Maggie MacKeever (24 page)

His usually clear-sighted daughter had not benefited from acquaintance with the jingle-brained Lord Sweetbriar, Sir Avery mused, as he led her out of the Etruscan vase room. “May I inquire with whom you sought to flirt?” he diplomatically inquired. “Not, one trusts, Sweetbriar?”

Miss Clough looked appalled. “Good gracious, no! If you must know, Papa, it was Mr. Thorne.”

In response to this intimation that his daughter had sought to dally with a profligate, Sir Avery appeared not the least disturbed. In point of fact, he appeared a great deal more interested in the Crackerode collection of gems and coins and medals through which they currently passed. “You
did
persuade the fellow to kiss you, I presume?”

Anew, Miss Clough ruminated upon the eccentricity of her parent; most fathers would react far differently to the intelligence that their offspring had been embracing profligates. Clytie smiled weakly at the notion of her papa confining her to her bedchamber, there to exist upon a Spartan regime of bread and water, and inviting Mr. Thorne to engage with him in pistols at dawn. “Yes, Papa, he kissed me.” She sniffled. “And I suspect he didn’t like it one little bit, because he left without a word.”

This disclosure distracted Sir Avery from his contemplation of the Towneley marbles. “Capital,” said he.

Miss Clough stared at her eccentric parent. “‘Capital’? You must not have heard me properly; I said he groaned! And then he left me without a by-your-leave.” She lowered her gaze to her gloves. “I think I must be very wicked, Papa, because I don’t care a fig if Mr. Thorne is every bit as bad as Nikki says he is, even though Nikki should know. Except that she has been bamboozling everyone of late—oh, I do not know what to think! But this is not what I meant to talk to you about. I tried to warn you before, but you would not listen. I am afraid that Nikki—well, one has reason to have
doubts!”

For his daughter’s reasoning, Sir Avery exhibited scant enthusiasm. Nonetheless, he sought to allay her concern. “You may think you have reason to question Nikki’s motives, but I am not such a clunch. Shortly after it became apparent that she had set her cap at me, I had investigations made.”

“Investigations?” Her papa had known all along that he was betrothed to a villainess? Clytie’s brown eyes opened wide. “One tends to forget that you are a downy one, sir! But don’t you mind?”

“Mind what, my dear?” In truth, Sir Avery was most disturbed by the rapid deterioration of his daughter’s usual good sense. “I wish I knew what has turned you into such a pea-goose! If it is Thorne who has you in such a taking, you are being tediously missish. Kisses are not so important. Did you like his kisses, you must invite him to do so again, when next you meet.”

“Invite him—” Accustomed as she was to her papa’s broadminded attitudes toward childrearing, this permissive attitude caused Miss Clough to gape. Then her attention was caught by a figure in the doorway. It was Rolf, wearing a distraught expression, and clutching in his arms an ornate little chest.

“Ah!” said Sir Avery, whose attention had likewise been caught. “The jingle-brain.”

Lord Sweetbriar pushed his way through the other visitors to the Towneley gallery—a number of such visitors were strolling through the rooms, this being an appropriate day and hour—to reach Sir Avery and Miss Clough. “I have come upon a very painful errand,” he gasped. “Hallo, Clytie. This must be your papa. We have never been formally introduced, but I feel as if I know you, sir. Yes, and I feel that I should warn you not to take up with the petticoats, because there ain’t no telling which way they’ll jump! But I’m forgetting you’ve already taken up with Nikki.”

Sardonically, Sir Avery contemplated the flushed and breathless young man. Lord Sweetbriar had something of the aspect of a chubby puppy who’d run too far and too fast. “But I know which way Nikki will, er, jump,” he gently replied.

Lord Sweetbriar’s flushed features were skeptical. “That’s more than the rest of us! When I think that—”

What Lord Sweetbriar thought was destined to remain undisclosed, alas; a commotion broke out at the doorway. Through the knot of people gathered there burst Lady Regina, looking very irate. “Here you are!” she cried, having espied Rolf. “I have been following you this age. Indeed, I even began to wonder if you were wishful of avoiding me.” Then she espied Clytie. “That creature again! You said she was nothing out of the ordinary way.”

Rolf, who keenly felt the perils of his position, rolled an anguished eye from his beloved to Miss Clough. Of all the predicaments in which he had lately found himself, this was perhaps the worst. “I didn’t come here to see Clytie.” he protested. “I didn’t even know she
was
here! I wished to speak to her papa.”

“Wished to speak to—” Lady Regina could think of only one reason why a young man would wish to speak to a young lady’s papa, which is an excellent demonstration of how overheated had grown her brain. “Wretch! Brute! You have trifled with my affections— oh! I cannot trust myself to speak.”

