Maggie MacKeever (16 page)

Currently, Mr. Thorne was not engaged at the table of green cloth, but was ingesting a light repast of boiled fowl, oyster sauce, and apple tart. With it he drank only water, in hope of maintaining a cool outlook. Marmaduke suspected he had grave need of such an outlook. Moreover, he suspected also that he stood on very shaky ground, though he was not certain how his unenviable position had come about.

It was as Mr. Thorne pondered the quicksand that threatened to engulf him that his nephew burst in upon his thoughts. “Hah!” cried Rolf, panting slightly from exertion. “There you are, Uncle Duke! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“You have found me, nephew.” Another day, decided Mr. Thorne, he would determine whether or not to embrace his threatening fate. “My felicitations. May one inquire why?”

“Why what?” Tired of waiting for an invitation, Lord Sweetbriar pulled up a chair. “I wish to talk to you, Uncle Duke. About a delicate subject!”

“Ah.” Foreseeing that the conversation would not be of short duration, and anticipating that its course would be tortuous, Mr. Thorne abandoned his resolution to maintain sobriety. “Pray continue,” he suggested, after instructing a waiter to fetch them some wine.

Despite his uncle’s generous invitation, Lord Sweetbriar did not immediately speak. No hesitancy about the justice of his intended comments stilled his tongue, nor uncertainty concerning what he wished to say. Several times had Rolf already rehearsed the main thrust of his speech, the last occasion having prompted much comment among the doorman, hall porter, and turbaned Negro page who collected hats and coats, all of whom were unanimously convinced that his lordship was a Bedlamite. No, Rolf’s silence was due to neither reticence nor qualm. Simply, his speech was impeded by ingestion of his uncle’s apple tart.

Only when the last crumb had been daintily dispatched did Rolf lean back in his chair, rest his plump hands upon the most violently hued, horizontally striped waistcoat ever to be indiscreetly sported by a young gentleman of ample girth, and emit a gentle burp. Having thus expressed his appreciation of the apple tart, he proceeded to the next item on his agenda. “Uncle Duke, I demand to know your intentions!” he proclaimed.

 “My intentions?” Mr. Thorne gazed with vast approval upon the waiter who had returned with the wine, and fortified himself with a liberal libation. “Intentions toward whom, nephew?”

“Toward Lady Regina, of course!” Though it had not been offered to him, Rolf grasped the wine bottle. “She ain’t one of your straw damsels, Uncle Duke.”

Perhaps it was the wine which prompted Mr. Thorne’s next remark, perhaps his nephew’s unflattering hints that he was preoccupied with sin. “Not yet she isn’t!” Marmaduke said, perversely. So that Rolf might not fail to grasp that he shared a table with a villain, Duke adopted a dastardly sneer.

Though Lord Sweetbriar did not possess the world’s keenest powers of observation, he found his uncle’s meaning monstrously clear. Consequently his jaw dropped so far open that his chin rested on his intricately tied cravat. “You don’t mean that! You can’t! Fiend seize you, Uncle Duke!”

“What’s that?” Mr. Thorne reclaimed the bottle, refilled his glass. “I see what it is. Though your affections lie now with another, you still feel a responsibility for Lady Regina. Your sentiments do you credit, nephew. But you need not concern yourself over the chit.”

Nor did Lord Sweetbriar fail to grasp the fact that he was in a pickle. Did he explain to his Uncle Duke that Miss Clough was not the focus of his affections, Duke would in turn convey that intelligence to both Nikki and Lady Regina herself. But if he did
not
explain, Rolf had no good reason to take his uncle to task. ‘The deuce!” he muttered. A horrid possibility struck him, “You ain’t thinking of getting leg-shackled, Uncle Duke?”

“To Lady Regina? You may make yourself easy on that head!” Mr. Thorne recalled the role that he was playing, and reverted to a less appalled tone. “The cream of the jest is that she only took up with me to get a rise out of you—she was jealous of your interest in Miss Clough.”

Lord Sweetbriar’s puzzled features brightened. “She
was?
I say, Uncle Duke!”

“Oh, she isn’t anymore.” As result of his deviousness, Mr. Thorne suffered faint pangs of guilt. “I'll warrant I can keep Lady Regina out of your way while you attach the affections of Miss Clough.”

“But I don’t want—” Constitutionally unsuited to intrigue, Lord Sweetbriar mopped at his damp brow. “That is, you needn’t go to all that trouble, Uncle Duke.”

“'Tis no trouble at all. You are my nephew.” What would a true villain do at this point? Marmaduke attempted a lascivious wink. “And the chit
is
a tasty piece.”

“A—” So shocked was Rolf by this inelegant description of his beloved that words cannot adequately describe his mental state. Perhaps he had mistook his uncle’s meaning? “After I have, er, attached the affections of Miss Clough,
then
what?” he inquired.

