Maggie MacKeever (23 page)

“Perhaps,” offered Shannon, on whom the sight of his hostess with her face buried in the roses had a very irritating effect, possibly because prudence had decreed he stifle his impulse to shower bouquets and expensive trinkets on Jynx, “your niece might know something of importance?”

“Cristin? Impossible!” Were that young lady privileged to converse with Lord Roxbury, she’d likely present him a rare tongue-lashing. Adorée considered that her own endeavors in that line had been sufficient for one day. “All Cristin can think, or talk, about is that handsome moonling of hers. Oh, dear! I should not have told you about Percy.”

“Jynx said something of the sort. So did he.” Lord Roxbury was clearly indifferent. He rose. “That, at least, is no bread and butter of mine! Since you can’t—or won’t—help me, Adorée, I’ll take up no more of your time.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to, Shannon!” Adorée was stricken that he should think her so unfeeling. “I
wish
to help you, truly! You must know that I have always liked you very well!”

It was a rather lukewarm accolade to bestow upon a gentleman with whom one had conducted a long and amusing flirtation, but Shannon smiled. “Then you’ll let me know, should you recall anything that may aid me in my search?”

Adorée thought she would not, since Lord Roxbury’s temper had obviously been rubbed raw. She decided that both parties to this tangled romance should be granted a respite in which to regain their composure before a confrontation took place. Cupid’s progress would not be furthered by a renewal of hostilities. “You may trust me. Shannon!” Her tone, owing to the necessity for prevarication, a thing that she abhorred, primarily because of her lack of skill, was glum.

“Now it is I who must tell you not to worry,” soothed the viscount. The delay of his departure was caused by her grip on his coat.
“
My efforts may not meet with any great success, but I have every confidence in Bow Street.”

This consolation had an effect on Lady Bliss that was little short of stupendous. “Bow Street!” she cried, and flung herself as if for protection against Lord Roxbury’s chest. Lord Roxbury knew from experience the only way in which to distract Lady Bliss from imminent hysteria. He kissed her.

Adorée placed little significance on that salute, nor did Shannon: gentlemen always did kiss Lady Bliss, on the least provocation, arid in the case of Lord Roxbury it was far from the first time.

And then disaster struck: Miss Lennox walked into the book room. She stopped dead in her tracks, uttered a startled little shriek, then exited with great speed. Lord Roxbury released Lady Bliss, who tottered to the couch. “Who the devil was that?” he inquired irritably.

“You did not see her?” Lady Bliss inquired, in cautious tones.

The viscount had not. The viscount’s back, as he rudely pointed out to his hostess, had been to the door.

Adorée fanned herself vigorously with the rose that she still clutched. “ Twas only the housemaid,” said she.

Chapter Eighteen

In point of fact, Miss Lennox was not the only black-garbed female in Blissington House. Tomkin had taken advantage of his mistress’s brief prosperity and had hired a kitchen maid, a scullery maid, and parlormaids—all fresh from the country and therefore unacquainted with Lady Bliss’s reputation in the labor market—as well as waiters to serve in the gaming rooms. Nor was Miss Lennox in any way expected to perform the duties of a menial, though no one attempted to prevent her from doing as she wished: Tomkin realized that a token amount of physical labor was necessary if she was to be accepted by the servants as another, albeit superior, member of the staff; and Adorée realized the benefit to a broken heart of benumbing exhaustion.

Not that Jynx’s heart was broken, though the sight of Adorée in Shannon’s arms had caused her a grave pang; the unexpected spectacle was only confirmation of what she’d always known. Adorée had tried to explain otherwise, as naturally she would, being a kindly disposed lady if one a trifle too free with her favors. Jynx had interrupted that explanation halfway through, and had informed Lady Bliss that it was unnecessary, because she perfectly understood. So moved was Lady Bliss by this demonstration of Miss Lennox’s intelligence that she retired straightaway, and had hysterics in her room.

Cristin, too, had secluded herself, after a firmly expressed wish to be bothered by no one, and Jynx was left at loose ends. She amused herself with
The Lady’s Companion,
containing upwards of three thousand recipes in every kind of cookery, sixth edition, 1753. It was scant wonder, she reflected, that Lady Bliss’s household expenses ran so high, if she employed recipes that called for a peck of flour, five pints of cream and four pounds of butter, as well as diverse other ingredients in equally large quantity.

