Maggie MacKeever (25 page)

“Mr. Crump,” she said, with an odd lack of animation. “Thank heavens you’ve come. My aunt is in her Sitting Room.”

Crump followed Mignon down the hallway. She was a good-looking young woman, he realized with some surprise, for all that her eyes were deeply shadowed and her features drawn as if from some great anxiety.

Crump stepped into the Hymeneal, and into a circus scene. Culpepper, hair hidden beneath a huge mobcap, held a sleepy-looking Charity by the ear; Maurice, clad in a garish silk dressing gown, brandished an ancient blunderbuss and spoke with great enthusiasm to the room at large. Miss Montague paused by a massive marble-topped side table, upon which sat a tasteful arrangement of yellow canary feathers and crepe under glass, all that remained of Bluebeard’s predecessor. Gibbon stood by a side window, impeccable in his butler’s livery, holding in his arms the huge orange cat, which was eyeing with malevolent intent the blue macaw that perched on the back of the chair where Lady Bligh sat enthroned. The Baroness gazed impassively at the portrait of her spouse that dominated the room.

Maurice turned to peer at the Runner. “Hallo, Mr. Crump! I damned near caught a robber, don’t you know?”

“Correction, Maurice,” the Baroness interrupted, as Crump cautiously eyed the burnished barrel of Maurice’s blunderbuss. “
I
damned near caught a robber, and would certainly have done so had you not interfered.”

“Ungrateful,” muttered Maurice.

Crump, to whom it had rapidly become apparent that the Honorable Maurice was drunk as a lord, cautiously drew forth his Occurrence Book. “There was an attempt at robbery?”

“Robbery?” Maurice blinked rapidly, as if he encountered difficulty focusing on his surroundings. “Nothing of the sort! It was all perfectly aboveboard. The betting post stood about one hundred paces from the goal, and there the bettors assembled after they’d seen the horses saddled and had thoroughly examined all circumstances of the race. What a noise and clamor! Peers and livery servants, sharpers and black legs! Each called aloud his bet, and when it was taken, entered it in his pocketbook. All straightforward and unexceptionable, I assure you!”

  Mignon wrested the musket from her brother’s hands. “You are making an ass of yourself, Maurice. Kindly hold your tongue.”

“As you may have noticed, Crump,” remarked the Baroness, “my nephew is a trifle foxed. It is most ill-timed.” Culpepper, features grim with disapproval, glanced at the maidservant beside her. Charity looked to be asleep on her feet, and Culpepper yanked her ear.

“If we may get down to business?” said Crump, not best pleased to see the musket in Mignon’s hands. “I assume it was Mr. Montague who discovered the burglary?”

“It was.” Maurice preened. “I’d stepped outside to blow a cloud—for it is the perfect ending to a good evening, you know, and we dined on an excellent light supper of cold meats and fruit at an excellent inn run by a French
émigré
.
” He frowned, having lost his train of thought. “Tolly allowed me to see his racehorses in the stable, did I say? A signal honor indeed.”

“You have told us that, several times,” interrupted Mignon. “Try and concentrate, Maurice! You had stepped outside to smoke a cigar.”

“I had?” In a supreme effort at concentration, Maurice screwed up his face. “Ah, yes! I saw the intruder slip through the gardens and into the Ballroom. Naturally, I sped thither as quick as my legs would carry me, grasped a weapon from the Armory, and sounded the alarm!” He looked fuzzily in the general direction of his aunt. “I cannot conceive how the scoundrel entered, unless the servants failed to lock up. Shocking negligence!”

“ Those doors were left open on my instructions!” snapped the Baroness. “How else would a thief gain entry to the house? The keys are not only kept under close guard, they were fashioned by the incomparable Joseph Bramah, whose ingenuity has defied three generations of lock-pickers. Unless I wish it so, no intruder may break into Bligh House.”

Crump gazed unhappily at Dulcie, who was enfolded in a shawl of English cashmere that must have measured at least six yards long. He supposed he should not have been surprised at anything the Baroness did, and in truth he found it no matter of astonishment that she had dyed her hair pink, or that beneath the shawl she wore naught but the sheerest of nightgowns; but unless the Runner was to doubt the fidelity of his own ears, Lady Bligh had
wished
to be robbed, which strained even his credulity. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

“Poor Crump,” sympathized Dulcie. “You are quite worn out with fuss, fatigue and rage. We must delay you no longer with our little disagreements, having already been so inconsiderate as to drag you from your bed. Pray continue with your questions! We will do our utmost to help you nose out our would-be thief.”

