Heiress Without a Cause Read online

  She cut herself off abruptly, but Ferguson could guess her thoughts. “Father did more harm than good to your characters by keeping you shut away, didn’t he?”

  The carriage pulled up to the Stauntons’ townhouse. Maria looked outside, swallowed forcefully, then looked back at Ferguson. “Can’t we delay one more day?” she pleaded. “I didn’t even know we were calling anywhere. We assumed we were going to the park.”

  He was a heel, the worst sort of brother — and in this moment, using them for his own purposes, more like his father than he cared to admit. What he could not tell the twins was that he needed them as an excuse to call on the Stauntons. It was not an errand he would postpone, despite their reluctance.

  Because even though he was not proud of his spying, he had followed Madame Guerrier’s hackney coach the night before. And he watched her sneak out of the carriage and dash to the service entrance of Salford House.

  The actress was in there someplace, disguised — and no mere servant could take several nights a week to act onstage. He was determined to find her, even if he couldn’t win her.

  But he had never failed in a seduction before.

  Maria shivered as she looked at him, mistaking the steely determination on his face. “Very well, we’ll go,” she stammered.

  “You’ll quite like Lady Madeleine and her family,” he said, attempting to sound encouraging. “You will see, girls — you’ll be planning weddings before the season ends, never doubt it.”

  Kate winced, but he stepped out of the carriage to avoid her accusatory glare. The twins would be fine once they became accustomed to the idea.

  And if they didn’t make matches quickly, he would need a distraction. The challenge of finding Marguerite Guerrier — and claiming her in his bed — would be just the amusement he needed to survive the season.

  * * *

  Several hours after lunch, Madeleine sat in her aunt’s blue and gilt drawing room, staring at the ormolu clock on the mantel. She was trapped for at least another thirty minutes. She had drunk enough tea to float an armada, smiled at so many visitors that every facial movement felt like a grimace, and feigned serenity even though a growing headache rapped out a battle march behind her eyes.

  They had received over fifty callers already, all of whom had only one name on their lips.

  Ferguson’s sudden reappearance in London was the on dit of the day. It was universally agreed that he was just as handsome — and just as dangerous to a woman’s reputation — as ever. And the rumor mill had already discovered that he had gone to a theatre in Seven Dials the previous evening and abandoned his companions in favor of an actress.

  “How very like him,” they all whispered, gleeful to witness the start of another scandal. “Not in London above a week and already seeking a new mistress.”

  From the sharp look Amelia gave her, Madeleine knew her face had drained of color the first time she heard the story. By the fifth, she mastered her response: a slight frown, a small shake of the head, as though nothing the duke did could surprise her.

  Now, with only thirty — twenty-nine — minutes left before she could escape the drawing room, and with the happy fact that she would not have to go to the theatre again until the following night, Madeleine thought she might survive yet another at-home.

  But when Chilton appeared in the drawing room and announced, “His grace the duke of Rothwell,” her careful control slipped. She looked up into those perfectly clear blue eyes, stunned again by his intelligence, by the way he took in everything at a glance.

  He held her gaze for a fraction longer than necessary. She felt her breath catch in a quick gasp. With his perfectly molded breeches, tight coat, and elegant cravat, he looked like the dangerous rake she had been warned about — and the bold way he appraised her offered an escape from her prison. If the drawing room was Newgate and he was her jailer, she’d be out of her dress for him at the merest promise of fresh air.

  Madeleine winced. That stray metaphor was as overdone as anything Amelia had ever written. She realized that Josephine was right: Ferguson was more of a danger to her than anyone else in the ton.

  But the butler wasn’t done with his announcement. Ferguson was accompanied by his sisters, the ladies Maria and Catherine. The women were still in mourning for their father and brother, and the unforgiving black of their gowns turned their creamy complexions wan in the late afternoon light.

