Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  DULCIE BLIGH

  Maggie MacKeever

  Chapter 1

  A fugitive moon scurried across the predawn sky. Heavy fog shrouded London, muffling the footsteps of the night creatures that would, at daybreak, creep into their secret crevices, into the ramshackle tenements and stinking alleyways of the dilapidated, verminous rookeries. On the dark Thames, the mournful bell of a riverboat keened.

  Through the thick mist slid a furtive figure. He avoided the brilliant beacons of the druggists’ globes, deep red, green and blue, and shunned even the dimmer glow of the wrought-iron gaslights, for he had no wish to be glimpsed by a member of a Bow Street foot patrol. With pleasure, he inhaled the damp, cold air, so different from the heavily rose-scented atmosphere that he’d recently left behind.

  Through cobbled lanes and streets, past dark houses and inns, he moved silently. An ancient watchman leaned heavy-eyed on a pole too stout for him to raise; another dozed within the haven of his sentry box. The safety of the streets was the responsibility of these men. In grogshop cellars and attics, drunks lay in snoring stupor on bales of stinking straw, waking only to stagger into the taproom to buy more gin.

  The felon’s footsteps faltered. Unobserved, he paused in a deserted doorway and reached into a pocket of his voluminous coat. Emeralds, sparkling against his glove, lit his eyes with greed.

  London began to stir. In a few hours’ time these streets would fill with peddlers and pedestrians and carriages. Maroon and black mail coaches would rattle over the cobblestones. Mingled smells of horse manure and sweat would hang heavy in the air. Smiling grimly, the wrongdoer skirted a tall gray-black building with an arched gateway and narrow windows. He would not be caught in the shadow of Newgate by the merciless light of day.

  Through rifts in the fog, the Arbuthnot residence in Cavendish Square stood revealed in all its misguided magnificence. Originally built in the neoclassical style, its Greek pediments, porticoes, and colonnades had since then been floridly adorned. As mismatched as Arbuthnot House and its Egyptian, Chinese and Gothic statuaries were Sir William Arbuthnot and Lady Arabella, the dashing widow who had lately become his wife.

  The youngest housemaid rose at dawn. Stretching and yawning, she built up the kitchen fire. Countless tasks stretched before her: she had to dust and polish in the breakfast room, prepare the table, attend to the downstairs fireplaces and shine the grates. Pleasant it might be to catch a few more moments’ sleep, but it was as much as her job was worth. Lady Arabella would want her morning chocolate, and she was not one to tolerate delay. On her way to the stairs the housemaid passed a lower storey window, which stood open. On the ground outside it lay a dull brass button, torn from some visitor’s coat.

  Upstairs in the master bedchamber, a morning breeze ruffled the open draperies. On the massive mahogany bed, hung with deep crimson that matched the damasked walls, the coverlet was still turned back invitingly. The pristine bed, untouched since the little housemaid had made it up the previous day, stood out in stark contrast to the room’s shocking disarray. Chairs were overturned and mutilated, their stuffing pouring out like lumpy sawdust from a disintegrating doll. The soft crimson silk that had once draped the dressing table from mirror top to table toe lay shredded on the floor. Hinged glass cosmetic containers were shattered, their contents ground into the Aubusson rug. A wall-safe hung open: from it dangled a broken string of pearls. Thomas Lawrence’s portrait of Lady Arabella lay in the fireplace, the exquisite face mutilated and charred. The door to Lady Arabella’s dressing room stood slightly ajar.

  Here, too, chaos ruled. The contents of a dainty writing desk were strewn heedlessly about, the privacy of her ladyship’s communications no longer a matter of consequence. A delicate rose-colored chair had been wrenched from its brass paw feet. Supported by intertwined dolphins, sea horses, and eagles. Lady Arabella sprawled on a recamier. Her slender neck was twisted at a grotesque angle; her rich brown curls were in tangled disarray. The perfect features that had led one admirer to compare Arabella to Helen of Troy were contorted in nightmare. Red streaked her dressing gown.

  Humming tunelessly, the little housemaid mounted the stair. It was a marvel that Lady Arabella could dance half the night away, yet arise refreshed at such an early hour. The maid suffered a moment’s indecision when there was no answer to her gentle tapping on the door. The Arbuthnot retainers stood in awe of their new mistress, whose moods fluctuated rapidly between gentle charm and icy rage.

