Maggie MacKeever (2 page)

If Sir Avery was annoyed that Lady Sweetbriar had interrupted his preoccupations to discuss a matter so trivial as the stuffs with which she intended to refurbish his ancestral home, he did not say so outright. Instead he led her out of the saloon. “As I have told you before, you must do as you think best. Refurnish the house as you like and have the accounting brought to me. There is no need to consult with me about details.”

“No need to bother you, you mean!” No lady who had survived marriage with the uncivil Lord Sweetbriar could take offense at so mannerly a rebuff. “Very well, I shall ask Clytie’s opinion instead. How odd it will seem to have a stepdaughter so close to my own age—although I already have Rolf, but you know what
he
is!” She paused, so that Sir Avery might comment upon her marvelously youthful appearance.

No such comment was forthcoming. Lady Sweetbriar displayed an enchanting little pout. Sometimes she despaired of inspiring her fiancé to enact the ardent swain. Perhaps Sir Avery was shy? Mayhap he feared to cause offense? Somehow Nikki must subtly intimate that a mild display of passion would not come amiss.

“It is the
principle
of the thing,” she said aloud, as she stopped dead in her tracks, thereby insuring that Sir Avery also halt. “No lady likes to feel that vulture’s heads and stuffed giraffes are more interesting than she. It is my own fault, I know; I should not have interrupted your work—although why you should
want
to work, when you are wealthy beyond imagining, is more than I can credit! But that is quite beside the point. I am leaving now, Avery. Pray forgive me for disturbing you.” In hope of disturbing her fiancé even more profoundly, Nikki grasped his lapels, rose on tiptoe, and—to the astonishment of several museum visitors even then mounting the grand staircase—awarded him a long and lingering caress. Made aware of the audience, Sir Avery looked even more sardonic than was his wont. Lady Sweetbriar dimpled and giggled and blushed, and tripped blithely down the stair.

“Quite
midsummer moon!” insisted the young gentleman who currently sought the advice of Sir Avery Clough’s sole offspring. “I swear it! I’ve decided it’s time I put it to the touch.
Not
that I expect my hopes to be cut up!”

With an ironic expression reminiscent of her father, Miss Clough contemplated the hopeful young man. Very worthy young Lord Sweetbriar was of contemplation, moreover—for Miss Clough’s accostor was none other than Lady Sweetbriar’s stepson Rolf, who as a result of her papa’s entanglement with his stepmama was prone to regard Miss Clough as a companion in adversity. “What is it?” he inquired, attempting to similarly contemplate himself, and very nearly doing himself serious injury with his excessive shirt points. “Have I a smudge? Not a loose thread!”

“No, no!” soothed Miss Clough. “You are the very pink of perfection, Rolf.”

In response to this compliment, Lord Sweetbriar lowered his chin into the folds of his snowy cravat, which was tied in that intricate style known as the Gordian Knot, and looked smug. That his companion spoke no more than the truth, Rolf knew. In matters sartorial, he considered himself without peer. And though there may have been those in Oxford Street that day who might quibble with his lordship’s high opinion of himself, few could deny the effectiveness of his current ensemble—a Jean de Bry coat with high stand-up collar, and sleeves gathered and padded at the shoulder to give a “kick-up” effect; light pantaloons of knit stockinet with a pattern of broad stripes; calf-high hussar buckskins, and a waterproof silk hat.

But though his opinion of himself was nice, Lord Sweetbriar was not immune to the insecurities which prey upon young lovers: “Tell me, Clytie, is it absolutely necessary that I go down upon one knee?” he nervously inquired.

Miss Clough, whose thoughts had wandered to the errands which had brought her to Oxford Street, looked extremely startled at the notion that Lord Sweetbriar might thus comport himself. “Whatever are you talking about, Rolf? Go down on your knee, indeed! I should hope you will not!”

“No?” Lord Sweetbriar appeared unconvinced. “I thought that’s the way the thing is done. A fellow gets down on his knees and pops the question—but if you say I shouldn’t, then I shan’t! To own the truth, I’d just as soon not make a cake of myself,”

Generously Miss Clough refrained from pointing out that horizontally striped unmentionables were not prudent garb for a gentleman wishful of avoiding undue notice. Narrowly she regarded Rolf. Though eclipsed by the grandeur of his garb, Lord Sweetbriar’s features were passably pleasant; and his figure, though at two-and-twenty already tending toward embonpoint, could cause no maiden offense. “So you will offer for Lady Regina Foliot? I wish you joy,” she mused. “But if you are in doubt as to how to go about the business, you should apply to Nikki, not to me.”

