Maggie MacKeever (16 page)

“An insect?” echoed Sir Malcolm, in tones so startled that Nimrod twitched in response. “You must have mistaken his meaning. Surely Vivien was talking about his garden.”

“No,” retorted Lady Davenham, “Vivien was not. He very distinctly told me that I am lower in his opinion than a caterpillar. That is not
all
he intimated—and the rest of it, Malcolm, you will not like one bit.”

If Lord Davenham’s further sentiments were of the order that had compared his wife to a caterpillar. Sir Malcolm wished he might be spared an account. Judging from Thea’s determined expression, however, his wishes were not to be fulfilled. “Come out of the mops!” he hastily advised. “It cannot be so very bad.”

“Can it not?” inquired Lady Davenham. “When I recall that Madame le Best promised me that gown would cause his eyes to start out of his head—at least now I
know
why he doesn’t find me desirable!” Having delivered herself of this pronouncement, she burst into tears.

Although, and to his great dissatisfaction, Sir Malcolm had already realized he was in the presence of a lady verging on an emotional outlay, it was some seconds before he recovered sufficiently from his astonishment to try and succor her. Meanwhile, Nimrod manipulated his arthritic bones into a sitting position, the better to observe the bookroom’s occupants. On his dewlapped countenance was an expression of canine glee.

“This is very bad of you, Thea,” soothed Sir Malcolm, as he cradled Lady Davenham in his arms. “First I must contend with my valet’s sulks, and now you are water-spotting my silk
banjan.
Come, do not take on so! Tell me what is behind this farrago of nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Thea withdrew her head from Sir Malcolm’s chest, a very comfortable position spoiled only by the knowledge that countless other females had enjoyed it before. “You’d be in the mops yourself, Malcolm, were you destined to become a fubsy-faced old maid.”

Had the lady fast in the grip of an emotional outburst been other than his Cousin Thea, Sir Malcolm would have long before withdrawn. Once more he reminded himself of the selfless energy she’d expended on his account. “You can’t be left on the shelf when you are already married,” he sensibly pointed out.

“No?” Lady Davenham’s dark eyes sparkled with mingled tears and rage. “But Vivien does not wish to be married—I suppose he never did, but he is a model of good breeding, and has always had a general wish of doing right. He would not have wanted me to realize I was being forced on him against his will. Then you
came home, and put Vivien in mind of what he had missed.”

Perhaps Thea
did
know of the damsel who had set the recent meeting of the Horticultural Society at naught. “What
has
Vivien missed?” Sir Malcolm cautiously inquired.

Thea’s glance was impatient. “You know! Bachelor’s fare!”

“She isn’t bachelor’s fare.” The reverence in which Sir Malcolm held womankind forbade that he allowed one to be unjustly maligned. “At least she isn’t yet. I have it on the chit’s own word, although she admits she is destined to eventually toss her bonnet over the windmill. The Bagshots, I am informed, have Wild Blood.”

“The Bagshots must!” Lady Davenham was not certain how or why Miss Bagshot had suddenly intruded on the conversation. “If that chit is a paragon of virtue, what about Captain Birmingham, pray? Perhaps she failed to mention Brighton to you, or that this is not the first time she has been turned off without a character. And this is the sort of female you prefer? I wash my hands of you, Malcolm.
Or I would, had not Vivien decided I have a
tendre.”

“A
tendre.”
Sir Malcolm removed his hands from his cousin’s shoulders as abruptly as if he’d grasped hot coals. “May one inquire for whom?”

Between her head cold and her marital difficulties, Thea had no time to indulge in maidenly reticence. Irritably, she retorted: “Who else but you? Vivien even offered to free you from your entanglement with Miss Bagshot, because if I hadn’t been betrothed to him from the cradle, I’d have had you in the first place—or so he thinks.”

Thus was Miss Bagshot’s presence at the meeting of the Horticultural Society explained. Lord Davenham had gone to the milliner’s shop to expostulate and had instead been ensnared. “What do you think, my Thea? I confess this question of whether you do or do not have a
tendre
interests me very much—not that I wish to appear impertinent.”

The amusing aspect of this conversation struck Thea—it was not commonplace to engage in such plain speaking with a gentleman for whom one might nourish a fatal passion, after all—and she managed a faint smile. “I don’t know!” she confessed. “I was never used to think such things. There was always Vivien and we rubbed on together tolerably well. I had interesting things with which to occupy myself. Then we came to London”—she made a despairing gesture— “and nothing has gone right since. Some days I think I have lost control of my own life.”

