Maggie MacKeever (8 page)

Miss Clough passed the armed guards at the cupola’d entry, nodded to the porter, and then went into the museum, which had once been a private dwelling, Montagu House. Built on the lines of a Parisian hotel, the structure was famed for its magnificent staterooms, frescoes, and parquetry floors. Pondering what she was to say to her papa—even to Clytie, Sir Avery was an enigma, and she could not anticipate how he might react to a suggestion that Lady Sweetbriar had in some arcane manner interfered with the orderly working of his mind.

Miss Clough paused in the entrance hall. Lord Sweetbriar’s continued strictures had not fallen on barren soil.
Had
her father become betrothed to Nikki entirely of his own volition? Sir Avery did not seem the sort of gentleman to fall victim to an adventuress. Yet Rolf claimed for his stepmama almost magical powers of persuasion. And undoubtedly Rolf’s own mental processes had been grievously interfered with. Upon realizing the extent of her intended presumption, Miss Clough almost wavered; but having come this far, she could not retreat. With a little sigh, Clytie set out in search of her sire.

Through the entrance hall, Miss Clough passed, threading her way between stuffed elephants and polar bears, oriental idols and marble busts; up the broad staircase with its gaily decorated walls and ceiling. The bacchanalian revels enacted thereupon put her inexplicably in mind of the provoking Marmaduke Thorne.

Sir Avery was not upon the landing, hobnobbing with the stuffed giraffes, or engaged in contemplation of the saloon’s preserved vulture’s head. Nor was he discovered in the Department of Manuscripts, the Department of Printed Works, the Department of Natural and Artificial Productions. Clytie did not begrudge her explorations. She enjoyed the Museum, and paused to enjoy such rarities as a stuffed cyclops pig, and a Roman tomb three feet long and eighteen inches deep, which appeared along the way.

At last Miss Clough ran her father to earth, in the Reading Room, a handsome corner chamber with three large windows and several portraits on the wall. Two long tables covered with green cloth extended across the room from north to south, one on each side; and the Superintendent’s table faced a marble fireplace in the south wall. Seated at one of the green-cloth-covered tables, bent over a collection of state papers that dated from Tudor times, was Sir Avery.

Miss Clough cleared her throat. “Clytie,” her father said, with some surprise. “What brings you here?”

“I wished to speak with you, Papa.” Since Miss Clough had expected no exuberant welcome from her parent, she was not distressed. “It is a matter of some urgency.”

“Very well.” With a gesture to the hovering attendant, Sir Avery rose and led his daughter into the corridor. “Now, tell me what was so urgent that it could not wait until next we met.”

Somewhat wryly, Miss Clough observed her sire, whose abstracted expression suggested that his thoughts still dwelt upon ancient affairs of state, the dust of which liberally adorned his fingers and his chin. “I daresay it might have waited,” allowed Clytie, as she withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule, “had I a notion of when we
would
next meet. Do not bother to point out that we meet daily across the breakfast cups, Papa! That can hardly constitute an opportunity for conversation, since I am forbidden to speak.”

“Poor puss.” Looking rueful, Sir Avery suffered his daughter to remedy the damage done his chin. “I fear I am a dreadful failure as a parent.”

“Pooh!” Clytie tucked away her handkerchief. “You are the best of all parents. In truth, I do not wish to talk to you over the breakfast cups, because I know that upon arising you are always sulky as a bear. But that is about the only time we are alone, Papa, so when I wish especially to speak to you, I must seek you out. And I
do
especially wish to speak to you. It concerns—” Her courage failed her. “A matter of the heart.”

“A matter of the heart?” Sir Avery’s preoccupied expression vanished. Shrewdly he assessed his daughter’s ankle-length dress of cambric muslin adorned with a band of tambour work at the hem, her spencer of lilac sarcenet and the white chip hat tied round its crown with a bow of lilac satin ribbon. “Child, are you old enough for that sort of thing? I conclude you must be, though I’m damned if I know where the time has passed. So you wish to leave me? Who’s the lucky fellow? I trust
he
won’t glower at you of a morning—though, admittedly, how could you know?”

Her father’s uncritical acceptance of her hypothetical nuptials caused Miss Clough to look even more wry. “Nikki thinks I should set my cap for Sweetbriar. What, Papa, would you say to that?”

