Maggie MacKeever (4 page)

“Sandor,” retorted Neal heatedly, “doesn’t approve of anything. In this instance, I am to fetch Mannering’s daughter to town—she is to be Sandor’s ward. And I don’t think even her considerable fortune will make up to her for being under Sandor’s thumb. In fact, I think that if I explained to her the nature of her guardian, the child would much prefer to stay where she is!”

Cressida did not accept the information that a wealthy damsel was to take up residence in His Grace’s house at all philosophically. “And where might it be that she is?” she inquired. “Surely it would be more fitting if the duke himself brought the girl to Brighton, perhaps in company with your sister? To be so abruptly thrown among strangers must be frightening to a child—you did say she is a child, Neal? Surely she would benefit from feminine company.”

Neal contemplated the character of the child, as revealed in her highly dramatic letter, and then the prospect of Sandor and Binnie closeted together in a carriage. Reluctantly, he smiled. “Edwina goes with me, at Sandor’s decree. Lord, but it’s a cat-and-dog life my family leads. Cressida,
why
must we wait until spring? There is no impediment to our marriage, since Sandor approves.”

This attitude, suggesting as it did that Neal regarded his upcoming nuptials as a matter of expedience, didn’t recommend itself to Miss Choice-Pickerell. Although she might look at her marriage in exactly that light, it was hardly flattering that her prospective bridegroom should do likewise. Nor did it augur well for her intention to rule the roost once they were wed.

“Sandor this and Sandor that,” she said archly. “Sometimes I think, sir, that you wish to marry me merely to escape your cousin. I would dislike to be second fiddle of all things.”

This remark, for it was no more than the truth, and consequently roused in its recipient a deep sense of guilt, caused Neal to stop dead in his tracks and look down upon Cressida’s lovely countenance. The gathering storm that he saw there did not soothe his conscience. “Cressida, you misunderstand,” he lied manfully. “I would rather forfeit my life than disturb your peace. It is merely that I fear Sandor will change his mind.”

Had not Cressida suspected it would give Neal a disgust of her, she would have engaged in a tantrum. As it was, she did not think a mild display of wounded sensibility would be taken amiss. “Am I so ineligible for marriage with yourself?” she inquired wistfully. “Clearly you must think so or you would not be so concerned with what your cousin thinks. I begin to wonder, Neal, if you truly wish to marry me. For if you did, I cannot see what His Grace’s approval has to do with anything.”

Nor was Neal flattered that his fiancée should accuse him of being a false accuser, but he sought to make amends. “This will never do!” said he. “My dear, you know I haven’t sixpence to scratch with. If I run counter to Sandor, it’s bellows to mend—and I’ve a very strong suspicion that Sandor is playing the concave. He’s a damned high stickler, and our marriage is the first thing during all the years I’ve been his ward of which he has approved.”

Cressida pondered whether or not to take exception to the profanity that had sullied her ears and decided, this time, to let it pass. She wished to appear neither priggish nor commonplace. Furthermore, Neal gave every appearance of a young man about to fly off the hooks. Another of the traits that she lamented in him was a sad volatility. “You have never told me how you came to be his ward. Surely your sister is of an age to set up housekeeping on her own.”

“Certainly she is, and I’m sure she would, could we but afford to. Binnie has even less liking for Sandor’s hospitality than I.” Neal turned away; they continued their idle stroll. “But no provision was made for her. I suppose our parents were sure she would marry. She is dowered, of course, but no more—and Sandor will not allow her to touch her dowry. He would not wish to short her husband, he says, in the unlikely event that she
does
wed. As to how it came about, our parents died within weeks of each other, and we were both underage. Sandor made himself responsible for us, though I cannot imagine why. Certainly not of generosity! And ever since he has contrived to see us reduced to such straits that we are brought to a standstill.”

Such excess of emotion did not meet with the approval of Miss Choice-Pickerell. “His Grace has always been all that is polite, to me,” she said repressively.

“Oh, Sandor can play the pretty, when it suits him.” Neal’s laughter was mirthless. “Take my word for it, Cressida, he’s the devil incarnate. And now there’s this Mannering chit, whom he will doubtless also somehow use to his advantage. A very pretty piece of business it is! I wish myself well shut of it.”

