Maggie MacKeever (19 page)

Sir Morgan might have a quick temper, but his lips twitched at various points throughout this narrative. “Oh?” he inquired. “Why should she turn to me instead of trusting to Bow Street?”

“I don’t know.” Tess looked rueful. “I thought perhaps you might tell me that.”

“If you don’t mind,” Sir Morgan retorted, with greatly strained severity, “I think I will not! You already know entirely too much for your own good. Having determined that I am prompted only by the most praiseworthy of motives, why do you now refuse to return the gems to me?”

“You must see that it is much too dangerous!” Tess was stern. “I hope you will forgive me for saying that this lady sounds most untrustworthy. You heard what Drusilla said! She as much as accused
you
of being responsible! Think what would happen were you to be caught with the necklace! Only this Bianca knows you have it at her express request, and if she chose not to remain silent, your conduct would be exposed to such recrimination as to make you unpopular beyond measure!” She shook her head. “No, Sir Morgan, it simply will not serve. You must see that!”

“Oh, I do!” replied the Wicked Baronet, in somewhat strangled tones. “What then do you mean to do?”

“Why, I must take the necklace to her myself!” said Tess, with widened eyes. “What else? It should prove easy enough.”

“Not so easy as you might imagine.” Sir Morgan regarded his benefactress with fascination. He tried without success to imagine a meeting between Tess and the volatile Bianca. “The lady, prostrated by her loss, has retired to Bath.”

“Bath!” Tess’s face fell. “Then I suppose we must wait until her return. How unfortunate!”

“We have little choice,” agreed Sir Morgan, detaching himself from the wall, “since you do not appear inclined to entrust the gems to me. There is one thing you have not considered! Since I have been acquitted of the theft, I must also be acquitted of plaguing you with footpads and highwaymen.”

The countess was far from unintelligent. “Ah!” said she.

“Precisely. Someone knows you have that necklace, and is anxious for its return.”

Nor was Lady Tess easily daunted. “Then,” she replied easily, “we shall simply contrive to see that their efforts are thwarted, shan’t we?”

No doubt impressed by so stalwart an attitude, Sir Morgan placed his fingers on her throat and tilted up her chin. “You are not the only one who is perspicacious!” he remarked, somewhat inconsequentially. “I myself possess no little foresight, having broken off with Bianca before I ever encountered you at the inn. I suppose I must have known that fate held in store for me a charming nitwit who would remove all other considerations from my mind!”

“You are flirting with me again,” Tess said severely, though she made no effort to move away. “I have told you it is not necessary.”

“I
never,”
retorted Sir Morgan, offended, “flirt because it’s necessary.” With an idle finger, he traced the outline of her nose. “Don’t you like it, little one?”

“Well, yes, I rather do,” admitted Tess, in a husky little voice. “I suppose I should not say so, but such things have never come my way before. And I see it must be perfectly natural for you to behave so, being a rake, and I should not wish you to be uncomfortable because I asked you to refrain! But I should not wish you to think you
had
to do so to protect your interests.”

A man of less worldly wisdom and greater sensibility might have been totally dashed by this forthright little speech, but Sir Morgan only smiled crookedly. “That will teach me!” he said. Tess’s puzzled look did not prompt him to explain.

“If you
do
wish to flirt with me,” Tess added, afraid she had somehow wounded him, “you may do so, of course! I haven’t the least objection!”

“But I
don’t
wish to flirt with you!” Sir Morgan replied. This was an odd comment in view of the fact that he still held her face between his hands.

“Oh,” said Tess, absurdly disappointed.

“You are not at all the sort of female,” explained Sir Morgan, drawing her closer, “whom I engage in flirtation.” Tess looked up, bewildered, and the Wicked Baronet suffered an unprecedented pang of conscience. “Poor puss!” he murmured. “It is not at all kind of me to tease you. But I am
not
kind, Tess, or considerate, and I have a vile temper and an even viler tongue.”

“I know,” she said, trying desperately to summon rational thought, “but—though I brand myself reprehensible by admitting it!—I have always considered virtue very dreary when not tempered with at least a little practiced vice. Well, look at Shamus!
He
possesses every conceivable virtue, and he is a dead bore! You are a much more interesting man.” Sir Morgan was so taken with this unusual outlook that he stood rooted to the floor, and she ventured to touch his lean cheek. “Truly,” begged the countess, “you must not berate yourself! Think how highly you are valued by all your friends! Even Sapphira admires you, and I don’t think she approves of anyone else except Giles.” She studied his cravat. “As for myself, I admire you, Sir Morgan, and I like you far more than any other gentleman I have ever known.”

