Maggie MacKeever (27 page)

Under other circumstances, Willie might have been rapturous at the opportunity to be Lady Bligh’s cosseted houseguest, but now he only looked more dejected. “But my play!” he wailed.

It was obvious to Crump that these proceedings were leading nowhere. He turned from the window to gaze sourly upon the Chief Magistrate. “I have come to certain conclusions. They might have some bearing here.”

“So they might,” remarked the Baroness. “You have been very astute, dear Crump, save in the matter of that monogrammed handkerchief. But we are concerned with other matters at the moment. Willie!”

“Oh, very well.” Willie was glum. “I’ll tell you who paid me to make those wretched notes. I might as well! Ivor already knows.”

“You told
Jessop?”
So extreme was Dulcie’s reaction that only Sir John’s quick assistance kept her from tumbling off her perch on the arm of his chair. “I hadn’t bargained for that. What possessed you, Willie? Now I must contrive a miracle!”

“I thought you were convinced of Jeffries’ innocence,” interrupted the Chief Magistrate, who was becoming thoroughly annoyed by the contradictory stories.

“Innocence has little to do with it,” replied the Baroness. “On consideration, this is perhaps not an entirely infelicitous turn of events. On one point you are far off the mark, Crump. The jury will certainly return a flat verdict of ‘Not proved’ if Leda stands trial.”

It occurred to Sir John that he had received no answers to a great many of the questions that had been raised. Rather diffidently, he mentioned the fact. “Poor John!” murmured Lady Bligh, leaning against his shoulder in a fashion that sent Crump back to the window. “You must trust me, else your master criminal will go free, and you will be left with only his underlings. You do not wish that, surely?”

“No.” What Sir John
did
wish was to clear his office of all but himself and the Baroness, and not for purposes of administering the law. “You know, Dulcie, that there is going to be a day of reckoning.”

“Yes. But it must wait.” She looked at Willie, now a great deal closer to the door. “When I was a child, I was privileged to witness a hanging at Tyburn Fields. My nurse and I stood on a stony hill which commanded an excellent view of the gallows and the carts which carried the condemned men, some already in their shrouds, and the Ordinary of Newgate and the black-clad prison chaplains who exhorted confessions from the prisoners so they might publish and sell them. By the gallows gathered soldiers, the sheriff and the executioner. It was quite a thrilling moment when the faces of the condemned men were covered with black cloth— almost as thrilling as when the horses were driven off and they were left dancing in the air.” She paused. “I will not help you, Willie, if you do not cooperate. In fact, I promise that if you are not murdered, you too will hang. Do you mean to pay so great a price to protect your play? If not, give us a name.”

Willie’s hands fluttered in one last protest. “Have it as you wish!” he murmured gloomily. “Amazing, the convoluted workings of Fate. If not for those accursed banknotes, I doubt I would have made the acquaintance of Jesse Saint-Cyr.”

 Chapter 28

Mignon sat at the mahogany table staring at the bowl of soup in front of her, a cold puree mixture of asparagus and celery. The Dining Room was a majestic oblong chamber balanced by fluted columns at each end. Niches with dark grounds nicely displayed antique statues of Roman emperors, the Apollo Belvedere and a large bronze of the Dying Gladiator. In arched recesses stood sideboards and ornate cabinets. Mignon had little appreciation to spare for this beauty. The deed to Mary Elphinstone’s cottage, as well as the jewels that Mignon and Ivor had found there, had been stolen from her room.

“This chamber,” remarked the Baroness, as her servants moved around the table with dishes containing a fresh salmon soufflé, a huge and rosy ham, and big round brown potato pies served cold with sweet-sour tomato pickles, “dates back to Bat’s Classic period. You will note the Hope moldings of Roman forms.”

Maurice and Willie obediently remarked upon the antiquities on display. Mignon glanced up from her untouched plate only to lock eyes with Charity. The maid wore a black stuff gown, with frilled apron and cap, and the look she gave Miss Montague was unquestionably triumphant. Hastily, Mignon addressed herself once more to her food. The meal, though delicious and served in exquisite Wedgwood ware, seemed interminable. Could it have been Charity who had ransacked her room? If so, why?