  The girls huddled in the doorway as Ferguson strode forward, frowning as they surveyed the room. They did not look much like Ferguson — their features were too delicate — but they did have the same stubborn chin, raised in identically arrogant postures. Madeleine did not know whether to pity them or dislike them. Without Ferguson’s humor to soften their arrogance, they seemed distinctly unfriendly.

  “Please forgive me for bringing my sisters, Lady Salford,” Ferguson said. “They should not call while still in deepest mourning, but why anyone is still in mourning for my father is beyond me.”

  It was an outrageous speech, designed to shock. Madeleine took a closer look at the twins. They were equal parts embarrassed and rebellious, as though they might turn and flee.

  She had felt the same more than once.

  “Lady Maria, Lady Catherine, my condolences on your loss,” she said, not waiting for Aunt Augusta to answer Ferguson’s question. “Amelia and I delayed our debuts after her father passed, and I cannot imagine how hard it has been to be in mourning for several years in a row.”

  The sisters exchanged glances before moving as one to sit on the settee that mirrored Madeleine’s own perch. They were beautiful girls, but their patent unhappiness muted their appeal. Madeleine’s headache demanded her attention again, throbbing even more forcefully. She had agreed to chaperone them, but she had not expected them to be quite so...

  “Charming, aren’t they, Lady Madeleine?” Ferguson said, as though he could read her thoughts. “I do hope you have not changed your mind about taking them under your wing.”

  She had discussed it with Aunt Augusta over luncheon. Aunt Augusta thought she was a fraction too young for the role — but if anything, she was pleased that Madeleine might stop hiding in her room and start attending proper functions again. With her aunt’s approval, her fate was sealed.

  “Of course not, your grace. I am honored to help your sisters find proper matches.”

  They turned into twin pictures of fury, displaying a depth of emotion they would learn to hide with more experience in the ton. She could not tell them apart, but one of them gasped, while the other clenched her jaw in a most unladylike way. Finally, one of them croaked out, “I was not aware that our endeavors to find matches were so public.”

  He crossed his arms as he leaned casually against the mantel, obscuring Madeleine’s view of the clock ticking toward her freedom. “Kate, we can discuss this at home. But we had to call on Lady Madeleine so she can call on you,” he said patiently, as though explaining etiquette to a small child. “And Lady Salford, I assure you my aunt will be at home whenever Lady Madeleine wishes to visit the twins.”

  The countess nodded. “If I can help as well, I would be delighted. I knew all three of your father’s wives, as well as your siblings. If my family can ease your current burdens in any way, do let me know.”

  Aunt Augusta was unfailingly generous — from small acts like offering to support the twins’ debut, to large acts like caring for her niece for over twenty years. Madeleine sighed. She didn’t regret what she had done, even if she felt guilty about deceiving her aunt.

  But then she thought of the freedom she had tasted these past two weeks. Rather than feeling grateful, she felt more trapped than ever. If Aunt Augusta discovered her secret, it would hurt her greatly — and Madeleine would be on a very short leash. There would not be another opportunity for rebellion until she was too old to enjoy it.

  And the idea of remaining a perfect spinster, staying on as Aunt Augusta’s companion and sitting through twenty more years of at-homes, wa
s truly appalling.

  Aunt Augusta’s next words snapped her to attention. “What is this I hear of you venturing into Seven Dials? Surely the theatre scene has not expanded so far beyond Drury Lane.”

  For some reason, it was Madeleine that Ferguson looked at as he responded. “I went in search of a bit of harmless fun, but I found an actress whose talent is truly astounding. Have you heard of Marguerite Guerrier?”

  Madeleine looked away as though she was too prim to answer. “No, I’ve not heard of her, but I trust your opinion on actresses,” Aunt Augusta said, with the perfect blend of amusement and censure. “But our Madeleine loves the theatre. Perhaps we shall attend.”

  Madeleine wanted to faint — but she had never been the fainting type, even when it would have been convenient. “I’m sure Seven Dials is not quite the thing, Aunt Augusta.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad as all that, Lady Madeleine. If you could see this actress, you would know why I feel as I do.”

