Maggie MacKeever (15 page)

Lord Davenham, contemplating his cousin’s obsession with the fair sex, said, “I imagine not. Did this Puddiphat give you any hint of what he means to arrest Malcolm for?”

Melly tried very hard to remember just what Puddiphat had said, an exercise which caused a frown to mar the perfection of her brow. “He claimed Sir Malcolm was a dangerous and suspicious character, but he didn’t say
how.
I see now that I should have tried to find out—but Puddiphat will be back, on that I’ll lay odds, and so I still can.”

“I would be very grateful for your assistance in this matter, Miss Bagshot.” Lord Davenham had derived no little amusement from the spectacle of Melly engaged in deep thought. “It would not suit me to have my cousin made to stand his trial.”

Although Miss Bagshot did not frequently engage in prolonged cogitation, she was very tenacious of those few ideas she had.
“How
grateful?” she asked bluntly. “Because Puddiphat has already promised that if I help him bring Sir Malcolm to justice he’ll share the reward—or if he ain’t exactly promised it yet, I’ll see to it he soon does! You mustn’t think I’m on the dangle for a fortune, sir, because I’m not. It’s just that I don’t wish to be leg-shackled, and I don’t wish either to enter into a dishonorable occupation, but without a reference and without any money—well, if Aunt Hel was to turn me out, I’d truly be in a pickle, and there ain’t any doubt in my mind that she eventually
will!”

Nor was there any doubt in Lord Davenham’s mind that Miss Bagshot would eventually embark merrily upon a career that was slightly less than honorable, and enjoy it immensely, but he could not fault her for awaiting her best shot. Nor did he fault her avarice. In addition to his characteristic whimsy, his lordship had a second saving grace: he seldom roused sufficiently from his habitual preoccupation to judge his fellow men.

“Oh!” cried Melly, misinterpreting his lordship’s silence. “You have taken me in disgust. I’m sure I’m very sorry for it, but a girl must think of her future, and there surely ain’t no future for me here in Aunt Hel’s shop. I don’t want to be a milliner; I don’t even want to sew! For that matter, I don’t especially want to see Sir Malcolm clapped in jail, either, because I know what it’s
like!”

Lord Davenham stirred. “You misunderstood, Miss Bagshot. I think it would be an excellent idea were you to, er, humor this person from Bow Street and then relate his remarks to me.” He looked serene. “If you are very clever, you may earn a reward from
both
of us, my dear!”

Melly did think of it. “I thought you didn’t wish your cousin to stand his trial!” she responded suspiciously. Then she recalled the dalliance that the Duke endured between his cousin and his wife. Scant surprise if he was a bit uncharitably inclined. “You poor man! You can’t be blamed for wishing to see Sir Malcolm behind bars, so scaly has he behaved to you. But wouldn’t it be simpler to just send him about his business? I know I am being
pushing,
but someone needs to drop a hint or two! All three of you are going on in a very bad way.”

“We are?” His lordship brought forth a snuffbox. “I see nothing exceptionable in it.”

“No?” Melly wondered if Lord Davenham was of entirely sound mind. “You must know your own business best, and I know when I’ve received a setdown! You are a very strange person, sir. Anyone else would be fit to murder Sir Malcolm—oh,
I
wouldn’t! He’d suit
me
right down to the ground, but I ain’t you. Or your wife!” Her elfin features were unhappy. “I suppose Lady Davenham is very cross with me.”

Vivien inhaled, sneezed elegantly, and put away the snuffbox. “I suppose she must be. She called you ‘bachelor’s fare.’“

“Bachelor’s fare!” echoed Melly indignantly. “Bless my heart! Still, I suppose I must swallow it with good grace, because naturally she was out of sorts. Did she send you here to scold me, sir? Because before you do, I’d like to point out that my aunt already
has,
even if she don’t know the whole of it.”

“It is not for me to scold you.” Thoroughly amused by Miss Bagshot, Vivien gently smiled. “Instead, I wished to see you for myself. I do not blame my cousin for escorting you around London, Miss Bagshot. Any gentleman would have done the same.”

By his lordship’s gentle smile, Melly was not unimpressed. “Bless my soul!” she murmured. “Are all of you so handsome and well set-up? Oh, I know I should not have said that, but you must know you
are!
And I am very sorry that Lady Davenham is cross with me. I did not
mean
to steal a march on her or cast her in the shade. The afternoon I spent with Sir Malcolm was the merest peccadillo—I was just in the right place at the right time. She needn’t fear I’ll make her play second fiddle!”

