Maggie MacKeever (11 page)

“How quick-witted you are, Willie.” Lady Bligh’s eyes met his. “And it is equally clever of you to wear those gloves. But I fear Crump will soon learn nonetheless that there is more than printer’s ink staining your hands.”

Chapter 10

“How dreadful for you!” gasped Mignon, fluttering her eyelashes in good imitation of her aunt. “I should never have been able to close my eyes without again seeing the horrible scene!”

“It was not so terrible as that, Miss Montague.” Lord Barrymore smoothed the sleeves of his dark brown frockcoat, which he wore with a buff kerseymere waistcoat and light blue merino trousers, and smiled. “Though of course you should be grateful to be spared such a ghastly experience! After all, I have witnessed death before, having been a member of the Prince Regent’s own regiment. But you, my dear young lady, can have had no experience with such unhappy things.” His blue eyes were warm. “Which is the way it should be. For an innocent young girl to have stumbled as I did into so unpleasant a scene would have been dreadful.”

“I should say so!” grumbled Culpepper, who was playing chaperone. “What would Miss Mignon be doing going to Warwick’s quarters in the first place? Are you suggesting she’s the sort of shameless chit who would visit a gentleman’s lodging, Lord Barrymore?”

Tolly stared at Lady Bligh’s abigail, startled not only by her accusations but also that she should have dared to speak to him at all. Mignon stifled an impulse to laugh at her swain’s discomfort. “Lord Barrymore was speaking hypothetically, Culpepper. I’m sure he didn’t mean that I am in the habit of visiting gentlemen like Warwick.”

“I should hope you’re in the habit of visiting no gentlemen at all, miss,” Culpepper retorted. Mignon flushed, recalling her lost love. She had not visited his lodgings, precisely, but she had met privately with him. Numerous times. Ah, but he had been a handsome rogue.

They were in the Music Room, a large chamber with windows of Mexican onyx and rose-garlanded friezes, a Pompeiian ceiling and Persian tiles. A Roman fountain spouted water in the exact center of the room. Culpepper sat rigidly erect on an uncomfortable looking carved chair, while Lord Barrymore lounged on a satin-covered settee. Mignon, clad in a green silk tunic over a lingerie skirt with lace edging, was posed gracefully at a beautiful grand piano inlaid with ivory and tortoise shell.

Lord Barrymore judged from Culpepper’s remote expression that it was safe to speak again. “How progress your aunt’s endeavors, Miss Montague? I’ve told you of the episode at Warwick’s, and that the valet admitted Leda Langtry but didn’t see her leave. He believes she hid herself somewhere on the premises and emerged to commit the foul deed after he had left his master alone.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I have the greatest sympathy for poor Miss Langtry. Although she didn’t impress me as a woman suitable to associate with one as young and innocent as yourself, I cannot but pity someone driven to such lengths. It is a sad reflection on Warwick’s character, I fear.”

Culpepper sniffed. Mignon agreed. Lord Barrymore’s frankness had not extended to acquainting them with the reason for his visit to Warwick’s lodgings that fateful night. “You seem convinced of Leda’s guilt. Why is that? For I must tell you that my aunt is not. Or,” she added honestly, for the motives behind Dulcie’s actions remain wreathed in mystery, “she doesn’t
seem
to be.”

“You forget that I was there. The murderer could have been no one but Miss Langtry, by the valet’s own word.”

“You said the window stood open.” Mignon had formed the habit of discussing her aunt’s investigations with Lord Barrymore, primarily because it distracted him from romance. “Why couldn’t some intruder have entered by that means and exited the same way?”

“You have quite the imagination, Miss Montague. The window stood open only because Miss Langtry used it to escape. By-the-bye, where
is
your aunt?” Tolly looked at the chimneypiece, representing Apollo and the Muses as depicted on the sarcophagus of Homer, as if he expected to witness a momentary materialization there.

“Dulcie is very busy. “I believe that this afternoon she is riding with a gentleman friend.” Mignon lowered her hands to the piano keys.

“Oh? May one ask whom?”

“Sir John. The Chief Magistrate of Bow Street.”

“Bow Street!” ejaculated a figure from the doorway, in all-too-familiar tones. “Surely I did not hear you correctly.”

Mignon struck a discord. “What brings
you
here, Maurice?”

