Maggie MacKeever (10 page)

“She’s in good looks,” remarked Tess, as she swung her feet to the floor. “I make no doubt the Duke of Bellamy will be impressed.”

If the servants’ tittle-tattle was to be believed, the present duke was unlikely to be impressed by anything less than a highflyer of incomparable beauty, but Delphine did not explain that unpalatable fact to her mistress. Nor did she explain Clio’s motives—for between that volatile miss and the disapproving abigail had evolved a tacit conspiracy—which were not to dazzle Giles but to lay the groundwork for a future
sortie. “Tiens!”
she said. “We will return to the subject of Sir Morgan, if you please!”

“But I do
not
please!” Tess yawned and reached for her cane. “Poor man! To be the object of such constant calumny.”

Delphine was not so easily dissuaded. “That one is bound for perdition. Take care you do not accompany him,
chérie!”

“I would not like to accuse you of impertinence, Daffy.” Tess’s voice was firm. “You will speak not another word to me on this matter. Now leave me! I wish to be alone.” Delphine exited, muttering darkly.

The countess breathed a deep sigh of relief, then crossed the room to a carved rosewood dressing table cradled between deeply in-flaring cabriole legs. She did not pause to inspect herself in the elegant mirror between the cabinets, illuminated at night by six candles growing out of flower baskets, as Clio would automatically have done, but rummaged in a drawer. When she withdrew her hand, diamonds sparkled on her palm.

Clutching this bounty, Tess limped back to the bed, then spread the gems out on the counterpane, there not to regard them with pride or greed, but with speculation. Nor did she place them around her neck and preen, as a vainer woman would have done. 

It was not that Tess disliked such baubles as this necklace—she possessed several such pieces, of no lesser worth—but this particular item had never resided in the jewel case that Delphine guarded so zealously. The countess had never set eyes on this necklace before the previous night, when she had found it inexplicably resting among the items of intimate apparel packed in her portmanteau.

“The intruder at the inn,” she murmured thoughtfully, and poked the necklace with an inquisitive finger. As is the way with such cold stones, it made no response. “Doubtless
he
was responsible! The highwaymen accosted us in an attempt to recover it.”

It was a reasonable explanation, so far as it went; none other than that intruder had gained access to her portmanteau. But why? Perhaps she was meant to innocently transport the necklace to London, there to be reclaimed; but if so, why the confrontation with highwaymen? Perhaps—and Tess poked the gems again—there was not one party involved, but two, and both determined on possession of the necklace. It was probably stolen; there was little question but that someone was desperate to reclaim it, and would try again.

A more prudent lady would have immediately turned over the necklace to Bow Street, there to be dealt with by those stalwart representatives of the law; Tess didn’t even consider so poor-spirited an action. It was speedily coming clear to the countess that her life—having hitherto consisted of such tame pursuits as walking before breakfast, picking flowers, riding, reading, sketching, and playing the harpsichord—had lacked a certain excitement; and that it had changed drastically, and for the better, in the past few days. It was also clear to her that Sir Morgan was in some way connected with the necklace. Had he stolen it, and then fearing discovery arranged for an accomplice to hide it in her luggage? If so, he’d had no need to arrange for that futile attempt at highway robbery. Had he but asked, Tess would have cheerfully returned the necklace to him. It was not her place to interrogate or condemn.

But why, she wondered, making her slow way to the window, should Sir Morgan have stolen the gems in the first place? Were his affairs in such a sad case? Or perhaps he had not stolen them at all, and they had come into his possession by some unexceptionable means, and he was behaving in such a circuitous manner to protect someone else. It was all most puzzling, and marvelously intriguing. Tess didn’t know when anything had so exercised her mind.

She stared unseeing into the gardens below. It was the necklace, naturally, that prompted Morgan’s interest in her, but she could hardly explain
that
to Clio and Delphine! Their objections seemed ridiculous to Tess, who saw no reason to hold the man’s reputation against him. Of course he was a rake; how could he be otherwise when his charm was so great that few women would find themselves indifferent to it? In truth, Tess was far from disliking him herself, though her approval had been earned by his easy manner and his superb horsemanship, and not by his expertise in affairs of the heart. It was not that she doubted that expertise; indeed, she knew instinctively that Sir Morgan bowled over feminine hearts like tenpins; but it was an arena from which, due to her limp, she was permanently disbarred. Tess wondered why this fact, which she had accepted all her life, should suddenly make her melancholy.

