Maggie MacKeever (14 page)

“What a pity!” sighed Melly. “I
do
have a weakness for military men. But your uniform is very nice, all the same. Why do you wish to become a Runner? Ain’t it dangerous?”

“A fig for danger!” Seeking the proper degree of bravura, Puddiphat threw out his chest. Unfortunately, this action disturbed the balance of his saber, which flew straight up into the air, very nearly putting paid to the tip of its owner’s nose. Grasping the weapon with both fists, he restored it to its former position. His anxious features were flushed.

Melly was a good-hearted girl, for all her little faults; she was not of the temperament that derives amusement from other people’s woes. Too, Puddiphat’s uniform
did
put her in mind of the military, for whom her professed fondness was a fact. Additionally, Melly wished to practice her wiles.

Gracefully, she removed herself from the japanned chair—or as gracefully as was possible for a young lady in a very narrow skirt. In order that Puddiphat might compose himself, she moved away. However, Puddiphat was inured by repetition to his little mishaps, and his pink cheeks were due more to exertion than to embarrassment. “Reward money!” he explained. “It most often comes a Runner’s way.”

“Reward money?” Melly paused with a scarf of cream-colored sheer muslin, embroidered with drawn work and gold metal thread, draped elegantly around her shoulders. This piece of impudence would have greatly incensed Madame le Best, who had severely ordered her niece not to meddle with the shop’s merchandise. “What
is
reward money, Samson?”

Puddiphat was very flattered by this indication of interest. Enthusiastically, he explained how Runners’ slender incomes were augmented by a system of private fees and government rewards. “Thousands of pounds a year, I swear it! Which is a great deal better than riding about in the dark all night. Not that the Horse Patrol doesn’t encounter danger, but I’d rather take my chances with desperate criminals than potholes.”

Thoughtfully, Melly exchanged the muslin scarf for one with leaves embroidered around the hem. “And if you was to apprehend a dangerous criminal, you’d receive a reward?”

“Don’t see why I shouldn’t!” If Puddiphat failed to clearly explain government rewards and private fees, it was because he was not entirely clear on the details himself. “Tell you a secret! Think I’m on the trail of something
big!”

Melly exchanged the second shawl for a turban of white satin with yellow French knots, which looked enchanting on her head. That head was abuzz with speculation. “And you mean to deal with it yourself?” she shrewdly guessed.

Puddiphat, who had discovered that he might gaze upon Miss Bagshot’s slender back without impairment of his vocal abilities, shamelessly indulged himself. No hopeful puppy-like aspect had Puddiphat this day, but—due to the great dark circles around his eyes, the result of his nightly patrol of the roads into London and his daily forays among the city’s milliners—the look of an anxious raccoon. “Eh? Oh!
Must
deal with it myself, Miss. If I breathe a word, one of the Runners will take over the case, and there goes my chance of advancement.”

“As well,” murmured Melly, setting aside the turban, “as the reward.”

“It’s not so much the reward money.” Puddiphat sought to explain his freedom from mercenary considerations, no easy task with Miss Bagshot’s big brown eyes fixed on his face. “It wouldn’t make a difference even if there
wasn’t
a reward.”

“And so you wish to arrest Sir Malcolm,” concluded Miss Bagshot, resuming her seat.

“Not exactly! Don’t know yet if there’s anything to arrest him
for!”
In his determination not to be misunderstood, Puddiphat leaned forward, an act which put his saber in disastrous proximity to the magazine-strewn table, as a result of which the table once more overturned. This time it was Puddiphat who tidied up the wreckage, Miss Bagshot’s skirt being too narrow for such things.

If Melly’s movements were inhibited, her imagination knew no confines. She was almost grateful to Puddiphat for the shambles he was making of the showroom —in his present crouched posture, the saber was even more dangerous, and had already overturned one of the japanned chairs—because it gave her the chance to reflect upon his startling statements. Sir Malcolm Calveley had attracted the interest of Bow Street? Melly decided she should not have been surprised. A gentleman capable of engaging in so torturous a relationship with his cousins—if they
were
his cousins—wouldn’t stick at anything. Now it grew more imperative than ever that their friendship be cultivated, as opposed to being allowed to wither on the vine. Though she might not mean to toss her bonnet over the windmill for him, a girl couldn’t help being curious about such a rogue—especially a girl in whose veins the wild Bagshot blood flowed.

