Fallen Angel (33 page)

"Wonder who the lucky girl will be?"

One suggestion led to another. By the time M.r. Max Branwell strolled away, the betting book was open and hefty wagers were being placed on the most likely eligible to lead the elusive viscount to the altar. The name of Maddie Sinclair never came up.

Just as Branwell accepted his hat and cane from a liveried footman, the tranquil halls were split by a sudden excited exclamation which tore from the lips of Lord Blanchard.

"Good grief! Dolly Ramides! It's Dolly Ramides! I've won the book! Raggett! Raggett! Where are you? I'm collecting on the old bet I made before Christmas. Dolly Ramides has captured Deveryn!"

By nightfall, it was all over town that the Fallen Angel's new "ladybird was none other than Dolly Ramides and that she was the mysterious lady whose honour the viscount had defended with his bare fists.

Only Jack Ponsonby, nursing a broken jaw at his uncle's estate in Surrey, refuted popular opinion. His protestations went unheeded. Everyone knew that the young whelp went delirious when under the influence of strong spirits. Not that his family objected to the quantity of brandy the boy could put away of an evening. It was the ungentlemanly habit of not being able to hold his liquor which invoked their severest censure.

Notwithstanding young Ponsonby, Deveryn took comfort in the knowledge that his strategy had proved effective. But as a victory, it left much to be desired, in that gentleman's opinion. To claim Maddie as his bride at this point in time was unthinkable. The scandal would be impossible to live down. He thought that in a month things would have quietened down and they might pretend to wed with scarcely an eyebrow being raised. In the meantime, he found his position intolerable. Circumstances compelled him to court his own wife as if he were a suitor aspiring to her hand. He hoped that he could get to her before the shocking report of his imaginary liaison with Dolly Ramides reached her ears.

Deveryn's hope, as he suspected, was a forlorn one. It took less than twenty-four hours for the report to reach Maddie's ears. The first obscure reference which was made in her hearing was over tea in the drawing room of her grandfather's house on Curzon Street. Lady Bessborough, escorted by her son, Freddie, was paying a morning call when Lady Mary Branwell entered.

Maddie liked the older girl, though she found it hard to account for her partiality. They had been introduced at Lady Bessborough's musical evening and had spent a pleasant hour in each other's company at the supper table. Lady Mary, whose breadth of experience and circle of acquaintances far surpassed Maddie's, had recognized what the younger girl was at a loss to explain. They were birds of a feather.

She had been struck by Maddie's lack of affectation. Her eyes did not stray to the young bucks when she was in conversation with a lady. Long silences did not discompose her. Neither flattery nor spite had once fallen from her lips. True, the girl had had little to say for herself but, after Max had joined them, her dark eyes had lit up with intelligence and amusement at his clever though rather oblique witticisms. She had boldly come back at him with a devastating rejoinder. That had shocked him. He was used to thinking that only the Verney girls had the wit to appreciate his brand of humour. It had evidently shocked Miss Sinclair as well. After that one sally, she had turned shy. But Lady Mary's interest was piqued.

Moreover, her husband had suggested that it would be a kindness to cultivate the acquaintance of the girl since she knew so few people in town.

Lady Mary's glance strayed to Lady Bessborough and her eyes lit up with pleasure. That lady was known to possess one of the most brilliant minds of her generation. Her education was superior and though her morals were questionable, her disposition was sweet and gentle. At one time she and Lady Mary's mother had thought to open a school for girls and give young ladies the benefit of an education grounded in the classics. That venture had been squashed by their respective families. They had vowed, then, to ensure that their own daughters were not deprived of their due. Lady Mary was very glad that her mother had kept her promise.

"Aunt Harriet," she exclaimed and planted a kiss on the cheek Lady Bessborough turned up to her.

Maddie observed the older girl's every movement with keen interest. Her manners were enviable. Her poise, something to emulate. She was glad when Lady Mary elected to take the empty chair beside her own. Though she had thought Freddie Ponsonby an amiable young man, his flowery compliments had begun to grate on her nerves. She cast around in her mind for some suitable topic of conversation that she might introduce. She need not have put herself to the trouble. Freddie took up the slack in the conversation.

He asked gravely after Lady Mary's brother.

Lady Mary replied with a twinkle that he had returned from a mill at Grantham which had necessitated a week long stint in bed under doctor's orders.

Maddie recognized that Lady Mary and Freddie were teasing each other playfully. She listened with half an ear to the snatches of quiet conversation which reached her from the two ladies who were tete-a-tete on the yellow brocade sofa by the long windows. She heard Lady Bessborough mention the word "Deveryn" and Maddie's attention became rivetted. Lady Bessborough imparted some confidence to Miss Spencer. A woman's name was mentioned, "Dolly Ramides," she thought. Restrained laughter followed. Only one phrase carried clearly before their voices dropped to little more than a whisper— "sowing his wild oats."

Not unnaturally, Maddie was beside herself with curiosity, but had no means of satisfying it. She forced a smile to her lips when Freddie Ponsonby addressed some passing remark to her about Lady Mary's delinquent brother, but really, she had no interest in the antics of what she presumed to be a young hellion bent on mischief who was in a fair way to turning his mother's hair a premature grey, or so his sister implied. She wished Freddie and Lady Mary at hades, and most of all the young rakehell who was the brother, and wished that she might quiz her aunt on the more interesting topic of Deveryn.

It was not to be. The visitors departed, Maddie engaging herself to Lady Mary for the following afternoon. Before she could corner her aunt, however, her tutor arrived. Maddie watched regretfully as Miss Spencer ascended the stairs, and she turned reluctantly to follow Mr. Clarke into the small yellow saloon on the ground floor. For once, she had a question for him.

