Maggie MacKeever (23 page)

“My apologies!” Sir Morgan was striken with mortification. “I quite see that I am at fault! Do you wish me to have him released?”

“Would
you?” Tess contemplated him.

“I will do anything you ask of me, little one! Do you not think that, with this villain in jail, these threats to you may cease?”

Tess considered this, not at all pleased to have her adventure end so tamely. With an odd little smile, Sir Morgan watched the various expressions that flitted across her face. “No,” she decided, at length. “I do
not
think so. Doubtless there are others involved, and they will not be so easily brought to a standstill. This one was not very clever—a bumbler, in fact! I do not think he could be responsible for the original theft. Nor do I think we should have him released, lest someone smell a rat.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” remarked Sir Morgan truthfully.

“I have not even thanked you!” Tess was aghast. “It seems that all my life you have been rescuing me.”

“I would very much like to continue doing so!” Sir Morgan replied promptly, but to no avail.

“Heigh-ho!” said the countess softly, again touching her gems. “Obviously, that man thought
this
was the necklace he was to reclaim. The poor thing must have been growing desperate! I hope he may not be induced to tell the whole to the magistrates at Bow Street.”

“Why not?” inquired Sir Morgan. “Myself, I would be glad to see this thing end.”

“If that isn’t the height of ingratitude!” Tess regarded him indignantly. “If the man
does
talk he is likely to involve you—although, now that I think of it, he probably does not know of your part.” Her voice was solemn. “You need not trouble yourself further, if you would rather not. I daresay I can manage well enough on my own.”

“Can you?” countered Sir Morgan. “May I remind you that only moments past you were nearly divested of your diamonds? They
are
your diamonds?”

Tess looked bewildered. “Of course they’re mine! Don’t try to change the subject! I do not wish you to feel
obligated
to me.”

“My love, I am not so chivalrous, as you yourself have remarked.” Sir Morgan placed her hand on his arm and held it there. “Whatever feelings I may cherish toward you, a sense of duty is not among them.”

“Oh,” said Tess.

“I was merely thinking,” Sir Morgan continued blandly, “that those jewels are rather grand for a poor companion. Lord Lansbury must have been extremely generous to you.”

“What makes you think,” brightly inquired Tess, “that Lord Lansbury gave them to me?”

“It was one of your countless lovers, I collect? You should know better than to try and fob
me
off with such a Banbury tale, little one! May I recall to you my great experience?”

“Very well.” An unaccustomed meekness sat on the countess’s face. “It was Lord Lansbury who gave them to me, on my eighteenth birthday. Well, you know how he was! When you took me to him, after that accident, he was as concerned as if I had been one of his own!”

“Precisely,” Sir Morgan murmured dryly. “And you a penniless orphan!”

“Yes.” Tess was rapt. “I have often thought I was very fortunate to be taken in by so kind a gentleman.”

“And
I
think,” retorted Sir Morgan roughly, “that Lord Lansbury brought up a very reprehensible daughter, Countess!”

“So he did,” sighed Tess. “I should not say it, I know, but it is very comforting to know that someone feels as I do about Clio!”

“Vixen!” hissed Sir Morgan, under his breath. But the curate had at last caught up with his quarry, and Tess turned on him a look so brimful of merriment that Shamus completely forgot what he’d meant to say.

Chapter 18

Clio knew she looked her best in a gown of gossamer satin with festooned trimming, bordered with rouleaux of rose-pink satin and slashed sleeves, and a little cap ornamented with rosebuds on her dark curls; and she meant to turn it to good advantage. “Ceddie!” she said, and awarded him a melting glance. “Forgive me for being so out-of-reason cross with you! Pray let us be friends again.”

Cedric had little inclination to resume association with a damsel who’d been so unappreciative as to call him a “man-milliner,” but he was very much afraid that she’d cut up stiff if he refused, and Ceddie had no wish to engage in a brangle in the middle of Almack’s assembly rooms.
Entrée
to this select temple of the
ton
was not easily come by; a shocking amount of intrigue and subterfuge were required to gain footing within these walls; and those unfortunate enough to have never received vouchers to the Wednesday evening subscription balls were regarded as utterly unfashionable.

Ceddie couldn’t understand why it should be that way, for Almack’s consisted of a large bare room with a bad floor, and two or three naked rooms at the side in which were served the most wretched refreshments—lemonade and tea, bread and butter and stale cakes—but he was not one to fly in the face of convention. Almack’s was all the crack;
he
would not be the one to announce that it was devilish flat.

