Maggie MacKeever (14 page)

Though London may have been deserted by the
ton,
the streets were still busy, thronged with vendors selling hot loaves, muffins and crumpets, and countless other wares. Their raised voices blended with the jingle and clatter of horses’ hooves striking against rough stones. Mignon stopped so abruptly that the footman almost collided with her. Her clever mind working rapidly, she looked around.

There were cat’s-meat men and bellows menders, knife grinders and lavender merchants, playbill vendors and girls selling watercress, milkmaids delivering fresh cow’s milk at street doors. Mignon eyed an old woman hawking baked and boiled apples, a white-clad Flying Pieman with steaming hot puddings, and then turned to the footman. “I find that I am suddenly very hungry! Do you think you might slip into that cook shop and procure for me a pie?”

It was hardly the footman’s place to naysay her request, unseemly as it might be for a young lady to walk through the streets eating pastry. He entered the shop, unaware that Miss Montague had hit upon this subterfuge to make her getaway.

But Mignon was not destined to go far. She paused to watch the Regent’s yellow carriage with its maroon blinds, pulled by superb bay horses and escorted by dashing Life Guards, move majestically through the streets. The people around her also turned to stare, in an ominous silence that was broken only by an occasional jeer. It occurred to Mignon that she was deliberately tarrying, and she wondered if she had lost her spirit of adventure, or if it was Leda’s predicament that so oppressed her spirits.

“Miss Montague,” said a voice at her shoulder, and Mignon spun round to stare up at Ivor ‘s handsome face. She noticed first that his eyes were not an ordinary brown, but lightly flecked with green, and second that for some odd reason the Viscount seemed amused. “How fortunate that I have come upon you in this manner,” he remarked, “for I particularly wished to speak with you.” Even as he spoke, he was assisting Mignon into a fashionable phaeton with towering wheels and yellow wings, drawn by matched coal-black horses. “It wasn’t kind of you,” Lord Jeffries added, still in that laughing tone, “to bamboozle your poor footman. The fellow was positively quaking in his boots. I sent him home with a message to Lady Bligh that you will be perfectly safe with me.”

Will I be? wondered Mignon, as she cast another sideways glance at her companion’s handsome face. The Viscount wore a well-cut coat of green superfine, an ecru marcella waistcoat, and green kerseymere trousers. Mignon pushed aside the thought that she and the gentleman made a nicely matched pair. “You wished to speak to me? What about?”

In no hurry to answer questions, he turned to study her. “I was closeted with Leda’s solicitor when I saw you pass by in so very clandestine a manner that I was immediately intrigued. There was nothing for it but to follow you, a presumption that I hope you will forgive.”

“It is I who should ask your forgiveness,” Mignon murmured, so meekly that she startled herself. “On the occasion of our last meeting, I was insufferably rude.”

“So you were,” agreed the Viscount. “As I recall, so was I. An enlightening experience, I assure you! And one to be forgotten, I think, since the honors were so even.”

Mignon had not expected such generosity. “You shouldn’t have let me take you away from your meeting with Leda’s solicitor. I’m sure your business with him was important.”

“So it was.” Ivor’s frown detracted not at all from his appeal. “But it was drawing to a close when I glimpsed you. Livingston is a vulgar, dirty, dogmatic old pedant, unutterably boring, one of those learned advocates often heard declaiming at such length in court. Fortunately, he is also bloodthirsty, clever, subtle, full of talent and craft, and very fond of my—of Leda.” The frown vanished. “It was not to speak of Leda that I practically kidnapped you.”

“Is that what you’ve done?” asked Mignon feebly, stricken all a-heap by the magnetism of the man. “Why?”

Ivor regarded her judiciously. “It’s the freckles, I think, that particularly fascinate me.” She gazed at him, bewildered, and received a devastating smile. “Tell me, Miss Montague, is this your first visit to Town?”

“It is.” Mignon looked with great interest at her gloves. “You do not have to tell me, sir, that those who’ve never been seen at Almack’s are regarded as utterly unfashionable.”

The Viscount refused to be provoked. “I don’t care for the place myself, or for the Italian Opera that during the season is so much the rage. People can’t appear there except
en toilette,
even in the pit. In front of every box hangs a chandelier, which dazzles one most offensively and throws the actor into shadow.”