"How is it," she asked, "That Lady Mary Branwell's husband is plain 'Mr. Max Branwell?'"

Mr. Clarke, an unprepossessing gentleman of indeterminate years whom Maddie lumped with "the elderly" was gratified to have at last piqued his pupil's interest. He'd thought her a very dull sort of girl who was incapable of learning,

"I'm not acquainted with the lady in question," he intoned in that drawl which Maddie could never quite emulate, "but Lady Mary must be the daughter of a duke, a marquess, or an earl. Evidently, she has married a commoner. You must always address her as 'Lady Mary' and remember that she takes precedence over her husband at all times."

When he saw Maddie's blank look, he sighed and went on slowly and deliberately, "Think of Lady Caroline Lamb. She is the daughter of an earl. Her husband is plain 'Mr. William Lamb.'"

"She's not 'Lady Lamb,' then?"

"No. To address her as such would be to reveal the depths of your ignorance."

Maddie digested this nonsense in stony silence. After a moment, she observed, "I don't wonder that the Americans have chosen to be republicans."

Mr. Clarke laughed. "You won't think so if you marry into the aristocracy."

Maddie hadn't the heart to argue the point with him.

When Mr. Clarke took his leave, she ate a solitary lunch in the breakfast room then went in search of her aunt. But she was foiled again, for Miss Spencer had taken it into her head to wait on Lady Bessborough that very afternoon, a singular compliment but not unheard of. Maddie suspected that the two ladies wished to discuss the viscount in more private surroundings. It irked her excessively to have to cool her heels when she itched to know what was going on. At a loose end for once, she wandered to the stable block at the back of the house. She felt vaguely guilty for having her days so ordered that she'd had very little time to discover how Duncan was settling in. She hoped the other stable hands were not giving him a hard time. With his thick Scottish brogue and slow, deliberate way of thinking, she thought that they might very easily make him the butt of their sport. If that were so, and her eyes flashed dangerously, they would very soon find themselves dealing with a virago who could equal any of the mythical heroines of antiquity.

Her grandfather kept an immaculate stable and coach house—clean, fresh, and smelling of well-oiled leather, axle grease, and turpentine. The head groom, Mr. Lloyd, directed her to the harness room where Duncan was at work. They acknowledged each other's presence without a word being spoken. Maddie found a stool. She carried it to the warmth of the boiler and settled herself to observe.

Duncan broke a large mass of yellow wax into a black iron pot and set it at the side of the open range to melt. Maddie knew every operation of the task he was engaged in. At Drumoak, she had frequently helped prepare the paste that was so necessary to preserve the leather harness and tack. She waited till he had added the mixture of water and litharge before she spoke.

"How are they treating you?"

A big smile lit up his ruddy face. "A'm no much o' a stablehand, that's for sure."

She nodded in commiseration. "Rotten! Now why doesn't that surprise me? These English think they are . . ."

"Och no, Miss Maddie," he interrupted. "Dinna
fash
yersel'. I've no quarrel with the way I've been accepted, in spite o' my being handless around horses."

"Well, of course," she averred as if she were defending her cub from attack, "you've never had the practice. Drumoak's stable only ever had a couple of horses in its stalls, except for the odd occasion."

Duncan left the range and went to the workbench where he proceeded to set out the stone crocks which were to receive the paste he was preparing. Without conscious thought, Maddie took his place at the range and became involved in stirring the slow bubbling mixture. She removed it to the far edge of .the range, away from the heat.

"This stuff is ready. Where's the ivory black?"

He handed her a large tin of black powder from which she spooned several heaped ladles. Expertly, she added them gradually to the pot, beating furiously until she was satisfied with the consistency of the mixture.

"This looks about right." She dragged the heavy pot back to the hot iron plate and stirred furiously till the bubbles told her the mixture was once again on the boil. Duncan, seeing that his mistress had displaced him, resigned himself to being a spectator. He sank onto the stool which Maddie had vacated and watched with mingled respect and admiration. There wasn't a thing the girl didn't know about the management of a stable. Still, he had one little surprise for her which he could scarcely contain for impatience.

"Done," she said finally, and removed the pot from the heat. "We'll give it a few minutes before we add the turpentine."

She turned to look at him. In his extended hand was a dirty, chipped tin mug which she automatically accepted. "What's this?" she asked, and sniffed suspiciously.

"Beer!'
^s
he replied with a touch of smugness.

"I don't drink beer!"

"It's no for ye. It's for the harness paste."

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Beer? In the harness paste? What an extravagance!"

He couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Och, I've learned a thing or two from these
sassenachs,
Miss Maddie. Each groom has his own secret ingredient to make his harness polish that wee bit different, a'll no say better. A'm told that Mr. Brummel's groom adds a good doze o' champagne."

"Go on, you're pulling my leg."

"Och, no! It makes the fine gentlemen feel superior. Here, I'll do that now."

They changed places.

"I wonder," said Maddie with a knowing look in her eye, "I wonder how much beer and champagne finds its way down the gullets of the coachmen and grooms?"

"Aye, there is that. I was hopin' that at Drumoak we might start addin' a wee dram o' Glenlivet." He flashed her a bold smile.

"Bite your tongue, Duncan," she told him with mock severity, "I'm half-persuaded already to make our special ingredient cod-liver oil. How does that tickle your fancy?"

He laughed and shook his head. He donned stout leather gloves for the next part of the operation.

"Keep well back!" he told Maddie. She had no need of the warning. The melted wax mixture could give the worst burn of any. Well out of reach, she watched Duncan carry the heavy pot to the bench and fill the stone jars to the brim. No words were exchanged until the task was completed.