Maggie MacKeever (20 page)

Viscount English wished he might agree. Though even the enterprising Milhouse sisters dared not try and breach the sacred gates of Almack’s, they doubtless lay even now in ambush and would fall on him immediately when he stepped outside.

It was on a Wednesday evening that the preceding conversation took place, at one of the Subscription Balls held regularly during the Season at the Assembly Rooms in King Street, Saint James’s. No rowdy revels were these, though vouchers of admission were greatly in demand; the dance floor was mediocre, the refreshment unexciting, the dancing dull and decorous. Yet no one was deemed fashionable who had never been seen at Almack’s, but a prodigious amount of time and energy was devoted to securing an
entrée.
Laurie supposed his own
entrée
would be irrevocably revoked, were his descent from honorable gentlemanly precepts made known to the committee of patronesses who ruled this place. He glanced around the large bare room, half of which was partitioned off from dancing by crimson ropes, and wondered if that would be so bad a thing.

Discouraged to discover that her most devoted beau was absolutely enraptured by another woman—what other reason could there be for his silence regarding Miss Phyfe?—Lady Barbour sighed. She would have to be more explicit. Laurie must be made aware that the object of his affections was prone to paroxysms of debauchery, no matter how distasteful the task.

“And then again,” she murmured with somewhat unseemly enthusiasm, “things might be even
worse
than they seem! There has been a shocking want of openness about my cousin’s conduct, and so I told her. And what did she do but fly into a passion when I hinted that she should refrain from making so ungainly an exhibition of herself.” Again she paused. Again the viscount remained silent. “I marvel at you, Laurie! Here I am telling you that I saw my cousin being embraced by a notorious rakehell and you have nothing to say!”

The viscount had not been properly attending to his companion’s conversation; he had instead allowed himself to be bemused by the various expressions that flitted across her lovely little face. “Hmmm?” he now said. “I must have mistaken your meaning. It sounded like you just remarked that Miss Phyfe is embracing rakehells.”

“You do not wish to believe it,” commiserated Sidoney. “I understand! After all, Morgan
is
my cousin, and one does not like to think that members of one’s own family are depraved! But there is no other explanation. I saw Darby embrace her with my own two eyes, and I don’t know what further proof of wicked arts and contrivances anyone could need!”

She was chagrined, decided the viscount; she wanted Darby for herself. Many females did, the viscount gathered, though he couldn’t see the man’s allure himself. The ladies were ever unpredictable creatures. And not only the ladies. Try as he might, Laurie could not imagine why any rakehell should wish to embrace the seditious Morgan Phyfe.

“And if you
do
need further proof,” added Lady Barbour, irritated by the viscount’s failure to acknowledge the perfidy of his ladylove, “I might point out that Morgan has deliberately tried to steal all my
beaux
away! I am very sorry for you, Laurie; I know I encouraged your admiration for my cousin, but that was when I still thought her a respectable female! Not a shameless creature who is at any moment like to plunge us all into some vile scandal! No wonder Morgan is so concerned with the plight of female prisoners. She is no better than they are, and likely to wind up in gaol herself!”

With that sentiment, Viscount English agreed; was not fear that Sidoney would accompany her seditious cousin to Newgate Prison the basis of his own association with Miss Phyfe? Nothing in that association, however, had prepared him to believe that she was the sort of female prone to dalliance with rakehells.

Could Sidoney have misinterpreted the situation? He looked at her. Lady Barbour returned his gaze, meanwhile nibbling on her lower lip. She was perfectly capable of misinterpreting any number of situations, decided the viscount, who was not blinded by sentiment to the fact that Lady Barbour was chuckle-brained.

Yet what other explanation could exist for Miss Phyfe’s acceptance of the advances of a hardened rakeshame? Laurie was too well acquainted with Morgan to even briefly conclude that her behavior lacked ulterior motives. Ladies with such highly developed social consciences were not prone to amorous dalliance. Could Miss Phyfe have attempted in so unconventional a manner to further her favorite interest, parliamentary reform?

“Fudge!” responded Lady Barbour when this viewpoint was expressed. “You are determined to think I am bird-witted, it seems! I tell you all manner of gentlemen are telling Morgan things they shouldn’t—as I have told you. Yes, and
showing
her, too!”