The Runner saw no reason to believe any assurances offered by a lady who was in the practice of daily dissimulation, but he persevered. “Perhaps we can determine if anything was taken, though it looks as if your robber was frightened off too soon. It might be a good idea if everyone searched his room.”

“An excellent notion!” conceded Lady Bligh. “It has already been done.”

Crump was speedily becoming aware that he was out of his element. “And?” he asked.

One by one they assured him that their belongings had not been disturbed. Crump looked last at the silent maidservant, whose eyelids had once more closed. Culpepper shook the girl vigorously. Her efforts had little effect until Lady Bligh took a hand. Dulcie removed fresh-cut flowers from a vase and emptied the water over Charity’s head.

The maid’s eyes flew open, and in them was a look of utter astonishment. “Bow Street is here to make inquiries,” the Baroness said. “Is anything missing from your room?” But the maidservant was of little help, succumbing promptly to hysterics, drumming her heels on the floor and shrieking like a banshee. All but Lady Bligh stared, appalled.

“Damn me!” said Maurice, roused from his trance-like abstraction by the din. “What a caterwauling! Has someone died?”

“Someone may!” muttered Culpepper, and slapped the screaming girl. “Answer the question. Have you noticed anything missing from your room?”

Charity looked ashen, and Crump felt sorry for the homely lass. “I doubt this is necessary,” he protested. “Few lasses in her position have anything worth stealing.”

“Necessary?” repeated Dulcie. “Of course it’s necessary. Answer the question, Charity.”

“No, ma’am, nothing,” sniffled the maidservant. She looked a sodden mess, with water streaming down her face and dripping from hair so ugly that it might have been a wig. A wig? Crump frowned.

He was given no chance to pursue that errant thought: the Baroness motioned Culpepper and Charity out of the room. “Laudanum,” she explained. “We were determined that the poor girl should enjoy at least one night’s good sleep. She is remarkably restless at the best of times.” Trailing her shawl and exuding a sweet perfume, she touched the Runner’s arm. “You will wish to inspect the means of the villain’s entry. Gibbon will escort you.”

“Ah, yes. Gibbon!” Crump rocked back on his heels. “Thank you for reminding me. I’m wishful of having a word with that lad, about a certain case of breaking and entering.”

“Now, now, Crump!” his hostess interjected. “You mustn’t be worrying poor Gibbon to death. He was only acting on my orders. I will provide whatever explanations are necessary to John.”

“Why,” asked Crump, with little hope of an honest reply, “did you order your butler to engage in house-breaking?” He had even less confidence that Lady Bligh would make a clean breast of things to the Chief Magistrate.

“I have a voracious craving for knowledge!” replied the Baroness, with an enchanting smile. “Go now, the two of you, and inspect the door. Though it was unlocked you may still find some sort of evidence.”

Along with his energies, Crump’s patience was exhausted. “One more question, if you will! Have you any idea what your robber might have wished to steal?”

“Bligh House is full of treasures, dear Crump. He might have been after any number of things.” Dulcie drew the shawl more tightly around her, as if to combat a sudden chill. “I confess this night’s proceedings have been a sad disappointment! We can only hope that he will try again.”

Chapter 26

Miss Montague was in the Gallery, a handsome chamber enlivened by columns of white-and-purple-veined Derbyshire alabaster, walls covered with crimson Norwich damask, and a ceiling modeled after that in Henry VII’s chapel in Westminster Abbey. The Gallery housed collections of paintings, marbles, and bronzes that the various Barons Bligh had acquired on their Grand Tours. The mementos that the present Lord Bligh had brought back from
his
Grand Tour could not be displayed so publicly. Maximilian’s only addition to this room had been a vivacious portrait of Dulcie at the age of eighteen.

Mignon was as artfully arranged as her surroundings. She wore a very becoming tobacco brown velvet tunic, trimmed with pearl beads and yellow disks, over a white muslin gown. Her red hair was caught back in a fashion that accentuated her high cheekbones and drew attention to her huge green eyes. The effect was slightly spoiled, however, by her scowl.

“My aunt is not here,” she said rudely. “She has gone to confer with Sir John. And Maurice is keeping an appointment with Prinny’s dentist, having presented himself a fortnight ago and finally having been granted an audience. You have wasted your time in coming here. I suggest you go away.”

