Maggie MacKeever (21 page)

“The Chevalier toured English towns and watering places as a woman fencer until wounded during a duel in, I believe, 1796. Is there a purpose to this conversation, Dulcie?”

“Must a conversation have a purpose? Cannot one talk for the sheer pleasure of it?” She leaned against his arm. “I meant only to point out to you the efficacy of clever disguise.”

Whose disguise? wondered Sir John, but Dulcie’s soft body was warm against his, and her heady perfume was in his nostrils, and his effort at coherent speech resulted only in a groan.

Beside Miss Montague sat Viscount Jeffries, stunningly handsome in his coat of blue superfine and white marcella waistcoat. “You are very quiet,” he murmured. “Have I offended you?”

Mignon smoothed her white kid gloves, well aware of the distinguishing preference signaled by Ivor’s presence at her side and of what the world must think. “Not at all,” she replied, and hoped her face did not betray the effort necessary to maintain that cool tone. She looked across the auditorium at her brother. “Tell me, Lord Jeffries, do you know anything of a Mrs. Harrington-Smythe?”

“Is that what she calls herself?” Ivor quirked a brow. “I’m afraid I don’t, Miss Montague, and neither should you.”

Mignon frowned. From something Maurice had said, she had thought Mrs. Harrington-Smythe to be no stranger to Polite Society. “Are you saying,” she demanded, “that she is a—”

“Ladybird, pretty horsebreaker, high-flyer, take your pick. You see what a broadening of your horizons may result from association with me?”

To the relief of both Mignon and Sir John, Willie bounced into the box. He sank down beside the Baroness. “Witness me all a-tremble! The play is about to begin.” Sir John gazed upon the young man, pale and tremulous with excitement, and wondered for what incomprehensible purpose Lady Bligh encouraged him. It was due to Dulcie’s influence that the theatre was filled to overflowing with not only commoners but also every member of the
ton
who remained in town, from Brummell to the wicked Duke of Queensbury.

“Don’t fret, Willie,” soothed the Baroness, and patted his hand. “Your play shall have as tremendous a success as
Timour the Tartar,
the play in which real horses trod the stage of Covent Garden for the first time.” She lowered her voice. “And you might bear in mind that for my efforts payment is still due.”

“I’ve done all you wished,” he protested, “even to the announcements. Jesse has been kept incognito, though I have been plagued on all sides to reveal the name of my principal.”

“You
would
have him, despite my advice.” Lady Bligh gazed about the theatre, noting the decorations in salmon pink, the burnished gold ornaments and crimson upholstery, and then, with little more enthusiasm, Mignon. “Ah well, I’ve done the best I can.”

Miss Montague had so much to occupy her thoughts that she scarcely noted when the play began. Chief among those perplexing matters was the theft of her reticule. The purse had been returned to her later the same day by Charity with the mumbled explanation that it had been left by a child. No child, thought Mignon unhappily, had penned the note she’d found inside. One could not make one’s problems disappear by simply ignoring them, it seemed.

The curtain rose to display a masterpiece of scenic art. Clouds painted in semitransparent colors on framed, stretched linen rose diagonally by way of a winding machine. Behind the clouds rose mountains, and in the foreground lay a sand pit covered with moss and lichen. Thunder rattled, lightning flashed, and a pale moon rose. Willie’s moment had come.

The audience sat rapt through the melodrama, which combined such disparate elements as Satan portrayed by a
chef de cuisine,
and a teapot, milk jug and cup which executed a
pas de trois
while spoons and forks danced around them as
figurantes.
The hero played expertly on musical glasses and suffered an unfortunate addiction to apricot tarts; the heroine served as a scullery maid; and a large Newfoundland dog was in the habit of biting Satan in the seat of his pants. Even the Chief Magistrate laughed himself into stitches, while Lady Bligh expressed a vast appreciation for a half ruined Moorish castle and a wish to use a certain temple of glowworms at her next rout.

Throughout it all Miss Montague sat silent, her green eyes riveted to the stage. Only when the curtain descended did she make a sound, and that was merely a soft little expulsion of breath. With a flourishing bow, Jesse Saint-Cyr retired through one of the doors, with brass knockers on them, which stood always open upon the stage.