For this blessing, Lord Sweetbriar was very grateful; the vigor with which Regina had denounced him had caused several curious heads to turn their way. “I ain’t trifled with anything,” he protested, in his own defense. “I wish you wouldn’t rip up at a fellow that way. Especially after he’s gone to so much trouble to do what you wanted—yes, and even thought he’d seen a ghost.” Just remembering that moment gave his lordship goose-flesh. “That was worse even than when Nikki caught me in her bedroom, because
had
it been Papa, he would have done a great more than sit upon my lap!”

Responses to this revelation were much as might be imagined: “I do not think I can permit you haunting Nikki’s bedchamber,” remarked Sir Avery, with a meaningful glance at the ornate chest; and “Upon your lap?” echoed Miss Clough. Lady Regina’s reaction was the most severe. “Sat upon your—oh!” She stamped her foot. “My papa is right. You
are
a cabbagehead!”

This insult from the lady whom he had tried so hard to please was for Lord Sweetbriar the last straw.
“I
ain’t the cabbagehead!” he therefore retorted. “You are. I don’t think I want to be married to a cabbagehead, or a female who’s forever railing at me and calling me names and looking like she wants to box my ears. I don’t care either if it ain’t gentlemanly to cry off.” He looked confused. “Or doesn’t a fellow
have
to cry off if he ain’t officially betrothed?”

Sir Avery roused from his absorption in the scene; it was to him that Rolf’s question was addressed. “That is an interesting point,” he allowed. “I haven’t the slightest notion. But though you have broken off with this young woman, Sweetbriar—not that I blame you for it; to be leg-shackled to a female who is forever loading you with reproaches would be far too great a bore—you must not start dangling after Clytie. I will not forbid your friendship, but neither will I have you as a son-in-law. That I am going to marry your stepmama is bad enough. You have the oddest ability to set well-ordered minds at naught.”

Lord Sweetbriar found in this evaluation nothing with which to quibble, perhaps because he didn’t wholly understand the drift of it. Rolf
did
understand, however, that Sir Avery would not permit Clytie to marry him. “That’s all right.” he responded; “I never wished to be leg-shackled to her. Not that Clytie ain’t a good sort of girl.”

Lady Regina, who had been rendered almost bereft of all her senses by the intelligence that Lord Sweetbriar meant to hedge off altogether, now trusted herself to give voice. “Let us not be hasty!” she said. “Considering the difficulties under which we have had to labor, it is not wonderful if we are a little out of sorts. If I have been precipitate, I am sorry for it, Sweetbriar, but you must remember that your stepmama has tried very hard to make one think your preference lies elsewhere.”

Frowning, Lord Sweetbriar studied Lady Regina, whose expression was contrite. Rolf liked that expression considerably more than the others he had glimpsed upon those incomparable features of late. Though his comprehension might be limited, Rolf realized that a ready acceptance of Regina’s apology would be a dangerous precedent to set. Though Lord Sweetbriar still wished very much to marry his beloved, and did not enjoy having turn-ups with her, neither did he relish fretting his guts to fiddlestrings. “Hasty? Balderdash!” he said.

At this set-down, Lady Regina gasped. She had thought a simple apology would be sufficient to bring about a reconciliation. Since it had not been, she must try all the harder. If only she and Rolf were private, it would be a simple matter to twist him around her little finger—but they were not private. Regina cast a resentful glance at Miss Clough and Sir Avery and the various other individuals who displayed much more interest in the scene being so vigorously enacted than in Charles Towneley’s collection of classical sculptures. Though she normally enjoyed being the focus of attention, Regina knew she did not currently show to good advantage. What her mama and her sisters would say when this tale reached them, she shuddered to think. It was marriage to Sweetbriar now, or no one; and his lordship’s sulky aspect strongly indicated the latter course. The incomparable Lady Regina Foliot was very likely to become an ape-leader. The prospect turned her perfectly ill.

The morbid tenor of her thoughts was reflected on Regina’s face as she plucked at Lord Sweetbriar’s sleeve. “I have been very foolish, I know, and I do not blame you for being very much disgusted with me, but I cannot bear that we should be on bad terms. Tell me what I must do to atone.” When Rolf made no response, she leaned forward to peer up into his face, and consequently noticed what he clutched so tightly in his arms. It was a jewel chest. There was only one lady to whose jewel chest Lord Sweetbriar might lay claim.

