Maggie MacKeever (21 page)

If his lordship hoped to discompose Miss Whateley, his efforts were in vain. Miss Whateley was not susceptible to graceful figures and swarthy dissipated features and disenchanted gray eyes. In point of fact, Miss Whateley considered Lord Darby not only overrated but, at eight-and-thirty, verging on decrepitude.

But if Miss Whateley’s sensible outlook had no place in it for the titillations attendant upon the companionship of legendary, if aging, rakehells, she at least was unaware of all the fun she was destined to miss. Too, she was able to speak freely to Lord Darby, since having neither liking nor admiration for him, she similarly felt no constraint.

“I wish I might,” she responded, frowning, “but I can make precious little sense of the business. My stepmama and Miss Phyfe are as cross as crabs with one another, but I cannot determine precisely what all the fuss is about. Of course I know that my stepmama caught you and Morgan in compromising circumstances; I think the whole household must know, because Sidoney flew straight into the boughs. I think if you wish to embrace Miss Phyfe in the future, sir, you should do it somewhere other than Phyfe House.”

Lord Darby, recalling the last occasion when Lady Barbour had burst into the sitting room in the grip of a distempered freak, wholeheartedly agreed. “You are a very unusual young lady,” he remarked.

“So would you be, had you been residing with my stepmama these past several years,” replied Callie gloomily, “and being constantly told that you must make an effort to be conciliating, because nothing else will do for a female who is dowdy-looking and fubsy-faced. Especially one who has no fortune to recommend her, and who may consequently very properly expect to be left upon the shelf. According to Sidoney, I must have been born at my last prayers. She expects that I will retire after my unsuccessful Season and become some sort of handmaiden to her, which she seems to consider an appropriate situation for a female who never
took.”

Part of the reason for Lord Darby’s great success with the gentle sex was his ability to enter into the feelings of every female with whom he spoke. In this instance, he could empathize very strongly with Miss Whateley, for he vividly recalled his own vision of purgatory, endured in the company of a garrulous peagoose. “You do not agree.”

“I do not.” Callie’s restraint merited applause. “But I have strayed from the subject, I think. One of the reasons my stepmama is so angry with Morgan is because she thinks Morgan has encouraged my interest in an ineligible
parti.
Sidoney has grown indefatigable on the subject of ineligible
partis.
And though it is true that Morgan did not try and discourage me, Alister is not so ineligible as all that. Sidoney has taken a most unreasoning dislike to him and goes on as if it would be a dreadful thing to have a physician in the family.” Her cheeks by now were bright scarlet. “Not that it signifies, because he has not given the least indication that he wishes to offer for me.”

Though Lord Darby was not especially interested in any romances other than his own, he was not so callous as to deprive a young lady of the chance to discuss the subject dearest to her heart. Also, he had not yet despaired of an opportunity to advance in the good graces of Miss Phyfe. “Yet you are in the habit of assignations,” he remarked.

“You need not sound so
censorious,”
Callie said crossly. “It was not like that. Alister is interested in architecture, as am I; we have merely inspected such edifying institutions as the Tower and the Mansion House and the Guildhall. Your skepticism is patent, Lord Darby. It is also most unjust. I didn’t leap to conclusions when Sidoney told me she had caught you and Miss Phyfe in a compromising situation—at least no conclusion except that my stepmama is a cabbage-head. Yet you immediately think the worst of me. I collect it must be because you know much more of the world. All the same, there’s no need for anyone to make a piece of work at it. Alister has never treated me with anything but the utmost propriety.”

That it was hardly the utmost propriety to encourage a damsel to wander unescorted through the wicked streets of London, Lord Darby did not remark; nor that it was scarce more laudable to take her sight-seeing inadequately chaperoned. “He sounds a wretchedly cold fish,” his lordship murmured sympathetically. “What
do
you talk about?”

“Dr. Kilpatrick is not a cold fish!” Miss Whateley responded, with a severe glance. “He is a very considerate escort, and his conversation is most elevating. He has told me many interesting things about such diseases as measles and scarlet fever and Saint Vitus’s dance. And he has loaned me several enlightening volumes to read, including Baille’s
Morbid Anatomy
and Withering’s
Account of the Foxglove.”

