Maggie MacKeever (7 page)

“Yes, Jem,” she murmured.

They agreed to say nothing of the attempts on Loveday’s life, lest suspicion be aroused. “Let them think of me as an addle-brained goosecap,” Loveday said grandly. “
I
don’t mind!”

The two conspirators made their way to the kitchen, where they hoped to wheedle an early cup of tea. A scene of comfortable domesticity greeted them. Mrs. Snugglebutt was seated at a low table, and the maid Prudence stood beside her. The cook, diligently stirring some concoction in a blackened pot, kept one interested eye on the proceedings and occasionally mumbled unintelligibly.

“Periwinkle and earthworm, that’s the ticket,” Mrs. Snugglebutt announced decisively, and pressed a packet into the girl’s outstretched hand.

“Gracious!” remarked Loveday. The cook jumped and dropped her spoon. Prudence looked at Jem, blushed bright red, and fled from the room.

“Hoyden,” commented Mrs. Snugglebutt, fixing Loveday with an appraising eye. “You’d best have a nice cup of tea.”

Loveday quickly took a place at the table, while Jem paused to tease the cook for a slice of newly-baked bread. “It’s an aphrodisiac,” Loveday commented. “Powdered periwinkle and earthworm.”

“Aye,” retorted Mrs. Snugglebutt, banging a heavy cup on the table. “But how would you be knowin’ that?”

Loveday shrugged and sipped the hot tea. She had no intention of divulging the source of that particular piece of information; Jasper would fall under grave censure for discussing such matters with a schoolroom miss, even so precocious a lass as she herself had been.

“Well, it makes no matter.” Mrs. Snugglebutt favored her with a keen glance. “I’m not one to poke into that which ain’t any of my affair.” She paused expectantly, but Loveday remained silent. “The truth is, I have a touch of the gramarye.”

“She means she can work magic,” Jem explained as he sat beside Loveday.

“Aye. Dillian will’ve told you that.”

Loveday felt that things were moving much too quickly for her. Magic? Dillian? No wonder the girl was strange. She’d doubtless spent much time in Mrs. Snugglebutt’s enlightening company.

“Verdelet!” she exclaimed. “I knew I’d heard that name before.” Jem merely looked blank, but Mrs. Snugglebutt made a sign to ward off evil.

“Of course you have, Loveday.” Dillian appeared exactly on cue. “Verdelet was the demon who carried the witches to the Sabbat.”

“The Sabbat?”

“A ceremony of initiation.” Dillian helped herself to bread from Jem’s plate. “Rather nasty, I believe. The Great Sabbat was held once a month, and was attended by all the sorcerers and witches of a region. The Little Sabbat was held once a week for all the initiates of a small area.”

“Ugh,” remarked Loveday.

“There are lots of books in the library, if you’re interested.” Dillian licked her fingers and awarded Jem with a dazzling smile.

“I’d rather not,” Loveday murmured, and received a brilliant look in turn.

“Mrs. Snugglebutt,” Jem was abrupt, “the duchess said Loveday has been here before.”

“Aye. And the apple of the old duke’s eye, she was. Fair doted on her, did His Grace.”

“Isolda’s husband?” Loveday asked. “Pray tell us what happened.”

The housekeeper shrugged her plump shoulders. “No one rightly knows. The duke and Lord Everard were arguin’—what about don’t signify now.” She glanced meaningfully at Dillian.

“Of course it does,” that young lady protested. “Timothy had accused Everard of being my father.”

“Oh, damme, Dillian!” Jem cried, aghast. “I beg your pardon! I didn’t know.”

“Nonsense,” said Dillian, patting his hand as she turned to Loveday, who was hard-pressed to hide her amusement at the maternal gesture. “You see, my mother was a village girl, with great ambitions. I daresay she provoked the situation, with marriage in mind.”

“But surely she told someone who your father was!”

Dillian shook her head. “Silent as the grave, my mum was, and soon in her own. She kept quiet about it, and I imagine she tried a little blackmail, too, for she was found with a broken neck when I was but six months old.”

“Quite a scandal it was, too.” Mrs. Snugglebutt took up the story. “Her da brought the babe up here and said it belonged to the castle. They suspected Lord Everard, and old duke was right mad. A rare turn-up
that
was!”

“But it wasn’t Everard,” Dillian commented, dreamily twisting a curl.

“How do you know?” Loveday asked.

“If Everard was my father, Averil would be my brother, and he isn’t. I’d know if he was.” There was no answer to such a statement; everyone remained silent. Loveday stole a look at Jem, thought that he had several reasons for wanting the old mystery solved. “As for the other, Everard loved his father, and would never have raised a hand against him.”

