Maggie MacKeever (5 page)

Huffington gave his master a reproachful look, but didn’t deign to reply. True, he was the envy of all the valets of his acquaintance, for no other had the dressing of so fine a gentleman, or one who wore his clothes with such an easy grace, but he could wish that his master had less wicked a sense of humor. Huffington didn’t want to return to Ballerfast at all, for his days there were made miserable by the doglike devotion of Isolda’s dresser. Unlike his master, Huffington derived no amusement from the situation. He allowed himself a meaningful sniff.

“Spare me your sulks.” Averil pressed one hand to his aching head. “I suppose you’d better see to packing.”

Huffington was wooden. “Very good, sir. What will your lordship wear today?” He turned to the wardrobe and began to sort through its contents. “The blue? Or perhaps the green?” He stroked the clothes lovingly.

“The green, I think,” Averil replied absently. He wondered what fresh calamity had prompted his grandmother’s cryptic note. How like her not to explain.

A stranger entering the room would have been immediately stricken by the Duke of Chesshire’s saturnine appearance. Clad in a dressing gown of deep wine velvet, which only enhanced his swarthy skin and highlighted the sabre scar that ran from left temple to jaw, he looked more like a bloodthirsty pirate than an aristocratic gentleman. His dark hair was worn somewhat longer than was fashionable, and his lean face with its high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and square, arrogant chin, was adorned by side-whiskers. Eyes of the same midnight blue as Isolda’s surveyed his contemporaries, and himself, cynically. Averil was an enigma, even to those who knew him best.  He gambled, and seldom lost; he drank, but seldom became disguised; he dallied with fair Cyprians, but never lost his heart. Even more unusual, he spent little time in society, seemingly preferring to remain at the castle on the pretext of looking after his estates. His grandmother suspected, and rightly, that his infrequent trips to London were for pleasure, rather than business.

Averil held a heavily perfumed letter distastefully between two fingers. “When did this arrive? Why wasn’t it brought to my attention immediately it came?”

Huffington glanced up quickly from the buff-colored waistcoat that received his expert ministrations.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said stiffly. “You left strict orders not to be disturbed, so I just put it aside. Miss Whittington’s lad brought it around last night.”

“Ah, yes,” Averil murmured as he glanced at the spidery handwriting. “The fair Felicity.”

It seemed to Huffington that he might have gained a reprieve, for Felicity Whittington, an opera dancer of widespread repute and enviable proportions, was the latest object of Averil’s rather erratic attentions. The valet fervently hoped that the enchanting lightskirt required Averil’s presence in London.  Such a request would surely delay their departure for a few days.

“I suppose I must see her,” Averil remarked with bored unenthusiasm. Huffington knew that tone, and saw his frail hopes shattered. No woman held Averil’s attention for long; he was merely amused by the many lures that were cast in his way. Matchmaking mamas kept careful watch on their susceptible daughters when the disreputable Lord Vere came to town, and heaved mighty sighs of relief upon his departures, for many a lovely young miss had worn the willow for him. Averil was adept at the art of flirtation, and even ladies who should have known better found, to their chagrin, that his clever words and easy attentions signified absolutely nothing. Felicity, however, had held his interest longer than most.

Averil absently touched his scar. The fair Felicity was fast losing her appeal.  Her extraordinary beauty was overshadowed by her rapacious greed. Still, it amused him to keep up the charade, for in addition to the obvious benefits of the liaison, he had the added satisfaction of knowing Felicity’s
tendresse
for him infuriated his oldest enemy, Theophilus Tierney. All things considered, Averil thought it best to humor Felicity a while longer.

Huffington stole a look at his master, who had begun to whistle a bawdy time slightly off-key. Having undergone a rather painful apprenticeship, the valet found this present mood little to his liking. The last time Averil had soundly trounced the little valet had been during such a dangerous state of mind, and Huffington was not eager to repeat the experience. He moved quietly and efficiently as he helped his master dress, and was rewarded for his efforts by only an occasional glare.

* * * *

Averil derived a certain perverse enjoyment from Felicity’s opulent townhouse. The unremarkable gray brick building was enlivened by crimson arches and decorative dressing, and boasted a parapet roof and sash windows, but it was with the furnishings that Felicity had truly come into her own. Velvets and gilt abounded; ornate mirrors were displayed in every available space; furniture of various incompatible periods cluttered the small rooms.