Lord Jeffries, as Miss Montague speedily discovered, was very difficult to snub. “Excellent!” he replied smoothly. “Since it was you I wished to speak with, and privately.”

Mignon risked a glance at him, and then wished she had not. The Viscount looked remarkably fine in his great coat with its deep capes and long wide sleeves, his beaver hat and black leather boots. He also looked to be in a dangerous temper. She lowered her eyes to the handsome Moorfield carpet. “I cannot see, sir, that there remains anything to discuss.”

“Then I must open your eyes.” The greatcoat and hat were deposited on a plump festooned settee. “You see, Miss Montague, Willie has been induced to confess to me who commissioned those forged banknotes.”

“Oh?” Mignon was icily polite. “You terrorized the poor man, I suppose.” She looked now at the painted glass window which bore the Bligh coat of arms, an eagle and a calgreyhound—a rare monster with the head of a wildcat—on a field of sanguine, with the motto
Cave,
“beware.” “What has that to do with me?”

“How well you play the innocent!” Lord Jeffries was so contemptuous that Mignon could only stare at him. “We will go on much better if you refrain from spinning me any more tales.”

Miss Montague devoutly longed for the musket that she had returned to the Armory. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about.”

“You seem to have equally little notion of what happens to females who follow the path you currently tread. Do you fancy turning Haymarket-ware, a straw damsel to be sold to the highest bidder? Perhaps I should take you on a tour of St. Giles, one of London’s foulest rookeries, a city of vice within the Metropolis. Or introduce you to Mother Windsor, a notable procuress in King’s Place.”

Had Mignon been less stubborn, she might have informed Lord Jeffries that he was laboring under a severe misapprehension. Miss Montague might have in the past acted with less than prudence, but she was far from a Paphian girl. However, Mignon had a temper as fiery as her hair. “You forget my fortune!” she reminded him. “I am not yet at my last prayers.”

“The question is academic.” Ivor propped one well-shod foot on a delicate footstool. “You’ll be hanged before you can turn into a fubsy-faced old maid. It might behoove you, Miss Montague, to listen to the proposition I mean to make you.”

“Hanged!” Mignon searched the Viscount’s face for some sign that he engaged in a monstrous jest, but found only cold resolution there.

“I have told you I know who paid Willie to forge those banknotes.  I know who was responsible for the robberies.” His steely eyes stabbed her. “For the murders as well, though I do not suspect you of
those.
If I did, I would hardly propose to save your neck.”

Mignon’s hand flew to her throat. “You make serious accusations, sir. On what grounds?”

Ivor’s booted foot thudded heavily to the floor. “Your self-possession is edifying. Someone unjustly accused would hardly be so cool.”

Mignon prudently took refuge behind the plump settee. The Viscount stood firmly between her and the doorway, barring any avenue of escape. Miss Montague longed desperately for rescue. Was she to meet violence—or worse!—at the hands of a damnably handsome lunatic?

He truly looked as though he wished to strangle her. “I would never have suspected this of you, did I not have proof.”

No, reflected Mignon bitterly, he would only think her a baggage who had thrown her hat over the windmill and consequently had turned bachelor’s fare. “Proof of what, my lord?” she asked, assuming a calmness she did not feel.

“Proof that you have been involved in all these crimes, by keeping your cohorts informed of your aunt’s progress in tracking them down.” His voice was cold. “Proof that you let Leda go to prison, knowing she was innocent.”

Mignon’s head whirled. “My aunt,” she said, grasping at the only sane words she’d thus far heard. “Think you my aunt wouldn’t know of it, if what you said was true? Or do you suspect her also of complicity?”

“Of course not.” Ivor made an annoyed gesture. “Lady Bligh may very well know of your guilt, and seek to somehow extricate you. She did warn me against you, after all! Or she may be, as I very nearly was, taken in by your clever act. If so, she will suffer greatly from her misjudgment. I wonder you can reconcile it with your conscience, Miss Montague.”

“I think I must not have one. How could I, and be involved in robbery and murder? At least you do not think me capable of shooting Warwick, or bludgeoning women to death. I suppose I should thank you for having such supreme confidence in me.” Mignon’s fingernails dug into the upholstery of the settee. “What is to prevent me, now that you have found me out, from having my ‘cohorts’ dispose of you? I collect you have come to me with your suspicions instead of proceeding to Bow Street.”