“Ah, to be truly young again!” said Lady Bligh, so aptly that Mignon started. “Alas, I am not, my dear. The frailties of age have crept into these weary bones. Now I find myself no longer capable of the things I wish to do.”
Had Mignon been longer acquainted with Lady Bligh, she might have derived no small amusement from this pathetic speech, but Mignon was a girl with a great deal of compassion, and the thought of her aunt so stricken with years filled her with remorse. “Dulcie!” she cried, and hurried across the room. “Are you unwell? Pray tell me what I can do to help you.”
“Dear Mignon. It is good of you to offer, child. But you are much too young to bother with an old wretch like me.” The Baroness drew her shawl more closely around her, as if against the chill. “You should be attending balls and routs, gaily breaking hearts without thought for tomorrow, not running errands for an ancient crone. I would not think of spoiling your pleasure, child.”
Mignon sank to her knees by the couch and took her aunt’s hand. “I didn’t come to Town in search of pleasure, as I think you know. Only tell me what I may do to help you, Dulcie. I’m yours to command.”
The Baroness opened her eyes and smiled. Mignon wondered if she had imagined the mischievous twinkle that danced in those dark eyes before the lids drooped again. “Dear, dear child!” whispered Lady Bligh. “You are so kind.”
Thus it was that when Viscount Jeffries called again at Bligh House, he found that the Baron’s incomparable Drawing Room had become the setting for a touching tableau. The Baroness was posed artistically on a blue striped couch with an orange cat slumbering at her feet. Her niece knelt beside her, looking worried indeed.
“What’s this?” inquired Ivor of Lady Bligh’s butler, who stood at his side. “Is your mistress ill?”
“Maybe, and maybe not.” A muscle twitched at the corner of Gibbon’s mouth. “I wouldn’t venture to say.”
“Gibbon! Give Viscount Jeffries his snuffbox,” said the Baroness, without opening her eyes. To Ivor’s astonishment the butler extended his hand, on which reposed that exquisite porcelain-inlaid piece, then backed out of the room. “Nor,” called Lady Bligh after him, “will you pick the pockets of this particular caller again. Jessop, do come in.”
Already convinced that this errand was a waste of his time, Ivor stepped into the room. “Close the door,” said Dulcie. “Not that I imagine it will do much good.”
Mignon sank down on a stool and regarded their visitor. He might be handsome as Apollo with the sunlight glinting off his red-gold curls, and possess a figure that needed aid from neither buckram nor corseting; he might be elegant and wild and the acknowledged heir to a peerage and a long rent roll; but she could find nothing to admire in him. Or so she sternly told herself.
Ivor had been briefly distracted from his mission by the grandeur of his surroundings, awesome even to one who had been born sucking the proverbial silver spoon. He was especially impressed by the marble fireplace that was so huge a man might stand in it upright or, if he were so inclined, sit in the antique iron grate. In front of the fireplace, a massive gold fire screen framed a plate of glass so transparent that it was scarcely distinguishable from air. A splendid place to toast one’s toes in wintertime, thought Ivor, and smiled at his own whimsy. He turned then, and encountered Mignon’s stare.
The Baroness swung her feet to the ground and sat upright. “Come, Jessop, and sit down. We have much to do in a very short time.”
Somewhat taken aback, Ivor crossed the stone floor. Being both wealthy and personable, and consequently long pursued by marriageable damsels and their hopeful mamas, the Viscount was not accustomed to young ladies who regarded him as if he were the devil incarnate, particularly unprepossessing young ladies with freckles and bright red hair. Mignon, following his thoughts with fair accuracy, frowned even more dreadfully.
“Wrinkles, my child!” said Lady Bligh, and smartly pinched her niece. “As for you, Jessop, I sympathize with your feelings, and confess that my own spirits are of a somewhat melancholy cast. But it will not do to sit back and lament poor Leda’s fate. She is a creature of wit and influence, after all, and could if she chose be courted by the great for her company.” The Baroness sneezed. “A pity that she does not choose! Leda sees and hears much that does not make its way to the printed page.”
“You know then,” Ivor inquired cautiously, trying to make sense of this speech, “that Leda has again been taken into custody?”