Miss Whateley’s concept of an interesting conversation differed drastically from Lord Darby’s own. “This Kilpatrick sounds a worthy sort.”

“He sounds dull, you mean.” Miss Whateley not only possessed good common sense, she was also shrewd. “I daresay he must seem so to you, sir, but you are not
serious.
I do not mind in the least that Alister chatters away to me about such things. It is a welcome change after listening to my stepmama’s warnings that I must become an ape-leader, and Morgan’s orations on parliamentary reform.”

Lord Darby was not dismayed to be judged and found wanting, since said judgment acquitted him of being a dull dog. “You are not in favor of parliamentary reform. Miss Whateley? That does surprise me. I would not have thought you one to approve class privilege.” He smiled.

“You refer to my assignations with an ineligible
parti?”
Callie grimaced rather endearingly. “It is not that I disapprove of reform, but I seriously question whether the mere reform of Parliament will erase basic social ills. In theory it is all very nice; in practice I suspect it is impractical. Reformers often are, I think.” Frowning, she regarded her escort. “You don’t seem to lack for sense, sir.
Do
you fancy my stepmama? She said that’s the only reason you embraced Miss Phyfe, which has me quite in a puzzle; I do not understand why a gentleman who favors one lady should embrace another, but Sidoney promises me that’s the way the thing is done.”

“If so, this is the first I’ve heard of it!” responded his lordship. “And I hope I may not sound immodest, but I
would
have heard of it, were it true.”

“That’s what I thought.” Miss Whateley appeared relieved. “Not that you would have heard of it, but that Sidoney was simply in her airs again. I did not argue with her, thinking it none of my business.”

“What of Miss Phyfe?” Lord Darby inquired delicately. “I doubt I dare hope Lady Barbour refrained from sharing her bacon-brained philosophy.”

A look of intense speculation settled on Callie’s unprepossessing features, but its provocation she did not explain. “You are correct; my stepmama did not refrain. Additionally, she accused Morgan of trying to steal a march on her and cast her into the shade. Somehow Sidoney has taken the notion that Morgan is trying to alienate all her
beaux
and is in one of her takings about it. And believe me, sir, when my stepmama gets on her high ropes, the whole world is made to pay a penalty.”

Lord Darby didn’t care a button if the skitterwitted Lady Barbour was out of frame. “What was Miss Phyfe’s response to these allegations?” he inquired.

“Morgan called my stepmama a saphead, and my stepmama called Morgan a depraved hussy, and the next thing I knew they were engaged in a brangle in the dining room. It quite spoiled my breakfast. Rowdy-dows do not assist the digestive processes. Nor in this case did it assist me to understand more properly just what has put my stepmama in such a dreadful tweak. I know she does not approve of my seeing Alister, or of Morgan’s embracing you, but there is more to it than that, I think.” In an effort at comprehension, Callie chewed the inside of her cheek. “Sidoney distinctly mentioned a masked chevalier several times, and said something about overthrowing the king. She kept hinting that Morgan knew a great deal more about babies than she should. While I do not especially approve of Morgan’s writing pamphlets about such things, that is none of my business either— nor is it my stepmama’s, even if Morgan
did
glean her knowledge firsthand. But I would very much like to know who is this masked chevalier and what he has to do with anything.”

On that head, Miss Whateley’s curiosity was shared. Lord Darby did not inform her so, or explain that his inquiries into the matter had met with a singular lack of success. For all his lordship could determine to the contrary, Lady Barbour’s masked admirer might have sprung into existence merely to romance her, might indeed have had no existence at all save In her own thoughts, which was not an unreasonable conclusion, given the fertile quality of the lady’s overheated brain.

Miss Whateley sighed. “They are not speaking to one another—at least not directly. Instead they relay messages through me. It is not an especially pleasant pastime to thus function as mediator between two ladies who are pinching at one another and pulling caps, I do assure you, sir. When Morgan left for one of her committee meetings, and my stepmama set out to soothe her shattered sensibilities with a shopping excursion, I slipped away to meet Alister.” Her expression was beseeching. “That is the entire truth, I swear. There is nothing untoward about my conduct, unmaidenly as it may appear.”

