Maggie MacKeever (8 page)

Too, there remained the possibility that Lady Barbour might get caught up in the inevitable consequences of Miss Phyfe’s sedition, and that dire fate she did not at all deserve. He shuddered at the thought of Sidoney confined to Newgate, or transported to Australia via one of the dread prison ships. No, he must take whatever steps were necessary to rescue her from her present sorry plight. “What is it that you would have me do, Miss Phyfe?”

This was a vital moment, and Morgan must strain to the utmost her limited powers of diplomacy. The Right Honorable Viscount English would not be pleased to discover that he must learn to be dishonorable. As she pondered how best to phrase her instructions, she bore her startled companion out of Mrs. Salmon’s Waxworks and back into Fleet Street.

Whether she was Jacobin or madwoman, Laurie could not decide—nor whether the greater threat was posed to Lady Barbour by “Devil” Darby or Miss Phyfe. No matter. A gentleman did not go back on his word.

Nor did a gentleman flinch away from the consequences of his sworn pledge, even when said consequences were not commensurate with his dignity, upon which nobly foolish precept Miss Phyfe was gambling heavily. “Perhaps you might strive to be a
teeny
bit more wicked!” she said. “Else you will not advance your case with Sidoney by so much as a hairsbreadth.”

Chapter Seven

“I cannot imagine what has gotten into Laurie!” said Lady Barbour, with a charming, puzzled frown.
“Of late he has taken to acting very strangely, dropping all manner of ominous hints about I know not what. I vow I begin to wonder if there isn’t a
teeny
bit of lunacy in the Frobishers, because it’s plain as a pikestaff that something has turned his brain!”

To this unkind observation, her ladyship’s companions withheld comment, although Miss Phyfe silently bewailed the viscount’s misconceptions concerning wickedness, and Miss Whateley reflected mutely that it was not the Frobishers who were paper-skulled. This lack of verbal response was prompted by no sense of grievance on the parts of Miss Whateley and Miss Phyfe. The ladies were in attendance at the King’s Theater in the Haymarket, and two of the three occupants of Lord Phyfe’s box—purchased on a subscription basis for the benefit of his relatives—were interested in what transpired on
the
stage.

Sidoney, demonstrably, was not, even though the performance this evening was
Semiramide,
featuring that temperamental virago, Madame Catalini, whose piercing voice drowned out orchestra and chorus. Nor was Lady Barbour the only attendee of the theater to ignore the activity onstage. The theater was crammed to its flame-colored dome with row after row of red-curtained boxes filled with members of the
ton
and
demimonde,
all of whom were exchanging comments and chattering amiably to one another. Fops and dandies strolled in the pit, ignoring requests for silence shouted at them from the gallery; while those examples of the downtrodden masses as were present whistled and howled and cracked nuts. It was almost enough to make a public-spirited lady wonder if the public merited her efforts.

“I have not the most distant guess why Laurie should have suddenly turned so queer,” continued Lady Barbour. “I disremember when I have been so surprised by anything. He has even taken to posturing, very much like Byron. I don’t know what he thinks he may accomplish by these queer starts, and I have been puzzling my head very hard over it.”

Miss Phyfe chose to interpret this great effort in a favorable light. “I thought you cared nothing for English,” she ventured craftily.

Lady Barbour arched a golden brow. “Nor do I! At least not in the way you wish I
might!
I am not a cabbagehead, Morgan, for all I may be a slow-top; I know very well that you would like me to form a preference and remove from Phyfe House so that you may return to stirring up the lower orders, which is
most
ungenerous of you! I doubt that, er—Charles!— would be pleased to learn that you are so grudging of
his hospitality. Which just proves that even the
stuffiest
mouse will play when the cat’s back is turned! And if it was you who set Laurie to brooding—which would not surprise me—I wish you would make him stop! Die-away airs are
not
what I can like! Better you should turn your mind to getting Callie here fired off.”

Upon this mention of her name, Miss Whateley reluctantly withdrew her attention from the stage. “But I do not
want
to be fired off, Mama,” she remarked.

“Stepmama!” responded Lady Barbour, with an enchanting grimace. “And what
you
want has nothing to do with it, my girl!”

