Maggie MacKeever (3 page)

Binnie studied her brother, whose golden eyes glittered angrily, and whose face was flushed. “Calm yourself,” she said quietly. “Sandor has not forbidden your marriage.”

“No, but he wouldn’t.” Neal drank deeply from his wineglass, then set it down so sharply that it overturned. “He’d let me go on thinking that I was to escape him, then at the last minute introduce some impediment. It’s my opinion that Sandor’s been dipping into my money, and doesn’t wish me to find out, and therefore keeps me on so damnably tight a string.”

“But, dear boy!” protested Edwina, who detested strife. “Sandor did buy you into the Prince Regent’s own regiment. Surely that is indication of something!”

“Yes, but what?” Abruptly, Neal pushed back his chair. “If Sandor had a grain of proper feeling, he wouldn’t insist I fetch this accursed girl. How will Cressida feel, do you think, when I cry off from another engagement?” In Sandor’s absence, he glared at Binnie. “I know, you will say I refine too much on it! But Cressida is all sensibility, and cannot help but be wounded by what must appear my neglect. Oh, there’s no point in discussing it. Naturally I must do as I am told. But I warn you, one day Sandor is going to push me too far!” And on this ominous note, he exited.

Binnie propped her elbows on the table, and sighed. Perhaps she was cruelly unfeeling, as Neal obviously believed, but it was not in Binnie’s nature to make a fuss about trifles. If truth be told, it was she who disliked Neal’s prospective alliance with Cressida Choice-Pickerell, and not Sandor— though Binnie strongly suspected that Sandor’s apparent compliance derived from his knowledge of her sentiments. To give the devil his due, he was very apt at guessing one’s thoughts, and Binnie’s thoughts on the matter of Cressida Choice-Pickerell were most unsuitable for a lady of dignified appearance and mature years.

“Mercy on me!” Edwina wistfully contemplated the remainder of the apricot tart. “Sibyl, why must you and Sandor always be at daggers? Once you rubbed along together very well. You still might, were you to try and be just a little conciliating.”

“Why should I?” retorted Binnie, rather irritably. “Were I to say nothing that could get up Sandor’s back, I would never say anything at all—and though that might suit Sandor very well, it would not suit me. As for the other, Sandor was once a very different person than he is now.”

“ ‘Twas with Linnet’s death that he changed.” Edwina’s eyes filled with easy tears. “He blamed himself, for insisting that she overcome her fear of horses, which is a great piece of nonsense because he could hardly have planned that she should get her neck broken! But there it is. Her pretty neck
was
broken and with it Sandor’s heart. Poor boy!”

That this was hardly an appropriate term to apply to a man of five-and-thirty years, and one who was additionally wealthy as Croesus, Binnie did not point out. Privately, she considered Sandor’s legendary rudeness the result of nothing more sentimental than laziness. He had early discovered that it required less effort to be cruel than to be kind, and would see no point of expending the effort to amend a habit that the world tolerated in him. As for Linnet, Binnie remembered her very well. She had been a lovely girl, ingenious and gay—and a trifle deficient in intelligence. Had Linnet not taken her fatal tumble within a few months of her marriage, Sandor would have quickly found his ingénue bride a dead bore.

“The Mannering girl,” continued Edwina, who in lieu of an audience was perfectly content talking to herself. “What is this story about her running away? Surely it was just Sandor’s little joke and she did no such thing? Because if she did, I cannot imagine what he is about, introducing her into this household!”

Binnie picked up the letter from where it lay by Neal’s plate and handed it across the table. “Read for yourself. As for what Sandor intends, it is to see me at point non plus. He will not succeed, but he must ever try.”

Holding the letter gingerly, Edwina perused the contents. As she read, her eyebrows rose. “Kidnapping! Ransom! God bless my soul!” She dropped the sheet and stared at Binnie. “My dear, I wish you would consider marrying Mark, because then we could
all
leave Sandor’s house, and he would have to deal with this chit himself—because I don’t mind telling you she doesn’t sound at all the thing!”

“No,” Binnie said flatly. “I do not intend to marry anyone. I suspect that letter is the product of a highly imaginative mind, which may be forgiven a child of seventeen. Consider, Edwina: the poor girl is an orphan, alone in the world. How unhappy she must be. It will take no great effort on our part to show her a little kindness. And the heiress to a considerable fortune can hardly be left to languish in a tinkers’ camp.”