“And therefore you hope I will refrain from tale pitching?” Lord Darby offered shrewdly. “Reluctant as I am to disappoint a young lady, I do not know if I can do that.”

“Oh, you
could!”
retorted Miss Whateley, not best pleased to be balked. For a damsel with a marked dislike of idle chatter, she had prosed on at startling length, as result of which she was out of charity with her companion, among whose accomplishments was demonstrably the ability to draw conversation from a stone. In short, he had led her right up the garden path. By the reflection that many another lady had trod that route before her. Miss Whateley was not consoled. “Had you any reason to court
my
good graces, which you patently do not. What now, sir? Will you return me to Phyfe House like some escaped felon, thus insinuating yourself into Morgan’s good graces? Or Sidoney’s? A pity, but I do not think that even you can please them both!”

“Cut line, my girl!” replied his lordship, with an attitude of unmistakable boredom. “It will accomplish you nothing to kick up a dust. I have no intention of escorting you anywhere. And even if I did, circumstances would require me to give it up.”

No matter how severe her annoyance, Miss Whateley was too sensible to think it would benefit her to take a pet in the Royal Exchange. She took a deep breath. “What circumstances are those, sir?”

“There are two.” Lord Darby did not seem especially happy to point out this fact. “The first, I fancy, is your ineligible
parti.”

“He is
not
ineligible!” snapped Miss Whateley, craning her head. Dr. Kilpatrick did indeed approach, on his homely features an expression very reminiscent of imminent thunderstorm. “Oh dear! And the second circumstance. Darby?”

Silently, his lordship gestured in the opposite direction. An equally hostile-looking Miss Phyfe grimly stalked toward them, strewing papers and pamphlets in her wake.

Chapter Nineteen

It was not concern for her young charge that led Morgan to the Royal Exchange; in point of fact, no thought of Callie had for several moments entered her mind. This omission was due to no dislike of the damsel, nor lack of dismay for her dilemma. Merely, Morgan sought respite from the troubles that buzzed round her aching head, like bees to the honeycomb. Thus, she temporarily set aside all contemplation of sensible young ladies and beautiful peageese and went about her business.

That business this day had been of a serious nature, taking her to a coffeehouse, located near Saint Paul’s cathedral and Ludgate Hill, where she discussed at great length the urgency of reform. Major Cartwright was also present, advocating the formation of local societies linked with each other as well as a central committee. Miss Phyfe had been delighted to discover that a number of these groups were already in existence—a result of the major’s northern tours—and immediately volunteered her services to the Friends of Parliamentary Reform.

Business concluded, Miss Phyfe emerged from the coffeehouse into the busy street. Briskly, she set out, past the impressive bulk of Saint Paul’s, designed by Sir Christopher Wren who, during his early excavations, had unearthed Saxon and Roman cemeteries. In front of the cathedral was a statue of Queen Anne.

Miss Phyfe’s footsteps faltered. She glanced up at the building, built of Portland stone in the shape of a Latin cross. Morgan felt the need of spiritual succor. She ventured within.

No easing of her troubles awaited Miss Phyfe in Saint Paul’s, alas; there was for her no respite among those memorials and graves, the paintings of James Thornhill depicting the life of Saint Paul, the Griming Gibbons choir stalls and organ case. Not even thought of the great Lord Nelson—buried in the place of honor in a coffin made from the main mast of the French flagship,
L’Orient,
at the Battle of the Nile—could long distract her from her worries. Feeling even more hopeless than when she had entered the cathedral, Morgan exited.

Positive action was the best medicine for a lady in the mopes, as no lady knew better than Miss Phyfe. Had she not been availing herself of that remedy for years? Although sometimes of late, she had begun to doubt the efficacy of her own cure. Morgan left behind the gardens of Saint Paul’s, embarked upon a circuitous route that took her eventually to a printer in Fleet Street. There she gathered up her latest literary outpourings. The next stop on her agenda was the Royal Exchange.

Briefly, her spirits revived in those surroundings. Nowhere was more of the city’s business conducted than in the coffeehouses that flourished in the warren of narrow courts and alleys surrounding the Royal Exchange. And nowhere, in Miss Phyfe’s opinion, was there a better site for the distribution of seditious literature.