  Holding hard to her courage, the girl balanced her tray with one hand and cautiously pushed open the door. Blinking, she shook her head. Her mouth formed a silent gasp of astonishment as she gazed upon the wreckage; then, as she looked further, into the dressing room, she screamed.

  Motes of light danced merrily on the shaft of the silver knife that protruded from Arabella’s breast. Rivers of dark liquid made patterns on the rug. The little maid cried out again as her tray clattered to the floor.

  Chapter 2

  Oaks and elms and beeches surrounded the traditional London residence of the Barons Bligh of Greenwood, a stately mansion in St. James’s Square. The fifth Baron, an eccentric and swashbuckling individual given to exotic explorations, had more than a year past embarked upon an expedition to the Holy Land, where he was traveling about in a crimson palanquin decorated with six gilt spheres and sleeping at night in a huge green tent covered with yellow flowers and stars, so only the Baroness was in residence.

  Brocade draperies hung at the mullioned windows of the morning room, an exquisite chamber with ceiling and carpet of the palest green and walls papered in a charming floral design. Dulcie Bligh was curled up in a rosewood chair, absently nibbling a piece of toast while scanning the pages of a romantic novel. Her heavy hair, worn in intricate coils from which it forever escaped, was this day a shade of orange that superbly complemented her bronze Rutland half-robe and striped zephyr shawl. Tall and voluptuous, she had an arresting face, both piquant and sensual, with elegantly sculpted cheekbones and a determined chin, an arrogantly aristocratic nose, a generous and seductive mouth.

  Lady Bligh was not alone. Across the narrow room her companion, Lavender Lytton, contemplated a vase of flowers as if it might contain the answer to some profound mystery. In a gilded cage the canary named Calypso trilled merrily, watched intently by a huge, battle-scarred, orange-striped cat. Noticing her audience, Calypso hit a note so shrill and uncanary-like that Lavender awoke from her abstraction. “Casanova!” she cried, and moved to dislodge the tomcat, not without difficulty, from the arm of a satin-backed chair that stood in dangerous proximity to Calypso’s bower. Casanova subsided in her lap, a displeased mass of thwarted hunting instincts and ruffled fur.

  “Superb!” announced the Baroness, tossing Pride and Prejudice aside. Her flamboyantly youthful appearance belied the fact that more than half a century of history had unfolded under her roguish, enigmatic gaze. “Most delightfully acerbic. I highly recommend it, Lavender.” Her dark eyes twinkled. “You will find it vastly edifying, I vow.”

  “Then by all means I must read it.” Livvy’s voice was soft and low, as pleasant to hear as its owner was to behold. She was unfashionably thin and much too tall, but these imperfections were far outweighed by classically beautiful features, a curly mop of blue-black hair, and a pair of magnificent lavender eyes. Lady Bligh’s only complaint about her current companion, frequently voiced, was that Lavender’s emotions were held too firmly in check.

  “You’ve been thinking about your dratted husband.” Dulcie’s tone held disapproval. “I wish you wouldn’t. What did he ever do for you?”

  Livvy, by now accustomed to Dulcie’s uncanny ability to read her thoughts, regarded her shrewd employer quizzically. “He shot himself,” she retorted, “an inc
ident which, believe me, I do not recall with any great regret. Instead, I was considering my gratitude to you.”

  “And well you may,” the Baroness agreed. Lavender’s first position after her husband’s death had been as governess to a brood of disobedient and rag-mannered siblings who, due to the uncertainty of their paternity, were known to one and all as “The Miscellany.” Her rescue was considered by many to have been one of Lady Bligh’s happiest impulses, and by others to have been her greatest folly, since those of uncharitable disposition claimed that Livvy had driven her husband to his premature demise. “That is why I remind you of your indebtedness at least once each day.”

