Maggie MacKeever (8 page)

Tess frowned and controlled her nervous mare with practiced ease. A newcomer to intrigue, and unaware of the extremely enlightening conversation that had passed between the Duke of Bellamy and her coachman, the countess only thought it a happy coincidence that the duke should have chosen to go on horseback. “I believe,” she responded, “that as a result of Napoleon’s devices, the national economy is in a shocking state. Mills and factories have had to close down, the cost of bread has risen to near famine point, the export of British manufactures and colonial produce has fallen by nearly a third. It seems that only Wellington thwarts the Neighboring Monster’s schemes.” Shyly, she smiled. “Do you know, at times I almost admire the Corsican? Look at the havoc he has wrought!”

If Giles thought it odd that a lowly and impoverished gentlewoman-companion should be so well-informed, or handle a horse with such skill, or converse with one so exalted in station as himself with such lack of self-consciousness, he gave no sign. Instead, he made a polite reply, and while she was still wrapped in thought, guided her into the leafy glades of Hyde Park. “And how,” he asked smoothly, as she glanced in puzzlement at the countless well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who congregated there, “do you find our city? I trust that, in my home, you have been made comfortable.”

“Very.” Tess, aware that the duke had for some quixotic reason of his own exerted himself greatly in her behalf, awarded him a quizzical glance. “I would like to ask you a question, if I may, though you will think it verges on impertinence.”

“Ask away,” Giles said cheerfully, his thoughts well-hidden. Had Tess been a mind reader, she would have been very much amazed. “What do you wish to know?”

Tess looked at him again, wondering how she might tactfully proceed. There was no doubt that the Duke of Bellamy was a very personable man, flawless in both appearance and manner; there was equally little doubt that he could, if he chose, be formidable indeed. Again she wondered just why he was exerting himself to please her. “It concerns Mirian,” she replied hesitantly. “Clio’s mother. You must know we were told nothing of her association with your family, or of the years she spent in your house.”

The duke said nothing, merely waited patiently. Tess, who had spent a profitable half-hour quizzing his jovial housekeeper, grew uncomfortable. “I know,” she added, even more hesitantly, “that you and Mirian were close friends. Can’t you tell me something of her youth, and what caused the estrangement?”

“You have been gossiping with the servants.” The duke’s voice was devoid of either censure or wrath, and as effective as a slap in the face. “Perhaps you would do better to address your inquiries to them. I daresay you have already learned that my cousin and I were unofficially betrothed. As to why Mirian fled from my house, I cannot say. She did not see fit to inform me.”

That tone had cowed many a peer; Tess only looked thoughtful. “Oh,” said she. “It must have been devilish unpleasant for you, poor boy! You were both very young.”

The duke might be deuced high in the instep, but he also possessed a lively sense of the ridiculous, and it amused him greatly to be thus consoled. “You are an odd female!” he remarked bluntly. “An enigma, in fact. Why should you concern yourself with Mirian? Clio does not appear to harbor any particular interest in her mother’s past.”

Tess was not so uncharitable as to comment that Clio harbored scant interest in anything but herself, particularly to a gentleman who might make that volatile miss an ideal husband. “Clio,” she murmured, “is not of an inquiring nature. I was devoted to Mirian.”

“Ah, yes.” The duke was at his most bland. “I was forgetting that you, as Clio’s companion, must have answered to Mirian. She was kind to you, I suppose, and you were grateful; it was always her way. You cannot judge by
that,
you know! I believe that even the most vicious of criminals have been kind to dogs.”

Stung, Tess opened her mouth to protest, then closed it on the words. There was little explanation she could make without revealing the truth of her relationship with Mirian, and the depth of her deception. For the first time, Tess wondered if this masquerade hadn’t been a trifle ill-advised. It was not only Clio who had inherited the Lansbury impulsiveness; Tess had conceived a notion and acted on it without regarding the consequences. She had meant simply to hover in the background, to impose restraint if necessary, while Clio enjoyed her debut; now came the growing suspicion that the deception had been less than wise.

