Maggie MacKeever (29 page)

Mrs. Holloway was no pigeon for anyone’s plucking, and so she announced. Perhaps the Millikins had no money, but Lord Chalmers was rich as Croesus, in proof of which Lady Chalmers was sitting in her drawing room with a sapphire necklace in her lap. Why Lady Chalmers should do such a bizarre thing, Mrs. Holloway could not imagine; but were Lady Chalmers to fork over those sapphires Mrs. Holloway would be on her way, with no more said.

“No,” cried Rosemary yet again, and clasped the sapphires to her cheek. “This necklace is a family heirloom! Someday it will be worn by the wife of my eldest son!”

To this simple statement, Lord Chalmers reacted with unfeigned surprise. “Rosemary! You’re not—”

Rosemary blushed bright red. “I do not mean to argue with you, Chalmers—indeed I have vowed that I will not—but I rather think I am!”

A man of direct action when it occurred to him that action there should be, Lord Chalmers tumbled several of the younger Misses Millikin from his pathway and sat down beside his wife. “Rosemary!” he clasped her hands in his own. “Why didn’t you
tell
me?”

“Because,” murmured Rosemary, staring at his cravat, “I thought you would be happier if you divorced me. I am selfish and extravagant and headstrong; you had warned me about running into debt and I didn’t listen. But you also said it was a dead bore to be forever living in each other’s pockets, and you were so often away from home I thought you had a, er, well! Because it didn’t seem reasonable to devote that much time to government! And then when I tried to confess my sentiments, you turned me—oh, you know what you did!” She sniffled.

Lord Chalmers applied his handkerchief to his wife’s damp cheeks, gently. “Yes! I have regretted it ever since!”

“Pooh!” Rosemary was adorably abashed. “I don’t regard it, I assure you! But, Chalmers, does this mean you
will
forgive me?”

“Anything!” Lord Chalmers drew Rosemary into the circle of his arm. “I begin to see that I have been a perfect boor.”

“Oh, no! Never that! Although it
was
very dreary of you to make me read that wretched book and to talk to me about things like the suspension of habeas corpus and legislation against seditious meetings—but if that is what you want of me I shall try not to mind!”

“Let us make a pact!” said her lord, craftily. “You will tell me when you wish to spend my money—and yes, I will pay off your debts; I am not an unreasonable man!—and I will
not
complain to you about the state of the nation!”

“Oh, Chalmers!” Rosemary said blissfully, and then: “But I do not want to be reconciled with you if it is only because you want an heir!”

Despite his aforementioned lack of intimacy with the muslin company, Lord Chalmers was also aware that in certain situations a simple action accomplished more than a hundred words. In plain view of the assembled company, Lord Chalmers embraced his wife. “Jupiter!” breathed Hysop, and departed post haste to remove the friendly little garden snake from Rosemary’s boudoir.

Mrs. Holloway was not so easily inspired toward flight. Sight of the newly discovered marital bliss of Lord Chalmers and his wife reminded Mrs. Holloway of her own daughter’s unhappy plight, or so she informed her audience in most colorful terms. Fennel, by now accustomed to hearing himself referred to as a gay deceiver, stared when Mrs. Holloway referred to his starched-up brother-in-law as a well-breeched swell. Lord Chalmers, with admirable composure, settled his wife back amongst the sofa cushions, rose, and invited Mrs. Holloway to step into the hallway. Scenting victory, she did so.

Only a few moments had passed, during which the younger Misses Millikin congratulated Rosemary on her reconciliation with her spouse and Fennel anticipated with relish what Rosemary’s spouse would have to say to him about Mrs. Holloway, when Lord Chalmers reentered the drawing room. His cool eye alit immediately on Fennel. Fennel squirmed. “It
was
only a flirtation!” he protested. “I didn’t pretend to Phoebe’s hand—or anything else! No matter what the dragon claims!”

“Mrs. Holloway will claim no more, at least to or about you; I have bought her off.” Lord Chalmers resumed his position on the sofa. “Do I not recall, Fennel, that you yearn after a captaincy in the Hussars? I thought so! I will make you a bargain: return to your university and apply yourself to your studies and I will see you have your captaincy.”

“By Jove!” breathed Fennel. “Done!”

“Oh, Chalmers!” Rosemary gazed rapt upon her spouse. “You are so
very
good!”

