Maggie MacKeever (19 page)

It seemed to Lord Sweetbriar that he had had this conversation before. “But—”

“But nothing! First you lavish attentions on another female, then you tell me that for your sake your own uncle means to invite me to toss my bonnet over the windmill. This is the way you would treat the woman whom you wish to wed? I think not!” Convinced that she had regained the advantage, Lady Regina gathered up her sisters as a shepherdess might her flock. “Until you can give me proof of your professed affection, I have no alternative but to doubt that affection exists. In short, Sweetbriar, nothing has changed.”

Unaware that a large number of people were learning to look upon her with varying degrees of resentment, Lady Sweetbriar sallied forth the following morning to Berry’s wine shop. There, in the tradition followed by kings and actresses and commoners alike, from the previous century to the current day, Nikki took a glass of wine and was weighed on the great scale. The old machine having no unpleasant surprises for her, Lady Sweetbriar proceeded homeward by an indirect route that meandered through the shopping precincts of Piccadilly and Pall Mall. Upon her eventual return to Fitzroy Square, she was informed that Miss Clough awaited her in the drawing room.

“Clytie!” Having shed her pelisse before learning of her caller, Lady Sweetbriar still wore upon her dark curls an oriental turban ornamented with cock feathers and a single uncurled ostrich plume. “What a nice surprise.”

Lady Sweetbriar’s turban looked a trifle incongruous in conjunction with her day dress of printed lilac chintz, made with bodice front fastening on the shoulders, and neckline filled in with a white muslin tucker, an effect further heightened by the parasol which her ladyship still carried, made in a pagoda form, with steel stick and telescope. In comparison, Clytie felt positively mundane in her innocuous combination of corded muslin dress, chip straw bonnet, and shawl. However, she had not come to Fitzroy Square to try and outshine its occupant, who was currently regarding her with no little curiosity. “I hope I did not call at an inconvenient time. I had hoped you might be able to help me, Nikki. With, ah, a matter of the heart.”

Preoccupied as she might be with more worldly matters—the installation of a cistern in the upper story of Clough House, for example—Lady Sweetbriar was eager to assist her future stepdaughter in pursuit of romance. Few ladies knew more about romance than she, fancied Nikki. Beaming, she settled in the chair nearest Clytie. “Oh, my dear!”

This cooperative attitude made Miss Clough feel a traitor; truth be told, the matters which Clytie sought to discuss dealt not with her own heart. It was her prospective stepmama’s sentiments which she wished to discover—but how should she proceed?

Poor child! Lady Sweetbriar thought sympathetically; Cupid’s dart had bereft Clytie of speech. It happened that way sometimes. “Has the cat got your tongue, my dear?” Nikki roguishly inquired, after gently nudging the ferrule of her umbrella against the damsel’s knee.

Either she speak now or cease to try and interfere. Miss Clough drew a deep breath. “It concerns—” she said, and stopped. Aghast, Clytie realized she didn’t want Nikki to confirm her doubts about Marmaduke.

“Silly child!” Lady Sweetbriar amiably scoffed. “I know who it concerns, and very pleased I am about it, too. You could do far worse for yourself, Clytie,”

She could do worse than a confirmed villain? Miss Clough blinked. “I could?” she inquired skeptically.

“But of course you could.” Clytie’s lack of enthusiasm inspired Lady Sweetbriar to expand upon the subject. “He is a man of substance, with everything prime about him—a regular good ‘un! Er, that is, a bachelor of the first stare.”

Things were in worse case than Clytie had imagined if Nikki enthused so freely to her about Marmaduke. Had Nikki forgotten her betrothal to Clytie’s father? “I wonder what Papa would think.”

“One seldom knows what your papa thinks, dear Clytie.” Lady Sweetbriar stroked her parasol. “It is a very unsettling habit until one grows accustomed to it. But in this instance I have your papa’s own assurance that he wouldn’t mind.”

Her father had given his blessing to his fiancée’s blatant flirtation with Mr. Thorne? Here was tolerance indeed! “Are you certain that’s what Papa said?” Clytie asked faintly.

“Certain?” Lady Sweetbriar nibbled pensively on her lower lip. “Well, no. I do not recall his exact words. You must not fret, my dear. It is a highly flattering alliance. Once your papa understands this is what you truly want, he will come around.”‘

“What
I
want?” Did not Nikki hint at her own association with Marmaduke? How could Clytie condone such an arrangement, which must cause her papa pain? For that matter, how could her papa condone such a business, as it sounded like he had? Or could it be that Nikki thought
Clytie
had a partiality for Duke? Inexplicably, this absurd misapprehension made Clytie flush. “I don’t want him!” she snapped.

