Maggie MacKeever (20 page)

“Did I not explain?” Lady Davenham, it appeared, had since their arrival in London become accustomed to having gentlemen’s hands rest upon her knee. Not long ago, in the country, such an act would have offended her modesty. “I tend to take it for granted, my dear, that you will know what I mean. You usually do, when you put your mind to it—although it is unfair of me to expect you to always be making an effort, I suppose. The sprinkler fitting in the decoration of the pit ceiling is called an Apollo’s Head. It works upon the same principle as the Catherine-wheel. The system was evolved by Benjamin Wyatt and Colonel Congreve several years ago. But that puts me in mind
of
something I especially wished to ask you.”

Perhaps he meant to speak sternly to her about her blatant flirtation with their cousin, or scold her for her shocking dress; perhaps even to suggest that they amend their differences and settle down to this matter of an heir. Breathlessly, Lady Davenham awaited explanations. They were not forthcoming. “Yes?” urged Lady Davenham, with an encouraging glance. “Speak your mind, Vivien; I’m sure I will agree.”

“You are a good girl, Thea.” And so she was; Vivien could not blame her for falling under Malcolm’s spell. Most females did. Lord Davenham surveyed the hand which still rested upon his wife’s knee.

Lord Davenham looked as if he were not sure how his hand had gotten there, his wife thought; lest he be inspired to remove it, Lady Davenham placed her other hand atop it and held on tight.

Here was boldness! reflected Lord Davenham, who—except for wondering where his wife had learned it—did not mind in the least. Could she mean—but he knew better. Malcolm’s absence had merely left her feeling a little lonely. Vivien sought to divert himself from such unwelcome reflections. “Not that there is any reason to quibble about installing a Rumford fireplace in the potting shed.”

So different was his lordship’s request from what she had anticipated that Lady Davenham stared. “A Rumford fireplace,” she echoed, bemused.

“Doubtless you are wondering why I want a fireplace in my potting shed,” concluded Lord Davenham, as result of his wife’s blank stare. “It gets very cold out there. And it
is
a large potting shed! A Rumford fireplace with a solid, angled, fireclay surround is much more efficient than a huge chimney, don’t you think? Of course, if you do not like the notion—”

Drastic measures were called for; the Duke could think only of fireplaces, even while clutching—though not of his own volition—his Duchess’s knee. With an exasperated exclamation she released him. “My dear, are you quite all right?” inquired his lordship, massaging his hand.

As must be apparent to all but her spouse, Lady Davenham was very far from all right, but she did not feel competent to render up explanations of that fact. That Vivien had grown discontented with their marriage was her fault, as Malcolm had explained. She should have made their homelife more adventurous, and failure to realize that Vivien craved adventure did not excuse her negligence, or free her from abiding the consequence. “Vivien,” she said abruptly, with an irritable shrug. “I hope you do not think our cousin is paying me attentions that are a little too pointed.”

“Is
he?” inquired Lord Davenham, who privately thought exactly that. However, any gentleman must thus respond bemusedly to the exuberance of his wife’s movements in a gown which invited speculation upon whether a careless movement might prove disastrous. “I see nothing objectionable in it if you don’t, my dear.”

Did Malcolm intend Vivien to display a dog-in-the-manger attitude? Thea decided there was little chance the even-tempered Duke would ever exhibit any of the signs of an enraged spouse. Vivien was not selfish. Having discovered his own source of amusement, he would not deny Thea the same opportunity.

Knowledge of that amusement rankled. “I hear that you have struck up an acquaintance with Miss Bagshot,” she bluntly observed.

“Eh?” inquired Lord Davenham, whose hearing was as keen as his other senses, all of which were focused uncomfortably on his errant wife. “Oh, yes! She is a taking little puss, and moreover likes growing things. You need not look so unhappy, my dear! Did I not promise to extricate Malcolm from her toils?”

So he had, and Thea lacked the energy to even try and explain that she had been much better pleased when it was only Malcolm who was ensnared. Vivien’s attitude clearly indicated that, as regarded their marriage, he had suffered no change of heart. Having indicated his discontentment, he trusted Thea to deal with it. She wondered what he expected her to do.

One thing was certain: Thea could no longer bear this strained silence. She initiated a conversation concerning cultivators and barrows, a very appropriate topic for a gentleman belatedly embarked upon sowing his wild oats.

