Maggie MacKeever (15 page)

So irately rendered was this pronouncement that, for the space of a few moments, Sir Avery withheld comment. Thoughtfully, he regarded his offspring, who was seated on a marble bench. That bench was located in the peaceful museum garden, which was embellished with a shady grove of lime trees, gay flower beds, and miscellaneous sheds. Miss Clough herself was this day embellished with walking dress of jaconet muslin, lemon cloth pelisse, and a bonnet trimmed with bands and bows. “I thought it was Sweetbriar you wanted,” he remarked.

By the inference that she was partial to Mr. Thorne—for she interpreted her father’s comment thusly—Miss Clough was remarkably incensed. “Gracious, Papa! Do you think I have so little sense as to develop a partiality for a—a profligate?”

“A profligate?” Sir Avery grew even more intrigued. “Surely not.”

“I would not lay odds against it, Papa.” As she gazed at the lime tree grove, Miss Clough pondered Mr. Thorne’s association with Lady Regina Foliot and her own prospective stepmama. “Anyway, it does not signify. Whatever Mr. Thorne’s true character, he is above my touch—not that that signifies, either, or him!”

Fleetingly Sir Avery thought of the weighty business from which his daughter had distracted him—the relocation of a collection of Egyptian curios which included twenty-eight pieces in addition to two mummies. “Of course it does not signify,” he soothed. “Did you fancy Mr. Thorne, however, I see no reason why you should not
hope,
my dear.”

“Oh, Papa!” In response to this display of parental prejudice, Miss Clough sighed. “You are very kind to say so. But even you cannot seriously believe I could compete successfully with Nikki.” Belatedly realizing her inference, Clytie flushed. “Forgive me! I should not have said that.”

How curious! thought Sir Avery. His own daughter was as great an oddity as any housed within the museum. “Why should you not have said it?” he inquired. “For that matter, why should you
want
to?”

“Want to?” echoed Clytie, bewildered. “Oh! You mean, why should I want to steal a march on Nikki? I do not. But I would have to, did I feel kindly disposed toward Mr. Thorne. I am sorry, Papa; I tried to warn you before. Nikki and Mr. Thorne are very particular friends.”

Though Miss Clough eyed her father sharply, she saw in him no discernible response to her blunt pronouncement. If anything, he had grown even more nonchalant. “What maggot have you taken into your brain?” Sir Avery calmly inquired. “It is hardly a matter for conjecture if Nikki is friendly with her own brother-in-law.”

Nikki’s relationship by marriage to the roguish Marmaduke had not previously occurred to Miss Clough. The revelation did not quiet her fears, but added to them highly improper speculations upon the nuances of incest. “The matter is more serious than you may think it, Papa. Your mind may be of too nice a tone to care for such things, but other people’s aren’t. Mr. Thorne is paying Nikki attentions that are very pointed. Last evening he escorted her to a gaming hell.”

“Ah.” From a pocket, Sir Avery removed a snuffbox that in itself should have been a museum piece. “If only there were some way of harnessing the energy that the prattleboxes expend in spreading tittle-tattle, the horse would fall into disuse. It is not seemly to glower at your father in that fierce manner, Clytie. If you wish to be taken seriously, you must not talk nonsense.”

“Would that it
were
nonsense!” Grimly, Miss Clough continued. “Will you call it ‘nonsense’ also when I tell you that the on-dit is that Mr. Thorne publicly kissed Nikki on the nose?”

Sir Avery awarded this question his full attention. “Well,” he said, “no. I wouldn’t call it nonsense. Nor can I fault your Mr. Thorne’s judgment; Nikki has a very nice nose. You do not like the idea that the gentleman is so free with his favors? Do not judge him too harshly. It’s deuced hard to refuse Nikki when she wants to be kissed.”

How was Miss Clough to convince her father that Lady Sweetbriar was not what she seemed? Had Clytie not been so fond of Sir Avery, she might have abandoned the task. Not jealousy of Nikki inspired Clytie’s efforts, but fear that Sir Avery’s feelings might be wounded. It was Marmaduke Clytie held to blame for any mischief in which both he and Nikki were involved. “You don’t mind?”

“Eh?” Sir Avery’s attention had strayed to the sheds in which were stored the Rosetta Stone. “Mind what?”

This was a strange conversation for a young lady to be holding with her father, reflected Miss Clough. But strange conversations were typical of their relationship. “Do you not mind if other gentlemen go about kissing Nikki?”

