Maggie MacKeever (4 page)

She did not do so, nor did she kick the cabinet by which she stood; irresponsible tantrums were beneath the dignity of ladies who labored for the common good. Perhaps Sidoney might grow more amenable were she made aware of Morgan’s efforts in that line.

“Sidoney, you must agree that the people of England need be made to understand their stake in parliamentary reform!” Morgan therefore explained, so abruptly that Miss Whateley started and banged her elbow. “The rights of the common man must be recognized, the existing representative system reformed. Only then will our liberties be restored.”

Lady Barbour, unaware that her liberty was in any manner curtailed, paused in the inroads she was making on the various delicacies brought up from the kitchens. Bewildered, she regarded her cousin.

Morgan was delighted to have drawn Lady Barbour’s interest away from the tea tray. “Think of it!” she entreated. “The press freed of restriction, the laws simplified, taxes diminished. The lower classes better educated, the necessaries of life at last placed within the grasp of the poor—surely you will understand why I have no time to fritter away at balls and soirees, Almack’s and Hyde Park.”

Becoming aware that comment was expected of her, Lady Barbour ceased to brush crumbs from her skirts. “Mercy!” she uttered faintly. Here were odd humors indeed. “Morgan, what
is
it that you’re trying to say?”

Somewhat discouraged but still determined, Morgan persevered. “I am involved in a great many programs to bring about such reform,” she explained and proceeded to enumerate. “The Philanthropic Society Founded for the Prevention of Crime, Lock Asylum for the Reception of Penitent Females, The Society for the Support and Encouragement of Sunday Schools, to name just a few. So you understand why it is out of the question for me to oversee your girl’s come-out.”

That Lady Barbour saw nothing of the sort was apparent to two of the drawing room’s occupants. Miss Whateley elevated her gaze from the carpet long enough to cast Miss Phyfe a commiserating glance, an act which caused Dr. Kilpatrick to wonder if Callie was quite as timid as she appeared. So very unprepossessing a damsel must experience a certain amount of jealousy toward her lovely stepmama, he thought. Dr. Kilpatrick considered jealousy one of the most intriguing quirks of the human animal.

Morgan had been encouraged by her own erroneous conclusions to hold forth at greater length, in particular concerning her involvement with Mrs. Fry. “Several problems confront us,” she confided, her lovely face alight with zeal. “An increase in crime and the problem of its origins. The inadequacies of prison lodgings and the barbaric treatment accorded many inmates, who are chained and flogged and penned up alone in dark underground cells. To say nothing of transportation and capital punishment.”

Sidoney had heard enough to convince her that, if Morgan had not precisely got the wrong sow by the ear, she definitely needed taking in hand. “Mercy on me!” she said. “If you continue to go on in this way, cousin, I am likely to cast up my accounts! I perfectly recall the occasion of our last meeting, when you went on about that pauper lunatic asylum in Bethnal Green where people are chained up in crowded little boxes of rooms and left unattended for days, then doused with buckets of cold water to wash away their filth! And
then
you told me that it required only an order signed by someone calling himself an apothecary to have a person committed to such a place for life! I disremember when I’ve had such nightmares. I’m sure it cannot be
good
for you to dwell upon such things. Indeed, I grow more and more convinced that Callie’s come-out will provide you the diversion you so sorely need!”

Briefly, Morgan contemplated styling herself an apothecary, thereby to remove her prattle-box cousin forthwith from her life. “I do
not
need diversion,” she uttered through clenched teeth.

“My dear, it is obvious that you do not know
what
you need!” Lady Barbour’s spirits had improved with sustenance. “It is very often the way with clever people, I have observed. Now, let us put our heads together and plan out our campaign. First, a small gala to introduce Callie to the
ton,
perhaps.”

Morgan unclenched her jaw with effort. “I wonder if you’ve heard a word I’ve said!”

Lady Barbour set down her teacup and rose. “I have heard
every
one of them, and very tedious they were! You have the
most
fatiguing way of speech,my dear! I wouldn’t wonder at it if you
did
manage to reform Parliament, though I do not comprehend precisely how a reform of the House of Commons would bring all those marvels about! No, no, do not try and explain; I know my understanding is not great! Let us deal logically with the matter at hand. You will agree that Callie must have her come-out.”

