"I mean that when a man sees something that seems to be just beyond the grasp of other men, then of course he must try to grasp it to prove he can take it." She paused to glower accusingly at an amazed Anthony. "That is a nasty trait which males possess from the time of birth. Walk into any nursery and witness a male babe with his siblings. Whether they are older or younger than he, a male babe will try to snatch whatever toy everyone else is quarreling over. Not, of course, that he wants the toy, he merely wants to prove he can get it."
"Thank you, Grandmama," Anthony said dryly, "for that sweeping condemnation of half of the world's population."
"I am merely stating fact. You do not see my sex lining up to enter the lists whenever some silly contest is announced."
"True."
"And that is exactly what has happened here. More and more contestants, drawn by the challenge, have entered the lists to try and win Alexandra. It was bad enough when she was merely that—a challenge—but now she has become something worse, much worse."
"Which is?" Anthony said, but he was frowning at his grandmother's astute assessment of what had already become a very complex, trying situation.
"Alexandra has become a prize," she said darkly. "She is now a prize to be won—or else taken—by the first male bold enough and clever enough to carry it off." Anthony opened his mouth, but she raised a bejeweled hand and waved his protest aside. "Do not bother to tell me it won't happen, because I already know it has: As I understand it, three days ago, Marbly proposed a short jaunt to Cadbury and Alexandra agreed to accompany him.
"One of her rejected suitors heard that Marbly had boasted of his intention to take her to his country seat in Wilton instead, and keep her there overnight. He carried the tale to you. You, I understand, caught up with Marbly and Alexandra an hour from here, before the Wilton turnoff, and brought her back, telling Marbly that I had requested her company—which was wise indeed of you. Had you demanded satisfaction, the scandal of a duel would have blackened Alexandra's reputation and compounded our problems tenfold."
"In any case," Tony put in, "Alexandra knew nothing of Marbly's intentions that day, nor does she now. I saw no reason to distress her. I asked her not to see him again, and she agreed."
"And what about Ridgely? What was he about, taking her off to a fair! All London is talking about it."
"Alexandra went to fairs as a child. She had no way of knowing she shouldn't go."
"Ridgely is purportedly a gentleman," the duchess snapped. "He knew better. What possessed him to take an innocent young lady to such a place!"
"You've just hit upon the rest of our problem," Anthony said wearily, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alexandra is a widow, not a maid. What few scruples 'gentlemen' possess rarely apply to their behavior with experienced women—particularly if the woman happens to dazzle them witless, which Alexandra does."
"I would hardly describe Alexandra as an experienced woman! She's barely a woman at all."
Despite the grimness of the problem, Anthony grinned at his grandmother's patently inept description of the intoxicating young beauty with the dazzling smile and stunning figure. His grin faded, however, as the problem again came to the fore. "This whole thing is so damn complicated because she is so young and yet she's already been married. If she had a husband now, as does the Countess of Camden, no one would blink an eye at her little larks. If she were older, Society would not expect her to live by the same rules that govern younger girls. If she were plain, then those suitors she's rejected out of hand would not be nearly so inclined to try to blacken her reputation out of spite and jealousy.
"Have they been doing that?"
"Only two or three of them, but they've been busy whispering in the right ears. You know as well as I how easily gossip stimulates gossip, and when it catches fire it begins to spread in every direction. Eventually, everyone hears enough of it to start believing there must be some truth in it."
"How bad is it?"
"Not bad, not yet. At this point, all her rejected suitors have accomplished is to cast an unsavory light on some tiny, harmless misadventures of hers."
"For example?"
Anthony shrugged. "Alexandra spent last weekend at Southeby, attending a party there. She and a certain gentleman made an engagement for an early ride and left the stables at about eight. They did not return until after dusk, and when they did come back, it was seen that Alexandra's clothing was torn and in disarray."
"Dear God!" the duchess expostulated, clutching at her heart in agitation.
Anthony grinned. "The gentleman was seventy-five years old and the vicar at Southeby. He had intended to show Alexandra the location of an old cemetery he'd discovered by chance the week before, so that she might admire some fascinating grave markers he'd seen there. Unfortunately, he could not remember its exact location, and by the time they found it several hours later, Alexandra was completely lost and the old gentleman was so exhausted from the exertion of riding that he was afraid to get back on his horse. Naturally, Alexandra could not have returned without him, even had she wanted to, which of course she didn't."
"What about her gown?"
"The hem of her riding habit was torn."
"Then the whole episode was too trifling to mention."
"Exactly, but the tale has been repeated and exaggerated so many times it's now become an instance of questionable conduct. The obvious solution is for us to employ some old dragon to act as Alexandra's chaperone wherever she goes, but if we do that—particularly in light of the recent gossip—everyone will think we don't trust her. Besides, it would spoil all the fun of her first Season for her."
"Rubbish!" the duchess said stoutly. "Alexandra is not having fun, and that is precisely why I asked you to attend me here. She is jaunting about hither, thither, and yon, flirting and smiling and wrapping men around her little finger for one reason only, and that is to prove to Jordan she can do it—to show him posthumously that she is beating him at his own game. If all her suitors dropped off the face of the earth, she wouldn't notice and, if she did, she wouldn't care a pin."
Anthony stiffened. "I'd scarcely call an innocent jaunt to a fair, or racing Jordan's horse in Hyde Park, or any of her other harmless little peccadilloes 'beating Jordan at his own game.' "
"Nevertheless," the duchess replied, refusing to be gainsaid, "that is what she is doing, though I doubt she realizes it. Do you disagree?"