Maggie MacKeever (7 page)

“Eighteen!” protested Clio, stung.

“Quite old enough,” agreed Sapphira, in such good spirits that Drusilla poked a sharp elbow into Constant’s ribs. “She’ll put up her hair and lace herself into her corsets and we’ll present her at a large dinner party followed by a ball. And then,” she smiled malevolently, “we shall see!”

“A pity,” said Giles, but did not explain the remark. Instead, he turned to Clio. “You have seen your companion this morning? I trust she has taken no harm from yesterday’s unhappy encounter with my son’s beastly dog?”

“I have,” Clio lied cheerfully; she had deliberately avoided an encounter with her sister until her plans were more firmly laid. “You must not worry about Tess, though it is good of you to concern yourself. My, uh, companion is a great deal stronger than she appears.”

“Dowdy-looking female!” muttered Sapphira. “We’ll get precious little use from her.”

“I should hope,” objected Clio, so sternly that she startled even herself, unaccustomed as she was to taking up the cudgels in her sister’s defense, “that you would not try to do so! Tess must not be thought insufficiently elevated in rank to be admitted into the highest company. She is better born than I am myself.” Belatedly, she paused; one could hardly explain that the countess claimed maternal connections with foreign royalty. “It is not a happy tale; we do not speak of it.”

“Then, perhaps, she would enjoy sharing your come-out.” Giles was bland as custard. “Society offers vast amusements.”

That the duke had an ulterior motive in making this astonishing proposal, and that Tess would be angry as a wet hen, Clio did not even momentarily doubt; but it fitted in excellently with her own schemes. “A splendid notion!” she cried, and clapped her hands. “I wonder that I did not think of it myself. I should be so much more comfortable with my dear Tess at my side.” This was not entirely true, but Tess was bound to be so dazzled and discomfited that she paid her sister little heed. One must make sacrifices, Clio thought virtuously, for the common good.

“Mad, the pair of you!” announced Sapphira, regaining use of her tongue. “To foist that frowzy-looking creature off onto Society? I never heard of such a thing!”

“You have now,
Maman.”
Giles was totally unconcerned with his mother’s wrath. “I, for one, find your objections ludicrous. Indeed,” and he smiled enigmatically, “I think I can guarantee that Clio’s companion will enjoy a tolerable success.”

“She limps!” snapped Sapphira, who had taken a violent dislike to Tess the moment that her son had shown interest in her. “The wench will make a pretty object of ridicule. I won’t hear of it.”

It wasn’t often that Drusilla was presented with an opportunity to thwart her irascible parent and she took immediate advantage of it, never dreaming that it was an action she would speedily regret. “A tempest in a teapot!” she yawned. “The girl can’t expect to get a husband, but I expect she might enjoy herself. She needs only the proper clothes to appear presentable, and I’m sure it will be no additional bother for me to take her around.” The offer was not prompted by generosity; were Tess present to chaperone Clio, Drusilla would be free to follow her own pursuits, namely one Wicked Baronet.

“Then it’s settled,” said Giles. “Tell me, Clio, are you, like your companion, an admirer of Chateaubriand?”

“Gracious, no!” Clio giggled. “Tess is the bookish one.”

“By all that’s holy! What must my son needs do but take up a crippled bluestocking!” Sapphira grimaced terribly. “Are you sure you aren’t one yourself, miss? It’s my contention that a girl who’s taught more than French and dancing is automatically a bore!”

Lest her mother animadvert further on the subject and in the process undo what had been accomplished, Drusilla engaged upon a worldly, frivolous, gossiping kind of conversation to which no one paid the slightest heed. Lucille kept a cautious eye on the dowager, who was crumbling her toast and staring ferociously into space; Constant glumly regarded his plate, wondering if his brother-in-law’s queer conduct was occasioned by an admiration for Clio or Tess, or alternately sheer cussedness; and Giles mused upon the warehouses of the East India Company and the West India Company, where valuable goods were spoiling and rotting as a result of the Continental blockade.

Clio, paying little heed to the talk that flowed around her, was extremely pleased with herself. There was an odd exhilaration attendant upon arranging someone else’s life, and Clio had discovered in herself a remarkable aptitude for that very thing. Tess would thank her, in time.

