Maggie MacKeever (17 page)

Mark’s nature was not so honorable that he felt compelled to inform his tearful ladylove that he had called in the Royal Crescent for the express intention of hauling her—in a dignified manner, naturally—over the coals. Obviously this was not the moment in which to embark upon a discussion of her shoddy treatment of Miss Choice-Pickerell. Murmuring soothingly, he applied his handkerchief to Binnie’s damp face.

Binnie found it very comforting to be thusly soothed. Still, it accomplished little, and solved none other problems. Neal remained on the verge of a disastrous mesalliance, and clearly Sandor would make no effort to prevent it. If Sandor stood in such grave need of funds, he would welcome a connection with a wealthy mercantile family. No doubt it was with an eye to the Choice-Pickerell pocketbook that Sandor had agreed to the match in the first place. His promise to scotch the affair would have been intended to throw Binnie off the scent. And were Neal, upon his marriage, to discover his inheritance amounted to mere pennies, what could they do? Sandor would have some excuse, perhaps say he had invested unwisely on Neal’s behalf in that mysterious institution, the ‘Change.

Nor could Delilah be depended on. That Binnie had ever had faith in that young lady’s ingenuity was clear proof of the delusions to which she was lately prone. Thinking clearly now, for the first time in days, Binnie realized how eager she had been to clutch at straws. Delilah was a mere child, and one so lacking in common sense as to cherish a passion for a most ineligible
parti.
Generous as might be her offers of assistance, brave as might be her efforts at escape, Delilah was caught as firmly as any of them in Sandor’s web.

Were there to be any hope of winning free of Sandor’s toils, Binnie could rely on no one but herself. But what could
she
do, a fubsy-faced old maid without fortune or influence? Had she either, she could remove herself and her family from beneath Sandor’s roof, from under Sandor’s thumb. Perhaps she could arrange that Neal’s inheritance be given over into, if not his own, then her keeping. Perhaps she could even arrange to take on the responsibility of Miss Mannering. Alas, these roseate visions were no more than pipe dreams. If only there was some way—

And then a plan burst full-blown into Binnie’s decidedly overstimulated brain, the result of all the agitation and foreboding to which she had recently been prey, and the result also of the fact that Mark was, yet once again, trying to alleviate her gloomy spirits with an offer of his hand and heart. Were she to marry Mark,
he
could take over Neal’s affairs—who better to do so than Neal’s brother-in-law? So stricken was Binnie by this admirable solution to her difficulties that she failed to take into consideration any number of things, such as the fact that Mr. Dennison, approving as he did of Miss Choice-Pickerell, was not likely to attempt to thwart Neal’s marriage; and that Mr. Dennison, disapproving wholeheartedly of Miss Mannering, was not likely to take that damsel under his wing. She stared at him.

Mark, who had made declarations so often to Miss Baskerville that it had become a matter of rote, and who additionally had not the most distant reason to believe he was at all favorite in that quarter, wondered why Miss Baskerville should be regarding him in a manner that could best be described as predatory. Her lips were pursed, her eyes narrowed speculatively. Moreover, the intensity of her regard struck him with a distinct unease. “Binnie, what—?”

“Do you really mean that, Mark?” She clutched his arm. “About wanting to marry me?”

“Of course I do.” Mark spoke absently; he was doubting whether even his skillful valet would be able to remove the creases from his sleeve. “Why do you ask? Have I not told you countless times that my affections have become fixed? That I should be the happiest man in the world were you to favor me?”

Binnie released him and drew a deep breath. Surreptitiously, Mark smoothed his sleeve. “I am truly sensible of the honor you do me,” she said. “I am very much obliged to you.”

Mark was paying a great deal less attention to these remarks than he should, anticipating that Miss Baskerville, as was her habit, would now try to convince him that a wish to marry her was the greatest nonsense in the world. Once, in the beginning, he had argued with her. Now he had begun to think she was correct, especially after her bizarre behavior during the past several days. Considering the queer fits and starts Binnie had been prey to ever since the advent of Miss Mannering, Mark could only be grateful for Binnie’s marked determination to hold him at arm’s length. Indeed, now that he considered it, he’d had a hairsbreadth escape.
Had
Binnie accepted his hand and heart, he would then have been forced to deal with the matter of Neal and Sandor, perhaps even Miss Mannering. Heroically, he repressed a shudder. Though he was no coward, he was grateful to be spared efforts so strenuous.