A very self-centered young man, Lord Sweetbriar did not pause to reflect upon Miss Clough’s tacit admission that she was not in the habit of receiving professions of eternal devotion and other romantical high flights. “Apply to Nikki!” he echoed bitterly. “Yes, so she may send me off again with a flea in my ear. You will be very sorry if you allow this marriage to take place, as I have told you before.”

“If you do not wish to marry, then you must not, Rolf.” Miss Clough looked very innocent. “But I fail to understand why, if you don’t wish to marry, you have been asking me whether one should or should not fall down upon one knee. And what have I to do with it, anyway?”

“You? Why, nothing!” Lord Sweetbriar’s unremarkable features were flushed. “Are you bamming me again, Clytie? You should not, you know. Dashed if I know why you refuse to give your papa my advice.”

As Miss Clough contemplated the probable reaction of her parent to Lord Sweetbriar’s warnings, she wore a slight ironic smile. Not only in outlook did Clytie resemble her father. She also shared the aristocratic family features, brown eyes and sandy hair. “It is very bad of me to tease you! Pray forgive me, Rolf. What has Nikki done to annoy you now?”

“Nikki don’t have to
do
anything!” muttered Lord Sweetbriar a trifle sulkily. “As you will find out for yourself. Dreading what scrape Nikki will next tumble into is every bit as fatiguing as rescuing her from the scrape itself.”

Again Clytie thought of her errands, the execution of which would be much more enjoyable than yet another repetition of a conversation held several times before. “Once Nikki is married to my father, your responsibility for her will end,” she patiently pointed out. “And you will need no longer be concerned about her scrapes.”

“No?” With a wildly rolling eye, Lord Sweetbriar enacted disbelief. “Your father will leave off his studies to keep her in line? He will not, and you know it as well as me. If you are thinking
you
can keep Nikki from cutting rigs, you may think again, Clytie; you ain’t a better fellow than I am, and
I
could not! For that matter, neither could my father, or else Nikki wouldn’t still have those accursed jewels, and there wasn’t any flies on him.” It then occurred to Rolf that this was no fit way to speak even of the unlamented dead. Nervously he glanced over his shoulder. “You know what I mean—the deuce!”

Curious as to what had inspired Lord Sweetbriar’s outburst, as well as his sudden ashen color and sweat-beaded brow. Miss Clough also turned her head. At first she saw nothing more than the usual confusion of Oxford Street. Then Miss Clough glimpsed an oddly familiar figure. Possessing less sensibility than Lord Sweetbriar, who was currently gibbering in a wholly demoralized fashion, Clytie merely blinked.

“I knew it!” muttered Rolf, leaning heavily upon Clytie’s shoulder. “I knew the minute Nikki first refused to give me back those wretched jewels that Papa wouldn’t rest easy in his grave. I told her so, too, but she only laughed. Well, she shan’t laugh at this, I’ll warrant! Dash it, I’m so overset I don’t know what I’m saying. Clytie, tell me that ain’t my papa risen from the grave!”

Though Miss Clough would have liked very much to reassure Rolf on that head, she could not honorably do so; the gentleman who approached them had very much the appearance of the previous Lord Sweetbriar, though fortunately none of the aspect of one who has passed an entire year mouldering belowground. As opposed to his shroud, the gentleman was dressed carelessly in buckskin breeches and top boots. His brown hair was sun-streaked, his complexion swarthy; his pale blue eyes were almost the exact shade of his jacket of blue cèlest, which could only have come from the celebrated Weston of Bond Street.

Because Miss Clough judiciously reserved comment, and because Lord Sweetbriar’s concentration was focused wholly on his determination not to swoon, the source of their mutual fascination was the first to speak. That comment, as well as a devastating smile, he directed at Miss Clough. “My nephew is still a mooncalf, it seems. Allow me to introduce myself, since Rolf appears incapable. Marmaduke Thorne, at your service, Miss—er?”

Perhaps as result of the bizarre manner of their meeting, Miss Clough took this impudent gentleman in immediate dislike. Turning a cool shoulder on him, she roused Rolf from his openmouthed stupor by means of a sharp pinch. “You may relax, Rolf! It is not your papa risen from the grave to scold,”

“Good God!” ejaculated the newcomer. “No wonder the pair of you looked as if you’d seen a ghost. I shouldn’t care to meet Reuben’s shade myself, not that I imagine they allow much freedom of movement where
he’s
gone. Tell you what, young Rolf: if Reuben should take to haunting you, you just tell him Duke’s come home.” To Miss Clough, who was regarding him with astonishment, Mr. Thorne explained: “Doubtless Reuben would rather haunt me than anyone else. Between us there was no love lost.”

