Maggie MacKeever (21 page)

“H-heavens!” Tibby replied.

“Her hair,” said Phyllida decisively. “We must do something about her hair.” Tibby stood before them meekly, her plumpness gone. Unfortunately, she remained decidedly plain.

“What are you going to do?” Loveday asked. “Crop it?”

“To begin with.” Phyllida brandished the scissors, a creative glow in her eye. “Then we shall color it. Sit here, Tibby.”

“I’ve always wished to be blonde,” Tibby commented, watching with interest as clumps of her hair fell to the floor.

“Phyl,” Loveday asked with growing suspicion, “what do you know about coloring hair?”

Phyllida grinned. “Well, consider,” she replied, her nimble fingers applying the scissors with great dexterity. “There has not been a russet-haired Assheton for many generations past. My great-great-great-grandmother, to be precise.”

“Phyllida, you don’t!”

“Indeed I do,” retorted her friend with some acerbity. Loveday stared at the auburn head with no little consternation and promptly revised her opinion of Phyllida. In her experience, only dowagers and immoral women dyed their hair. She chortled.

“Are you going to make my hair r-red?” Tibby asked timidly. “I do not think Mrs. Merryweather would approve.”

“Damn and blast Mrs. Merryweather!” muttered Phyllida, a comb between her teeth. “She sounds a wretched creature.”

“Well, yes,” Tibby agreed meekly. “But she means well. She’s devoted to us.”

“She’s an incurable busybody,” Loveday declared. “But red, Phyl? Do you think it will serve?”

“No, I do not!” Phyllida retorted, surveying her handiwork. “And no, Tibby, you may not look until I am finished.” She rummaged in her dressing case.

“Loveday,” Dillian said, bursting into the room. “Mrs. Snugglebutt said you were looking for me.” Her fascinated gaze fell upon Tibby. “Gracious!”

“We are debating the color of her hair,” Loveday explained.

“Not red,” Phyllida mumbled from the depths of her case. “I do not care to make known my secret to all.”

“Oh!” Dillian sat down. Phyllida rose, flushed but victorious, clutching several packets of powder and innumerable pots with pretty engraved lids.

“Darker, I think,” Phyllida commented judiciously. “To set off her skin.”

Three pairs of eyes surveyed Tibby critically. She felt uncomfortably like a freak in a traveling exhibit.

“Chestnut!” declared Dillian, entering into the spirit of the thing.

“Right you are!” Phyllida prepared to set to work.

“Her gown’s pink,” Loveday offered diffidently. She knew herself to be in the presence of true genius.

“Not for long,” Phyllida replied grimly, a martial sparkle in her eye. “Fortunately she’s brought it with her.”

Tibby resigned herself to the hands of experts. Little had she suspected, when she came to call on Loveday, what fate held in store. She had only wished to ask what could be done to the offending gown to make it more becoming to her, for she considered Loveday well-versed in the niceties of female attire, but Loveday and Phyllida had immediately recognized a challenge worthy of their combined skills.

“Will this really make a d-difference?” she asked shyly, from the depths of the basin into which Phyllida had remorselessly shoved her head.

“Be quiet!” Phyllida remonstrated. “You wouldn’t wish to swallow this stuff.”

“By the time we’re done with you,” Loveday soothed, “you’ll be ravishing.”

“But I’m not even pretty!” Tibby yelped. Phyllida rapped her smartly on the head.

“I told you to be quiet,” snapped that proper matron, who was after all only thirty-and-five, increasing, and not long on patience. “One does not need to be pretty to be eye-catching. Look at Loveday.”

“I think Loveday’s very pretty!” protested Tibby, and was rewarded by a pitcher of hot water poured over her head. “Ouch!”

“If you don’t stop chattering,” Phyllida threatened, “I shall abandon you this very moment.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Tibby promised and pressed her lips firmly together. Phyllida attacked the sopping head with undiminished vigor.

“Loveday is not pretty,” Phyllida continued patiently, as if speaking to one of her children. “Lady Laurent is pretty, as is that abominable Dorcas. Loveday is out of the ordinary and casts them both into the shade. Dillian of course is quite beautiful; you won’t be able to compete with her, I’m afraid.”

“Umph,” agreed Tibby, who only wished to capture Averil’s eye and had no thought to spare for her bespoken husband, whose infatuation with Loveday had grown exceedingly tedious of late. It did occur to her that her schoolgirl infatuation with the Duke of Chesshire would not have been so long-lived had he not been always so unfailingly kind to her. That was one advantage: he might not view her with overwhelming ardor, but he did regard her in a friendly light. Small favors were better than none.

