Maggie MacKeever (25 page)

“Drink!” he commanded, thrusting a glass of brandy into her hand. Clio obeyed, and choked. “Now, tell me what’s troubling you.”

“I cannot—do not ask me—it is much too dreadful to discuss!” replied Clio disjointedly.

“Surely,” said the duke, watching her with a frown, “you cannot still be worried about Morgan and Tess? If so, your concern is excessive, cousin. He will do her no harm.”

“No harm!” Clio was relieved to seize upon a distraction, and annoyed that Giles should accept the situation when she knew perfectly well that he was not indifferent to Tess. On reflection, she determined that the duke was too much a gentleman to interfere.
“Your
concern, Your Grace, is not excessive enough! He will abuse her and abandon her, after running through her fortune, and you tell me not to fear? I wonder at you, sir!”

The duke might have expressed surprise that a female in Tess’s supposed situation should possess a fortune, but he was not so callous as to tease a damsel who was obviously in the grip of a fit of melancholia. “My name,” he remarked, “is Giles. I would appreciate it if you would call me by it.”

But Clio displayed little reaction to this mark of favor; she feared she’d said too much. “You must not think Tess has formed a lasting attachment!” she cried, clutching his arm. “It is no such thing! Sir Morgan has swept her off her feet, but she will return to her senses and realize where her heart truly lies.”

“Excuse me,” begged the duke, a look of puzzlement on his handsome countenance. “Do you mean to tell me that your Tess is enamored of her curate?”

“Shamus? Gracious, no!” Clio paused, wondering how to best deal with this delicate situation. “I haven’t seen the slightest indication that they should suit.”

“You relieve me,” responded Giles. “Neither had I.” He looked down at her face, so pale and drawn that only the huge blue eyes seemed alive. “I wasn’t born yesterday, cousin. I do not think that it is the—I mean, Tess—who has overset you so dreadfully.”

“No,” said Clio, giving in to a momentary weakness. Drusilla, after all, had said that she should ask Giles. “I have just learned the truth about my mother. It is only natural, I think, that it should cause me some distress.”

“Oh?” The duke’s brows lowered forbiddingly. “Who has been telling you tales?”

“It hardly matters.” Clio averted her gaze. “Someone should have informed me sooner. Surely I should know of something that must affect my entire life! Not that I do not understand why the family should wish to wrap it up in clean linen!” she added quickly, lest he think she presumed to criticize his actions. “I understand perfectly.”

“I am glad,” replied Giles, “since I do not.” Not ungently, he forced her to look at him. “My dear cousin, I would not care if my dirty linen were washed in public, if I
had
dirty linen, which I do not!”

“How like you to put a good face on it!” Clio sniffled. “I know, Your Grace, that my mother was a lunatic.”

Since Giles had spent several years in close proximity with Mirian and had seen no indication of lunacy, his surprise was by no degree small. He tried his utmost to disabuse Clio of the notion that had taken such firm root in her feverish little brain, but to no avail; the comment that Mirian had suffered nothing more severe than hey-go-mad humors only inspired Clio to hang round his neck in tears.

“No, no!” she sobbed, releasing him at last. “Do not try to console me, it is a great deal better that I should know!” Shyly she looked up at him. “You must not think I condemn your actions, Your Grace! It is perfectly reasonable that you should not wish to ally yourself with a woman of such unstable character. I think it Mirian who behaved badly, to take your change of heart in such bad part as to run away.”

Giles had endured, at the best, a trying day; and it was not the least brightened by this interview. But he gave no indication of minding that Clio had sadly creased the sleeve of his jacket, and wept all over his waistcoat, and now exhibited beyond all doubt her belief that he, the highest of sticklers, had behaved like a curst rum touch.

“I perfectly see why she did it,” Clio continued somberly. “To realize that you, for whom she nourished a warm regard, should think her mad—I too would probably have fled.”

“I trust you won’t,” said the duke with near savagery. She looked puzzled. “Take French leave! There is no need for it, Clio.”

“Oh, no!” cried Clio, at her most innocent. “Why should I? The situation is quite different.”

Giles had endured long experience with the females of his family, all of whom were inclined to the telling of taradiddles, and he easily read the signs. He also recognized the futility of pressing the issue. “I wish you would tell me who is responsible for this farrago of nonsense.”

