Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  The Baroness yawned prettily. “You may confer with Lucifer himself, and I shall raise no protest.” The Countess Andrassy wore a stone-colored walking habit trimmed with swansdown. A sealskin hat and muff, black kid sandals, white stockings and black gloves completed her dashing ensemble. “I must quibble, however, with the manner of your attire. You look as though you are prepared to set out for Siberia.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Gwyneth, in high dudgeon, ignored Hubert’s amusement. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m going nowhere without my son!”

  “Then you shall be with us quite some time,” mused Dulcie. Her gaze moved to Hubert, who resembled nothing more than a walking pincushion, so laced and padded was he. She closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. Hubert exchanged a glance with the Countess and meaningfully tapped his head. “Mr. Crump,” intoned Lady Bligh, without opening her eyes, “why are you hovering in the hallway? Do come in!”

  No bit embarrassed at being caught blatantly eavesdropping, an act far more profitable than squirming on the uncomfortable hall chairs that awaited the unexpected visitor. Crump stepped across the threshold. Gibbon, distraught, hovered at his heels.

  “I tried to stop him, my lady.” Gibbon’s left eyelid danced wildly, a sure indication of extreme distress. “He threatened to haul me off to Bow Street.”

  “Aye, and I may yet.” Crump was distracted, his attention having fallen upon Hubert, dazzling in a combination of bright yellow coat and lime green pantaloons of ribbed kerseymere, worn with Hessian boots. “For a more guilty-looking specimen I have never seen!” Gibbon gulped.

  “Shame, Mr. Crump! You must not terrorize my butler or he will retaliate by denying you admission here.” Gibbon’s visage brightened perceptibly. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  “No, indeed, Baroness.” Crump gazed about the marble chamber, which took a man’s breath away. Crump could never visit the Bligh mansion without recalling large, once handsome houses where thirty or more people of all ages now inhabited a single room, squatting, sleeping, copulating on straw-filled billets or mounds of verminous rags that were the only furniture. Just the previous evening he had visited a cellar home, fetid and damp with sewage, to talk with a sharp-eyed woman who fended rats away from her infant’s face and fingers as they spoke. His gaze returned to the Baroness. It was unlikely that Lady Bligh had ever glimpsed this extremely enlightening side of London life.

  “I’m glad you called,” remarked Dulcie, behind whose roguish eyes resided all sorts of unexpected knowledge. “Allow me to introduce you to more of my family. Gibbon, tea.”

  “I’m sorry to intrude.” Crump’s unusual humility resulted from Lady Bligh’s unexpected cordiality. “I was passing by and thought I’d stop in for a friendly chat.” He did not add that he had been skulking about London, lurking in doorways, alehouses, and near gentlemen’s clubs, in hope of surprising Lord Dorset; or that his visit was due to unbearable curiosity aroused by the crepe that liberally adorned the Bligh residence. To the best of Crump’s knowledge, no one of any significance had recently departed this vale of tears.

  “Your timing,” said the Baroness, “is most opportune.” She presented her companions, both of whom suffered no small surprise at her acquaintance with this common little man who committed the unpardonable sin of wearing a moleskin waistcoat. “Mr. Crump,” she added, as Mary brought the tea, “is from Bow Street.” With Mary came Casanova, who took instant interest in the tassels that dangled from Hubert’s cane.

  Putting aside his question about the crepe, Crump took out his Occurrence Book and concentrated on these new sources of information. He had hoped to meet the Countess Andrassy who, since her return to London, had plunged into a reckless orgy of levees, breakfasts, dinners, card parties and routs, spending money as easily as if the Hungarian Count to whom she was now wed could lay claim to something more valuable than his illustrious name, which, it was well known, he could not. Crump pondered the significance of this sudden change in fortune. “I, too, have questioned that,” remarked Lady Bligh. Crump glanced askance at his hostess, but was distracted as Mary swished gracefully from the room.

  “Gwyneth,” said the Baroness, recalling Crump to his duty, “was an intimate of dear Arabella’s and, I understand, very much in her confidence. Perhaps she can be of assistance to you.” Crump supposed he should not be surprised to learn that Lord Dorset’s ex-wife and mistress were the best of friends.

  “I doubt it,” Gwyneth replied, too hastily. “You will recall that I have been out of the country for several years.”

