Maggie MacKeever (24 page)

“Sir Morgan is not quite so depraved as you paint him,” replied Tess, amused in spite of her anger. “Were he the villain you think him, he would hardly be admitted here.”

“I am saddened that you should defend him,” Shamus said sternly. “And I am very surprised to see Sir Morgan at Almack’s. I had thought the lady patronesses would have been more particular; it is surely their duty to protect the impressionable young ladies who so gracefully adorn these premises.”

“You refine too much on the matter, Shamus!” Tess was growing rapidly bored. “Sir Morgan has excellent
ton,
and no interest whatsoever in impressionable young ladies. To tell truth, I suspect he is welcome here simply because he enlivens the tedium of the lady patronesses! Lady Jersey as much as told me so.”

“Then I can only consider them foolish.” The countess sighed and the curate leaned closer to her. “You are quick to defend the man, Lady Tess! Surely
you
cannot be so deceived in his character!”

“Well, no,” admitted Tess, “I don’t believe I am. But you must not listen to
me,
Shamus! I am the favorite of the moment and therefore quite prejudiced.”

Shamus was stricken all aheap by this patent wrong-headedness. “Lady Tess!” Firmly he grasped her hand. “I beg—no, I insist—that you must not follow so disastrous a course! You know that to be your husband has long been an ambition with me! I assure you that your happiness must always be my first aim. All that you say convinces me that we must be married immediately.’’

“Have you taken to brandy?” inquired the countess, bright of eye. “Since you insist on making me a declaration while I am telling you I nourish a—a passion!—for another, I can only conclude that you must be a trifle castaway!”

“I will forgive you those words,” the curate replied pompously, “You obviously are not aware of what you say. I cannot think that even
you
, Lady Tess, would prefer a rake to a man of honour.’’

“Sir Morgan is very much relished by those who know him well!” announced the countess, forcibly extracting her hand from his grip. “Myself among them. My patience is exhausted, Shamus! I have told you countless times that I will
not
marry you! If you persist in plaguing me with your infernal prose, you will not only make a Jack-pudding of yourself, I shall box your ears!”

This plain speaking pierced the curate’s armor; he fell back a step. Even then he might have argued, but he observed Sir Morgan approaching through the crowd, as did Lady Tess, whose face brightened with an effect almost magical. “I see that further conversation on this subject is at the moment impossible,” Shamus said with barely repressed anger. “I hope you might not have to repent of your choice.”

“Thank you, I won’t!” The countess did not even turn to see him walk wrathfully away.

“Tell me what has roused your displeasure!” invited Sir Morgan, as Tess unclenched her fists. “I shall set it right immediately.”

“I fear,” Tess said ruefully, “that I have behaved badly. Shamus has the most unhappy knack of sending me straight into the boughs.”

“It is your own fault,” Sir Morgan replied, “for encouraging him to dangle after you. Why ever did you?”

“What a beast you are!” The countess nodded graciously to a gentleman of her acquaintance. “I’m sure I never encouraged Shamus to think I would marry him—truly, I’m sure I did the opposite!”

“You relieve me! I had wondered if you nourished a fondness for the clergy, in which case you and I should never suit. Well, think!” he added, in response to her reproachful look. “It would be deuced disappointing if you were to start moralizing over me once the knot was tied.”

“Moonshine!” Tess wore an indignant expression. “So far am I from sermonizing that I told Shamus I preferred a rake to a fool. He will probably never speak to me again, and it is no more than I deserve.”

“Now that
is
a great pity!” responded Sir Morgan, and smiled at her surprise. “I had counted on the worthy curate, with his stultifying virtues, to send you straight into the arms of sin.”

But the countess was not attending him, watching instead the approach of Cedric. “The devil!” she said. “Sir Morgan, I
must
speak with you privately. I have reached a decision and it is only fair that I tell you of it. Oh, curse Ceddie for an addle-plot!”

Sir Morgan glanced at that young man, who had a most determined look in his eye, and silently agreed. “A decision, little one?” he inquired. “This sounds ominous! That I am at your service, you already know.”

“I suppose it would be ruinous,” mused Tess, “if I gave the others the slip—but I know not else how to do it!”