“Oh, let us speak no more of it!” Clio brushed the tears off her cheeks. “It is kind of you to shield me, and I would have expected no less of you.” She smiled, rather wistfully. “I think that Tess is very fortunate, cousin!”

“Do you?” Giles gallantly offered his handkerchief. “I do not understand you, Clio! Only moments past you were lamenting her probable fate at Morgan’s hands.”

“You need not pretend with
me!”
reproved Clio. “I know the whole—have known from the start! I only hope you may forgive Tess her foolishness concerning your friend. It stems not from any vicissitude of character, but from inexperience.”

“Forgive her?” Giles looked all at sea. “Who on earth am I, Clio, to condemn your—ah!—Tess’s conduct?”

“I have told you,” Clio responded severely, “that you need not pretend! I fear Tess’s preference for Sir Morgan may have wounded your pride, but I assure you things are not as they seem. She will discover that she is far from indifferent to you, Your Grace, once she has looked into her own heart.”

The duke’s expression in response to this information defies description. “The deuce!” he said, staring at Clio with distinct astonishment

“I know I should not have spoken of it.” That damsel crumpled his handkerchief into a sodden wad. “But I thought you should know how things stand with her. All is not yet lost! I have matters well in hand.”

This ominous announcement was not wasted on the Duke of Bellamy, but he had more immediate problems with which to deal. “I see I have been hoist with my own petard.” Clio frowned. “My dear, you have completely mistaken the case. I must count myself honored that you should think I would be eligible for Tess—since you obviously think Morgan is not!—but, believe me, I nourish no warmer feelings than liking and a certain admiration for Tess, nor does she for me.”

Of course he would say so, mused Clio, stricken anew by the honorable nature of the man. If only her earlier schemes had played out properly! But fate had been consistently against her, most memorably on the occasion when, hearing Tess and Giles in the library, she had locked the door, only to discover on opening it an hour later, in the presence of witnesses, that Sir Morgan had also been present and that they had pleasantly passed the time in playing three-handed whist. “I am glad to hear that her shocking behavior hasn’t turned you against her.”

Giles feared his words were falling on deaf ears, but he persevered. “I am fond of Tess,” he said carefully. “She is as lovely as she is strong-willed, and I’m sure she’ll lead Morgan a merry dance, and that he’ll adore every moment of it.” Clio looked at him with brimming compassion, and the duke stifled a sigh. “Were
I
to marry her, however,” he continued with a touch of acerbity, “she would drive me to murder her in an extremely short period of time! My interest in Tess was prompted only by a most ignoble curiosity. I wished to discover what sort of female had roused Morgan to admiration. Believe me, Clio, they will deal together admirably!”

Clio was not deceived. She walked to the doorway and turned, her eyes once more bright with tears. “You need not fear,” she soothed. “I give you my word that Tess will not marry Sir Morgan.”

The Duke of Bellamy was not one to tilt at windmills, and so he let her go. Once she had ample time in which to attain the privacy of her room, he opened the door and demanded of a housemaid that his valet be sent to him immediately, in tones so viciously unlike himself that the maid gasped.

On noiseless feet, Pertwee glided into the room. He was an impeccable little man whose sinister air derived from the fact that his pale eyes were set much too close together in his ferret-like countenance.

The duke had thrown himself down into a chair, a brandy decanter on the table at his elbow, and an expression of the utmost ferocity on his face. “Pertwee!” he thundered. “Something deuced odd is going on in this house.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” agreed the valet, who was very much in his master’s confidence. “If I may venture to say so, Your Grace, there are various unwholesome rumors concerning the young lady. They are preposterous, as I have been so bold as to point out, but persons of the lower orders are inclined to believe the worst.”

The Duke of Bellamy lifted his brandy glass, but he did not drink. “At whose door are those rumors to be set? Never mind! I can guess.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Pertwee.

“All the same,” and now Giles did drink, “I shall want proof.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” agreed Pertwee.

“And the other?” demanded the duke, rising abruptly and striding toward a heavily laden bookshelf.

