Maggie MacKeever (19 page)

Nor, at all events, must it be made public. “Puddiphat, I must warn you to be circumspect. We don’t wish to set the cat among the pigeons. This is a very awkward business.”

“Yes, sir.” Puddiphat basked in what he interpreted as approval of a job well done. “I’ll just go and fetch him, shall I? So that you may clap him into jail.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Sir John propped his elbows on his desk. “Where is your proof, man? We have only your word for it that Sir Malcolm has done anything exceptionable.”

Perhaps he had failed to convey the basic perfidy of Sir Malcolm’s character, mused Puddiphat, as to mask his disappointment he turned away from the Chief Magistrate’s desk. So briskly did Puddiphat turn that his saber struck the desk a mighty blow, causing Sir John to bite his lip. Unaware of this disaster, Puddiphat walked to the window. He wondered if the Chief Magistrate would appreciate an explanation of Sir Malcolm’s perfidy, as demonstrated by his adverse effect upon Miss Bagshot. Once Miss Bagshot had professed herself eager to assist Bow Street—yet she had turned right around and warned Sir Malcolm, as Puddiphat had heard with his own two ears. Yes, and she had also vowed she liked the scoundrel very well, no matter what he’d done. Though Puddiphat could not help feeling a little wounded that Miss Bagshot had abused his confidence, he did not judge her too harshly. Obviously, Sir Malcolm had on Miss Bagshot an effect similar to Miss Bagshot’s effect on Puddiphat, rendering her not mute, but bereft of principle. Poor girl! If only Puddiphat might determine which Melly meant to diddle—Sir Malcolm, or Bow Street.

Behind his back, Puddiphat realized, the Chief Magistrate was making some very queer sounds. Puddiphat charitably overlooked this lapse. “Tell you what, I’ll get the proof. Then I’ll fetch the fellow so you may clap him in jail.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” thundered Sir John, in tones that were very garbled by the handkerchief he’d pressed to his wounded lip. “If you find proof, you will present it to Crump, who’ll know what to do.” In a very un-Christian manner, Sir John added a silent wish that Crump might be stricken with a resultant apoplexy.

Crump was to earn the credit for his own ceaseless work? Stung by the unfairness of this development, Puddiphat swung sharply around. His saber struck the window with a sharp crack. The glass shattered. Not trusting himself to speak, Sir John grimly indicated the doorway with his free hand.

Chapter Seventeen

“Gracious God!” ejaculated Lady Davenham, then discreetly lowered her voice. “I don’t believe a word of i.! Vivien and that chit? Malcolm, this is some monstrous hoax!”

“I wish it were,” responded Sir Malcolm softly, with a warning glance. “Remember you are mad for me, my Thea! I am telling you this only because someone eventually must, and I thought it would come better from me.”

The intelligence that her husband had lost little time in carrying out his stated intention of foraging among the fleshpots left Lady Davenham feeling very hipped. She turned her head and gazed upon her spouse. A twinkle lit his dark eyes; a smile played around his mouth. No wonder Miss Bagshot was intrigued by him, thought Thea—and no wonder he appeared in such good spirits. Of the three occupants of the Davenant box at Drury Lane Theatre, only Lord Davenham’s attention was fixed upon the stage. Thus far he had sat rapt through the several acts of a grand melodramatic spectacle in which the magnificence of the scenery and costume atoned for the indifferent acting. Lady Davenham turned back to Sir Malcolm, her discontentment no whit diminished by the spectacle of her perfidious spouse enjoying himself. “Tell me more!” she demanded,
sotto voce.

Sir Malcolm began to regret his introduction of the subject. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “it might be wiser to wait.”

Lady Davenham glowered. “I am not feeling especially wise. If you did not intend to discuss the matter, you should not have brought it up. How on earth did Vivien ever encounter the chit?” She looked appalled. “Oh, no!”

“Oh,
yes,
my Thea, and I must point out that you are supposed to be absolutely enraptured with me. If you cannot look ardent, at least try to appear a little fond.” Personally, Sir Malcolm was finding this pseudo-flirtation very dull work. “Vivien went to persuade Melly that she must not take up with me, and so she took up with
him,
instead. The scheming little minx!”

