Maggie MacKeever (26 page)

Sir Malcolm looked rueful. “I am generally under a cloud,” he confessed. “That particular episode concerned a woman, as I recall. I was no more anxious then than now to step into parson’s mousetrap.”

Miss Bagshot transferred her mournful gaze from the rhododendron, which several busy gardeners were hovering solicitously about, to Sir Malcolm’s handsome sun-bronzed face. Her big brown eyes lingered upon his unruly black curls and curly side-whiskers, his dark eyes and flyaway brows, his adventurous nose and sensual mouth. “No, and you ain’t anxious to do other things, either! It you had a grain of proper feeling, you’d flirt with me just a little, because I’m feeling very
hipped!”

With vast appreciation, Sir Malcolm contemplated his companion, paying particular attention to her enchanting little face, her blonde curls and pretty nose, big brown eyes and merry lips. “I think I may have lost my taste for flirtation,” he admitted, as he took Melly’s arm and guided her away from the scene of his crime. “My last such venture was not a success.”

Melly looked anxious, then puzzled; then her dimples appeared. “Bless my soul! You’re talking about your cousin! I thought at first you was talking about
me.
And I was going to accuse you of telling clankers, because I ain’t ever met anybody I’d rather have lead me down the primrose path! But I still don’t understand, sir, why you pretended to be planting antlers if you wasn’t. Lord Davenham wanted your head on a platter, you know—or if he didn’t, he should have! Which reminds me that I ain’t thanked you properly for the rhododendron, even though I wasn’t allowed to keep it.” Sadly, she glanced over her shoulder at the busy gardeners. “It was such a
nice
rhododendron, too!”

Sir Malcolm led Miss Bagshot along the romantic graveled pathway that led through picturesque vistas enhanced by weeping willows from China and tulip-poplars from America, and into the rustic garden shelter fashioned from tree roots and branches. “My darling, I will plant you a rhododendron on every one of my estates—oh, yes, I have several.”

“That is very nice,” said Melly, as she sank down on a rustic bench, “but I’d much liefer have a rhododendron I can see. It won’t do
me
a particle of good for
you to
grow rhododendrons, though I thank you for the thought.”

“I intended that you see them.” Wearing a very fond expression, Sir Malcolm joined Miss Bagshot on the bench. “I’d assumed you’d be with me.”

“With
you, sir?” Melly’s brown eyes were watchful and huge.

For the first time in his lengthy career. Sir Malcolm felt inept. “What am I saying?” he groaned.

Solemnly, Miss Bagshot pondered this question. “I think you was desirous of offering me a slip on the shoulder, sir. And I wish you would go on!”

But Sir Malcolm was discovering in himself the vestiges of a conscience, and that highly inconvenient appendage dictated he could not casually make this darling minx his light o’ love. “I shouldn’t!” he temporized. “You can aim a great deal higher, Melly.”

This latter piece of nonsense, Miss Bagshot ignored, and abjured Sir Malcolm to cease talking like a nod-cock. “If you don’t, someone else will!” she additionally pointed out. “And I’d much rather it was you! You
do
make a girl’s heart flutter, sir! And I’ll wager you wouldn’t cut up stiff about trifles or forbid me from cutting a dash. Oh, I know you promised not to presume upon our friendship, but I’ve been wishing for the longest time you
would!”

Sir Malcolm gazed upon Melly’s hopeful countenance and in several languages roundly cursed his newborn conscience. Never, among all the females by whom he had been favored, had he met a maiden whom he wanted quite so much.

“You don’t want me!” sighed Melly, apt if less than acute. “I’ve made a rare mull of it, ain’t I? My intentions were the best. I thought I was the properest person to fix everything up shipshape. There ain’t nothing else for it: I
will
have to go upon the stage.”

Sir Malcolm’s newfound conscience was no match for his long-standing dislike of causing distress. He grasped Miss Bagshot’s shoulders and turned her toward him. Melly fluttered her long lashes and looked enchantingly coy. Sir Malcolm could not help but smile. “You are a designing baggage, Miss Bagshot.”

Melly dimpled. “Ain’t I just? But I ain’t cutting a wheedle with you, on my honor. You mustn’t think I make it my habit to diddle everyone—and, anyway, you are as bad. That is one of the things I like about you, because I know exactly how it is. Or not
exactly,
because I truly ain’t bachelor’s fare—yet! Though I’ve always known
someone
would lead me astray—it’s in the blood!” She paused for breath. Sir Malcolm still made no move to avail himself of her generous offer. Melly took hold of his lapels and gave him a little shake. “Sir, I do not
want
to go upon the stage!”