Felicity’s bedchamber was notorious and was so well-publicized that even schoolroom maidens were pleasantly scandalized by the details of the infamous lady’s furnishings, though this was not a subject they discussed with their elders. Interspersed with the massive gilded mirrors that adorned the walls were no less than three paintings of Felicity herself, in various stages of undress. The focal point of the room was an oaken four-poster bed, which was lavishly ornamented with naked ladies and satyrs engaged in every imaginable debauchery.

Averil thought fondly of that unusual piece of furniture as he climbed the winding mahogany staircase to his mistress’s chamber. It was said that the opera dancer herself had been the woodcarver’s inspiration, and Averil had often noted that some of the figures bore a crude resemblance to Felicity in her more passionate moments. Reminding himself to compliment her again on her execrable taste, he knocked discreetly at her door.

Felicity greeted him with great enthusiasm, running her fingers, as always, along his sabre scar. Averil disentangled himself and surveyed her critically.

“You look charming, as usual.” He observed, with some distaste, the startling red ensemble in which she had chosen to attire herself. Felicity was in a shocking state of disarray.

“I did not expect you, my lord,” Felicity murmured, with eyes downcast in a fine imitation of maidenly confusion. Averil watched appreciatively as a blush tinged her ivory cheeks.

“Better and better,” he replied, flicking a perfectly formed little ear with a careless finger. “You should wear that shade more often, my love. It becomes you.”

“I thought it would please you.” Felicity bestowed a glance of great innocence upon him. “My mantua maker is the greatest beast; she demands immediate payment. I told her I would take the matter up with you.”

“Oh?”

“Averil, I do not know how I am to go on!”

“And why is that, my love?”

Felicity’s air of meekness abruptly deserted her, and she stamped a delicate foot upon the floor. “I vow you are the most odious wretch in nature!” she stormed. “Not only were you promised to me for the masquerade last night, but now you set out to make mock!”

Averil carefully inspected the impeccable folds of his cravat in a nearby mirror. “I trust that you did not allow my absence to curtail your activities?”

“No,” Felicity sniffed, oblivious to the dangerous gleam in her protector’s eye.

“And which of your faithful swains escorted you?” Averil nonchalantly adjusted his sleeves.

“Theo,” Felicity retorted triumphantly. Her tone quickly changed as Averil moved swiftly toward her. “But it was of no consequence, I assure you!” Further protestations were made impossible by the hands that fastened themselves around her neck.

Felicity saw colors of many startling hues, before Averil’s strong fingers released her and she fell backwards upon the bed. She silently bewailed, not for the first time, her lack of wit. Another, wiser, woman would have long since learned to deal carefully with the Duke of Chesshire, but Felicity had the unhappy tendency to arouse his temper as often as his ardor. At his best, Averil was not a gentle lover; at his worst, it was as if he were possessed by a horde of malicious demons, and Felicity was often hard-pressed to disguise the bruises he left upon her fair skin. She lay back upon the bed, reluctant to move.

Averil looked down upon the frightened woman with barely-concealed contempt and wondered what had ever attracted him to such a voracious creature. He had seen in her the opportunity to infuriate his old rival, but little else. That old score would be someday evened, but Averil was content to bide his time. He had long ago promised himself the pleasure of Theo’s disgrace, but not before he had broken the man’s spirit.

That his efforts had, thus far, met with little success bothered him not at all. He was in no hurry to take his revenge. Averil’s fingers strayed again to the scar, obtained in a duel over some long-forgotten woman. He’d been young and inexperienced, and Theo had been quick to take advantage. Averil’s eyes blazed as he remembered the older man’s taunts.

“Do not be angry,
cherie,”
Felicity crooned, sadly mistaking the reason for Averil’s silence. “You must know that I am devoted to you. Theo doesn’t signify!” Interpreting Averil’s expression as sudden passion, she quickly rose to embrace him.

“I do not choose to share your favors,” he said coldly, and pushed her away from him. “As I thought I had made clear to you on a previous occasion. Or have you forgotten that instance, my love?”

