Maggie MacKeever (3 page)

The dowager duchess had sat so motionless during these artless confidences that her lap dog had taken umbrage, as result of which he had been abruptly deposited on the floor. Now she stirred. “I am sorry to have discommodated you, Jaisy,” she uttered scathingly.

To sarcasm, also, Lady Easterling was indifferent. “Are you, by Jove?” she inquired, blue eyes opened wide. “If that don’t beat all! I don’t mind admitting I didn’t expect you would be so
agreeable;
as I remember you was in the habit of delivering sharp set-downs! Which just goes to show that one shouldn’t count one’s eggs before they’re hatched! Now you will understand why I have decided to set up my own stables. I daresay if I ask him Jevon will put me in the way of something slap.”

“Something slap?” echoed the dowager duchess blankly.

“A bit of blood, an elegant tit!” Jaisy helpfully supplied.
“You
know, sweet goers! Easterling taught me to tool the ribbons in prime style, so you needn’t fret!”

“Tool the ribbons?” the dowager repeated, in tones indicating an opinion that only in the very nick of time had Lord Easterling succumbed to a putrid sore throat. “Not another word, I beg!”

“No?” Lady Easterling cocked her lovely head. “Why not?”

“I believe, Jaisy,” Sara cautiously offered, “that your aunt does not think it would be appropriate for you to set up your own stable.”

“Hah!” Lady Blackwood irritably shifted position in her chair. “Was
that
what the chit was nattering on about? ‘Something slap,’ indeed! How dare you bring the stable into my morning room, miss? I am very displeased with you—and with you as well, Sara, because I expressly charged you to check my niece’s starts, and you have disobeyed. This is how you repay my kindness. I suppose you think it was to enjoy a holiday that I sent you to fetch Jaisy. Well, you shall have a holiday when I decide you deserve one, and not a moment before!”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sara meekly, and bent to pick up Confucious, who was worrying her skirts.

“Nor need you think your brother will go behind my back, Jaisy,” the dowager continued, rather spitefully. “Jevon will not disoblige me so long as I hold the purse strings. He is to attend the
soirée
that I have arranged in your honor some days hence. Quite frankly, Jaisy, it must be your object to speedily find another spouse.”

“Oh, yes!” Jaisy agreed serenely. “I have resolved to wed London’s most eligible bachelor.”

“Carlin?” The dowager duchess elevated her brows. “How came you to hear of Carlin, pray? Perhaps that rascal Jevon will have mentioned him. It has always puzzled me how those two came to be friends, so disparate are they in nature—but that friendship will avail you nothing, miss! Take my advice and put Carlin out of your mind, for he is the highest of sticklers and very much above your touch.” She paused, as if inviting comment. When none was forthcoming, she rose.

“Sara will tell you,” the dowager added, almost cordially, “that it is never the least use disputing with me, for I always have the best of it. Just remember that we shall deal well enough together so long as you do not try my civility too high.” On this excellent piece of good advice, she strode majestically from the room.

Briefly, silence reigned. Then Jaisy stirred. “By Jove!” she uttered, exhibiting excellent good spirits for a young lady whose aspirations had been squelched so recently by the dowager’s heavy hand, “that was the hardest wheedle I’ve ever had to cut! Dashed if I know why you allow Georgiana to treat you so shabby, when you was once a regular out-and-outer, up to all the rigs—but that’s neither here nor there! I knew that if I was to fly into a pelter, Georgiana would blame you, and so I took all she said in good part, even though I wished to
not
.”

Confucious, roused from sleep by Lady Easterling’s indignant voice, raised his head and growled. Hastily, Miss Valentine restrained the dog. Reluctantly, she squelched the ignoble impulse to allow the beast to savage the newest addition to her already bursting budget of woes. Having ceased to snarl, Confucious commenced panting, to the detriment of Sara’s dove-gray dress. “Thank you, Jaisy, for your sacrifice!” she said, a trifle sardonically.

“Pooh! 'Twas nothing!” On Jaisy’s incomparable features appeared a mulish expression which inspired Sara with foreboding.

Nor did Jaisy dispel the misgivings suffered by the lady whose reluctant task it was to make of her a silk purse. “So my aunt Georgiana thinks I may not cast my net so high as Carlin?” she inquired. “
I
think my aunt Georgiana must have windmills in her head!”