To cut Binnie altogether would be ungentlemanly, of course. Too, though he now saw clearly that they would not suit, he still admired her. A gradual lessening of attention was the ticket, he mused; a subtle indication that his ardor had cooled.

Very belatedly, he became aware that Binnie had been speaking to him, had fallen silent and was regarding him rather ironically, “Beg pardon. What did you say?”

Binnie thought it odd that her decision to take matters into her own hands had left her feeling
triste.
Yet what other choice had she? Rather than let her cousin the duke do it for her, Binnie was prepared to dig her own grave.

And this was further foolishness. Mark was devoted to her, as he had amply proven in the past. That he would make her a good husband, she knew. It was utterly ridiculous to compare him unfavorably with the other gentleman she had wished to marry, so long in the past. Even more ridiculous was the vow she’d taken to, if denied the object of her affection, never settle for second best. It was time she conduct herself like a mature woman instead of a moonstruck miss.

Holding to that stem resolution—which, if truth be told, was much more indicative of a mooncalf than a rational adult; but whatever may be said of Binnie at this moment in her progress, it is not that she was in any degree rational—she looked square at Mark. “I have hesitated in forming my decision,” she said quietly, “for reasons that I think you understand. However, to keep you waiting longer for your answer would be exceedingly unfair.”

Convinced that Miss Baskerville was about to give him his
conge,
which he could only think a piece of admirable good sense on Miss Baskerville’s part, Mark took her hand. “My dear, you need say no more. I understand perfectly.”

What a
very
good man he was, Binnie thought again, as she smiled at him mistily. Mark was prepared to gracefully accept from her even the fatal blow, the crushing of his hopes. At least she could console herself that, even if she didn’t love him, she had spared him that ultimate heartbreak. “No, you don’t understand. Mark. You know that I have a great regard for you. I count myself very honored that you should wish to settle with me in matrimony.”

So she had said before, countless times, and it would have taken a very dull-witted man to fail to comprehend her meaning. Mark said nothing, wondering what curious notion Miss Baskerville had now taken into her head.

Binnie regarded her suitor’s blank expression and decided that he dared not believe his ears. She must speak more plainly. “Mark, I have decided that I would like very much to marry you.” And then, because this was a lie the magnitude of which she had never before told, she lowered her gaze.

There was a silence. Binnie looked up to find that Mr. Dennison was staring at the woman by whom he had been favored with abject dismay. Dismay? Surely not! Merely, he was so stunned by his astonishing good fortune that he found it hard to believe his luck. “Heavens, Mark!” Binnie’s playful tone grated on her own ears. “Have you nothing to say?”

Mark, had he not been of an honorable nature, might have made any number of comments about this very unexpected and unpleasant event. But gentlemen of honorable natures did not inform the objects of their affection that they had tumbled out of love as abruptly as they’d tumbled into it. However, it was clearly incumbent upon him to make some expression of his sentiments concerning this memorable occasion. “The devil!” he said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“A perfect block!” Delilah repeated firmly. “Upon my word of honor! Why, he made so violent an attack of my virtue that I was forced to defend myself with a frying pan!” She eyed her companion. “Of course you will not use this information but in the
most
discreet manner. Will you, Jem?”

The young footman, for it was he to whom Delilah spoke, vowed silence. May he be stricken down, Jem said, may his whole family be subject to plagues of caterpillars and locusts if he breathed so much as a word. Delilah professed herself quite satisfied with these assurances. The footman then begged leave to ask how Miss Mannering had come to find herself in a tinkers’ camp in the first place, such a circumstance being beyond his limited comprehension.

“Oh, don’t let that bother you! I have come to the conclusion that among important people, brains as such are rather despised.” Delilah looked thoughtful. “At least they are in young ladies. I don’t know about footmen.” Here Jem dared remark, respectfully, that in his opinion Miss Mannering was quite top of the boughs. Not that it was his place to say so, and he begged pardon for overstepping the mark.

“Fiddle!” responded Miss Mannering, cheerfully. “It is very kind of you to say so, but you are
not
an important person, Jem. In general, that is! You are
very
important to me! What were we talking about? Ah, yes! I was going to tell you how I met Johann.”