Sir Malcolm’s conscience decreed that he should posthaste remove Miss Bagshot’s hands from his lapels, lest she thereby sound the death knell for his self-control. He equivocated by placing his hands over hers. “I’m sure you can persuade your aunt to forgive you this latest start. There are other things that a beautiful young lady may do with herself beside treading the boards.”

“Yes, like step into parson’s mousetrap.” Had not Sir Malcolm admitted that he liked her looks, Melly might have given up. She achieved a sorry little sniffle, and a mournful glance. “And I
ain’t
a young lady!”

Refraining from seduction, decided Sir Malcolm, was far more difficult than seduction itself. “You are a darling!” he informed the inspiration of his considerable inner turmoil. “But I am used to, er, variety. I would not wish to mislead you, Melly. I do not know that it is in me to be constant to any one female.”

“Pooh!” By the discovery that Sir Malcolm’s shillyshallying was inspired by nothing more serious than scruples, Miss Bagshot’s dimples were restored. “I never thought I’d hear
you
talking such skimble-skamble stuff. You wouldn’t keep a girl without money for common necessaries, or pull a long face over her every time she tumbled into a pickle—and, anyway, we are
both
dreadful flirts!” Still he hesitated. Miss Bag-shot therefore took matters into her own capable hands. She tugged so hard on Sir Malcolm’s lapels that he leaned forward. Promptly, and enthusiastically, Melly kissed him. Sir Malcolm bid his conscience go and be damned,

Some little time elapsed in this very pleasant manner, at the end of which Miss Bagshot was seated on Sir Malcolm’s lap, her head resting very comfortably on his shoulder, and her pretty cheeks pink. “Bless my heart!” she gasped. “If I had known how much I’d like it, I’d have tossed my bonnet over the windmill long ago!”

“Then I must be glad you
didn’t
know, else you would have done so with someone other than me.” Sir Malcolm gazed down upon his armful of bird-witted femininity, thinking in a distinctly besotted manner that constancy might not be all that difficult to achieve. “You seem to have forgotten your concern for the future, Melly. I have not promised you a competency.”

Miss Bagshot turned up her elfin face. Huskily, she consigned the future to that infernal region whence Sir Malcolm’s conscience had already flown. Naturally, Sir Malcolm kissed her again in consequence. Had they not been interrupted, Melly and Sir Malcolm might well have continued in this manner all the afternoon.

That interruption was provided by Sir Malcolm’s valet. Upon discovering his master engaged in ardent embrace, Hopgood discreetly cleared his throat. “You wished to see me, sir.”

“So I did.” In a leisurely manner, Sir Malcolm concluded his embrace, and smiled down upon Miss Bagshot. “My darling, this is my man. He will be traveling with us.”

Melly had not the slightest interest in valets or travel at that moment, or in anything under God’s blue heavens but the man who held her so tenderly in his arms. What frolics they would have! she thought. And if Sir Malcolm eventually grew tired of her and turned her off—well, the future could take care of itself, and, anyway, she meant to ensure that he did not.

Sir Malcolm, who was feeling a trifle bemused himself, gave Miss Bagshot a little shake. “If you keep looking at me like
that,”
he said with mock severity, “we shall remain forever in the garden, and I think my cousins would rather be shut of the pair of us. Yes, I know it is very ungrateful of them, after all the trouble we have gone to on their behalf,” he added, as she frowned. Then he looked at his valet. “You have packed?”

“Yes, sir.” Hopgood inclined his head. “And may I say, sir, that it ain’t a minute too soon!”

Clearly, she was to have no more kisses for the moment, decided Melly, and she transferred her attention to Sir Malcolm’s valet. He stood in the doorway, his features indistinct in the pale sunlight.

“It was almost several moments too late,” retorted Sir Malcolm, at his most saturnine. “You have been remiss, Hopgood. I may not remember precisely where we met, but I
would
remember had you told me you departed England only paces ahead of Bow Street.” He glanced down at Melly as Hopgood moaned. “Now you understand why I have so suddenly decided to resume my travels. Hopgood may be a trifle devious, but he is a damned good servant. My need is greater than Bow Street’s.”

“Oh, yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” babbled Hopgood, in an excess of relief. “I don’t want to go to prison, sir. And, anyway, I have reformed.”