“All is in good order, Your Grace.” It was obvious from Pertwee’s demeanor that he did not approve. “The note has been delivered to the lady. I fancy, Your Grace, that she was pleased to receive it”

“I imagine,” retorted the duke, removing a volume from the shelf, “that she was! What a contretemps this is, Pertwee.”

“Exactly so, Your Grace,” replied the valet primly.

“You know what has to be done.” The duke opened the volume and removed from it a pair of dueling pistols, one of which he extended to his manservant. “Here! You may need this.”

“If I may say so,” responded the valet who, though villainous of appearance and stout of soul, was not particularly fond of firearms and not at all happy about the extra duties that his master and Sir Morgan had imposed on him, “I devoutly trust not, Your Grace!”

“Where is your spirit of adventure, Pertwee?” Giles touched the remaining pistol. “Made by Manton, no less! Were I not afraid she would shoot Morgan with it, I would give this to the countess! Perhaps I am being foolish, and no attempt will be made.”

Pertwee had no such hope. “I conjecture, Your Grace, that the villains grow desperate.”

“The villains,” responded the duke dryly, “are not alone in that. If ever I saw such an addlepated pair!” He frowned. “There is one additional thing, Pertwee.”

“Yes, Your Grace?” inquired the valet unenthusiastically.

“Yes, Pertwee!” The Duke of Bellamy smiled. “You will be well rewarded, I promise. Mrs. Bibby has in her possession a key to every room in Bellamy House, I believe?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Giles displayed not the least regard for his valet’s patent apprehension. “You will discover among them the key to Miss Clio’s room.”

“I will, Your Grace?” Though devoted to his master, Pertwee was not at all eager to add theft to the endeavors undertaken in the duke’s behalf.

“You will.” The Duke of Bellamy’s tone brooked no argument. “Once you have appropriated that key, with no one the wiser, you will lock Miss Clio in her room. Then you will give the key to me.”

It was not often that Pertwee ventured to contradict his master, but he did so now. “When the young lady discovers that her door is locked, Your Grace, she will raise a terrible uproar.”

“So she will.” Blandly, Giles pushed up the lid of his snuffbox with his left thumb,
à la
Brummell, removed a pinch of snuff, and closed the box with his index finger. “It can hardly signify, since the household already thinks she’s at least half-mad.”

Chapter 20

The Duke of Bellamy’s highhanded action had consequences that even he could not have foreseen. Clio, locked in her chamber, was prevented not only from involving Sir Morgan and Cedric in what would doubtless have been one of the most shocking scandals of the decade; she was also prevented from relaying to Tess her knowledge about Mirian, and from getting word to Ceddie that the elopement had been forestalled.

Thus Cedric waited, growing more and more ill-tempered as the appointed hour came and went and Clio did not appear. It was not affection for that damsel that kept him so long outside Bellamy House, hidden in the shadows, but the fact that he was in dire financial straits, having been called upon to meet a bill of £1,000 to which he’d unwisely signed his name.

To give Cedric all due credit, he had no intention of going through with the elopement, despite Drusilla’s pointed hints that such an action would prove to his benefit. Ceddie might have been castigated by those who loved him little as a slow-top, but even he saw that such a course would bring down grave censure upon him. Clio’s fortune was too small to tempt him; and Drusilla, despite her vague promises, hadn’t a farthing to call her own. Furthermore, the squire was like to cut up so stiff at his son’s elopement that he would refuse to ever again hear Ceddie’s name.

Cedric had not yet despaired; he had a last hope of recovery in the person of Lady Tess.
She
was wealthy enough to pay off all his debts without feeling the slightest strain, and Ceddie saw a way in which she could be persuaded to do that very thing. He would return Clio to her sister with her reputation intact, taking her nowhere more exceptionable than to his aunt in Grosvenor Square. If Clio flew into the boughs, no matter; Lady Tess would be all the more grateful that he and his aunt could keep still tongues in their heads. Where on earth
was
Clio? wondered Ceddie, shifting positions uncomfortably.

And then a woman stole stealthily out of Bellamy House. Ceddie’s hopes rose only to be dashed again; the woman walked with the aid of a cane. Had Lady Tess learned of the elopement? Was she coming to confront him? The countess passed by him unaware, and Ceddie’s curiosity grew. Another figure slipped out of the house, this one a man, for all the world as if he followed her.