Maggie MacKeever (6 page)

Vivien threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Not all, I assure you; only those who amuse me. You are not in the ordinary way, are you, Miss Nevermind?”

“I am not a goose-cap, if that is what you mean,” Tabby responded dryly. “You are amusing yourself by throwing the hatchet at me, I think. And in that case, you have only yourself to blame if people are bird-witted enough to take you seriously.”

Had he just been delivered yet another set-down? “Unjust! You do amuse me; I have just said so.” Vivien dropped his bantering attitude. “I think perhaps that I should call you ‘witch.’ I have not been able to put you out of my mind.”

Perry had not exaggerated; his friend was very wicked and very dangerous, indeed. Tabby forced her thoughts away from kisses and naked chests. A liaison with the divine Sara was one thing; everyone reared outside a convent knew about gentlemen and their ladybirds. But Tabby was very disappointed to realize that Vivien would try to trifle with even a plump little nobody like herself.

Vivien was watching her, trying to read the expressions that flitted across her face—and Vivien’s opinion of that face was much kinder than Tabby’s own. He thought her not a great beauty, perhaps, but considerably more appealing than several great beauties he knew, one of whom was even at this moment waiting in the green room for him to pay her homage and make up to her for their latest quarrel, which had been occasioned by his frowning on her in bed.

Let Sara wait. “Black doesn’t suit you,” he said. “I’d like to see you in light green or blue.”

This remark put Tabby in mind of the manner in which she would like to see Vivien, wicked rakehell or no. The nature of that reflection led her to the unsettling conclusion that she was as depraved as he. Clearly it was foolish to prolong this conversation. “I must go,” she murmured. “My, er, friends will be wondering what has become of me.”

“Wait.” Vivien caught her hand. “Have I offended you? I did not mean to.”

Tabby felt the warmth of his hand, even through her glove. She remembered the touch of her own fingers against his bare chest. Scant wonder that the man spoke so freely to her, Tabby thought, and flushed as she remembered how she had practically invited him to repeat his kiss. “No!” she gasped, and sought to free herself.

Vivien frowned and released her. “Surely you can’t be afraid of me,” he said.

“No! Yes!” Tabby could hardly explain that what she feared was her immense longing to hurl herself on the wicked rakehell’s chest. “I must go!” she said again, and ducked around the flats. This time it was with a deliberate effort that she lost herself in the crowd, wandering aimlessly for a time until she succeeded in pushing Vivien to the back of her mind. Only then did she make her way back to Sir Geoffrey’s box. What would her employer say when she returned without Ermyntrude and Mr. Philpotts? Perhaps he would ring a peal over her. Tabby almost wished for this, as if it would relieve her conflicted feelings somewhat to be read a dreadful scold.

But Sir Geoffrey at that moment had conflicted feelings of his own. Tabby entered the box to find him staring at a blond woman who’d entered St. Erth’s box. She raised her hand and waved.

Sir Geoffrey did not return the salute. His expression was remarkably similar to that of Rogero, confined in a dungeon, surrounded by coffins and death’s-heads and crossbones, toads and snails.

Chapter Seven

Breakfast in the Elphinstone household next morning was a lugubrious affair. Drusilla was annoyed that she, along with Lambchop, had not been permitted to attend the theater, and in preference to joining the family at table, remained locked in her bedroom with
The Mysteries of Udolpho.
Ermyntrude, too, was less eager to brave the day than was her custom and greeted the morn with a pout, pulled her pillow over her head, and went back to sleep. As for Sir Geoffrey, if he did not choose to deal with his troubles in quite so cravenly a manner, his emergence from his bedchamber was also tardy, for he was paying for certain excesses of the night before with the devil of a head.

As a result, Tabby was first into the dining room. She seated herself at the mahogany table and surveyed the vast array of food: tea, chocolate, coffee; sausages, kidneys, bacon, toast and muffins, and eggs. Having made her selections, Tabby enlivened her solitude by browsing through a book of household receipts. In some areas Tabby’s education had been shockingly neglected. Her classical studies had not, for example, prepared her to concoct simple medicaments like licorice lozenges or scurvy-grass wine for the consumption of invalids, or to distill rose water or prepare potpourri.

Tabby was determined to confront the cook about her consumption of cooking sherry and felt obscurely that it would be to her advantage to know some arcane domestic lore. Overseeing a household of this size was far different from managing her papa’s modest staff. Tabby was aware that both above- and belowstairs she was considered a bit of a queer fish.