  He held her gaze then. She felt frozen, splayed out like one of the scarab beetle amulets her cousin Alex collected. She still didn’t think he knew her identity — he couldn’t have guessed without saying something — but his appraisal of her was too direct to ignore.

  Amelia dropped her pen. “That is inappropriate for our ears, your grace,” she said in the same chilling voice that froze a score of suitors.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I was referring to Madame Guerrier’s acting, Lady Amelia. Is it you whose thoughts have taken an inappropriate turn?”

  Amelia flushed bright red. It was very rare to see anyone give her a set-down. If the topic was anything other than a certain actress in Seven Dials, Madeleine would have found it vastly amusing.

  Aunt Augusta intervened before either Amelia or the duke could say something unforgivable. “My daughter does let her tongue run away with her sometimes. If you say the actress is excellent, I am sure no one here will dispute you.”

  Ferguson shrugged, breaking the tension. “It matters very little. I do hope the woman gets the recognition she deserves, though.”

  He gave Madeleine another assessing look, but he didn’t say anything else. She had to hope her composure would throw him off the scent.

  The butler brought in another set of callers — Prudence Etchingham and her mother, Lady Harcastle. She had never been so grateful for Lady Harcastle’s appearance, since this was Ferguson’s cue to take his leave. His sisters had said very little, but he had accomplished their introduction and they were expected to leave when the next guest arrived.

  He bid farewell to Aunt Augusta and Amelia before turning to Madeleine. She wished they could talk in private, if only so she could see whether he had guessed her identity. But there was no way to extricate herself from the drawing room without calling too much attention to herself. She let him kiss her hand with a flourish, and the strength of his fingers and the heat of his lips seared her skin. She thought wildly of corsets and prisons before forcing herself to look away. Then, he bowed to Lady Harcastle and Prudence and left, the twins trailing in his wake like forlorn blackbirds.

  As soon as they heard the front door close behind him, Lady Harcastle settled into the chair next to Aunt Augusta, ready to dissect every bit of Ferguson’s visit to the Staunton townhouse. Prudence sat next to Madeleine and squeezed her hand. She knew about Madeleine’s acting — as soon as the story unfolded, she would realize what Ferguson’s interest in Marguerite really meant.

  Madeleine looked up at the clock. Only ten minutes had passed. She sighed.

  After Lady Harcastle heard everything from Augusta, she drew herself up. “He is still a rake through and through,” Lady Harcastle declared. “To pay what appeared to be a courting call on Madeleine while lusting after some trollop of an actress!”

  Aunt Augusta laughed at Lady Harcastle’s unladylike language. “That is harsh, Mary. He may have just liked the play.”

  “Men like that do not attend plays for the artistry.”

  “Still, despite his reputation, he never posed a risk to proper ladies. I trust his intentions toward Madeleine, at least, are honorable. And if they aren’t, she will put him in his place.”

  Aunt Augusta sounded so confident in her niece’s morals. Madeleine twitched in her chair. Prudence stifled a giggle, which turned into a cough as Lady Harcastle glared at her.

  “The duke is not courting me,” Madeleine said, knowing her voice sounded too forceful in the serenity of Aunt Augusta’s drawing room.

  Lady Harcastle frowned. “Asking you to become so intimately involved with his family is suspicious. I wager he wants something from you. If you make just a bit of effort, you can engage his affections.”

  Madeleine would have said the notion was ridiculous — but she remembered the heat of his fingers on hers, and knew that whatever it was he wanted, it went well beyond needing her as a chaperone. But with Amelia’s speculative gaze on her and Prudence holding her hand like she was afraid Madeleine would collapse, she realized she couldn’t stay in the drawing room a moment longer.

  So she fled, making a barely coherent excuse before bolting for the door. She knew her exit would give them something else to discuss, but with her pounding head and racing heart, she did not particularly care.