“True.” Edwina brightened. “Maybe
she’ll
get married and we can all live with her. I do believe that I am likely to sink into a decline if I must tolerate Sandor’s brutishness for much longer. I’m sure it’s not surprising if he should consider you abominably provoking, because you
are!
But I have never raised my voice to him, or offered an unkind word, and I think it very hard that he should dislike me equally!”

So little moved was Binnie by this blunt statement of Sandor’s sentiments regarding herself that she plucked an apple from a pretty silver dish and polished it on her sleeve. “Sir Nicholas Mannering, from all reports, was an odious monster of ill nature, such as in comparison would make Sandor look a veritable paragon. He so abused his wife that five years ago she fled his home—taking with her their daughter—in company with his secretary. Sir Nicholas was furious, more at the desertion of his secretary than his wife. He made no effort to find the renegades until it was brought to his attention that in lieu of his daughter his fortune would pass to a distant relative that he particularly abhorred. Sir Nicholas instigated inquiries. The secretary was tracked down without difficulty, but he had parted company with Sir Nicholas’s wife some time past. Of the other two, there was no trace.”

 Entranced, Edwina plunged her fork into the remainder of the apricot tart. “Goodness! Then what?”

Binnie shrugged. “Then nothing, until now. Sir Nicholas left all to his daughter, perhaps believing her still alive, perhaps thinking such a tactic would tie up the estate and consequently frustrate the distant relative for some time. It fell on Sandor to determine the whereabouts of the heiress. I believe he even made some effort in that direction, even if it was not considerable. There you have it. Now the heiress has been found, due more to her own initiative than to Sandor’s diligence.” She smiled, ironically. “I’ll wager Mistress Delilah will make a happy addition to our cozy little family.”

Edwina was prepared to accept no such wager. Pondering the customary state of the duke’s household, where the servants walked in awe of their sharp-tongued master, and Binnie forever irritated him, while she and Neal constantly racked their brains for avenues of escape, she emptied the tart dish. And now their daily routine was to be enlivened by a damsel who was clearly no bettor than she should be, and who would doubtless cause an already unbearable situation to go from bad to worse. “Angels defend us,” muttered Edwina, gloomily.

CHAPTER THREE

Miss Cressida Choice-Pickerell was a young lady of remarkable competence. She was sensible, level-headed, and of unimpeachable character; she was well versed in such genteel accomplishments as playing the harp and painting on velvet; she was in every situation both well-bred and refined. Additionally, she was a beauty, with dark hair and aristocratic features and gray eyes; and only the most uncharitable of observers would claim she had deliberately set out to make herself a pattern card of respectability.

Yet there was some truth in such an observation, however uncharitable; Cressida did exhibit an awesome respect for, and adherence to, the proprieties. For this, there was good reason: Miss Choice-Pickerell’s ambition was to surmount the obstacle posed to her social progress by her background, which though immensely wealthy was unfortunately tainted by trade. Her father was a prosperous city merchant. Daughters of tradesmen, no matter how successful, were barred from the drawing rooms of the Upper Ten Thousand.

To those drawing rooms Cressida aspired. In her quest she had been aided by her mother, who nourished her own ambition to rub shoulders with the
haut ton.
It was due to the combined machinations of Cressida and her mother that the Choice-Pickerells had hired for the autumn season a house on the Steine. This had not been the most fortunate choice of residences, perhaps; despite the attractions of the elegant promenades, the shops and libraries, the most prestigious residences were located not on the Steine but on the Royal Crescent, and on the Marine Parade. The Steine in August might afford much entertainment to a man of the world—for it was crowded with sportsmen and trainers, prizefighters and bookmakers and military officers, as well as females of dubious profession—but young ladies of good reputation were safer elsewhere.

Still, Cressida was in Brighton, and that was what signified. She consoled herself that the bow-fronted houses on the Royal Crescent and the Marine Parade allowed their occupants scant privacy. And after all, who needed a view over the channel? If one wished to observe a wide expanse of water, one needed only step outside.

It was not such scenic vistas that had brought Cressida to Brighton, nor even the salubrious air, breezy and bracing and good for sluggish livers and general debilitation. Nor was it the fact that Brighton was the gayest, most fashionable place in all of Europe. Cressida’s presence in this pleasure spot was prompted by the simple reason that the Tenth Light Dragoons were encamped on home leave there.