It seemed to Lady Davenham that her cousin didn’t regard this situation with sufficient solemnity, a conclusion prompted by his reminiscent smile. “Why do you say that she is scheming? Has it not occurred to you that she may
like
Vivien? Or perhaps you cannot credit that he has cut you out!”

Sir Malcolm glanced over Thea’s head at Vivien, who was as usual looking serene and elusive and vague. Sir Malcolm wondered what thoughts seethed behind that calm facade. “You’re right; I
do
find it difficult to credit. And I’m afraid I made matters worse by telling Melly Vivien is rich as Croesus.” He smiled. “She would have given up Vivien for this Croesus fellow, she intimated, and was very sorry to learn he is long dead.”

“So.” Thea was queerly disappointed to discover that the enterprising Miss Bagshot was motivated by avarice. “The chit is on the dangle for a fortune, after all. I am surprised you did not offer her yours, you like her so well.”

“I did.” Sir Malcolm continued to smile. “I wish you would not look so cross, my Thea; it is
not
the way one goes about exhibiting a
tendre!
Miss Bagshot turned me down. She requires that a competence be settled on her so that she may be financially independent, after which she may toss her bonnet over the windmill for whomever she pleases—yes, and grow rhododendrons without soil.”

Lady Davenham, considerably better versed than Sir Malcolm in the science of hydroponics, realized that her spouse had been baring his soul. She was no longer a sufficiently stimulating audience, it seemed. “Surely the girl cannot think
Vivien
will provide her with a competence!” she murmured. “Miss Bagshot must be mad.”

“Not
mad,
precisely.” It was obvious from the expression on Sir Malcolm’s swarthy features that he was deriving inordinate amusement from these recent developments. “Recall the wild blood of the Bagshots! It is not Vivien the minx means to persuade to finance her break for independence—her aunt virtually holds her prisoner, you will recall—but you.”

“Me?” Thea, who had been trying very hard to look like a lady deep in the throes of infatuation, looked dumbfounded instead. “And you claim she doesn’t
have windmills in her head? I’m beginning to wonder if you
both
do not! What makes her think I’ll pay?”

“It is not so absurd a notion as you may believe.” Sir Malcolm throughout this conversation had presented the guise of a man conducting a serious flirtation; currently, he was leaning so close to Lady Davenham that his breath caressed her cheek. “Melly is convinced that you would not wish to be plunged into the scandal-broth, as you would be if she took up with Vivien—as you already
have
been, in fact, due to her disruption of the recent meeting of the Horticultural Society.”

So shocked was Thea by this disclosure that she drew back to stare, first at her cousin, then her spouse. “The Horticultural Society!” she echoed, quite forgetting to lower her voice, thus attracting the notice of several theater-goers in adjacent boxes, and diverting Lord Davenham briefly from watching the stage.

Was Thea cross because he had presented Miss Bagshot to the Horticultural Society? wondered Vivien. But had not Thea and their dashing cousin been racketting about together everywhere? Somewhat perversely, his lordship murmured: “Would you like to see the gardens, my dear? The Society had the first experimental gardens in London, you know: strawberries as large as apples, masses of flowers, red and green Providence pines—I will arrange for you to visit it.” He glanced back at the stage and added vaguely: “First Astley’s, and now this. How social you are become!”

“Astley’s?” murmured Sir Malcolm.

Responded Thea: “Never mind!”

In all the years of their acquaintance, Vivien had not once offered to take her to the Horticultural Gardens, she thought to herself.

No, and never had he flirted with her or offered her unsolicited compliments. Thea didn’t imagine for an instant that the mischievous Miss Bagshot would tolerate similar neglect. How the
deuce
had Melly accomplished miracles? Thea could dress in a style designed to create scandal—this evening it was a gown of crepe trimmed with needlepointed lace which left nothing at all to the imagination, and a white China crepe shawl bordered with flowers—without earning from her husband a single second glance. Thea had no notion of how to bring herself to Vivien’s attention. Indeed, she had seen little of her husband of late. For all she knew, he was sleeping in his potting shed.

Thea did not care to discuss that aspect of the situation with Malcolm. She had not forgotten her dashing cousin stood next in line. Few men, in such a position, could fail to secretly wish to inherit a dukedom. Malcolm could not be trusted to render impartial advice on the topic of acquiring offspring. Yet Thea needed desperately to talk to someone. It was a pity circumstance prohibited her from asking Miss Bagshot’s advice!

