Meanwhile, Sophie had thought of a second line of attack. “You see, Braddon,” she said, scooting about on the coach seat so that she was sitting just next to her soon-to-be husband, “what we need is a scheme, a way to escape all the endless formal parties and tedious engagements that will bore us silly for the next four months … unless we come up with a scheme.”
“A scheme,” Braddon repeated.
Surely there was a kindling of interest in his eyes?
“I thought you could acquire a large black cloak,” Sophie said enticingly. “And perhaps, if you knew where to find such a thing, you could rent one of those false beards that actors wear.”
“By Jove, I know just the thing!” Braddon was excited. “But whatever for?”
“For our elopement,” Sophie cried. “After we are married, naturally, we will settle down to a life of domesticity. No theatricals. In fact, we will likely attend the theater only rarely. This would be a last dash of excitement—and all we need is a brilliant scheme to carry it off!”
“Ahh,” Braddon breathed. Visions of a rented wig and a curled mustache danced before his eyes.
“Because,” Sophie said earnestly, “if we let our mothers dominate this period in our life, they will try to run every aspect of our married life as well. Why, my mother has announced the intention of spending every waking moment with me once I am a married lady.”
“Really.” Braddon’s tone was hollow.
“Yes, and I expect it will only get worse once we have children. Because both our mothers will be constantly at our house, expecting to be entertained by the children. We must take this move toward freedom.”
Braddon was a bit confused. Where did freedom come into the whole thing? “I don’t see why I have to obtain a cloak.”
“You need the cloak so that no one will recognize you when we elope,” Sophie said. “People look only at clothes. In a cloak and false beard, you could be anyone!”
There was a moment’s silence. “That may be true,” Braddon said, “but I still don’t see why—”
“If we don’t elope,” Sophie broke in a bit wildly, “we might as well not marry at all. In fact, if you don’t come to my house tomorrow night, I won’t marry you, Braddon Chatwin!” To Braddon’s dismay, his betrothed seemed to have a hysterical streak, and the way she was clutching his arm, she was sure to crush his velvet coat.
Visions of his mother’s face when he told her that Sophie had broken off the engagement raced through his mind. Yet perhaps more significant, growing in his heart was a fervent longing for greasepaint and for the sticky glue used to affix a false beard to one’s face. There was such delight in swirling a large black cloak. No one looked at him condescendingly or called him “silly Slaslow,” or even less complimentary nicknames, when he was dressed all in black.
“There’s no need to be tetchy about it,” he said finally. “All right. I’ll do it.”
Sophie knew she had to capitalize on her success before Braddon thought it through or, worse, discussed the plan with one of his more sensible friends.
“I shall expect you tomorrow,” she replied firmly. “Tomorrow at midnight. Be sure not to tell anyone, Braddon. People are such spoilers.”
Sophie dropped her voice to a thrilling whisper. “Midnight is the best time for schemes…. I shall arrange to have a ladder propped up to my window. When you arrive in your cloak, you can climb the ladder and carry me off!”
Braddon was fascinated at the idea of climbing a ladder with his cloak billowing behind him, and carrying a lovely maiden off into the night. And since he was marrying Sophie anyway, why not get it over with?
“All right,” he agreed. “Midnight.”
The coach jolted to a halt. As the footman opened the door, Braddon descended, feeling a good deal more dashing than he had when he’d entered the coach. He held out his hand and Sophie placed her small fingers trustingly in his. As he walked her up the marble steps to her door, she paused a step ahead of him, so that their faces were level.
“You are my champion,” she whispered.
Almost mesmerized, Braddon bent forward and his lips brushed hers reverently. Then he bowed and departed.
Sophie walked into the house, tired but well satisfied. So what if Patrick Foakes was to marry a horrid French girl who had thrown herself at his head? She, Sophie, was going to be married well before Patrick even sorted out the settlements with Lucien Boch, and once she was married, she wouldn’t think about Patrick, or Patrick’s disturbing eyes, or his quicksilver touch, ever again.