Viscount English did remember Sidoney explaining something of the sort; it had to do with doctors and babies, he thought. Had Sidoney said Miss Phyfe had undertaken to tell people how many babies they could have? Surely not. It seemed that Miss Phyfe was not the only member of her family prone to get the wrong sow by the ear. Unless—

Morgan had already demonstrated her concern for Sidoney, whom she believed ripe for any lark. “Devil” Darby was notorious for his predilection for the same. Perhaps Morgan sought to save her cousin from the advances of Lord Darby by attracting them herself.

Lady Barbour had grown so very dispirited as result of the viscount’s wrongheadedness that she allowed a scowl to mar the perfection of her brow. “And furthermore, she was
tipsy
when I caught her with Darby; As if the empty bottle were not proof enough, she called me a saphead!”

This blatant cruelty, the viscount could not condone, despite the purity of Miss Phyfe’s motives, and his own acquaintance with the exasperation that prompted so uncivil an outburst. Some quarter must be given Miss Phyfe, nonetheless, if his suspicions were correct. “Upon my word!” he said vaguely, as he grappled with the startling concept of Morgan Phyfe,
femme fatale.

Lady Barbour, who did not share the viscount’s suspicions, strove with all her might against an inclination to box his inattentive ears. “I am very disappointed in my cousin,” she said. “As must you be.”

Viscount English was feeling nothing of the sort; on the contrary, he had, as regarded the interfering Miss Phyfe, never before felt in such charity. “Oh, no!” said he.

Sidoney’s eyes widened. “No?” she echoed doubtfully.

“No.” Though the viscount could not reveal Morgan’s motives without queering her game, he could try and insure there was no permanent estrangement. “Things are not as they seem; depend on it!”

“Good Gad!” tittered Sidoney. “I don’t know how else they could be—unless you mean I should misdoubt the evidence of my own two eyes! Laurie, I have told you the extent of Morgan’s depravity. You must agree that she is quite dead to shame!” She blinked at him. “Mustn’t you? I mean, it would be perfectly understandable if your sentiments had changed.”

The viscount’s feelings had not altered one iota, either toward Lady Barbour or Morgan Phyfe. What a foolish creature Sidoney was, he fondly thought; she was agitated beyond measure by the fear that his affections had strayed. More than anything at this moment, he wished to see her smile. To that end, he said what he knew must please her. “My sentiments have not altered one iota!” he murmured. “I am very
much in charity with Miss Phyfe.”

Had her excellent ears abruptly played her false? wondered Sidoney, as she stared open-mouthed. Or had Laurie, that highest of sticklers, just announced that he didn’t mind if his ladylove indulged in paroxysms of debauchery?

Sidoney thought she must find out. “You mean you don’t
mind
about Morgan and Darby?”

“Mind? Why should I?” inquired the viscount as he led Lady Barbour once more onto the dance floor. “Your cousin may flirt with anyone she likes.”

Sidoney was amazed by the degree of the viscount’s devotion; no one had ever cared for
her
half so much. “But, Laurie—”

“What?” So anguished was Lady Barbour’s tone that the viscount thought he must have trod on her foot. Then he realized the source of her dismay. “It’s not that I don’t
mind,
so much—but if a lady likes flirtation, what’s a fellow to do when he’s no great hand at it? It would be very petty to prohibit her having her little bits of fun—and now that I consider it, better that she have her fun now rather than after the knot is tied.”

This singular concept of courtship and matrimony left the voluble Lady Barbour temporarily tongue-tied. Laurie was even nobler of character than she’d realized, as witnessed by his avowed refusal to interfere with his ladylove’s ‘bits of fun’. Indeed, as far as ladyloves were concerned, the viscount was obviously a babe in the woods. Certainly he was no match for the perfidious Morgan Phyfe.

Could Lady Barbour abandon the most devoted of her
beaux
in this, his hour of need? Would she raise no finger to prevent his becoming a depraved hussy’s prey?

She could not, would not, even if she must lower herself to try and alienate the affections her most devoted beau had so imprudently bestowed upon another female. No matter what sacrifice it cost her, Laurie must not be allowed to squander his devotion on so unworthy an object.