Evening fell, and Adorée emerged at last to preside over her faro bank. Jynx, had she been prudent, would have withdrawn to her attic bedroom. She did not; she was bored; she decided to witness for herself high life at play. She whisked herself into a closet, from which vantage point she had an excellent view of the larger saloon.

The faro bank was in full swing. Adorée looked extremely lovely, if a bit wan, in a pale blue satin Empire dress veiled with Brussels net, long white French gloves trimmed with ruching around the top, and satin evening shoes. Her dark hair was gathered high on the back of her head. It occurred to Jynx that she had never seen Lady Bliss wear jewels of any sort, and she marveled. Certainly Adorée needed no gems to enhance her beauty, but that her numerous admirers had been so uniformly clutch-fisted as to present her with none was distinctly unusual.

At the other end of the room, a group of gentlemen had gathered round the E.O. table, which was being set in motion by none other than Innis Ashley. So he dared return to Blissington House when Jynx was safely above-stairs? Her lip curled. She was almost tempted to march straight into the saloon and demand an explanation of his theft of her betrothal ring. Prudence belatedly reared its head, however, and she refrained.

Jynx was surprised by the number of distinguished people that she glimpsed in the gaming rooms. Some ladies were present, none of whom she recognized. Far outnumbering them were the gentlemen, in crisp high shirt collars, faultless cravats, freshly pleated ruffles, high-collared waistcoats, tailcoats with smartly shaped collars and smooth lapels, tightly fitting unmentionables. She diverted herself by assigning a tailor to each one: Weston, as patronized by Brummell? Stulze, who claimed Wellington among his patrons? Meyer of Conduit Street or Guthrie of Cork?

That amusement quickly palled. Miss Lennox scanned the visitors, in expectation of glimpsing Lord Roxbury. She did not see him, but the arrival of Lord Alvanley caused her to draw further back into her closet and quietly close the door. She decided his presence was not remarkable; Lady Bliss, from all appearances, played hostess to the most popular gentlemen of the
haut ton.

Had Miss Lennox but known it, Lady Bliss had not been hitherto privileged to welcome Lord Alvanley to her home. She was honored this night only because the amiable peer was engaged on behalf of Lord Roxbury in a bit of discreet espionage, in pursuit of which he had denied himself the pleasure of accompanying his friend Brummell to the opera in the Haymarket.

Noble as was his intention, and willing as was his character, Alvanley was not cut out to be a successful spy. He entered the saloon, was immediately challenged by an acquaintance to a rubber of piquet, and did not notice Miss Lennox slip out of her closet and toward the back stairs.

Another person did. Jynx was pondering the latest episode in the saga of Lord Byron, of which she had heard while hidden—Byron had accompanied Lady Oxford to Portsmouth, the first stage of a projected trip together abroad, and the lady’s husband had at last been moved to make a stand. It was the Oxfords, therefore, who departed for the Continent, while Byron had returned to London, where he had induced Caro Lamb to histrionics with the dessert knife, or broken glass, or whatever it had been. How many interesting
on-dits
one missed, mused Jynx, when in retreat. And then a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and she bit back a scream.

It was not her father, or her fiancé, both of whom she had half-expected to confront these past several days. Her captor was Eleazar Hyde. “I’ll have a word with you, missy!” said he, and shoved her into the book room. “I’ll thank you to stop trying to jab a finger into my pie.”

The gentleman, Jynx decided, did not improve at closer range. He was rather under average height and of much more than average girth, and he had a sinister habit of covering his mouth when he talked. His attire combined the shabby with the shabby-genteel, and was rendered further startling by a very vulgar display of jewels. Jynx noted the array of fobs and seals, the rings on his pudgy fingers, the diamond stickpin in his cravat. “Sir?” she said warily.

“I’m as knaggy a gager as you’ll meet, missy.” Eleazar’s smile was a gruesome revelation of why he sought to hide his teeth. “And I ain’t about to be out-jockeyed by a chit. You’ve told Cristin she needn’t see me—don’t say you didn’t! It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Things were going along as nicely as a man could wish before I—ah!—was called out of town on business.”

Monkey business, amended Miss Lennox to herself, but she did not venture comment. Eleazar was both fat and short-winded, and his speech had left him gasping for breath.

“Yes.” Eleazar had recovered himself. “Irons in the fire, you might say. Should you try and interfere further with any of my little schemes, things will go very badly for you, Miss Lennox. No need to look so startled; I make it my business to know all sorts of things about little ladies like you! I know too how things would go with Adorée Blissington if there was to be an information laid against her at Bow Street.”