Back at Sheffield House, there was a faint hiss of excitement when the Honorable Patrick Foakes strolled through the French doors of the garden room shoulder to shoulder with his brother, the earl. Miss Daphne Boch was nowhere to be seen!
Barbara Lewnstown counted herself a special friend of Daphne’s and had been busily recounting Daphne’s likely married bliss with Patrick.
“Oh la,” she cried airily to Patrick, “where is my dearest Daphne?”
Patrick looked singularly indifferent. “As soon as we stepped outside a bee stung her just below her eye. It swelled up quite hideously,” he added, in response to Barbara’s dismayed shriek. “Charlotte took her off to pack some mud on it.”
From romance to a swollen bee bite … Not even the most assiduous of scandalmongers could believe that Patrick Foakes would feel any necessity to propose to the poor girl the next morning. Probably that bite put him off her for good, they reasoned. His tone was far too dispassionate for one whose heart had been touched by the girl’s cruel fate. Why, Daphne might not be able to attend social events for a week or more!
Chapter 7
Braddon Chatwin woke up the next morning with a pleasurable sense of anticipation. For a moment he stared sleepily at the blue chintz hangings that adorned his bedstead. Black cloaks and false mustaches had tangled together in his dreams.
Then memory seeped back. Lady Sophie York wanted to elope, and she wanted him to wear a cloak and mustache, and she threatened not to marry him if he didn’t appear at midnight. Laboriously Braddon sorted out the mingled strains of Sophie’s demand.
In the cold light of morning it seemed as mad as Bedlam, that was the only thing one could call it. If they ran off to Gretna Green, people would undoubtedly assume that they had anticipated the wedding night. Except she didn’t think of that, Braddon thought complacently. Well-bred young ladies don’t know the first thing about sex, so of course Sophie didn’t know what people would say about a runaway marriage. But given that there was nothing to prevent Braddon and Sophie from sedately marrying in St. George’s some four months from now, people would naturally draw conclusions about why they tied the knot so hastily. It wasn’t as if it were a love match or anything.
As to the question of why Sophie wanted to elope, Braddon put it out of his mind. He had decided long ago that the ways of women were impossible to understand.
He rang the bell for hot chocolate and then put his arms behind his head. Now what he had to do was turn his talent for schemes to one which would fool his future wife. In other words, he needed a plan that would outscheme her scheme, because there was no way in heaven he was going to do anything as featherheaded as tearing off to Scotland to get married when he didn’t even have to.
And what’s more, the trip would take at least two or three days there and the same back. If it didn’t take longer—traveling to Scotland in December! Granted, not a speck of snow had fallen this year. But he’d be damned if he’d leave Madeleine even for a week. Not now, when the very thought of her fired his heart and made him want to jump from his bed and go down to her father’s stables to see if he could catch a glimpse of her.
Braddon’s eyes darkened with annoyance. It wasn’t as if Madeleine would leap up to greet him if he did go to the stables. She was proving to be annoyingly, persistently, chaste. In fact, she showed no sign of succumbing to his imploring letters, or his gifts (which she refused), or any of his efforts to turn her into a lifelong
mistress. She just said stoutly that she didn’t care for the position, and that was that. He had explained in vain that the daughter of the man who ran Vincent’s Horse Emporium could not expect to make a good marriage, or perhaps any marriage at all. She didn’t seem to care.
Braddon thoughtfully chewed on his lip as Kesgrave handed him his morning chocolate. Perhaps Madeleine was worried about her future. After all, the position of courtesan was a risky one, and she might not believe that he intended to act in such an unusual fashion. Perhaps he should summon his man of business and have a contract drawn up, right and tight, that would settle a good sum on Madeleine. Then she would understand that the relationship was forever, not for just a brief time.
Braddon absentmindedly drank some of his chocolate. The real problem was how to make Lady Sophie dance to his piping, while making it seem as if he were dancing to her tune. If he sent Sophie a message, she’d cry off the engagement for sure, in his judgment. Braddon had seen a quantity of hysterical women in his day, what with having three older sisters, and Sophie looked ready to fly off the handle at any moment. No, the trick was to appear at mid-night—but not to end up in Gretna Green.
