Maggie MacKeever (18 page)

Athalia, in whom separation from Miss Mannering had inspired a forgetfulness concerning Miss Mannering’s propensity for humbugging, looked startled. “And to top it off,” said Delilah, indignantly, “he told me the most outrageous clankers! He said Johann threatened to spread horrid tales about me, and to feather his nest at my expense. Not that I should care if I
were
under a cloud, you understand, but to think that my friends should serve me such an ill turn—it fair makes me want to cast up my accounts!”

So bemused was Athalia by these artful disclosures that she quite forgot the fire and was forced to leap back abruptly to avoid being singed. She gave it as her opinion that it was Miss Mannering who served friends an ill turn.

“How can you say so?” Delilah wailed. “Whatever have I done to warrant such cruelty from you? Oh! You mean my fortune! But truly I did not know I
had
one, until the duke told me so! Had I known, I would naturally have wished to share—not that I am ever likely to have the opportunity, because the duke will not let me touch it.” She sniffled. “I can only think he means to keep my inheritance for himself.”

This didn’t seem unreasonable to Athalia, who would have in the duke’s position meant to do the very same thing. Still, she insisted that she wouldn’t again be led up the garden path. Were Miss Mannering as openhanded as she professed, she wouldn’t have sloped off to avoid snacking the bit.

Delilah interpreted this colorful remark, correctly, to mean that Athalia was miffed that the heiress had run away instead of sharing her windfall. “I have told you,” she said reproachfully, “that I didn’t
know!
Once I found out, it was too late. I am kept a virtual prisoner! If not for the help of my friend Jem, I would never have been able to slip away today.”

Athalia cast a wary glance at that young man, who remained studiously expressionless, despite his dislike of being in such close company with a draggletail. He was flabbergasted that Miss Mannering should seek out such a creature, and simultaneously full of admiration for the talent of Miss Mannering in this daring attempt to bamboozle her, an attempt in which he didn’t for an instant doubt that Miss Mannering would succeed.

Nor did Delilah, though Athalia was proving a trifle more adamant than she’d anticipated, and there was the ever-present danger that Johann might awaken from his drunken stupor. Johann was, as she well knew, inclined strongly toward violence when three parts disguised.

Therefore, haste was imperative. Delilah gazed upon Athalia. “And I gave you my mother’s wedding ring.”

Athalia closed dirty fingers around that item, which fit her rather loosely. “For services rendered, you said. I saw your letter mailed, all right and tight. You can’t say I didn’t.”

“Dear Athalia, why should I say that? You did just as I asked—except that I did
not
ask you to note down the address and give it to Johann, which obviously you did.” A very effective tear trickled down Delilah’s freckled cheek. “I suppose you will accuse me of playing a May-game because I told you a little fib—but I couldn’t say the letter was to my father, because it would’ve been too lowering to admit he might want nothing to do with me! Oh, was anyone
ever
so miserable as I?”

Athalia had a distinct sensation of being turned topsy-turvy, for which she didn’t care. She gave it as her gruff opinion that Delilah’s treatment by the nobs was no more than she should have expected; and that if Delilah had expected better, she had windmills in her head. Furthermore, if Delilah wished to be a young lady, which was to Athalia incomprehensible, because she wouldn’t give a feather for all the young ladies she’d ever encountered, which admittedly wasn’t a considerable number, not that it signified—then it wasn’t fitting that she should be kicking up a dust because the price was dear.

By these utterances, Delilah was not noticeably cheered. Positive torrents of tears now streamed down her face. “How unfeeling you are! As if I cared a button for being a lady! Why, I am bound to make a jackpudding of myself. Oh, it is no wonder I am in a pelter, with people always pinching at me, and saying I am not at all the thing!” Bravely, she straightened her spine. “It is my bed and I must sleep in it; don’t think that I mean to turn craven because I do not. I have resigned myself to a thoroughly miserable fate. I will not trouble you further. Come, Jem.”

It had become clear to Athalia, during this moving speech, that Miss Mannering was in a sad state. It was not like the girl to be going on in such a maudlin way, and Athalia had come to a reluctant conviction that Delilah was telling the truth.

Athalia wondered if there was any way in which that truth might benefit her. “Wait,
leicheen,”
she said. “No hard feelings, eh?”