Looking very dastardly, Mr. Thorne shrugged. “Lady Regina will not wear the willow long,” he predicted indifferently.

By this indication that his uncle meant to play fast and loose with his beloved, Lord Sweetbriar was even more horrified. Indeed, so very angered was he that all vestiges of commonsense fled his overheated brain. Clumsily he leapt to his feet, adopted what he fancied was a pugilistic stance. “I demand satisfaction, Uncle Duke!” he cried.

Upon reception of this invitation to engage in fisticuffs, Mr. Thorne looked less dismayed than amused, though Lord Sweetbriar’s sudden display of belligerence did cause several of their fellow diners some digestive distress. “Just like your father,” remarked Marmaduke, eyeing his nephew’s posture, which had in it nothing that suggested any familiarity with the noble art of self-defense. “Reuben was prone to take distempered freaks. If you insist on engaging in a brangle with me, so be it, but I doubt Raggett would be best pleased if we got to milling here.”

Recalled by these words to a sense of his surroundings, and awareness of the disapproving glances of which he was the focus, Lord Sweetbriar hastily reclaimed his seat. Gloomily he observed his uncle. “I suppose you have a very handy bunch of fives.”

“I do.” Mr. Thorne made a complacent fist. “Gentleman Jackson complimented me on my science just the other day. Don’t fear, nephew, I shan’t let that stand in our way. Why, just the other day I offered to carve your heart out for someone.” He looked thoughtful. “I think it was Miss Clough.”

Maybe if no more mention were made of fisticuffs, Lord Sweetbriar’s uncle would let his rash suggestion pass. “Why should Clytie want my heart carved out?” wondered Rolf, in plaintive tones inspired by visions of himself receiving a rare pummeling from his uncle’s handy fists. “I thought we was friends.”

“‘Friends’?” echoed Mr. Thorne. “‘Friend’ is a mild word to describe the object of your affections, Rolf.”

“Was we talking about Lady Regina?” Lord Sweetbriar’s confusion was helped to clear by the quizzical look on his uncle’s face. “I have it, you mean Clytie. Dashed if I don’t think at least one of us is foxed, Uncle Duke.” This ignoble suggestion was not without foundation. As they talked, the gentlemen had imbibed apace, and were currently sharing their third bottle of wine.

“One of us is a trifle confused, certainly,” allowed Mr. Thorne—who among his other virtues numbered a very strong head. “Which of them
do
you want, nephew? Lady Regina or Miss Clough? I do not mean to stand in your way, but you cannot have them both. There is a law against such things. Unless you were thinking of setting up your—”

“Uncle Duke!” By the suggestion that he was desirous of mounting a mistress, Lord Sweetbriar was mortified. “I ain’t in the petticoat line. Yes, and who is it you’re calling bachelor’s fare? I’ll have you know that Lady Regina is a well-brought-up young woman, sir.”

A certain irate glitter lit Marmaduke’s own blue eye. “And Miss Clough is not?” he ominously inquired. “You are very close to going beyond the line of being pleasing, Rolf.”

“And you ain’t
^?
” Lord Sweetbriar unwisely retorted, before recalling his uncle’s pugilistic prowess. “That is, Clytie is a very good sort of girl. Fine as fivepence. First-rate. But dash it, sir! You mustn’t offer Lady Regina false coin.”

Had Mr. Thorne his preference, he would never again have offered Lady Regina even the time of day. Never had he endured the company of so tiresome a female. Why Rolf wanted her—and that Rolf did want her, Duke was now convinced, despite Nikki’s declarations that Rolf must have Miss Clough—Duke could not imagine, but he had made his best efforts in the behalf of romance. Privately, he thought he was doing it a little too brown, but Rolf had been slow to rise to the bait. However, he’d finally got the point across.

To underscore that point, Duke musingly remarked: “Do you fear Lady Regina will make a nuisance of herself once I have cast her off? There is the possibility that she may try to reattach you. Your bride might fairly object to such goings-on—because of course I will not give Lady Regina her congé until after you have married Miss Clough.” Ruminatively, he tapped his fingers on his wine glass. “Perhaps I
should
invite the chit to toss her bonnet over the windmill. Then she would not dare pester anyone, I think.”

“Windmill? Pester?” Only the need to persuade his uncle against this dastardly plan of action kept Lord Sweetbriar from springing anew to his feet. “Dashed if you ain’t a regular out-and-outer, Uncle Duke.”

“Am I to take that to mean you don’t think it necessary that I offer the Foliot chit a slip on the shoulder?” Mr. Thorne inquired. “You relieve me, nephew.”