That couldn’t be helped. Tabby took a sip of chocolate and frowned at her book. Certainly none of her past experience had prepared her to combine white flowers, cucumber water, and lemon juice with several plucked and beheaded chickens, all minced fine and digested in an alembic for eighteen days before being utilized to preserve the complexion. Tabby shuddered and pushed away her plate, on which rested a portion of kidneys and eggs.

As she did so, Ermyntrude strolled into the dining room, plucked a muffin from the basket, lavished it with butter, and popped it into her mouth. “It isn’t polite to read at table,” she said, somewhat unclearly, but with distinct triumph at having caught Tabby in a less-than-perfect act.

Tabby withheld comment. Ermyntrude irritated her today as never before. Even her morning dress of pale yellow muslin, with its frills around the neck, its fluted sleeves and hem, set Tabby’s teeth on edge. She told herself to be charitable. Ermyntrude could not have enjoyed seeing the elusive St. Erth cast admiring glances at another woman. “I understand that Mr. Philpotts is very wealthy,” she said.

Ermyntrude shrugged and walked toward the window. “He’s rich as Croesus—whoever that was! He’s also dull as ditch water, and besides, my heart belongs to St. Erth. Even if he is paying attentions that are rather too pointed to that—that lightskirt!”

Tabby remembered the previous evening and how the viscount had stared at the stage. Vivien was used to other gentlemen dangling after Sara, she supposed. Perhaps he would even be amused. As he’d been amused by Tabby herself. Of course it was no more than that. She was not his type, but a plain and awkward bluestocking with nothing to recommend her but her brains, which must be rather despised. “But Miss Divine is, er, in the keeping of another gentleman,” she remarked.

Ermyntrude stared. “How do you know that?”

“That sort of woman usually is, I think,” Tabby responded vaguely, and returned her attention to her book, where she discovered that one could remove freckles by way of an application of crushed strawberries, green-grape juice, ass’s or human milk.

Ermyntrude, too, was silent, as she stared out the window. She employed her usual method of dealing with trouble, by pretending it didn’t exist, and counted the passing blue uniforms of the Prince’s own regiment, the Tenth Light Dragoons. People spoke poorly of the Tenth, who’d spent the interminable years of the wars with France without setting foot on foreign soil. For her own part, Ermy thought it only right and proper that officers who looked so dashing in their magnificently laced jackets, gold-fringed red breeches, and yellow boots should be spared from nasty battles. “How romantic it would be to elope!” she said aloud. “I should like it above anything. I wonder if St. Erth would be more attentive if I took to wearing false bosoms made of wax, like I saw in
The Lady’s Magazine.
”

Tabby thought that any gentleman must respond unfavorably to the discovery of such deception. “Whom do you mean to elope with?” she asked, somewhat unkindly.

Ermyntrude turned away from the window. “You’re as bad as Dru!” With a toss of red-gold curls, she stamped out of the room.

Unmoved by Ermyntrude’s displeasure, Tabby finished her chocolate in peace. She was learning how to stew a carp when a footman appeared with a summons from her employer.

Tabby was relieved to be interrupted in her studies and distracted from her foolish thoughts. She pushed back her chair and went in search of Sir Geoffrey.

Drusilla, meanwhile, emerged at last from her bedroom, having grown bored with Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic castles, persecuted heroines, and tyrannous villains, and set out for the kitchen to make up for her missed meal. The faithful Lambchop padded by her side. As they passed by her papa’s study, Drusilla heard his voice. She paused, sorely tempted by the fact that the door was ajar. Lambchop nudged her. Drusilla pushed him aside. At least if she were eavesdropping, then none of the servants could. She positioned herself, somewhat awkwardly, so that she could peer into the room.

Sir Geoffrey’s study was a spacious chamber furnished in a nicely masculine fashion with rosewood and mahogany furniture, comfortable chairs, bookcases adorned with brass inlay with honeysuckle motif. A handsome chandelier descended from the ceiling. Portraits hung on the walls. Sir Geoffrey was seated at a large horseshoe-shaped desk. Tabby sat opposite him on a mahogany armchair of graceful proportions, with fine details of reeding and grooving in its arms and back. Her posture was very stiff. “You wished to speak with me. Sir Geoffrey?” she repeated.