Sir Avery’s ironic gaze shifted from the wooden shack to his distracted-looking daughter. “It has me quite in a puzzle why you should be bothering me with gossip. But since you are: no, I don’t especially mind. Nikki likes being kissed. Why should she be deprived just because I’m not at hand? I daresay I might mind if she chose to kiss someone else when I
was
at hand, but I can’t be sure. It hasn’t happened yet.”

Though no one had had better opportunity to study Sir Avery’s eccentricities, his daughter had not previously realized just how much of an original he was. “Heavens,” she said faintly. “Which reminds me that I have learned the truth of your meeting. It took place not at the Horticultural Gardens, but a common prizefight.”

“Hardly a
common
prizefight!” With her descent into the mundane, Sir Avery’s interest in his daughter had begun to wane. “Cribb and Molyneaux. Since you know so much, you will also be interested to learn that Nikki tumbled right into my lap. Was it Nikki you came here to talk about? If so, you should not have.”

That Sir Avery did not care to discuss his fiancée, he had already made amply clear. “Maybe Rolf is right,” Miss Clough persevered as she reflected upon Lady Sweetbriar’s affinity not only for kissing, but gentlemanly laps. “Maybe you
shouldn’t
marry Nikki. Oh, this is a dreadful coil!”

Impatient as Sir Avery had grown with his daughter, he did not suggest that the immediate solution to his own exacerbated sensibilities might be her immediate departure. “I shall be very cross with you if you interfere with Nikki,” he warned. “As for the rest—it is no wonder you have fallen into the dismals. Would you like me to straighten out your tangle, my dear?”

At thought of what chaos would result were Sir Avery taken up on this generous invitation, Clytie blanched. In his impatience to be done with what he considered trivial, her father tended to ride roughshod over impediments. “That will not be necessary!” she said hastily. “I will soon see my way clear. Anyway, it is not myself I am worried for, Papa. Rolf has issued so many warnings—but I will plague you no more on that score.”

“Mad as Bedlam,” commented Sir Avery. “You may count on it. No, my dear, I do not refer to you. Consider the matter this way, Clytie: would you want someone forever dangling at
your
shoestrings? It would be devilish inconvenient for you both.”

Miss Clough had no good argument against this assertion—although to have a certain hardened reprobate dancing attendance on her would have suited very well—and silence descended once more. Since the trustees were very jealous of their little garden, and careful about who might enter, and since the hour was not one during which the museum was open to the public, Clytie and her papa were alone.

“You don’t want Sweetbriar, then,” remarked Sir Avery, with the air of one who has just achieved enlightenment. “I’m just as glad of it, from what you’ve said. Nikki will be disappointed, you know.”

Nikki would be even more disappointed did she realize whom Clytie truly fancied, that young lady thought. This discovery was one she would share with no one, not even her papa. Clytie recalled how intent Mr. Thorne had been upon Lady Regina during their disastrous encounter in Hyde Park. How silly she herself had acted, taking refuge behind her bonnet—and how
dared
he pinch her cheek?

“You have very nice cheeks,” pointed out Sir Avery, and Clytie flushed to realize she had spoken out loud. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought gloomily, and added: “He also called me his little ladybug.”

“I take it we are not discussing Sweetbriar?” Sir Avery delicately inquired. “I begin to understand what has put you in such a tweak, child. I’m sure that had you made known your preference, Mr. Thorne would have been happy to kiss you, also.”

“Mr.—!” sputtered Clytie, then caught her father’s mocking expression. Her own smile was rueful. “You are a very queer sort of parent, sir. I suppose I was foolish to concern myself about you. But one forgets that you are needle-witted, so removed are you from the world.”

His daughter’s praise of his quick perceptions, Sir Avery acknowledged with a regal inclination of his head. “I was serious,” he said. “If you desire a gentleman to kiss you, you must make some indication of your wishes. Otherwise he is very like to do just as your Mr. Thorne has done, and express himself in more conventional means, such as by pinching your cheek.” He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I have been out of the world too long. I do not recall that cheek-pinching was the thing.”

“You know it is not,” retorted Clytie, “else Nikki would have told you so! Pray do not tease me, Papa. This is serious.”

Sir Avery rose from the bench. “First you say I am needle-witted, then you infer that I cannot see what is right under my nose. Moreover, I suspect that were I to give you advice, you would fail to heed it, as seems to be the way with offspring. Despite your having sought me out.”

