Maggie MacKeever (29 page)

“I would not.” The Chief Magistrate rubbed his weary brow. “I have already received an explanation from Miss Whateley. I do not require additional enlightenment, even on certain abstruse points—and I have taken note of a great many abstruse points! Why, for example, should Miss Whateley’s stepmama be more amenable to the lass’s marriage if she thought she’d been kidnapped? No, do not enlighten me, lest I decide the whole lot of you should be taken for a criminal offense. But you
may
tell me how you became caught up in this budget of wonders, Terence. It does not strike me as being in your style.”

“Not in my
previous
style, perhaps.” Lord Darby’s dissipated features were rueful. “I am about to change my ways. Allow me to present you to the cause of my reformation.” Tenderly, he clasped the arm of the intriguingly dishevelled female and urged her forward. “This is Miss Morgan Phyfe, who intends to see the whole political system revised. I am to assist her by advocating parliamentary reform to all my peers, in return for which strenuous efforts she will indulge my pursuit of frivolity. My darling, make your curtsey to Sir John.”

If Morgan did not precisely curtsey, she did wear an anticipatory smile. The Chief Magistrate of Bow Street Public Office must naturally interest the crusading Miss Phyfe. But so dedicated a gentleman was an odd acquaintance for a notorious rakehell. Therefore she inquired into the circumstances of this bizarre friendship.

In response Lord Darby looked even more abashed. “There
are
over two hundred capital offenses on the statute books,” he gently pointed out.

“Two hundred and twenty,” murmured the Chief Magistrate, in the tones of one who regretfully knew.

Not surprisingly, in view of all the troubles which had been lately buzzing around her head. Miss Phyfe once again took the wrong sow by the ear. “Oh, Terence!” she moaned. “How
could
you! Once you are known to be convicted of criminal activities, you will be of no benefit whatsoever to the cause!”

“I had not thought of that.” Lord Darby appeared chagrined. “Will you still marry me, my little hornet?”

Miss Phyfe looked startled. “That is a deuced silly question, Terence!” she said.

Here, lest his lordship carry out the impulse writ so clearly upon his swarthy dissipated face, the Chief Magistrate hastily intervened. “Darby has not been convicted of a criminal offense, Miss Phyfe! He has instead been working with me to get some of them taken
off
the statute books.”

Upon receipt of this intelligence, Miss Phyfe’s luscious lips parted. “Oh, Terence! You’re
not
a lily of the field!” And then she dissolved in tears.

Lord Darby was not discomposed; this was not his first encounter with a weeping female. He wrested away her parcel and dropped it on the Chief Magistrate’s scarred desk, then brought forth a handkerchief. “Here, my darling, blow!” said he, applying the handkerchief to Miss Phyfe’s damp face. “And now, tell me,
will
you become my wife?”

Miss Phyfe uttered a sound halfway between a gurgle and a sob. “Gracious God! Of course I will!”

Mention of marriage recalled to certain other members of this convivial little gathering their own difficulties in that line. Dr. Kilpatrick broke off in the midst of a discourse upon the symptoms of scarlet fever, about which he was enlightening both the runner and his fiancée. “I
am
going to marry Callie!” he observed, to the room at large. “My antecedents are impeccable, my means respectable, my prospects excellent— and no skitterwitted female need think she may stand in my way!”

“Oh, Alister!” sighed Miss Whateley, much moved by this bold stance.

“My darling!” murmured Lord Darby to
his
beloved. “What a splendid time we shall have reforming one another’s way of life.”

At last Lady Barbour stirred. “Thank God!” she said, staring still at Viscount English, who still returned her regard. “I was very much afraid —but never mind
that!
Once the knot is tied you may enact as many Bacchanalian scenes as you like. And Callie may have her physician; it isn’t what I like, but I can see there is some advantage to having a physician in the family. Certainly, it is preferable to a rakeshame.” Since no one dared request an explanation of this last ambiguous remark, a brief silence descended upon the office.

No room in which Lady Barbour was present, however, remained hushed long. “I only pray you may prevent my cousin overthrowing the king. Darby! Myself, I wash my hands of the whole . depraved business. Children put out to work in factories, indeed!”

Upon intimation of danger to his monarch, the runner came to attention like a setter with a quail. It was not that he nurtured any great appreciation of his king, and he admired his regent even less, but principles were at stake. Too, he would have liked to redeem himself for this day’s business, which had not endeared him to his Chief Magistrate. Therefore he trained the blunderbuss upon Miss Phyfe, and informed her of the unpleasant consequences of traducing her sovereign.

To this information—which ranged the entire gamut of experience from transportation to exposure in the stocks—Miss Phyfe made no response, being locked in Lord Darby’s ardent embrace. The Chief Magistrate was a great deal less forbearing. In unmistakable language he instructed his subordinate what might be most happily done with the blunderbuss. Then he withdrew within the aquatint plates of Miss Phyfe’s
Microcosm of London,
and had no more to do with the scene. The runner contemplated both the blunderbuss and his superior’s suggestion and decided his wisest course of action would be to retire. That he did not immediately do so was due to no misplaced valor; runners who lacked strongly developed instincts of self-preservation did not shuffle long across this mortal stage. Simply, the exit was blocked.

Two people stood there, an elderly, dour-faced female clad in servant’s garb, and a gentleman of indeterminable age and unremarkable features whose clothing was coated liberally with dust. “Children put out to work in factories?” he echoed. “I begin to think Hannah is correct in claiming your conduct is greatly to be deprecated, cousin.”

