Maggie MacKeever (15 page)

Mistress Clio, if she had expected to see a face of despair, was disappointed: Tess thought only that though Sir Morgan might not make a comfortable spouse, he would be an exciting one. And then she spied a familiar face. “Good God!” ejaculated the countess, fit to leap out of her skin. “It can’t be Shamus!
Here?”

“But it is.” Clio urged her sister forward. “Your curate has come all the way to London to renew his suit. You have made a conquest, Tess! What’s more, he promises to use the knowledge of your altered status in only the most discreet manner, though this deception is something of which he can hardly
approve!”

Tess did not argue with this patent disrespect, secretly agreeing with Clio that the curate, though undeniably well-meaning, was a most tiresome, prosy man. “Here!” she repeated unhappily. “I cannot credit it.”

With a flourish, Clio presented her to the gentleman. “Shamus will explain all!” she promised. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am engaged for the next set.”

“Well,” said Tess, callously abandoned to her fate. “Here we are, it seems.”

The curate, one Shamus O’Toole, found nothing lacking in this remark, which he took as an indication that her ladyship was, on discovering his presence, quite properly overwhelmed. “You are surprised to see me, Lady Tess,” he stated. “But I must not call you that! I cannot think this charade is quite the thing—I believe I know you a little too well to stand on ceremony with you, after all!—but I understand perfectly why you embarked upon it, and I cannot but applaud your motives.”

“Oh?” Tess regarded her suitor quizzically. He was a very presentable young man with reddish hair and a fair complexion to which the blood rose rather too easily, and a physique that would in time tend to corpulence. “You surprise me, Shamus.”

“I hope I do not lack for sense,” he responded archly. “It must be evident to all who know you, dear—ah—Tess, that you have chosen to remain in the wings so that your sister may claim the center of the stage.” The curate, though eschewing such frivolous matters, was prone to claim a certain knowledge of the world. “It does you great credit!”

“How little you know me, Shamus!” Tess replied ruefully. “Were it in my power, I would gladly upstage Clio. It might prove a salutary lesson for the minx!”

The worthy Shamus, a younger son destined from birth for the church—a calling that admirably fitted one of his moralistic bent and innate pomposity—raised his sandy brows, tsk-tsk’d, and avowed that the countess spoke in jest and that he knew her far too well to believe a word of it. “You haven’t told me what brings you to London,” she interrupted, lest he elaborate further on the esteem in which he held her various sterling qualities. “Have you suddenly discovered in yourself a taste for the trivialities of life?”

Shamus, who had no sense of humor whatsoever, a fact of which he was inclined to boast, disclaimed this shocking suggestion at some length. “Since the living is in the keeping of the Churchills,” he concluded, “I could hardly refuse the squire’s request. So here I am, dear Tess, rubbing shoulders with the nobs.”

The countess, who usually accorded her suitor an exasperated tolerance, now gazed at him with such ferocity that he blushed. “The squire?” she repeated somberly. “Do you know, Shamus, I feel as though I have stepped into a horrid dream.”

Had Lady Tess been hale of limb, the curate would never have dared aim so high as to marry her; but crippled as she was, and thus with little hope of making a better match, he considered himself eminently eligible. That the countess was very wealthy was not of great significance; Shamus hoped he was not an overly ambitious man; he wished only to command the elegancies of life—a small mansion, a comfortable bankroll, and a wife connected with royalty. Her lamentable tendency to light-mindedness would in time be tempered by his own sobriety, and her inclination toward bookishness would be forgotten once she was otherwise occupied by parish matters and a great many offspring.

“Well?” demanded the countess, happily unaware of this proposed fate. “What
about
the squire?”

She also had, reflected Shamus, an unhappy tendency toward temper. It was doubtless because he had not professed himself delighted to see her once again. Taking her hand, he promptly repaired that omission.

“Shamus,” hissed Tess through clenched teeth, “if you do not tell me instantly
why
you are here, and what the
squire
has to do with it, I swear I shall scream!”

“Come, come, my dear, you will do no such thing!” Shamus patted her hand. “But it is no great secret, after all! I thought your sister would have told you.”