“No,” agreed Sir Morgan, fascinated, “I do not think I wish to risk invading your bedchamber again, though not for the reason you might think. What, then, do you suggest?”

“
I
,” Tess pointed out, “am not the one with experience in assignations! I had thought you might hit on something.”

“I have!” Sir Morgan replied promptly. “Vauxhall!”

“Vauxhall?” Tess could not think what the pleasure gardens had to do with her present dilemma.

“My dear,” said Sir Morgan pensively, “you have a great deal yet to learn about intrigue. If one is to risk one’s reputation in a clandestine rendezvous, one might as well derive some amusement from the encounter.”

Tess thought she would enjoy any encounter with Sir Morgan save the last, and was sorry the flirtation must end. “As you wish,” she replied unenthusiastically, and cursed herself for feeling regret over a step that she had always known to be inevitable. Sir Morgan wanted the diamonds; very well, she would give them to him, and then she would remove herself and her obviously unhappy sister from Town. Perhaps in the country Clio might regain her spirits; Tess would not, but she could be miserable anywhere. “I will leave the details to you.”

Sir Morgan possessed a great deal of acumen, and it was clear to him that Tess did not relish the rendezvous. “Have I displeased you?” he asked quietly. “You seem to be quite out of charity with me.”

“Oh, no, not that!” Tess raised startled eyes to his. “Please, I cannot tell you now, but I will explain everything!”

“It would distress me beyond description to make you unhappy,” said Sir Morgan, with a frown. It was unpleasantly clear to him that his ladylove was behaving in a remarkably skitter-witted fashion, a fact which, though it caused him unease, roused in him no dismay since he already knew her to be enchantingly cockle-brained. Behind him, Ceddie cleared his throat, and Tess’s expression changed to anxiety. “I will inform you,” Sir Morgan murmured, “of the details.”

Chapter 19

“Nonsense!” said Clio, without a great deal of conviction. Drusilla and Constant exchanged a glance.

“Are you taking your powders?” Drusilla made a fine show of concern. “You are looking very pale, Clio!”

This was the grossest of understatements. Clio was as pallid as any lady who had ever resorted to leeches to reduce her color and then fainted away gracefully in company. “I am,” she replied, raising a hand to her brow. “It hardly signifies. What are you telling me about my mother? I cannot credit it!”

“You are prodigiously like her,” observed Drusilla craftily. “My dear, these nervous agitations will not do. Try and control yourself!”

“Monstrous!” cried Clio, pacing up and down the room. “I refuse to believe a word of it.”

“My dear Clio,” interrupted Constant, deeming it time he took a hand, “surely you do not mean to accuse Drusilla of falsehood! It would be shockingly impertinent of you. Believe me, we have only your best interests in mind.”

To believe this clanker Mistress Clio would have had to be a veritable ninnyhammer, which she definitely was not. She knew that something lay behind this seeming solicitude. “I don’t see,” she said abruptly, “why you should be telling me this
now!”

Again they looked at each other. Constant frowned and Drusilla’s expression changed to benevolent concern.

“Pray don’t fly into a passion,” she begged. “You must see that we had no choice. You are on the verge of contracting an alliance, and it would be hardly fair were your prospective husband not told how things stand.” She smiled with exquisite understanding. “Odd humors, queer starts, a lack of stability—he would suspect all too soon, my dear!”

Her face as white as her muslin walking dress, Clio sank down onto a chair. “It isn’t true!” she repeated again. “We would have seen some sign.”

“Do you accuse us of telling you untruths?” Constant inquired indignantly. “I am shocked, but it is no more than I expected. You must not argue with your elders, Clio, it shows an unbecoming want of conduct.” He sighed heavily. “I fear, dear sister, that our suspicions have been proven correct.”

Drusilla shot him an admonishing glance, which he pretended not to see. Constant was expanding his small role into an entire melodrama, and she had no appreciation of his histrionic abilities. “But Clio is little more than a schoolgirl!” he added hastily. “We can hardly be surprised if she reacts childishly. Though I admit it is a grave solecism to refer to a lady’s age!”

In Constant’s case, thought Drusilla grimly, it was a solecism to have ever been born. “Dear Clio,” she remarked, “you must see that we are motivated solely by concern for you. You should not wish to give your husband a disgust of you, as must surely be the case when he learns that your mind is overheated, that your emotions lack restraint.”