  Livvy laughed. “Wretch! You do not remind me at all, and I wish you would, for I am in grave danger of forgetting my place. You spoil me atrociously! If you treat all your retainers so well, it is a wonder that they ever leave you.” Nonetheless, Lady Bligh’s companions were of legendarily short tenure. Those fortunate enough to gain approval were rewarded by being thrust, willy-nilly and despite protest, into whatever lifestyle the Baroness deemed most congenial; while those who earned Dulcie’s disapprobation were disposed of among the various hopeful relatives who waited anxiously to hear of the next alteration to her will. Livvy did not wish to join either of these groups. Her lot had been pleasant as neither wife nor governess, but with the Baroness she was well content. Lady Bligh, she knew, nourished mysterious, vaguely hinted-at plans for bringing her forward, schemes that Livvy suspected were markedly unsuitable for an impoverished widow who would soon attain an unenviable thirty years of age. She was determined to remain, as befit her station, in the background of Dulcie’s modish life.

  With a sideways look at Livvy, the Baroness balanced a silver butter knife on one finger. She had commanded both devotion and loyalty from the cradle, was adored by her entire huge acquaintance, and was considered by her exasperated family to be a vexatious original. “I’ve a hunch we shall see that rascal Dickon today.”

  Livvy stroked Casanova, who returned the compliment by kneading her thigh. “Has he been out of town? Your nephew is usually more attentive than he has been of late.” This negligence did not displease her; she found Lord Dorset a most vexatious man.

  Lady Bligh looked amused. Benedict Trench, the Earl of Dorset, was the only one of Dulcie’s innumerable connections for whom the lady professed the least degree of affection. Livvy did not share the sentiment; so strong were her feelings about the provocative Lord Dorset that it was a rare meeting between them when sparks did not fly. “You do not approve of Dickon,” said the Baroness. “It is an opinion that many hold.”

  Because Livvy could not disagree, she remained silent. Lord Dorset was a dangerous, reckless man with a sublime disregard for convention, the niceties of polite behavior, and anything that did not concern himself. Livvy could not fault his attention to his aunt, but his quarrelsome impatience with the rest of the world caused her to think him both arrogant and underbred.

  Dulcie frowned, as if beset by a sudden twinge of pain, and let the butter knife clatter to the tabletop. “You’ve a hunch?” said Livvy, familiar with the signs. She leaned forward, interested—Lady Bligh’s instincts invariably proved correct. Aware that he had lost his captor’s attention, Casanova slipped heavily to the floor.

  “I have, indeed.” With the expertise of a master dart-player, Lady Bligh picked up the little knife and launched it at the butter dish and scored a perfect bull’s-eye.

  “What is it?” Livvy’s perfect brows rose. “Dulcie, is something amiss?”

  The Baroness shook her head, then turned expectantly toward the doorway. Her long and slender fingers tapped impatiently against highly polished wood.

  As if summoned by some silent bell, the butler, Gibbon, threw open the door. Gibbon was a startling figure, tall and cadaverous with a shock of white hair. He had been a Bow Street Runner, but even this commendable occupation had not curbed his passion for picking pockets. Both careers had ended abruptly on the memorable occasion when Gibbon’s nimble fingers came into too close contact with the Chief Magistrate’s pocket watch. Dulcie had rescued him. Now, like Livvy, he was well content to serve her.

  “The Right Honourable,” intoned Gibbon in hollow cadences, “Earl of Dorset.” He stepped back and allowed Dickon to enter the room.

  Lord Dorset was a well-formed and muscular man of eight and thirty years, a scant inch under six feet tall, with sun-streaked brown hair and a haughty, dissipated countenance. His usually impatient expression was, on this occasion, wry. “Must Gibbon behave with so much pomp? He makes me feel like visiting royalty.”

  Dulcie did not laugh, which struck Livvy as odd. Though the remainder of the family was constantly aggrieved by Dickon’s scandalous exploits, many of which involved females of the less respectable variety, Lady Bligh found him a source of amusement and was usually pleased when he reappeared after one of his frequent absences from Town.

  “Perhaps you have won his approval.” Dulcie gestured toward a chair. Dickon’s most recent indiscretion had involved the continuation of a somewhat ill-advised liaison with a newly married lady whose spouse was not complacent. Livvy suspected that, in this instance, the lady was the predator. Lord Dorset, whose conquests were legion, was not inclined to linger long in a jealous husband’s territory.

  “I cannot imagine how I might have done so,” the Earl replied.