And so she did, as they proceeded out of the city proper. This was not the first excursion Miss Mannering had undertaken in company with the young footman Jem, who had with considerable subterfuge arranged to be available each time Miss Mannering wished to take the air. It was not that Jem harbored any unsuitable aspirations regarding the object of his adoration; he was content merely to admire her from a very proper distance. Too, Jem had young sisters of his own, and he was well acquainted with the mischief that could be gotten into by frivolous fizgigs. Naturally, he would never have been so presumptuous as to offer Miss Mannering a word of advice, even in situations, such as the present, when Miss Mannering was engaged upon expeditions that would hardly have met with approval from her guardians. In Jem’s opinion, those guardians kept Miss Mannering on much too loose a rein. Apparently they were not aware that she was the most complete hand.

Not that their little expeditions did anyone harm; if anything, the contrary. It was very beneficial for Miss Mannering—and for that matter, for Jem himself—to occasionally escape the oppressive atmosphere of the Duke of Knowles’s bow-fronted house on the Royal Crescent. The duke, however, could not be expected to see the matter in such a light. The duke, in Jem’s opinion, was a pernickety, cantankerous crosspatch. Jem hoped that His Grace would not find out about these little excursions, lest he require his youngest footman’s head on a platter or, even worse, turn him off without a character.

Delilah was engaged in an animated and varied conversation of a worldly, gossiping nature, which clearly demonstrated an excellent understanding of any matter of diverse topics—including Napoleon’s strategy in the Peninsular campaign; the renovation of the Regent’s Royal Pavilion as envisioned by the architect Wyatt; the unhappy situation that had existed between her parents, prior to her mother’s taking French leave. As Delilah talked, they walked over the hilly downs that were covered with short turf. Occasionally she paused to sniff the fresh, brisk air scented with gorse and the sea.

This day’s excursion was somewhat less innocuous than had been its predecessors, which had included such rural delights as a visit to the remains of a Saxon camp; and most memorable among which had been the occasion when Delilah had climbed to the top of a windmill in order to see the whole panorama of Brighton spread out below with the assistance of a telescope fished out of a flour bin by the miller’s lad. Jem, feet firmly on the ground, had watched the entire building rocking like a ship with the force of the wind in the windmill sails, had envisioned disaster, and had prayed. Due to his awareness of their destination, he was currently engaged similarly.

They attained the top of one of the numerous hills that surrounded Brighton, this one unblessed by a windmill. In the distance lay the town, and beyond it the sea. Much closer—and it was this fact that inspired Jem to beg assistance of his Maker—was a caravan and a grazing horse. Nearby a woman bent over a cookfire. “Athalia!” muttered Delilah, then picked up her skirts and ran.

The woman, Jem decided, appeared neither surprised nor especially pleased to see Miss Mannering. His impression was confirmed by the woman’s first words. She told Miss Mannering, in terms so explicit that they caused Jem exquisite embarrassment, to go away.

But Miss Mannering was a young lady who could swear like ten thousand troopers when the occasion warranted, and consequently was not inspired to maidenly vaporings by simple, unimaginative vulgarity. “Fiend seize you, Athalia!” she retorted. “I must say I think
very
poorly of you for ratting on me.”

Athalia didn’t pause in her efforts to build up the fire, which she’d started with coarse stalks of grass, and around which she’d refrained from placing stones that in the heat could break, cracking like rifle shots. “‘The kettle that lies face down cannot get much sunlight.’ You’re a fine one to talk about nabbing the rust, after feeding me a fine porridge of lies. And if you don’t keep your voice down, you’ll wake Johann. He’s in the vardo, snoring like a pig.” Not surprising in light of the astonishing amount of beer he’d imbibed upon his return from town.  “Johann’s taken a right dislike to your high-and-mighty guardian.”

Having judiciously contemplated the matter, Delilah had decided how best to play her hand. “I’m sure I cannot blame him,” she said somberly. “Knowles is the greatest beast in nature, and it is just like him to have treated Johann in that shabby way. After all Johann has done for me! I’m sure a
true
gentleman would have offered to repay Johann— and you!—for all your efforts on my behalf. But not the duke! I think very poorly of his conduct in this affair.”