Mignon was not the only one to feel constrained. Maurice, applying himself in a desultory manner to cheese and salad and raw celery, had no greater appetite. Had not his aunt brought home another houseguest, Maurice would have made his excuses and skipped the meal. It would not do to appear overly eager, of course; gentlemen of the world kept assignations with an indolent sangfroid. He looked at Willie, sitting by the Baroness, eating with appalling gusto and chattering inordinately, and wondered why Dulcie had given this person free run of her home. Maurice wondered, too, why his sister looked so lachrymose.

“Mignon,” he whispered, as the servants whisked off the tablecloth and set out an assortment of deep juicy fruit tarts, and brandied blackberries. “You are looking quite knocked-up. Are you sure you don’t wish to return home?”

Miss Montague started, and little wonder, for this was the first civil word spoken to her by her brother for several days. “Don’t concern yourself with me, Maurice. I’m sure you have more important considerations with which to occupy your mind.”

Maurice was feeling unusually magnanimous. His sister might be a tiresome chit who tended to imprudence, but he was fond of her. “We only wished the best for you,” he said awkwardly, “Mama and I. There are any number of fellows on the hang-out for rich heiresses, you know.”

Mignon did know, to her sorrow. “You served me a good turn, Maurice, though it would have been better if you’d called him out and killed him in a duel.”

Maurice looked rather surprised at this
volte-face
on the part of his sister. “How could I?” he demanded, “when you refused to tell me who the blighter was?”

“It was then,” remarked the Baroness to Willie, who was studying a gaily painted Chelsea tureen in the form of a rabbit, “that the Prince began first to notice me, and to stop his horse and talk with me when he met me in the streets.” Mignon glanced at the deep windows with richly paneled shutters that stood about the room. It was not only in the streets outside that villains lurked. Across the room, Charity was busy at a supper Canterbury, a tray that stood on four legs and was partitioned to hold knives and forks, with a round end for plates.

“I hope this means,” Maurice ventured, “that you mean to exercise more prudence in the future, sister.”

“How can I behave any way other than properly?” Constitutionally unable to tell a falsehood, Mignon had learned early to dissemble. “With you forever at my shoulder to see that I do not?”

Equal to any situation, even sibling battles in her dining room, Lady Bligh rose and fetched three decanters—claret, port and madeira—to the table, then sent the servants from the room.

“My play!” lamented Willie. “So brief a burst of glory, so quickly dimmed.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mignon, toying with her apricot tart.

“I mean,” replied Willie glumly, “that my principal actor is like to find himself in Newgate.” Startled, Mignon dropped her fork.

 The Baroness took command. “There is nothing so vulgar as to make a noise with your eating utensils. Come, child, we will leave the gentlemen to their libations and retire to the drawing room.”

Had Miss Montague been less stunned, she might have retorted that it was equally vulgar for a hostess to festoon herself so liberally with jewels that she resembled a sultan’s concubine. Instead, she followed her aunt meekly from the table. Willie leaped to open the door. “Your play may not expire so prematurely, Willie,” remarked Lady Bligh. “Perhaps, like the phoenix, a new triumph may rise from the ashes of the old.”

Silently the ladies proceeded into the drawing room. Dulcie sank into a chair. “Now we may be private. I think I must visit Paris, my dear. Bat has told me of a celebrated fortune-teller, Mademoiselle Le Normand, who predicted Marie Antoinette’s ride to the guillotine, and the French retreat from Moscow simply by consulting the cards.”

“You knew all along,” Mignon broke in ruthlessly. “About Jesse, I mean. Who told you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What a hobble!” sighed the Baroness. Fire flashed from the rubies on her hands. “You must know by now, dear Mignon, that I have a certain instinct. Fortunately, you rallied your wits in time to prevent a mistake that would have ruined your life.”

“And a pretty to-do there was over that!” Mignon sank down onto a footstool near the fire. “It seemed forever that I was locked in my room, with Maurice and our mama constantly badgering me to learn the scoundrel’s name. They were unaware of Jesse’s existence, for I met him first by chance.”

“And after that, in secret.” Dulcie’s eyes were half closed. “Calf love, my dear! You are the sort of female who must always prefer a rough diamond over a pattern of respectability.” She edged about sideways in the chair. “Speaking of rough diamonds, how progress you with the Viscount?”

