Maggie MacKeever (13 page)

“Whose doing was that?” snapped Clio. “I wish you would reconsider, Tess, and own up to the sham.” Much easier then, she thought, to make Giles see the countess’s worth.

“Never!” Tess retorted immediately. “It is you who should consider, Clio! Sapphira would be so furious at being taken in that she would doubtless close her door to us, and then where would we be?”

“We could take a house of our own,” Clio insisted stubbornly, “and
you
could bring me out.”

“No, my dear, I couldn’t,” Tess interrupted firmly, before this notion could take hold. “For one thing, I doubt there are any decent houses left for hire—mothers bringing their daughters to London for a season will be already established, you know! Even more important, I am not known here, and could not procure you the
entree
into society.”

Clio sighed and toyed with her sunshade. Abominably difficult, these efforts on behalf of someone else! She wondered why she had ever undertaken such a thing, which was resulting in little more than cutting up her peace. Once set on a course, however, Clio was not one to admit defeat. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” she persisted, with a devious wistfulness, “to live all the time in a grand establishment like Bellamy House, with servants to wait on one hand and foot, and to move in the first ranks of society?” Tess, whose country estates were far from shabby-genteel, looked startled. “The duke’s wife must do so,” Clio added craftily. “She must command every elegance, and no small consequence.”

“True,” agreed Tess, wondering if her hoydenish young sister suddenly wished to attain respectability.

“Giles would make a good husband, I think,” Clio ventured. “And he must be very rich. His wife must be very fortunate, don’t you agree?”

“Certainly!” Tess replied promptly. “If that is what you wish, child! One could certainly marry into no higher rank short of royalty. I suppose it might compensate for a husband who is a trifle too starched-up, and a Medusa of a mama-in-law.”

“
I
don’t find Giles proud!” Clio was frustrated beyond bearing. “He is certainly a great deal more eligible that that dratted rake who is dangling after you!”

Tess was so bewildered by Sir Morgan’s abrupt intrusion into the conversation that she failed to scold Clio for the use of language that was most unbecoming to a young lady of high station and tender years. “Believe me, Clio,” she said wryly, “Sir Morgan hasn’t the slightest idea of fixing his interest with me. There are other reasons—but I cannot speak of them!” She studied her sister’s woebegone countenance. “I was teasing you, child. Truly, I haven’t the least objection to Giles. He would do very well, in fact! I do not think he considers marrying again, but if you set your cap at him, I make no doubt you will change his mind.”

Poor Clio ground her teeth at being so misunderstood. There was no opportunity to try and set things right; Lucille emerged from the apothecary’s shop and consigned a number of parcels to the waiting footman.

Lucille, who had overheard the end of this conversation, thought Sapphira would be pleased that her plans for Clio promised to be fulfilled. Drusilla, too, would be relieved to learn that Sir Morgan’s attentions to Tess were inspired not by lascivious intentions, but something else. But if Clio meant to marry Giles, she would have to mend her ways. Lucille might be timid and colorless, but she had two sharp eyes and a shrewd brain in her head, and unless she missed her guess, young Clio was wild to a fault.

“Now!” She took her young cousin’s arm. “Your come-out is tomorrow night, and
Maman
has requested that I should tell you how to go on.” Clio looked mutinous. Lucille plunged bravely on, though her spirits quailed. “You will be meeting a number of important people, and it is imperative that you make a good impression. You must not flirt, or appear coming, or indulge in unbecoming levity.”

“It sounds,” muttered Clio, who nourished dreams of Cutting a Dash, “like a dead bore.”

“Well perhaps,” admitted Lucille cautiously, “but it is the way of the world.”

“In short, child,” interrupted Tess, who despite her vast inexperience had more than a passing acquaintance with risqué French novels, “a young woman must be rigidly virtuous or be branded immoral. It is, of course,” she added dryly, “different for young gentlemen.”

“But naturally!” While Lucille could find nothing objectionable in Tess’s words, the tone in which they were spoken was highly suspicious, suggesting as it did not only disagreement but an inappropriate light-mindedness. “It is expected that young men will, er, sow their wild oats.”