“You don’t?” Lady Sweetbriar’s dark eyes opened wide. “How can this be? Obviously he has taken a marked fancy to
you!”

Upon this startling assertion, Miss Clough’s cheeks turned pinker still. “He has?” she asked.

“How can you doubt it?” This conversation was very heavy going, Nikki mused. She had never before experienced such difficulty in prosing with Miss Clough. Perhaps if she spoke slowly and distinctly?
“Think,
Clytie! Has he not been dancing attendance on you this age?”

Of one thing Clytie was certain; among the ladies whom Marmaduke Thorne currently danced attendance upon was not herself. Therefore, Nikki must be speaking of someone else. But who—? “Oh, fiddle!” Clytie said crossly. “You are talking about Rolf.”

“Naturally I am talking about Rolf.” Sympathetically, Lady Sweetbriar smiled. “You need not pretend with me. Rolf has repeatedly told me you are as fine as fivepence, and that is a very high accolade. I wish you would not be so missish, Clytie! That is
not
the way to bring a gentleman up to snuff.”

Sternly Clytie repressed an impulse to pursue this topic; how to bring gentlemen up to snuff was something Nikki obviously knew. She felt an overwhelming reluctance to go on with pretense. “I am afraid that Rolf and I have been less than honest with you.”

“A fig for honesty!” Nikki said gaily. It was clear to Lady Sweetbriar that Miss Clough was undergoing some sort of struggle with her conscience, and the discomfort of such hostilities her ladyship perfectly understood. “I can’t imagine that you have done anything so dreadful.”

“It is not dreadful, exactly.” Warily, Miss Clough eyed her prospective stepmama’s parasol. “But you will not like it.”

As she puzzled over this dire hint, a tiny frown marred the perfection of Lady Sweetbriar’s heart-shaped face. What she would dislike most of all, Nikki decided, was that Lady Regina Foliot should marry Rolf and lay claim to all her jewels. In a very determined manner, Nikki clutched at the specimens which she currently wore—necklace of two rows of fine golden filigree work, the lower hanging below the waist; brooch composed of a spray of flowers and leaves of diamonds set in silver; amethyst motto ring set round with brilliants. Perhaps Clytie might yet be made to see reason. “Rolf is a—”

“Rolf,” Miss Clough interrupted grimly, “is a perfect block! It has all been a hum, Nikki. A bubble. A hoax. You were so determined that Rolf and I should make a match of it that we pretended to agree.”

Lady Sweetbriar set her parasol point down upon the floor, folded her hands upon the handle, and sat up very straight. “It would be such a good match for you, Clytie. You must not let it weigh with you that Rolf is a bit of a gudgeon. If one but tries
,
one can be happy with even a saphead.” It occurred to her ladyship that this was hardly a maternal attitude. “Not a word of this to Rolf, mind!”

“I wouldn’t think of it.” Her companion’s guilt-stricken expression prompted Clytie’s smile. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Nikki, but I do not have a partiality for Rolf. Nor shall I develop one. Indeed, I doubt that I would marry Rolf were he the last man on earth.” Came a pause, during which Lady Sweetbriar was heard to mutter ominously about chances frittered away. Added Miss Clough, for good measure:
“No,
Nikki.”

Lady Sweetbriar knew when she was temporarily bested. “What a hobble!” she sighed. “I had thought— and now I discover you were only playing a May game! Why did you do so, wretched child? While I contrived that you might steal a march on that stiff-rumped Foliot chit,
you
contrived that I be brought to a standstill. Not that I mean to pinch at you, or take a pet! Merely, I would like to know why you put forth so much effort to pull the wool over my eyes.” She looked rueful. “Was I such a nuisance? Reuben was used to say that when I took a bee into my bonnet there was no telling what ill-advised thing I might do. Or if that is not precisely what he said—Reuben wasn’t one to bandy words—it is what he meant.”

“I would not call you a nuisance, Nikki.” Miss Clough did not care to agree with the detestable Reuben on any score. “You meant it for the best. As it turns out, Rolf and I simply would not suit. He would not have made such a point of dangling after me, even to mislead you, had not Lady Regina taken it into her head to flirt with Mr. Thorne.” A plaintive note had crept into Clytie’s voice during that last statement. It earned her a keen glance from her hostess, that authority on romance.

