Maggie MacKeever (15 page)

Miss Phyfe closed her mouth, which had fallen open, not upon learning of Lady Barbour’s belief that Viscount English had suddenly turned revolutionary, but upon discovering the precise nature of the ingredient missing from her life. “Darby?” she echoed.

“Yes, Darby!” repeated Lady Barbour, with a singular lack of warmth. “I do not scruple to tell you that he only threw the hatchet at
you
to repay
me
for calling him dreary and dull! The cream of the jest is that you believed him. Don’t eat me, Morgan; you must know you’re not in his style. Take my advice and have nothing more to say to the man.”

To that advice, Miss Phyfe’s reaction was so violent that she dared not utter speech. Abruptly, she turned on her heel, stalked across the room to glower at a bureau cabinet. So Sidoney wanted Darby? Morgan wrenched open one of the drawers by its lion-handled ring. The fact that Morgan had conceived of Lord Darby as the lesser of the pitfalls into which Sidoney might tumble consoled her not one whit.

Lady Barbour also turned away, to survey her reflection in a gilt-framed mirror of convex glass, atop which perched an eagle with spheres dangling from a chain held in its beak. Seldom had Callie seen her stepmama look so glum.

Miss Whateley was not without affection for Lady Barbour, and she wondered what prompted Sidoney’s uncharacteristic gloom. And, for that matter, her uncharacteristic ill-temper. As near as Callie could determine from the recent conversation, Sidoney thought Viscount English was dangling after Morgan, or Lord Darby was, or both.

Perhaps Sidoney thought she was losing her fascination for the opposite sex? Callie thought she must disabuse her caper-witted stepparent of that absurd notion. “Mama,” she said.

But Lady Barbour had been rapt in visions of how Miss Phyfe would achieve political euphoria with the deft assistance of a particular viscount, and that pastime had not appreciably improved her mood. Her gloomy gaze settled upon Callie. “Next I suppose,” she muttered, “I will discover that you have developed a
tendre
for an ineligible
parti!”

Chapter Thirteen

Capable as Sidoney deemed him of providing euphoria to the lady of his choice, Viscount English was, as concerned his own sensibilities, markedly less adept. Therefore had he endured a long and excessively tedious dinner party. Not the quality of the repast bored him, nor the quantity—a formal dinner party of any consequence meant two kinds of soup, two fish dishes, six or seven entrees, extremets, hors d’oeuvres, roasts and innumerable side dishes. The high point of the repast was a confection conjured up by the chef out of spun sugar and paste, which bore a noteworthy resemblance to an Attic ruin. Laurie only picked at his food, despite its excellence, and cast frequent futile glances down the length of the table, every available inch of which was loaded with silver and glass and porcelain dishes and ornaments.

It was not the cutlery which roused the viscount’s interest, nor the plate; not dishes with scalloped and sliced cutting, openwork baskets fashioned from glass threads, cruet bottles and sugar-casters fitted with silver caps. Lady Barbour was seated somewhere at the opposite end of the long table. He could not see her without vulgarly craning his neck, but occasionally her infectious giggles wafted up to him. This evidence that her ladyship contrived to amuse herself very well only increased his discontent. Laurie wished that he might have inspired her laughter. Instead, he was privy to the conversation of Miss Phyfe.

Cautiously, he regarded that lady, who had somehow taken the appalling notion that he yearned to lend his assistance to the cause of parliamentary reform, and who consequently sought to fill him in on the cause’s origins. Perhaps she had ceased to lecture?

But no. “Some seventeenth-century revolutionaries mythologized the history of the Anglo-Saxon period, as they did the Magna Carta,” Miss Phyfe explained. “They claimed that pre-Norman England was a golden age of peasant democracy, that every man had a voice in choosing his representatives before the Norman conquerors destroyed the Anglo-Saxon constitution. It is a pretty theory—but poppycock, of course.”

In the viscount’s opinion, Miss Phyfe’s conversation was largely poppycock. He ceased to listen to her, occupied himself wondering how his current dilemma had come about. He had meant to protect Lady Barbour from being splattered with her cousin’s seditious brush. Yet somehow in the realization of that simple honorable concept he had attracted not only three avaricious sisters who lay in eternal ambush, but the zealous Miss Phyfe as well. It was enough to sour a gentleman forever on honorable concepts.

