Maggie MacKeever (22 page)

Chapter 17

The King’s Theatre in the Haymarket, home of the Italian opera and ballet, was one of the favorite haunts of the
ton.
This night the Royal Italian Opera House, as it was also known, was so crowded that all five tiers of boxes were filled with royalty and the Quality and the
demimonde,
and the pit avenues were impassable.

Since the rule here was that no one appeared except
en toilette—
even the judges and wits, the squires and beaus and bullies who settled in the pit, and the cits and lower orders who filled the middle gallery—the audience was an assemblage of beauty and magnificence that would not have been inappropriate for a court function, the men decked out in orders and ribbons, the women outblazing each other in the opulence of their jewels and the richness of their dress.

The Dowager Duchess of Bellamy had her own box, purchased on a subscription basis for £2,500 for the season, though she had never been known to set foot within. It was left to the rest of her family to enjoy the benefit of culture so procured, and they did so—this evening at least—without any great appreciation of the treat. Various of the party wore expressions so bleak as to arouse comment from those members of the audience who were more interested in their fellow spectators than in the spectacle, even though Catalini herself was on the stage. Lady Tess, who understood Italian perfectly, gazed rapt upon the highest-paid prima donna in the world.

Tess’s interest was not shared by the majority of the audience. Fops and dandies strolled about chattering and showing off the cut of their clothes; spectators in the gallery shouted for silence; pretty courtesans cast knowing eyes about for new admirers; the artists continued their performance, inured to frantic enthusiasm and hideous abuse; while the Quality speculated wildly upon how the Wicked Baronet had been captivated by a Beautiful Unknown.

Never, they said, had Sir Morgan showed so marked a preference, for he treated even his favorite flirts with indifference; never had he pursued one woman to the exclusion of all others, for he was known to have a wandering eye; never had they thought he would succumb to a fatal passion, and for a woman who was beautiful but lame. That Sir Morgan’s pursuit was serious and his intentions honorable, few took leave to doubt. But would she have him? No one had the slightest notion whether the lady returned his sentiments, though she seemed to enjoy his company well enough. It was a matter of considerable curiosity, and bets were being laid in the clubs.

Tess had no such mixed emotions; she knew perfectly well that Sir Morgan meant to try and charm the necklace away from her, having discovered he could obtain it by no other means. She did not hold it against him that he had lost his temper with her, though his outburst had led her to a certain undertaking of her own. Brief though splendid would be her association with a rake, and Tess meant to enjoy it to the utmost. Soon enough she would return to her country estates, and life would again be dull.

The curtain descended on the artists, posturing before scenic backcloths, and Lady Tess leaned back in her seat. “Very fine!” she said judiciously. “I do admire Novosielsky’s horseshoe auditorium, though I cannot see why a chandelier must hang before every box! It dazzles one very offensively, as well as throwing the actors into the shade.”

“Very true!” Sir Morgan offered her his arm. “Will you accompany me? I believe your worthy suitor is on the way to pay his compliments.”

“Shamus? By all means!” Tess grimaced. “How
nice
it is not to have to explain why I should find a gentleman so amiable, so upright and honorable, to be so tedious!”

“Isn’t it?” Sir Morgan’s eyes danced. “I, of course, cannot be expected to value such virtues, being devoid of them myself!”

Tess was not to escape so easily; their departure from the box coincided with the arrival of Cedric, positively staggering in a purple-spotted silk coat and breeches with knots of ribbons at his knees, a waistcoat embroidered with gold and silver, pale lilac stockings, and an immensely high cravat. Rings sparkled on his fingers, which clutched snuffbox, handkerchief, and quizzing glass. The countess took one look at this apparition and—alas!—giggled.

Such a marked lack of appreciation did not sit well with Ceddie, who knew himself to be, despite his finery, at a disadvantage beside Sir Morgan, who wore his evening coat and breeches of deep brown velvet and his Florentine waistcoat with a carelessly elegant air. All the same, Ceddie persevered, paying Lady Tess a very graceful compliment. It did not serve; she bade him play off his cajoleries on Clio, and blithely exited.

Clio, however, was no more appreciative, and practically snapped off his nose. Miffed, Ceddie sought consolation from Drusilla, who proved a much more admiring audience.