“My sister,” muttered Tess, glancing irately about for that devious miss. She saw Clio, at last, on the arm of an Exquisite clad in a light brown coat with absurdly long tails, a white waistcoat, nankeen pantaloons, and yellow stockings with violent purple clocks. “Oh, my God!” she cried, with abject horror. “Ceddie!”

“I, too, lament the idle tendencies of English youth,” the curate responded gravely, “but I believe you are too harsh. The lad is a trifle high-spirited, perhaps, but nothing to signify. And,” he preened, “young Cedric is hardly like to fall into bad company with
me
in attendance. It was for that exact purpose that the squire decided I must accompany his son to town.”

That Cedric—who was, at the age of twenty, already excessively imprudent, a spendthrift, and firmly entrenched in sporting ways—was hardly likely to be prohibited by the presence of a bear-leader from embarking upon every sort of lark, Tess forbore to say. Shamus, grateful at his young age to have fallen into a very comfortable living, was deaf to any criticism of his patron’s family. “You have been set an awesome task,” she commented, watching with despair as Clio spoke in apparent earnestness to the young man.

Shamus did not consider this remark worthy of reply. He gazed disapprovingly about him, his censorious glance resting on a lady so covered with jewels that she could barely stand erect, and then on a dashing young matron whose gown was so low cut that it would surely slide right off her shoulders if she so much as sneezed, and then once more on the countess. He could not help but feel that she had altered in some incomprehensible manner since they had last met. There was an indefinable difference in her tonight, one that could not be accounted for simply by the modish gown. Perhaps, he thought with disapproval, Lady Tess’s head was being turned by so much frivolity. And so much attention! he added, as before his offended eyes Lady Tess caught the gaze of a swarthy, reckless-looking gentleman, and smiled.

There was only one thing to do, Shamus decided. He must press his suit and remove his intended wife from the temptations of the metropolis before further damage was done. He determined to put his luck to the test at the first opportunity. That the countess had, on the previously mentioned last meeting, unequivocally refused his nicely phrased proposal of marriage for the umpteenth time not a whit disturbed the curate’s conviction that she was destined to be his wife.

Chapter 12

Cedric Churchill was a very handsome young man of slender physique with green eyes, dark gold hair, and luxuriant side whiskers extending down toward his chin. Already he was earning a crude reputation for racing, gaming, and extravagance of dress; already he was spending his existing capital at an alarming rate, though since his father was a mere forty-five years of age, he had no expectations of any quick inheritance; already he was exciting no small interest among the various young misses who stood with their families, watching the great ladies in their jewels, the ambassadors and generals in their decorations, and wishing fervently for an introduction to this dashing young man, that his name might be inscribed on their little cards for at least a country dance.

Ceddie might have obliged at least some of those hopeful maidens, had not Clio had him firmly in tow. It was not an exceptionable action; after the conclusion of a dance, a gentleman customarily took his partner on his arm and walked about with her until the next set began; but Cedric exhibited no great gratification at being so honored by the belle of the evening, who was tormented on all sides to dance by an astonishing number of young hopefuls. He considered himself a man of the world, one who had broken irrevocably away from his mother’s apron strings to drink excessively, seduce freely, and gamble lavishly, if unwisely; and it in no way suited his self-image that a young lady who, though certainly lovely, was little more than a schoolgirl should thus monopolize him.

“Ceddie!” hissed Clio. In exasperation, she pinched his arm. “Will you
please
listen to me?”

Cedric winced. “Dash it, Clio!” he protested. “Take care you don’t crease my coat.”

“The devil with your coat!” snapped Clio. “Now pay attention to what I tell you or you will land us both in the suds!”

In truth, Cedric was not far from a standstill himself, being in need of a substantial windfall if he was to keep up his existing standards. Life in London promised to be not inexpensive for a young man set on Cedric’s path. To start with, there were his rooms at Fenton’s Hotel in St. James’s Street, which had started life as a fashionable lounge known as Pero’s Bagnio, and now was a favorite resort of dandies and Guards officers, and where a warm bath cost an astonishing five shillings. Then there were the gentlemen’s clubs where one sat, hour after hour, with hat tilted to shield one’s eyes, stooped over the green baize tables until fuddled with exhaustion and drink; the expensive shops where one procured a fashionable wardrobe; Tattersall’s and cockpits, prizefighters and lessons in the noble art of self-defense. It was not that Cedric counted the cost of such gentlemanly pursuits; Cedric didn’t count the cost of anything, or dream of living within his means or of practicing the dreary middle-class virtue of economy. He did, however, recall his parting confrontation with his irascible sire, and that the squire had bluntly told him that there would be no further forays on the family purse. Therefore, with a great deal of fellow-feeling, Cedric engaged himself to listen to what Clio had to say.