  “You are too modest!” protested Hubert, intent on stirring up mischief. “Arabella may well have mentioned something of importance in that voluminous correspondence she maintained with you.” Crump missed none of Gwyneth’s fury at this reminder; the Countess looked ready to chew nails.

  “She told me little enough of interest.” Gwyneth reflected upon her recent visits to linen drapers, silk mercers, dressmakers and milliners, none of whom had yet been paid, and thought it might behoove her to cooperate with Bow Street. “What is it you wish to know?”

  Crump hastily withdrew his fascinated gaze from Hubert’s yellow coat which had, in addition to a padded breast, huge plated buttons, French riding sleeves, and skirt tails that reached below the knee. With this were worn a frilled shirt and a waistcoat of light cashmere. On the gentleman’s knee sat a very small flat hat. “Very little is known about Lady Arabella’s background. Perhaps you can tell me more.”

  Gwyneth shrugged indifferently. “Arabella was a country girl who took the ton by storm and married a wealthy and elderly Duke. I don’t believe she ever discussed her origins.” It seemed to Crump that Gwyneth was on the verge of saying more, but Hubert intervened.

  “The Duke,” added that Exquisite, “died disillusioned, leaving poor Arabella with nothing more than her clothing and her jewels.” Malicious eyes observed Crump over the wall of starch and muslin that served as a cravat. “You see how it was necessary for her to wed again as speedily as possible.” Lady Bligh sat enthroned in her chair as if enjoying a command performance.

  “I understand you were one of Lady Arabella’s admirers.” Crump watched warily as Casanova stalked Hubert’s tasseled cane.

  “It was my honor.” Hubert twirled his quizzing glass. “Arabella was a lovely creature, Mr. Crump. Those of us who appreciated her beauty lament the day when she came to Dickon’s notice.” He turned to Gwyneth. “Forgive me. I know that mention of Dickon can only bring you pain.”

  It was true that the bronze-haired beauty seemed to labor under some strong emotion. “My marriage was an unhappy one,” she murmured. “I was but an innocent child, with no notion that a man could be so depraved.”

  “Loath as I am to interrupt this moving drama, I must protest that ‘depraved’ is too extreme.” Lady Bligh propped dainty feet on a velvet-covered stool.

  “Where Dickon is concerned,” Gwyneth flashed, seeing yet another way in which she might recoup her losses, “nothing is too extreme! I could tell tales of my life with Dickon that would surpass belief.”

  “I don’t doubt that for an instant,” said the Baroness. Crump viewed the Baron’s portrait, then quickly looked away. Save Dulcie, few could long meet that hawk-like gaze, even in muted painted form.

  “Come, come, aunt!” Hubert was a demon of discord. “Even one so partial as you cannot deny that Dickon has the most diabolical disposition. I have always deprecated his tendency toward violence.”

  “Poor Arabella!” sobbed Gwyneth, into the handkerchief. “Dickon truly deserves to be punished for his sins.”

  Crump expected the Baroness to intervene, but she merely applied herself with gusto to her tea. The somber hue of her garments, which contrasted admirably with her silver hair, reminded Crump of the inexplicable signs of mourning that were everywhere. Casanova, thwarted by the tassel that dangled just out of reach, sat back on furry haunches to reconnoiter.

  “He does deserv
e punishment,” Hubert agreed. “The man is a veritable scourge, wreaking havoc and ruin, leaving broken-hearted desolation in his wake.”

  “Fie, Humbug!” The Baroness deposited her teacup in its saucer forcefully. “To speak of your cousin so!”

  “Your fondness blinds you, Dulcie.” Hubert might have been a sympathetic mentor of elderly years. “Consider the many unfortunate females he has ruined. Now poor Livvy will be next, and you do nothing to prevent yet another catastrophe.” Sadly, he shook his well-tended head. “I do not understand you, aunt. Where is Livvy, by the bye?”

  “I understand you, Hubert,” Dulcie retorted, “only too well!” To Crump, this sounded remarkably like a threat. “Livvy is happily engaged in selecting her trousseau.”

  Crump cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to those unfortunate females.”

  “Of course.” Hubert counted on slender fingers. “They are legion, Mr. Crump; I know not where to begin!”

  “I doubt that will stop you,” ventured Lady Bligh.