No matter! She returned to her bed, picked up the jewels, and locked them safely away. Sir Morgan had entrusted her with the necklace, for whatever reasons, and she would keep it for him until he requested its return. The countess was not of a temperament to envision bogymen lurking behind each bush, and not of a cast of mind to condemn her fellow man; she no more considered that possession of stolen jewels placed her in a very ticklish situation than she berated Sir Morgan for involving her in an undertaking that was dangerous. In fact, Tess’s overall view of this abominable fix was that here was adventure more exciting than any she’d ever dreamed.

Chapter 8

Sir Morgan, had he been privileged to know of it, might have been highly diverted by the fact that he was playing havoc with the thoughts of three highly disparate females; but that gentleman, accustomed from the cradle to making mincemeat of ladylike scruples, wasted little time in contemplating his conquests, particularly not when engaged at Gentleman Jackson’s Bond Street boxing saloon, where he displayed himself to such good advantage that several young bucks were stricken with severe cases of hero worship and determined on the spot to emulate him. A regular out-and-outer was Sir Morgan, up to all the rigs, with a very handy bunch of fives; and if his reputation in other matters was a trifle unsavory, it was not to be regarded in so notable a Corinthian.

It was not Sir Morgan’s reputation that concerned Drusilla, but his conduct toward herself, which had been a great deal more circumspect than she cared to admit. At first Drusilla had tried to convince herself that such restraint sprang from the high regard in which he held her, but she was speedily forced to admit that this air-dreaming was unworthy of even her young nephew. Morgan might allow her to accompany him on explorations of the worst parts of town; he might gratify her by appearing at her side at routs and balls when no more exotic entertainment was at hand; but he never by so much as a word or gesture indicated that his emotions were seriously involved. Drusilla was being driven frantic by such elusiveness; and her temper was farther exacerbated by the marked approval that he displayed toward Tess. Since the countess could hardly enlighten the world regarding the nature of that interest—to wit, one valuable diamond necklace—Drusilla planned and schemed.

As did Mistress Clio, halfway across the town, and with such fervor that she was oblivious of the signal honor accorded her in being transported in the duke’s phaeton highflyer with its towering wheels and yellow wings, a vehicle that was hardly designed to hold two adults, a child, and a large dog, but which Evelyn apostrophized as being bang-up to the nines. Clio was also blind to the various fascinations of London as expounded upon by that lad, including traveling fairs with mountebanks and bearded women and wirewalkers, Punch-and-Judy entertainments, dancing bears, and circus menageries. So preoccupied was Clio that she didn’t even spare a glance for one of London’s splendid mail coaches, painted maroon and black with scarlet wheels, the royal coat of arms emblazoned on its doors.

They arrived at last at Astley’s Royal Amphitheater, in Lambeth’s Westminster Bridge Road. Though the exterior was unimposing, being fashioned of ships’ masts and spars with a canvas ceiling stretched on fir poles and lashed together with ropes, Clio was informed by the duke that Astley’s—which had been founded in the previous century as a riding school and the first Royal Circus—had been twice burned down and rebuilt only a few years past as the handsomest pleasure haunt in London. Evelyn promised that the sights to be seen within were little short of miraculous. Nidget wagged his tail enthusiastically.

“Astley’s,” added the duke, after assuring the burly individual who appeared to be in charge that Nidget was docile and well-behaved and could be trusted to neither bark nor slip his leash, “is noted for entertainments based on horsemanship and superb equestrian feats.” Clio looked puzzled. “Trick riding,” he explained, exhibiting neither dismay at her ignorance nor any hint of the boredom that constantly plagued him.

“How nice.” Clio wondered how to introduce the various matters that concerned her. Had Mistress Clio been one to pass time in contemplation of the masculine admiration which came her way, she might have found it odd—as would many of the duke’s acquaintances—that so top-lofty a gentleman should engage himself for several hours in such mundane pursuits and with such lowly company. However, she did not question it, and looked around her with curiosity.