Morgan glanced at Miss Whateley, who appeared less than delighted with the prospect. “It is the custom, yes.”

“But you think it is a great piece of nonsense—I am aware of that! No, pray do not interrupt!” Lady Barbour confronted her tall cousin, looking enchantingly stern. “Well, perhaps it may seem nonsensical to someone so serious as you are, but Callie must be brought to the attention of eligible gentlemen if she is to ever make an advantageous match. Just because you took no advantage of
your
opportunities, Morgan, you should not try to deny them to someone else! And I do not think that— Charles?—Charles would wish you to turn us away from Phyfe House.”

Morgan could not argue with this assumption; the absent earl would have cheerfully disbursed all his treasures before turning away a kinsman. Morgan could not guess whence had come this feudal outlook, but she did not especially appreciate it. “I have not said I would turn you away!” she snapped. “Naturally you must stay here.”

“Then that’s settled!” Lady Barbour clapped her hands together, all smiles and great good cheer. “I
knew
that you would eventually realize that dear, dear Charles would be made
most
unhappy if you refused us your assistance!”

Chapter Four

Phyfe House blazed with the light of a thousand candles. Faint strains of music issued through the open front door, where liveried footmen rendered obsequious attentions to the passengers who debarked from the elegant carriages that thronged Harley Street. In honor of the newest arrival on her doorstep, Morgan had thrown Phyfe House open to the
crème de la crème.

With very few exceptions, the
ton
had been pleased to respond graciously, despite the indecently short notice provided them. Lady Barbour was no stranger to the Upper Ten Thousand. Those who did not attend Phyfe House with an intention of closer viewing the pernicious female who had ushered the diabolical forces of reform into the neighborhood, did so with the hope of renewing acquaintance with her ladyship.

Among these latter ranks was a gentleman who, could he have but foreseen the outcome of this evening, would have turned his footsteps in the opposite direction. But no premonition overtook Viscount English as he wended his way thither from White’s Club, where he had refreshed himself with dinner and a drop extraordinaire. Several drops extraordinaire, in fact. Nonetheless, the viscount had not shot the cat. As befit a gentleman of his station, he held his liquor excellently well.

The center of the festivities was the Phyfe House drawing room where a great table of delicacies had been laid out. The viscount glimpsed enormous pâtés, hors d’oeuvres and an enormous pyramid of glass hung about with dishes of jellies and sweetmeats. He also glimpsed his hostess, who was clad in an attractive gown of sprigged muslin with lace over the bosom, her chestnut hair caught up in unfashionable heavy curls that suited her perfectly, and were already coming unpinned. There was a rosy flush on Morgan’s cheek, an enthusiastic glow in her eye, and sedition on her lips.

The viscount stepped into the drawing room. He had expected to encounter some difficulty discovering Sidoney among the guests. He had expected that when he did at length discover her, he would be content to exchange polite greetings and then take himself away. For that reason he had come late to Phyfe House—so that his early departure would not be especially remarked. The viscount was accustomed to languishing young ladies and ambitious mamas set on disrupting his bachelor ways.

Her infectious laughter was the first sound he heard. Sidoney was standing by the monumental fireplace, engaged in conversation with a bevy of admirers. In all his visualizations of this moment, the viscount had not imagined that she might be even more lovely than he remembered her.

Nor had he anticipated that the mere sight of her would affect him like a sharp blow to the solar plexus. “Sidoney!” he said.

Lady Barbour was trained to respond to her own name, and so excellent was her hearing that she did so even when her name was uttered faintly from across a crowded room. She turned, her expression curious, and her blue gaze alit on the viscount. With a word, she abandoned her admirers and made her way toward him through the throng.

“Laurie!” she said, coming to a stop before him and dimpling up at him with every evidence of delight. “It’s prodigious glad I am to see
you
here, because I do not mind admitting that I was feeling a trifle hipped! Not that I would say so to anyone else, but I am used to thinking you my particular friend!” She paused, looking anxious. “You
are
still my friend, are you not?”