“Sweetbriar?” Sir Avery obviously searched his memory for a figure to match up with the name. “Ah, the gudgeon. I shouldn’t think a gudgeon would do for you, my dear, but you must act as you think best.”

“I am trying to do just that.” To insure that her father awarded her his full attention, Miss Clough placed herself in front of the Egyptian tomb toward which his eye had strayed. “It has occurred to me that
you
may not be following the inclination of your own heart, Papa.”

“I?” Abruptly, Sir Avery’s interest waned. “Are you warning me against Nikki? Child, I beg you will not act the pea-goose. If that was all you wished to speak to be about—”

Clytie could not ignore so obvious a dismissal. She shrugged and retraced her steps through the Museum until once more she stood outside. She should have known better than to approach her father on so personal a matter, Clytie thought. He was a determinedly private man, and not inclined to share his sentiments with even his own offspring.

About those sentiments, Clytie was concerned. Sir Avery, for all his brilliance of intellect, was an unworldly man. Clytie was fond of her father, and she didn’t want to see him hurt. Surely Nikki would not deliberately hurt anyone? Alas, Clytie could not rid herself of the remembered camaraderie between Lady Sweetbriar and Mr. Thorne. Too, Clytie recalled Nikki’s excitement upon learning of Mr. Thorne’s return to England, an excitement Clytie understood all too well, for she was experiencing considerable difficulty in putting that provoking individual from her own mind. Even now, she could conjure up in an instant a vision of his swarthy features and pale blue eyes, could almost hear his mocking tones. “Oh, Hades!” Clytie muttered aloud.

“Hades?” inquired an amused voice, which was not nearly as mocking as Clytie had recalled. Guiltily, she raised her gaze from the pavement to his face. “Shame, Miss Clough! Not that
I
would mind if you said much worse. You do not seem especially pleased to see me,
ma coccinelle.”

“Why should I be glad to see you, sir? You have a very aggravating habit of putting me in the wrong.” Because she was no good liar, Clytie lowered her eyes to the important lapels of Mr. Thorne’s black coat. “If you will excuse me, I am in a hurry.”

Unabashed, Mr. Thorne placed a finger under Clytie’s chin. Amazed by his temerity, she widened her eyes. “You are telling me whiskers, Miss Clough. Young ladies who are in a great hurry do not spend several moments blankly staring at the pavement. Will you tell me what is troubling you? I am very good at sorting out tangles.”

Very belatedly, Miss Clough jerked her head away, and flushed to realize how much she’d enjoyed Mr. Thorne’s boldness. Since she could hardly confess that Marmaduke himself was no small part of her problems, she said: “It is nothing with which you need to concern yourself.”

If Miss Clough had intended that professed disinterest would deflect Mr. Thorne’s persistence, she was very rapidly proved wrong. “I must concern myself with everything about you, Clytie,” retorted that exasperating gentleman. “Oh yes, I have decided I must call you Clytie. ‘Miss Clough’ is far too formal, and you do not like to be called my little ladybug. Since I am to call you Clytie, you must call me Duke. Nor must you accuse me of moving too quickly for you; I know I am. But I have followed you all the way here, and waited for you to emerge, and it is very obvious that something exercises your mind.”

Fascinated, Miss Clough observed her accostor, who even as he spoke had taken her arm and led her down the street. “Trying it on much too rare and thick,” she retorted. “Do you often go off in these odd humors, sir?”

“Odd humors? Miss Clough—Clytie—you have a poor opinion of yourself.” The irrepressible Marmaduke smiled. “In answer to your question, I only take such humors when I see a lady I can’t live without, which has never happened before. Yes, I know you think I’m pitching you gammon. Therefore I will not at this particular moment attempt to convince you of how very far I am gone in infatuation, because that would be to go beyond the line of being pleasing, and I would not wish you to take me in disgust.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” replied Miss Clough drily. “We shall go on much more prosperously if you cease throwing the hatchet at me. You really should not make such flattering overtures to strangers, Mr. Thorne. Were someone to take you seriously, you would be in a pretty fix.”

Marmaduke arched a brow. “Now
you
are being bacon-brained. No doubt it is due to association with my nephew. Where did I leave my carriage? I’m certain it’s around here somewhere. Unless my man grew so annoyed at the length of time I left my horses standing that he took it upon himself to depart.”