Jynx regarded the gentleman warily. “You are threatening me?”

“Well, I’m not accusing you of impertinence!” His chubby, none-too-clean fingers grasped her chin. “Stay out of my affairs and I’ll stay out of yours! We begin to understand one another, I think.”

So they did. Jynx nodded, since the pressure of his fingers prohibited speech. Eleazar took this as a promise of cowed cooperation, and released her. “A comfortable prose we’ve had together!” said he. No answer was vouchsafed; Miss Lennox was already halfway out of the room. His crude laughter followed her down the hallway.

Jynx grasped the crystal knob of a white-painted door and flung it open, then leaned heavily on the other side. This, as befit the servants’ portion of the house, had a green baize cover and a plain gunmetal knob. Then she climbed the bare wooden steps to her hot attic room. It was all a far cry from what she was accustomed to, Jynx thought.

She did not mind her Spartan quarters, the gray distempered walls and bare floorboards; she did not even mind sleeping on a lumpy mattress, or looking at herself in a spotted mirror, or bathing from a chipped basin. Nor were evenings spent tucked away in that little garret room so very bad, owing to various items that had been left behind by some previous inhabitant, including a tale entitled
The Beautiful Zoa,
which outlined the adventures of a damsel cast ashore on a desert isle, and another called
The Account of the Ghost of Mrs. Veal.

Jynx minded very much, however, being subjected to the threats of Eleazar Hyde. Furthermore, the black stuff gown itched dreadfully. She stepped into her room, then paused, dumbstruck.

The mean little chamber glowed with the light of countless candles. A huge bouquet of flowers adorned the bureau, and a table bearing a cold collation had been drawn up—chairs being among the amenities lacking—beside the bed. Jynx’s heart leapt up into her throat.

Innis stepped out from behind the door, and pushed it shut. “Oh.” Miss Lennox was the victim of bitter disappointment. “It’s only you.”

“Who else would it be?” Innis treated her to a smile of bewitching tenderness. “I have come to apologize to you.”

“I should think you might!” retorted Jynx, very irritably. “You might also apologize for one Eleazar Hyde, who has been laying violent hands on me!”

Innis studied Miss Lennox, her chestnut curls and sleepy eyes and generous mouth, to say nothing of the rest of her, which was no less generous, and suffered an impulse to do the same. The hands he wished to lay on Miss Lennox, nonetheless, had nothing to do with violence. “Don’t tangle with Eleazar,” he said absently, “unless you wish to be forced to knuckle down.”

Miss Lennox considered this a cravenly remark, and said so, but allowed Innis to guide her to the supper table. “I have a very poor opinion of you,” she concluded. “A man who would not only steal my betrothal ring, but deliver up to that aging
roué
his niece.”

Innis looked wounded. “I really won’t, you know, but I dare not antagonize Eleazar. I’ll figure some way out of it, you’ll see! As for the ring—that was like placing a glass of water before a thirsty man, my darling. You wouldn’t expect me not to drink.”

Jynx surveyed the array of cold meats, fruit, and a hot goose pie. “True,” she said, and helped herself to wine. “I would not expect you to behave other than like the rogue that you are. And you need not spin me any more tales, because it’s obvious that you haven’t the least intention of interfering with Mr. Hyde.” She regarded him. “I’d guess he has it in his power to bring you to a standstill.”

“Not I.” Innis’s tones were less than convincing. “I’ll make a recovery yet. But let us not waste these precious moments talking about
him!
My darling, aren’t you the least little bit glad to see me?” Miss Lennox looked as if she doubted the fidelity of her ears. “Jynx, you must know you’ve taken my fancy to an alarming degree!”

“You chose a queer way to show it!” Miss Lennox attacked the goose pie. “Pitchforking me into this bumblebath. I beg you, offer me no more false coin, because I shall find it—and you!—a dead bore.”

Innis was not accustomed to young ladies who found his ardent protestations of less interest than a hot goose pie. Still, Innis was at heart a gambler, and he was playing for high stakes, and he could but trust to the luck of the draw. “I have something for you.” He held forth a pretty snuffbox, not too large for a woman, and opened the lid. An enameled bird started up, sat on the rim, and piped in a delightful tone the notes of the nightingale. “An automaton,” he explained. “Isn’t it the prettiest plaything you’ve ever seen?”