“I do,” Dulcie retorted, and Mignon stared. So that was the information that Culpepper had brought! “In connection,” the Baroness added, “with Warwick’s murder. I told her to avoid him but of course she didn’t listen. If ever a man was ripe for murder it was Warwick, and Leda makes a perfect scapegoat.”
Lord Jeffries frowned, an act that made him look very young and vulnerable. Mignon quickly dropped her eyes to her hands and reminded herself that she was mourning the lover who’d been so cruelly torn from her arms. “I tend to agree with you,” he said. “I cannot see Leda provoked to murder. If only we knew the details.”
“We will.” The Baroness smoothed her startling green curls. “You may trust me for that.”
“I think I must,” replied the Viscount ruefully. “Never have I felt so helpless. Even my uncle, who might have been induced to come to Leda’s aid, though not without strenuous protest, is unapproachable,” His mouth twisted wryly. “Percy is suffering from a severe case of the gout, brought on by the consumption of a turkey stuffed with chestnuts.”
“Percy,” Lady Bligh said absently, “is an ass.”
“I don’t suppose,” ventured the Viscount, “that you’d care to tell me how you learned of Leda’s arrest? I don’t believe the matter is generally known.”
“It will be,” the Baroness prophesied. “Mignon, pray fetch our visitor some claret.”
Reluctantly, Mignon rose to obey. So confusing and unwelcome were the emotions roused in her by sight of Viscount Jeffries that she would have preferred to empty the decanter’s contents over his damnably handsome head. Their hands touched as he took the glass from her. Mignon flushed and turned quickly away, mightily resenting the amusement in his eyes.
Ivor dropped his gaze to his claret glass. “Perhaps you have wondered at my concern with Leda’s predicament.”
“Explanations are unnecessary,” Lady Bligh interrupted. “Indeed, I beg that you refrain.”
Ivor looked inquiringly at his hostess, who was frowning at the closed door. “But I must. It is important that you know.”
“I don’t suppose,” sighed Dulcie, “that you’d take my word for it that I already do know?”
“How could you?” inquired Ivor gently, and set down his glass on a table inlaid with brass. “When you have no idea of what I mean to say?”
Lady Bligh pulled the orange cat onto her lap, where it purred gustily. “You will not wish to make Mignon privy to your secrets. You would do much better to postpone your confessions until another day.”
Ivor glanced at that young lady, who paused in her restless pacing of the room—an exercise that revealed to the discerning observer a pleasing grace and an even more pleasing physique—to stare indignantly at her aunt.
“If I could help it I would not tell, but it must come out.” As Ivor searched for words, he surveyed his gleaming boots. “As you may know, my family traces its line back to Osbert, Duke of Calvert, who founded the Abbey, of Coventry, married the famous Lady Godiva, and died in 1087.” Lady Bligh tapped her fingers on her knee and he speeded up his tale. “Succeeding generations were raised with a strong sense of duty and family—too much so, I sometimes think—and my uncle Percy must be the highest stickler of them all. My father, on the other hand, was something of a loose screw, or so I’m led to understand. When my parents were divorced, Percy insisted my mother resume use of her maiden name.”
“What an extraordinary affair.” The Baroness dumped the cat onto the floor and rose to her feet. “Divorce is shocking, to be sure;
however, you need not let it trouble you. Some of the best people have been divorced, even members of my own family.” Despite his protest, she refilled his glass. “I’m sure Mignon will not hold it against you.”
“Dulcie!” gasped that damsel, who had paused to lean in a somewhat unladylike manner on the back of a settee.
“You misunderstand,” said Ivor. “I’m not acquainting you with my family history merely to pass the time.” Lady Bligh opened her mouth but he overrode her protest. “I had been accustomed to thinking my mother dead until I made Leda’s acquaintance, which was quite by accident. Even then, she didn’t tell me, but she has a co-worker who is not so scrupulous.” He smiled. “I’ll swear Willie knows every secret in the world.”
“That’s the resemblance I couldn’t pinpoint!” Mignon felt the Viscount’s gaze and flushed. “You have your mother’s eyes.”
“Heaven grant me patience!” Dulcie turned on Ivor. “Enough confidences for one day, I beg. You are a noted pugilist, young man. In atonement for going against my wishes, you will demonstrate for me various of those noble methods of self-defense.”