Lord Sweetbriar’s belligerent expression did not noticeably lighten. “Why the devil you should be relieved, I don’t know!” he snapped. “You sound like you don’t
want to
seduce Lady Regina. As if she ain’t a diamond of the first water! An acknowledged beauty! A—a nonpareil!”

“Ah.” Mr. Thorne wore an air of enlightenment. “You
do
want me to invite her to toss her bonnet over the windmill, then.”

“No, I don’t!” Lord Sweetbriar became aware of his uncle’s smile. “Are you bamming me, Uncle Due? If you are, it is very bad of you, because I already have quite enough to worry about.”

Though Mr. Thorne could not admit that he had indeed been talking a great deal of nonsense without undoing his own good work, he could refrain from further agitating his nephew’s feelings now that his point had been made. Therefore, he changed the subject. “Why did you tell Nikki that I’m after your money?” he inquired.

Temporarily diverted from the problems heaped high upon his plate, Rolf stared at his uncle. “Ain’t you?”

“No, I ain’t.” Mr. Thorne grimaced. “I mean, I am not. Shall I give you some advice, Rolf? Let Nikki keep her baubles. In Russia, every woman has rights over her own fortune, totally independent of her husband.”

“Good gad!” ejaculated Lord Sweetbriar. “They
are
barbarians.”

To calm his burgeoning impatience, Mr. Thorne embarked upon an artistic rearrangement of dishes and cutlery and empty wine bottles. “Reuben should have left the jewels to Nikki in the first place.”

“Yes, but he
didn’t!”
It irritated Rolf that everyone, with the exception of his beloved, seemed anxious to take Nikki’s part. “And Lady Regina—”

“Curse Lady Regina!” interrupted Mr. Thorne. To speak in such unappreciative tones about the young woman with whom he was engaged in a flirtation, no matter how laborious, was not the thing, he realized. To atone for his outburst, Duke added: “Darling that she is.”

Darling? Certainly Lady Regina was a darling, Lord Sweetbriar’s own. Was everyone in the world conspiring against them? First Nikki, with her uncooperative attitude toward the Sweetbriar jewels, and now Marmaduke.

There must be some way to prevent Regina falling victim to his uncle’s evil schemes without revealing that the attendance Rolf danced on Miss Clough was all a sham. Lord Sweetbriar was no saint. Lady Regina had wounded his feelings by the preference she displayed for his uncle. Rolf wanted to wound her feelings a little in return.

All the same, Rolf did not want Lady Regina’s feelings to be so badly wounded as they must be by continued exposure to the conscienceless Marmaduke. There was only one solution to this dilemma. Duke must be diverted. Rolf’s thoughts flew immediately to the most distracting female he knew. “I don’t know if you know it, Uncle Duke, but Nikki still nourishes very warm feelings for you.”

Mr. Thorne’s expression was not especially grateful. “Cut line, Rolf.”

“I ain’t spinning you a Banbury tale, truly, Uncle Duke.” So anxious was Rolf to persuade his uncle of this untruth that he looked paradoxically earnest. “It is quite midsummer moon with her, I swear it! She wouldn’t tell you so herself, lest you didn’t share her partiality.”

Very hard, Mr. Thorne tried to persuade himself that his nephew had windmills in his head. “You seem to have forgotten Nikki’s betrothal.”

So he had. How beat to explain that most inconvenient detail? “Yes, but you wasn’t in the country then!” Rolf reasonably pointed out. “Doubtless Nikki didn’t
know
she was still hankering after you because she hadn’t seen you in so many years. Everyone knows she and Clough ain’t making a love match. But you must not blame yourself, Uncle Duke. Even though I’ll be dashed if this ain’t the
worst
of Nikki’s scrapes!”

Despite his nephew’s assurances that he must not blame himself for Lady Sweetbriar’s partiality, Mr. Thorne was not absolved. He felt a responsibility for Nikki. Too, he recalled his suspicion that she was under the hatches, a dilemma in which she apparently didn’t feel she could apply to her fiancé for assistance. That Mr. Thorne should feel culpable as result of his sister-in-law’s renewed interest was what Lord Sweetbriar had intended, of course. He had not anticipated, however, that the next day would find his uncle calling not on Lady Sweetbriar, but Miss Clough.

When advised that a gentleman visitor awaited her in the morning room, Miss Clough bit off an annoyed exclamation and dismissed her servant before that worthy could enlighten her as to the caller’s identity. Clytie’s ill-temper was not surprising, in light of Lord Sweetbriar’s newly developed habit of treating her home as if it were an extension of his own. Though she was fond of Rolf, Clytie had grown weary of his incessant carping on the topic of Lady Regina Foliot. And so she would tell him, Miss Clough resolved, as she walked down the hallway.