“I have,” Lord Chalmers responded ruefully, “much for which to atone. Had I not neglected you, you would not have had to fret yourself—what the
devil
is that child about?” This query concerned Violet, who had dropped to her hands and knees and was scrabbling beneath the sofa. Even as Chalmers spoke she emerged, waving a smudged piece of paper.

“Oh!” wailed Rosemary. “I quite forgot! Angelica stole my sapphires; and Lily set out after her. Angelica has been meeting with an ineligible
parti,
Chalmers! I know I should have stopped it, but Lily persuaded me Angelica should be allowed
some
fun, and how was I to know she would elope? I mean—
Angelica?
It is the queerest thing!”

So it was, as further attested by the babble of melodious female voices that broke into immediate speech. Angelica embarked upon a liaison with a hardened rakeshame? The ugly duckling of the Millikin family courted by a man of the world? One if not both participants in this affair were quite lunatic!

It was Lord Chalmers who restored some degree of decorum to his drawing room. He was not surprised to learn that Angelica had pawned the sapphires, due to the odd antics he’d observed in her of late; he was not even especially surprised that Angelica should have taken to clandestine meetings, for she was despite her practicality a Millikin. Nonetheless, Lord Chalmers was very much surprised, and no less indignant, that Angelica should have grown so inconsiderate that she eloped with her ineligible
parti
, thus subjecting the mother of all his as-yet-unborn sons (of which, for those readers with a fondness for statistics, there were destined to be three) to needless stress. He twitched the letter away from Violet.

The sapphires, Angelica, a flight to Gretna Green—”Ah!” said his lordship, enlightenment achieved. “It’s not Angelica who’s eloped, but Lily!”

Chapter Twenty-four

The hour was considerably advanced when Valerian Millikin and his stepmama, Simon Brisbane and Durward arrived at a certain cemetery on the other side of town. Their progress had not been rapid. A repetition of the tale told Simon by Angelica in explanation of her venture into the working class caused Marigold to stop dead in her tracks—a consumptive parent sewing seams by candlelight? Marigold had thought Lily was the member of the family to indulge in clankers! —and Simon’s additional explanation of his assumption that Marigold’s numerous offspring had been born on the wrong side of the blanket caused her to swoon. Though Marigold’s vapors were not of long duration, due to Valerian’s threat to leave his stepmama lying in the street, Simon again had cause to regret the inclusion of Millikins in his small search party. It seemed incredible to him that the lady who had in response to a simple declaration of improper intentions boxed his ears and kicked his shin should then engage in robbery and flight. Surely Miss Smith could not have eloped with Simon’s aggravating parent? She could not have so thoroughly deceived him! It must be a farrago of nonsense, in which case Simon was growing momentarily more worried. Where was Angelica, and why? Was she safe? Simon thought that, were he fortunate enough to find her, he would wring Angelica’s neck.

It appeared, as Simon stepped through the cemetery gates, trailed by Valerian and Durward and an owl-eyed Marigold, that he was to be granted his wish. Familiar feminine tones smote his ear. They issued from the direction of an elaborately sculpted crypt. Simon gestured for silence.

Cautiously the small party crept forward, paused in the shadow of the crypt. Not only Angelica’s voice came clearly to them now, but three others, all raised in angry debate.

“The homies!” said one such voice, gruff and menacing. “You laid an information against us, missie—you must have or the Runners wouldn’t be on our trail! Or was those sparklers you gave us stolen? If so you must be dicked in the nob! I take it most unkindly that you should try and queer our pitch!”

“Stolen sparklers!” came another voice, no less gruff but much more refined, a voice very well known to Simon Brisbane, who upon hearing it experienced mingled exasperation and relief. “Bow Street? What
have
you been up to, Miss Smith?”

“Do not play the innocent, Sir Randall!” begged Angelica. “It must be evident that I know all! Or if not precisely
know,
then suspect, even though it does boggle the imagination! Had not these horrid men made the situation clear to me, I wouldn’t have suspected, ever; they promised to keep silent only if I paid their bribe. You are perfectly safe! No one will ever find out!”

Of the eavesdroppers, only Marigold was tempted to interfere. Leaving Valerian and Simon and his henchman raptly listening, she crept forward and peeked around the side of the crypt. Angelica was in converse with a plump and cherubic-looking gentleman whom Marigold assumed was Sir Randall, while two of the most disreputable individuals in existence belligerently looked on. “Suspect
what,
Miss Smith?” Sir Randall inquired patiently.