“Oh!” Delilah was radiant. “You have forgiven me!” Seeking something on which to dry her damp face, she approached a basket. It held not laundry, as Delilah had thought—which just went to show one should not allow oneself to be carried away by one’s own histrionics; Athalia, being of the persuasion that dirty clothes only improved with the wearing, never did laundry—but a baby. Perhaps eighteen months of age, fair of hair and blue of eye, the baby stared serenely back at her. Delilah glanced curiously at Athalia. “Yours?” she asked.

Indignantly, Athalia let it be known that she was not the sort of woman who’d have a squalling, pulling brat forever at her heels. She was compelled by fairness to add that this brat, being mute, at least did not squall. And then she added, hastily, that since the brat was one of Johann’s by-blows, it was none of Delilah’s concern.

Delilah did not argue. “Johann,” she said pensively. “The duke thinks he has frightened him off, but I know better. Johann can no more change his habits than a leopard its spots.”

“What’s a leopard?” Athalia inquired suspiciously.

“Well, I’m not exactly sure, but I know that it cannot. You know what I mean!” Somberly, Delilah stared into the camp-fire. “Johann will try again to extort money from my guardian, and my guardian will in turn take it out on me. Were I to tell you—but I shan’t. It would only make you unhappy, too. And there’s nothing I can do.”

Great as had been Athalia’s desire for revenge, she was not totally devoid of humanity. She found she did not relish the idea of Delilah’s suffering. “Poor
leicheen.”

“Oh, Athalia!” Delilah flung herself upon Athalia’s neck and hung there, in tears. “I have been so
very
unhappy.”

“There, there!” said Athalia, rather helplessly. Jem averted his gaze, not out of embarrassment at this sentimental scene, but in an effort to maintain a straight face. Athalia’s nose twitched. “What
is
that stink?”

Delilah drew away. “Horseradish and sour milk. I am not to be allowed to keep even my freckles! You see how they mistreat me?”

What Athalia saw was that Miss Mannering would be grateful to escape a situation where she was so sadly unappreciated. To simply run away would be useless; were the duke so wishful of laying his hands on the girl’s fortune, he would move heaven and earth to find her. Once he did find her, he would not deal kindly with those who’d assisted her flight. Athalia had no desire to be hobbled, taken up for trial. She had an inbred horror of that ignominious fate known as dangling in the sheriff’s picture frame.

But all—’all’ being the Mannering fortune—was not yet lost. Athalia did not despair of cutting her garment to fit her cloth. There must be some way to slip Delilah out of the clutches of the duke and into her own, and at the same time to earn the heiress’s undying gratitude.

Perhaps if Johann diverted the duke? Athalia must think on it. In the meantime, Delilah was safest with the duke.

Delilah had remained silent during these cogitations, the progress of which she very shrewdly gauged. “Athalia,” she said earnestly, grasping the woman’s hands, “have you any idea what Johann plans next? Not that I could stop him, but I might prepare myself!”

“Nay,” lied Athalia. “Johann ever kept his own counsel. Never fret
:
I’ll help you if I can.”

Nigh overcome with gratitude, Miss Mannering pressed a hand to her heart. “I shall never be able to repay you! You will know how to get me word.”

“Aye.” Athalia watched as the faithful Jem led Miss Mannering away. She decided she would not inform Johann of this little talk, lest he take it into his head to queer her lay. Johann thought no one capable of instigating brilliant schemes other than himself—which proved, in view of the outcome of those schemes, if one had not already known it, that the droppings of the flying bird never fell twice on the same spot.

Athalia bent over the baby to ascertain that it continued in good health; with such a very quiet babe, one could never be sure. Athalia found the baby’s silence rather unnerving, to tell truth. It was in excellent spirits, as it proved by pulling her hair. Then, as Athalia raised a hand to extricate herself from the baby’s grasp, she saw that she no longer wore the golden wedding ring. Cursing, because she had meant for some time to hang it on one of the chains she wore, thus preventing its loss, Athalia scrabbled in the grass.

She did so to no avail: that golden ring was resting snugly in the bodice of Delilah’s gown. Miss Mannering was a young lady of great resource, as she was explaining to Jem. “I had hoped to find them gone, which was very foolish of me, because it will take more than a simple drubbing to frighten off a sneaksby like Johann. Still, it is always wise to reconnoiter the enemy camp.”