“He is no William Charles Macready,” observed the Baroness, “but I suppose that he will do.” Willie did not argue the point, being overwhelmed by enthusiastic applause. With fluttering hands, he screwed his monocle into one eye socket, where it did not long stay, being quickly dislodged by the restless hopping of his brows.

Lady Bligh’s box was soon crowded with appreciative spectators, among them Beau Brummell, whose approval was all the more valuable for being restrained, Lord Barrymore, and Maurice. It was not difficult, under cover of the confusion, for Mignon to slip away.

Maurice may have appeared a ridiculous figure, his eyes faintly bulging and his breath constricted by the tightness of his cravat; but, despite his dizzying infatuation with the elusive Mrs. Harrington-Smythe, the Honorable Mr. Montague was not entirely a fool. Additionally, he had the benefit of a lifelong acquaintance with his sister. It was no more than two shakes of a lamb’s tail before Maurice realized Mignon was gone.

He looked around the crowded box. “I swear I’ll wring her neck.”

“Your shirt points are sadly wilted,” observed the Baroness. “In fact, nephew, you look a regular quiz. Do you not mean to congratulate Willie on the success of his play?”

“I mean to take my sister back to Yorkshire and lock her away!” Maurice looked at his aunt’s stern face. “I would never have allowed her to come to you, Aunt, had I thought you would encourage her rash behavior. Think of the scandal! “

“If there is to be scandal,” Lady Bligh said calmly, “it will be of your making. I suggest you be seated and drink some lemonade.” With a forceful hand she pushed him down in the chair. Maurice bitterly regretted the unkind fate that had brought Mignon to London. The family had thought her restored to her senses, but clearly she had none.

Mignon had as little thought for her brother’s inevitable displeasure as she had enthusiasm for the task she must perform. She made her way through the backstage confusion, her nostrils filled with that extraordinary compound of odd scents peculiar to the theatre. Aware of the curious glances that followed her, and that this undertaking was at the very least unwise, Mignon’s cheeks flamed. There was little alternative, as the note had made clear. She had no difficulty in locating the dressing room.

He took her hand and drew her inside. “Well, puss! It has taken you an unconscionable long time to seek me out. I had nearly begun to despair.”
      

Mignon looked at this well-built young man with his thick and curling dark hair, his devilish smile. How magical it had once seemed that so glorious a creature should care for her. Mignon was a trifle too honest to see herself as Cinderella, transformed by love from a rather dowdy female into a stunning belle, but she could not deny that Jesse was well qualified to play the fairy-tale prince. And so he had, with passionate avowals perfectly fitted to his rôle.

She tried unsuccessfully to remove her arm from his grasp. “This is the last time I will meet you, Jesse.”

“So reason has prevailed?” His smile was crooked, his eyes as cold as ice. “I thought it might in time. What shall I do, I wonder, now that you’ve shattered all my hopes? Would it gratify you if I put a period to my life?”

“You’re talking nonsense.” Mignon tried not to react to the pain of his grip. “I can’t imagine that your feelings for me are sufficiently deep that you could even briefly consider such a thing.”

“Once you thought differently.” Jesse’s fingers tightened even more. “Once you would risk everything for a moment in my arms. What has changed your mind? Have you met another man who can offer more than I?” His voice was harsh. “What would his reaction be, I wonder, if he learned of our relationship?”

“There is no one!” gasped Mignon. “And there is nothing
to
our ‘relationship’ save a few indiscreet meetings. It would be your word against mine. Who do you think would believe you, Jesse? You’re nothing but a strolling actor and a mountebank. And, I suspect, a fortune hunter as well!”

 Jesse flung her away from him, and Mignon came up smartly against a wall. “You have been very foolish. Now you think you may simply cry off.”

He seemed a total stranger, his face set in angry lines. Mignon rubbed her bruised arms. “Is it money that you want? You must already know I cannot touch my capital without the consent of my trustees.”

Jesse ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Ah, I’ve made a mull of it! I cannot blame you for thinking the worst of me. It is my accursed temper—but you accused me of wanting only your money, and it is a taunt I cannot stomach.” He moved toward her and took her face in his hands. “I cannot bear to think that I should lose you, Mignon.”

Miss Montague wondered what had happened to her, for his ardor no longer roused in her an answering spark. “You threatened me,” she said stiffly. “I would hardly call it a loverlike act to promise to publish my letters to the world.”