  Although Dickon’s tone admitted an awareness of his innumerable shortcomings, Livvy’s opinion of him did not improve. Even were he as handsome of person as was generally acknowledged, his rude and offhand manner was such as must immediately displease. It was incomprehensible to her that so many women went to such lengths to secure his attention. All Society had been agog when one high-flyer tried to strangle another, all for a glance from Dickon’s jaded eyes.

  “Nor can I,” Dulcie agreed. “It is not for your pleasantness of manner, certainly.” This odd pronouncement earned her nephew’s attention and caused Livvy a resurgence of unease. “Dickon, I fear you are about to find yourself in dire straits.”

  Lord Dorset was less appreciative of Lady Bligh’s hunches than was Livvy. “Nonsense,” said he, in a manner that conveyed deep boredom. “I am in no particular difficulty. I daresay there are a number of people who might wish me harm, but I assure you I am quite capable of taking care of myself.” His impersonal glance brushed Livvy, who was among his ill-wishers. She liked him even less for the scant interest he showed in Dulcie’s concern.

  The Baroness persevered. “I’m not speaking of your detractors,” she snapped, “but of something far more serious.” Dickon’s retort was lost in a shrill explosion of noise from the far end of the room. Livvy leaped to remove Casanova from his precarious grasp on Calypso’s wildly swinging cage. Though Lord Dorset was seldom amused, the sight of his aunt making soothing noises to her canary, while Livvy sought to retain firm grasp on an infuriated tomcat, made him laugh.

  Dulcie remained unmoved by her nephew’s rare and dazzling smile. “It is no matter for amusement. I grow increasingly anxious for your safety.” She stared at him as if by intense concentration she might look into his mind. Her piquant features grew serious, her voice hushed. “Dickon, what have you done?”

  Before he could speak, the door to the morning room opened once more and Gibbon appeared, his face set in disapproval. Livvy experienced a moment of extraordinary clarity, wherein they all seemed actors waiting in the wings for the play to begin. She did not anticipate a comedy.

  “There is a person waiting to see Master Benedict,” Gibbon announced. Livvy concluded from the butler’s ferocious facial contortions he meant to warn his mistress against the visitor. “I have told him that his lordship is not here, but he refuses to accept my word.”

  “And can you blame me?” Peering cheerfully around Gibbon’s stiff and outraged back was a rotund, dapper little man, clad in somber clothing that was enlivened by a carmine satin waistcoat embroidered with gold butterflies. His bald pate, set off by a
scant fringe of black hair, gleamed. “I know you of old, laddie, and a terrible liar you are.” He beamed upon his audience and bowed to Lady Bligh, whom his unerring eye had instantly singled out as the Baroness.

  “I further suggested that information concerning his lordship’s whereabouts might be ascertained by inquiring at his lordship’s residence.” At the corner of Gibbon’s mouth, a muscle twitched.

  “As if I hadn’t already done that very thing,” said the little man. “No one needs to tell me what proper procedure is.”

  “If it is your wish, madam,” said Gibbon, in the tones of one goaded to the brink of folly, “I would be happy to escort this person to the door.”

  “Aye, I imagine you would.” The stranger retained his cheerful poise. He was quick with his fists, and he was also never without the loaded pistol that currently reposed in his waistband. “I’d just like to see you try it, laddie!”

  “Never mind, Gibbon,” the Baroness interposed hastily. The cat, which had been draped around her shoulders like a strange, furry boa, thudded to the floor and moved to plop down upon the hearth. “Do you mind telling me,” Lady Bligh inquired of her guest, “precisely who you are? Why have you come here in such determined pursuit of my nephew?”

  “Pursuit?” The stranger considered the word. “I’d hardly call it that, not just yet anyway. This is in the nature of being what you might call a friendly visit.” He exuded goodwill. “Lord love you, it’s not my place to be pursuing a peer of the realm.”

  Livvy, recovering from her initial surprise, wondered why Dickon allowed this outrageous conversation to go on. The Earl, as was his habit, was seated in the darkest corner of the room. His expression revealed vague interest, nothing more, but Livvy had not missed his initial startled frown. Her curiosity grew.

  “As for why I’m here,” the intruder continued, rocking forward and back on the balls of his feet, “this is where his lordship’s butler said he was most likely to be found.