Maggie MacKeever (16 page)

Ivor cleared his throat. “I admit I was wrong,” he remarked stiffly, “but that does not alter anything. This is an abominable situation and I cannot see what’s to be done.”

“Of course you can’t.” Dulcie’s dark gaze was censorious. “I fear, young man, that all too often you don’t see beyond the end of your aristocratic nose! If you don’t come down off your high ropes, I shall be quite out of charity with you.”

Mignon couldn’t see the Viscount, who stood behind her chair, but his anger was a palpable force. Oddly, this didn’t cheer her, but made her wish even more strongly to cry. At least, if Maurice decided to drag her home, she would be freed of this wretched imbroglio. It was obviously Mignon’s destiny to live out her days in the country, playing nursemaid to her invalidish and ill-tempered mother, and never to set eyes again on any member of the opposite sex.

Lady Bligh was immune to the touchy tempers of her fellow men. Her astute eyes nicked from the Viscount’s face to rest on her niece’s downcast countenance. “There is something you haven’t considered. The worst repercussion of this sad affair is neither Percy’s indignation nor Leda’s dismay. Can’t you see that this disclosure implicates you, by your blood relationship, in Leda’s escapades? It will have occurred to Bow Street, I assure you! Now the dedicated little Crump will plague you as he does Willie.” She frowned. “Perhaps I might be of more assistance to you, Jessop, in the matter of alibis?”

“You need not concern yourself,” Ivor retorted. “I have nothing to hide.”

“That is not at all the point!” Lady Bligh strode briskly toward the door. “But have it as you wish. I must consult with my abigail.” She turned, hand on the doorknob, to regard him sternly. “I suggest it would be to your future advantage to apologize to Mignon.” The door closed behind her with a decisive thud.

“Pray don’t exert yourself!” said Mignon, staring down at her clenched hands.

Ivor moved to stand in front of her, frowning down at her bent head. “But I wish to,” he murmured and extended a hand. Bluebeard squawked and hopped from Mignon’s shoulder to the back of the chair.

She could hardly refuse him. Anticipating a formal apology, Mignon placed her hand in his. Instead, she was hauled ungently to her feet.

Nor did he release her immediately. “Did I insult you?” inquired the Viscount, his brown eyes warm with concern. “These past days have been most trying, and I fear I took out my ill temper on you.”

“Naturally.” Mignon stared at his cravat. “Since you considered me the author of your misfortunes, you could hardly behave otherwise.”

“That stung, did it? I meant it to. I could not help but recall that your aunt had warned me against you.” Ivor’s strong fingers moved to her chin and forced her gaze up to meet his.

Mignon glared at him through her tears. “Dulcie explained that,” she said gruffly. “I see no reason why we should discuss this again.”

“Don’t you?” Ivor caressed her cheek in a manner so delightful that Mignon wished to scream. “Your aunt explained nothing, as you know perfectly well. What secrets are you hiding, Mignon?”

“None that need concern you.” If only she had sufficient force of will to wrench away from him! “Unless you still think that I betrayed you to the Press?”

“I find it intolerable,” Ivor replied, cupping her face in his hands, “to think that you would betray me to anyone.”

It happened so naturally that, try as she might, Mignon could not later recall precisely how she found herself in Lord Jeffries’ arms, being ruthlessly kissed, and responding with an enthusiasm that would have made her mother swoon from shock. Nor did Mignon break away from that embrace as would have a young lady of proper upbringing and delicate sensibilities; she did not swoon herself, or burst into tears. Instead, she looked up at the Viscount and requested, somewhat breathlessly, that he repeat the highly improper act again. Ivor, it appeared, was as depraved as she: without the least demur, he complied.

“Well!” Lady Bligh chose that most compromising of moments to reenter the room. “A trifle unconventional, perhaps, but overall an admirable way to reconcile one’s differences.”

Mignon returned to reality with a painful thud. She cast an agonized glance at the Viscount, who looked as disoriented as if he’d been tumbled out of bed by an earthquake in the dead of night, and without a word fled the room.