Sir Malcolm was not pleased to discover that he was, if inadvertently, the cause of Thea’s distress. He must somehow make it up to her, he thought. But how? The manner in which he made restitution must be decided by the lady. In an attempt to settle this question of whether his cousin did or did not nourish a
tendre,
Sir Malcolm grasped her expressive hands and drew her once more into his arms. This time he offered no solace, but an ardent embrace. It was an endeavor in which he had no little expertise. Conversation did not move forward for a lengthy interval, during which time Nimrod slavered, snarled, and wheezed.

At length Sir Malcolm released Lady Davenham. “I thought we should discover for ourselves whether or not you have a
tendre,”
he explained.

Thea backed away, fingers pressed to her bruised lips. “Yes, well—I don’t!” she said.

Though Sir Malcolm had spent the interval thinking of the enterprising Miss Bagshot, he was startled to discover Thea similarly unmoved. Females did not generally respond so coolly to his advances. He wondered if perhaps he was losing his touch.

Nonsense! he decided. One did not alter so radically overnight—and Sir Malcolm’s experiences of the previous eve, passed in the gallery of the Argyll Rooms in Great Windmill Street, had left him in no doubt whatsoever of his continued good standing with the opposite sex. Some other cause existed, then, for Thea’s lack of response.

Sir Malcolm could think of only one such explanation. “The devil!” he ejaculated. “You’re in love with Vivien.”

“Of course I am in love with Vivien,” Thea retorted crossly. Having backed into the hearth, she was now struggling with Nimrod. The hound had not yet forgot the scrap of blue sarcenet which he had retained and treasured as a symbol of battle fairly joined and won—and of which, upon her ladyship’s command, he had been forcibly deprived. In retaliation he clamped his remaining teeth into the fabric of her skirt. Thea sought to free herself. With—to Nimrod—a very satisfying sound, the spotted sarcenet tore.

Lady Davenham was too unhappy to overly concern herself with a ruined skirt, especially the skirt of a dress she privately considered dull. (In point of fact, Lady Davenham had come to adjudge all her dresses dull, in comparison with the gown Malcolm had insisted she wear for her rout.) After aiming a half-hearted kick at Nimrod, which the hound evaded, she moved away. “I have always been in love with Vivien. Much good it has done me. I merely wondered if I might love you, too.” She realized the import of her latter statement. “Gracious God! I
am
a Davenant! And so is Vivien, apparently, or he would not yearn to kick over the traces. Oh, Malcolm, this is such a dreadful tangle! What am I to do?”

Though he was more accustomed to contributing to tangles than resolving them, Sir Malcolm couldn’t refuse the pleas of a lady in distress, especially when the lady was his cousin, who had just absolved him of the necessity of mollycoddling her by admitting she did not have a
tendre.
“It is your own fault!” he said bluntly. “Even Davenants don’t go out looking for adventure when it’s awaiting them at home. You have let Vivien get in the habit of taking you for granted. You haven’t even tried to keep his interest sparked.”

There was little she
could do
to spark her husband’s interest, Thea thought morosely, other than invent a new thrashing machine or sprout branches like the rhododendron so recently cut back. “I will concede you are the expert in such matters,” she retorted waspishly. “Very well! What must I do?”

Sir Malcolm ran a knowledgeable eye over his cousin’s gown, the dullness of which was not relieved by the piece torn from her skirt. “First you must stop dressing like a dowd. Have Madame le Best provide you with some new dresses—or, rather, I will! She doubtless kept your measurements, and can bring the garments here to you, so you need not even go near the shop.” And thus would be spared further encounters with the garrulous Melly, he thought. “And then, I think you must flirt very desperately with me.”

Lady Davenham exhibited no great excitement in response to this invitation to embark upon a flirtation with the gentleman that a Princess had nicknamed Le Roué. “I would much rather try and flirt with Vivien!” said she. “In case you haven’t noticed, I
did
flirt with you at my rout. Vivien didn’t even notice, any more than he noticed that gown.”

“My dear Thea, everyone noticed that gown.” Wearied by his cousin’s continued perambulations. Sir Malcolm sat down at her writing desk. “Vivien was no exception, I assure you—and so you would realize, were you not so naive.”