Miss Bagshot’s silence had not escaped Puddiphat’s attention, nor her contemplative air; would-be Bow Street Runners must learn attention to detail. Puddiphat was very serious in his ambition, whiling away the scant leisure hours allotted to him between his duties with the Horse Patrol and forays into milliners’ shops by reading such improving tomes as Lavatar’s four-volume
Physiognomical Fragments,
which dealt with the characteristics of various types of villains, determined through a careful study of the cadavers of executed felons. So serious, in fact, was Puddiphat that he did not overlook the possibility that Miss Bagshot was somehow implicated in Sir Malcolm Calveley’s unknown crimes.

Her next words did little to dispel that impression. “Bless my soul!” sighed Melly. “I have been properly taken in. It ain’t what I like, I promise you! Here I thought Sir Malcolm was a regular out-and-outer, and instead it turns out he’s a desperate character. Yes, and very clever and artful in his ways. You won’t do for him easily, Samson!” She looked almost cherubic. “At least not without my help.”

“Your
help, Miss?” repeated Puddiphat, by this unexpected reaction put totally off stride. “But you just got through saying Sir Malcolm Calveley was a regular out-and-outer. Heard you myself!”

By Puddiphat’s powers of comprehension, Melly was not impressed. “I ain’t denying I said it!” she retorted impatiently. “Yes, and meant it, too! But have it your own way. There’s no flies on Sir Malcolm, as you’ll shortly find out.”

If Puddiphat was slow to grasp a situation, grasp it he eventually did; and comprehension of Melly’s offer brought him up off his knees, in which posture the preceding exchange had been conducted, while he sought to retrieve the magazines. “You'd help Bow Street?” he inquired.

From all indications, she would have to lead Bow Street by the hand, mused Melly. She gestured Puddiphat to the other chair, and brought forth her most beguiling smile. “A girl must think of her future,” she said sadly. “If Sir Malcolm has been wicked, he deserves to be taken into custody by Bow Street—or by you! I’m sure I wouldn’t wish to stand in the way of such a thing.”

“Beg pardon, Miss.” If Puddiphat’s wits were most often to be found begging, his instinct for mischief compensated him, especially when the outcome of that mischief would likely make him look a fool. “Seems to me you’re wishful of doing exactly that! It’s not right for a young woman to wish her, er—”

“Gentleman friend!” supplied Melly. “My gentleman friend, Puddiphat—or, better yet, acquaintance, for there ain’t nothing at all between Sir Malcolm and myself.” Which was no more than the truth, even if Melly yearned that there might be.

Puddiphat continued to look suspicious. “—To wish her gentleman friend clapped in irons. It’s not fitting.”

“He is
not
my gentleman friend!” Melly impatiently pointed out. “I have just said so! But I can see you don’t believe me. Think of it this way, Puddiphat: I do not like to think of Sir Malcolm penned up in jail—I know he will be unhappy, for I am unhappy, because my aunt keeps me as tightly locked up as if I was in quod. And there’s no escape for me unless I can somehow figure how to come up with the Ready-and-Rhino, because my pockets are to let and I have no chance of finding respectable work without a reference—and I ain’t ready for work that ain’t respectable!” She sighed. “The only way out of this pickle is to help you apprehend Sir Malcolm so that you may share the reward money with me. You must not think I like the notion; I do not! But if one of us must languish behind bars, I’d much rather it was Sir Malcolm than me!”

So startled was Puddiphat by these frank admissions that he stared straight into Melly’s elfin face. She gazed beseechingly on him. As Puddiphat sought for speech, and Melly marshaled her further arguments, there appeared in the showroom doorway a whimsical dark-haired gentleman.

Chapter Thirteen

Puddiphat received no further assistance from Miss Bagshot that day, save her firm escort to the door. Having dispatched the aspiring Runner, Melly turned to curiously survey the newcomer, who wore pantaloons and half-boots and a brass-buttoned blue coat. His attire did not especially interest Melly, elegant as it was. Those strongly marked romantic features, the adventurous nose and unruly dark curls, flashing eyes and flyaway brows, were strongly reminiscent of Sir Malcolm and his cousin Thea. Miss Bagshot was not so bird-witted that she failed to realize that before her, looking very whimsical, was no other than Lord Davenham.