“As if I would,” Jesse murmured, his eyes now warm. “It was the only way to bring you to me, and I apologize. You must know that I wouldn’t harm a hair of your head. Come, tell me you forgive me and that our misunderstanding is at an end. There is nothing I wish more in the world than to make you my bride.”

“What of
my
wishes?” Mignon sought refuge from her bewilderment in a display of rage. “Do you think to so easily bend me to your will? What a happy relationship we would have, you and me and my obliging trustees! It’s too late, Jesse. I will not marry you.”

“Won’t you?” His handsome features twisted as he grasped her shoulder. “There is more than one way to bring a reluctant damsel to the altar, Mignon.”

Miss Montague was no bread-and-butter miss to swoon away at the threat of ravishment. Green eyes shooting fire, she drew back her hand and applied it with satisfying force to Jesse’s mocking face.

“An enlightening scene, indeed,” murmured Lord Jeffries from the doorway. “If you are through enacting a Cheltenham tragedy, Miss Montague, I will return you to your aunt.”

Chapter 22

Culpepper was irate. First Charity had disappeared for several hours, returning at last with a weak tale of her sick mother, and then Gibbon had vanished. No doubt the butler was about some business for the Baroness, but his timing was highly inconvenient. Since there was no butler in evidence, his duties fell upon the abigail, second highest in the domestic hierarchy. As if it were not enough to be courted by a drunken watchman, now she must collect coats and hats and see that Lady Bligh’s impromptu party ran smoothly. With a martyred expression, Culpepper made her way to the Ballroom.

She need not have worried: Lady Bligh’s entertainments were as famed for their perfection as for their eccentricity. Even on short notice, the Baroness had procured an excellent orchestra; Indian jugglers who performed in an anteroom; and a craniologist who carefully examined and remarked upon the skulls of his fellow guests. In yet another chamber was a buffet table laden with the most delicate and choice refreshments of every kind. Behind it stood a sulky Charity, assisted by two other maidservants dressed in white uniforms and black aprons. Still later a supper would be served by male attendants in a room connected with the kitchens. Culpepper supposed the guests would drive home by sunlight. Hopefully Gibbon would have reappeared by then.

The fifty-foot-long Ballroom was an exquisite chamber with marble floors and green wall panels on a white ground; the surroundings were pale buff. The richly molded ceiling had been painted by Florentine Cipriani, who was also responsible for the allegorical pictures on the panels of the State Coach first used by George III in 1782. At one end of the ballroom, a large bay window looked onto the gardens; at the other end stood a colonnade of Ionic arches. Statuary marbles were placed at various intervals around the room.

“Sometimes I wonder what my father would have thought of Bligh House,” remarked the Baroness to Sir John. “He was a vulgar soul, I fear. I well recall him swallowing his peas off a knife, eating oysters by sucking them off his wrist, enlivening a dull dinner party by removing his false teeth in front of us all. He fancied himself an artist, and it was his habit to moisten his clay by spitting on it in the presence of his models.”

The Chief Magistrate gazed at her. Her hair was coming unpinned, and he imagined it cascading down her back as he swept her into his arms. “You are trying to distract me, Dulcie. I cannot delay much longer in the performance of my duties. Indeed, I may have already tarried too long.”

His stern tone had little appreciable effect on his hostess, who turned her gaze on the tremulous Willie, deep in conversation with his fellow guest of honor, Jesse Saint-Cyr. “When pallor became the fashion, French ladies applied leeches to draw off their blood so that they could faint away becomingly in company. Do you mean to have Willie do the same in the midst of his victory feast?” She placed her bejewelled hand on Sir John’s arm. “Come, let us mingle with the crowd. It will do no harm to allow our playwright his moment of triumph before you frighten the wits out of him.” She then left Sir John engaged with his amiable and long-winded Prince Regent, and drew Maurice aside.

“What are you thinking?” said her nephew, tugging at his tight cravat and glaring in the general direction of his sister. “How can you allow Mignon to disappear unescorted, for a good half hour, and demand not a word of explanation from her?”

Lady Bligh guided him firmly across the crowded Ballroom. “Take a damper, Maurice. Mignon came to no great harm. You are only out of sorts because your lovely friend pleaded a headache and would not accompany you here.”