Braddon swung his feet out of bed. He shouldn’t have thought about Madeleine. Because now he knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything until he saw her and maybe even snatched a kiss, if her father wasn’t looking.
Lord but her father could be as surly as a butcher’s dog! You’d think his daughter was a lady, the way he carried on about Braddon compromising Madeleine’s reputation and other rubbish. Braddon couldn’t seem to make either one of them understand that women who live above horse stables don’t have reputations—they just make ‘em! Braddon chortled.
When his man Kesgrave came in to dress him, Braddon told him the joke about having versus making reputations, but Kesgrave just gave him his usual blank look and said, “Would you care to wear the blue cutaway today, my lord?”
Braddon sighed. It was a good thing he was an even-tempered type, what with all the slow-tops he was surrounded by.
“I’ll wear that dust-colored one, Kesgrave. You know the one.”
“Not dust, my lord.” Kesgrave’s tone was critical. “Dun-colored.”
“That’s the one. I’m going riding.”
“Before breakfast?” Kesgrave’s tone grew even more reproving.
Damned if he wasn’t getting sick of having servants around who’d ruled over his nursery, Braddon thought.
“I’m going out.” His tone was a bit defensive, despite himself. Dressed, Braddon trotted down the front steps as if he were a boy escaping to the park, swung up onto his horse, and clattered down the street heading for the Blackfriars, the location of Vincent’s Horse Emporium.
The long, low stables were quiet. It was far too early for the little groups who would congregate under large oaks in the front yard later in the day, watching in a desultory sort of way as boys led out prancing Arabians and barrel-chested quarter horses.
Braddon dropped rather heavily off his horse and tossed the reins to a lad who was lingering around the place, hoping to earn a shilling.
He strode toward the stables. Madeleine was almost never seen around the stables during the afternoon because of her father’s ridiculous sense of her “reputation,” although Braddon actually thanked him for that, because it meant that he didn’t have to compete with every shabby-genteel officer who strolled in looking for a broken-down mare.
Braddon walked quickly down the long corridor. The stables smelled dimly of a molasses-sticky poultice, and where there was a poultice, one could usually find Madeleine. It was she who was in charge of all minor ailments such as sprained hocks and forelegs.
Madeleine was in the very last stall on the right. She was kneeling on the ground with a horse’s bent leg poised before her. She must have heard Braddon’s boots clopping on the stone walkway, but she didn’t look up, just kept crooning to a sweet brown-eyed mare while she applied the poultice to its front leg.
Braddon waited for a moment, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
“My lord,” Madeleine said without turning about, “if you are not too bored, you might help me by holding Gracie’s head.”
“How did you know it was me?” Braddon moved to the horse’s head, keeping Gracie from blowing warm kisses down Madeleine’s bent neck.
Madeleine threw him a glance over her shoulder. “You invariably appear around this hour every morning, my lord.”
“Hmm.” Braddon was a bit nonplussed by her matter-of-fact tone. Didn’t Madeleine want him to come? He dropped the horse’s bridle and crouched next to her, trying hard not to puff as he went down.
“What is the problem?”
“Strained right foreleg,” Madeleine replied shortly.
Braddon cast the horse’s leg a quick glance. Then he edged a little closer to Madeleine.
“My lord!”
She sounds cross, Braddon thought resignedly. No kisses today. Why, oh why, was he enamored of a French miss who was possessed of a demon temper and the morals of a nun? She wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Arabella, the mistress he had stolen from Patrick last year. In fact, an objective person might label her short and plump.
But just looking at Madeleine made Braddon’s heart beat faster. Bent over as she was, rubbing the foreleg hard and not meeting his eyes, he could just glimpse the ample curve of her bosom between her arms. His eyes kindled, and his hand itched to slip under her arm.
“Don’t!”
Startled, Braddon swung up his head to meet his beloved’s infuriated eyes.