“You see, dear Clio,” continued Tess, driven by a spirit of mischief, “it is quite the thing for a young man to keep a mistress, respectability being a virtue that can be acquired in middle age, and one that isn’t really suitable to young men of breeding. A mother on the lookout for an acceptable
parti
for her daughter will happily overlook the habits of eligible young men.
You,
however, are not supposed to even suspect the facts of life until your wedding night.” She glanced at Lucille’s shocked face and smiled. “I believe in the word with no bark on it, you see!”

Clio, with unusual tact, swallowed her giggles and addressed her cousin. “You knew my mother, did you not, Lucille? I wish you would tell me about her.” She spoke not from curiosity, but to prevent Lucille from forming a further adverse opinion of the woman whom Clio intended as her future sister-in-law.

“I cannot recall—she frittered away her chances—” gasped Lucille, then practically shoved her exasperating charges into Hatchard’s, the Bond Street book dealer who had been established in the previous century, and abandoned them to turn over the pages of the latest books while she sank onto a chair and groped for her vinaigrette. Lucille was, as a married lady, acquainted with what Tess so blithely called the “facts of life”; but she did not care to think of such things, let alone discuss them. Heaven only knew what would happen if Tess chose to air her novel views so frankly in polite society!

Tess had already forgotten the matter, being absorbed in the pages of a book. Clio, unaware that her sister had just branded herself in Lucille’s eyes as at least a bluestocking, if not a creature totally hardened to shame, studied the countess narrowly. Desperate measures were called for if Giles was to be ensnared. Despite the pang it caused her to think of the duke thus pledged to another, Clio considered the possibility of arranging that he and Tess somehow be closeted alone together for some time. The Duke of Bellamy was a gentleman and Tess was of noble birth; if he inadvertently compromised her, he was honor-bound to propose marriage in amends. If Tess would accept a proposal made under such circumstances remained to be seen; Clio could only plot her course one step at a time.

Rapt in thought, the sisters were unaware of the curious glances cast at them, a fair share of which were directed not at Clio but at Tess. The countess, had her attention been drawn to this unusual interest, would have thought it very odd, and would have supposed that the
ton
was rather startled to find in its midst a lady with a limp. She would have been mistaken; it was not her lack of perfection that earned comment, but the efforts of one Beau Brummell, possessor of a keen eye and even keener wits and a diabolical sense of mischief. After making Tess’s acquaintance in Hyde Park, that fastidious and vastly influential gentleman had, for reasons known only to himself, so far bestirred himself as to drop subtle hints about her beauty and cleverness into many ears, an unprecedented condescension that caused any number of lords and ladies to wonder if the Beau had at last lost his heart.

Lucille, belatedly aware of the speculation that was centered on her
protégées,
ushered them outside. “Famous!” cried Evelyn, who was waiting impatiently on the walkway, the faithful Nidget at his heels. “I made sure I would find you here. Sapphira says that you are to take me to St. James’s Park so that I won’t be knocking the household on its ear.” Since Bellamy House was in a state of severe upheaval due to preparations for the festivities of the following night, and since Nidget had an unhappy tendency to worry the flowers that lavishly adorned the ballroom and to snap at the caterer’s heels, this command was not as callous as it might sound.

A lively discussion ensued as to their means of transport to the park, Lucille being of the opinion that they should all be taken up in the barouche, and Evelyn determined that he and Tess, for whom he had conceived a large fondness, even going so far as to inform his father that she was a “great gun,” should proceed on foot. It was not to be expected that Lucille should withstand his blandishments, though she was not at all sure that such an excursion was quite the thing; and Tess and her young admirer set out, with a discreet footman in attendance.

“You don’t mind, do you?” asked Evelyn, skipping at her side. “Lucille is so
stuffy;
this will be a great deal more fun!” His sparkling glance alit on her cane, and his face fell. “Aunt Tess, will you be all right? I forgot about your leg! Shall I send after the barouche?”

“Nonsense!” retorted Tess, who after that artless compliment would have cheerfully walked both her legs to stubs. “I will do quite nicely, providing you don’t expect me to run.”

“No one,” said Evelyn admiringly, “will ever call
you
a pudding-heart!”