Chapter Eighteen

Madame le Best paced around her showroom, tidied the magazines which lay upon the table, stared at the walls papered with imaginative Oriental motifs. On Ma-dame’s shrewd, sharp features was a disgruntled look. That displeasure was directed not at her showroom, but at her harum-scarum niece, currently banished to stitch seams in the atelier. What was to be done with Melly? The child was incorrigible. Despite her threats, Madame did not think she had the heart to cast her own niece out into the streets. As she was reflecting that Melly would doubtless turn even that catastrophe to advantage, the shop door opened. Madame turned, with the obsequious expression she habitually bestowed upon her customers. When she noted the identity of this customer, however, her obsequious look changed to genuine enthusiasm. “Welcome, milady!
Entrez!”

The lady—a tall and superbly fashioned female clad in gown and pelisse of white muslin, with a delicious concoction of ribbon and ostrich plumes perched atop bright scarlet curls—had not waited for an invitation. She strode briskly across the floor and firmly closed the door to the atelier. “There! We will wish to be private. You see before you, Helen—yes, I know you do not like me to call you that, but we are quite alone!—
not
the Baroness Dulcie Bligh, but an ace up the sleeve.”

What Madame le Best saw before her was her most influential patron, and she lost no time in ushering Lady Bligh to a chair and bringing forth the latest fashion plates. Some little time passed in a discussion of such weighty matters as the alternate virtues of “French work,” embroidery inserted into a gown’s bodice, and the “lozenge-front,” with strips of net and satin let in slant-wise, for day use. The Baroness expressed a disinclination to purchase a zona
,
a popular corset made of silk-covered bands which wrapped around the upper part of the body and supported the lower part of the bosom. The Baroness’s philosophy of fashion was that it should charm by revealing everything it concealed. And though they were not universally popular—they were indeed considered by many to smack of depravity—she was highly in favor of flesh-colored drawers.

These important matters settled, Lady Bligh pushed aside the fashion plates, expressed a disinclination to purchase a Prussian helmet cap carried out in canary-colored silk, and appreciation of a hat made of diagonally striped taffeta with a crown of hinged pleats. Then she leaned back in her chair. “This is not an official visit,” she announced, somewhat cryptically. “Puddiphat is next to useless, and Crump is out of town, which leaves John without an emissary whose discretion he can trust. However reluctantly employed, I am therefore an agent of Bow Street. And you needn’t think you may put me off, Helen, because I promise you may not.”

Abruptly, Madame le Best sat down upon one of the japanned chairs. She had forgotten that Lady Bligh—who was as eccentric as she was beautiful, and very intuitive to boot—numbered among her many admirers not only the Prince Regent, but also the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street. “Oh,
la vache!”
she muttered.

On the Baroness’s aristocratic face—the individual components of which included an inquisitive nose, lively black eyes, elegant sculpted cheekbones, generous mouth, and determined chin—an enigmatic look appeared. “Exactly so! Irecall your ne’er-do-well brother very well. The question that most concerns Bow Street is when he sloped off, and why.”

Madame le Best looked startled. “Sloped off?” she queried.

Roguishly, Lady Bligh smiled. “I am acquiring a very colorful vocabulary, am I not? Sloped off, took French leave, showed us a clean pair of heels! You might as well tell me, Helen. You must realize that if you don’t, I will still find out.”

The Baroness’s ability to ferret out just the sort of thing one would have wished to remain secret was very widely known, and also her unscrupulous employment of said information to further her own ends. Wondering what possible use Lady Bligh could have for information concerning her own ne’er-do-well brother, Madame le Best gazed unhappily upon her most influential patron.

Perhaps the Baroness might yet be put off the scent. Madame launched into a description of a carriage dress to which she was putting the finishing touches, made up in a fashionable shade of her own creation, London Soot.

The Baroness straightened her delicious bonnet, which had a tendency to slip to one side, due to the refusal of her heavy hair to stay pinned. Even now scarlet tendrils escaped the bonnet’s confines. “You think I am being vulgarly inquisitive, and so I am. But you should be used to my little ways by now, Helen. I take my oath I will use any information you give me in the most discreet manner. Come now, explain to me the circumstances of your brother’s disappearance.” She frowned. “Or perhaps I may guess.”

