Maggie MacKeever (15 page)

“Very well,” said Sir John, and made a neat little speech in which he both thanked the gentlemen for their assistance and apologized for any inconvenience his summons may have caused. In return, Lord Barrymore professed himself eager to assist Bow Street in any way possible, and the Honorable Maurice declared himself wholly scandalized. They left Sir John contemplating the top of his old, scarred desk.

“Infamous!” declared Maurice once again, as they reached the street below. “Damned if I ever thought to see the day when a gentleman would be required to explain his actions to Bow Street!”

Tolly tossed a coin to the patient urchin who held their horses and swung into the saddle. “Sir John is a gentleman himself,” he replied. “In case you’ve forgotten, he’s also a good friend to your aunt.”

“My aunt,” Maurice muttered, wondering if his wide trousers were quite the thing in which to go riding. They were more than elegant, but they were also deuced awkward. “A woman has no business to become a public character! Delicacy is lost in proportion to the notoriety she gains.”

Lord Barrymore, who had already heard in great detail the reasons for Maurice’s annoyance with Lady Bligh, only smiled. The Baroness had no sooner learned of her nephew’s high-handed treatment of Culpepper than she assigned to him a chamber containing various relics of Tippoo Sahib, Sultan of Mysore, who before his death had been a friend of the adventurous Baron Bligh. This formidable foe of England had taken the stripes of the tiger as his coat of arms, and claimed he’d rather live one day as a predator than a century as a quietly grazing sheep. Maurice’s aversion to his rooms was perhaps understandable: most outstanding among the articles displayed therein was a barrel organ concealed in the belly of a well-preserved tiger under which lay a mauled, scarlet-uniformed Englishman. From this masterpiece issued the mingled sounds of a triumphant snarling tiger and a man in his death agonies.

“I only hope,” Maurice said sourly, “that my aunt may not induce my sister to follow in her footsteps. She is hardly the best influence on Mignon.”

Though Maurice seriously doubted Mignon’s prudence, his was a mind easily distracted from unpleasant things. Lord Barrymore had already proved as good as his word, and had taken his new friend to Hoby, the famed boot maker who also served as a Methodist preacher, from whom Maurice purchased Hessian, Hussar and Wellington boots; and to Lock’s the hatters at No. 6 St. James’s Street, where Maurice procured a beaver hat, a glossy black top hat and a folding
chapeau bras.
To Maurice’s wonderment, he was also taken to a bordello where he gazed with no small amazement upon a naked posture-woman who struck incredible poses on a huge silver tray. He pondered what Lord Barrymore’s next surprise might be.

Tolly turned into Hyde Park, where in the season the
ton
convened to see and to be seen. It was almost bare now of the ladies in their fashionable carriages, well-mounted gentlemen, and dashing courtesans. With an odd little smile, Lord Barrymore led his new down a path. Ahead of them, a carriage had stopped. A woman sat within. Maurice wished suddenly that he had access to a looking glass. He feared that his carroty curls, brushed down over his forehead in the ragged Brutus style, had gotten mussed.

“Good afternoon, ma’am!” said Tolly, reining in his horse. “How fortunate we are to so unexpectedly meet you here.” He glanced at Maurice, the amusement more pronounced, but Maurice was staring spellbound at the carriage’s occupant, a delicately formed lady with a porcelain complexion and jet-black hair. “Maurice, let me make known to you Mrs. Harrington-Smythe.”

Stunned by such beauty, Maurice stammered a reply. His awkwardness seemed to gratify the lady. Gently, she- smiled.

Chapter 15

Only Lady Bligh and Mignon were in the Morning Room, Maurice having taken himself off to destinations unknown after voicing his usual complaint about his sleeping quarters, this day announcing that his bed was so enormously large that he lay like an icicle in it, the fire being too remote to render any sensible warmth. Mignon was vaguely curious about the ways Maurice filled his time, but they had never been close and she could hardly question him without leaving herself open for a similar interrogation.

The Baroness sighed and dropped her newspaper. She looked fetching indeed in a semitransparent chemise gown belted under her breasts and worn over a sheer slip of thin taffeta. Her heavy peach curls were caught up in an Apollo knot and secured by tortoise-shell combs.

“What is it?” asked Mignon, concerned by her aunt’s brooding expression. “Has something in the paper distressed you?”