Unlike his sister Jaisy, Jevon Rutherford appreciated theviper-tongued Dowager Duchess of Blackwood, although he suspected he might feel differently were he obliged to dwell under the hen’s—or harpy’s—foot. As it was, as Georgiana’s heir, Jevon was obliged to make obeisance. Fortunately, Jevon had a large sense of the ridiculous. This enviable attribute, coupled as it was in Jevon’s nature with unflagging good humor and a very thick skin, equipped him admirably to deal with his overbearing relative. Too, Jevon Rutherford was as handsome as Lady Easterling was beautiful, and long accustomed to wheedling ladies of all ages and descriptions into allowing him his head.

Despite all his amorous vagaries, and his habit of doing what he pleased, Jevon was neither petulant nor spoiled. Wed to his bedazzling physical appearance—gleaming golden curls and twinkling blue eyes set within indescribably beguiling features that were rendered further fascinating by a disarming smile; a physique that though of only medium height was nicely fashioned withal, with no need of padding to flesh out shoulders or calf—was a tolerant turn of mind and a rather surprising practicality. Though as heir to the Dowager Duchess of Blackwood, Jevon could have borrowed against very great expectations, he instead chose to live within his means, which required the exercise of various economies, for Jevon’s papa had been rather less sharp-sighted, and consequently had bequeathed his son a mere competence. With good humor unabated by even this tragic blow, Jevon staked no more at play than he could afford, and refrained from engaging in the absurd wagers so beloved of his cronies, and in general contrived to be beforehand with the world. Furthermore, such was Jevon’s charm that his friends did not take umbrage at his rueful tightfistedness. And if Jevon Rutherford was a great deal less circumspect as regarded the ladies, having had under his careless protection an awesome procession of fair barques of frailty, he was only human, after all. As a matter of record, the ladies who favored Jevon Rutherford wreaked no havoc with his slender resources, for when he frankly admitted he could not afford to lavish expensive baubles upon his incognitas, the ladies immediately nobly resolved to give their all for love.

Such, then, was the quality of Jevon Rutherford’s existence on a certain April evening in the year 1816. He had that day engaged in the pursuits customary to a gentleman of ample leisure, if slender resource: he had enjoyed colloquies with his tailor and bootmaker, during which he had perfected the creases in his pristine cravat; he had sauntered up St. James’s Street, exhibited himself in White’s bay window, Gentleman Jackson’s Bond Street boxing saloon and at Hyde Park Corner in Tattersall’s. After examining the latest acquisitions at Tatt’s, and engaging with his cronies in desultorily witty conversation on a great many diverse topics— the recent sale of the Elgin Marbles to the government; the lamentable condition of the economy as a result of the recently concluded war; the shocking conduct of the exiled Princess of Wales, who on last report had, whilst in Greece, posed for her portrait as the repentant Magdalen, during which sittings she had exhibited a great deal of her person, and not the least remorse—Jevon returned to his lodgings, and a light repast of cold chicken and champagne, before donning evening attire and setting out for Queen Anne Street.

Not with any great enthusiasm did Jevon embark upon the brief journey to his aunt’s abode; Jevon was no great fan of the fashionable
soirée,
where beplumed and bejeweled ladies and gentlemen were crammed together in spaces designed to contain half their number, and conversation was invariably flat. A
tête-à-tête
with a certain little opera dancer who was currently exhibiting her shapely ankles onstage at Drury Lane would have been much more amusing, he thought. However, it would be monstrous shabby to fail to put in an appearance at a
soirée
held in his own sister’s honor. Jevon would do his duty, as he did all else, with his customary good grace. At all events, the little opera dancer would still be flashing her pretty ankles onstage at Drury Lane on some future day.

Blackwood House was as overcrowded as he had anticipated; the newspapers would on the following day deem it a shocking squeeze, the highest of accolades. Jevon exchanged pleasantries with his triumphant sister, paid his compliments to his aunt, engaged in a brief conversation concerning the price of wheat, which early that year had fallen to 52s. 6d., then went in search of the member of the household whose company he enjoyed best.