Mignon looked at him in surprise. “You speak as if you do not care much for Society.”

“Between you and me and my very discreet coachman,” Ivor grinned, “I don’t. If one isn’t being crushed half to death at some tedious rout, one is being bored to death by the bluestockings who prattle away in half the drawing rooms of the kingdom about morals and metaphysics and the derivation of languages! You are more fortunate than you realize to be in London at this time of year, Miss Montague.”

He was determined not to discuss Leda, it seemed, and Mignon wasn’t reluctant to set aside her own worries for a while. “You still haven’t told me why you wished to speak with me,” she said.

“Haven’t I?” The Viscount quirked a sandy brow. “Perhaps I mean to keep you a long time in a terrible state of suspense. No, I beg of you, don’t frown at me, Miss Montague! The truth is I had meant to apologize to you for my hasty words, but you were quicker than I.” He smiled. “Though I refuse to retract my remark about your superb eyes.”

“You flatter me, Lord Jeffries.” Mignon was gruff. “I need only look in a mirror to know I am nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Are you not?” Inexplicably, Ivor laughed. “It has long been my contention that the so-called weaker sex is prone to remarkably foolish ideas. But now allow me to atone for my rudeness by showing you some of London’s less fashionable sights.” Before Mignon could protest, he had leaned forward to issue instructions to his coachman.

Thus Miss Montague was privileged to view the great court of the Royal Exchange, surrounded by covered arcades where the merchants of every nation had their places of assembly; the statues of English sovereigns, most remarkable among them Henry VIII and Elizabeth; and the celebrated Lloyd’s Coffee House. She was taken to the vast and beautiful Bank of England, chartered in 1694 to help the government of William III solve its credit problems. There she viewed the Bullion Office where piles of gold and silver ingots appeared to her astonished eyes as more rightly belonging in some Aladdin’s treasure cave. And she was taken to the Guildhall where the Lord Mayor in his blue gown and gold chain was in the act of administering the law. When at length she was set down outside the Bligh mansion, Mignon was so dazed that she barely managed to thank her guide.

“Ah!” said Lady Bligh, meeting her niece at the door, “I see you found time to perform my little errand.” Mignon stared down at the ribbon that dangled forgotten from one hand. As she recalled what else had temporarily fled her errant mind, her spirits sank as if weighted down by a stone.

Chapter l4

“Preposterous!” sputtered Maurice, not for the first time. He wasn’t feeling quite the thing, having passed the previous evening with Tolly at the Cocoa Tree, where they had clareted and champagned till 5 a.m., finishing off with a Regency punch composed of madeira, brandy and green tea before ambulating somewhat unsteadily homeward. Even had Maurice been in fine fettle, however, he could have felt nothing but dismay at finding himself in this shoddy room at Bow Street. “This is beyond everything.”

Sir John was inclined to agree. He studied Maurice, in whom he saw little kinship with Lady Bligh. The Honorable Mr. Montague, having been privileged to meet the brooding Lord Byron, had chosen to model himself after that gentleman. His shirt collar fell over a very narrow cravat of white sarsenet; he wore a black coat and waistcoat and very broad white trousers of Russian duck. Looped up to a button of his waistcoat was a watch chain and dangling seals. Sir John wondered if Maurice’s admiration of Byron was sufficient to lead him to strike up an acquaintance with Caro Lamb or begin to scribble poetry.

But the Chief Magistrate had no time to dwell upon Maurice’s peculiarities. He turned to his other visitor. “I trust,” he said politely, “that you can explain.”

Lord Barrymore was very much at ease. “I can,” he replied, with equal courtesy. “Shall I begin at the beginning? Very well.” He paused, as if ordering his thoughts. “Being members of White’s, Warwick and I were accustomed to laying occasional wagers on various things. The debt that you mentioned was the result of one such occasion when I went down rather heavily.”

Sir John was no stranger to London’s various gentlemen’s clubs, having patronized a good number of them in his own youth, before his taste for drink and games of chance had given way to a passion for justice. It occurred to him that some of those old contacts might have been better cultivated than allowed to languish on the vine. It was not only the poor and luckless that turned to crime. “What did this wager concern?”

“This is outrageous!” protested Maurice, from his position near the window. “What can Lord Barrymore’s private concerns have to do with Bow Street? This is a shocking invasion of a man’s privacy.”