Dulcie looked not at her niece but into her teacup. “It has been a most interesting year. In February a military gentleman appeared at Dover with false tidings of a great victory over the French. The deception was found out, but not before a group of prominent Englishmen had made a fortune of the Stock Exchange. The culprit himself netted a profit of £10,000. And in July, Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite the fact that he is married and a father, eloped with the daughter of William Godwin. That was slightly less clever, I fear. Due to lack of funds, they have already been forced to return.”

Mignon warily eyed the Baroness, who had fallen silent. Lady Bligh was staring into the teacup with a reverence that might have been more aptly awarded the Delphic Oracle. “Mignon!” she said, so abruptly that the young lady nearly spilled her tea. “You will recall that you offered your assistance to me.”

“I do,” Mignon replied cautiously.

Dulcie lifted her dark eyes. “I mean to hold you to that promise. Starting immediately. I had meant to keep you as far as possible out of this thing, but there were contingencies I did not foresee. Will you trust me, Mignon?”

“Of course. What is it you wish me to do?”

“For a start, to keep rein on your temper.” Idly, Dulcie touched the garnets that were wound around her slender throat. “We are shortly to receive a visitor.”

Mignon had learned the futility of asking questions. She dropped her eyes to the book she held, a volume entitled
Waverley,
published anonymously by Walter Scott, a friend of her aunt’s. If only she might confide in Dulcie—but she could not. As Mignon was gathering sufficient courage to question Dulcie’s last remark, Viscount Jeffries stepped into the room.

It was a charming chamber with ceiling and carpet of the palest green and walls papered in a floral design, and its occupants were arranged in a most pleasing tableau. Dulcie was posed on an elegant tapestried sofa, her delicate feet resting comfortably on the orange cat’s broad back; while Mignon, clad in a becoming long-sleeved blue gown with a small design of scattered flowers, shared a wing chair with Bluebeard. Viscount Jeffries, however, did not look particularly appreciative.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he said to Dulcie, in tones that were far from apologetic. “I must speak with your niece.” Mignon raised startled eyes.

“You are greatly out of temper, and little wonder! “ the Baroness observed calmly.  “But you will regret it if you ring a peal over Mignon. Despite appearances, she is not to blame.”

“Who then?” Ivor tossed his hat without ceremony onto a Carolian carved cherub. “You? I think not, Lady Bligh, though it doesn’t surprise me that you should wish to cover up your niece’s deceit and duplicity.”

“I beg your pardon!” Mignon closed her book with so much force that Bluebeard nervously ruffled his feather. “My
what?”

“Don’t bother to deny it!” Ivor looked down upon her from a great, icy distance. “I suppose this is the way you chose to repay me for seeking to keep my relationship with Leda secret from the world? Fine conduct for a young lady of breeding—but I suppose you were well paid!”

Mignon stared.
This
was the man she had thought a romantic figure to dream about, with his high station in life, his handsome face, and his all-conquering charm? “Paid? For what?”

With an irritated gesture, Ivor bent to pick up Dulcie’s paper from the floor. “You play the innocent overwell. Here, read your handiwork. Not that I imagine you haven’t already done so! What evil genius prompted your meddling, Miss Montague?”

Mignon gazed at the newspaper. Her heart sank to her toes. Blazoned across the page, in unmistakable language, was the information that Leda Langtry, murderess, was the mother of Ivor Jessop, Viscount Jeffries. Even that was not the worst; the item was embellished with intimations and innuendoes that quite took one’s breath away. “You blame me for
this?”
she asked faintly.

If any doubt had entered the Viscount’s mind, he had not allowed it room to grow. “You do not deny it, I see. What purpose did you think to serve, Miss Montague? Or was it done solely for financial gain?”

“It wasn’t done at all!” blazed Mignon, her promise to control her temper already forgotten. “At least, not by me! Even if I wished to sell information to the Press, I wouldn’t know how to go about it.” She grasped the arms of her chair so tightly that her fingers showed white. “
You
have made a rare mull of it, Lord Jeffries, not I!”

Ivor’s teeth flashed in a fierce parody of a smile. “You are an unconscionable little liar, Miss Montague, and I do not intend to leave here until I have the truth from you. By force, if necessary.” He stepped toward her. Mignon grasped her book, meaning if necessary to hurl it at his head.

