Maggie MacKeever (26 page)

The Viscount wore a stern mask. “It is you who have not considered. I am a wealthy man—wealthy enough to buy you freedom, of a sort.”

“Freedom!” Mignon’s temper strained at its tight leash. “You offer to buy me freedom when I have conspired to send your mother to Newgate. What sort of a man
are
you, Lord Jeffries?”

“Freedom of a
sort,”
corrected the Viscount. “You will pay, and dearly, for any harm you have done Leda.” Mignon’s lips parted and he motioned her to silence. “Are you thinking you may buy yourself off? You cannot. A fortune you may have, but not sufficient influence to hush up the thing so completely that it never reaches the ears of the Quality. You might contrive to escape the hangman’s noose, Miss Montague, but your reputation would be gone.”

“Ah, my fortune.” To hide the sudden trembling of her hands, Mignon folded her arms. “Just what
is
your proposition, Lord Jeffries? I might tell you that I care little for the opinion of the
ton.
Persons of the first consideration are so often very dull.”

“I am offering you,” said Ivor stiffly, “the protection of my name.”

“How prodigiously kind of you.” Mignon’s smile resembled a snarl. “In return you gain control of my fortune and an excessively obedient wife, for if I ever threaten to run counter to your wishes, you will menace me with exposure. A sad comedown for a girl who wished for herself a love match.”

“You can hardly expect declarations of devotion and adoration.” There was a distinctly feral gleam in Lord Jeffries’ brown eyes. “The truth is that I want you, and at any price.”

“I see.” What a fool she was, to have fallen in love with a man who, if he wasn’t a murderer, was undeniably mad! Mignon inched around the settee. “Since you are so desirous of settling in matrimony, Lord Jeffries, I suggest you might find a more fitting mate among the ladies of St. Giles, or the Haymarket, or King’s Place. Personally, I would rather go to Newgate than marry you.” On this Parthian shot, she scrambled out from behind the settee and bolted for freedom.

But Miss Montague, having burned her bridges behind her in a gloriously foolhardy style, was to be allowed no respite. No sooner had she gained the hallway than she ran smack into Charity. “I must speak with you,” hissed the maidservant, who’d obviously been eavesdropping outside the door.

“Very well,” replied Mignon, with a sinking heart. “In my room.” Mignon grabbed Charity’s arm, fearing that Viscount Jeffries would at any moment burst through the Gallery door.

“Whatever you say, miss.” Charity’s voice was servile, but her plain features wore a decided smirk. Once inside Mignon’s bedchamber, the maidservant closed the door.

“Frittering away your chances, aren’t you, miss?” she asked maliciously. “First Jesse, then Barrymore, and now Jeffries.”

Mignon sank down on the bed. “You go beyond the line of being pleasing, Charity. Do you wish me to report your behavior to my aunt?”

Uncowed, the maid tossed her head. “Hoity-toity!” she mocked. “You won’t tell the Baroness, being afraid
I’ll
tell her what I heard. I wouldn’t care if I was turned off anyway, me being used to better things.”

Miss Montague took little objection to this insolence, her thoughts being otherwise engaged. “You mentioned Jesse. I suppose you read the notes I had from him.”

“I didn’t need to.” Charity picked up one of the Persian dolls. “Knowing already what they said. You were a fool to try and play a May game with Jesse, thinking he’d let you be shabbing off and making a cake of him.”

“Dear heaven!” gasped Mignon, rather idiotically.
“You
know Jesse?”

“Haven’t I just said so?” Charity looked smug. “Jesse’s a gentleman, he is, and he’ll keep mum about what’s passed between you. Providing you give him a chance to apologize! You’re to meet him at his lodgings tonight.”

The return of her letters had accomplished precious little, thought Mignon gloomily. Her lost love was proving damnably tenacious. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll regret it.” Charity turned the doll head over heels and inspected its underpinnings. “It makes a good story, the heiress and the actor, doesn’t it? I doubt the Baroness would like the scandal if the tale was published.” She smirked. “With suitable embellishments.”

“I can hardly visit Jesse’s lodgings without making a byword of myself!” Jesse wouldn’t deliberately do her a harm, would he? And how on earth had Jesse become acquainted with Charity?

“You’re suddenly mighty concerned for your good name.” Mignon winced as the maidservant carelessly tossed the doll aside. “All I can say is if you
don’t
go, it’s dead certain Jesse will lose his temper again, and you know what that means.”

