been engaged.

But Madelene was sure Miss Sewell wasn't talking about either of them. Miss Sewell was talking to her, warning her about what had happened in the gallery. She was saying there could not be another such incident.

Not that there was any chance of it, Madelene told herself. She was hardly likely to encounter Lord Benedict again. They didn't move in anything like the same circles.

“You are right, of course, Miss Sewell. We will all need to be extra cautious.” Helene picked up her pencil and made some additional notes. “It occurs to me that we wouldn't need Lord Benedict himself to come to the party if we had a new painting of his to exhibit.”

“An unveiling would make a fine point of interest and amusement,” agreed Miss Sewell. “Lord Benedict has always been known for his portrayal of classical subjects. If he could be persuaded to paint one of you in the classical style, it would raise a great deal of excitement.”

Madelene remembered the feeling of Lord Benedict's gaze on her, how she was sure he could see right through to her heart and how wonderful and how terrible that had seemed. What would it be like to be alone with him looking at her that way? When either of them might say or do anything?

I'm going to faint
, she thought, desperately.

Fortunately, none of the others seemed to notice anything was wrong. Miss Sewell just raised one finger to indicate she had an additional point to add. “You cannot, however, count on the strength of a painting alone to bring in the notables. You would still need your guest.” Now Miss Sewell did turn toward her. “Do you know anyone, Madelene?”

Madelene glanced about the room. She couldn't do it.

But if you do, you'll be helping your friends
, said the daring voice in the back of her mind.
Really helping, not just handing over more money.

The more familiar and far more frightened voice whispered back,
And when Mama finds out?

“There's my cousin Henry,” she heard herself say. “Henry Cross.”

Adele's eyes went round as saucers. “Not Henry Cross the actor! You can't mean it!”

“You never told me you were related to Mister Cross,” Helene said.

“I'm not supposed to mention him. My stepmother forbade me to communicate with him after she and father married.”

“And your father agreed?” cried Adele, clearly shocked.

“I think Father was glad of the excuse to cut him. They never got along. Mother was the only person in the family to acknowledge Cousin Henry once he took to the stage. They wrote volumes of letters. He used to send me presents from his European tours.” Madelene smiled at the memory of the lively, gossiping letters that came with those gifts. Then she remembered the shouting matches between Mother and Father when the letters and the gifts arrived; all the long nights trying to remain small and still in her nursery bed while the sound of angry voices rose up through the floor. All those hours spent hoping no one would remember she was there and begin shouting at her.

“He would be a marvelous guest,” Miss Sewell said.

“He'd be perfect,” Helene agreed. “He is without doubt the most famous actor in England. Some women are supposed to have fainted during his performance in
Stand and Deliver
. Which is ridiculous, but it does create the right sort of sensation.”

“And he never goes to society parties,” Miss Sewell added. “It would be quite the coup if he came to yours.” Her eyes, thought Madelene, were unusually distant as she spoke. But neither Adele nor Helene seemed to notice. They were looking at Madelene, eagerly, expectantly.

“Well, Madelene?” Miss Sewell said. “Will you ask him? He is just who you need.”

“I . . .” began Madelene. “I . . .” Her eye caught the clock, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh. I'm late. I need to get home. Please. I'm sorry.”

Without another word, Madelene jumped to her feet and rushed from the room, leaving her friends' surprise and silence trailing behind her.

*   *   *

When the door swung shut, Helene turned to Miss Sewell, anger shining in her amber eyes.

“That was unnecessary. You pushed her too far.”

Miss Sewell remained entirely unruffled by the younger woman's reproof. “I know Madelene is your best friend, Helene, but you try to shelter her too much. You must let her take her own chances.”

Helene did not back down one inch. “If Henry Cross declines the invitation and we're left begging for a guest, Madelene will think it's her fault. I won't see her put in that position. I've known her longer than either of you. You have no idea how hard any of this is for her. To make the success of the whole ball depend on her might be too much.”

Miss Sewell sighed and looked from Adele to Helene. “I do know something about Madelene's family and her circumstances. I have certainly seen how her father's family treats her when they are in public together. I can't help but believe it would be a very good thing if she renewed her relationship with her cousin. Then she would have a close connection who cares about her, not her money.”