Tess was not destined to long remain in the background. Not only had Clio already taken steps in her sister’s behalf; the duke, while Tess was thus preoccupied, had maneuvered her smack into the midst of the fashionable throng. Hyde Park at this hour was the gathering place of beauty and wealth; before Tess was aware of what was happening, she had been introduced to Lord Petersham, famous for the Cossack trousers and double-breasted coat named after him, and known for his expertise in all matters of fine teas and snuff; the Duchesses of Rutland and Argyll, among the most celebrated beauties of the day; the Ladies Cowper and Jersey, who after a whispered consultation promised vouchers for Almack’s; the eccentric Earl of Morton on his long-tailed gray. It is not to be imagined that these people, in smiling upon the Duke of Bellamy’s companion, were merely being kind: Lady Tess, on horseback, was in her element and so far forgot her loathsome limp that she positively glowed. In the riding field she felt no need to efface herself, to dress in a drab and unfashionable manner that drew no attention; and consequently wore a habit of deep blue, simply and superbly cut, black half boots and York tan gloves, and a small beaver riding hat from beneath which escaped countless silver blond curls. Unaware of the duke’s Machiavellian tendencies, and equally unaware that a woman of her supposed station would be totally overcome by mingling with such exalted personages, the countess laughed and spoke quite naturally with all and sundry, not even turning a hair when presented to the exquisite Beau Brummell, absolute
arbiter elegantarium
of fashionable society, who lingered so long in animated conversation that eyebrows rose and tongues wagged mightily about the Beautiful Unknown.

“How Clio would have enjoyed this!” she breathed to Giles, who was clearly in a good humor. “What a great pity that she did not accompany us. It was for her, you know, that you should have procured those vouchers to Almack’s! It would hardly be the thing for
me
to attend.”

“I had nothing to do with it.” The duke threaded his way among elegant carriages. “It might amuse you to view the stratagems undertaken by hopeful mamas with daughters in the Marriage Mart. You are honored, you know! I doubt few mere companions have set foot within those exclusive walls.” He turned his head to observe her, rather narrowly. “My sisters will see that Clio receives her voucher, never fear. You need not concern yourself.”

Little did he know, thought Tess, and hoped that Clio would find among the town’s young bucks a
parti
who might inspire in her a fondness that lasted longer than a week. With luck, the
parti
might also be eligible! Recalling Clio’s past conquests, however, Tess had little faith in this. It was too much to ask, she supposed, that Clio should fall in love with a gentleman as thoughtful, and as eminently eligible, as her current escort. “Have you always,” he inquired, thus adding to his growing list of virtues a considerable acumen, “concerned yourself so with the girl?”

“If only I had!” replied Tess absently. “Clio needs a firm hand.” She recalled herself. “Naturally, it is not my place to criticize!”

“Naturally.” The duke was wry. “Do not distress yourself. It is obvious that Clio has been allowed to run wild.”

Fortunately for Lady Tess, who was finding in herself little aptitude for deceit, a diversion presented itself at that moment in the form of Mr. Romeo Coates, who drove a kettledrum-shaped carriage drawn by white horses. Taking exception to the closely passing wheels, the countess’s mare reared up, thus presenting Tess with an admirable opportunity to further display her expertise. She did so, keeping her seat without effort, and calming the nervous horse with a single word.

“Your handling of the reins,” remarked the duke, “is admirable.”

“Honey and I are old friends.” Tess stroked the dappled neck. “She’s been with me since she was a foal; I had the breaking of her myself.”

The Duke of Bellamy was enjoying himself to such an unusual extent that further comment concerning his companion was elicited from those spectators who knew all too well the rarity of his smile. “How kind of Clio,” he murmured, “to let you bring the mare to town. But then, Clio would not wish you to be bored while she engages herself with fashionable frivolities.”

“How perceptive.” Tess wore a faint and becoming flush. “Dear Clio has always been
most
considerate.”

That Clio showed little evidence of extending this laudable thoughtfulness to others, Giles did not mention; instead, he whisked his somewhat discomfited companion off to meet no less than the prince regent, a ludicrously fat gentleman with a florid complexion. Prinny, a connoisseur of lovely women, professed himself charmed.

“Your Grace!” protested Tess, whose cheeks were now quite rosy. “For what purpose are you presenting me to all these people? I cannot think they will thank you for bringing to their attention your cousin’s companion.”