Jem heard out this advice with a thrill of horror; Miss Mannering’s confidences strongly hinted that he would be involved in further huggermugger activities. He stated a conviction that they were like to find themselves, if not all to pieces, involved in a terrible rowdydow.

“Moonshine!” uttered Delilah. “Do
you
disapprove of me, too? Or are you simply a chicken-heart?”

His courage thus impugned, Jem replied that Miss Mannering needn’t fly into a pelter. He wasn’t one, he stated stiffly, to turn tail.

“Don’t pucker up! I didn’t think you were! And it is quite right of you to harbor doubts because it is a very foolish general who doesn’t admit the possibility of defeat—not that I
do
anticipate it, but one must be prepared.” Delilah frowned. “This really is a pickle! There is nothing for it but to grasp the bull by the horns.”

It was not Jem’s place to point out that such activity often resulted in its instigator being very horribly gored. Diffidently, he begged to know what Miss Mannering wished him to do.

Delilah chewed her lower lip. That Athalia meant to serve her a bitter draught, she knew—but there was many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip, as Athalia would learn. Bur first Delilah must concentrate on Johann, who presented the most immediate danger. Never was any young lady, she decided, plagued by so many people determined to do her disservice.

It must not be deduced that Miss Mannering was dismayed by this realization. Miss Mannering was a young lady with a natural propensity for mischief, and a huge deviousness of mind; and she considered it a very kind fate that arranged for her to have to plot and scheme. As Delilah saw it, her only logical course of action was to engage in duplicity, and that suited her just fine.

But Jem awaited an answer, anxiously. “I don’t mean to put all my eggs in one basket!” explained Delilah. “Johann will soon discover that I’m a very
downy
one! Do you recall that baby, Jem? Poor little thing! Listen: here is what we must do.”

Obediently, Jem listened—and his heart sank down to his tees.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lieutenant Neal Baskerville, as had become his habit of late, had once again taken more to drink than was advisable for a young gentleman of somber mien and upright habit who stood on the brink of matrimony. For this misconduct, he may be at least partially excused: Neal had developed a positive horror of the matrimonial adventure to which he was pledged; and additionally he was engaged, with the other officers of his regiment, for dinner with the Regent at the Royal Pavilion, a treat for which Neal supposed he should be grateful, since it freed him of the necessity of passing yet another tedious evening with his fiancée.

Despite all that, gratitude was not among the emotions uppermost in Neal’s mind. He failed to understand why invitations to the Pavilion were so eagerly sought, when Prinny’s entertainments were so insufferably dull. No more than his cousin the duke did Lieutenant Baskerville appreciate porcelain pagodas or china fisherman, lamps shaped like elegant tulips, dragons darting everywhere—although, had Neal been aware of his cousin’s sentiments on the subject, he would doubtless have found in himself a positive enthusiasm for the Oriental style of interior decoration so evident here.

Prinny was in a very expansive frame of mind. Neal, sweltering in his dress regimentals—and he had never felt the same about his magnificently laced jacket, his gold-fringed red breeches, and his decorative yellow boots since being compared to an ornamental monkey by the elderly Choice-Pickerell—in the overheated rooms, was treated by his Regent to a discussion of the renovations to the Pavilion soon to be under way. Prinny was full of enthusiasm for the plans put forward by the architect Wyatt, who had created the fantastic Fonthill; he anticipated that the Pavilion would assume an equally extraordinary Gothic style. The cost? A paltry £200,000, mere peanuts to a prince.

Neal’s temples had begun to throb, a combined effect of the liquor he’d consumed and the efforts of the Regent’s German band. He was relieved to be informed by a servant that a footman had come to him from the Royal Crescent, and at the same time curious about what emergency had prompted such a breach of etiquette. The emergency must be of huge magnitude to warrant an intrusion here. Neal could only envision one disaster of such import. Fervently he hoped that Binnie had not been driven to murder the duke.

His questions were answered soon enough, by way of a note handed him by an ashen Jem. Neal scanned the missive, looked blank, then read it again. Still he could make no sense of it. “What the deuce does this mean?” he said.