“But what about Timothy, the duke?” Loveday was fascinated by Dillian’s account.

“The Duke of Chesshire was a fair man, and very fond of his son. Most people think Everard killed his father, then himself, in rage at Timothy’s accusations, but that’s not so. Even as angry as he was, Timothy would have demanded more proof than he had before taking action against his son.”

“How do you know all this?” Jem demanded. “You were only a baby.”

“I know what I know,” Dillian retorted cryptically.

“Then why did the mistress run off, like she did? Explain that, miss!” Mrs. Snugglebutt’s nose twitched.

“Who’s to say that she
did
run away?”

“Well, she’s gone, for certain. Leavin’ young Master Averil without a father or mother!”

“She disappeared. Maybe she was murdered too.”

Loveday shivered at Dillian’s words, and the younger girl turned to her. “Don’t you want to change? It won’t do to have Isolda see you like that. Come, I’ll see you to your room.”

“Dillian,” Loveday asked, as she climbed the stairs, “if Timothy didn’t kill his son, then who did? Do you know?”

Dillian shook her head. “You musn’t pay me much mind, Loveday. I’m not responsible for what I say.”

Loveday stopped in her tracks. “Dillian! Whatever do you mean?”

“They call me daft; perhaps they’re right.”

Though the girl spoke lightly, Loveday suspected that her manner hid a great and ever-present fear. “Nonsense!” she said bracingly. “You have been shockingly neglected, and left too much to your own devices. It’s done you little real harm. All you lack is a little town polish. I, for one, find you quite delightful.” She smiled. “As does my brother, I think.” Loveday was rewarded for her kindness; a fragile hand slipped into her own.

* * * *

Loveday obeyed Isolda’s summons to display herself before guests with some trepidation; she was not sure that she wished to meet yet more of the Ballerfast clan. It was entirely possible that the errant rifle shot had been fired by some trespassing poacher; it was equally possible that one of her distant relatives wished to frighten her away.

What possible threat her presence might constitute, Loveday could not imagine, but she intended to let them all consider her as meek as a sacrificial lamb. With this in mind, she had dressed modestly in a flounced, high-waisted dress of green cambric, the long sleeves of which hid her bruised elbows. Her curls were caught up with a matching green ribbon. Loveday had no doubt that her new acquaintances would think her dowdy. She raised her chin, and resolutely entered the drawing room.

She was mistaken; both of the newcomers considered her a veritable vision of loveliness. Tibby, a round little squab of a girl, instantly recognized Loveday as yet another surpassing beauty, and resigned herself to the fact with her accustomed good nature. She did experience a pang of regret, for Tibby couldn’t doubt that Averil, too, would be appreciative of Miss Fairchild. But Tibby had long since accepted that the object of her amorous longings would never be inclined to sweep her off her feet amid passionate protestations of eternal devotion, just as she accepted that her marriage would be one of convenience, inspired on her prospective husband’s part by a sizable dowry and on her own by a fervent wish to be wed, even to so dull and unprepossessing a man as was the only aspirant to her hand.

“There!” hissed Dorcas, as Isolda made the introductions. “I told you she’s an insignificant dab.”

Tibby, meeting Loveday’s shining eyes, was moved to disagree with her friend, an unusual occurrence. “Oh, n-no, Dorcas!” she protested. “She’s q-quite lovely.” Upset by her unpredictable stammer, Tibby blushed.

“Pfft! Everyone knows you’re wretchedly shortsighted.”

Tibby sighed, afraid that Dorcas was suffering another of her uncomfortable headaches. She glanced at Hilary and, when he smiled, looked away in blushing confusion. Whatever Loveday’s opinion of that young gentleman, Tibby thought him an inspiring example of manhood, patient and cheerful in the face of such adversities as Isolda and his wife. She could quite understand why Hilary preferred to make the castle his home, whereas Dorcas could not. For Tibby, Ballerfast offered more diversions and pleasures than she could imagine existed even in fabled London.

“Hilary seems to like her,” Tibby ventured, as that gentleman exchanged pleasantries with Loveday.

“Hilary likes anything in skirts,” Dorcas snapped.

Tibby reflected that Hilary had never spoken to
her
in so intimate a manner. It was no wonder; what gentleman would start up a flirtation with a plump mouse who stammered, blushed unbecomingly all too often, and had an unfortunate predilection toward spots? She glanced toward her affianced cousin, George. He was staring at Loveday with frank admiration.  Tibby felt a definite pang of what would have been, in a less good-natured person, chagrin.