Sir Geoffrey shook his head, as if to clear it. “Ah, Miss Minchin,” he said uncomfortably. “Er, why tea leaves and damp sand?”

Tea leaves and damp sand? Whatever Tabby had expected, it was not a query into the more mundane aspects of housekeeping. However, her employer had asked her a question and she must reply. Tabby embarked upon an explanation, with frequent references to the useful volume that she still held in her hand. Sir Geoffrey was not listening. “You did not summon me here to ask me that, I think,” she said.

So he had not. However, he didn’t know how to broach the subject that he did wish to discuss with Miss Minchin. Sir Geoffrey sighed.

Sir Geoffrey’s silence was unnerving. Perhaps he was searching for the words to turn her off? Tabby couldn’t bear the suspense. “Is something amiss?” she inquired. “Have I failed to satisfy?”

Sir Geoffrey looked startled. “Why should you think that? You’re quite one to the family now, are you not? Our Tabby, abovestairs and below. Why, even my valet speaks highly of you, which I suspect is more than he does me. He says that you’re a very knowing puss. Which is what I wished to speak to you about. You are aware of my betrothal to Lady Grey?”

Tabby nodded. She was absurdly touched to learn she’d won the recommendation of Sir Geoffrey’s superior valet. As for what success she might have had with the servants, Tabby attributed that less to cleverness than to novelty. They were not accustomed to receiving instruction and responded before they realized what they were about. Too, she was careful not to ask the impossible. But what had this to do with Lady Grey?

Sir Geoffrey was finding explanations difficult. He sat down at his desk and fidgeted with a letter knife. “I’m devoted to Augusta!” he said. “Have been since the day we met. The thing is, she’s a devilish high stickler—why, she won’t even visit here, because the one time she did, she was shocked at how shabbily we go on. Not that things are not better now!” he added, lest Tabby think he failed to appreciate her efforts. “My tea and toast this morning were quite warm!”

His breakfast had not noticeably benefited Sir Geoffrey; he looked quite worn down. “Thank you,” murmured Tabby. She wondered, still, what Sir Geoffrey had wished to talk to her about.

“ ‘Twas because of Augusta that I hired you,” said Sir Geoffrey. “And I got to thinking of how my girls would go on if I suddenly popped off. Of course, it’s a somewhat different case, since my pockets aren’t to let, but still— And Gus had said any number of times that my girls need a firmer hand on the reins!”

Tabby suspected that the hand Lady Grey had in mind was not a stranger’s, but her own, in which case, she must resent Tabby’s presence very much. “I hope,” Tabby murmured, “that Lady Grey is not displeased.”

“Lady Grey is always displeased.” Sir Geoffrey threw down his letter knife. “It seems that every time I try to please Gus, I accomplish the opposite! I thought if I didn’t have to worry about my girls, I could devote more time to her. And so I might, if she’d come off her high ropes. Gus isn’t sure it was proper of me to bring a young girl into a household without a mistress. Although it
will
have a mistress as soon as she can bring herself to set a date!”

Tabby could not help but hope that Lady Grey would not set a date too quickly. It was not inconceivable that her first act as mistress of Elphinstone House would be to turn Tabby off.

“Gus’s nose is out of joint,” added Sir Geoffrey, “because I didn’t consult her first. You mustn’t think we’re not well suited. We are, though Gus doesn’t realize it yet. She was married right out of the schoolroom to a man old enough to be her father, with principles so lofty they’d make a saint wish to cast up his accounts. It’s Grey’s fault she’s so high in the instep. He’s probably also to blame for her shattered nerves, not that it signifies. The thing is, there were times before I met her—oh, the devil!” He held out a piece of notepaper. “Perhaps you should read this.”

How unhappy Sir Geoffrey looked. Tabby remembered his haunted expression the night before, when she had returned unexpectedly to the box and surprised him staring at the newcomer to St. Erth’s box. Tabby had slipped quietly into her seat then, in an attempt to avoid questions about Ermyntrude, and the episode had slipped her mind. Now she gingerly took the highly scented missive from his hand. As she read the scrawled handwriting, her own expression came to resemble his own. “What a pickle!” she said when she had finished. “Who is this Mrs. Quarles?”

Sir Geoffrey pressed his fingers to his temples. “Mrs. Quarles is a devilish ungrateful female, with whom I was, er, friendly before I fell fathoms deep in love with my Gus. And now, apparently, she’s gone off her hinges and means to make a cursed nuisance of herself!’’