“A fine way to greet your brother!” He stepped into the room. “But then, you were ever a stiff-necked, stubborn, silly girl. I have come because Mama was worried that you might get up to some mischief in the Metropolis. I have been put to a great deal of tiresome business on your account.”

“A pity,” said Mignon. “Clearly you would have been much more comfortable if you had stayed at home.”

The Honorable Maurice Montague bore a startling resemblance to his sister, possessing the same flaming hair and freckles and the same green eyes, but in splendor of person he cast Mignon into the shade. Maurice was dressed, as befit a young master of twelve millions sterling with pretensions to dandyism, in a light brown coat, white waistcoat, nankin pantaloons fastened at the ankle with two huge gold buttons, and yellow stockings with large violet clocks. On his feet were black pumps; above the starched points of his shirt collar showed not one but two cravats, black satin over white linen, designed to give the desired thickness to his neck.

He observed his sister with a lack of cordiality that matched her own. “Yes, and so I’ll wish I had if you go off into one of your odd turns.”

Mignon bit back a sharp retort and introduced Maurice to the other occupants of the room, her spirits only slightly lifted by Culpepper’s incredulous expression. “Do you mean to stay here?” she asked, with little hope that he did not, for what better way to keep her under his eye? “You might have let us know, Maurice, so that preparations could be made.”

“That is not your concern, surely,” retorted her brother, with a pointed look at Culpepper. “You may go now, my good woman, and see that my belongings and my valet are properly housed.”

“My mistress,” said Culpepper, the light of battle in her eye, “specifically instructed me to attend to Miss Mignon.”

Maurice raised a quizzing-glass to one offended eye. “Do you presume to argue? I take all responsibility for my sister upon myself.” He waved a languid hand. “Now do go away!” Culpepper obeyed, leaving Mignon with the happy impression that Maurice had made a formidable enemy.

A gentleman so grand as Maurice, and so pampered by a doting mother, could not be expected to concern himself with what servants might or might not think. Quizzing-glass still in hand, he took stock of his surroundings, which included bronze Floras, muses and hermaphrodites, a crystal lustre from which darted aerie creatures in attitudes of flight, and a bright blue carpet ornamented with flowers and insects. His pained gaze then fell upon Mignon, whose fiery curls were piled atop her head in a manner he considered more suited to the unfortunate females who plied their trade in London’s narrow streets than to a young lady of gentle birth. “The Baroness,” he remarked, letting the quizzing-glass fall, “appears to have rather extravagant tastes. Mama said the ready runs through Lady Bligh’s fingers like water, and I see nothing to prove her wrong. I fear she must be lacking in delicate principles. What were you saying about our aunt and Bow Street?”

“I take it,” said Lord Barrymore smoothly, doubtless recognizing a kindred spirit, “that you have not been previously acquainted with Lady Bligh?” Mignon applied herself to the piano keys, seeking relief for her exacerbated feelings. Maurice, from the aloof superiority of his twenty-six years, might have made it his purpose in life to spoil her pleasure and cut up her peace.

“I have not.” After a great fussing with his long coattails, Maurice arranged himself in a chair. “According to Mama, both the Baron and Baroness conduct themselves in a manner that is strongly to be deprecated. However, she could not refuse Lady Bligh’s invitation to have Mignon in Town. For various reasons, it was most opportune.”

Mignon supposed she should be grateful that her brother did not go on to explain the reason for that invitation’s timeliness. Maurice, with his annoying tendency to play off the airs of an exquisite, reminded her of nothing more than a pasteboard puppet strung together so that the lightest touch of a finger set it falling into grotesque attitudes. She wondered what Dulcie would make of her brother.

“Do tell me,” begged Maurice, “what my aunt may have to do with Bow Street. Surely,” he shuddered, “she has not run afoul of the law!”

“No, no.” Tolly looked rather amused. “She has merely undertaken to aid an old friend.”

“A friend?” repeated Maurice. “What is this friend’s connection with Bow Street?”

“I fear,” said Tolly gently, “that the friend is currently lodged in Newgate Prison, where she awaits her trial for the murder of a peer.”

This intelligence so unnerved Maurice that, after frantic patting and poking of his many pockets, he had recourse to his vinaigrette. “Murder?” he gasped weakly. “Unthinkable!”

