Maggie MacKeever (17 page)

Then there was the matter of Lady Bligh. Crump suspected that Dulcie had gained Leda’s original release from Newgate by the simple expedient of blackmail. He was very curious as to why the Baroness had so exerted herself. The Runner supposed she was also responsible for the various odd items that had recently begun to appear in the
Apocalypse.
But why should Dulcie concern herself with speculations that transported convicts might be returning to England, hidden in the flood of refugees and travelers from war-stricken Europe? If only Lady Bligh was more inclined to cooperate with Bow Street! It was obvious that he must cultivate her garrulous cook once again.

Crump’s idle wandering had brought him to elegant Manchester Square, bastion of the nobility, a spacious street with built-up comers that exuded a snug and sheltered air. He stuffed his pipe in his pocket and recalled his last meeting with White’s chimney sweeps. Again his intuition had proven correct, for those two rascals had in their possession an elegantly embroidered gentleman’s handkerchief that had been found on the floor near the plate closet. Though the Runner could not make out the intricate monogram, he had a fair notion to whom that expensive item belonged.

Though Crump might have preferred to witness the cockfight that was even then taking place at Westminster between the gentlemen of Middlesex and Shropshire, he settled himself comfortably enough in the shadowy recesses of a side street. Directly ahead loomed a large brick mansion with a balustrated roof, approached by a forecourt and prominent portico. The Runner touched the scrap of material, souvenir of the robbery at White’s, which resided in one of his pockets, and pondered the methods by which he might breach the walls of Lord Jeffries’ town house. Unless Crump missed his guess, the evidence he sought lay hidden within.

Chapter 17

“I recall,” said Lady Bligh, who was elegant in a morning dress of white French lawn, “the notorious rake Thomas, Lord Lyttleton. A few weeks after his marriage, he ran off to Paris with a pretty barmaid, about whose virtue he’d just won a bet of £100. Further along in his career, he published a blasphemous parody of his father’s verse, spread a rumor of his own death, and seduced in turn three sisters whose ages didn’t add up to fifty years. They called him ‘the Libertine Macaroni.’“ She gazed upon Lord Barrymore. “You are too young to remember, of course. The great Charles Fox was a macaroni also. How well I recall him, a rather astonishing figure in his blue hair powder and red-heeled shoes. Now it is the Regency, and the elegant minuet and snuffbox are being replaced by the waltz and the cigar.”

Once again the Baroness held court in her Morning Room. Present to admire, in varying degrees, her ladyship’s surroundings and person were Lord Barrymore, Willie Fitzwilliam and an incredibly handsome young man whom Willie had brought expressly to make the acquaintance of his unpredictable benefactress. Of the three, only Willie seemed at ease.

“So you are Willie’s actor.” Dulcie contemplated that young man. He looked a veritable Lothario, with curling black hair worn rather long, luxuriant side-whiskers and mustache, sapphire blue eyes and a profile that would have done justice to a Greek statue. “Where do you make your home, Jesse Saint-Cyr?”

“Wherever I may be, Lady Bligh.” Jesse’s smile would inspire palpitation in many a female heart. “I am a nomad by choice.”

The Baroness also smiled. “London is excitement enough for me. Too
much perhaps, with these recent murders and daring robberies.”

Lord Barrymore leaned forward in his chair. “Surely
you
have nothing to fear from such cutthroats, Lady Bligh! The Baron must have left you adequately protected in his absence.”

“I am no longer a young woman, Barrymore,” the Baroness murmured. It may have been a ridiculous statement, but at that moment she looked undeniably frail. “Hardly a match for determined villains, I assure you.”

So stirred was Tolly by these remarks that he moved to Lady Bligh’s couch and took her hand, patting it as he might a favorite dog. “You mustn’t allow yourself to become so overset!” he said bracingly. “It is a great pity that you should be alone at such a time, but I beg that you will call on me for any assistance you may need. I would be only too happy to be of service to you.”

Dulcie cast him a grateful look. “That is very kind of you.”

“Nonsense!” replied Tolly. “I consider myself quite one of the family, you know.”