No doubt, decided Melly, Lord Davenham was curious about the presence of an aspiring Runner in her aunt’s fashionable shop. Madame le Best would not appreciate the loss of Lady Davenham’s patronage did his lordship take a pet. Not that his lordship looked like he was prone to put his foot firmly down. “You will be wondering about Puddiphat. I did myself. First I thought he meant to arrest my papa, then my aunt, then Sir Malcolm, then myself, for trying to hoodwink Bow Street, which I
wasn’t,
though I’m not sure it ain’t a nacky notion! He needs to arrest someone
so
he may be made a Runner, you see.”

“Ah.” Lord Davenham’s quizzical look increased. “I see that it would be very tempting to try and hoodwink Bow Street, just to find out if one
could.
Am I correct in assuming that I address Miss Bagshot?”

Impressed by his lordship’s powers of deduction, Melly dropped a little curtsy, no easy feat in very narrow skirts. “My dear,” murmured Vivien, “you are so very young.”

“Young, am I?” An endearingly indignant expression sat on Melly’s elfin face. “Lady Birmingham didn’t think so—no, or Captain Birmingham, either! Or I wouldn’t have had to leave Brighton. Not that I am sorry, because London has turned out to be a great deal more larkish than I thought it would, even if my aunt does keep me locked up as if I was in jail—and when I think of how unfair I am being treated— Well! All I did is prick my thumb.” She sighed. “You will tell me there’s no use sniveling over spilt milk. But I
did
like Brighton—watching the fishing boats, and viewing the remains of old Saxon camps, and galloping on the Downs!”

Especially Miss Bagshot had liked the Tenth Hussars, concluded his lordship, who was not so lacking in adventurous spirit that he failed to recognize a sad romp. With some reluctance, he changed the subject. “I believe I wish to speak with your aunt.”

“Aunt Hel?” Melly grasped Lord Davenham’s sleeve and tugged him toward a japanned chair. “You didn’t like the dress!”

“Dress?” Lord Davenham righted the chair, one of several items disarranged by Puddiphat’s saber, and sat down. “You mean my wife’s gown? It was very nice. Rather, I wished to speak to your aunt about a cousin of mine.”

“Your cousin?” echoed Melly, perplexed.

“Sir Malcolm Calveley.” When made aware of its existence, Vivien liked to clear up as much perplexity as he could. “I understand he has formed a rather close acquaintance with a milliner—your aunt, I assume.”

“Aunt Hel!” Melly sat down so abruptly she almost missed her chair. “Bless my soul! For all her supposed high-mindedness, Aunt Hel
is
a Bagshot! To think that she rang a peal over me for giving her the slip when she is no better—yes, and accused me of telling clankers, too! It makes me mad as fire.”

“I think,” Lord Davenham interrupted apologetically, “that I have made an error. You must forgive me for it; I am not in the habit of meddling. Doubtless my wife would have known in an instant that it was you whom my cousin took on an outing, and not your aunt.”

“So would you know, sir,” giggled Melly, “had you even seen my aunt! She ain’t at all in Sir Malcolm’s way. Took quite a pet, she did, even though he explained how it was he’d found me wandering lost through the streets.” She looked anxious. “Oh, sir, you won’t tell my aunt it was all a hum?”

“You have my word, Miss Bagshot,” Lord Davenham solemnly promised.

“Then that’s all right!” Melly smiled again. “I do not mean to get into pickles; that’s just the way it is with me. I am very susceptible to frolics and larks. Not that there is anything
wrong
with looking at the Tower or London Bridge or Newgate Prison—though now I have seen it I can understand very well how it would be very cruel of me to connive at sending your cousin to jail! As for Carlton House, I’ve already seen the Pavilion at Brighton, and nothing could be queerer than that. It was Astley’s that I truly liked. I ain’t seen such a thing before.” Her dimples disappeared. “And after the way Aunt Hel cut up stiff, it ain’t likely I will again.”

Sorry as Lord Davenham was to learn the mischievous Miss Bagshot possessed an unfeeling aunt, he was even more moved by another of her remarks. “Forgive me for interrupting, but you said something about sending my cousin to jail. I assume you meant my cousin, Malcolm. On what did you base your remark?”

His lordship certainly had a high-flying manner of speech, reflected Melly, who was deriving inordinate enjoyment from her first exposure to a Duke. “You ain’t paying attention!” she scolded, once she had deciphered his remark. “I said Puddiphat was wishful of arresting someone, did I not? He’s settled on Sir Malcolm as the most likely person to have done something that he should be arrested
for.
And I shouldn’t wonder but what he’s right! I’ll wager there’s very little Sir Malcolm would stick at.”