The lady was a vision of astounding beauty, decided the viscount, who was one of London’s most sought-after bachelors and well qualified to judge. Her simple evening dress—a frock of white muslin over lilac-colored silk—suited her excellently. Her golden curls could not have looked more enchanting, dressed loose on the temple and drawn up
à
la grecque
into a cluster of ringlets behind. And to think that he had expected that she would have grown stout now, and plain.

“Oh!” Lady Barbour cried softly. “You
are
still cross with me! But it was a very long time ago, and you did not seem especially overset. Certainly you did not act as if you meant to wear the willow. Mercy, it cannot be because of
me
that you have never wed!”

This not unreasonable deduction caused Viscount English a burning embarrassment, experienced even in the extremities that Lady Barbour’s loveliness had turned into stone. While it was true that she was the only female he had ever wished to marry, it was also true that her rejection had left him less wounded than annoyed. “Ah!” he said.

“Poor boy!” commiserated Lady Barbour, and took his arm. “I wish you might have told me it was so important to you at the time—not that it would have made any difference, because I was set on marrying Barbour, although I cannot precisely recall
why!
You know what a featherhead I am! But I might have been more kind.”

These confidences caused the viscount’s embarrassment to increase. Hastily he sought to distract his companion from romance. “I expected to find you changed,” he said. “I thought perhaps you had grown plump by now, or plain.”

“Fiddle!” Lady Barbour giggled. “As if I
would!
I had quite forgot how droll you are! Oh, this is the most fun I have had all evening, what with trying to persuade Callie that she must try
not
to look as if she is on her way to the guillotine—an odd choice of speech that, you will say, and so it is. One gets in the habit of thinking in such a manner around Morgan. She is
most
insidious, and I expect that at any moment
I
shall start lamenting the advances of despotism and plotting the overthrow of kings!”

“The overthrow of kings?” echoed Viscount English, appalled, “Surely it hasn’t gone so far.”

“Would that be so very bad?” inquired Sidoney, looking most divinely blank. “After all the king
is
mad, and from what Morgan says of him, the regent is not far from it himself. His wife! His daughter! And now they say he is proving a real enemy to his younger brother, Kent. . . . Laurie, why are you looking so
grim?”

Viscount English could not explain. He well recalled Sidoney’s loyalty which, combined with her innate lack of discrimination, was one of her more dangerous traits. Were Miss Phyfe condemned to Newgate on charges of treason, as befit a lady who conspired against the king, Sidoney would doubtless follow her there.

That Lady Barbour was as indiscreet as she was indiscriminate did not occur to Laurie, nor that Sidoney’s reckless tongue was as likely as anything else to imprison her cousin in Newgate. He thought that he must deliver up some very unpalatable home-truths, and without delay. To that end, he delivered Lady Barbour back to her admirers and promised to fetch her a glass of punch.

Miss Phyfe was no more difficult to locate, holding forth to a largely masculine audience upon her favorite theme. “The 1430 statute limited the franchise to men who owned land to the clear annual value of forty shillings!” she announced. “That statute and its preamble proclaimed one of the great assumptions of English society, that property and political literacy are indissolubly joined. Political literacy, poppycock! All of
you
own property, considerable amounts!”

Definitely Miss Phyfe was destined for Newgate Prison or, at the very best, for Australia, where convicted rabble-rousers were often transported until their sentences were served out. Having reached his hostess’s side, the viscount cleared his throat. Miss Phyfe, interrupted at the very moment when she planned to devastate her captive audience with a denunciation of themselves as a herd of courtiers fattening on the spoils of the public, glared.

“I must speak with you,” murmured the viscount.

Upon discovery of the cause of this so-untimely interruption, Miss Phyfe allowed the frown to leave her brow. No appreciation of the viscount’s person prompted this rare sign of favor, although the viscount’s person was most deserving of appreciation; not only formidable fortune and flawless manners had conspired to make Laurie the target of languishing damsels and matchmaking mamas. Miss Phyfe, however, was not of a disposition to admire physical appearance reminiscent of Adonis come to earth, features unparalleled in their perfection, a physique athletically fashioned and fashionably clad. Indeed, Miss Phyfe had not even noted the viscount’s masculine perfection. However, Miss Phyfe had great enthusiasm for any Member of Parliament so courageous as to dare advocate reform.