“Ah!” replied the duke, and blandly guided her down Rotten Row. “Clio has already told me that your birth is better than her own.” He quirked a brow. “Some mystery, I apprehend.”

Tess nodded stiffly, her thoughts awhirl. If it were not impossible, she would suspect that Giles knew the truth of her charade, and was amusing himself at her expense. But how
could
he know? Tess was totally unacquainted with Society, her reclusive father having included among his scholarly acquaintance very few peers; and Tess’s servants had been warned to make no mention of their mistress. It was most perplexing. She listened with only half an ear as the duke expounded upon the history of Hyde Park, informing her that in the days of William and Mary it had been a rutted haven for highwaymen; then pointing out Hariette Wilson, queen of the Fashionably Impure, an auburn-haired woman seated in a carriage lined with pale blue satin, surrounded by a crowd of horsemen. Tess was further bewildered by the duke’s attentiveness, and could not imagine its significance. An event was shortly to take place that would drive these various considerations temporarily from her mind.

Ahead of them was a smart cabriolet, a light open conveyance perched upon two great wheels and upholstered in crimson. In it sat a lady, attended by a powdered footman in gorgeous livery and a bewigged coachman in a three-cornered hat and French gloves. By her side, on a beautiful black horse, was a swarthy gentleman. Tess gasped, then bit her lower lip.

“You’ve seen Drusilla,” observed Giles. “Come, let us greet her! I will introduce you to her friend. You will find Morgan amusing. He is something of a rogue, and eschews the marriageable young girls paraded before him in favor of philandering—but it hardly matters if Morgan is both wildly extravagant and excessively bold, since he was born to wealth of the most enormous.”

“Oh, no!” Tess was as pale as if she expected at any moment to receive her deathblow. “I could not.”

“No?” Giles’s dark-eyed glance held traces of mingled speculation and mischief. “I had not thought you a coward! You must not hold it against Morgan that he is, as the French have it, in constant need of a bed. There, I have embarrassed you! It is your own fault, for making a man feel so comfortable that he may say anything.”

“Don’t regard it.” Tess resolutely ignored her hot cheeks. “In truth, I have a bit of a headache—doubtless a touch of the sun! I beg you will postpone this particular introduction to another day.”

“Nonsense!” Giles urged her forward. “I promise you will like Morgan very well.”

It was obvious that the duke had mistaken her reluctance for maidenly modesty. Short of creating a scene, Tess had no choice but to allow her mare to trot easily at his side. What to do? It was too much to hope that Sir Morgan would not give her away.

Observing their approach, the gentleman rode to meet them. “So!” he said, as they came abreast. “I had not hoped to encounter you again so soon, little one.”

The countess was rendered speechless, but Giles stepped neatly into the breach. “You are already acquainted with my cousin’s companion, Morgan?” He did not look especially surprised. “It merely confirms my long-held opinion that the world is prodigious small. You will excuse me, I hope? I must speak with my sister.”

“I believe,” remarked Sir Morgan, as Giles moved down the path, “that I scent a mystery. Are you less than you appear, little Countess, or more?”

For the first time she looked directly at him, but saw only her reflection in those golden eyes. “I can imagine,” she said, “what you must think! And I thank you for not giving me away.”

“Why should I?” inquired Sir Morgan. “No great sin, surely, to pass yourself off as a lady at a country inn. You are a deep one, are you not? Now I learn that you are not the Countess of Lansbury, but simply Tess; and that the rag-mannered Clio is not your sister, but your mistress.” He shook his head. “You might be in the practice of daily dissimulation, so cleverly did you take me in.”

Had the countess not been in such great affliction, she might have noted various inconsistencies in this attitude; but Tess, rapidly coming to think herself a plaything of fortune, was almost overwhelmed by Sir Morgan’s worldly manner, his air of authority, and his splendid presence, and was feeling incoherent indeed. “You’ve found me out,” she confessed weakly. “It was a great temptation, you understand. And Delphine was sure it would secure for us rooms at the inn.”

“Very astute,” approved Sir Morgan, with his wicked smile. “You must not fear I will betray you! In truth, I have always wished to meet an adventuress.”

“Oh?” inquired Tess, who was recovering her wits. “Do you mean that you have not? Well then, Sir Morgan, I am delighted that I may oblige you.”