Intimation of how far matters had progressed between his cousin and his wife caused Lord Davenham to quirk a dark brow. “Second fiddle, Miss Bagshot?”

Melly clapped her hands to her lips. “I’ve done it again, ain’t I? Put my foot smack in my mouth!”

“And a very pretty foot it is!” courteously responded Vivien. Clad in neat suppers, Miss Bagshot’s feet peeked out from under the hem of her narrow skirt. “Don’t put yourself in a pucker; I don’t mind.”

“No?” Wide-eyed, Melly dropped her hands to her lap. “Sir Malcolm
said
you didn’t, but I thought he was cutting a wheedle! I must say you are being very
calm
about it, sir! I'd have their heads on a platter if my cousin and my wife was to plant the antlers on my forehead—not that I have a cousin and a wife, but you know what I mean!”

“Is that what they are doing?” Lord Davenham raised his second brow. “Surely there must be some more civilized manner of dealing with the situation. It sounds deuced distasteful, this removal of heads.”

From long experience, Miss Bagshot knew when she was being teased. Gentlemen were prone to tease Melly, due perhaps to the infectious nature of her dimpled smile. “You are hamming me, sir,” she said wisely. “I guess I’ve been pushing again. But it’s plain you ain’t no better able than a newborn babe to handle your own business. What you
should
do is pretend you ain’t interested! That’ll take the ticket every time.” Came a pause, during which snickers and giggles issued from the atelier. “There! I’ve made you angry. But I
like
you, sir, and I like Lady Davenham, and Sir Malcolm, too. I suppose you’d think me bold as a brass-faced monkey if I was to offer to fix it up all right and tight! Because it’s plain as the nose on my face that you ain’t one to straighten out this tangle yourself! Sir.”

So Miss Bagshot advised assumed indifference? Lord Davenham wondered if that was how his wife interpreted his lenience. By not so much as a twitch of his own adventurous Davenant nose did Vivien reveal annoyance at Miss Bagshot’s declaration of his incapacity to manage his own affairs. “It is not for me to judge you bold, Miss Bagshot,” he responded courteously. “You must do as you please.”

“Oh, no, I mustn’t!” said Melly archly. “Even I know better than that. My Aunt Hel would wash her hands of me altogether if I was to toss my bonnet over the windmill.” She frowned. “Can it be, sir, that you really don’t care?”

As has been previously demonstrated, Lord Davenham’s mental processes were very acute; he understood immediately that Miss Bagshot sought to discover his sentiments concerning the Davenant
ménage à trois.
However, he did not feel inclined to share that confidence. Evasively, he gazed around the showroom. “I have never before been in a milliner’s shop. Indeed, I am not even certain I know what a milliner does.”

“You don’t?” Melly was astounded that so downy a gentleman could, in this most important of areas, be so abysmally ignorant. “Why, a milliner trims dresses delivered to her by the dressmaker—perfects and embellishes them, you see! And she designs fichus and mantillas and delicate lace ruches and all sorts of things. It ain’t child’s play! And my aunt makes all manner of hats. There are lingere bonnets and turbans, capotes and caps and cornettes—it has taken me all this time to learn the difference between them, and I still ain’t sure I know. But you are getting up! Are you leaving now?”

“I fear I must. Miss Bagshot.” Lord Davenham had indeed risen from his chair. “I am to speak at a meeting of the Horticultural Society, and I do not care to be late.”

“Fancy that!” marveled Melly as she walked with him across the showroom floor. “The
what
Society, sir? What will you talk about?”

“The Horticultural Society, my dear.” Lord Davenham paused in the doorway. “I have been doing experiments upon the science of growing plants without using soil. I call it hydroponics, from the Greek words
hydro
and
ponos—
waterworking. The plants are fed on solutions of water and mineral salts.”

“Bless my heart!” Melly secretly pitied the poor plants. “And it actually works?”

“Oh, yes.” Lord Davenham was amused by the ardent manner in which Miss Bagshot hung upon his words. “But you will not be interested in such things.”

“That shows all
you
know!” responded Miss Bagshot. “I have always liked plants—yes, and had a knack for growing things! Once I even had my own little garden in amongst the cook’s kitchen stuff, and grew some snowdrops and tulips. I would have liked to try my hand with magnolias and rhododendrons, but there just wasn’t room.” She cocked her pretty head to one side and smiled. “How can anyone
not
like plants, sir?”

This question Lord Davenham could not answer, though he suspected his wife might. “I wonder, Miss Bagshot,” he murmured, “if you would care to attend the Horticultural Society meeting with me? You would find it very interesting, I think—unless your aunt would mind?”