She stole a glance at Giles. He had a consciousness of his superior standing, of course, was most exemplary in politeness and manner, and preserved an air of fine indifference over almost everything; and would serve her purposes admirably. Who would have thought Tess would turn out to have such appeal for the gentlemen? Certainly not Tess herself! Clio smirked. Tess would like the notion of being a duchess very well, once she got used to it. How could she not? Clio would have liked it very well herself, and thought it positively noble that she should give up to her sister this particularly handsome specimen.

“Lord Lansbury!” said Sapphira, so abruptly that Clio almost dropped her cup. “Rich as Croesus, as I recall. You might have told us that you were a great heiress, girl!”

Clio was fast developing an ability to keep her head in a crisis. She held her tongue and dropped her gaze to the tabletop.
“Maman!”
reproved Giles, while Constant wondered if this information might prove to his advantage, and Drusilla’s eyes narrowed speculatively. Even Lucille, who was no less dependent on her mother’s pocketbook and her mother’s goodwill than the others, pricked up her ears. “You are embarrassing Clio.”

Sapphira was not displeased that Giles should concern himself with the girl’s sensibilities, and even less displeased that she’d chosen a fortune for her son. “You’re off to Westminster again? I suppose I should be grateful you don’t go instead to some low dive of a cellar to bet a fortune on the number of sewer rats a terrier can kill in an hour!” Lucille gasped, Drusilla looked unhappy, but Giles only smiled. The dowager turned her dark eyes on Clio. “My son’s prominent place in Society and his close friendship with the royal family have caused him to be labeled a mouthpiece of the fashionable world. He is more talked of, more envied—and in some quarters, more disliked!—than any other member of the
ton.
Yet what must he do but work for the betterment of commoners, not that they appreciate it! ‘Tis a wretched waste of time.”

“I am sure,” murmured Clio, thinking that Tess would approve, “that his efforts are commendable.” For herself, she would prefer a man of leisure whose morning routine concerned nothing more weighty than a stroll to the caricature shops or to Tattersall’s.

“Bah!” observed Sapphira. “Giles, you will forgo your efforts at reform for at least this day and show your cousin the town.”

“I am loath to disappoint you,” Giles replied, with patent insincerity, “but I have already made plans. Perhaps some other time.”

“I, too, have an engagement,” announced Drusilla, as she rose. She was fashionably attired in a white muslin gown with elbow sleeves, lovely pearl buttons, and an open center front over a slip. Clio studied the yellow slippers and Paisley shawl with amber tones that completed the ensemble and thought enviously that Drusilla looked fine as fivepence.

“Meeting the Wicked Baronet, are you?” inquired Sapphira, with malice. “Amazing how he can drink till all hours of the night, then rise at dawn to embark upon another debauch! I wish you joy of the encounter—not that it will do you any good!”

Expressionless, Drusilla crossed the room. She was not to escape so easily. “My daughter,” remarked Sapphira to the room at large, “has fallen into licentious ways. I fear she has strong passions and indulges them with great latitude—for which that rogue is doubtless to blame! Where does he take you today, Drusilla? Another excursion to the East End? To hobnob with the riffraff in the sordid lodging houses of Whitechapel, the teeming slums of Spitalfields?”

“Nonsense,
Maman!”
retorted Drusilla, in a voice that shook perceptibly. Sapphira’s omniscience was to her family a source of constant wonder and equal discomfort. “I am only meeting Morgan in the park.” Quickly, she fled.

“Morgan!” gasped Clio, before she thought.
“Here?”

“What’s this?” Sapphira pounced. “Don’t tell me you know the rascal!”

“Perhaps,” admitted Clio cautiously, aware that Giles looked intolerably amused. “If the man of whom you speak is Sir Morgan Rhodes.”

“You will not continue the acquaintance.” Sapphira was obviously displeased. “He is audacious, insouciant, impetuous, and a womanizer of no small degree. Even were you a marvel of discretion, which I don’t for a moment expect you are, that rogue’s attentions would ruin you.”

“But
Maman,”
protested Lucille, “you allow Drusilla to associate with him! I have always found Morgan to be very kind.”

“Nincompoop!” retorted her fond mother. “It is a good thing that I do not require you to think for me.” She scowled at Clio. “A lady’s reputation resides not in what she does, but in what she is considered to have done—and there is very little, believe me, that Drusilla is not credited with! However, she behaves herself properly in public; and though Drusilla’s friendship with Morgan has gained her fame as a dashing widow, no doors have yet been closed in her face. I suppose it is partially because people recall that she was once betrothed to him and broke it off to wed that gay rattlepate who died so inconsiderately and left her penniless. She is thought immune.”