Thus the Countess of Lansbury made her way on foot through London’s busy streets, while Evelyn pointed out to her such wonders as the elite gentlemen’s clubs in St. James’s Street—Brook’s Club at No. 60; White’s and Boodle’s; Berry Brothers and Rudd at No. 6, dealers in wine and coffee, with the great scales where such customers as Brummell and Lord Petersham weighed themselves; Lock and Son at No. 3, where hats of the finest quality were made to measure; and St. James’s Palace, built by Henry VIII on the site of a leper colony, the most glorious structure in the West End. She was introduced by the young viscount to such homely pleasures as the street-sellers who hawked meats and oysters and gilt gingerbread; she paused to observe fiddlers and hurdy-gurdies; she purchased an extremely improper pamphlet entitled “The Diabolic Practices of a Doctor on his Patients when in a State of Unconsciousness,” which she promised Evelyn that he might read. At length, and without mishap, due primarily to the watchfulness of the footman, they arrived at St. James’s Park.

Charles was not only an excellent footman, he was a mine of information, and was happy to inform his companions that James I had not only introduced the mulberry trees that flourished in the park, but had made a menagerie in which he kept exotic animals, among them a tame leopard from the king of Savoy, and camels and an elephant from the king of Spain. Charles might have waxed even more enthusiastic, had not Evelyn interrupted with a request that the rest of the party be found and brought to them. Tess, amused by his highhandedness, thought that the viscount was likely to grow up to be every bit as haughty as the present Duke of Bellamy.

But he was, after all, only a small boy, with his pockets filled with gingerbread and apples, and his nankeens already dirty and stained; and the smile he turned on her was pure mischief. “I didn’t think,” he explained, “that you wanted to hear about kings and things.”

“Not at all,” agreed Tess, who had enjoyed the footman’s discourse very well. “Don’t you think you should keep hold of Nidget? I doubt the park-keeper would be very happy if he, ah, tried to herd the cows.” With a delightful giggle, Evelyn set off in pursuit of his pet.

Tess walked slowly between the trees that lined Birdcage Walk, musing over her sister’s unaccountable behavior. Clio was not herself these days, and the countess wondered if that damsel’s heart was truly set on Giles. It would be a splendid match, and Tess could think of no better husband for Clio; but she could not think Clio was acting like a young lady in love. Further occupying her mind was the diamond necklace. Sir Morgan had as much as admitted that he knew of its whereabouts, but had lacked time to say more. Tess determined to be more firm on her next meeting with that remarkable man, so that she might learn his plans.

Her ruminations were interrupted at this point; a villainous-looking individual in a greasy work-smock leapt out of nowhere to block her way. “Hand it over!” he demanded, extending a filthy hand as Tess stared. “Hand it over, I say, or it’ll go the worse for you!”

“I don’t suppose,” Tess remarked, gripping her cane, “that you’d believe me if I said I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

The man swore a dreadful oath and spat on the ground at her feet, then reached to grasp her arm. That he meant her harm Tess was aware, but he was given no time to accomplish his fell intent. Nidget, who was as devoted to Tess as was his master, gave vent to loud and ferocious protest as he raced down the avenue. The villain took one look at the huge beast, whose large white teeth were exposed in a most menacing manner, and took summarily to his heels. Tess, weak-kneed with relief, moved off the pathway and sank down on the grass.

“Cripes!” said Evelyn, skidding to a stop in front of her. “What did that man want, Aunt Tess?”

The countess, not normally given to prevarication, had developed an outstanding talent for it in these past few days. “He didn’t say,” she replied and hugged Nidget who, having routed the enemy, had dropped panting at her side. “First highwaymen and now this! My life is fraught with excitement, I vow!”

Evelyn was not to be led off on a tangent. “I don’t like it.” He frowned. “You need protection, Aunt Tess. Perhaps you should marry me.”

“I confess it pleases me beyond measure that you should wish to protect me,” Tess responded, touched, “but don’t you think there’s a rather large disparity in our ages? You would not wish to be shackled to a female when you are barely out of short coats! Think of all the fun you would miss.”

“
I
,” Evelyn retorted indignantly, “am not a cabbage-head, Aunt Tess. It’s perfectly obvious that you don’t
wish
to marry me.”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Tess, aware that the viscount’s youthful pride had been stung. “I promise, Evelyn, that I am quite smitten with you. It is midsummer moon with me! But I do not think it proper that you should set up household with a lady who, if not precisely stricken in years, is at least at her last prayers.”