Mistress Clio was feeling sadly out of sorts. Her attempt to attract Sir Morgan had met with a bored rebuff, and her efforts to promote a match between Tess and Giles with little more success. She looked sideways at the duke, wondering at her sister’s lack of acumen. Giles would be the kindest of husbands, attentive to one’s wishes and one’s comfort, seldom causing a moment of distress. So what must Tess do but fritter away her chances and encourage the wretched Sir Morgan, who was altogether a different kettle of fish!

His
wife, thought Clio viciously, if ever he saddled himself with one, would never know a moment’s peace. If he was not squandering her fortune, he would be dangling after lightskirts. Already the association was having a disastrous effect on Tess’s character; she had exhibited not the slightest dismay when Clio revealed that he was informally betrothed to Drusilla. There must be some other way to part them. Clio thought that if only she might concentrate her mind, she would hit on it.

“Your Tess is a remarkable woman,” said Giles, handing her a glass of lemonade.

“She is.” Clio considered this an uncommonly promising opening. “As I have told you.”

“Often.” The duke cast an unenthusiastic eye over the visitors crowding into his box. “It is admirable that your companion should move with such assurance in the first ranks of Society. I am forgetting, you have told me she is to the manor born, have you not?”

Clio’s fingers tightened on her glass. Were matters to continue in this manner, her nerves would be shattered beyond repair. She greeted Shamus, who was peering around the box with an absurdly disappointed expression, with relief. “You have just missed Tess!” she said brightly. “If you are quick, you may still encounter her. I believe she was especially desirous of speaking with you.” Considerably heartened, the curate set out in pursuit.

“Pray enlighten me,” begged Giles, “why you should serve the lovely Tess such a backhanded turn. I know as well as you do that she hasn’t the least desire to encounter that prosy bore!” Clio said nothing, but stared at her glass. “I see my understanding is deficient,” murmured Giles. “It is Morgan, of course. You do not care for him.”

“Care for that nefarious hellhound?” cried Clio, forgetting that she had tried to cast out lures to the hellhound not an hour past. “Forgive me! I can’t think that acquaintance with him has improved the tone of Tess’s mind, but I should not speak so about your friend.”

“You may say what you wish to me,” the duke replied, unconcerned. “I am not blind to Morgan’s defects of character. But you, cousin,
are
blind to one aspect of this thing! I am not in Morgan’s confidence, nor do I believe you to be in Tess’s; but what if it should come to a match between them? You cannot set your face against him forever.”

“I can and shall!” snapped Clio, depressed that Giles could so calmly discuss her sister’s alliance with another man.

“If you do,” Giles remarked, with unusual patience, “you will alienate Tess. Do you wish that, Clio?”

“Oh, pray speak no more of it!” Clio looked frantic. “You know he will never marry her.”

The duke knew a great deal more than he intended to confide to his young cousin, and her feelings on the subject were already so agitated that he feared another word would cause her to burst into tears.

“I understand you are desirous of learning more about Mirian?” he commented idly, and had the pleasure of seeing her stare at him with surprise. “My mother tells me Tess has been asking questions of the housekeeper. Sapphira was a little incensed, but I see no harm in it—in truth, I should like to have some questions answered myself! To that end, I have instigated inquiries regarding Celest.”

“Celest?” Clio echoed blankly.

“Celest DuBois, your mother’s dearest friend.” The Duke of Bellamy’s smile was gentle. “If anyone knows the truth of Mirian’s flight, it will be Celest.”

Clio had far too many things plaguing her to be particularly interested in ancient history, but she recognized that Giles was going to no small trouble on her account, and thought it typical of the man that he should behave so handsomely. She glanced up at him, wondering again at Tess’s lack of discrimination. “How good you are!” she murmured somberly.

Meanwhile, Lady Tess was engaged in conversation with her escort as he conducted her past the boxes that ran in a tiered circle from one wing of the theater to the other via the back of the pit. The countess was worried about her sister, and so informed Sir Morgan.

The Wicked Baronet, who had been humbly apologizing for both his hasty temper and his misuse of the countess, as well as expressing his resolution to assist in the return of the pilfered necklace, looked amused. “My promise to be of service to you prompts you to nothing but thoughts of your charge. I am put sadly in my place.” She frowned at him, and he smiled. “I am only teasing you. What has Clio done to put you in a fret?”