So irate was Neal’s demeanor, so flushed his countenance, that it caused Cressida quite a fright. “Don’t put yourself in a taking,” she advised, rather unwisely. “Since you are so concerned with the duke’s opinion, you might reflect that he would hardly approve you making an exhibition of yourself.”

Lieutenant Baskerville turned on his fiancée a countenance that was totally devoid of affection. “Moonshine!” he said roughly. “Don’t
you
go ringing a peal over me, Cressida; I have quite enough of that from Sandor. And so little do I care for the high-and-mighty duke that I would rejoice to see him dead!”

“Well!” Cressida drew away and stared. “How
dare
you speak so to me! Never did I think that you would use me in this vulgar way.”

Cressida’s notions of vulgarity did not march with Neal’s, but he did not demonstrate to her the difference. In truth, Neal was himself, shocked at the fervor of which he was guilty. Too, it was hardly prudent to voice a wish for the death of a man who had countless enemies. Were the duke to be found murdered some glorious morn—a not improbable event considering, for example, the enmity in which he was regarded by one Colonel Fortescue—Neal would likely find himself among the prime suspects.

“My apologies.” Ruefully, he ran his fingers through his chestnut hair. “The truth is that I’m sadly out of curl. I would much rather spend my afternoon with you than set out on the trail of the Mannering chit. Say you will forgive my boorish behavior, my dear.”

Cressida studied her gloved hands, of which she was very proud: small hands and feet were one of the first essentials of beauty required by the
ton.
Not for the first time, she lamented that a young lady of her innate gentility should be born into the world of commerce. She also lamented that her means of entree into the upper spheres should be a gentleman prone to hey-go-mad humors. “In view of your mood,” she responded severely, “it is perhaps for the best that our engagement for this afternoon is broken. You offer me a very poor sort of amusement, Neal.”

What Neal was tempted to offer his fiancée was violence. Never had he realized so clearly that their sentiments were opposed. So far was Miss Choice-Pickerell from understanding his feelings regarding his overbearing cousin that she clearly thought him prone to brief fits of lunacy. “You leave me,” he said stiffly, “nothing more to say.”

But Cressida was a clever girl, and she knew when she’d gone too far. She laid her dainty hand on Neal’s arm and gazed up at him beseechingly. “Now it is I who must offer apology,” she murmured. “I have spoken hastily, and out of turn—but it is concern for you that prompted me to be so mannerless. It makes me very unhappy to think that you and your cousin have grown so estranged. Knowles is a very influential man. I wish you would be more careful in your dealings with him. Why, if you displeased him sufficiently, he could probably even have you clapped in jail!”

That this sudden concern for his well-being was an abrupt volte-face, Neal was aware; but he was not surprised that Cressida should be so inconsistent as to in one moment consider Sandor an ogre, and in the next a saint. Females were consistently inconsistent, in Neal’s experience—save for his sister, and on the same subject. Too, Cressida’s melting expression would have soothed the ruffled sensibilities of a far more discerning gentleman.

“You need not worry for my safety,” he responded, though gratified that she should. “Sandor would not dare go so far—at least, I think he won’t. My darling, I am a brute to harangue you in his stead; and you are an angel to put up with me.”

At that moment, and by design, Cressida looked angelic indeed. “If you wish it so very much,” she offered nobly, “we may be married before the spring. My mother will be disappointed, I daresay—but for myself, I don’t care a rush if we are married here or in Hanover Square.” Modestly, she blushed. “You are to be my husband, after all. I must learn to defer to you in all things.”

Confronted with a vision of lovely and submissive femininity, Neal was positively bewitched—but not so bewitched that he failed to heed a deep pang of conscience. Also, and oddly, Cressida’s sudden acquiescence roused in him a reluctance to be so abruptly wed. “No, no!” he replied quickly. “It must be as you wish. A wedding is a solemn matter.” Strange how that remark roused in him unease. “I would not wish to cause you unseemly haste.”

“Dear Neal.” Cressida’s long lashes fluttered. “You are so very good.”

With this, too, Neal disagreed; at that moment he felt himself an utter varlet of insincerity. “I must go,” he said abruptly. “I will call upon you tomorrow, Cressida.” She suffered him to salute her hand.