The Viscount could find no good excuse not to do so. Thus it came about that when Mr. Crump was ushered into Baron Bligh’s Drawing Room, he witnessed the Baroness, green hair tumbling down her back, deliver to Viscount Jeffries a decided facer, which resulted in an ignoble bloodied nose.
“Bravo, Dulcie!” Mignon clapped her hands. Crump and Gibbon stared.
“Another visitor. How lovely!” Lady Bligh led her victim to a chair and pressing her handkerchief to his face. “Gibbon, pray fetch some ice. You witness my latest interest, Crump. I vow I shall enter the ring. Why are you standing there staring, man? Do sit down!”
Stark mad in white muslin, decided Crump, and sank into a chair. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Baroness.”
“No?” Dulcie perched on the edge of the sofa. “Do you wish me to help you solve another little mystery? I shall be delighted, of course! What will you have me do?”
“No mystery.” Cautiously, Crump eyed the huge orange cat. “We have Leda Langtry in custody already, and she’ll hear the Condemned Sermon preached at Newgate.”
“Oh!” Dulcie gasped feebly, as Gibbon reentered the room. “I believe I feel a spasm coming on.”
Gibbon thrust the ice at Mignon, and then stalked across the room to tower over the Runner. “Bridle your tongue! Or I’ll tell Sir John myself that you’ve been plaguing the Baroness!”
“Oh, no, you won’t, laddie!” retorted Crump, who was after all no stranger to Lady Bligh’s queer flights. Enthralled, Mignon applied the ice to the back of Ivor’s neck with a force that made him wince. “Have you forgotten,” the Runner added, “Sir John’s pocket watch? If he so much as sets eyes on you again, Sir John is likely to clap you in gaol.”
“It might be worth it,” Gibbon retorted, “to toss you out the front door.”
“My butler,” explained the Baroness, to the room at large, “was once a Runner himself, but his natural proclivities toward petty theft ended what might have been a remarkable career. You may go, Gibbon. See that we are not disturbed.”
Crump wondered, apropos of disturbances, if he should mention that his arrival had startled an extremely homely female who was eavesdropping outside the Drawing Room door, but a baleful hiss from the orange cat sent the thought scurrying from his mind. He gazed about the room, overwhelming in its opulence, and his eye alit on the huge blue parrot. “Bloody landlubber,” remarked Bluebeard conversationally.
“Let me make you known to my companions, Crump,” murmured Dulcie, in somewhat stronger tones. “The somewhat battered gentleman is Viscount Jeffries, and his ministering angel is my niece, Miss Montague.” Flushing, Mignon snatched her hand from the Viscount’s neck. He caught it in his own before she could move away.
“Considering that it was your aunt,” he murmured around the bloody handkerchief, “who so maltreated me, don’t you think you might at least offer me your sympathy?” Mignon only scowled. “What an unfriendly girl you are,” he added quietly. “Do you dislike me so much? If so, I am sorry for it.”
Mignon looked at the firm fingers that grasped her wrist and experienced an odd feeling along her spine. A thrill of pure terror, she told herself; the Viscount was obviously a cold-hearted sensual blackguard. Nonetheless, such was Mignon’s nature that she could only reply honestly. “You are mistaken,” she said, raising her eyes. “I don’t dislike you.”
Crump paid very little attention to the two of them, beyond noting that Viscount Jeffries was bang up to the mark in a cloth coat with clawhammer tails and tasseled hussar boots, and that Dulcie’s niece wore a pleated dotted lingerie dress with several frills. His not inconsiderable intellect was focused on Lady Bligh. “Sir John has sent me to ask you a few questions about Leda Langtry, Baroness.” This announcement had the effect of diverting the Viscount’s attention from Mignon, though he still retained possession of her hand. She wondered at herself, for she was less regretful than relieved.
“Leda Langtry?” repeated Dulcie vaguely. “Ah, yes, the Apocalypse. I recently did her a favor, I believe, though it is difficult to recall. Was it yesterday or the day before? Why I did it, I cannot say.”
“You arranged for her release from Newgate,” retorted Crump, his cautious gaze returning to the crouching cat. “There’s no use denying it, Lady Bligh.”
“Deny it?” echoed Dulcie, as she draped the elegant shawl over her head. “Of course I do not. I deny nothing, my dear Crump. There, does that make you happy?”
