Maggie MacKeever (17 page)

The caller stood at the window, in a glare of bright sunlight. Miss Clough frowned, then blinked. Doubtless she was dazzled by the brightness. For a moment, it seemed Rolf had altered amazingly in outline. “What new disaster has now beset us?” she inquired. “Or have you come to tell me we may put an end to this absurd charade?”

His mood considerably elevated by this odd welcome, Mr. Thorne stepped out of the blinding sunlight. “If only I might. It will not be much longer, I trust.”

Stunned by the magnitude of her error—how could everyone have mistaken Marmaduke Thorne for his foppish nephew?—Clytie gasped. “I beg your pardon, sir. I thought—”

“I know what you thought.” Marmaduke caught her hands, smiled down into her startled face. “My darling, I already knew you don’t care two figs for my nephew. You couldn’t. In truth, I wonder that anyone might.”

In response to these sentiments, which accorded so closely with her own, Miss Clough’s lips twitched. Then she recalled the extent of Mr. Theme’s infamy. “Lady Regina
did
care for him!” she sternly pointed out. “Before you alienated—”

“Fudge!” interrupted Marmaduke, as he drew Clytie across the oaken floor and settled her in one of the arched-back chairs. Then he drew up another chair for himself, so closely that their knees almost touched. “I did no such thing. It was you who set off this imbroglio.”

“I?” Clytie echoed blankly. At such close quarters, Mr. Thorne had a distinctly intoxicating effect. “Fiddlestick! Oh, you mean because Rolf took me up in his carriage when he should have taken Regina instead. That was not my doing, but Nikki’s.” Mention of Lady Sweetbriar recalled Clytie’s suspicions. Coolly, she added: “If you are looking for Nikki, sir, she is not here.”

“Is Nikki often here?” Mr. Thorne inquired, as he casually took possession of Miss Clough’s left hand.

“Often?” Perhaps it was her failure to take a nuncheon that left Clytie feeling light-headed. “Daily, I should think. What with decisions concerning China papers and painted silks—to say nothing of bow-fronted chests and what-nots—and I am forgetting the most important selection of oval, shield, or heart-shaped chair backs. With fillings of leaves or drapery or vases, honeysuckle or wheat ears. Papa has told Nikki she may refurbish us, sir.”

Mr. Thorne had spent the preceding interval in quiet contemplation of his hostess’s endearingly faint freckles, lovely sandy hair, and incomparable brown eyes. “You do not need refurbishing, Miss Clough.”

Miss Clough? Scant moments past she had been his darling. For prudence’s sake, this tête-à-tête should be brought to a quick conclusion, Clytie decided. Bluntly she inquired what had brought Mr. Thorne to Clough House. “You did, Clytie,” he replied.

Due to the maddening manner in which her thoughts were prone to wander under the influence of Mr. Thorne, Miss Clough was growing very annoyed with herself. “Why should you seek me out?” she snapped. “Aren’t Nikki and Lady Regina sufficient— Drat! First you provoke me into saying the most rag-mannered things, and then you laugh! Mr. Thorne, you are a very aggravating man.”

“So you have said before, or words of a similar nature.” Marmaduke continued to grin. “What a merry time we shall have, if ever this bumblebath is resolved. That is why I have come to you, Clytie; so we may put our heads together and see if we can devise some sort of solution to our fix.”

Not for the purpose of arriving at solutions did Miss Clough yearn to put her head together with that of Mr. Thorne, an appalling realization that caused her to blush. Marmaduke brushed his fingers across one rosy cheek. Clytie was amazed to feel her skin tingle. A trifle tardily, she jerked away. “Are we in a fix?” she feebly inquired.

Not only Miss Clough’s skin tingled; Mr. Thorne gazed with some surprise upon his fingertips. “More of a fix than I had suspected,” he replied. “We may blame Nikki for the most of it. She is the one who decided Lady Regina must not have Rolf. Now you are looking wary again, Clytie. Next I suppose you will order me shown the door. Just yesterday Rolf invited me to engage in fisticuffs. It seems everyone is trying to stir coals.”

“Did
you engage in fisticuffs with Rolf?” Wary as Miss Clough might look, she had no intention of ordering her guest shown out.

Mr. Thorne sounded rueful. “Have a mill with my own nephew? What a high opinion you hold of me! No, Miss Clough, I did not. Nor will I, no matter how strong the temptation to box the gudgeon’s ears. Why, you will ask, did Rolf issue me such an invitation? It was a mere fuss about trifles. My nephew decided I harbor improper intentions toward Lady Regina, and was consequently feeling very cross.”