Blew the wind from that quarter? Here was a pretty fix! decided Lady Sweetbriar. The enterprising Marmaduke, it would appear, progressed rapidly toward his object. What the scoundrel needed with
two
fortunes, one could not imagine—but not only Lady Regina Foliot was far from indifferent. “Clytie! Has Duke been throwing the hatchet at you?” she asked.

Miss Clough flushed anew. “Not to signify,” she murmured.

But flattery from Marmaduke Thorne was seldom, lightly received, as Nikki well knew. “He
has
been! And paying you distinguishing attentions to boot, I'll warrant.” She gave the floor an angry little thump with her parasol. “Was there ever such a rogue?”

This question, Miss Clough did not feel qualified to answer, her experience with villains being slight. Nor could she determine whether the angry sparkle in Lady Sweetbriar’s dark eyes was the result of jealousy or concern on her behalf. The truth of this latter, Clytie thought she must find out. “Distinguishing attentions? Hardly that. Why are you so distressed, Nikki? Is not Mr. Thorne a friend of yours? Most people judge him a fine figure of a man.”

“Oh, Duke is well enough in looks.” Lady Sweetbriar had not failed to note Miss Clough’s wistful tone. Perhaps the poor child’s hopeless passion might be nipped in the bud. “It is his character which will not withstand the light of day. You look startled. Are you thinking that because Duke and I are friends I should not speak so? But I have known him forever—yes, and many is the time I have had to pull a long face over one of his escapades.”

As opposed to long faces, Lady Sweetbriar had—at least within Miss Clough’s range of vision—appeared to enjoy Mr. Thorne excessively. Making ladies happy was a philanderer’s métier, of course—all the same, something in Nikki’s tale did not ring true. Could Nikki in her own turn be trying to put Clytie off the scent, lest Sir Avery came to share his daughter’s suspicions? If Nikki thought Sir Avery would pay attention to any suspicions not presented to him in ancient cuneiform writing, she did not know her fiancé very well.

From Miss Clough’s polite silence, Lady Sweetbriar deduced very correctly that the damsel was not convinced. “To use the word with no bark on it, Duke is a devilish ugly customer, my dear. The tales I could tell you—”

“Pray do,” Miss Clough promptly invited. Not only Lady Sweetbriar was perceptive; Clytie had noticed that her companion refused to meet her eyes. “Enlighten me.”

Alas, Lady Sweetbriar could not. She knew of nothing against Marmaduke Thorne except this avarice that he suddenly displayed, and it hardly behooved Nikki to castigate someone for dangling after a fortune or two. “I
could
tell you,” she said sternly, “were you not a young lady, which you are! You must take my word for it that Duke is a very harum-scarum fellow who does things in a very hugger-mugger way. A gay deceiver who will play you false, just as he did me, those many years ago.”

Definitely Lady Sweetbriar sought to give her a disgust of Marmaduke Thorne, reflected Miss Clough; but why? There seemed only one reasonable reason: Nikki wanted Duke herself.

Surely she could not look on Clytie as a rival? “I had the impression that the shoe was on the other foot,” remarked Miss Clough.

“The shoe— You mean that I played Duke false?” One could, supposed Lady Sweetbriar, view the matter in that light. Memories overwhelmed her. “It was very stupidly done of me,” she murmured.

Stupidly? But Lady Sweetbriar had just finished saying Mr. Thorne was a gay deceiver. Gently, Miss Clough pointed out this fact.

Miss Clough, reflected Lady Sweetbriar, had an aggravating habit of dwelling upon the weak points in an argument. “It was all so long ago,” retorted Nikki with a dismissive wave of one hand. “Perhaps the details have got a little muddled in my mind. All the same, it utterly sinks my spirits to think that you might be similarly deceived.” The irony of the situation struck her. “My own stepdaughter, alas.”

“I am not your stepdaughter yet,” Miss Clough pointed out. “And when I become so, I trust you will not make it your habit to tell me whiskers, Nikki.” Or
if
she became so, Clytie amended silently.

“Whiskers! Next I suppose you will accuse me of nourishing some dastardly design.” So incensed was Lady Sweetbriar by this eminently reasonable accusation that she hopped up from her chair. Conscience, awakened by Miss Clough’s satiric glance, prompted her to add: “At least I give good value! Oh, this is such an awkward situation. Clytie, you must perceive that it would be the most ruinous of entanglements were you and Duke—” She closed her eyes in prayer.

Said Miss Clough, in response to this impassioned speech: “Watch out for that chair.” Lady Sweetbriar’s dark eyes flew open. Directly in her pathway was one of her satin-upholstered, oval-backed chairs. Only by utilizing her parasol as a brake did Nikki avoid pitching head first into its overstuffed seat.