Surely her aunt would not disapprove of so innocent an outing, thought Melly—and even if she did, what was one more pickle, after a lifetime of them? And had not Melly vowed to straighten out Lord Davenham’s tangled relationships? What better way to start than with a large dose of sunshine?

“I should admire to!” cried Melly, her cheeks flushed with her excitement, in which she clutched and hugged Lord Davenham’s arm—and for the record let it be stated that Lord Davenham evidenced not the slightest dislike of this trespass. “And on the way you may tell me what it is this Horti-what’s-is Society
does!”

“My dear,” responded Lord Davenham, as he led Miss Bagshot out into the street, “I would be charmed.”

Chapter Fourteen

Lady Davenham would have benefited from a large dose of sunshine; she was sunk in gloom, as became apparent to Sir Malcolm the instant he stepped across the threshold of her bookroom. Situated at the front of the first floor, this small chamber contained tall oak bookcases with rectangular glazed windows, a few chairs with high arched backs, silver sconces on the walls, and a kneehole writing desk. At this latter item was seated Thea, staring glumly at her household accounts. Nimrod was stretched out in a highly unattractive manner, snoozing on the hearth.

“Good morning, Cousin!” Sir Malcolm—resplendent in a loose floor-length banjan, fashioned of expensive silk and belted at the waist, slippers, and a tasseled cap—strolled farther into the room. “You wished to speak with me?”

Lady Davenham looked up from her accounts. “No!” she snapped. “But I think I must, since you are involved in this imbroglio as deeply as I.” She pushed the chair back. “Sometimes, Malcolm, I vow I wish you had not come home.”

Sometimes Sir Malcolm experienced that same wish, due primarily to his cousin’s unsolicited efforts on his behalf. To tell her so was out of the question, naturally. Sir Malcolm seated himself comfortably on one of the bookroom’s several chairs—or as comfortably as was possible due to the chair’s high arched back. “I did not mean that!” Thea broke into his thoughts. “This is a bad business. I am wholly overset.”

Of what business had put Lady Davenham out of temper, Sir Malcolm—among whose virtues was no disinclination to heed gossip—had no doubt. “If you are referring to the recent meeting of the Horticultural Society—”

“The Horticultural Society!” Lady Davenham fairly shrieked. “Malcolm! If
you
begin boring on about verbena and ageratum, I shall—oh, I don’t know what I shall do, but it will be something very drastic.”

Obviously, his cousin had not yet learned of the disruption of the Society’s recent meeting, and Sir Malcolm did not feel obliged to disclose that disruption’s source. From all accounts the members agreed that never had their august body enjoyed so stimulating an interval. Malcolm thought of the mischievous Miss Bagshot, and smiled. Then he thought of Miss Bagshot’s escort.

What the devil was Vivien about? Duke must know his escapade would eventually be related to his wife. “Verbena and ageratum?” Malcolm repeated. “Am I to assume that Vivien does bore you with such stuff?”

“You know he does. Not that I find it boring, precisely—it is just occasionally I would welcome a discussion of more personal things, or would have welcomed such discussions! Now the opportunity has passed.” Lady Davenham’s energetic perambulations about the small chamber brought her in frequent proximity to the hearth. Each time her skirts brushed by

him, Nimrod snarled. “Never have I been so mistaken in anyone. I mean to say: fleshpots!”

Fleshpots? This simple declaration snagged Sir Malcolm’s attention, which had begun to stray. Not surprisingly, he assumed Lady Davenham had used the term in conjunction with himself. “You’ve been around Vivien too long, my Thea; you are beginning to talk like him! I told you I would not be reformed, moreover, so you have only yourself to blame.”

“Not you.” Frowning ferociously, Lady Davenham regarded one of her silver sconces. “Although I still wish you would overcome your aversion to respectable females. Rather, I was—”

“I don’t
like
respectable females!” Sir Malcolm explained, unnecessarily. “Except for you. At all events, I thought you envied me my adventures. Not long past you indicated a wish that you might share in them.”

“I did?” Thea’s frown transferred itself from the silver sconce to Sir Malcolm’s face. He looked very exotic in his banjan and slippers and tasseled cap, she decided. He also looked, in so mundane a setting, a trifle absurd. “I did not. It is Vivien who has that aspiration. You need not look so skeptical; he told me so himself. Marriage, according to my husband, does not suit the Davenants. Indeed, so little does it suit Vivien that I am no higher in his opinion than an insect!”