That reaction, Miss Clough understood. “Do you harbor such intentions, sir?”

“Toward Lady Regina? Good God, no!” Mr. Thorne’s sincerity could not be held in doubt. His manner abruptly altered. “Were we discussing
you—”

“But we are not discussing me.” It took every iota of Clytie’s willpower to make her manner firm. “We were talking about Rolf. Lady Regina is using you to make him jealous, I credit, just as he is using me? As well as to keep Nikki from forcing us upon one another. What a dreadful business this is! I wish we were well out of it—or rather, that
I
was.”

Mr. Thorne gazed in a somewhat morose manner upon one of the tapestry panels set between silver sconces on the wall. “As do I, Miss Clough.” So very solemn was his tone that it earned him a startled glance. The situation was even more muddled than Clytie realized, he thought. If only he could explain. But a gentleman’s honor forbade him telling one lady that another lady’s rekindled ardor threatened to set all at naught.

Her caller looked as if weighty considerations exercised his mind, decided Miss Clough, whose own thoughts were proceeding in a more rational manner now that she had become accustomed to Mr. Thorne’s presence in her papa’s morning room. Mr. Thorne could only enhance any chamber that he graced, she mused. His muscular figure and swarthy complexion, pale eyes and sun-streaked hair combined to give an exotic effect in comparison with which the ordinary must pale. Certainly all Miss Clough’s admirers, in comparison with Marmaduke, seemed sadly commonplace. And she had thought she did not even like him, when first they met. How absurd! No wonder Lady Regina and Nikki— Clytie winced, by her own traitorous reflections caught up short.

“What is it? Have I hurt your hand?” Marmaduke gave it a little pat. “I must have, I think; you are glowering at me. It reminds me of when first we met, but I had hoped to have risen in your opinion since then. No, you do not need to answer. I can see that I have not.” He sighed. “Ironic, that I did not appreciate the essential melancholy of the Russians when I dwelt among them—and returned to England only to be made melancholy myself.”

In spite of her reservations concerning Marmaduke Theme’s motives, character, and sentiments, Clytie could not help but be amused. “You greatly exaggerate your experiences in Russia, I think.”

“Exaggeration, Miss Clough, is not among my sins.” Marmaduke’s warm glance was invitation to ponder what delightful pursuits his misdeeds might include. “The Russians have every reason to be melancholy; theirs is an anachronistic way of life. Boyars of the old aristocracy possess estates and mansions all over Russia, and don’t even know how many serfs and villages they own. At the same time the peasants, if fortunate, live in one-room huts, for warmth laying half naked on the stove. But I should not speak of such things to a young lady. Forgive me.”

In point of fact, Mr. Thorne should not have been speaking to Miss Clough at all in the absence of a chaperone, a detail of nice behavior which she chose to overlook. “You have been dancing attendance on Lady Regina too long,” Clytie murmured dryly. “My sensibilities are not so delicate. Now we are even, sir, because I should not have said that! May I speak without roundaboutation? Thank you! I confess that I do not know what to think of you, Mr. Thorne.”

“That does not surprise me.” Marmaduke looked rueful. “I made Lady Regina the object of my gallantry with some notion of persuading her to look more kindly upon my nephew’s suit—yes, and to persuade her to leave off plaguing me about Nikki’s jewels. For my meddling, I have been more than amply repaid. Had I realized it was you in my nephew’s carriage, I would never have lent my efforts—but by the time I
did
realize, it was too late.”

A gentleman who truly admired a lady would know her even though her features were obscured by a bonnet, Miss Clough unfairly felt. “It is not only that,” she said coolly. “Rolf thinks you and Nikki have conspired to divest him of his fortune, did you know?”

“Conspired together?” Mr. Thorne’s voice was very like a groan. “That is the version of the tale he told you. To Nikki, he announced that I alone lusted—forgive me!—er, pined for my brother’s wealth. I suppose he meant to set Nikki and me at odds. Fortunately, Nikki realized that I’m not likely to murder Rolf, which is the only way I could avail myself of Reuben’s money—which, for the record, I do
not
want.” His dark features were forbidding. “Although, if Rolf keeps on in this manner, I may well change my mind. Not about my brother’s wealth, but my nephew’s continued existence.”

Among the various ignoble traits which Miss Clough suspected Mr. Thorne of possessing was no ability to take another life. If only she could be equally certain that he was untainted by culpability. “Then there was the gaming hell where you took Nikki.” she remarked.