Clio considered that she was exhibiting remarkable restraint. To their mingled regret, so did Constant and Drusilla. “My mother married,” Clio protested, “without any ill effect. I never saw any indication of a disordered intellect! You must be mistaken.”

“Oh, no!” With considerable effort, Constant crossed his knees. “You must concede that we know a great deal more about the matter! No doubt your mother learned to disguise her malady but, to be blunt, there is no question she passed it on to you.” His pudgy features wore a look of pious sympathy. “Would you pass it on to
your
children in turn? Inflict upon your husband the pain that your poor father must have suffered? Think on it, child!”

Clio stared obediently at her hands, wondering what hypothetical husband they had in mind. Perhaps Drusilla thought she would marry Giles, as Sapphira wished, and wanted to spare her brother pain. If so, her concern was commendable, though misplaced. Since Clio could not very well explain her plans for the evening, which would make her quite ineligible to marry anyone, consisting as they did of an intention to be found in Sir Morgan’s lodgings and a subsequent elopement with Cedric, she remained silent. She would be ruined, Clio thought nobly, but in the process she would give Tess a disgust of both gentlemen. With those two thus removed, the countess could only turn to Giles.

Though Drusilla watched the girl with every indication of compassion, her thoughts were far away, to be precise at
a certain ecarté table covered with a black velvet cloth embroidered with gold, where a fortunate lady might carry off £50 at a single stroke. Drusilla had not been so fortunate, and she saw that she would have to apply to her mother for rescue. Sapphira would in any case be irate, and read her erring daughter a terrible scold; but could Clio in the meantime be shown obstinate and uncooperative, Sapphira might yet show her daughter some sign of respect.

And, thought Drusilla, who knew well how to worm her way into a young man’s confidences, could Clio be shown to be so foolhardy as to slip the leash and ruin her reputation by disappearing with that young man prior to marriage, Sapphira would quite rightly wash her hands of the chit.

“Perhaps we have been too severe,” she said kindly. “No one but the family knows of Mirian’s unhappy malady. Perhaps, were you to take care to exhibit no unbecoming violence of feeling, your husband would not suspect.” She looked thoughtful. “It must be a young man; an older, more experienced one would be sure to guess the truth.”

Clio did not look cheered, though this accorded well with her own plans. “The family?” she echoed. “Giles also knows?”

“Giles better than anyone!” replied Drusilla. “It is why he refused to go along with
Maman’s
plans for the pair of you. I see that I must tell you all, Clio. It was because of your mother’s illness that Giles did not marry her, and it is because of
that
that Mirian ran away.”

This should have been the master stroke, a girl of Clio’s temperament not being expected to view with complacency the man who had cast away her mother, and Drusilla waited eagerly for her reaction. Clio, however, was not so easily led. “I don’t believe a word of it,” she said stubbornly. “The allegation that my mother was a lunatic is insupportable.”

Drusilla’s lips pursed. She had not settled on this course of action without considerable thought, for once she removed Clio from the field, Giles’s eye was likely to settle once more on Tess. But Sapphira would never permit
that
match to take place, and if Giles defied her would cut him out of her will, an action to be greatly desired. And, thought Drusilla smugly, Sir Morgan would be free to resume his pursuit of herself.

Constant guessed at the motives which drove Drusilla and found them highly diverting, but he too wished fervently to alienate Sapphira from Clio. “Not precisely a lunatic,” he amended, before Drusilla could give voice to unwise speech, “but definitely queer in the attic.” Clio looked confused and he further explained: “Windmills in the head, my dear! Touched in the upper works.”

“Alas,” mourned Drusilla, with a quelling glance at her brother-in-law, “it is all too true. You should know it yourself, Clio! When Mirian met your father, was she not living retired, with a female in attendance?” From Clio’s expression, she knew that she had scored a hit. “A keeper, of course,” she added, before Clio had time to reflect that Mirian, being in flight from her family, could hardly live otherwise. “And if you doubt
me,
you have only to ask Giles!”

It is highly unlikely that Clio would have done so, having discovered conversation with that gentleman was injurious to her peace of mind, had she not encountered him in the hallway during her flight from the drawing-room, and had not he taken one look at her face and thrust her without preamble into his study.