  “There have been opera-dancers and actresses, females of every station and walk of life, left by my heartless cousin to sink into declines, and worse.” Hubert’s audience was spellbound; even Gwyneth, well acquainted with the extent of her ex-husband’s dissipation, stopped sobbing to listen. “Of Arabella, I need not speak, we all know Dickon treated her most callously.”

  “Almost as callously as Arabella treated her husband,” Dulcie observed. “Continue, Hubert, we are all ears.” Casanova, amber eyes fixed on golden tassels, tensed to pounce.

  Hubert was in a playful mood. “Dear Gwyneth is the greatest sufferer of all. She exists in a state of constant-alarm and occasional fainting fits. I fear she will never overcome the consequences of Dickon’s influence, for she has been corrupted by him, made familiar with infamy and vice.”

  “Vice!” shrieked Gwyneth. “How dare you speak so of me, you ungrateful cur!” Casanova leaped upon the cane and brought it crashing to the floor.

  “Gwyneth!” Hubert turned pale. “Don’t fly into a tantrum! We must assist Bow Street.”

  “I’ll show you vice and infamy!” gasped Gwyneth, engaged with Casanova in a tug-of-war for possession of the cane. Gwyneth won the honors, but Casanova retained the golden tassel.

  “My stick!” wailed Hubert.

  “Assist Bow Street,” raged Gwyneth, brandishing the ebony cane, “will you? Then tell the Runner that you’ve known Arabella since her earliest days! Tell him how furious it made you that she ignored you whenever Dickon was around!” Giving Hubert one vicious thwack, she indicated the door.

  Arms above his head in ineffectual defense, Hubert rose hastily, and managed a bow that was only slightly lacking in its usual elegance. “I’ll be back,” Gwyneth promised, panting from her exertions, “and before long, Dulcie Bligh! If you don’t want to see your dirty linen washed in public, you’ll think over my offer most carefully.” Crump watched fascinated as, bellowing like a fishwife, the Countess chased Hubert from the room.

  “My nephew,” remarked the Baroness serenely, “is a trifle liverish. Gwyneth took his meddling in ill part, did she not? As you may have observed, my family is not without eccentricities.” Crump was struck dumb by this understatement, and Dulcie continued, while Casanova worried Hubert’s golden tassel as if it were a mouse. “Gwyneth seeks to replenish her purse, and thinks that if she behaves with sufficient atrocity I will buy her off. She may be correct. I don’t know that I can tolerate a great deal more idiocy.”

  Crump murmured sympathetically and wondered how to broach the subject uppermost in his mind. He was not given the opportunity.

  “Now to business,” said the Baroness, sitting upright. “You have not made much progress, Mr. Crump. The jewels have not resurfaced among the lower elements, nor did you find them in my nephew’s house. I might have told you that searching Dickon’s lodgings would prove a waste of time, but you would not have listened to me.”

  “How did you know I had?” It appeared the Baroness had stolen a march on Crump.

  “A good investigator does not reveal her sources. I take it you have also learned that Sir William is on the verge of bankruptcy?”

  “Yes.” Crump’s expression was dour. Uncanny, the way Lady Bligh managed to stay a step ahead of Bow Street. Perhaps she was not quite as dotty as she seemed.

  “Excellent.” Dulcie settled back in her chair. “Let us compare notes. Is there anything you care to ask me?”

  Crump grasped his opportunity. “Yes, Baroness, there is. Excuse my presumption, but why are you in mourning?”

  “Calypso.” Dulcie’s gaze moved to Casanova, sleek and undeniably well fed. “I came upon the dreadful scene too late.” Crump stared at an arrangement of yellow feathers and crepe, displayed tastefully under glass. “It is a shocking world, Mr. Crump, wherein even an innocent canary falls prey to the forces of villainy.”

  Crump, revolted, stared at the orange-striped cat.

  “Arabella a blameless victim?” mused the Baroness. “An intriguing notion, Mr. Crump, but I think not.”

  Chapter 8

  Livvy found Sir William in the library, seated at his desk and sunk in deepest gloom. Hitching up her skirt, she dusted off the brandy bottles, adopted an attitude of imbecilic servility, and knocked timidly on the open door.

  “Come in, come in!” Sir William hastened to remove her burden and closed the library door. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you, Primrose,” he added, with a playful pinch, “but you’ve been avoiding me.”

