Maggie MacKeever (23 page)

During this diatribe Mr. Brown had straightened the bedcovers and cast a knowledgeable glance around Lady Sweetbriar’s bedchamber, which he summed up as neat but uninspired. Her ladyship had come down in the world, he thought, as he inspected the contents of the veneered wardrobe. There was not a gown therein that he didn’t remember, despite her ladyship’s efforts to disguise that sorry fact. Almost, Mr. Brown pitied Nikki, whom he had always found as kind as she was disreputable.

Sympathy did not blind the valet to his duty, nonetheless. The previous Lord Sweetbriar’s will had stated that Rolf should have the family jewels, and therefore so Rolf must, no matter how many laws were broken in the process.

Thought of broken laws recalled to Mr. Brown the penalties for such undertakings as that on which they were currently embarked. Politely he suggested that Lord Sweetbriar might care to join in the search.

Indignantly Rolf divested himself of his stifling many-caped greatcoat, revealing padded shoulders and calves and a valiant if misguided attempt at a wasp waist. “As if I wasn’t doing just that! And so you would have known if you’d been with me the last time, because Nikki herself was hiding in that bed.” He jabbed a tentative finger at the draperies. “Well, she wasn’t
hiding
precisely; she was asleep. Yes, and when she woke up, damned if she didn’t have a gun! It was enough to scare a man out of a year’s growth.”

That his young master could well do without a year’s growth, or several, Mr. Brown did not remark. “Do I understand you, sir?” he inquired, rather faintly, from the tallboy where he stood, searching swiftly through the narrow drawers. “You have been here before?”

The draperies having proven unrevealing, Lord Sweetbriar moved next to his stepmama’s dressing stand. “Don’t go jawing on about it,” he said rudely, and poked at a painted festoon of flowers. “I know I made a rare mull of it, but I’ll wager even you would bungle the thing no less completely was Nikki to pop up right now out of her bed. It’s confounded disconcerting, I can tell you.” He smirked. “Nikki won’t like having the tables turned on her, I’ll wager—but there won’t be a thing she can do.”

It was Lord Sweetbriar who was currently inclined toward doing nothing, his valet thought; and also that little benefit would be derived from poking at the dressing table in that queer way. Mr. Brown watched his master grasp the table firmly and give it a shake. Little happened except to the items arranged thereupon, which danced about and fell over in wild disarray. Apparently dissatisfied with the results of his labors, Lord Sweetbriar gave the table another shake. Further chaos resulted. At this point Mr. Brown intervened, with a polite query as to what the devil his master was about.

“What am I about?” scornfully echoed Rolf. “What the deuce do you think that I’m about? I’m looking for Nikki’s jewels, and so should you be! The
reason
I am looking for Nikki’s jewels is that Regina will not have me without them—and there ain’t no use in pointing out that she’s a greedy chit! I know she is.” He tried to brush rice powder off his sleeve. “They both are! Hang it, I don’t even know who is dangling after my fortune at this point, but I don’t mean anyone to have it but who I choose.” A sulky expression settled on his features. “And it
won’t
be Uncle Duke.”

Mr. Brown moved to tidy up the dressing table. “I doubt that Master Marmaduke harbors such unworthy ambitions, sir,” he protested. “As a boy, he—”

“Hah!” interrupted Lord Sweetbriar, with irate tone and flashing eye. “I don’t care what Uncle Duke was like as a boy, because he obviously ain’t that way now! You needn’t be tut-tutting at me, either. You’d feel differently if
your
uncle was a villain. Uncle Duke told me he was one himself.” Rolf frowned. “Or maybe that was another rapper. Never have I run into such a bunch of tarradiddlers! But I mean to marry Regina even if she
is
running mad for Uncle Duke, because if she is, it ain’t her fault. Why are you fussing about with that dressing stand? I already discovered it don’t have a secret drawer.”

So that was why his master had so mistreated the table? Mr. Brown was glad to have one small mystery cleared up. He put forth an opinion that Lady Sweetbriar might have hidden her jewels elsewhere than her own room.

“No, no!” Lord Sweetbriar said irritably. “That horse won’t trot. Nikki would want to keep the baubles as close as possible to her, since she knows I want them back. Or that Regina wants them, which is the same thing.” He sighed. “Dashed if I don’t wish Regina didn’t, just like I wish Papa hadn’t made that cursed will. I
like
Nikki, though I’m cross as cats with her. Maybe she truly thought I wanted Regina and Clytie both? That’s what comes from rubbing shoulders with Uncle Duke.”