Tolly flashed an apologetic smile at Sir John. “It’s all right, Maurice. I’m sure I wish to do anything I may to aid in bringing Warwick’s murderer to justice. Excuse my presumption, but I thought she was already in custody?”

The Chief Magistrate rubbed his lined forehead, behind which throbbed a magnificent headache, half wishing Lady Bligh might suddenly appear to tease away the pain. “There are various minor details,” he said vaguely, “still to be cleared up. The wager, Lord Barrymore?”

“It concerned the lovely Miss Browne, and the most likely winner of her hand. Warwick backed Selkirk, while I wagered on Willoughby.” Tolly shrugged. “As the world must know by now, Selkirk won. It was an error of judgment that cost me £3,000. You may verify it in White’s betting book.”

“The debt was paid, then?” inquired Sir John, and ignored Maurice’s fresh burst of outrage.

“Naturally,” replied Lord Barrymore, not the least disturbed by the intimation that he might act less than honorably. “We met at the club and I took care of the matter. I would have to check my engagement book but I believe that meeting took place two days before Warwick’s death.”

Sir John, in those long-ago days before he had abandoned the
ton
to take up his magisterial gavel and dispense justice at Bow Street, had been a formidable opponent at the card table. His impassive features gave nothing away. “How well did you know Warwick, Lord Barrymore?”

Tolly looked surprised. “Not well at all. We were members of the same clubs, and often met at social functions, but we were far from close friends.”

“Oh?” Sir John’s bushy brows rose. “Then how did it come about that you called Warwick’s quarters on the night he died?”

Maurice’s indignant protests began anew at this shocking insinuation, but Lord Barrymore raised his hand. “I went there at Warwick’s express request. I’m afraid I failed to keep the note he sent, not anticipating its importance, but Warwick’s valet should remember. He brought it to me.”

Sir John studied this helpful gentleman and wished that he’d dared leave the interrogation to Crump. The Chief Magistrate had little taste for prying into the lives of his fellow men. “Have you any notion of why Warwick wished to speak to you? Perhaps, forged banknotes?”

Lord Barrymore looked very startled indeed. “There was a case some years back,” he mused, “in which the Bow Street Justices took part in an inquiry at the Bank of England in connection with such notes. There was quite an uproar, as I recall. The Lord Mayor made a sharp protest against what he termed the ‘improper intrusion’ of Bow Street in an affair outside its jurisdiction. Is it that to which you refer?”

“No.” Sir John recalled the instance to which Lord Barrymore referred; it had brought him into an argument with the Home Secretary almost as heated as the one that had taken place more recently when control of the mounted Bow Street Patrol had passed from the Chief Magistrate into his superior’s hands. “I refer to the fact that Warwick had in his possession a large number of forged banknotes.”

“So you knew that.” Lord Barrymore seemed relieved. “I didn’t wish to betray a confidence, but yes, Warwick had come across notes which he believed to be forged. I don’t know that they actually were. He asked me to look at them, and to give my opinion.”

“Oh?” Sir John leaned back in his chair. “What would you know about such things?”

Lord Barrymore spread his hands in a curiously foreign gesture. “I have a small knowledge—there was a sad affair, quickly hushed up, when a member of my regiment passed similar items. I became curious, did some reading, looked at all manner of forgeries. Warwick knew of my interest, and wished to know if the notes truly
were
false before he took further steps. Alas, I had no opportunity to give him an opinion of the matter. For all I know, those notes might have been quite legitimate.”

Sir John reflected sourly that the Home Secretary would not be happy to hear that the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street had interrogated an ex-officer in the Prince’s own regiment, the Tenth Hussars. He further reflected that Dulcie was even less likely to be pleased, since Lord Barrymore was so assiduously courting her niece. “Have you any notion how Warwick came by them?”

“Not the least,” admitted Tolly. “I take it, since you’re so interested, that the notes are missing? Audacious, these recent robberies!”

This subject, Sir John had no wish to discuss. “When Warwick’s valet admitted you that night, did you notice anything odd?”

“I’m sorry I can’t be of any assistance,” Lord Barrymore replied regretfully, “but I did not. The window stood open, of course, but all else appeared to be in order. Poor Simpkin was quite overwrought.”