“The chit admitted her intentions?” she murmured to Sir Malcolm. “What was your reply?”

Sir Malcolm did not mind being distracted from the performance, in which Braham as first singer was exhibiting the great power of his voice. “When Melly admitted she meant to put you to the touch? Nothing. I kissed her, instead.”

“You
kissed
her?” echoed Thea, appalled. She had meant to settle her cousin respectably. Instead, she had inadvertently driven him—as well as her husband— straight into the arms of a designing minx.

“My Thea, I have kissed a lot of females.” Sir Malcolm looked both reminiscent and self-satisfied. “You make too much of it. Some of us don’t care to put all our eggs in one basket. Which reminds me—you are to have a carriage dress designed by Melly, in a fashionable new shade called London Soot.”

Lady Davenham’s imagination boggled at contemplation of what manner of dress might be designed for her by the damsel engaged in leading the male members of her family down the garden path. “London
Soot?
If this is the sort of adventure you usually have , Cousin, I don’t care for it much.”

“But this is not the usual sort! This is even better.” With his usual faculty to enjoy each moment, Sir Malcolm settled back, in an academic manner, to savor his cousin’s magnificent bosom. “If Melly does try and put you to the touch, you must immediately tell me. Otherwise you must let this
affaire
run its course.” He elevated his eyes from Lady Davenham’s décolletage to her unhappy face. “You will ruin my reputation if you go on in this manner; your expression will convince the ladies that intriguing with me has
not
been the most delightful experience. Which I promise you it
would
be if we actually were.” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose I had better tell you that Miss Bagshot thinks we are. Lest she alert Vivien, I could not inform her otherwise.”

Lady Davenham had not been paying proper heed to her cousin’s conversation, had instead been pondering her inability to spark the ardor of her spouse. Here she sat, clad in the most revealing gown ever worn by any woman, and Vivien’s sole reaction had been an absent-mindedly murmured “Fine feathers make fine birds.” Thea consoled herself that birds were preferable to caterpillars, as comparisons went. “Miss Bagshot thinks we are
what?”
she asked.

Sir Malcolm suspected he was losing not only his touch with the ladies, but also his taste for flirtation. “Planting the antlers on Vivien’s brow!” he explained frankly. “Which may explain why she slapped my face.”

Miss Bagshot had
slapped
Malcolm? Lady Davenham began to question whether, as regarded mending fences, her dashing cousin was the most proper person for the task.

Sir Malcolm quitted the box at the interval, to throng with other hopeful gentlemen into the Green Room opposite the royal box, there to chat backstage with the cast. Lord Davenham made no move to follow his adventurous cousin. Lady Davenham supposed she should be grateful that his hankering after fleshpots was not so overpowering as to lead him to visit actresses in the dressing room. “Such a charming evening!” she observed brightly. “Do you not agree?”

With every indication of giving the question his serious consideration, Lord Davenham glanced around the theater. “Apollo’s Head!” said he.

At this evidence that her spouse was in one of his more exasperating moods, Lady Davenham almost despaired. And then she thought that Miss Bagshot, in a similar situation, would surely persevere. “This is not a classical entertainment!” she protested. “What has put you in mind of the Greeks? Or was Apollo Roman? Oh, it is all the same thing!”

“I doubt the Greeks and Romans think so,” Lord Davenham responded drily. “At all events, I was referring to the Catherine-wheel.”

“The Catherine-wheel.” Thea plucked at the fragile fabric of her gown. “I say it is a pleasant evening and you refer to Catherine-wheels. If you do not wish to talk to me, Vivien, you need only say so.”

“Poppycock, my dear!” Though he was both annoyed with her and anxious about her, Lord Davenham still enjoyed his wife’s company very well.
Too
well, in fact, for his own peace of mind. He placed his hand over Thea’s. “Of course I want to talk to you; there is no need to shred your pretty dress. You said it was a pleasant evening and I was agreeing with you. I am enjoying it very well. One of the reasons I am enjoying it is because the theater has an excellent system of water-sprinklers. We need not fear that the performance will be cut short because the theater has gone up in flames.”

Lady Davenham contemplated her husband’s hand, which he appeared to have forgotten, and which rested with her own upon her knee. She would not remind him of its presence there, she thought. “But Apollo’s Head?” she protested. “And Catherine-wheels?”