Did they not speed up the present proceeding, they would be rubbing shoulders with representatives of the law, as result of being caught whilst committing the highly illegal act of housebreaking. Due to the circumstances, and Lord Sweetbriar’s exalted position, it was doubtful they would be taken for a criminal offense and lodged in Newgate prison; but the consequences were apt to be highly unpleasant just the same. These unpalatable facts, Mr. Brown diffidently pointed out. “The deuce!” muttered Lord Sweetbriar in response, and held his candle high, the better to see the far corners of the room. What he glimpsed in one of those corners caused him to utter a little shriek and clutch at his valet.

Mr. Brown performed the intricate mental exercise which enabled him to maintain his perfect record of having never once lost his temper during a lifetime of dealing with Sweetbriars. Then he freed himself from his master, who was shaking like a blancmange. “You can open your eyes, Master Rolf,” the valet said gently. “It’s only the likeness of Master Reuben which used to hang in the salon.”

Likeness? Could it be that his papa had not, as Rolf had long anticipated, risen from the grave? Cautiously his lordship opened one eye. Then he opened the other, relieved to discover that the cause of his terror was indeed no more than the portrait which had once hung in Sweetbriar House, and which Nikki had taken when she left. Why his stepmama had wanted the dreadful thing, Rolf had never been able to discover, as he now could not imagine why she had hung it in her bedroom. The mere thought of his papa, let alone a painted likeness, was enough to inspire Rolf with nightmares.

No sooner was one fear put to rest than another took its place. The intruders heard movement in the hallway. Simultaneously they snuffed out their candles. Mr. Brown stepped behind the draperies as Lord Sweetbriar dived under the bed.

Not without difficulty did his lordship achieve his objective. Not only did he bang his head against the bed frame, he scorched himself with hot candle wax. These minor inconveniences signified naught to Rolf. His thoughts were wholly occupied with his dire fate, were Nikki to come unexpectedly home.
Would
she shoot him this time, once she discovered him cowering beneath her bed? Rolf was very much afraid she might.

He heard the door open, footsteps enter the room, a flint being struck. Faint fingers of candlelight crept close. Rolf remembered that he’d flung his greatcoat carelessly onto Nikki’s bed. He closed his eyes and awaited the pistol that would dispatch him to eternity.

No such report was forthcoming. Instead the intruder hummed a snatch of song. That was not Nikki’s voice, decided Rolf, opening his eyes. Nor would Nikki, despite her checkered history, have hummed that particular song. Lord Sweetbriar himself would not have known it, had he not numbered among his acquaintance some very ripe young bucks with a taste for establishments of low repute.

It was a servant, then, who had interrupted them. Rolf was not half so fearful of servants as of his stepmama. In truth, judging from the conversation overheard earlier, Nikki herself should have been fearful, hirelings with wages in arrears being prone to raise the devil of a dust.

His stepmama was grown very dilatory about meeting her obligations, it seemed. Rolf recalled the tiny legacy his papa had left her. A distinctly bilious feeling overcame Lord Sweetbriar as result of his sudden suspicion that his stepmama had contrived to land herself in the River Tick.

Perhaps it was the stifling atmosphere beneath the bed, and his dislike of dark enclosed spaces, that made Rolf feel as if he might at any moment cast up his accounts. What was the blasted serving wench doing, other than singing off-key? Gingerly Lord Sweetbriar inched forward and peered out from the concealing bed hangings. The girl—Nikki’s abigail, she must be—stood before the dressing table, holding a gold openwork necklet against her throat. Then she lowered her hand, and turned away. Rolf cowered back among the hangings. No wonder the wench had failed to notice the smell of hot wax, he thought, inhaling a strong aroma of garlic as she passed. Poor Nikki, who had once been accustomed to the best. From these somber reflections, Lord Sweetbriar was roused by a violent twitching of the window hangings. Through them, a pale hand emerged to point.

Had Mr. Brown taken leave of his senses? wondered Rolf. As he thusly mused, the window hangings grew more agitated still. It occurred to Lord Sweetbriar that it might be interesting to discover what had inspired his superbly self-possessed valet to such excitement. Cautiously Rolf emerged from beneath the far side of the bed, and peered around a curtain-draped post.