“Children, children!” chided the Baroness, and rose to cross the room. Culpepper, even more sour-faced than usual, stood in the hallway. “Excellent!” said Lady Bligh, and again closed the door.

“Dulcie!” gasped Mignon, for Ivor had grasped her shoulders and was shaking her as if he meant to loosen not only her tongue but also all the teeth in her head.

“Unhand my niece, young man!” The Baroness returned to her couch. “Mignon did not betray you. Nor has she any need for money, possessing a considerable fortune of her own.”

The Viscount, though he ceased to manhandle her, retained his grip on Miss Montague. “You must defend her, of course,” he said, his brown eyes fixed angrily on Mignon’s pale face. “I recall that you warned me she would do precisely what she’s done.”

“I did no such thing,” retorted Lady Bligh. “I hinted merely that Mignon has a tendency to trust everyone. I was trying to persuade you not to speak at all, but you refused to listen. It doesn’t signify; too many people already knew, including Willie, who can be trusted with no one’s secrets but his own.” She looked speculatively at Ivor, who clutched Mignon’s arm as if he meant to drag her before a magistrate. “Distasteful as it may be to see one’s dirty linen washed in public, it was bound to happen eventually. I repeat, you must not blame Mignon. In this matter, at least, she is perfectly innocent.”

Mignon wondered what Lady Bligh might know of other matters in which her niece was less blameless. Her head still spun from the combined effects of Ivor’s tongue-lashing and his mistreatment of her person. “If you are through bullying me, sir,” she said frigidly, “I should like very much to sit down.” With a searching glance, Ivor released her. Mignon sank into her chair.

“If not Miss Montague, then who?” Ivor asked, with no abatement of his rage. “I suppose you know.”

“Not know, suspect.” Dulcie toyed with her necklace. “I won’t tell you that now, for I don’t understand the whole, and any steps you take would only make things worse.”

The Viscount did not care for this judicious attitude. “You take a great deal upon yourself, Lady Bligh! I don’t see that your previous efforts in Leda’s behalf have accomplished much. Two people are dead, while Leda remains in Newgate.”

“And she will continue to do so,” retorted Dulcie, “until I see this coil unwound. Come, do not take on so! What does it signify, after all, if your relationship to Leda has been published to the world? I fear your uncle has taught you to overly value your consequence.”

Lord Jeffries might have made a great number of pithy responses, including an elaboration on the fact that Lady Bligh so little valued her own reputation that she was positively notorious. Instead, his look of anger was replaced by surprise.

“I?” he said. “It isn’t myself, but my uncle who so loathes to hear our name bandied about. I had previously kept all concerning Leda from him, but this I could not. It brought him off his sickbed to confront Leda in Newgate—and God alone knows what will come of that! He loathes my mother so greatly that during all the years of our association he never spoke of her other than to inform me she was dead.”

“There is a great deal,” interrupted Dulcie, “that you don ‘t understand. Jumping to conclusions is a dangerous pastime, young man.” Mignon peered sideways at the Viscount, curious to see how he would take this reprimand. He raised an offended brow.

“So far is your uncle from loathing Leda,” continued the Baroness, “that he once offered her his hand in marriage. Leda jilted him to marry your father. I am curious about your excessive concern for your uncle’s peace of mind.”

Stunned by this intelligence, Ivor gazed down upon Mignon’s bright hair. So did Bluebeard, who reached forward with his sharp beak to tug at a loose curl. Mignon winced.

“My uncle,” replied Ivor, absently disengaging the parrot, “has been very kind to me. The least I owe him is a consideration of his name. Percy abhors scandal.”

“You owe Percy nothing!” snapped Dulcie. “Which is something else you have yet to learn. If not for his wretched principles, you would have acknowledged Leda straightaway?”

“She did not wish it.” Ivor’s hauteur had returned. “When I broached the matter, Leda replied that her association with the Jessop family had been far from felicitous, and that she no more wished to claim a relationship with them than Percy wished to recognize her. I fear that whoever leaked this information to the Press had done my mother a great disservice thereby.”

The Jessop family was a pompous lot, Mignon thought resentfully. Did Viscount Jeffries but know
her
past, he would speedily repudiate their acquaintance instead of lounging so indolently against the back of her chair. “So!” said the Baroness. “That’s one puzzle explained.” She did not share her insight, but stared at the closed door, her fingers buried in Casanova’s fur.