Sir Malcolm gazed upon his anxious valet, who was literally wringing his hands. “Blood-and-Thunder!” he marveled. “Damme!”

“I
still
don’t understand!” lamented Melly, as she slid off Sir Malcolm’s lap and approached the stricken valet. “How can this person be Blood-and-Thunder? My Aunt Helen said—” She paused, speechless, as her vision adjusted to the sunlight.

“Your Aunt
Helen?”
echoed the valet.

“Papa!”
Melly shrieked.

“Allow me to introduce you to one another!” suggested Sir Malcolm, from the bench. “Melly, say hello to my valet. Hopgood, make your bow to my, er,
petite amie.”
And then he fell into whoops.

Sir Malcolm’s valet and
petite amie
looked without especial appreciation upon their chortling patron, and then upon each other. In this latter glance was even less delight. “You
abandoned
us!” said Melly.

And at the same moment Hopgood muttered, “I knew his weakness for fancy-pieces would land us in the suds. I felt it in my bones.”

Fancy-pieces? This from a cracksman! Miss Bagshot was not reluctant to make her indignation known. “Bless my soul, here’s my own papa calling the kettle black!” she observed, “I
ain’t
a fancy-piece, and even if I
was,
it’d be better than
stealing
things!” She looked very stern. “And you’d better never steal from Sir Malcolm, because I won’t stand for it—and I mean to keep a very close eye on you!”

Hopgood’s bones had misled him; it was not Sir Malcolm who had landed in the suds. Moreover, Hopgood knew not how to extricate himself. “And I you, Miss!” he retorted. “You needn’t think the master is a pigeon for your plucking, because I mean to see he
ain’t!”

No damsel to take offense at plain speaking, Melly thoughtfully regarded the subject of this conversation, who was chuckling still. “I shouldn’t think anyone could!” she said. “Since we are going to be living in one another’s pockets, P—— Do you mind if I do
not
call you Papa? I ain’t seen you for so long, and it sounds very queer!”

Hopgood was relieved to discover he had sired a sensible offspring. Promptly he agreed.

Melly nibbled contemplatively on her lower lip. “I can’t call you Bagshot because that’s
my
name, so it will have to be Hopgood. That’s a very clever name, sir, because it is exactly what you did! But here I am, jawing on again! I meant to say that we should call a truce, Hopgood. I shan’t scold you for abandoning Mama and me—to say the truth, I sometimes thought of abandoning her myself!—so long as you don’t scold me about my frolics and larks.” She shook a cautionary finger under the valet’s nose. “Providing that you don’t steal anything!”

Frolics and larks? Hopgood was each moment growing more reconciled to his daughter. He was not delighted about this reunion, but if Sir Malcolm had to take up with some female, Melly was doubtless better than most. In a rare moment of paternal excess—so rare, in fact, that he only ever experienced one other such, that second moment being the occasion when Sir Malcolm and Melly, after sharing many frolicsome adventures, overcame their mutual antipathy to marriage and stepped together into parson’s mousetrap during a small and private ceremony witnessed by London’s most fashionable milliner, and Lord and Lady Davenham and their numerous tardy offspring—he said, “The master has a nasty temper, Miss.”

“Sir Malcolm?” That individual looked anything but tempersome, sitting on the bench clutching his sides and gasping for breath. Melly shrugged. “I don’t care a straw for that. But maybe you don’t know what it’s like, Papa—I mean Hopgood!—to have a decided partiality.”

Lest Miss Bagshot explain to her parent just how it felt to nourish a
tendre—
only one of countless bizarre contingencies that he anticipated with great glee—Sir Malcolm overcame his mirth. “Hopgood, you doubtless have some last-minute details to attend to. We shall go to Paris by way of Calais. Melly, you will like Paris. Calais is only a little fishing village, but Dessein’s hotel is unrivaled throughout Europe.”

“It sounds even
better
than Brighton!” Thus did Miss Bagshot bestow the supreme accolade. “Have you always known my papa was a thief, sir?”

Obviously, Miss Bagshot had not derived from her reunion with her papa an enjoyment equal to his own. Sir Malcolm arose from the bench and drew her into his arms. “I realized it only today. You must not fret, my darling. Hopgood
has
reformed.”

“I don’t give a fig for Hopgood.” Melly gazed up at Sir Malcolm, looking demure and adorably misty-eyed. “I was just afraid that stealing might be in the blood. But I don’t think Aunt Hel’s ever stolen anything, and I know
I
ain’t—”