Accompanied by a footman and her maidservant, Cressida was engaged in a brisk morning stroll. Personally she had little taste for morning rides and water-parties and cricket matches on the Steine, pursuits which she considered so much noise and nonsense. Aspire as she might to the heights, Cressida’s soul was distinctly plebian. Even as she emulated the
ton,
and sought by means fair or foul to insert herself in the best front door, she deplored their irresponsible frivolity.

Thusly ruminating, the ambitious Miss Choice-Pickerell made a brisk inspection of shops displaying toys, rare china, lace and millinery, none of which tempted her to dip into her elegant reticule. Much as she might loathe her status as the offspring of a wealthy cit, Cressida had inherited a great deal of her father’s merchant-class shrewdness. She could spot a bargain at a glance—and if there were no bargain, Cressida would not buy.

Though chintz and cambrics, ribbon and fine muslin might not tempt Cressida to part with her money— Cressida, avowed her fond father, was a nipfarthing—she had, all the same, struck in Brighton precisely the sort of bargain that most appealed to her. Her father might claim that Lieutenant Neal Baskerville would never come up to scratch, would cry off before the fatal hour, but Cressida believed otherwise. Cressida understood the gentlemanly precepts of honor, as her father did not. Lieutenant Baskerville could not break off a formal betrothal without appearing the veriest coxcomb. Cressida planned to burst upon the
ton
in a very memorable style, via St. George’s, Hanover Square.

Not, of course, that Neal had shown any indication of developing cold feet. Cressida flattered herself that he was absolutely enraptured with her. Certainly he was indefatigable in his attentions. Cressida would take good care that he continued to be. She was a wise young lady, far too shrewd to let either her ambition or triumph show.

At this point in her ruminations, as she proceeded toward the library on the Marine Parade, where she planned to gaze out to sea through a telescope, or perhaps peruse the London newspapers that were delivered punctually each evening by coach, Cressida’s progress received a check. Neal himself confronted her, looking rather out of breath.

“I have been looking everywhere for you,” he said. “Your mother told me you had gone this way. Cressida, I must speak with you.”

“Well, you are doing so, are you not?” Cressida prided herself on her practicality. “Ought you not to be on parade? Colonel Fortescue will be very displeased that you neglect the drill. You will likely receive a severe reprimand.”

Neal was not especially gratified to receive from his fiancée a gentle lecture on the perils of missing parade of a morning, though what she said was true. Lieutenant Baskerville’s colonel was not enamored of him, a circumstance deriving not from Neal’s deficiency in military ability, but to Neal’s cousin’s friendship with the colonel’s dashing young wife. Neal firmly believed that Sandor had taken up with the fair Phaedra with that exact end in mind. Was he never to be freed of Sandor’s cursed influence? With a lessening of anger, he gazed upon the young lady who was his current hope of escape.

She was waiting patiently for his explanation, her gray eyes fixed on his face. It occurred to Neal that he’d never glimpsed the slightest hint of passion on those exquisite features. However, passion was not an emotion with which young ladies of refinement were expected to be familiar. “My God, you’re lovely, Cressida!” he uttered, rather thickly.

Miss Choice-Pickerell frowned, looking simultaneously offended and demure—to good effect had Miss Choice-Pickerell studied her attitudes before her looking glass. Clearly she was not flattered by his ardor. Reflecting that it was a damned dull courtship when both sides conducted themselves with the utmost decorum, and further reflecting that tedium was preferable to being made Sandor’s cat’s-paw, Neal apologized.

Gracefully, Cressida indicated forgiveness. “You have not told me,” she scolded gently, “what has caused you to come racing after me like the veriest schoolboy. After all, we are engaged for this afternoon.”

“That’s just it: we’re not.” Neal offered her his arm. “Sandor has bespoken me to run an errand for him. I am very sorry for it, but I must beg off from my engagement to you.”

Lieutenant Baskerville, thought his fiancée, might be a man of rank and fashion, a very Apollo in form, but there were numerous flaws in his character. Chief among those defects was a lack of the courage to beg leave to differ with his cousin’s royal decrees. “I see,” Cressida said coolly. “What excuse has he used this time? I can only think His Grace does not approve of your association with me.”