Clearly it did not, and Morgan found it in herself to pity Miss Whateley. Sidoney would not be dissuaded from bringing Callie to the attention of the
ton,
in which proceeding the child would be made miserable. To say nothing of herself.

Since the thing must be done, decided Morgan, it was best accomplished quickly and then as quickly forgot, thus inflicting both Miss Whateley and herself with the least possible degree of discomfort. Therefore, she must devise a plan of action whereby Miss Whateley was thrust in front of London’s eligible bachelors like a carrot before a team of donkeys and then, when the bait was not taken, as abruptly removed. To this nebulous plan of action, Morgan anticipated only one drawback. Lady Barbour was determined to fully enjoy her stepdaughter’s London Season, even if her stepdaughter did not.

A break came in the evening’s entertainment, and the audience engaged in what looked from above to be a complicated version of musical chairs. Some withdrew into the circular vestibule, furnished with sophas, almost lined with looking glass; others hastened to pay their compliments to various pretty little opera dancers backstage; yet others loitered with the frail beauties who plied their trade in the galleries. And a large number of gentlemen found their way to Lord Phyfe’s subscription box.

Miss Phyfe regarded their arrival with relief. At least temporarily she would be spared Lady Barbour’s further inane remarks.

Her relief was not long-lived. “Devil” Darby entered the box. On second viewing, Morgan was dismayed to discover, his lordship had no less devastating an effect. She scowled.

Lord Darby was not unaware that he inspired the hostile expression currently contorting Miss Phyfe’s classic features, and was subsequently amused. It was a refreshing change of pace for him to discover a female who didn’t cast out lures, doubly so in that he had escaped the clutches of the Milhouse sisters only moments past. Lord Darby thought he must arrange that another lamb be tossed to those particular wolves, since he had no intention of slaking their appetites.

Nor had he intention of engaging longer than was necessary in conversation with a beautiful peagoose, even one clad most becomingly in an evening dress of embroidered silk. He allowed himself to be displaced by the lady’s other admirers, and withdrew to stand beside Miss Phyfe.

As he did so, he subjected Morgan to a leisurely inspection. Her velvet gown was several years out of fashion, and suited her better than the current style ever could, and no jewels distracted from the allure of her flawless skin.

Her heavy chestnut curls were escaping their pins in a most enticing manner. Lord Darby contemplated contributing to that lush disarray with his own skilled fingers. How suspiciously she regarded him, and rightly so. So you
do
occasionally engage in frivolity, Miss Phyfe. It encourages me to think that there may yet be hope.”

Hope for which one of them, Morgan was uncertain, and she refused to ask. Resolutely ignoring Lord Darby’s ironic gaze, she attempted to look stern. “I am not here, sir, by my own choice.”

“Ah! Your companions have coerced you.” Lord Darby exuded sympathy. “How noble of you to try and put a good face on it. Anyone observing you, as I was, would have thought you were enjoying the performance.”

He had been watching
her?
Whatever for? Morgan regarded him doubtfully. There was a distinct twinkle in those disenchanted eyes.

It was not the first occasion on which Miss Phyfe had found herself being mocked, but it was without doubt the first time she had felt so in charity with her heckler. That odd circumstance made her even more wary of him. “You are impertinent, sir.”

“I generally am,” his lordship said amiably, “but allow me to restate my remark. You gave every indication of enjoying the performance during those rare intervals when your attention was permitted to remain on the stage.”

Reluctantly, Morgan smiled. “My cousin is a trifle, er, garrulous.”

“Your cousin, Miss Phyfe, is a beautiful nitwit!” Lord Darby replied.

Miss Phyfe’s eyes widened. “But I thought—”

“You thought I had taken a fancy to her?” Lord Darby looked saturnine. “The lady is charming, in her own fashion, but that fashion is not what I prefer. Ninnyhammers, no matter how lovely, are not in my style. Not that I should say so! I do not know what it is about you that invites indiscretion, Miss Phyfe.”

“Nor do I!” retorted Morgan, who had never invited a gentleman to indulge in discretion in all her eight-and-twenty years—who had, in point of fact, never even thought of it until this moment. Now that she
did
think of it, pink flushed her cheeks. “No more of this, I beg! You are the most provoking man.”