Conscience was snuffed out like a candle. Without the slightest pang of compunction, Sir Morgan kissed the countess again.

Chapter 15

The Dowager Duchess of Bellamy’s berlin rolled with dignity through the streets of the West End, pausing briefly so that its occupants might gaze upon such entertainments as conjurers, fire-eaters, and Punch-and-Judy men. Despite these rare treats, the expedition was not proving felicitous: the occupants of the carriage were at distinct odds with one another. Even Evelyn, having been denied the pleasure of viewing the famous elephant Clunee at the Exeter ‘Change, had succumbed to sulks. Nidget lay on the floor at his master’s feet, equally abject; Delphine stared stonily out the window, having received a most emphatic set-down from her mistress when she dared broach the subject of Sir Morgan; and Clio gazed gloomily upon her neatly gloved hands.

Impervious to the discontent that she had roused in her companions, the countess enlivened the rather brooding atmosphere with a lively discussion of the Royal Institution, which was more the
ton
than anything, the regent having been elected president. There, she announced, ladies of all ages submitted to a shocking squeeze to hear morning lectures on the Human Understanding, Experimental Philosophy, Painting, Music, and Geology. No one paid the slightest attention to her words, and Tess fell silent. She looked at Clio, who appeared burnt to the socket, and frowned.

Despite the pleasure of wearing a brand new walking dress of muslin with a waistcoat bosom, a gypsy hat and veil, Mistress Clio felt as unhappy as she looked. There was more than ample justification for her malaise—to wit, an unnerving interview with Sapphira, which had left Clio so overset that she had fled in total confusion and had swallowed Drusilla’s complexion powders without demur.

Sapphira was out of charity with her entire family and had made no bones about saying so: Drusilla was a fast piece of goods, so lost to reason as to hang on Sir Morgan in the most revolting manner; Lucille was spineless and a horrid nuisance, giving way to nervous fancies such as the imbecilic notion that sinister characters were lurking about Bellamy House and consequently rendering herself hysterically useless when her mother needed her most; and Constant was beyond worthless, being a curst loose fish.

Having nicely disposed of those of her dependents, the dowager duchess had turned her guns on Clio, informing that astonished miss that
she
was to marry Giles, and without further nonsense. Whether the duke had been informed of his fate, and what he thought of it, Clio had dared not ask, and in fact had been given scant opportunity to do so, Sapphira having launched into a lamentation over past errors, and a panegyric upon the rapturous future that Clio might expect as the duke’s wife.

In truth, the notion did not displease Clio, who had never seen a greater appearance of worth and honor than she saw in Giles; but she remembered the way he looked at Tess and the mutual pleasure that they appeared to derive from one another’s company, and knew that she would not allow herself to be instrumental in breaking up such a promising romance. Her decision was made and she was honor-bound by it, even though it must inevitably condemn her to a lifetime of unhappiness.

Nor would Sapphira disapprove, once she learned Tess was the Countess of Lansbury. Had she not been so shocked, both by Sapphira’s plans for her future and the discovery that she liked those plans exceedingly well, Clio would have informed the dowager duchess of the truth—but she had not, and therefore had sunk even deeper into the morass.

Clio had come to view Sir Morgan as the only obstacle on her sister’s roadway to happiness, and there seemed no alternative now but to attach that audacious gentleman to herself. Ceddie having proven himself next to useless, Clio had sent that young man off with a flea in his ear. He was furious with her as a result but he would come about again, and when he did Clio thought she might have some use for him.

For Shamus, she had none at all. A brief moment’s conversation had been sufficient to show her that the curate had more chance of driving Tess to murder him than of winning her heart. But he would serve as distraction, if nothing else; while engaged in elevating conversation with the curate, Tess could hardly further her acquaintance with the Wicked Baronet.

It was not that Clio suspected Sir Morgan of harboring improper intentions toward her sister; she never considered his intentions at all. She only knew he was a heartless man, one who would flaunt convention at a whim, wager all his possessions on the turn of a card, and merely shrug if he lost; and she feared that Tess, so inexperienced as to not realize that Sir Morgan was capable of ruining her without the slightest twinge of remorse, was so blind as to overlook his faults.