“Your carriage?” Mr. Thorne’s abrupt conversational leaps, as well as his potent personality, made Miss Clough’s head swim. “I thought you wished to speak with me. That is—”

“You’ll grow accustomed to my ways.” Marmaduke demonstrated a quickness of perception which Clytie could not approve. “That, too, may be blamed on the Russians. They grow so deuced melancholy with the least encouragement. You are not prone to melancholia, are you, Miss Clough?”

At this particular moment, Miss Clough had not the slightest notion of what she was and was not. “Um,” said she.

His companion’s onslaught of muteness did not deter Mr. Thorne. “I thought you were not,” he said comfortably. “Here is my carriage, at last. Allow me to assist you to be seated—there! Now you may tell me what has cast you into the pathetics while I drive you home.”

“I am not in the pathetics, exactly.” Miss Clough roused from her bemused condition to discover her hovering footman dismissed, and herself being arranged very tenderly in a yellow-upholstered barouche drawn by a perfectly matched pair. She discovered also that Mr. Thorne was regarding her in a very amused way. “Tell me, sir, is it your habit to take all by storm?”

“Not necessarily.” Expertly, Marmaduke adjusted the bow on her chip hat. “Only in those situations where I think it will suit. If it does not suit, you need only tell me so. But now you must tell me why, if not precisely in the pathetics, you have been puzzling your head.”

Curiously, given leave to do so, Miss Clough did not bid her persecutor desist. Instead, she conceded defeat. “You are the most persistent man! If you must know, I am concerned about my father’s betrothal to Lady Sweetbriar.”

“Concerned, Miss Clough?” Mr. Thorne’s manner cooled. “You do not approve of Nikki, is that it?”

Shrewdly, Clytie narrowed her eyes. “Oho! Did I disapprove of Nikki, you would find very quickly that you
could
live without me, sir, I think. Set your mind at ease; you have not found in me already something to dislike. I am very fond of Nikki. Anyone must be.”

“Not altogether anyone.” Marmaduke grimaced. “As you would know, had you been privy to the remarks of Lady Regina Foliot. It was those remarks which made me misjudge you, my darling—yes, I know I am being forward, but to be a gentleman’s darling, Miss Clough, is not so dreadful a thing. As I have every intention of proving to you some of these days—”

“Mr. Thorne,” interrupted Miss Clough, embarrassed not so much by Marmaduke’s flummery as by the presence of his groom, “I beg you will call me by my given name.”

“I knew you would eventually see it my way.” At least, she thought, he refrained from looking smug. “Are you afraid that your father isn’t up to Nikki’s weight?”

“It is not that, precisely.” In an attempt to analyze her feelings, Clytie frowned. “Rolf keeps teasing me to warn Papa about Nikki’s scrapes—indeed, to do anything I can to prevent the marriage taking place. He seems to think of poor Nikki as being infectious somehow.”

“Rolf’s problem is that he
doesn’t
think,” responded Mr. Thorne. “We must not condemn him for the failure, for the lad at least does try. You came to the museum to issue warning to your father, then. What was his response?”

Miss Clough looked rueful. “He told me not to be a pea-goose. You may laugh, sir, but I expected no less. First Rolf’s alarms, and then
you—”
She fell silent.

“I begin to understand.” Undaunted, Mr. Thorne possessed himself of Clytie’s hand. “I think you must have been at the opera last night, and that you also know Nikki and I are old friends. To say you may trust me will not serve, I imagine. Shall I carve Rolf’s heart out?”

“Carve—” Hastily Miss Clough reclaimed her hand, which she had inordinately enjoyed having held. “I think you have not been in Russia, but Bedlam Asylum instead. Why should you wish to do such a thing to poor Rolf?”

“Oh,
I
don’t wish it!” Mr. Thorne took no visible offense at being called a Bedlamite. “I merely thought
you
might like it, since he’s been plaguing you. My darling Clytie, you attach too much importance to Rolf’s complaints. He is, I regret to admit, rather a stick in the mud. Besides, I imagine your father took Nikki’s measure within moments of their meeting. The circumstances were somewhat unusual.”

“They were?” Clytie was among those who believed that meeting had taken place in the Horticultural Gardens, and consequently looked confused.

Mr. Theme’s voice was admiring: “Assuredly! Surely you must know that ladies do not ordinarily attend prizefights, even so exciting a turn-up as that between Molyneaux and Cribb.”

Clytie shifted on the yellow upholstery, the better to observe her companion. “You mean—”