Indeed he was, and so he proved; his gray eyes grew warm and his gaze intent. “And
you
are a darling. Miss Phyfe!” Having delivered this broadside, he awaited her response.

A number of expressions played across Morgan’s mobile features; she looked startled, annoyed, totally confused. Had no one ever before made her the object of a flirtation? It would seem not. Lord Darby was somewhat surprised that the gentlemen of Miss Phyfe’s acquaintance should prove so unanimously shortsighted that they failed to look beyond unfashionable raiment and seditious sentiments to see how exceptionally attractive she was.

She looked at him, her perfect features blank. Then her lips twitched, and her eyes sparkled, and she gave voice to such delighted laughter that the other occupants of the box stared.
“Touché!”
she murmured, chuckling still. “We are even now, I think. I suppose you meant to repay me for going on at you about your lack of politics, and I admit to being a trifle highhanded in that quarter. But did you understand the situation, sir, you would admit that it is serious.”

How
serious, his lordship was beginning to understand, and the discovery intrigued even as it appalled. “I am not quite so ignorant as you think me. Your comments on the occasion of our last meeting inspired me to make some inquiries of my own.”

Had she made a convert, then? Morgan brightened. “Inquiries, sir?”

Lord Darby quirked a brow. “Inquiries, Miss Phyfe. Among the things I have been reading was a certain dissertation upon lilies of the field. To use a man’s own words against him is hardly sporting, Miss Phyfe! I shall not hold it against you, nonetheless. I understand your motives.”

“You do?” inquired Morgan, who was not similarly enlightened.

“I do,” responded his lordship, and in fact he did. It was his own motives that remained in doubt. “As the voice of the people you must demand parliamentary reform, removal of the present ministry, and peace in place of starvation and misery and want. Every other consideration—such as consideration of my wounded feelings—must take second place.”

“It must?” Miss Phyfe felt a trifle befuddled by this
volte-face.
“You were?”

“I was what? Wounded? You must not allow yourself to be distracted by such trivialities, my girl.” Lord Darby was enjoying himself immensely. Even more, he enjoyed the unusual indecision on his companion’s forceful features, and promptly set about furthering it.

To do so was not especially kind of him, but kindness is not a quality ordinarily possessed by successful rakehells. “Recall the plight of the common man, who owns no land, and who consequently has no voice to choose those who represent him in Parliament. Though he is not a freeholder, he is still a man, and he is not fairly used in being denied his rights as a citizen. He too should be consulted with regard to the interests of his country. Men should be the object of representation, not land.”

To this impassioned oratory, Miss Phyfe listened enthralled. At its conclusion, she sighed. “What an excellent champion you would make for our cause. If only you meant a word of it! Men truly
should
be the basis of representation, and not property.”

“My darling, I do not deny it.” Lord Darby ruthlessly struggled for and won possession of a chair, which he drew up beside Miss Phyfe. “What I
do
question is your very naive assumption that parliamentary reform will cure all the nation’s ills. It is the working-class viewpoint that a reformed government would end waste and corruption and taxes. You must needs be more realistic, Miss Phyfe.”

Morgan had suffered several distinct shocks during her
tête-à-tête
with “Devil” Darby, not least of which was the discovery that England’s most notorious rake-hell was politically aware. Indeed, he was so very politically aware that conversation with him was like a cool drink of water after a long drought.

However, it was not politics that engaged Morgan’s mind at this particular moment.
“What
did you call me?”

“My darling?” Lord Darby looked apologetic. “Pray do not be offended. I fear it is a habit with me, Miss Phyfe.”

Absurd, to feel so disappointed. “Not a very laudable habit, sir.”

“No, and one of several that must be equally deplored by persons of refined sensibilities. I hope that you are not thus afflicted, Miss Phyfe. Because I cannot guarantee that I shall refrain from further such slips of the tongue—although I shall try
very
hard to do so.”

Absurd, also, to be dazzled at the prospect of further conversations with his lordship. “You need not put yourself to such effort,” Morgan said wryly. “I promise I shall not attach undue significance to anything you say to me. But I am so surprised to find you so well informed.” He looked quizzical. “About politics!”