“We have the advantage of youth,” murmured Loveday, upon whom Phyllida’s gallant speech had not been wasted.

“Piffle, my girl!” retorted Phyllida, with a speaking glance. “There are gentlemen who prefer more mature charms.”

Dillian, meanwhile, had opened the box that contained Tibby’s dress. She gazed upon it with horror.

“It won’t do.” Loveday pulled the offending garment from its wrappings. “It’s actually even worse than I’d expected.”

“Let’s see,” said Phyllida, leaving Tibby dripping over the basin. “Lud, the woman has abominable taste!”

“It can be saved, I think,” Loveday murmured thoughtfully. “We shall remove this, and this, and this.” Her finger stabbed accusingly.

“My gown!” wailed Tibby.

“Never mind,” consoled Phyllida. “If we ruin it, you shall have one of mine. It will have to be dyed. And do remove that wretched lace. We don’t want her to look like a simpering schoolgirl.”

“No, indeed!” agreed Loveday, who was enjoying herself immensely. “Where are the scissors?”

Dillian found her voice. “Those flowers must go, too.”

“Save them!” Phyllida instructed, busy again at the basin. “She can wear a few in her hair.”

“They’re the wrong color.”

“We’ll dye them, also! And Tibby had best stay here until the ball; we’ll need her help if we’re to accomplish all this.”

“A famous idea!” Loveday agreed. “I’ll persuade Isolda to send a note to the squire.” She sped quickly from the room.

* * * *

Everyone had forgotten Felicity, an event that did not displease her, for she had a scheme of her own to pursue. Felicity was furious with Theo for his prolonged absence, and had concluded that he was both a coward and a fool. He’d no doubt come to fear the consequences of Lord Vere’s wrath; a pity, the abduction was an excellent plan. Perhaps he’d even returned to London without her. If so, he was twice a fool to leave her firmly entrenched in his ancestral home.

Felicity surveyed herself in the watery mirror. She too was much thinner, but without recourse to Tibby’s vinegar diet; the tasteless food served in Theo’s home was enough to cause anyone’s loss of appetite. Felicity looked at the dark wig that hid her curls, and was satisfied; the wig, with the cloak that was an exact duplicate of one of Loveday’s, affected a startling disguise. Felicity had reason to be grateful that the local seamstress was not impervious to bribes. In all but the sharpest light, anyone would take her for Loveday, and that suited her purpose admirably. She hummed as she removed the wig, for Felicity meant to attend the duchess’ ball.

The village buzzed with talk of the upcoming
rout,
for Ballerfast had not seen such sociality for many years. Felicity did not plan to dance, or even to grace the ballroom with her presence; even her daring was not that great. She would be present, all the same; she would watch and wait for the opportunity to lure Averil to her side again.

It should not be difficult, she thought; not with the Fairchild girl betrothed to Jasper Assheton. It seemed she’d mistaken that glance of Averil’s. He was far too cold-blooded to allow himself to develop an interest in another man’s affianced bride.

Felicity’s last assault upon the castle had been successful; she had found a hidden door. That particular reconnaissance had been undertaken without Theo’s knowledge, and she was glad that his absence prevented her from sharing the discovery with him, for she suspected that he would speedily thwart her plans. Felicity couldn’t imagine that Theo would willingly see her return to Averil’s arms.

The ascent was tricky, involving as it did an attack upon the castle’s ruined wing, but Felicity had no doubt of her ability to navigate the wall without mishap. Her training stood her in good stead; not for nothing was she a high skilled opera dancer. Caution would be advisable; she did not intend to arrive until well after dark for secrecy was essential to her plan, but she had her pathway fixed firmly in her mind. She had no doubt of her success, or that Averil might refuse to return to London with her. Humming to herself, Felicity donned her finest bonnet and set out to make some last minute purchases.

* * * *

Tibby’s father was not surprised by the duchess’ peremptory demand for his daughter’s presence; he might be a mere country squire but his lineage was as impressive as Isolda’s own. More so, perhaps; no hint of scandal attached itself to his name. It was fitting that Tibby visit the castle, though it was beyond him what help the ninnyhammer could be. Isolda must know best there; no doubt she’d some simple task in mind that Tibby could perform successfully.