  “Oh no, sir!” Livvy was coy. “Your mama keeps me very busy, poor invalid that she is. I knew you wouldn’t want me to neglect her, so I waited ‘til I was free.” She strove for a glance simultaneously innocent and aware. From the lecherous expression in Sir William’s bloodshot eye, she achieved a tolerable success. “Why did you wish to see me, sir?”

  “No hurry for that!” Sir William pulled a chair closer to his desk and gestured for Livvy to be seated before he enthusiastically assaulted one of the bottles purloined from Luisa’s private stock. “Just an informal little chat, you know. Drink a bumper with me, Primrose, and tell me what you think of Arbuthnot House.”

  “Truly, I could not!” Livvy’s dismay was genuine, inspired not so much at the suggestion of consuming spirits as by the invitation to air her opinion of the Arbuthnot menagerie. Sir William patted her knee.

  “Of course you can!” His affability grew. “You must oblige me, Primrose; I cannot drink alone.”

  Reflecting that the blasted Dickon wouldn’t even be properly grateful for these efforts made in his behalf, Livvy meekly bowed her head. “As you wish, sir.”

  “No one will ever know.” Her host brought forth two glasses, none too clean. “No matter if they did! I am the master of Arbuthnot House, and my word is law.” Livvy hoped that Bertha did not learn of this tête-à-tête, lest she determine to whittle away at her competition with a carving knife.

  Sir William leaned back in his chair. “Well, then! You’ve been with us only a few days, yet already you seem a member of the family, so well do you fit in! What do you think of us, eh, Primrose?”

  Livvy stifled a rebellious impulse to answer honestly. “Madame Arbuthnot is very gracious, very amiable.” She sipped her brandy and wondered how Luisa managed to consume such vast quantities of the loathsome stuff.

  Sir William, briefly distracted from his fell purpose, namely the seduction of his mother’s companion, gazed mistily upon a miniature. “Poor Madame! She has not had a happy life, I fear, and the fault is entirely mine.”

  Livvy blinked to hear a man speak of his mother in such sottish tones, and inspected the gold-framed miniature that he pressed into her hand. Luisa, in her heyday, had been an amber-eyed, black-haired beauty with generous proportions and a sultry air. “She was lovely,” Livvy commented honestly.

  “My fault,” mourned Sir William, with a lugubriousness that made Livvy suspect that he was already drunk as an owl. “I crippled her, Primro
se, and never will I forgive myself for it.”

  Considering Luisa’s tyrannical disposition, it was not likely her son had ever been given the opportunity. “How dreadful,” Livvy murmured sympathetically. “How did it happen?”

  “Madame told me I was too intoxicated to safely take the reins, but I wouldn’t listen.” Sir William sighed. “The off-leader shied at a hen flying across the road, and we tumbled into a ditch. The horses were in an awful tangle, kicking and struggling so much I thought I’d never calm them.” He looked at Livvy, for all the world like a dog wishful of a bone. “Madame swears that I did more damage getting her out of the coach than was done in the accident itself. Her back, you see.”

  Sir William’s pudgy features were streaked with perspiration. Livvy was repelled. She grasped the brandy bottle and filled his glass to the brim. “How tragic.”

  “Even Prinny admired Madame. He is, you know, in the way of being an intimate of mine.” Sir William shook his head, jiggling his various chins. “Poor Prinny! Have you heard the latest on-dit concerning the Princess of Wales?”

  Livvy, schooled to patience, made a negative response. The Princess was a querulous, restless lady with coarse manners and a marked partiality for food and drink and low company; she had reputedly taken one of her own footmen as a lover. Having little interest in the goings-on of royalty, Livvy wondered how to turn the conversation to her own ends.

  “She is engaging in ostentatiously displaying a child whom she claims she adopted from a docker and his wife, but which everyone believes to be hers.” Sir William peered at Livvy but saw no maidenly blush. “As a result, she has been banished from royal society and is to leave immediately for the Continent.”

  “Shocking,” murmured Livvy, and filled Sir William’s glass once again.

  “What’s this? You’re not drinking, Primrose!” He watched as Livvy bravely sipped the vile brew. “I tell you in strictest confidence that it is true that the Princess does not bathe as frequently as she should.”