“I say, Uncle Duke, that’s dashed handsome of you.” Enthusiastically Lord Sweetbriar grasped and pumped Mr. Thorne’s hand. “But why the deuce, after all these years, have you decided to come home now? Not that I ain’t glad to see you!” He too addressed Clytie. “Uncle Duke has been living in Russia, doing some sort of diplomatic stuff.”

Marmaduke Thorne’s most artful missions would be undertaken in the boudoir, Miss Clough unappreciatively thought, and then blushed not at her indelicacy but as result of the suspicion that he perfectly understood her thoughts. “How nice,” she murmured repressively. “I have errands to execute. If you gentlemen will excuse me—”

“Not yet, Miss—er?” Mr. Thorne insured that his request was obeyed by gently tucking Clytie’s hand through his arm. Stunned by such impudence, she only half heard Lord Sweetbriar’s belated introductions. “As to why I departed Russia,” Mr. Thorne continued blandly, “the rumor is that Napoleon plans to invade Moscow.”

“Napoleon?” Lord Sweetbriar echoed blankly, in the same instant as Miss Clough regained her powers of speech. “Unhand me immediately, sir!” she snapped.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Miss Clough.” Apologetically, Mr. Thorne smiled. “I have not been so long out of England that I have forgotten that it is
most
improper for a young lady to go about without an adequate escort.”

At this suggestion that she should be deficient in her grasp of the proprieties, Miss Clough’s breast swelled. In Mr. Thorne’s blue eye, an appreciative twinkle danced. Had she had both hands free, she might well have boxed the rascal’s ears, and to the devil with propriety, Clytie decided.

Oblivious alike to provocation and indignation, Lord Sweetbriar said enthusiastically: “You must stay at the house, Uncle Duke. I’ll have a room prepared. Yes, and I must tell Lady Regina also. Dashed if I can think what she’ll say to this!” Anxious to discover what pearls of wisdom might drop from his beloved’s lips, Lord Sweetbriar turned away. Over his shoulder he added: “Come to dinner, Uncle Duke. Maybe
you
can tell me what to do about Nikki’s jewels!”

“Definitely a mooncalf,” remarked Mr. Thorne, as with interest he observed his nephew’s regal progress down Oxford Street. “And now I shall escort you to your destination, Miss Clough, if you will only tell me where you wish to go.”

‘“We are
at
my destination!” snapped Clytie, who had for some inexplicable reason been evaluating her assets, the grand total of which she suspected was a great deal less feminine pulchritude than her companion was accustomed to, and was subsequently very cross. “And I am more than adequately served by my footman. If this is the way you conduct your diplomatic undertakings, sir, there is no question but that Russia will be invaded by the French.”

“And it will be all my fault, I apprehend. Are you trying to deliver me a set-down, Miss Clough?” Ignoring Clytie’s reference to her footman, Mr. Thorne conducted her through the portals of the Pantheon Bazaar. “If so, you must do better than that, or I shall fail to take your point. Yes, I know I am abominably provoking, but you look thoroughly adorable when you glower at me. Rather like a kitten trying to look severe.”

“Odious man!” In spite of herself, Miss Clough began to be amused by her impertinent escort. “Have you never been snubbed?”

Mr. Thorne’s swarthy features were ruminative. “I daresay I must have been, but I cannot recall. Now you will accuse me of having an insuperable vanity, and of being insufferably pushing—or perhaps of holding an excessively high, and highly unmerited, opinion of myself.”

“I shall do no such thing. It would be monstrous ill-bred.” Clytie tried very hard to be prim. “Instead I shall content myself with voicing my conclusion that your entire family must be mad.”

“And to accuse a man of lunacy is not ill-bred?” Mr. Thorne’s blue eyes laughed. “Shame, Miss Clough! But I do not mean to scold you. Indeed, I doubt I shall ever feel constrained to scold you for anything,
ma coccinelle.”

Not without considerable effort, Miss Clough dropped her gaze to the snippet of ribbon which she had brought to match. “Your
what?”
she gruffly inquired.

“My little ladybug.” Mr. Thorne deftly selected the perfect shade of ribbon from a vast display. “It was the freckles made me think of it. You need not look chagrined, Miss Clough. They are very pretty freckles, and very faint, and would only be apparent to the fondest eye.”