Even as Jevon Rutherford decided that in lieu of a certain little opera dancer he would enjoy with his favorite member of the Blackwood household an amiable prose
à deux,
Sara Valentine was pondering her long acquaintance with the Rutherfords, and the worsening of her own situation with the passage of the years. Even though she couldn’t hold a candle to Jaisy’s looks, once Sara’s prospects had been almost as good. Now she had nothing more wonderful to anticipate than an unending endurance of the dowager duchess’s petty domestic tyrannies. This evening was a fine example of Georgiana’s less endearing little ways. The Dowager had refused to heed Sara’s pleas that she be excused from the festivities, had decreed that Sara’s attendance was to be a special treat.

A treat! thought Sara gloomily. Georgiana knew very well that Sara hated having come down in the world, and consequently reminded her of it at every opportunity. For no other reason had she demanded Sara’s presence at a social function where she must be reminded constantly of her current lowly status, and constantly mortified.

As becomes apparent, Miss Valentine was sadly out of curl. She was weary of trying to please her employer, who had yet on any topic to profess herself satisfied; and at the same time she detested her own meek and self-effacing servility. Moreover, she suffered the unhappy consequence of having inadvertently espied her reflection beside Jaisy in a looking glass. Lady Easterling had been absolutely stunning in an evening gown that could hardly have been more revealing, with traces of Ionic influence in the sleeves and palmetto border at her hemline. Beside her, Miss Valentine—dark hair drawn back in an unfashionable coil at the nape of her neck; the pleasing proportions of her slender person very adequately camouflaged by her simple muslin gown—had looked a dowd. As might have been expected, the dowager duchess required that her hired companion display no presumption, such as costume
à la mode,
even while enjoying a treat.

Sara sighed. Now she supposed she would be chastised by her employer for escaping at the first opportunity into the garden, where Confucious had been banished, due to an annoyance exhibited by the Pekinese at the mass invasion of his domain. “Aren’t we a sorry pair?” inquired Miss Valentine of her companion in solitude. Possessing no more compassion than good nature, Confucious snarled.

At that moment, the garden—a small area walled in with old red brick, in which daylight would reveal a circular pool bordered by annuals, and a single noble tree—was invaded by a third refugee from the revelries. “Well met, my precious!” said Jevon, as he disposed himself beside Sara on an oak bench in the shape of a seashell. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. A wretched crush inside, is it not? How wise of you to seek out fresh air and privacy—and how wise of me to seek you out, because now I may benefit also.” He paused; on his handsome features appeared a faint frown. “If you wish to be alone, my Sara, you need only say so; it is not at all necessary to growl!”

“Not I, you wretch!” Sara laughed, as with considerable expenditure of energy she prevented Confucious from leaping at the newcomer’s throat.

“No?” Jevon quirked a golden brow. “Do my ears play me false? I distinctly heard—in point of fact, I still
do
hear—”

Parodying perplexity, he peered around Sara. On the far side of her slender, muslin-clad person, Confucious bared his remaining teeth. “Good girl!” said Jevon, with frank sincerity, as he hastily drew back. “I beg you will continue to restrain that misbegotten cur. I also beg that you will tell me what has driven you into the garden at this inappropriate hour.”

Sara turned her head to study her companion, who had settled himself quite comfortably on his side of the bench. Perhaps better than any other of his vast acquaintance, including those ladies of a certain description with whom he had long enjoyed such heady success, Sara understood Jevon Rutherford. He was a cynic, albeit charming; indolent and disenchanted; lazy though well-bred. Accustomed to having females hurl themselves at him, it was to Jevon’s credit that he had not grown callous, merely
blasé.

Sara neither censured her old friend for his countless peccadilloes, nor the fair barques of frailty who encouraged his profligate way of life. Sara herself was not immune to Jevon’s charm, and supposed it a tribute to the quality of their friendship that he had never seriously tried to lead her into an affair of gallantry.

But Jevon was waiting patiently for her response. “Inappropriate?” she echoed. “Why is that?”

Jevon was not unaware that his friend was in the mopes; therefore he set himself to elevate her spirits. “Rather, I should have said,” he responded provocatively, “that trysts in moonlight gardens are not in your style.”

“You should know, I imagine!” Miss Valentine retorted irritably. “Being an expert on the subject.”

Certainly Jevon Rutherford possessed a good heart; he did not take objection to this slur. “Were you in the habit of moonlight trysts, I would know of it,” he continued serenely, “since I have been inviting you to tryst with me these past many years. And you have been sending me unwaveringly to the rightabout. Therefore, I can only conclude that you have taken a dislike to my person, or that you have an inexplicable aversion to trysts.”