Chapter 16

As he made his way toward York Place in Marylebone, Crump chewed thoughtfully on his pipe stem. His investigations might appear to the uninitiated to be making little headway, but the Runner was not the least displeased with the way things were falling out. Nor was he unhappy about the afternoon he had spent in close questioning of the latest victims of the criminals who Crump was fast coming to think of as Leda & Company. Ah, but they were growing bold! No simple robbery this, but the passing of forged circular letters of credit, documents issued by bankers to enable clients to obtain ready cash in any part of Europe. Normally, such documents contained a list of principal towns and cities at which withdrawals could be made and the names of agents, as well as a space where each withdrawal was noted. In this case, the withdrawal spaces had been virgin white. Clever! thought Crump once again.

There had been three persons involved, a woman and two men, and among them they had played pretty havoc with London’s banking institutions. Crump was not dismayed that the descriptions he obtained fit no one he knew. The Runner grew more and more convinced that he was dealing with a very clever criminal brain. He would have given a great deal to know how Leda continued to rule her illicit empire so efficiently from a prison cell.

But the miscreants would in time grow careless, and then Crump would spring his trap. He had a very good notion who Leda’s accomplices were. Given enough rope, they would hang themselves. Sir John had insisted on distributing handbills with details of the various stolen properties to the City’s pawnbrokers, but Crump suspected none of the contraband would turn up there. Nor, he thought, would it make its way across the Channel to surface at Frankfurt or in France. These thieves had no need of immediate profit. Crump subscribed to Henry Fielding’s theory: greed, not want, was the main cause of crime.

He came to the residence that he sought, a small elegant establishment perfectly suited to a gentleman’s
petite amie,
and approached the front door. A French maidservant admitted him without so much as a blink of her long and patently false eyelashes and ushered him into the sitting room.

“So!” said Zoe, who wore a shockingly transparent muslin gown that exposed considerably more than her lovely shoulders. “Bow Street has at last come to call on me. I expected you sooner! Do sit down.”

Crump looked around the room, decorated in flesh-colored stucco and gilt, with very large looking glasses and curtains of crimson and white silk adorning the walls, and a crimson carpet on the floor. Since there was no item of furniture large enough to conceal either an eavesdropper or a potential assailant, the Runner obeyed his hostess’s command. The fact that he himself might be the murderer’s next target had more than once crossed his mind.

Zoe regarded him from the recamier on which she was curled like a plump yellow-haired kitten. Indeed, mused Crump somewhat wistfully, she’d make a comfortable armful for any man. Opera dancers, no matter how free with their favors, were beyond the resources of the Runner’s pocketbook. This one, he reflected, must cost Lord Jeffries handsomely. It would be money well spent.

He cleared his throat. “I daresay you know why I’m here.”

Zoe had long experience of the opposite sex; it was second nature to her to try to charm every specimen of it that came her way. “What is your name?” she asked, wrinkling her pretty little nose. “Your Christian name, I mean. I can hardly call you ‘Mr. Bow Street Runner’ or ‘Crump’! It’s so very formal. I dislike formality, you see.”

Crump blushed all the way up to his shiny bald pate. “Siegfried,” he replied and held his breath lest she laugh.

“Siegfried.” Zoe tried out the name. Crump noticed that she had a delightful little lisp. “How unusual! It suits you perfectly. Now tell me how I may help you, Siegfried. I collect it concerns Lord Jeffries?”

“Yes.” Crump reminded himself sternly that this charming female might well be a member of Leda’s troupe. “I understand you were questioned by the Chief Magistrate regarding a certain list of times, and that you swore the Viscount spent those hours with you.”

“He did.” Zoe cast down her eyes. “I fear you will think the worst of me, Siegfried, but I cannot deny it. Jeffries has been a particular friend of mine for several years. Thank heavens my sainted papa is dead for he would be sorely grieved to see his treasured daughter so lost to shame.”

Crump was far from immune to beauty in distress. “Nonsense!” he said gruffly. “I can’t speak for your papa, but I see no reason for you to be ashamed of your, er, position.” Zoe raised huge, tear-drenched blue eyes to such good effect that he almost lost his trend of thought. “Shall we, um, get back to Lord Jeffries, ma’am?”

Zoe fished a handkerchief out of the low-cut bodice of her gown. “Certainly, if that is what you wish. Although I know little more than I told Sir John.” She smiled sadly. “Ivor was not in the habit of discussing with me the details of his personal life.”