Mignon watched in silence as Charity strolled from the room. It was speedily being borne in on Miss Montague that she had behaved in a skitter-witted fashion indeed.

Chapter 27

“The poor King,” remarked Lady Bligh, “is blind and mad and nearly helpless. I saw him myself recently, flitting across the terraces at Windsor in a velvet cap and dressing gown. Do you recall his Jubilee, John?” The Chief Magistrate was given no opportunity to reply. “Debtors were released, Army and Navy deserters pardoned, and an ox was roasted whole at Windsor with one and half bushels of potatoes in its belly.” She brushed dust from the sleeve of her high-collared spencer, made of rich wine-colored velvet fringed with fur and heavy with embroidery. “I suppose we should not be surprised that the King wrote to Young’s
Annals of Agriculture
under the name of Ralph Robinson, or kept a model farm at Windsor, or ate brown bread and boiled mutton and turnips for dinner, considering that he was suckled by a gardener’s wife. Although that doesn’t explain why he liked nothing better than to make buttons in the days when he was sane.”

Sir John was a busy man, his days filled with all the minutiae of law and crime, as well as with the daily sittings which were held from 11
A
.
M
. to 3
P
.
M
. and again from 7 to 8; and he considered it unjust that what few moments he possessed should be taken up by people who wished to cajole or bully him. He hardly needed to be reminded of Lady Bligh’s high connections, of her influence at Court. Nor was Dulcie the first to visit him that day in regard to the Langtry case.

“So Percy finally has been moved to try and save Leda from an ignoble end.” The Baroness toyed with the wide brim of her elegant bonnet, which was turned up at the side with a lavish trimming of ribbon and lace. “I thought he might. Came you to any agreement, John?”

“No.” The Chief Magistrate recalled that encounter, during which Lord Calvert had exhibited equal parts of blustery indignation and effrontery. “You are mistaken; he came not in behalf of Leda, but of Jeffries. It seems to me that a great many people are very anxious to protect that young man.”

“So they are.” Dulcie surveyed her one-time beau with a slightly pensive look. “I think it is time I was frank with you, dear John.”

“So do I.” He leaned forward on his desk. “It is hardly the thing for a delicately nurtured English lady to go about hoodwinking representatives of the law. Crump does not appreciate being made to look the fool.”

“It would not have been necessary,” retorted Lady Bligh, “had not Crump threatened to bungle the thing so completely. To act the dupe has been an edifying experience for him, I’m sure! Don’t you wish to hear what I have to tell you?”
      
Sir John gazed upon the wily Baroness, her captivating features caressed by the dusty rose curls that escaped from beneath the absurd bonnet, her elegant figure displayed to good advantage as she leaned against the back of the old wooden chair. “Dulcie, it is unthinkable that you should be involved in these matters. Confounding as you are, I would not wish anything to happen to you, and your meddling is dangerous. Why do you not content yourself with teas and routs and pleasure trips, and leave the pursuit of criminals to Bow Street?”

“Dear,
dear
John,” murmured the Baroness. “How good of you to concern yourself with my welfare. But back to Jessop. You wished to know why both Leda and Percy are so anxious to protect the Viscount.”

As usual, reflected the Chief Magistrate, he had risen, nibbled and swallowed her bait. “I do.”

“It is a well-kept secret, and one that would cause considerable scandal were it to be known,” Dulcie said, “but Jessop is a legitimate bastard. In short, he may be Leda’s offspring, but he is
not
her husband’s son.”

The implications of this disclosure were staggering. The Chief Magistrate would have liked to ask a great many questions concerning Ivor’s paternity and the means by which Dulcie had resurrected this skeleton from the Jessop closet. However, Willie burst like a tornado into the room.

“I demand protection!” cried that individual, whose homely features were ashen and whose clothing was filthy and torn. “Lud, but things have reached an alarming state when innocent citizens are set upon in the street!”

“Innocent?” repeated Lady Bligh, absently. “They really do flatter themselves against all evidence into a belief that they may yet go free.”

“They?” inquired Sir John. Willie collapsed sideways onto the chair and craned his neck to stare at the Baroness. “You don’t seem very surprised,” he said resentfully. “I tell you, I barely escaped with my life! Were I not exceptionally nimble on my feet, I would have already received my death blow.” Rather dramatically, he pushed back lank hair to reveal a purplish swelling on his forehead. “Look!”