  The very fact that Madame Legrand’s theatre was on everyone’s lips was enough cause for concern. Worse, though, was the very real chance that Ferguson would discover she wasn’t the well-behaved spinster the ton believed her to be. If he had not already guessed, he seemed to be on a mission to find her out.

  But what would the most notorious rake in London do with that knowledge? And if he still wanted her despite her reputation, was she prepared for what he might offer — or demand?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By the following evening, Ferguson needed to escape the mausoleum of his inheritance. He had stayed in the previous evening, but he couldn’t spend another night in his study, where his father’s presence still lingered. The weight of the place, even after ten years away, had only increased.

  So rather than torturing himself by eating with the twins, who had coldly ignored him after leaving Salford House, or lying sleepless in the cavernous ducal bedchamber, he took his coach to the theatre district, giving in to the lure of Marguerite Guerrier. With what he suspected about her, it would be better to leave well enough alone — but seeing her again was the only entertainment he wanted.

  As he left his coach, he looked at his watch. It was stupid to flash jewelry after dark, but he was almost itching for a fight. The prospect did not seem likely. There were too many liveried coachmen about, and potential thieves had decamped for less populated areas.

  Then he realized the oddity of that — coachmen never loitered in Seven Dials. Only a block from Legrand’s Theatre, at least twenty fine carriages waited in the alleys.

  Had his first visit to the theatre caused this?

  He picked up his pace. He could not prove it, not without seeing her eyes in the light, but he thought he knew who Marguerite really was. If he was correct, then the best actress in London — the woman he had tried to take as his mistress two nights earlier — was the woman who agreed to help launch his sisters.

  If Madeleine was the actress, aristocratic playgoers could only bring her to ruin. And any ruin she faced would taint his sisters’ debuts. It was ironic that he had sought out her sterling reputation to help with the rumors about his family, when she might ultimately bring even more devastating gossip down on their heads.

  He entered the theatre just as the intermission ended before the final act. He had taken the precaution of sending a footman for a ticket earlier in the day, knowing even then that he would not be able to stay away, so there was no need to haggle with Madame Legrand. He spotted her across the room, though, looking immensely satisfied as she conversed with a gentleman and his companion — a much finer couple than any he had seen on his previous visit.

  Ferguson took a sharp look around the theatre, his senses alert under his bo
red façade. The types he saw before were still there — rowdy off-duty footmen, maids and their beaus, shopkeepers, secretaries, and members of the more-respectable middle classes.

  But sprinkled throughout the crowd, looking by turns aghast and titillated, were people who could only be part of the ton. He watched a matronly woman swish her silk skirts away from a pair of footmen who were cracking walnuts onto the floor. But where her anger would have cost them their jobs in her own home, here it made them laugh.

  This mixture of rich and poor at the theatre was unremarkable. Even the Theatre Royal allowed footmen in the gallery. But his concern grew. With this many members of the aristocracy in attendance, the actress would surely be found out.

  And given his role in bringing them here, it would be his fault if she were ruined.

  He settled into a seat and tried to force himself to relax. He had only associated the actress with the Stauntons because he followed her carriage. If she was Madeleine, she was well disguised.

  There was one fact to take comfort in: if she had been discovered, the play would have already ended. The audience was enraptured, eager for the final act to begin.

  He scanned the crowd, looking for clues. Two rows ahead of him sat Viscount Osborne — a wealthy old roué who had kept a string of the most desirable courtesans for the last four decades. Off to his left, the earl of Westbrook sat with Caroline, Lady Greville, on his arm. Neither looked happy, and Ferguson felt a small pang of remorse. He was involved with Caro before his Scottish exile, and it looked like the intervening years had hardened her. He knew Westbrook from the worst of his days as a rake — if Westbrook planned to replace Caro, he would not wait long before finding a new mistress.

  As that thought sank in, his blood went cold. A top actress would be an immediate attraction on the mistress mart. In the darker world of the demimonde, there were no titles or chaperones to protect her.