This was all very interesting, but Willie was sufficiently alert to recognize a superb performance. Lady Bligh would have made a remarkable career on the stage. Though he might wonder to what end she so beguiled Lord Barrymore, Willie was a great deal more concerned with his own pursuits. “I wish to speak to you about the announcement of my play, Baroness. As I had hoped, it will be put on at Drury Lane.” He paused a moment to savor his triumph. “You may not know that newspaper proprietors consider it a privilege to insert theatrical announcements gratis, or that such announcements cannot be inserted without authorization. Have I your permission to go ahead?”

He had meant it as only a courtesy request and never considered that Dulcie might withhold consent. Willie’s stomach tied itself into uncomfortable knots as he felt the weight of her thoughtful gaze. “Jesse Saint-Cyr,” she murmured, as she studied that dashing young man. “An unknown provincial actor is to follow Edmund Kean, who acted Richard III at Drury Lane earlier this year. And a masterful performance it was! You might be wise, Willie, to consider placing another, better-known, actor in the lead role.”

“Unknown but positively brilliant, Baroness!” said Willie hastily. He knew the black look that had settled on Jesse’s features and wanted no displays of artistic temperament in Lady Bligh’s Morning Room. “It must be Jesse or no one.”

Dulcie looked suddenly exhausted. “Have it your own way. Go on with your announcements, though I must insist that Jesse’s name does not appear in them. Bill him as a brilliant unknown or whatever you wish, but I want to see no mention in print of the name Jesse Saint-Cyr.”

“But, Lady Bligh!” wailed Willie. The young actor looked ready to chew nails.

“Must I recall to you our arrangement?” inquired Dulcie. “One from which
I
have drawn little benefit? Or need I explain what will happen to your play if I withdraw my support?”

“No.” Willie drooped. “Of course it will be as you say.”

“It grieves me, Lady Bligh,” murmured Tolly, who still retained possession of her hand, “to see you so worn down. Surely Miss Montague could take some of these more trivial details off your shoulders? I am sure your niece must agree with me that you have taken on entirely too much. Her devotion to you is a pleasure to see.”

“Ah, Mignon.” The Baroness looked wistful now. “My niece has felt the lure of London. She is caught up in a social whirl and has little time to spare for me.”

“Oh?” inquired Lord Barrymore. “Naturally Miss Montague will wish to spend a certain amount of time with her brother now that he is in town.”

“Maurice?” Dulcie’s laughter was so infectious that it distracted even Willie, who was trying to soothe his actor’s sensibilities. “It is not her brother’s company of which Mignon has grown so fond. A pity she has had to miss this so convivial gathering—but that is the temptation of living so near the center of things, where life is one long love affair.”

“Miss Montague is a considerable heiress,” reproved Lord Barrymore, “and too young to have learned the ways of the world. I hope she may not perforce suffer a severe disillusionment.” Willie noted with relief that Jesse had roused from his sulks to follow the conversation with interest.

“Set your mind at rest, Barrymore.” Lady Bligh regarded the diamonds that glittered on her wrists and hands. “If I were to accuse anyone of dangling after a rich heiress, it would not be Viscount Jeffries.”

* * * *

Miss Montague, at that moment, had no more thought to spare for her wily aunt than she had for the man in the moon. She gazed at the small thatched cottage before her. “The reward for convicting a housebreaker is £40,” she remarked, “and for compounding a felony it’s £40 more.”

“You are very well informed,” retorted Lord Jeffries, after issuing instructions to his coachman. “Are you also cow-hearted, Miss Montague? If you feel an incipient onset of vapors, I beg you will depart with the coach. Despite your aunt’s insistence that you accompany me, I am quite capable of undertaking this enterprise alone.”

Mignon glowered at the Viscount, who was more than elegant in a satin-collared violet redingote, beaver hat, white kerseymere unmentionables and leather boots. He was in a reckless humor, as evidenced by the spanking pace at which they had driven into the country and the high-handed manner in which he had dealt with Mary Elphinstone’s man of business. “I’ll stay,” she said. Mignon, too, wondered at Dulcie’s insistence that her niece accompany Lord Jeffries on this mission. Did Lady Bligh seek to play matchmaker? She might as well have sent Mignon straight into the dragon’s den.

The coach rattled away, to return in one hour, and Mignon stiffened as Ivor took her arm. So far was he from amorous intent, however, that he cast her an irritated glance before guiding her roughly across the dirty yard. It served her right, reflected Mignon, for reading entirely too much into a simple kiss. So far was Lord Jeffries from appreciation of his companion—who was looking her best in a brown velvet spencer, a white muslin gown and a tucked silk bonnet with lace frills—that she might have worn sackcloth and ashes.