Mignon hugged her knees. “Lord Jeffries’s behavior,” she said gruffly, “is that of a man who has neither sense, good nature nor honesty. It is not Ivor I wish to discuss, Dulcie! Why did Willie say that Jesse might be imprisoned?”

“Why does Willie say anything? He is over fond of the sound of his own voice.” Mignon’s lips parted and the Baroness raised a protesting hand. “You are tempted to be confidential, and I beg that you will not! Continue with your observations on the Viscount’s character, if you please.”

Miss Montague was suffering an understandable affliction of the nerves. Any number of people could have gained access to her bedchamber during Dulcie’s party, and any number could have slipped in at any time during the day. The thief could have been Willie, or Maurice, or Dulcie herself. But Lady Bligh was obviously uninterested in her niece’s conclusions, or her difficulties. “What character? I have seen no indication that Jeffries has one!”

“Ah!” mused Dulcie. “Were I to hazard a guess, I would say young Ivor has offered you a slip on the shoulder. Ill judged of him, of course, but no small compliment, my dear! Jessop’s taste in ladybirds is accounted peerless.”

Mignon was saved a reply by Willie’s sudden entrance. He clutched the decanter of port in one hand. “Maurice wouldn’t drink with me. A previous engagement, he said, but I know when my company doesn’t suit.” He weaved his way across the room, narrowly avoiding entanglement with a delicately worked table and tapestried footstool. “What did you mean, Baroness, about my play?”

“There is always old Brahman.” Lady Bligh watched with amusement as Willie tumbled into a chair. “He has long been first singer at Drury Lane and invariably receives applause.”

“Is that the best you can do?” Willie regarded the decanter gloomily. “Brahman may have great power of voice and rapidity of execution and a thorough knowledge of music, but he is hardly a dramatic actor. A more abominable style is difficult to conceive.”

Dulcie laughed. “I was roasting you, Willie. Since Brahman will not serve, what say you to Edmund Kean?”

Willie had a great deal to say, and the two of them passed a pleasant hour with much mocking and irreverence. Mignon made little contribution to the gaiety, being preoccupied with the perplexing matter of Jesse Saint-Cyr. What among his sins could be so severe that it condemned him to Newgate?

Mignon stared blindly at her hands, the fingers so tightly interwoven that the knuckles ached. Jesse had been kind to her and a more than enjoyable companion while his star was on the rise. It was no more than he deserved that she should warn him that he was suspected of some crime.

Crime?
Mignon jumped as if bee-stung. Why had she not thought sooner of Dulcie’s fascination with the recent murders and robberies and of her determination to prove Leda innocent? Surely Lady Bligh did not mean that
Jesse
should take her friend’s place on the gallows? Miss Montague might sympathize greatly with the unfortunate Leda, though she was by no means convinced that the old woman was innocent. She also might have suffered a great confusion of feelings for Jesse Saint-Cyr; but she would by no means stand idly by while an innocent man hanged, even when the man was so accomplished a deceiver.

But
was
Jesse innocent? He had been inside Bligh House and could easily have learned the location of her room, as could have Lord Jeffries. Had Ivor, in some perverted spirit of revenge, set Jesse up as a scapegoat?

“I fancy,” remarked the Baroness, disrupting Mignon’s train of thought, “that
we shall do well enough if the thing does not come too suddenly to a crisis.” Her dark eyes rested on her niece. “You look exhausted, child, and so am I. I suggest we all retire early.”

Mignon made no demur; this suggestion fit in excellently with her own half-formed plans. She would take her candle from the sideboard that stood in the hallway and light herself to her chamber; then, when the rest of the household was asleep—

She glanced at her aunt, who looked exhausted. Better, perhaps, that she had received no opportunity to burden Dulcie with confidences. If Mignon was in a pickle, it was entirely her own fault.

 Lady Bligh laid her hand on her niece’s arm. “There’s no help for it, child; we do what we must. Try and have a good night’s sleep. Things will seem brighter on the morrow, I promise you.”

Chapter 29

“So you came,” said Jesse, his handsome face aglow. “I had hoped you would. I will never forgive myself for the horrid things I said to you.”

“You gave me little enough choice!” Mignon neatly avoided his embrace. “I begin to think, Jesse, that you have made a cat’s-paw of me.”

He looked sorrowful. “Can I be blamed if the anguish of separation has driven me to desperate measures? Tell me that you have reconsidered, Mignon.”