“I only met Sir Morgan once,” offered Clio, severely shaken. “He stayed, as we did, at an inn in Hertfordshire.”

“Oh?” Sapphira, thus intent, looked rather like a vulture. “Odd that he should put up at an inn when his home is in that area. Explain
that,
girl!”

“I cannot,” replied poor Clio. “We had very little conversation—he will not even remember me.” But he would remember Tess, she thought, and wondered how she might prevent their meeting again. It struck her belatedly that Sir Morgan might very well give them away. It was no great deception, of course, but Sapphira was bound to be furious.

“Little matter if he does!” decreed the dowager duchess, after considerable thought. “I repeat, you will have nothing to do with him, though you will see him often enough in this house. Morgan has not only the dubious distinction of being Drusilla’s chosen quarry, he is a friend of Giles.”

Worse and worse, thought Clio. The duke appeared lost in thoughts of his own. “I have,” she said sincerely, “no desire to further the acquaintance. Just who
is
Sir Morgan?” Even the untutored Clio knew that forewarned was forearmed.

“The Wicked Baronet?” Sapphira grinned. “He truly is magnificent. Morgan not only lives in the grand style, he possesses it. He has excellent taste in food and wine, patronizes only the best tailors, rides only the best hunters, admires only the loveliest women, and mixes with only the best company.” The smile faded. “He is not for the likes of you, miss! That rascal’s heart has never been touched by anyone. His taste is for highflyers; he’s never been known to cast so much as a glance at a green girl. And you may be thankful that it’s so!”

But he’d glanced more than once at Tess, Clio thought unhappily. In fact, he’d made a dead set at the countess! Clio was distressed beyond measure. She might magnanimously wish for her sister a fair portion of domestic bliss, and somewhat less magnanimously wish for herself freedom from the restraints imposed by Tess and Delphine, but she in no way desired that her sister’s heart should be broken by a careless rakehell. Tess might not realize that Sir Morgan held a strong fascination for her, but Clio knew well the symptoms, having first encountered them herself at the tender age of twelve. “Oh, dear,” she murmured weakly. This arrangement of her sister’s life was going to be more difficult than she’d initially perceived. One thing was certain: Tess must be kept as long as possible unaware of Sir Morgan’s unfortunate proximity.

“You must not believe all my mother says,” offered Giles, with an air of helpfulness and a great deal of secret mischief. “Morgan is not so black as she paints him. Were she to be entirely honest,
Maman
would admit that Morgan is a great favorite with her.”

“With
me,
yes,” the dowager duchess repeated meaningfully. “But I’m not an inexperienced young girl. Heed my words, miss! You’ll award Sir Morgan no more attention than courtesy demands.”

They obviously both thought her already half-smitten, and Clio could hardly explain that it was her elder sister who was so lacking in sense. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied meekly. If this wasn’t the most odious development! There was nothing for it but that Tess must wed the duke with all possible speed.

Chapter 6

Blissfully ignorant of her sister’s schemes, Tess was enjoying a delightful afternoon. The Duke of Bellamy was the most considerate of companions, whisking her off on a tour of the Palace of Westminster, escorting her through the ancient building known as the Court of Requests, where the House of Lords met, and pointing out a tapestry representing the Spanish Armada, gift of the States of Holland to Queen Elizabeth; showing her the Great Hall which Richard II had covered with a magnificent molded and carved double hammer-beam roof; guiding her through St. Stephen’s Chapel, in which the Norman kings had made their
devoirs,
and the celebrated Painted Chamber in which Edward the Confessor had died; and then whisking her off to Gunther’s, the celebrated pastry cook in Berkeley Square, for an apricot tart. If Tess had any complaint to make of the proceedings, it was that Clio had inexplicably refused to accompany them. Nor, though Tess did not consider it, had young Evelyn and the faithful Nidget been privileged to join the expedition.

“The French privateers,” continued the masterfully devious Duke of Bellamy, “have captured a staggering number of British cruisers and merchantmen. The devils seem to know the English coasts and routes of trade, the tactics of British cruisers, even the times of arrival and departure of our convoys. We lost over six hundred ships last year alone! Those plaguey privateers have grown so bold that they take their prizes in plain view of fanners on our shores—a humiliating spectacle, I assure you.”