“Hech!” interrupted Hannah, vindictively. “The flibbertigibbit! Dinna I tell ye, sor not to ha’e sich a mickle flighty lassie in the hoose? Aye, and would ye heed me? Och, noo! ‘Dinna fash yersel’, Hannah!’ is what ye said. Aye, and look now wha’s come o’ it! The whole family dragged afore a hornie. The shame! ‘Tis a verra great pity, and all ‘acause—”

“Hannah!” interrupted the nomadic Lord Phyfe, for the travel-stained gentleman was he. “If I have journeyed all this distance in response to simple spite, I shall be exceedingly cross with you. No, not another word! When I require you to speak again, I will tell you so.” Thoughtfully, he surveyed the room. “Darby, you would seem to be the most reasonable person present. Kindly explain to me the cause of this kick-up. I am especially interested in discovering why English’s foot is wrapped in a petticoat, and why he is wearing a loo mask on his ear. Yes, I daresay you would rather embrace my cousin! I promise you may do so again
after
explanations have been made.”

So reasonable a request could not be decently ignored. Reluctantly, Lord Darby released his seditious ladylove, who promptly sat down on the Chief Magistrate’s scarred desk and began to speak to him of the shocking conditions existent in prisons and factories and asylums. Miss Whateley was similarly expounding to the runner about morbid anatomy and cowpox inoculations and foxglove, under Dr. Kilpatrick’s approving eye. The Milhouse sisters, too, were speaking, of topics nearest to their hearts. Hannah was muttering evilly under her breath.

Only Lady Barbour was silent. Temporarily, she had been distracted from her own sorry plight by the very interesting developments taking place under her nose. Now her thoughts returned to her own sad plight. Never had she felt so unappreciated, or so alone.

Not one to stoically suffer neglect, Sidoney briskly strode toward Viscount English, callously shoved the sisters Milhouse aside. Then she knelt before him and wrapped her arms around his injured leg. “I thought I could not thwart Fate!” she wailed. “That I was destined to be miserable! Now I discover that
you
are the masked adventurer—and I cannot determine why you should do such a cabbage-headed thing, no matter
how
I cudgel my brain! Unless I have fallen so very low in your esteem that you wished to make me a figure of ridicule?”

For Viscount English, this unjust accusation was the final injury in a thoroughly unreasonable day; and his temper snapped. “Hang it!” he ejaculated, as he grabbed Lady Barbour’s arms and yanked her up into his lap. “What I want to make you is my wife! And so I shall, even if I have to abduct you and carry you off to Gretna Green!”

To this masterful approach, Lady Barbour responded with batted eyelashes and bated breath. “Heavens!” she breathed.

“Do
not,”
the viscount said sternly, “dare talk any more fustian to me about Miss Phyfe. To be perfectly honest, I do not even
like
Miss Phyfe. People say you are a peagoose, but in my opinion she is even
more
so! Had she not told me I was a great deal too honorable to suit you, none of this muddle would have come about.”

Though Lady Barbour was not quick of wit, she could on occasion be surprisingly astute, especially as concerned the condition of her own heart. This being one such occasion, she became aware that her heart was beating in an amazingly rapid and erratic manner. “Mercy on me!” she gasped. “Laurie, I should not say so—I would not wish you to think me vulgarly
pushing
or
forward,
because no matter what people may say of me they have
never
been able to claim that I am bold as a brass-faced monkey! But you have made a cake of yourself for my sake, even though it was all Morgan’s doing—and you must not call her a peagoose, Laurie; she has been more clever than you think! Look how she convinced me that I was cast into the shade! I admit she has indulged in some very imaginative reasoning—and it is not
wonderful
if we have all been laboring under some confusion of ideas! But all the same — I mean to say —well,
look
at us, my dear!”

So that she might not tumble off his lap, the viscount clasped his arms around Sidoney’s tiny waist. His handsome face was extremely perplexed. “What
about
us?” he inquired cautiously.

“I do not feel it necessary to stand on ceremony with you!” Lady Barbour dimpled and blushed. “To use the word with no bark on it, Laurie, you have taken my fancy to an alarming degree!”

Epilogue

Thus was the epidemic of skitterwittedness that one spring afflicted London resolved. “Devil” Darby, having made his peace with his Creator, achieved with his seditious bride a most felicitous balance between frivolity and good works. Dr. Kilpatrick gained an admirably sensible wife who allowed him to animadvert for hours on end upon his favorite topics without ever voicing complaint. Lady Barbour gave herself happily up to being pampered and cosseted, all thirst for adventure quenched, and never had cause to lament that tedium had been inflicted upon her by her third and final spouse. On his part, Viscount English was never heard to bewail the tarnished condition of his honor, indeed ceased altogether to mourn his fall from grace due to the debilitating influence of his favorite peagoose.

To our minor characters, destiny was little less kind. Once the premises were cleared of the victims of skitterwittedness, the adjuncts of Bow Street Public Office contrived to go on very well. The sisters Milhouse, whose diligent pursuit of a more affluent existence played a small but vital part in the resolution of events, transferred their attention to a gentleman who was rich as Croesus. In addition to being sufficiently wealthy to support Celestra and Francesca and Annys all three in the style to which they aspired, this gentleman was also much more broadminded than his peers, several of whom came to regard him as a shocking example of the debilitating effect of travel upon the English earl.

These adverse comments, as was his habit—a habit learned in the nursery—Lord Phyfe ignored. So generous was he to the three high-flyers in his keeping that they never aspired to further heights, and so expressive of their gratitude were the sisters that the earl was too exhausted to continue his travels, as well as too content. Instead, he settled in at Phyfe House, threw open his pedimented doors to the most remote degree of kith and kin, which brings us to the only participant in these revels who greeted fate with less than exuberance. However, Hannah would have saluted even the Savior come again to earth with a frown and a sharp word.

Copyright © 1981 by Gail Clark

Originally published by Pocket Books (0671412752)

Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.