The doors were tightly locked. They skirted the building to stop under a small window. Ivor made short work of opening it. “Feeling missish. Miss Montague?” he inquired. “I fear you’ll have to be the one to enter.”

Mignon eyed the narrow opening, well above her head. Whatever Miss Montague may have been, whatever secrets burdened her conscience, she was no coward. “Very well.”

Ivor grasped her waist. Mignon scrambled through the window. She waited only to catch her breath and to subdue the unbecoming violence of feeling roused by the Viscount’s touch, and the realization he had surely seen up her petticoats, before unbolting the back door. The impropriety of the venture struck her anew as Ivor closed and bolted the door behind him.

“Your virtue is safe, Miss Montague,” he said, absently, looking around the bare room. “These are hardly the surroundings I would choose in which to ravish you.”

Mignon turned away. The Viscount’s purpose here was not seduction, but to find some proof of his mother’s innocence. “How fares Leda?” she asked, desperate for a change of topic. “I fear that she must find time weighing heavy on her hands.”

“Not she.” Lord Jeffries moved to rummage through an ancient writing desk. “At last report Leda had offered her services to form an association for the improvement of female prisoners in Newgate. She is now in her glory penning descriptions of the Inner Yard. It abuts on the streets, and every day it is filled with a struggling mass of skinny, half nude females fighting for position near the railing. They hold out sticks with spoons attached and beg passersby for money.” He turned and frowned at Mignon. “This seems to be an extremely profitless undertaking! Have you any idea why your aunt sent us here?”

Mignon shook her head. “Dulcie usually has good reasons, no matter how incomprehensible they may seem.” The Viscount looked skeptical.

Minion wandered idly about the mean little cottage, peering into an old pot, poking into a canister of tea, and mulling over what they’d already learned. Mary Elphinstone’s man of business, who obviously had borne the old woman no great affection, could tell them only that his employer was a gentlewoman fallen on hard times whose only source of income was an allowance that arrived regularly from London. The party responsible for this munificence was, or so he claimed, unknown to him. What a hobble! thought Mignon, and not just in regard to Leda’s predicament. She glanced at Ivor, still frowning over the contents of the writing desk, and approached the room’s only closet. In it were a few plain gowns and a high shelf that looked bare. Trying hard to forget that the owner of these few poor items had met her death in a singularly brutal manner, Mignon climbed onto a rickety old chair. A dusty sewing box sat at the very back of the dark recess. She stretched out her arm.

Lord Jeffries looked up to see her teetering on the chair. “What the devil are you doing? Come down from there!” Startled, Mignon overbalanced. She, the chair, and the dusty box, went flying through the air.

Miss Montague, however, did not tumble ignobly to the floor, for the Viscount caught her in midfall. “Put me down!” she gasped, very much afraid that she would cast decorum to the winds if clasped for long against that strong, hard, and overpoweringly masculine body. Lord Jeffries complied, and with such alacrity that Mignon immediately succumbed to a fit of the blue devils.

“You have a smudge.” He reached out to brush it from her cheek, and Mignon bit her lower lip, hard.

“Look!” she cried, desperately seeking distraction, and pointed at the sewing box, upended with its contents strewn about the floor. It did not serve: Lord Jeffries’ thoughtful glance never wavered from her face.

“I think, Miss Montague,” he said softly, “that it’s time we had a talk. You, I fear, are playing a deep game.”

Mignon would have moved away, had she anywhere to go except backwards into the closet. The Viscount blocked every other avenue of escape. “And you,” she said crossly, “are talking fustian! Your coachman will be returning any moment and we haven’t finished here.”

“My coachman,” retorted Ivor, a dangerous gleam in his brown eyes, “will not be back for at least three-quarters of an hour, being engaged in imbibing ale and gossip at the local inn. It is a puzzle that you can, er, respond to me so warmly one moment and the next behave as if you are totally indifferent. Or is it your habit, my darling, to go around casting out lures?”

“I didn’t!” wailed Mignon, looking everywhere but at the Viscount. Surely he must hear the beating of her heart, for he was standing very close and it was very loud. “Oh, why must you make such a piece of work of it? It is the height of absurdity! We both suffered a, um, moment of weakness and would come under the gravest censure were it to become known. But it will not, I assure you.”