Definitely, Thea must be naive; she did not understand how flirting with her cousin would inspire her husband to revise his opinion of their marriage. Still, she supposed Malcolm must know best. “Perhaps I was not obvious enough,” she said doubtfully. “I did not want the whole world to say I had thrown myself at your head.”

“But that is what the world
must
say!” chided Sir Malcolm, remembering his own wish that Vivien might be inspired to demand he leave the house. Were he sufficiently clever, Malcolm might kill several birds with one stone. “And when have Davenants cared about what the world says, anyway? You will make a dead-set at me, Thea, and cast out lures; in response, I will dance attendance on you and make you my compliments at every opportunity. If Vivien does not notice us, you may be sure that some interfering busybody will point out that we are engaged in an open intrigue.”

So fascinated was Lady Davenham by this strategy that she ventured once more too close to the hearth. With a burst of vigor amazing in a hound of such advanced years, Nimrod leaped. Hastily, Thea moved aside. Nimrod landed flat on his arthritic leg. So unhappy was he at this miscalculation that he howled. As he did so, the spotted sarcenet fell from his opened jaws. Thea snatched it up. “And then what?” she inquired, beating a prudent retreat.

Sir Malcolm rose from the writing desk and advanced upon the door. “Then you must seduce him!” he announced, as he passed into the hallway.

Seduce her own husband? Thea stared at the door, wondering if her cousin had gone quite mad. She thought he must have done so. None but a madman would conceive of the serene Lord Davenham displaying a dog-in-the-manger attitude.

But Thea would indulge Malcolm, all the same. While he danced attendance on her, however uselessly, he at least would be prevented from further foraging among the fleshpots.

Chapter Fifteen

Alas for Lady Davenham’s convictions; even as he left her bookroom Sir Malcolm was contemplating the fleshpots, in particular the young fleshpot who had set the recent meeting of the Horticultural Society at naught. No gentleman to waste time in speculation when action would better serve, Sir Malcolm had soon exchanged his banyan for coat and pantaloons, Hessian boots and beaver hat, a transition accompanied by his valet’s laments. Leaving Hopgood deep in mourning for the lost delights of the Continent, Sir Malcolm departed Davenant House.

Madame le Best did not seem especially delighted to witness Sir Malcolm’s arrival in her Oxford Street shop. Once he had explained his errand, however, her attitude altered drastically. “Oh,
là!”
exulted Madame, and hastened into her atelier. Immediately, Sir Malcolm turned his attention to Miss Bagshot, seated sedately upon one of the japanned chairs. Melly returned the regard.

“So many dresses!” said that damsel, with a reproachful face. “And you said Lady Davenham was your cousin! But that ain’t
my
business, and my aunt would be cross as a cat if she knew I was quizzing you. Not that she ain’t cross as a cat, anyway!” She heaved a great sigh. “Sometimes I think my aunt is even
worse
than Lady Birmingham.”

“You are in a pickle again, Melly?” Sir Malcolm inspected the lace Miss Bagshot was tatting, and found it very fine. “I wonder if it might have to do with the recent meeting of the Horticultural Society? You see I know all about it. My cousin came here to persuade you that you must not take up with me, and so you took up with him, instead.”

“Was
that
what he was after?” Miss Bagshot looked amazed. “Bless my soul! He said he only wanted a look at me, and then we got to talking about growing things —you need not look so skeptical; I
have
grown things! Snowdrops and hyacinths, and though there wasn’t room to grow a rhododendron, I’ll wager I could! Yes, and even without soil!”

Sir Malcolm, who had not been privileged to hear Lord Davenham hold forth, wondered whether Miss Bagshot was in complete possession of her wits. “This is fair and far off! I did not come here to talk about plants, but why you accompanied my cousin to the meeting. You know you should not have done so, Melly. I am very disappointed in you.”

Sir Malcolm was fated to experience stronger emotions than disappointment, Miss Bagshot feared. She hoped she would not be around to witness his expression when he was taken into custody by Bow Street. “If I did nothing but what I
should
do,” she retorted archly, “I’d never do nothing at all! If you was kept a virtual prisoner in a milliner’s shop, you’d leap at the chance to go anywhere. And I thought there wasn’t no harm in it, because what larks could I get up to amidst a group of people talking about plants and the like? But Aunt Hel don’t see it that way.”