The squire was often dismayed by his only offspring, and wondered what forgotten sin had brought her down upon his head. It must have been of some magnitude, that unremembered trespass, for not only had he been denied the stalwart sons he’d so desired, he was plagued with a plain, dowdy, timid female, who now voiced an uncharacteristic determination to break her engagement to her cousin George. Her longsuffering sire would doubtless still be saddled with her at his deathbed, and she’d hover over him mercilessly, fluttering her hands and dousing him with vile draughts, stammering and speeding his demise.

He snorted. The Duchess of Chesshire was welcome to the girl. The squire fingered the key to his liquor cabinet, and bellowed for his housekeeper. Aghast, Mrs. Merryweather quickly warned her employer of the innumerable dangers inherent in exposing his daughter to the demoralizing influence of Loveday Fairchild.

“Fairchild,” repeated Tibby’s fond parent, as he poured himself a liberal dollop of brandy. “Harry Fairchild’s daughter?”

“The same!” Mrs. Merryweather would have added a great deal more, had the opportunity presented itself.

It did not. “I knew Harry as a lad,” the squire went on. “A great gun he was! A regular Trojan. The girl ain’t disgraced herself, has she?”

Whatever her faults, Mrs. Merryweather was honest. “No,” she replied, “not precisely that, but she’s wild to a fault, and can only set a shocking example for dear Isabella.”

“Not quite the thing, eh?” Tibby’s sire inquired with great perspicacity. “Harry was deemed eccentric in his day; I daresay the chit is prodigiously like him.
She
won’t be wanting in dash!” He spared a thought for his daughter, who promised to decline into a fubsy-faced old maid. The housekeeper was moved to further protest, but the squire irritably cut her off.

“What maggot have you taken into your head?” he inquired testily. “Harry Fairchild was a regular out-and-outer, and I make no doubt his daughter’s the same. It might do Tibby some good to rub shoulders with a female who ain’t abominably goosish!” Mrs. Merryweather gasped, but the squire continued inexorably. “Next thing you’ll be raising a dust because Tibby’s frittered away her chances. Dashed if I’ve ever heard such a tempest in a teapot!”

Mrs. Merryweather realized, for once, that further protest would be useless. With an indignant sniff, she departed to gather the things that her young mistress would require.

Neither the housekeeper nor Tibby’s father had any suspicion that the polite, if imperious, request for Tibby’s presence had not been Isolda’s choice. Loveday had been forced to exert a great deal of charm before the duchess would even consider the idea; and it was not until Loveday promised that Tibby would cause the servants no extra work that Isolda was brought to agree. To the old woman’s way of thinking, her home already housed strangers aplenty.

Loveday and Dillian had dragged a huge tub up to Phyllida’s room, Phyllida being exempted from such labors by her interesting condition and advanced age. Tibby watched with some dismay as her mentors tested the water for warmth and dumped various packets of powder into the tub’s depths.

“Are you sure this won’t ruin it?” she asked weakly.

Phyllida callously plunged the denuded gown into the water’s depths. “Never a bit!” she said cheerfully. Dillian and Loveday bent over the tub, watching the proceedings with interest. Verdelet, whiskers twitching, precipitated a near disaster by balancing on the basin’s edge. Tibby burst into giggles.

“You look like witches b-bending over a c-cauldron,” she gasped. Phyllida stepped back and pushed her hair from her forehead, leaving an interesting purple stain, then grabbed the protesting cat and tucked him firmly under one arm. She surveyed Tibby with a now-familiar expression of speculation.

“And now,” said that matron, who just then looked no more than twenty, purple stain and all, “to continue.”

“C-c-continue?” Tibby had just suffered a severe shock; she’d caught a forbidden glimpse of herself and was greatly taken aback. She supposed she’d get used to those rich brown flyaway curls in time, but she certainly didn’t look like herself. She wondered what George would say, and hoped perversely that he would be shocked.

“My dear child,” Phyllida deposited Verdelet on the floor and grasped a number of pots, “we have just begun!”

On second thought, Tibby decided, looking unlike herself might be a very good thing.

Chapter 14

Theo
was outraged, and determined upon
revenge. His kidnappers had been correct in assuming that he’d raise no public outcry, such was not Theo’s way, but those responsible would pay dearly for this latest indignity. As if it weren’t enough that he had been drugged and shamelessly manhandled, he had been forced to effect an escape by swimming a great distance in extremely cold waters. It would be miraculous if he avoided a chill.  Even worse, his clothing had been ruined. Theo had been particularly fond of that costume, and could not appreciate his antagonists’ well-laid plans for his involuntary absence from the scene.