“Since your advice consists of suggesting I ask gentlemen to kiss me, I hardly dare avail myself of it!” Miss Clough responded dryly, as she also rose. “I withdraw my reservations. Providing you can prevent Nikki squandering all your resources, you and she will be excellently matched. I have taken up too much of your time, Papa. I will leave you now.”

“Not yet.” As if it were some unusual specimen, Sir Avery took up his daughter’s hand. “What a prudish world we live in, when a young lady must be always on guard against having her lesser instincts awakened by the casual touch of flesh on flesh—or so I assume is the reason for these eternal gloves. At least you are not required to eat in them. I wish you would not look so astounded, my dear. No matter whether your preference is for Sweetbriar or Mr. Thorne, we should have this little talk.” The derisive quality that was never long absent made its reappearance in Sir Avery’s brown eyes. “Especially, I should think, if it is Thorne.”

Miss Clough was touched by her father’s concern. She was also quite pink with embarrassment. “Papa, there is no need—”

“Don’t interrupt.” Sir Avery drew his daughter’s hand, offensive glove and all, through his arm. “Truth be told, this isn’t any easier for me than it is for you. If only your mother—not that
she
was any authority on the subject! Don’t fret, I do not mean to go into detail.” Came a pregnant silence. “I trust, Clytie, that you already are cognizant of the details?”

Did she not, Sir Avery was clearly determined to remedy her ignorance. At thought of her aloof papa engaged in an instructive discussion of the mating habits of the higher orders, Miss Clough almost succumbed to giggles. “I believe so, Papa!” she gasped.

“You relieve me.” Sir Avery visibly relaxed. “This much advice I will give you, Clytie: kissing can be very nice. One needs be somewhat discriminate about with whom—”

“—and where!” interjected Miss Clough. “It must be a very puzzling business. I would not have thought the museum’s grand staircase an appropriate place myself.”

“Am I being pompous?” Sir Avery smiled. “I did not mean to be. It was Nikki who selected the grand staircase, not I. I am not personally keen on public embraces. Your own mother, conversely, would have thought embracing on the staircase of her own home smacked of decadence. You must determine for yourself which point of view most suits.”

The viewpoint which best suited her father, thought Clytie, was clearly that displayed by Lady Sweetbriar. She understood that preference better, now that her father had afforded her an illuminating glimpse into his married life. Unfortunately, understanding heightened her dilemma. Should Clytie try to thwart Nikki’s romance with Duke? Or should she let the business run its course, thus ultimately bringing her father’s romance to naught? About kisses dropped on noses in public gaming rooms, Sir Avery might be blasé; but Clytie did not imagine he would be equally indifferent to a full-fledged affaire. “I do not know what to do!” she sighed.

Sir Avery was growing wearied of his offspring, who seemed determined to exhibit all the worst characteristics of her sex; and consequently further violated his own rules regarding parental advice. “Humor the lunatic,” he suggested. “It is always a good rule. If Sweetbriar wishes to make the Foliot chit jealous, you are doubtless the most proper person to assist him in the task. While you are at it, you might try and persuade him that bursting into ladies’ bedchambers in the dead of night is not at all the thing.” He squeezed his daughter’s hand before releasing her. “All of which will leave you no time in which to brood over your profligate. No, I mean to say no more to you about kissing, my dear. Goodbye!”

Having simultaneously done his parental duty and routed his daughter, Sir Avery did not immediately return to his indoor tasks. Nor did he repair to the garden sheds. He did not even gaze upon the pleasing prospect of Montagu House, the exterior of which boasted such features as rustic quoins and rich entablatures, lofty roofs in pyramidal and convex, concave and domelike sweeps. Instead he stared absently at the toe of one of his own boots. Unbeknownst to either his daughter or his fiancée, Sir Avery numbered among his many acquaintances an individual with a talent for ferreting out obscure facts.

Mr. Thorne’s gaming excesses were not confined to private hells. He also played frequently at White’s, through which select portals—set amid Corinthian pilasters in a handsome and well-proportioned facade— he was invited to stroll within days of his return to London, and wherein he conducted himself so unexceptionably that he was soon proposed for membership. For those interested in such details, Dame Fortune smiled on Marmaduke a large portion of the time, which led opponents to assume that the Russian upper classes amused themselves during bad weather—springtime in Moscow, for example, when one dared not venture abroad for fear of being crushed by falling icicles and snow from rooftops—plunging at whist and hazard and macao.