“An iniquitous act,” soothed Lady Bligh, “and one that I confess pleases me beyond measure. In regard to their own impunity, our villains are a great deal too credulous. They are rushing their fences, and most carelessly.”

“Pleases
you!” Willie stared.

Sir John was not at all anxious to witness further melodrama. “Tell us exactly what took place.”

Willie was only too anxious to oblige. He had been taking an idle stroll, he said, his mind busy with plans for his next play, his ears alert for any titillating tittle-tattle on the lips of his fellow pedestrians, when he was set upon by footpads and dragged into an alleyway. “Fortunately,” said Willie, and drew open his tattered coat to reveal a pistol tucked into his waistband, “I was prepared! I told the thugs that if they advanced one step farther, I would have their lives.”

“After which show of bravado,” observed Dulcie, “you let them get away. That was remarkably impractical of you.”

Sir John was more than a little intrigued by this tale, or rather by its omissions. “A pistol is hardly a common accoutrement for a journalist and playwright. Why did you feel it necessary to go about armed?”

Willie wore the expression of one who realized belatedly that he has leaped from the frying pan into the fire. “These dreadful crimes,” he muttered weakly. “A man must protect himself.”

“Hogwash!” said the Baroness. “You must know, John, that Willie has been on pins and needles for some time now, barricading himself in his room at night and generally going in fear of his life—and not without reason!” She walked around the chair and stood looking down at the unhappy playwright. “It is time, Willie, that you admitted the truth.”

“Baroness!” wailed Willie, not a little bit alarmed. “What can you mean?”

At that most inopportune of moments, Crump stalked into the room, dragging with him Gibbon, shackled. Upon espying his mistress the butler moaned. “I warned you,” Lady Bligh said sternly, “about that stickpin.”

Sir John had a most unmagisterial impulse to flee the scene. When Dulcie was about, the pursuit of justice turned into a raree show. “What’s this about?” he inquired wearily of Crump.

“Passing stolen goods. Namely, one diamond stickpin.” Crump glanced at the Baroness. How had she known? “It seems that Gibbon here is involved somehow in the robberies, since that stickpin is part of the stolen merchandise.”

Dulcie returned his gaze. “Fiddlesticks!” said she. “You know perfectly well that my butler is as innocent as a newborn babe.”

Gibbon, trying to look the part, succeeded only in presenting a face of perfect guilt. His anxious eyes met those of Sir John. His mouth turned dry as he recalled the unfortunate history of the Chief Magistrate’s pocket watch.

“Now, now, Baroness!” said Crump. “There’s no use trying to put a good face on it! Your butler was caught with stolen goods. Added to his earlier offense of housebreaking, that leads to some very serious conclusions. I’m afraid it’s Newgate now, if not the gallows. A sad end for a onetime member of Bow Street, but the law must be served.”

“Housebreaking?” inquired Sir John.

The Baroness sighed. “I fear that must be laid at
my
door. I will explain all. I will even relate the fascinating history of that stickpin, if only you will release poor Gibbon.” To the Chief Magistrate’s horror, she sank to her knees by his chair. “All, I assure you, is not as it seems.”

Sir John glanced unhappily at the witnesses to this touching scene. Willie gaped open-mouthed; Gibbon’s pallid lips moved silently, as if in prayer; and Crump ground his teeth in frustration. Then he looked at Dulcie, whose pleading eyes were suspiciously damp. Once again passion triumphed over reason. “Very well,” said the Chief Magistrate wearily. “Crump, release him.”

Briskly the Baroness rose and brushed dust from her skirts. “Where were we? Ah yes, Willie! You were going to reveal to us all that you have so carefully concealed.”

“You malign me!” mourned Willie, as Crump walked to the window and stared in a disgruntled manner down into the street. “I have held back nothing, I swear it. Indeed, I have helped you in every way I can.” He glanced rather frantically at Gibbon. “I thought that you were going to explain to Sir John a small matter of stolen goods and housebreaking.”

“A small matter, indeed,” retorted Dulcie, “in comparison with what
you
have to say. Out with it, Willie! Or do you wish to fall victim to a murderer’s blow? I assure you they will try again, for this knowledge of yours is very dangerous.” Nervously, he fingered his shattered monocle. The Baroness sighed. “In return for your cooperation, Willie, I offer you the safety of my house.”