All was not yet lost then, thought Regina, her green eyes alight. Why Lord Sweetbriar might be carrying his stepmama’s jewel chest all about London, especially to the British Museum, it did not occur to Regina to ask. She snatched the case away from him and flung it open. Glittering up at her were Nikki’s jewels. The diadem, necklace, and earrings of emeralds set in diamonds and hung with immense pear pearls; the set of Italian gold openwork; a silver necklace set with emeralds and rubies, foiled crystal, and topazes; the marquis diamond ring—

But something about the glitter of the lovely gems was not quite as it should be. Yes, and why was Rolf trying so hard to wrestle the jewel chest away? It was hardly a gentlemanly thing to do. Puzzled, Lady Regina took a closer look at the marquis ring. Within its facets lay revelation. “Paste!” she cried, and swooned.

During those same moments when Lady Regina stalked Lord Sweetbriar through the streets of London, prior to the fit of vapours which overtook her in the British Museum, Mr. Thorne obeyed a summons to Fitzroy Square. Marmaduke had pondered long and hard upon his dilemma, or at least had tried to do so; he must not be judged too harshly if his thoughts invariably strayed to those splendid moments when he had clasped Clytie in his arms. Was Mr. Thorne granted his dearest wish, he would spend a large portion of his remaining lifetime in that activity.

Unfortunately, Mr. Thorne’s wish was not likely to be granted. Despite the various unflattering evaluations of his character currently existent, Marmaduke was a man of honor. In his past lay only one incident when he had not behaved as well as he might have done. As is the way with such incidents, it now rose to haunt him. Nikki was asserting her prior claim. Due to the drear nature of his reflections, Mr. Thorne’s expression, as he applied himself to the door of Lady Sweetbriar’s hired house, was grim.

Nikki herself flung open the door. “You came!” she cried. “I am very grateful to you for it, but we cannot stand here jawing on the doorstep.” She took firm grasp of his sleeve and pulled. “Come in.” Having insured that her caller must do so, she then slammed and bolted the door.

Although Mr. Thorne no longer felt toward Lady Sweetbriar as he had in years past, he still retained a fondness. She was on pins and needles, he thought, and wondered why. “Have your servants left you, Nikki? You should have let me know. I would have helped you contrive to be beforehand with the world.”

Nikki’s glance was tearful. “Dearest, dearest Duke! You are the best of all my flirts. It has gone beyond the point when anyone can help me, I fear. There’s no wrapping
this
in clean linen—and it is no more than I deserve. I
have
been enacting the slyboots! My conduct
has
been monstrous! And I do not wish to be the stumbling block in anybody’s path, even Rolf’s.”

Mr. Thorne struggled very hard to make sense of these disclosures, which were uttered in mournful tones as her ladyship preceded him up the stair. Not only in her stepson’s pathway was Nikki a stumbling block, he reflected. Resolutely Duke prevented his thoughts straying to Miss Clough, a topic which inspired him to romantical excesses, but with little beneficial result. “If you won’t let me haul you out from under the hatches, why did you not apply to Sir Avery?” he inquired.

Over her shoulder, Lady Sweetbriar showed him a woeful countenance. “I may be on the dangle for a fortune, Duke, but that is your brother’s fault. I am
not
a common adventuress! Had I gone all to pieces after we were married, I would have applied to Avery for assistance, but I cannot in good conscience do so
before.
It would be to take shocking advantage of Avery’s good nature.”

“And a direct violation of your philosophy of value received.” By the reminder of Nikki’s betrothal to another man, Mr. Thorne’s apprehensions were slightly eased. “But you have already given me good value, even if it was many years in the past. Therefore, in good conscience you may let me render your assistance.”

“Definitely the best of all my flirts!” Sighing, looking rueful, Lady Sweetbriar continued up the stairs. “It’s too late for that. I have been very foolish, and now I must abide the consequence.”

Since it was very difficult to carry on a disagreement with a lady three paces ahead of him, Mr. Thorne temporarily refrained. Silently he trailed after her, marshaling his arguments. So preoccupied was he with those arguments that he paid scant heed to their progress up the broad stair with its massive balustrade in the old style, corniced and thick, and along the dark paneled hallway. Only when Lady Sweetbriar passed through a doorway did Mr. Thorne come to his senses, every one of which insisted that he refrain from entering her boudoir. This reluctance was a novel sensation for the dashing Mr. Thorne, whose acquaintance with feminine boudoirs was not slight. With the manner in which to casually enter such a chamber, without breaking the prevailing mood or causing last-minute doubts, Marmaduke was very familiar. About how to tactfully refrain from entering, however, he was much less certain. Attempting to look nonchalant, he lounged in the doorway.