Tibby had reason for envy; her partner-to-be in matrimony had at last discovered a lady worthy of his attentions. Characterized succinctly by Isolda as a mooncalf, George was possessed of a comfortable fortune, a large estate, a nice awareness of the proprieties, an incurious intellect, and no sense of humor whatsoever. In appearance he was round, and had lately come to consider the merits of girdling himself about with whalebone.

Loveday was unaware of the soulful glances that George cast at her. She anxiously awaited Dillian’s appearance, for Loveday had decided to take Dillian’s neglected social graces in hand. Isolda would be little pleased, but Loveday gambled that Isolda would not reveal petulance before so many people.

She was not disappointed: upon Dillian’s arrival, Isolda was stricken momentarily dumb. Dillian was clad in an exquisite gown of clear lawn trimmed with embroidered frills and blue ribbon headings. Her fair hair was cropped and clustered in ringlets around her face. Loveday noticed with amusement that Dillian’s pale, fragile beauty cast Dorcas’s more robust looks quite into the shade.

Isolda regained her wits and introduced Jem, who hovered protectively near Dillian’s left elbow, to the assorted company. “And, of course,” she added, “I have no need to make Dillian known to you.”

Dillian smiled sweetly and paused to exchange a few words with Hilary and George before moving to Loveday’s side. “How am I doing?” she whispered.

“Wonderfully! You’ve taken them quite by surprise.” Before Loveday could say more, the doors were thrust open. In quavering tones, Tarbath announced yet another visitor, Lady Charmain Laurent. Loveday’s dismayed exclamation was lost in Isolda’s warm greeting.

“That’s torn it!” Jem muttered. “What’s to do?”

“Do you know her?” Dillian whispered.

“Only by reputation.” Loveday’s tone was grim. Jasper had spoken quite frankly of the lady; if matters still stood as they had at that last meeting, Lady Laurent was Jasper’s latest flirt. Loveday found the woman much as Jasper had described her: a black-haired beauty, conveniently widowed, whose fast ways enchanted the gentlemen and scandalized their ladies.

“She’s been throwing out lures to Averil,” Dillian murmured. “He says she amuses him.” Loveday reflected that Jasper had said much the same thing.

“Loveday Fairchild,” Lady Laurent said, with a charming smile and a frankly appraising look. “Though we have not met before, I have heard much of you.” Loveday murmured an appropriate response and wondered if Jasper had spoken of her. If so, this Banbury tale of a betrothal must be exposed as such. Loveday knew all too well that he regarded her as a wayward younger sister.

“You will be pleased to learn that a friend of yours will soon be in the neighborhood,” Lady Laurent remarked complacently.

Loveday’s stomach churned. “Oh?”

“Yes. You must know that I am giving a ball—you and your brother will be able to attend, I hope.” She favored Jem with a provocative glance, and Loveday felt Dillian stiffen. Charmain did not miss the girl’s reaction, and smiled. “Dillian, too, if the duchess will permit it.” Her voice conveyed her doubt, and Loveday touched Dillian’s arm.

“I’m afraid, ma’am, that I must convey Loveday’s regrets as well as my own,” Jem said quickly. “Circumstances make it impossible for either of us to attend.”

“Nonsense!” interrupted Isolda, suddenly entering the lists. “We shall all attend.” She smiled serenely at Jem. “And Dillian shall have a new gown for the occasion.”

“Famous! I’ve made sure Loveday will not wish to miss it, for Jasper Assheton has promised himself to me for the occasion.” Loveday flushed and Lady Laurent looked at her inquisitively. “Surely his presence cannot be frowned on! Jasper is not quite the thing, but a diverting rogue, all the same. My dear, am I in error? I had thought him to be a particular friend of yours.”

“A particular friend, indeed, Charmain,” Isolda remarked dryly. “They are betrothed.”

The reactions to this bit of information were varied. Tibby felt great relief; George, totally oblivious to his betrothed state, saw that he would have to make a push to show Loveday that his worth far exceeded that of Sir Jasper Assheton. Dorcas was shocked, for the rakish Sir Jasper was quite a matrimonial catch. Loveday, who wanted to sink through the floor, became aware for the first time of the elusive resemblance between Isolda and Hilary: both wore expressions of dispassionate speculation, as if lesser mortals existed solely to further the ends of the mighty Veres. She wondered what her part in their schemes might be. Isolda wished the ancient mystery solved and her grandson safely wed, but what of Hilary? That his interest equaled Isolda’s, Loveday had no doubt, but she could not imagine what motivated such concern.