“Pooh!” she said, so suddenly that the viscount missed a step. “I’ll warrant that with a little practice
you could be as successful in the petticoat-line as even Darby. If you like, I can drop a hint or two—not that
I
am in the petticoat-line! But I
am
an arrant flirt, as Morgan has told me more than enough times! Unless you feel that I am being presumptuous in offering you my advice?”

Presented with yet another opportunity to demonstrate his refinement of nature, his nobility of soul, Viscount English fell yet again far short of the mark. No word of confession passed his lips—and of confessions the viscount had his share to make. Instead, he warmly pressed Lady Barbour’s hand.

“Presumptuous?” he repeated. “Fascinating, bewitching, lovely, yes; but never presumptuous. I
do
wish your advice, Sidoney. I positively crave it! Tell me, where shall I begin?”

Chapter Eighteen

“This, sir,” said Miss Whateley, “is the Royal Exchange. The first Royal Exchange on this site was founded by a city merchant who had spent several years in Belgium and admired the Great Bourse in Antwerp, He offered to build a similar Exchange in London, where city merchants could meet to do business. In 1571 the Exchange was officially opened by Queen Elizabeth. You look surprised. The information is available to anyone who seeks it. The original Exchange was destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666. The Gresham grasshopper which now surmounts the clock tower survived the disaster.”

“Fascinating!” murmured her companion.

“Do you think so?” Miss Whateley was gratified. “The original Exchange was not covered, and the rain and damp discouraged the foreign merchants, who protested at having to show their wares in open markets. You will notice how the covered arcades leading off this great court now point out to the merchants of every nation their places of assembly. You will also note the statue of Charles II that stands in the center, and the statues of other sovereigns placed in niches around. I am personally most impressed by Henry VIII, from all accounts a most remarkable man.”

Miss Whateley’s companion nourished no passion for architecture or statuary or history. “I am certain someone told me you had no conversation!” he remarked. “I wish that I might remember who it was so that I might set the record straight. You have so very
much
conversation that it is difficult to get a word in edgewise—which, I must conclude, is the point of it.”

Though Miss Whateley’s face turned an unbecoming shade of pink, she persevered. “Over there is Lloyd’s Coffee House, which is a meeting place for insurance underwriters and people connected with ships and cargoes and all things pertaining to the sea. It is a very dirty place, I understand, despite the vast sums of money that are exchanged there each day, and the excellent reputation for honesty and integrity of the business methods there employed. Lloyd’s List is a most accurate publication dealing with every detail of maritime news. During the recent wars subscriptions running into large figures were raised at Lloyd’s for the relief of the families of seamen lost in the hostilities.”

More recent hostilities concerned Miss Whateley’s companion, as he gently intimated, “Trying it on much too rare and thick, my dear. You might as well stop trying to pull the wool over my eyes. It is not at all the thing for a well-brought-up young lady to venture out unprotected into the streets—as I suspect you know as well as I.”

“I doubt that anyone knows as much about impropriety as you, sir!” Callie responded bluntly. “I don’t suppose it would do the least bit of good to suggest you are
de trop?
I thought not. Very well. If you wish to be third party to an assignation, I can’t prevent you, odd as I may think it! Although, I would have thought you had more interesting things to do.”

“I do,” retorted Miss Whateley’s unwelcome escort, with equal candor. “But I feel a sense of obligation to the lady responsible for your well-being, and therefore cannot in good conscience leave you to wander unprotected through the streets. In London all manner of peril lurks in wait for the unwary, Miss Whateley.” He glanced around as if expecting to glimpse peril personified. “Even in the Royal Exchange.”

Unaware of the three avaricious sisters who so frequently lurked in all manner of diverse corners—in wait for suitable quarry—Miss Whateley thought her companion remarkably poor-spirited. “Yes, but an obligation to
which
of the ladies responsible for me, Darby?” she now inquired, “because they are at daggers’ points, and I make no doubt it is over you.”

Long beyond experiencing satisfaction at the revelation that ladies had come to dagger-drawing over him, Lord Darby quirked a brow. “You astonish me, Miss Whateley. I am certain I was told not only that you had no conversation, but that you were excessively shy. Something to do with hiding behind potted plants, I believe. Yet here you are, determined to set out unescorted through the streets of London to keep an assignation, and meanwhile taking
me
to task. It is all most intriguing. I do not think I will be content until you have explained.”