It was a disjointed narrative, consisting of odd references to intruders and rakehells and highwaymen, and Cedric’s attention quickly wandered. “Gad!” he interjected suddenly. “Why the deuce is your sister looking daggers at me?”

“Not
my sister!” said Clio despairingly. “I thought you were listening to me!”

“Not?” Cedric stared at Tess. His forehead wrinkled. “If not your sister, then who
is
she?”

“Of course she’s my sister!” Clio cast her eyes heavenward. “We are only pretending, Ceddie! Now listen well! Tess is thought to be my companion, and you must not address her by her title or you will give us away.” She pondered upon Cedric’s legendary absent-mindedness. “Better yet, you’ll not speak to her at all.”

“A companion?” repeated Cedric. “I see what it is, you’re cutting a wheedle! But to have your companion at a ball? Don’t seem quite the thing to me.”

“Never mind!” Clio lacked sufficient energy to explain the circumstances of her sister’s presence to one who, if not precisely dicked in the nob, was definitely cockle-brained. “You must give me your word that you won’t betray us.”

“As if I would!” Ceddie was offended. He glanced again at the countess. “That don’t explain why she’s looking murder at me.”              

Clio giggled. “It’s understandable enough. I told Tess you wished to marry me.”

This simple statement affected Cedric most extremely. “You told her
what?”‘
he croaked, in froglike accents.

“Don’t go into high fidgets!” Clio soothed. “It was only so she would allow me to come to London. I said if she wouldn’t accompany me,
you
would.”

Cedric was not appreciably impressed by this clever ploy; he looked very much as though he doubted the fidelity of his own ears. “Dash it, Clio! I don’t
want
to be married!” At least not to anyone without the handsomest of dowries, he amended silently.

Mistress Clio tossed her head. “And so you shan’t be!” she retorted. “I think, Ceddie, this attitude is very shabby of you. A person would think I’m an antidote.”

“No, no!” protested Cedric, looking harassed. “I vow I’m devoted to you, Clio! But you gave me a nasty turn, saying I was pledged to step into parson’s mousetrap.”

Clio might have made any number of sharp rejoinders, among them that she had no wish to acquire for herself a husband who was, despite empty pockets, hellbent on living high. “Come!” she murmured, leading him firmly through the crowd. “You must meet the other members of my family. Then, Ceddie, you must engage me in conversation, for I wish especially to speak further with you!”

Cedric obeyed meekly enough, if gloomily. He knew perfectly well that if he refused, Clio was capable of ringing a regular peal over him, even in the midst of a ball. He made the acquaintance of the Dowager Duchess of Bellamy—who shot him a keen glance, announced him a “fashionable fribble,” and then studiously ignored him— and of the various members of her family. Lucille, who looked insignificant even in formal dress, earned only a brief glance, though Cedric’s eyes tended to linger on Drusilla’s
décolletage;
and he was rendered hideously uncomfortable by the duke, immediately recognizable as that most intimidating of creatures, a Perfect Gentleman. Clio was borne away by one of her many admirers, and Cedric found Constant by his side.

“You are an old acquaintance of our dear little Clio?” queried that sly gentleman, conjectures wriggling like eels through his fertile brain. “Such a charming girl! She has stolen all our hearts, little minx that she is. I would wager that she was quite a belle, even isolated in the country, and broke many a heart.”

“I suppose so,” replied Ceddie absently, so bemused by Drusilla’s low-cut neckline that he quite forgot he’d been among those young men who vied for Clio’s favors and professed themselves ready to expire for one of her smiles.

“An uncommonly lovely girl,” proclaimed Constant, wondering if in this young sprig he might find a means to thwart his scheming mother-in-law’s plans for Clio and Giles; or if Cedric might be the tool by which Clio could be bent to his own will. If push came to shove, the girl could be disgraced, but Constant hesitated to go to such dire lengths despite Drusilla’s insistence on something of the kind.