Never had Marmaduke encountered a female so little susceptible to his charm. Clytie’s manner to him was no less distant than upon his arrival—if anything, more so—even though he had spent the past half hour clutching her hand. Reluctantly he released her. “Do you object to gaming hells, Miss Clough?”

“Not especially.” Feeling curiously bereft, Clytie gazed at her discarded hand. “But I must object most strongly if you mean to make a habit of publicly kissing my stepmama-to-be on the nose.”

“Your—” Mr. Thorne looked bewildered, then intrigued. “Are you feeling slighted, my sweet? I would much rather have kissed
your
nose, but you weren’t there! And Nikki—well, I have been in the habit of kissing Nikki, you know. It doesn’t mean anything. However, if you don’t like it—”

“I don’t!” interrupted Miss Clough. Nor, she suspected, for all his assumed nonchalance, did her papa.

About Miss Clough’s papa, Mr. Thorne also thought. Rolf had been telling a lot of clankers recently. Perhaps as concerned his stepmama’s sentiments toward her brother-in-law, Lord Sweetbriar had also told less than the truth. Devoutly, Marmaduke hoped this was the case. If not, this might well be his own as well as Nikki’s worst scrape. “Clytie, I would like to ask you a question. I fear it may sound a little queer.”

Miss Clough elevated her gaze from the forlorn hand which Mr. Thorne had once held. What a ninnyhammer she was become! Perhaps she had caught this lachrymose habit of reflection from Lord Sweetbriar. But if Rolf chose to make a cake of himself mourning the perfidy of Lady Regina, that was no reason why Clytie must act similarly bird-witted as regarded Mr. Thorne.

“Sir,” she responded, “you have already said several things to me which were distinctly queer. I think we need not quibble about one more.”

So far was Mr. Thorne from being abashed by Miss Clough’s frank rejoinder that he not only reclaimed her hand, but pressed it to his lips.
“Definitely
I will seek you out the next time I am compelled to kiss a lady’s nose—or elsewhere. How delightfully you blush, Clytie. If only my nephew were not such a clunch!”

Miss Clough was fully conscious of the compromising picture they must make to anyone entering the morning room, a realization that made her alter her position not one inch. Clytie could have sat that way forever, with Marmaduke’s warm attention focused on her, his fingers tenderly gripping her hand. Indeed, she did spend several moments frozen in that posture, before being restored to her senses by a cramp. “I wish you would not throw the hatchet at me, Mr. Thorne.”

“Stuff.” Marmaduke’s brusque rejoinder was softened by his smile. “You wish nothing of the sort. Yes, I am the worst of coxcombs to say so, but you have just accused me of talking flummery, which I do not. At least not to you. Oh, blast all these misapprehensions! I don’t suppose, my darling, that you would consider an elopement.”

Certainly Clytie would consider an elopement, and a delightful notion it was; but she was not prone to romantical high flights. “Gretna Green?” she murmured ironically. “I am no heroine for such an adventure, Mr. Thorne.”

“Of course you are not, and I would not have suggested it, did matters not draw so rapidly to a crisis, and one of which the outcome is not assured.” Recalling his own uncertain future, Mr. Thorne released Miss Clough and rose. “I do not mean to sound impertinent, Clytie, but it is very important that I discover how Nikki truly feels about your father.”

Was that why he had come here? To learn Nikki’s sentiments? Surely his advances had not all been toward that end! Both curious and indignant, Clytie eyed Marmaduke. He did not
look
like a man with a love of dissipation. Still, had not Shakespeare said a man might smile and smile and yet be a villain? Whoever, if anyone, had said it had made a good point. The devious Mr. Thorne must be held at arm’s length.

The better to do so, Clytie moved to the window. She had meant to flirt with Marmaduke, she remembered, to lure him away from Nikki. Now she thought she could do nothing so insincere. “Nikki can tell you her sentiments better than I.”

That he had made a severe strategical error, Marmaduke knew, and that there was no way to retrieve his misstep. “My reason for asking is not what it must seem; and there are other reasons why I cannot ask Nikki herself. I wish that you would humor me in this, Miss Clough.”

He still wanted Nikki, thought Clytie. Well, what gentleman would not? And what female in full possession of her senses could fail to want Marmaduke? Her papa could not help but be hurt.

Though she could not bring herself to falsely encourage Mr. Thorne, perhaps Clytie might yet champion her father’s cause. “I have no reason to think Nikki and my papa will not rub on excellently together,” she retorted. “Providing
you
do not interfere with them!”