Felicity blanched. She remembered the incident all too well, having been forced to temporarily withdraw from Society as a result. The unpleasant reminiscence prompted her to ill-advised speech. “Do not take on so! The affair was of no consequence;

you must know that Theo has been dancing attendance on me forever. Heaven knows why; I certainly don’t encourage the man!”

Averil interrupted this impassioned monologue with a harsh laugh, and Felicity froze at the unpleasant sound.

“Oh, pray do not black my eye again,” she wailed. Averil grasped her wrists firmly in one of his hands. With a careless move of his unencumbered hand, he ripped the crimson gown from neck to hemline.

Felicity was terrified. Never had she seen the duke in such a fury, and it was with real fear that she shrieked when he threw her to the floor. She could not even spare a thought for her ruined gown.

Averil was quickly done with her, and Felicity stared at him with furious loathing as he nonchalantly adjusted his clothing. Her temper rapidly unproved as he pulled from his pocket a jeweler’s box and placed it on a table.

“A present, my love,” he said as she scrambled to her feet. “It reminded me of you.” The brooch was decidedly vulgar, but Felicity was overwhelmed with what she considered its magnificence.

“Averil!” she gasped, and made as if to throw herself into his arms. He moved away.

“A farewell gift,” he murmured, as he paused casually at the door. “I have today received word from my grandmother; she desires my immediate return to Ballerfast.”

“Oh, Averil,” Felicity moaned dramatically, her avaricious mind working quickly, “are we always to be parted too soon? Take me with you! You know I am disconsolate when you are absent.”

“Good God!” Averil ejaculated, with honest horror. “You cannot suppose that even I would take my fancy-piece to my grandmother’s home!”

Felicity’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times, to Averil’s sardonic delight. He noticed that her eyes protruded slightly, giving the impression of a rather voluptuous fish. “Then, too,” he added, with sudden boredom, “there is another reason. I have no further use for you, you see.”

“Averil!” she screamed, then quickly changed her tactics and allowed a few tears to slide down her cheeks. “I had not thought you would treat me with such brutality.”

“You have much to learn about the Quality, my pet,” he retorted, and went quickly through the door. The sound of breaking china, accompanied by fulsome curses, followed him down the stairs.

* * * *

Theophilus Tierney emerged cautiously from Felicity’s beruffled dressing chamber, and was greeted by an animated china bowl that crashed against the wall beside him. Theo surveyed his love dubiously; in her torn gown, with her hair in tawdry disarray and her paint ravaged by tears and fury. Felicity looked like a slut from the streets. She attracted him, all the same. Theo had a definite predilection for low vices.

“It’s no wonder Vere gave you your leave,” he murmured. “You’re not looking your best, my pet.” Felicity screamed with rage, and Theo was obliged to move quickly out of the path of a flying glass paperweight.

“My dear girl, do compose yourself,” he said, and slapped Felicity with a violence that knocked her back against a table, which promptly collapsed under her weight. She glared at him balefully from the floor. Theo casually adjusted his cuffs, then arranged himself gracefully in a convenient chair.

“I’ve spent an excessively boring afternoon,” he complained, stifling a yawn. “I would think you might contrive to keep me better entertained. You should be grateful for my patience—just think how it would have gone with you had Vere suspected that I was secreted on the premises. I wish I knew what I had done to give the man such a decided dislike of me.”

“Well, if that isn’t a Banbury tale!” Felicity picked herself up from the floor and gingerly inspected herself for damage. “You told me yourself that you were responsible for that horrid scar.”

“But that was years ago! The man has a remarkable memory.” Theo smiled unpleasantly, and Felicity sat delicately on a nearby chair. Several retorts flashed through her mind, but she pressed her lips firmly together. Her incautious tongue had done enough damage for one day.

Theo watched Felicity with satisfaction. He would never tell her so, but he had greatly enjoyed eavesdropping on her tryst. Vere’s hatred of his rival was heartily reciprocated, and things had not gone well for Theo recently; he’d had little enough amusement since Lord Fairchild had revealed himself to be an ungentlemanly cur. Theo’s patience had been sorely tried by the discovery that the Fairchild chit had disappeared; the additional knowledge that her father had prudently taken a leaf from his daughter’s book and had fled the country, taking with him various monies that rightly belonged to other people, including Theo, was enough to inspire just intimation.