Madame le Best longingly gazed upon her plateglass window, as if by sheer force of will she could lure some customers in from the street, and put an end to this distressing interval. Her efforts were for naught. Unbeknownst to Madame, Lady Bligh had upon her entry locked the street door.

“What was the rascal’s name?” mused the Baroness, tapping long and slender fingers on the mock-bamboo table. “William, was it not? As I recall—”

“William’s daughter is here with me,” hastily interrupted Madame. Lady Bligh’s memory was all too acute. “The child cannot benefit from this. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

The Baroness’s voice was plaintive. “But are they sleeping? That seems to be the point. Bow Street is convinced there should be severe penalties for trying to hoodwink emissaries of the law, I should warn you— although if there
were
such penalties, I would doubtless be in a pickle myself.” Her dark eyes glittered. “Apropos of pickles, Helen, where is this niece?”

Madame le Best glanced in a very guilty manner at the door of her atelier, then back at her guest, who was looking very shrewd. “You are an excellent creature, Helen,” remarked Lady Bligh, before the milliner could speak. “Save for this tendency of yours to try and humbug me. Perhaps it runs in the family. I believe there is some question as to whether your niece seeks to diddle Calveley or Bow Street.”

“Calveley?”
Madame le Best forgot all about her ne’er-do-well brother in the face of this new potential catastrophe. “The cabbage-head!”

Lady Bligh quirked a roguish brow. “Is it Calveley
you are calling a cabbage-head, Helen? If so, you are very wide of the mark. Sir Malcolm is very much relished by those who know him, especially if they are female.” Her piquant features were contemplative. “I think that I must meet him,” she concluded, in tones that were roguish indeed.

Madame le Best was not beyond being shocked by her most influential patron. Privately, she thought that the Baroness was a great deal less sedate and decorous than befit a lady who could claim at least fifty years. Not that the Baroness looked decades near that age. Madame wondered how Dulcie maintained her youthful appearance. It was doubly incongruous in conjunction with her distinctly worldly air.

“You are so stuffy, Helen!” complained Lady Bligh. “I will not tease you further. I collect it is because of her preference for Sir Malcolm that you call your niece a cabbage-head—oh, yes, I know all about the Temple and Astley’s and London Bridge. Puddiphat followed the chit. He also followed her to the Horticultural Gardens. Your face is turning an alarming shade of purple, Helen! You should have known.”

This intimation that she had been negligent did not sit well with Madame le Best, who considered that she had made superhuman efforts to keep track of her thankless niece. Since it was not her habit to rip up at her customers, Madame picked up an issue of Mr. Ackerman’s
The Repository to the Arts
and held it tightly on her lap. “I knew about the Horticultural Society well enough,” she said bitterly. “Ever since Melly has talked about nothing but growing rhododendrons without soil. As for the other—Sir Malcolm fetched Melly back here with a tale about finding her wandering lost in the streets. Now you tell me she was at Astley’s.” Madame threw up her hands, and the
Repository
thudded to the floor. “You must not think Melly is a wicked girl, just a trifle indiscreet.”

Gracefully, the Baroness bent and retrieved the
Repository
and restored it to Madame’s lap. “I’m not interested in your niece’s morals,” she retorted. “No, and there’s no place for her in my household, as you’re getting ready to suggest.”

Madame abandoned that faint hope. “And she
knows
Sir Malcolm has a
petite amie,”
she said aloud. “Gentlemen don’t lavish money on their cousins like Calveley does on Lady Davenham!”

Once more the Baroness adjusted her bonnet, with special attention to the ostrich plume which was tickling her aristocratic nose. “Calveley and Lady Davenham
are
cousins!” she remarked. “I know it for a fact.”

“Vraiment?”
Briefly, Madame was distracted from her own woes.
“Scandaleux!”

Upon receipt of this pronouncement, Lady Bligh winced. “I wish you would not try to speak French! So Calveley and the Davenhams are engaged in a
ménage à trois?
How original of them—and how typical of the family. But I am not interested in Calveley’s morals, either.” Her dark-eyed glance was speculative. “Although a man capable of seducing his own cousin under his other cousin’s nose must be capable of anything! No wonder Puddiphat calls him a dangerous and suspicious character.”