“Not a fret, precisely,” Tess replied, “but she is not at all herself. Clio has never been prone to ill health. Now she is so constantly out of humor that I fear she must be racketing herself to pieces. I cannot think town life suits her! Perhaps it would be best to return home.”

“You have a genius for understatement.” Sir Morgan deftly guided her through the crowd that thronged the foyer, built by the management in the futile hope that here the beaux might promenade with fewer interruptions to the audience and the artists on the stage. “To be blunt, my love, Clio is looking burnt to the socket. And you must see that it is impossible for you to leave town.”

“Your
what?”
inquired Tess, regarding him with interest.

“A phrase of speech! Habit, I fear!” Sir Morgan looked apologetic. “I am accustomed to speaking to all my flirts in that manner.”

“Ah!” Tess replied wisely. “It saves you the trouble of remembering their names. Why can’t I leave town?”

“How can you even think of leaving me?” Sir Morgan was stricken. “We deal so well together, I had begun to hope—I will not trust myself to say more! It is a great deal too precipitate. Only say that I have not given you a disgust of me!”

“Wretch!” the countess retorted appreciatively. “Don’t sham it so! I understand that you mean to stick as close to me as a court plaster until I give you the necklace.”

“There is that, too,” Sir Morgan murmured thoughtfully. His attention was then claimed by a lady with noble proportions and a shocking
décolletage.
Tess watched with fascination as he deftly parried the woman’s rather vulgar remarks with deft compliments.

Though she was unaware of it, Tess herself was the focus of considerable interest. Many were the comments made on Sir Morgan’s lady, lovely in an evening gown of blue-green crepe Vandyked around the petticoat, a deep falling border of lace frills and ribbon round the low neck.

Tess’s fair hair was arranged in disheveled curls with a center parting, and a string of extremely valuable gems wound around her slender throat. It was no coincidence that the countess had worn her own diamond necklace. She meant to try and see if the flaunting of such jewels might arouse some particular and suspicious interest. Thus far, it had earned her only a quizzical glance from the Wicked Baronet.

Sir Morgan deftly extricated himself from his accostor and turned ruefully to Tess. She frowned. “I wonder if Clio is upset because she thinks she will be made to marry Giles? I vow I do not understand the chit! From all she has said to me about him, I would have thought she’d like to marry Giles very well. Yet when I asked her if she wished to do so, she answered me with a flood of tears.”

Sir Morgan responded only in silence. Wrapped in her own thoughts, the countess accompanied him into the foyer, which was thronged not only with the Quality and well-heeled cits, but hopeful prostitutes and various riffraff. Tess’s makeshift plan was to succeed almost too well.

The man who had followed the countess to the Haymarket, as he followed her everywhere, had not expected such good luck. His gaze lit on the diamonds, and his eyes gleamed. It did not occur to him that this might not be the necklace that he sought. Time was running out; his own life would soon be in jeopardy. It was not difficult for a determined man to make his way through the throng and secure a place near Tess; or, when her attention was diverted by a fat and beplumed elderly lady who demanded Sir Morgan’s ear, for him to make a grab for her necklace. Luck deserted the would-be thief at that point; he was grasped by a strong pair of hands and half-throttled before the Bow Street runner who was employed by the management to prevent just such an occurrence appeared to take him away.

Lady Tess watched his departure with a brooding expression, then turned upon Sir Morgan a fulminating glance.
“That,”
she announced, “was extremely poor-spirited of you!”

“Oh?” Sir Morgan looked bleak. “You think I arranged the encounter then?”                             

“I don’t know why you must ask me such silly questions,” Tess complained. “It is utterly impossible that a man of your character and station in life should be capable of such an abominable proceeding.”

“I did not know,” said Sir Morgan, mollified, “that you had such a great opinion of my character. How, then, have I earned your censure?”

“And I had thought you a knowing one!” Absently, the countess touched her necklace. “Now that my pursuer has been taken into custody—for it was the same man who accosted me in the park and thrust me under the wheels of the carriage—we will not know who to expect!”