“Well?” Clio’s patience was wearing thin. She studied Ceddie, who was attired in the knee breeches and striped stockings, blue coat with very long tails, and white waistcoat which were
de rigeur
for an evening spent on these premises. The effect was not as conventional as might be imagined, since Ceddie had also placed a patch at the corner of his mouth, a gold chain and quizzing glass around his neck, and stays around his midriff so that he resembled a pouter pigeon. “Shall we cry friends, Ceddie?”

“If that it what you wish.” He looked sulky. “Dash it, Clio, it ain’t like you to behave so shabbily.”

Mistress Clio had a headache that threatened to crack her skull, and her malaise was heightened by Ceddie’s sweet perfume. “I have said I am sorry.” She tried for a look of wounded innocence. “Dear Ceddie, I have a great deal on my mind! Poor Tess—but you will not wish to hear of
that!”

Ceddie wanted very much to hear about the wealthy countess. Under Constant’s tutorage—that gentleman had proven as good as his word and had introduced his young friend to every conceivable form of depravity—Ceddie’s accounts had gone from bad to worse and were now of the most despondent cast. “Certainly I do!” he responded. “I mean, glad to be of help!”

Clio suspected that Ceddie’s notion of assistance was to help himself to her sister’s fortune, and she felt as though she walked a tightrope. “It is Sir Morgan,” she said, with unaffected gloom. “He has made her an object of great curiosity—her name is being bandied about in the most odious way.” She raised huge, damply shining eyes. “Oh, Ceddie, it is the most appalling thing! I don’t know what to do!”

“Shocking!” Ceddie’s fertile mind worked rapidly. “Tell you what, Clio, we must rescue her from this fix!”

“If only we could,” sighed Clio. “The thing is, Ceddie, she doesn’t
wish
to be rescued!” Mistress Clio did, however, and from the course of action that she herself had determined upon. If only a more reasonable resolution would present itself—but none had. Clio was left in the unhappy position of being forced to rescue her sister from a rake (Sir Morgan), a fortune hunter (Ceddie), and her own baser self. Further, Tess must be made to see that Clio did not wish to marry Giles, which was a refutation of the truth: Clio did wish to marry him, very much. Idly, she wondered what Giles wished to do.

No matter! Her mind was made up. Two of the evils she could dispel, by means of a little resolution. The third, alas, was beyond even her capacities. Clio could only trust to fate.

From long experience with Mistress Clio, Ceddie should have recognized immediately that she was set on cutting a wheedle; but he was engaged in schemes of ransoms and handsome payoffs and failed to heed the warning signs. “Dash it!” he uttered, with honest regret. “There must be something we can do!”

“Oh, Ceddie, you
will
help me?” Clio’s pleading glance would have moved the heart of a much harder man. “Have I your word on it?”

“My word?” sputtered Ceddie. “Deuce take it, Clio, why do you need my word?”

“You don’t trust me.” Clio looked ready to cry.

“It’s not that—oh, very well! If it will make you happy, I swear I’ll help you!” No sooner were the words out than Ceddie knew he’d made a dreadful mistake.

“Excellent!” Clio was all smiles. “I must tell you, Ceddie, that you and I are going to elope.”

Not all of the members of the Bellamy clan graced Almack’s that night, although the committee of seven high-born ladies, who ruled there with such absolute authority that they alone had the power of granting vouchers of admission, had denied entrance to no one. The dowager duchess had no taste for such tame pursuits; the duke was engaged in more serious affairs of government; and Lucille, having surprised a housebreaker, remained at Bellamy House where she enlivened her mother’s tedium by occasional fainting fits. Constant was present, watching with a careful eye the maturation of his plans; and Drusilla stood just behind the ropes that separated the dancers from the spectators, none other than the Wicked Baronet at her side. This fact afforded Mistress Clio scant comfort; the pair of them did not appear to be on particularly amiable terms.

Drusilla’s ill-temper, which showed clearly on her face, resulted from Sir Morgan’s obvious indifference to her, as well as from Tess’s inexplicable popularity with the lady patronesses, all of whom had deigned to exchange several words with her. That Tess should be admitted here, a distinction greater than being presented at court and more difficult to obtain, was to Drusilla incomprehensible; and that Tess should have become the fashion, which she undeniably had, made Drusilla wish to gnash her teeth in rage. She could not understand why a creature without social graces should be so popular with such discriminating individuals as Lady Cowper and Mr. Brummell and Lord Palmerston, or why Lord Alvanley should be content to spend some twenty minutes in conversation with a female whose hair was coming unpinned.