She also allowed herself the pleasure of watching his handsome figure move away from her down the street. His brusque leave-taking she attributed to consideration other sensibilities; obviously he had been laboring under strong emotion, and he would not wish to offer her further affront. All in all, and despite Neal’s various misdemeanors, she was content with the interview. He would learn to be less frivolous and volatile, she believed, once she had separated him from his frippery fellow officers.

Miss Choice-Pickerell might have been less complacent had she been aware that at that very moment her fiancé was seriously questioning if there was any point on which they thought as one; but Miss Choice-Pickerell saw no reason to concern herself with what her prospective bridegroom might and might not think. Lieutenant Baskerville was, to her, no more than a means to an end. She would have preferred a title, naturally, but she knew the folly of setting her sights so high. Neal would serve her purpose very nicely; his lineage was impeccable, and no one could sneeze at a lieutenant in the Tenth Light Dragoons; he would make an unexceptionable husband, once he was properly trained.

With the practicality on which she prided herself, Cressida contemplated the main topic of their recent conversation, and decided that Neal was not entirely rational on the subject of the Duke of Knowles. To Cressida, the duke habitually behaved with a pretty deference that pleased her well. She was not so much a fool as to set her cap at Sandor; His Grace would no more marry a merchant’s daughter than he would the dashing Phaedra Fortescue, who was already married anyway. Still, Cressida thought it would be very nice to be related to His Grace by marriage. Obviously, Neal was unaware of the advantages of relationship to such a very important man.

That reflection brought Miss Choice-Pickerell to a matter that caused her considerable discontent. Who was this Miss Mannering that Neal had gone to fetch? More important, what would she mean to Cressida’s carefully laid plans? Neal was a very engaging young man, and Miss Mannering, by her presence in the duke’s house, would see a great deal of him. Still, Neal had referred to her as a child—and at what age did childhood end?

At this point, Miss Choice-Pickerell’s diligent footman dared to interrupt, with a diffident observation that Miss Choice-Pickerell was about to walk head-on into a military parade. “I’ll brook no interference!” announced the young lady, in a tone so grim that her footman cringed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Miss Cressida Choice-Pickerell was not the only lady of note to stroll about the streets of Brighton that fine morn; although Miss Sibyl Baskerville would be the first to admit that she was no longer in her first youth, and certainly that she was far from fashionable, her passage occasioned a great deal more comment. With a plain cloth redingote worn over an unadorned muslin gown, and on her chestnut curls a bonnet so dowdy as to make her appear an impecunious governess, Binnie might justifiably have been expected to pass unnoticed. However, she did not. Miss Baskerville was no less a sight of Brighton than was the legendary Green Man—a Mr. Cope whose affectation it was to dress entirely in green, who ate nothing but green fruits and vegetables, whose rooms were painted and furnished in that color, whose gig and livery and portmanteau, gloves and whip were all green. And as did Mr. Cope, Binnie walked daily on the Steine.

Nor did her reputation suffer from this enterprise; there was not a soul in Brighton—with the possible exception of Miss Choice-Pickerell, with whom she did not stand on good terms—who would dare speak a censorious word against Miss Baskerville. It was not wholly due to the influence of her cousin the duke that this was so; in her own right, Binnie enjoyed a great popularity. She was without pretension; she was both quick-witted and kind; and if she was eccentric, which not even her dearest friends could deny, eccentricity was to be tolerated in a lady of lineage so impeccable. Too, though the duke might not especially like his cousin, she was under his protection; and the duke was not a man to overlook a slight. Consequently, Miss Baskerville enjoyed the privilege, denied to ladies of far more exalted position than she, of going and behaving exactly as she pleased.

She did not do so unescorted; Binnie was not of the temperament that out of sheer wrong-headedness flaunted the proprieties. It was not that Binnie deliberately adhered to
les convenances,
but merely that she was innately well-bred—except, that is, in regard to her cousin the duke, in whose presence she invariably conducted herself like a fishwife. She said as much, to the gentleman whose privilege it was to accompany her on this leisurely promenade.

“It makes me,” she admitted, “very much disgusted with myself. Sandor has some justification in claiming I flaunt my presence on the stage like some vulgar character from a comedy. Although
he
is scarcely qualified to throw stones at me, for Sandor might serve as an object lesson in triumphant depravity. Oh, curse the man! Let us talk of something else. This discussion of Sandor’s virtue—or the lack thereof!—is far too great a bore.”