It was also sufficient cause for a gentleman to avail himself freely of the wines that accompanied the repast: claret with the meat; tokay with the pudding; hock, sherry and port throughout. Briefly, the viscount turned his attention to his other neighbor, who immediately began to describe to him her own recipe for chestnut soup, which included beef broth and pureed chestnuts, ground pigeon and veal meat, onions and pepper and herbs. Laurie had as little enthusiasm for the culinary arts as he had for Oliver Cromwell, current subject of Miss Phyfe’s learned discourse. Wondering if this interminable dinner would ever end, he indicated to a hovering servant that he would be very grateful if his wineglass were refilled. At last the signal was given, and the ladies retired upstairs to the drawing room. The gentlemen were not long in following, having already made great inroads on the port.

The drawing room was on the first floor. Its large windows were curtained with red velvet, its furnishings upholstered in plush; above the massive overmantel hung a mirror which reflected a host of small ornaments and a great ormolu clock. It also reflected Miss Phyfe, deep in conversation with the culinary-inclined female who had spoken to the viscount with such depths of emotion about chestnut soup. Laurie looked about. His somewhat reddened eyes brightened when he glimpsed Lady Barbour standing near one of the windows, looking positively heartbreaking in a robe of Salisbury drugget, worn with a petticoat of white muslin trimmed with gold lace.

“Laurie!” she observed acutely, when he had deftly drawn her away from her admiring audience. “Why are you not talking to Morgan? After I made sure you
could!
And it was no easy thing to arrange, I promise you, because the entire seating arrangements had to be redone.”

Upon this indication that Lady Barbour was responsible for his wretched dinner, Viscount English almost lost patience with his favorite pea-brain. Of her limited intellectual capacities, he reminded himself. “Your cousin,” he said repressively, “has just spent an entire meal talking to me about parliamentary reform. And Oliver Cromwell. It quite took away my appetite.”

“Yes, well, I can certainly see how it might!” Sidoney blinked her big blue eyes. “Who
is
this Cromwell person, Laurie? I do not think I have heard Morgan mention him. Oh, I do hope she has not taken yet another notion; it was quite bad enough that she teased Darby to take her to Vauxhall. I am all out of patience with her! She knows nothing about gentlemen in the petticoat-line.”

“I believe,” the viscount offered weakly, “that Cromwell is dead.”

“Dead? Well, if
that
doesn’t beat everything.” Lady Barbour fanned herself. “And I was used to think Morgan clever. Be a good fellow, Laurie, and fetch me some more champagne. You need not look so disapproving! Recall that I am under a great strain. What with Morgan making sheep’s eyes at all my admirers, and Callie refusing to make sheep’s eyes at anyone at all, it is not at all surprising if I have begun to drink a
teeny
bit to excess.”

Laurie glanced around the crowded drawing room, most of the occupants of which were sipping rather more innocuous brews. He suspected that Lady Barbour might also benefit from a change of beverage. Nonetheless, if champagne was what she wanted, champagne she would have, even if he failed to understand how anyone could have a liking for the stuff.

“How
good
you are, Laurie!” sighed Lady Barbour, when presented with a brimming glass. “You must make Morgan realize that. And you must make every effort to persuade her that she
doesn’t
wish to visit Vauxhall.”

It occurred to Viscount English that certain misapprehensions had yet to be cleared up. Chief among these was his companion’s apparent conviction that he hankered after Miss Phyfe. Laurie hadn’t the slightest notion how Sidoney had taken that particular notion into her skitterwitted little head.

He thought it would not be unreasonable to express this sentiment. “I have not the slightest notion—”

“Good Gad! I know you don’t!” she said. “Who could know better than I, for haven’t you been dangling after me these many years? Not that I mean to remind you of it because I perfectly understand how a person’s interest must stray. Although I will
never
understand how Morgan has contrived to take the shine out of me! No, do not try and explain.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “I suppose if you are to persuade Morgan she does not wish to go to Vauxhall, I had better show you how to go on.”

During her ladyship’s remarks, the viscount’s lips had parted; he thought to correct her misapprehensions, as any honorable gentleman must. Now, upon intimation that he was to be instructed in the gentle art of dalliance by her ladyship, his mouth firmly closed. To maintain silence was not the act of an honorable gentleman, of course—but in instances such as this, honor may very frequently be damned.