Sir Morgan looked amused, Drusilla having been so foolish as to make her sentiments known. “You cannot like Tess?” he asked. “Your opinion must be your own, of course; I cannot agree.”

“No?” Drusilla shot him a darkling glance. “You have a decided partiality for her, I collect? Gammon, Morgan! I know you a little too well to rise to
that
bait. Lud, it should be apparent to anyone that she’s not in your style! No, you care not in the slightest for that simpering creature, and there is no point in trying to persuade me otherwise.”

“I can see there is not.” Sir Morgan might have been discussing the weather, so disinterested was he. “Therefore, I shall not waste time in telling you that I have a great regard for her.” He studied Tess, across the crowded room. “I must, however, take exception to ‘simpering.’ Whatever the lady’s faults—and I freely admit that she
does
have faults, Drusilla!—she does not simper. Nor does she act missish, or strike poses, or play insipid little games.” His glance flickered over Drusilla. “There is the answer, I fancy, to your earlier question. The lady possesses a refreshing originality.”

“In other words,” snapped Drusilla, “she’s an oddity!” It occurred to her that one did not effect a reconciliation with a gentleman by ripping up at him. “There’s no sense in trying to pull the wool over my eyes, Morgan! Sapphira has told me what she asked of you. You are to divert the wench from Giles. How nice that you should have found something to occupy yourself!”

“Isn’t it?” Sir Morgan smoothed a flawless sleeve. “I couldn’t resist the challenge—and I fancy I’ve done tolerably well.”

“Mr. Facing-both-ways!” hissed Drusilla, driven wild with jealousy by the suggestion that the Wicked Baronet’s deft addresses were not falling on deaf ears.

“Pray moderate your manner!” begged Sir Morgan. “I would not wish word of this to reach the lady, lest all my efforts go for naught.” His smile seemed positively evil. “It will not be long now, I think! But I must leave you now, Drusilla. You will accept my regrets?”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“To rescue my Tess from her prosy curate.” Again that disquieting little smile. “It will make her even more grateful to me.”

This was only logical; Drusilla tapped his arm with her fan. “I vow you are the most impudent devil that ever existed!” she said, with a meaningful glance. “You will understand if I do not wish you success?”

Sir Morgan gravely inclined his head. “Perfectly.” Drusilla watched him disappear into the crowd. Even Constant’s barbed comments could not move her now; she knew Tess’s ultimate discomfort—nay, fall from grace!—to be only a matter of time.

In regard to discomfort, however, it was doubtful that the countess could endure a greater degree than was currently her lot. The worthy Shamus had listened patiently to her discourse on Wellington’s reconnaissance of the situation at Badajoz, during which he narrowly avoided capture by the enemy; and the marvelous recuperative power of the French army which, inspired by Napoleon’s wrath, sought to recoup the loss of Alameida; and when she paused for breath launched into a dissertation of his own. From a discussion of the countess’s various attributes, all of which admirably qualified her for the role of curate’s wife, Shamus launched into a candid confession of his own sentiments regarding her, and voiced an earnest request that Lady Tess should allow him to shoulder her burdens and become her partner for life.

“Gracious!” said Tess, to whom this nicely phrased proposal sounded very much like an invitation to enter a prison cell. “What can you be thinking of, Shamus, to make me an offer at
Almack’s?”

“I have always deprecated,” replied the curate in his weighty manner, “this tendency toward levity. I cannot think it quite the thing. But I flatter myself that, when you allow yourself to be guided by me, we will deal together very well.”

“You flatter yourself, indeed!” The countess’s suitor was not a little startled by her vicious tone. “So I am to be made into a pattern card of respectability?”

“That is not the way I would phrase it,” Shamus replied judiciously, “though it is true, my dear Lady Tess, that your conduct since you have come to London has been a trifle reckless. You will forgive me, I know, if I say that your association with a gentleman of poor reputation is a subject that has gained some observation in the world. In all conscience, I must go so far as to say that he is to blame for your notoriety, which I can only consider shockingly reprehensible! He is precisely the sort of man to encourage you in every sort of excess, doing you a great disservice thereby.”