“
Was
not, ma’am?”

Zoe pressed her handkerchief to her dainty little nose. “All is at an end, alas! Oh, I had expected it, for the philosophy of the upper classes is quite empty of compassion, you know.” She sniffled. “But I had not thought it would come like this. What a dreadful scandal! That Ivor should be the son of a murderess! Even now the intelligence makes me perfectly sick.”

It was none of Crump’s business, and it certainly had no bearing on his investigations, but he had to ask. “Forgive my presumption. Miss Zoe, but did you break off your relationship with Lord Jeffries?
Or was it the other way around?”

She looked indignant. “How can you think I would associate with a man of such notoriety? A woman in my position cannot afford such scandal. I could hardly maintain what remains of my reputation were my name dragged further through the mud. And to tell truth, Ivor’s interest was on the wane.”

Crump wondered how any gentleman could grow tired of this most delightful creature. “What makes you think that, ma’am?”

She gazed at him, startled. “Good Lord, I hope I may know the signs! Ivor spent less and less time with me, and even when he
was
in my company, it was evident that his mind was elsewhere. It is little wonder, I suppose, since his mother was in Newgate. If only I had known!”

Crump sternly reminded himself that his purpose was to prove the guilt of a criminal, not to gawk and gape at that criminal’s ladybird. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that Zoe was lying mightily in an effort to save her own skin. “You weren’t aware of the relationship between Lord Jeffries and Leda Langtry?”

“Of course I didn’t know!” Zoe responded, rather irritably. “To use the word with no bark on it, I am a businesswoman, and the market value of the particular commodity that I have to offer decreases in proportion to the unpleasant notoriety that it receives. The mistress of a murderer’s son has little more appeal to discreet buyers than the mistress of a cracksman or a highwayman.”

An interesting choice of words, mused Crump: in his opinion, Jeffries might be the most superior cracksman of them all. To what end? he wondered. From all accounts, the Viscount was already a very wealthy gentleman. “Yet you protect him?”

Zoe glanced pointedly about the elegant room. “Can I do less?” she asked. “It is only the truth, after all. And if I did
not
come forth with the truth, Ivor would truly be in the basket.”

Crump’s genial features revealed nothing of his interesting conclusions. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“No?” Zoe’s expression was less that of a playful kitten than of a tigress prepared to defend herself. “I am not an unintelligent woman, Siegfried! Ivor’s relationship with Leda makes him automatically suspect. You see, I knew Warwick rather well at one time. If
he
knew that Leda was Ivor’s mother, it would be to both their advantage to see him dead. Warwick was not beyond publishing such information if it could gain him some advantage.”

Crump looked at her and saw instead the battered features of Mary Elphinstone. The old woman had been greatly disfigured by severe bruises about the head and face, and a cord with a running noose had been tightly tied around her neck. “It occurs to me that you yourself might be in some danger, Miss Zoe.”

 Zoe leaned her head on a languorous hand, patently amused. “ From whom? Surely you do not think Ivor would harm me! I assure you we parted on the most amiable of terms.”

Crump wondered how long that amiability would last if Zoe refused to support Lord Jeffries’ so convenient alibis any longer. There was little doubt in the Runner’s mind that Zoe’s statements were nothing but lies.

“I do not mean to rush you,” said Zoe, interrupting Crump’s thoughts, “but I am expecting a caller and I do not think he would be greatly pleased to meet a Bow Street Runner. Is there anything else you wished to ask me?”

Crump rose from his chair and looked at her, so lovely and so unattainable to him that she might have been the Queen. “Not right now, ma’am. I thank you for receiving me.”

“There’s no need for thanks, Siegfried!” Zoe stretched out languorously on the recamier. “I’m glad to be of assistance. Come back any time.” The same maidservant showed him to the door.

Crump made his way through the darkening streets, battered pipe in hand. Alluring as Zoe may have been, she didn’t long occupy his mind. He was not unaware that Ivor frequently visited Leda’s shop, thus coming into contact with the perfidious Willie, or that the mysterious financial resources of the
Apocalypse
had yet to be satisfactorily explained. Leda’s wealth could well be the proceeds of robberies committed by the three of them. The net was drawing tighter. Now Crump must ensure that none of his slippery fish escaped.