“Why not?” he asked boldly.
Madeleine clambered to her feet, pulling her thick, stiff skirt out of the way. Her French accent thickened, as it always did when she was in a fret.
“Please do not try to balboozle me!”
“Balboozle?”
Braddon was confused and his lower lip opened a trifle. It was hard to keep his mind straight when Madeleine was standing right before him, her lovely chest heaving. She had such luscious hips….
“Bamboozle! That’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I said,” Madeleine retorted impatiently. What was she to do with this muffin-brained lord? How could she do an honest day’s work with him following her about the stables, gaping at her bosom and generally cutting up her peace?
Braddon’s muffin-brain worked perfectly well in some situations. He yanked Madeleine into his arms so fast that she didn’t have time to shout for her father before Braddon’s mouth descended. And he kissed her while backing out of Gracie’s stall, thereby proving that he could do two things at once, a skill which several of his friends might have disputed.
Despite herself, Madeleine relaxed. Life had been so hard the last years. It was heaven to stand in the circle of Braddon’s arms. When he held her, it felt as if nothing evil would ever happen again.
She shook herself briskly, pushing hard at Braddon’s chest. He was whispering something in her ear—one of his fancy promises, no doubt. She got the main idea. Her bacon-brained suitor wasn’t a real suitor at all. He was what her mama, back in France, would have called a libertin. He wanted to ruin her and not marry her.
Braddon’s arms went around her shoulders again.
“Don’t look so sad, Madeleine.” He whispered that, but she heard it loud and clear. “I hate it when you look so sad.”
Perplexed, Madeleine paused for a moment, looking into Braddon’s blue eyes.
“I am not sad,” she said. “I only thought of my mother for a moment.”
“You looked sad,” Braddon persisted.
“I miss her,” Madeleine said despite herself. She didn’t want to share any emotional confidences with her immoral suitor.
Braddon kissed her ear. “Someday you will be a mother, Madeleine. You will have your own children, and then you will forget.”
Madeleine took a deep breath.
“Not if you have your way,” she pointed out. “You want to turn me into a c
ourtesan, and those women never have children. They cannot afford them, given their way of life.”
Braddon grinned. Trust Madeleine’s hardheaded French common sense to point out that unusual disadvantage in the life of a courtesan.
“We’re going to have children,” he said confidently. “I knew we would as soon as I saw you. I never wanted little brats around, until I met you.”
Madeleine’s heart melted. He was just what she would like, this English lord, if only things were different. A bit light on top, perhaps, but with a truly sweet heart. And he was safe, trustworthy, and large. To Madeleine’s mind, men should be large. She could keep him from making too much of a fool of himself, too…. But no. She was not going to be any man’s courtesan, even if she stayed unmarried her entire life.
She pushed him away. “Go away, do!”
Braddon looked at Madeleine doubtfully. Her face had gone fierce again.
“I may have to leave for a few days.” Did she look sorry? Braddon could not fool himself that she did.
“Good. I shall finally get some work done.”
No, she definitely didn’t look sorry. There was a little pause.
“Where will you be?”
“I have to elope,” Braddon said. “That is, Lady Sophie wants to elope, but I don’t, so I’m going to climb up a ladder and get her, but then I’m not actually going to take her to Gretna Green, because I don’t want to elope. And besides, no one elopes in the middle of winter.”
Madeleine’s heart was thudding painfully. “Does Lady Sophie truly wish to elope?”
“Yes.” Braddon’s voice was a little doubtful. “I’m not sure that she is as suitable as I told you before. She had hysterics last night and told me that unless I climb a ladder to her room at midnight and elope with her, she won’t marry me at all.”
Madeleine almost laughed at Braddon’s hangdog look, despite her own leaden unhappiness.
“I can’t start over, Madeleine—Maddie!” Somehow he had managed to get those long arms around her again and he was talking into her hair. “I’d have to start over, going to Almack’s and trying to find a girl who seems half reasonable. I’ve got to hold on to Lady Sophie. I simply have to figure out how to elope without eloping.”