“Unless,” Lady Barbour said doubtfully, “you
mind?”

“Mind?” Viscount English bade his conscience hie to the nether regions in a handcart. “Not a bit of it! I am very eager for you to show me how to best advance my suit —with Miss Phyfe.”

Things had come to a sorry pass, thought Lady Barbour, when she was obliged to instruct her most devoted beau in the arts of winning another lady’s hand. But Sidoney was capable of making great sacrifice when the occasion warranted. Too, she could console herself with the memory of a mysterious masked chevalier. “First you must be very attentive to her comfort and very understanding of her little whims; and you must hang upon her lips, even when she goes on about such dreary things as that Cromwell fellow and parliamentary reform. Yes, I know it sounds very tedious, but that’s the way it’s
done!”
She frowned. “Although in Morgan’s case it might be better if you blew first hot and then cold. It is so difficult to know what is best to do—she is so wretchedly
inconsistent!
Why, look at Darby!”

Viscount English had no desire to look at England’s most notorious rakehell, nor would have had even were the gentleman present. “Never mind Darby!” he said. “For that matter, never mind Miss Phyfe! What would
you
like?”

For a startled moment, Lady Barbour thought the viscount sought to court her, and then realized he wished only the benefit of her advice. ““Mercy on me!” she responded rather hollowly, and laughed. “As if
that
signified! Because
I
should crave adventure does not mean that Morgan feels similarly—indeed, I’ll wager she would not!”

So would the viscount have wagered, had he the slightest interest in Miss Phyfe. “What sort of adventure?” he inquired.

Sidoney clasped her lovely little hands. “Oh, masked corsairs and moonlight rendezvous and being swept right off my feet!” she sighed. “But you must not be teasing yourself with thoughts of such romantical high flights. Morgan would not like them above half. Do not look so blue-deviled, Laurie! I make no doubt you will give a very good account of yourself. And once you have persuaded Morgan to pick up the handkerchief you have thrown in her direction, you will deal delightfully together, I vow.”

It was not Miss Phyfe with whom Viscount English wished to deal delightfully, a point of view that he was finding extraordinarily hard to convey. Perhaps his actions might speak for him? He grasped Lady Barbour’s hand, pressed it to his lips. “My treasure!” he said.

Sidoney blinked, then giggled, as befit a confirmed flirt. “That’s the ticket!” she approved. “Take her by surprise!”

Doggedly, Laurie persevered. “I adore you!” he said bluntly. “My treasure, marry me!”

Enchantingly, Lady Barbour pursed her lips. “That is, I think, just a
teeny
bit abrupt. Morgan will like to hear some flummery about how marvelous she is, and how you cannot live without her, and how just being in the same room with her makes your heart pound ‘til it threatens to burst open your chest You know the sort of thing! Because I’d be very much surprised if that sort of fustian has ever come in Morgan’s way.”

Laurie’s heart did pound fit to burst his chest, but not with ardor for Miss Phyfe. So frustrated was the viscount that he contemplated throttling his favorite cabbagehead. He gazed upon her pursed lips and abandoned that ungallant notion. “The devil with Morgan!” he said.

By the violence of her old beau’s passion for Miss Phyfe, Sidoney was greatly taken aback. It was very lowering for a lady who had long enjoyed a dazzling career as an acknowledged beauty to see her most devoted suitor dangling at another female’s shoestrings with a great deal more fervor than he had ever dangled at hers. “You must not despair!” she responded quickly, all the same. “It will her easy as winking, I promise! All that you need is a little
resolution!
And now I have a wretched head, and you will oblige me if you will order my carriage brought around.”

The viscount looked as if he wished to speak and then thought better of it. Silently, he strode toward the door.

In a more leisurely manner, Sidoney followed, bidding farewell to her hostess and her host, promising that the carriage would return for Miss Whateley and Miss Phyfe, the former of which had passed the interval following dinner squeezed into a secluded comer between a case filled with stuffed birds and other rarities, and a huge China vase, while Morgan had been engaged in enthusiastic discourse.

“Cromwell’s ideal was a parliament, predominantly representative of the country gentry,” she explained. “He believed the gentry must be preserved from that pernicious leveler, equality.”