The interior of the amphitheater was truly splendid, especially when viewed from their vantage seat, and lit by a huge chandelier containing fifty patent lamps. Clio stared at the ring of sawdust, separated from the orchestra on a very large stage and framed by a proscenium arch as high as the gallery above the three tiers of boxes; then turned to glance at Evelyn, chattering in his excitement like a magpie. “It is a pity,” she said, abruptly taking the plunge, “that my, uh, companion could not accompany us. Tess likes horses more than almost anything.”

“She is certainly an accomplished rider,” replied Giles smoothly, after warning Evelyn to keep firm hold of his misbegotten hound. “For which I’m sure you deserve no little credit. You are very good to your companion, cousin! I hope she is grateful for it.”

“I am?” inquired Clio, mystified.

“Come, come, cousin! You needn’t be modest with
me,
although I’m sure it does you credit.” There was a disturbing twinkle in the duke’s dark eye. “Few females in your friend’s position would have the opportunity to gain such expertise. Her duties must be very light.”

“Oh,
that
!
”
Clio laughed rather hollowly. This deception was proving horridly difficult to maintain. “Tess is no mere servant, Your Grace! She has been like an elder sister to me.”

“I repeat, it does you credit. There are many who would find such a creature—I refer to her disability, of course!—painful to look upon.”

Clio frowned. This attitude was not only uncharitable, it did not bode well for her plans. “Pooh!” she said. “I do not regard it, and I am surprised that you should! Tess is the most excellent of companions—and, anyway, it is vulgar to be always looking joyful and full of glee and to be tearing about like a madcap.”

“True,” agreed Giles, apparently chastised.

“I do not think,” added Clio, skillfully laying siege, “that anyone could consider Tess vulgar! It would be most unfortunate if
you
were to hold her in such poor esteem, when she thinks so highly of you.”

“She does?” The duke raised his brows.

“She does.” Blithely, Clio perjured herself. “Tess and I are bosom bows, and she confided to me that she greatly enjoys your company.”

“Oh?” Clio was encouraged by the duke’s startled expression. “Then I am flattered.”

“And so should you be!” It occurred to Clio that so proud a gentleman was hardly likely to consider allying himself with a woman of Tess’s supposed situation in life. “I will tell you, though I should not, that Tess is a great deal more than she seems.”

“Ah!” Giles looked suitably intrigued. “The mystery of her birth, I apprehend?”

“Exactly!” Clio was pleased with his intelligence. “You understand that I can say nothing now—circumstances prohibit my speaking—but I hope to soon make the entire matter clear. And
then
Tess may take her rightful place in Society!” Carried away with her own inventiveness, Clio sighed. “Poor Tess! To be denied her true station for so long.”

“One might almost,” the duke offered obligingly, “call it a tragedy.”

“Definitely a tragedy! You have no idea.” Clio lowered her voice. “I trust you to say nothing of this, but when that happy day dawns, my dear Tess will not be considered ineligible for marriage with any lord in the land.”

“Marriage?” Giles looked positively fascinated. “She is on the lookout for a husband, then?”

Clio laughed merrily. “What woman isn’t?” she parried, speaking for herself. “It must be very depressing to find oneself on the shelf.” She leaned closer. “It is not only Tess’s birth that renders her eminently eligible! It must remain our secret, but my companion is not without means.”

Giles might have asked why such a paragon should so efface herself but, being of a Mephistophelean disposition and finding in Mistress Clio’s utterances greater artistry than in the spectacles being enacted in the sawdust ring, he refrained. “Cousin,” he remarked, with the utmost sincerity, “you astonish me! I would like to hear more of this companion of yours.”

“Alas,” mourned Clio, her imaginative powers exhausted, “I can say no more! In truth, I have already told you far too much! I beg you will not reveal to Tess your awareness of her situation.” Upon receiving his assurance that his lips were sealed, she allowed herself a sad little smile. “I shall miss her sadly. Tess is the perfect companion, always understanding perfectly what one means to say and entering into one’s sentiments, always willing to listen to one’s troubles and offer sound advice—the ideal person with whom to share one’s life, in short!”