Clio, who had taken an unreasoning dislike to the man, would have been startled to learn that the countess was very much aware of Sir Morgan’s faults, and found in them nothing particularly worthy of censure; she would have been thoroughly scandalized had she known that the countess had already been twice embraced by that swarthy rake and was rather hoping he’d find occasion to do so again.

The barouche drew up outside the British Museum, which Sapphira had decreed was sufficiently absorbing to keep the various members of the little party out of mischief for a while, and disgorged its passengers. A brief altercation ensued when it transpired that Nidget would not be permitted inside, but at length he was sent off in the barouche, and the others crossed the threshold.

Within was a strange mishmash of works of art, natural curiosities, books, and models in random display. Evelyn went off immediately to inspect two enormous stuffed giraffes that stood like guards at the top of the staircase, but his companions were less enthused.

“You are looking positively haggard, child,” said Tess to her sister, with some faint hope of healing the breach that had opened up between them. “Is something troubling you? Won’t you tell me what it is?”

Clio could hardly announce her appalling discovery that she was more than a little fond of the man whom she meant her sister to wed. “Nothing,” she replied sullenly. Giles must be shown that Tess would be a wife worthy of his rank and station, and Tess must be shown that Sir Morgan was unworthy of her affection. What a hobble! thought Clio, wondering how she was to attach a gentleman who preferred to remain unaware of her existence.

“Bah!” muttered Delphine. “Something is very wrong, you needn’t bother denying it,
poupée!
You are white as a ghost, and trembling, and starting at a sound. That
you
should be afraid of your own shadow is of all things incomprehensible!”

“I have said it is nothing!” snapped Clio, glowering at a bust of Hippocrates. She was well aware of how she looked, and for that reason had resorted to the complexion powders, bitter as they were, and not that they seemed to be particularly effective. However, as Drusilla had pointed out, such things took time.

“If it’s Ceddie,” remarked Lady Tess, a trifle tactlessly, “then it
is
nothing. I suppose he followed you here? Forget him, child! He is not the husband for you.”

This callous attitude could not but set up Clio’s hackles, particularly since she was making such sacrifices on her sister’s behalf. “I’ll marry whom I please, Tess, with or without your consent!” she retorted waspishly. “You’ve never given poor Ceddie a chance.”

The countess reflected that she had given Cedric every chance, allowing him the run of her house for many years; she further mused that it was Clio who had given Sir Morgan no opportunity to prove
his
value. She voiced none of these thoughts, lest she inspire her sister to further exhibitions of temper. “Don’t make a piece of work of it,” she said, gazing unappreciatively upon the celebrated Portland vase. “Think of all your other beaux, Clio. I’m sure the majority of them are perfectly unexceptionable.”

This was true; Mistress Clio had not allowed her various schemes to interfere with her social life. She had attended brilliant dinners at which the company was drawn from the highest in the land, where the wine and food were of the best quality; she had graced a breakfast given in the Horticultural Gardens and surveyed the exhibition of prize fruits; she had witnessed concerts where only the very first talents in the metropolis were engaged; she was promised that very evening for a great
fête
where the fashionable world would be entertained by musicians, a ball, and a French play. In so doing, she had amassed a great many admirers, a gratifying number of whom gave every indication of coming up to snuff. A few scant weeks before, Clio would have been in high flights at her success; now she was depressed. But she roused herself to make an effort, and was so successful that Tess, against her own wishes, agreed to accompany her sister to Almack’s. “Good!” said Clio, and promptly plunged again into gloom.

Tess and Delphine exchanged a worried glance, both considering it decidedly queer that so highly capricious a damsel should turn so lachrymose. They did not discuss the matter, however, being themselves barely on speaking terms. Tess regretted the estrangement from her abigail, of whom she was fond; but she dared not acquaint Delphine with the truth of Sir Morgan’s association with her. Were Delphine to learn of the necklace, the fat would be in the fire. The abigail already had the lowest opinion of Sir Morgan’s character, as Tess had every reason to know, and no consideration would prevent her going to Bow Street, which would land Sir Morgan—and perhaps Tess herself—in prison for theft.