Angelica frowned and pressed her fingertips to her temples; her life had taken on all the aspects of a most unpleasant nightmare these past several hours. First had been the encounter with Mallet and Bimble and the strong intimation that they would wait no longer for their money; then had come the note from Sir Randall, insisting on this rendezvous. Angelica had stolen her sister’s necklace, handed it over to the resurrectionists, rushed to meet Sir Randall—and despite all her efforts to free herself from the quicksand into which she had unwittingly stepped, she sank momentarily deeper into the morass. “This is hardly a moment,” muttered Sir Randall, “for air-dreaming, Miss Smith!”

Nor was it, with Mallet and Bimble looming over them like two harbingers of doom. “I had thought at first,” Angelica said sadly, “that you were prone to undertake your own resurrection work, which though hardly the thing was understandable! Surgeons
do
need specimens; that much I perceive! But then Mallet and Bimble intimated to me that it was very much worse, that it lay within their power to see you in gaol, that you might repeat some horrid offense. They said they would keep silent only if I paid them. But when I tried to ask Simon for money he thought I wanted it for myself! Which left only Rosemary’s necklace.” Angelica drew breath. “Truly, Sir Randall, I do not care
what
you’ve done—rather I care, but it doesn’t signify—I mean, I’m devoted to you! So you perceive we must do as Mallet and Bimble wish or they won’t keep quiet as oysters! Because even if it isn’t true, you would still be ruined.”

Sir Randall pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose, the better to observe the resurrectionists. Unabashed, those worthies suggested that some provision be made for their welfare before the advent of Bow Street. “Else,” added Mallet ominously, “the game will be up!”

“Dear me, how very tiresome!” Sir Randall set about polishing his spectacles. “I fear that you have committed theft for nothing. Miss Smith.”

Angelica stared at her ex-employer. “You mean you haven’t—you didn’t—but then
why?”

“Because,” responded Sir Randall, with an unfriendly glance at the resurrectionists, who were looking even more hostile, “these scoundrels recognized a flat! They hoodwinked you, my dear.”

“Aye.” Mallet grinned evilly. “I’m thinkin’ it wouldn’t go very good with missie here, guv’nor, was we hobbled—acause we’d have to say how we came by those sparklers. ‘Twould be a right rare pity was missie to end up in quod!”

This threat to her own well-being Angelica ignored. “I don’t understand! Why did you have me meet you
here?
It is a very nice cemetery, as cemeteries go, or so I suppose it is because I am not a connoisseur of such sites! Still it seems a strange choice of places to meet if you’re not embarked on your own resurrection work.”

“Not at all, Miss Smith!” Sir Randall indicated the crypt. Angelica read the plaque attached thereto. “Gracious! Your wife!” she gasped.

“I was in the habit of discussing things with her,” Sir Randall replied. “Old habits die hard, my dear, even habits my son deems morbid. It is nothing of the sort; I enjoy speaking with my dear wife as much as I ever did, especially since she is no longer in a position to argue with me!”

“But,” she protested, “Durward!”

“Ah, yes!” Sir Randall beamed paternally. “I fear I have been a trifle underhanded, my dear! In short, I arranged to meet you here today deliberately so that you might encounter Simon—Williams was to drop a hint to Durward, you see.”

Angelica saw nothing, which was not surprising, due to the blinding headache she had developed apace with Sir Randall’s disclosures. “What makes you think I wish to encounter Simon?” she inquired irritably.

Sir Randall had no opportunity to answer this very silly question; several things happened at once. Mallet growled and reached for Angelica, with obviously fell intent; Marigold screamed; Simon leapt to his feet. There was a brief flurry of bodies and a cacophony of shrieks. When the dust settled once again, Simon was seen to have planted Mallet a facer, and Marigold had triumphantly wielded the shovel with which she had rendered senseless Bimble, who sprawled at her feet.

“Well done!” applauded Valerian, who had in the midst of the melee settled himself quite comfortably on a broad tombstone. “The question now is what’s to be done with them. We can’t leave them to be picked up by Bow Street or the brutes will drag Angelica into it. Stealing what’s-her-name’s sapphires, forsooth!”

Durward’s long nose twitched. “If I may offer a suggestion, sir? I fancy I may have hit upon a solution.” This he explained. Since it involved conveying Mallet and Bimble into the country in the manner of the goods in which they dealt, to wit coffins, Durward’s solution should induce the most unscrupulous of resurrectionists to mend his ways.