“Not at all.” Mignon was delighted to see her brother so overset. “It happens all the time. Just yesterday there was an item in the newspaper concerning a clerk in holy orders who was crossed in love and murdered a bishop’s mistress. London is very thin of tonnish company at this time of year. You will not like it, Maurice.”

“Your sister tends to exaggerate, Mr. Montague.” For his intervention, Lord Barrymore earned a grateful glance from Maurice and from Mignon a scowl. “There are still the races, the theatre, an occasional supper party to provide excitement. If you like, I could gain the
entrée
for you to various of my clubs.”

This was rather a set-down for Maurice, who had so long puffed up his own consequence that he fancied his wealth made him welcome everywhere. He said, stiffly, “You are very kind.”

“You will also wish to visit the shops—Hoby for your boots of course, and. Lock’s for your hats. After that,” Tolly winked in a conspiratorial manner, “well, we shall see!” Maurice brightened considerably.

Mignon, somewhat cheered that her brother promised to be well occupied during his sojourn in the Metropolis, wondered if Lord Barrymore suspected, as she did, that Maurice had come to town with the express intention of taking her home with him. She paid scant attention to the masculine conversation beyond noting that Tolly and Maurice were on the way to becoming bosom bows. Charity, the homely little maidservant, appeared in the doorway, beckoning to her.

“Excuse me,” murmured Mignon and slid from the stool.

“A note for you, miss!” whispered Charity, obviously delighted to participate in something clandestine. “A boy brought it to the door and said particular that I was to put it right in your hand.”

Poor thing! thought Mignon, looking at the girl’s unattractive features and mousy hair. “Well, look at it!” urged Charity. “He said no one else was to know.”

With a queer foreboding, Mignon took the letter in her hand. She stared at the familiar handwriting, and felt as if she’d been turned to stone.

Maurice leaned close to Lord Barrymore and smiled, revealing teeth stained by the tobacco he sometimes chewed in place of eating meals that would spoil his fashionable figure. “It’s dashed relieved I am,” he said in a penetrating whisper, “ to discover my sister has discovered a preference for a gentleman as distinguished as yourself. Don’t mind telling you that the chit needs a firm hand.” Tolly glanced at Mignon, and smiled.

Mignon’s cheeks flamed. “Thank you, Charity. That will be all.” The maid limped away, as if her shoes fit poorly.

Unable to trust herself in her brother’s presence lest she denounce him as a misguided marplot or he derive from her manner an understanding of the letter which she held gingerly in her hand, Mignon climbed the ornate marble staircase. Once in the safety of her bedchamber, she dropped the letter on the dressing table and moved to the window, where she stared unseeing at the street below.

The chamber that Lady Bligh had assigned her niece was decorated with various Persian curiosities including a carpet of velvet embroidered with gold and silver. It even boasted a small bathroom, hidden in a niche entirely walled with mirrors. Strewn about the room were large dolls dressed in the Persian manner, with long hair painted red or gold, clad in pretty gauze pantaloons and golden anklets. Dominating all else was a huge bed of mahogany inlaid with gold and supported by two bronze swans. On a nightstand sat a golden lamp, beside it a bound history of the exploits of Tamerlaine.

Mignon might have been lodged in a cell at Newgate for all the appreciation she showed for her surroundings. “Oh,
perdition!”
she cried, and left the window to stand once again at the dressing table, looking at the letter as if it were an adder poised to strike. Charity, fancying herself Cupid’s assistant, would have been surprised indeed at Miss Montague’s reaction to this romantic missive, for Mignon flung herself onto the ornate bed and burst into tears.

Chapter 11

Sir John drove his curricle slowly along the Ratcliffe Highway to Shadwell, once the scene of horrid and grotesque murders, where only a few years before an entire family had been slain in a singularly brutal manner. The Chief Magistrate had no more thought to spare for the history of the countryside than he did for the beauty of the day. His attention was divided between his horses and his companion, who was stunning in a pelisse of peacock blue velvet trimmed with chinchilla fur, worn over a gown fashioned entirely of eyelet embroidery. On her silver hair was a lace bonnet with cording and flowers in diverse shades of blue. Draped about various portions of her superb anatomy was a staggering fortune in sapphires.

“This is a fool’s errand you’ve set us,” he said somberly. “What do you expect to find?”

Lady Bligh turned on the seat to smile at him. “I see that you are in one of your disapproving moods. I promise you that we’re not chasing a will-o’-the-wisp, John.”