The sight that there awaited Rolf did indeed almost cause him to cast up his accounts, from an excess of joy. The abigail had swung back his papa’s portrait from the wall. Behind it lay a cavity. In her hands she held a familiar jewel chest.

It was no excess of joy that caused Miss Clough discomfort; she had little heart for the task which must be done. Yet if Marmaduke Thorne was a villain, then Lady Sweetbriar was a villainess, and at all events Sir Avery must be warned. Too, Clytie felt strongly in need of paternal guidance and advice. Her father having already departed the house when she arose heavy-eyed from her restless slumbers, Clytie set out also for the British Museum.

In the entrance hall, she paused distressed. How she was to gently inform her papa that he was betrothed to a villainess, Clytie did not know.

Slowly she mounted the stair. Sir Avery was in the new gallery, which had been erected a few years earlier at the northwest corner of Montagu House and joined to it by a short corridor.

Down that corridor trudged Miss Clough, growing more morose with each step. The new gallery consisted of thirteen rooms, in which antiquities were displayed. In light of her recent luck, Miss Clough was not especially surprised to find her papa in the last. He appeared to be deep in contemplation of the fabled Portland vase, thought to date from about 25 A.D.

Clytie paused on the threshold, uncertain how best to proceed. Someone bumped into her from behind. With a murmured apology, Clytie stepped aside. “Can I help you, miss?” inquired the assistant whose way she had blocked.

Clytie shook her head. “I wish to speak to Sir Avery.” The assistant, being new, was more zealous than most; and furthermore possessed an appreciation for a pretty face. He crossed the room to stand at Sir Avery’s elbow, and informed him that a lady was desirous of engaging him in speech. In response Sir Avery treated the assistant to a short lecture on the Portland vase, an excellent example of cameo glass, which depicted the marriage of Peleus and Thetis in white relief on a blue background.

Miss Clough walked toward her papa. Without turning, Sir Avery added: “Hullo, my dear. Have you come to talk to me again about the house? You need not have. You may purchase as many pictures as you please, so long as you don’t hang hunting scenes in the dining room. I have never found my appetite improved by vistas strewn with dead hares. No, and I am not partial to Turkey sofas either. As for the bedchamber—” He swung around, Miss Clough having hastily cleared her throat. “You again, Clytie? I had thought you were Nikki. Have you come to ask me to wish you happy? Although I believe the fellow should have applied to me before making you a declaration—but I shan’t make a fuss.”

Miss Clough was visited by an uninvited vision of Marmaduke Thorne’s swarthy face. Wish her happy? Precious little chance of that! With a cautious glance at the avidly listening assistant, Clytie moved closer to her father. “I wish very much to speak with you, sir. Privately.”

“Ah.” Sir Avery also looked at the assistant, in such a pointed manner that the zealous young man abruptly quit the room. Then the fond parent contemplated his daughter, who was so injudicious as to fall in love with a gentleman who went about kissing other ladies on the nose. Not that Sir Avery had anything against this habit. A fair-minded individual, Sir Avery could understand that another man might feel about noses as he himself felt about antiquities.

His daughter obviously did not share that tolerant outlook; Clytie was looking positively hipped. Sir Avery drew her hand through his arm and gave it a little pat. She sighed. “Oh, Papa, everything is in such a muddle! I can’t think what to do next.”

Wistfully Sir Avery glanced once more at the Etruscan vases displayed to such good advantage in the lofty, spacious room. Then he focused his keen intelligence upon his daughter. Even cloistered as he generally was within the timeless walls of the museum, Sir Avery had become aware that the large majority of his intimate acquaintances were going on in a very queer way. Even had he not noted it before, reflected Sir Avery, he could hardly fail to do so today. Clytie was positively blue-deviled. Gently, Sir Avery touched his daughter’s cheek, and invited her to tell him what had chanced.

Clytie’s expression was rueful. “I don’t know where to begin. I tried to convince Nikki that she should stop trying to throw Rolf and I at one another, as result of which she decided Rolf should practice making his declaration to Regina—or so Nikki
said.”
Clytie went on to describe the resultant kick-up, concluding: “I vow I am no longer certain how anyone feels!” Then she glanced shyly at her father. “Papa, how does one go about getting up a flirtation? You must know, because of Nikki. I thought I knew all about it myself, but I must not have gone about the thing properly, else he would not have groaned.”