Crump stared unhappily at his hostess. With only her elegant nose in evidence, the Baroness looked like nothing more than an animated shroud. This set-back was all of a piece with the rest of his day; the Runner’s efforts to trace the chimney sweeps who had been at White’s Club had resulted in the discovery that these individuals, alas, had been legitimate sweeps after all, sent by the firm responsible for White’s noble chimneys. Crump, however, was tenacious, and he knew well the smell of a rat. He would eat his hat if those two sweeps didn’t bear watching.
He tried a different approach. “Leda Langtry has been committed to Newgate to await her trial for the murder of Lord Warwick. The evidence against her is overwhelming. If you have possession of any information that may help Mrs. Langtry, Baroness, I urge you to reveal it to me now.”
“Miss Langtry,” murmured the Baroness, and sneezed so emphatically that the shawl fell further forward, completely covering her face. “And I don’t believe a word of it.”
Crump wiped his suddenly moist palms on his waistcoat. “There’s no question of her guilt. The murder weapon has been identified as hers, and Warwick’s valet admitted her to the apartments. Or maybe you want me to tell Sir John you’ve been uncooperative.”
“To threaten an old woman!” gasped the Baroness, and tumbled sideways in a heap, which unnerved Crump so greatly that he cast a nervous look at Mignon.
“We fear it is the onset of senility,” helpfully observed that damsel, who was, with a dampened cloth and a perverse pleasure, wiping the Viscount’s battered face. “I’m afraid that neither Lord Jeffries nor I can help you, both of us being all at sea.”
Crump doubted the truth of this, having had prior and unpleasant experience with Lady Bligh’s duplicitous relations, but a moan from the Baroness recalled his attention to her prone figure. “Murder!” she uttered. “Leda? Unthinkable! You might as well tell me the world is coming to an end.”
The Runner had an impulse to thwack the sofa’s inert burden with his baton, but the parrot chose that moment to swoop through the air. Crump ducked, and knocked his chin smartly against the chair’s wooden arm.
“I begin to think,” murmured Ivor to Mignon, “that your aunt is totally unprincipled.”
“That is an opinion with which I can only agree.” Mignon did not meet his gaze, but leaned forward to drop the damp cloth over Casanova, who was engaged in battling the handsome tassels that swung from
Ivor’s boots. The cat streaked across the room, up the side of Crump’s chair and over his bent back, before ridding himself of the cloth. Mignon could not help herself; she dissolved into giggles, which brought from her companion an answering and thoroughly enchanting smile.
“Devil take it!” spat the Runner, thoroughly unnerved. “We know your friend called here that same day, Baroness. I want to know what she spoke with you about.”
“Mignon!” moaned Lady Bligh, still prone. “Memory fails me. Kindly tell dear Mr. Crump what Leda had to say.”
“She said,” Mignon replied promptly, “that you were both frivolous and dissipated, that I would pay for dressing, and that the Regent is a popinjay.” The Viscount’s thoughtful gaze was fixed on her face.
“Did she mention Warwick, miss?” asked Crump.
“I believe she did. But it was Dulcie who said Warwick wished to see Leda transported or hanged.” Mignon was all helpful innocence. “Is that what you wished to know, Mr. Crump?”
It was not. Crump gazed at the nearest window, hung with golden Norwich damask. If only he might retire to a peaceable country village, there to deal with nothing more vexing than smugglers and highwaymen. “I suppose you all wish to see Leda discharged and paid for her inconvenience and expense. Well, it won’t wash! She’s as guilty as bedamned, for all she may claim she has an alibi. There isn’t a juryman alive who’ll believe she was visiting with an old friend at the time of Warwick’s death.” He jumped quickly to his feet as the parrot murmured in his ear.
“An alibi.” The Baroness righted herself and threw back the shawl, revealing tousled green hair and a smug look. “Dear Crump, you are so informative.”
The Runner swore an awful oath, and strode toward the door. “You’re leaving us so soon?” the Baroness called after him. “But you have not told us how we may assist you!” He turned on his heel and glared. Dulcie smiled. “For instance, I don’t believe you know that Warwick himself spent some time in the Fleet Prison, a not uncommon address for Prinny’s friends.”
Maggie MacKeever Page 6
