Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  Lady Bligh stepped into her carriage, her manner quite carefree, and the Chief Magistrate moved back to his desk. He was well aware that Dulcie had not given him her word.

  * * * *

  The West End streets were crammed with carriages— stanhopes as tall as a first-floor window; tilburies, curricles, and tandems; tim-whiskies and phaetons drawn by glossy thoroughbreds. As varied as the vehicles were the men, women, and children who thronged the narrow roads. Mingled with young martial heroes, fresh from triumphs over the French, were sellers of ballads and pamphlets; whores and pickpockets; hawkers of oranges and chestnuts, pasties and tarts, gin and beer. Along the cobbled streets could be found spectacles of every sort: Punch-and-Judy entertainments and performing fleas; traveling fairs with mountebanks, wire-walkers and bearded women; houses of assignation where even ladies of quality could salve their discontent.

  Lady Bligh’s well-sprung barouche moved past the French restaurants and raffish oyster saloons that thrived around Piccadilly, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the frail sisterhood who haunted the neighborhood. The streetwalker raised a menacing fist and mingled colorful curses with the varied cries that filled the air.

  Exquisite dandies strolled in St. James’s and Piccadilly, joining their less colorful brothers in the gentlemen’s clubs, playing faro and macao at Brooks, or looking in at Watier’s, where Brummel reigned supreme. Behind the Corinthian pilasters of White’s handsome and well-proportioned facade, the rich lords of the Whig aristocracy gambled deep, both night and day. Here, where whist was the game, Lord Dorset had once won £200,000 in a single night. The Earl had never been numbered among those gentlemen whose losses of fortune were the stuff of life to Messrs. Howard and Grubs, much patronized moneylenders to the fashionable world.

  Lady Bligh’s coachman drew up before a large and unattractive home in Grosvenor Square. Without waiting for assistance, the Baroness stepped down. Set on a long strip of ground running back from the street, with a courtyard behind it and a coach-house in the rear, Arbuthnot House towered over her. Mismatched statuaries and sash-windows in recessed frames did not compliment Greek pediments, porticoes, and colonnades. Dulcie applied herself with vigor to the heavy brass doorknocker.

  She was ushered by a haughty butler into a small anteroom. “I will ascertain,” said he, inspecting her engraved visiting card, “if Madam is receiving visitors.”

  “As you wish. I think you will discover that Madam dares not refuse to see me.” The butler formed the immediate intention of leaving this underbred person to cool her heels as long as he dared. The Baroness, unperturbed by treatment more suitable to a common tradesman, prepared to wait.

  No sooner had the frigid servitor disappeared from view than Dulcie blithely mounted the circular mahogany staircase that led to the upper floors. The interior of Arbuthnot House, she noted, was lavishly embellished with columns and entablatures, coved recesses and niches, making the inside of the house as grotesque as its exterior. Lady Bligh paused in the upstairs hallway, then moved unerringly toward the master bedroom.

  The Baroness blended magnificently with the delicate pinks and startling reds of that chamber’s decor, her gown and hair in perfect accord with the unconventional decor. Though Arabella’s chambers had been set to rights, they still showed evidence of the events that had transpired there. Lady Bligh inhaled the fading scent of roses as her dark eyes moved slowly around the dressing room. Whatever Arabella’s shortcomings, her taste, in inanimate objects at least, could not be disputed. Dulcie threw open the wardrobe where expensive gowns hung undisturbed, and fingered the soft folds of a, rumpled and stained evening dress of rich-figured French gauze.

  Next to catch her attention was the dainty writing desk. Her nimble fingers pressed a hidden spring and a narrow drawer appeared. Without pausing for inspection, the Baroness stuffed its scant contents into the bodice of her gown and closed the aperture. Her gaze moved to a poorly executed pastoral scene, an incongruous article to find in the boudoir of Arabella Arbuthnot, whom one would hardly expect to nourish a preference for chunky milkmaids and knock-kneed cows. Dulcie removed the painting and detached from its backing a thin piece of parchment which she added to her other contraband. Then she stepped back into the hallway and calmly descended the stair. The butler was waiting in the hallway.

  “Madame Arbuthnot will see you now.” His voice dripped icicles. Lady Bligh smiled gently and allowed herself to be conducted to the drawing room.

  “Luisa,” she said. “How delightful to see you again.” The two ladies surveyed each other without enthusiasm. Despite her haggish appearance, Madame Arbuthnot had once been a beauty, and had reigned uncontested until Dulcie, many years her junior, had burst upon the ton and stolen Luisa’s position and her beaux. “You are looking well.”

  “Fiddle-stick,” retorted her hostess, at whose elbow a brandy decanter, barely a quarter full, sat upon a Chippendale table badly splotched with liquor stains. It was common knowledge that Arabella’s arrival at Arbuthnot House had caused her mama-in-law frequent recourse to the bottle. A carriage accident, twenty years previous, had left Luisa confined to a wheelchair. “You might as well sit down, since you’re here.”

  “As gracious as ever, I see.” The Baroness alighted on an uncomfortable Carolian love seat. The room reeked of brandy. “How do I find you, Luisa? Well, I presume?”

  “You presume too much. Consider yourself lucky to find me at all, and don’t be impertinent.” Madame Arbuthnot refilled her glass.

  “I beg your pardon, Luisa. I did not mean to pry.” It was as well that Luisa was a recluse: the sight of her would have inspired many a young, impressionable miss with an abiding horror of advancing age. Scant gray hair straggled past her brightly rouged cheeks; hooded topaz eyes glowered malevolently from gaunt eye sockets that jutted out hideously amid sagging flesh.

  “Don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes, Dulcie Bligh!” snapped Madame Arbuthnot. “I wasn’t born yesterday. You want something or you would never have come here. Brass-faced baggage! It ain’t like you have a fondness for me.”

  The Baroness kept her emotions under tight control. “You misjudge me, Luisa. I have come to be with you in your time of need.” This generosity was a trifle startling, perhaps, considering the ladies’ long-standing enmity.

  “Balderdash.” Luisa drained her glass and observed her caller tipsily. “Open your budget and don’t waste my time. I believe in blunt speech, you know.”

  “The whole world knows,” Dulcie retorted, and then smiled sweetly. “Dear Luisa, I fear you are quite overset by your difficulties.”

  The dowager roared with laughter. “Difficulties!” She wiped her streaming eyes. “You’re speaking of Arabella, of course. The silly twit’s death is the best thing that’s happened to me for many a long year.”

  “Poor Luisa. How tedious you have become.”

  The dowager brandished the decanter. “The gel was set on cuckolding my son. If she went to meet her Maker prematurely, ‘twas no more than she deserved.”

  Dulcie was undismayed by such vehemence. “Ah! The matter of an heir.”

  Madame’s topaz eyes were bloodshot. “One thing I’ll say for you, fizgig: you’re up to all the rigs. The Arbuthnot millions may’ve been made in trade, but my son was knighted for his services to the Crown, and it wouldn’t be fitting for a bastard to step into his shoes.”

  “No, indeed.” The ton had long ago been induced to overlook the Arbuthnot origins. “Was that a likely eventuality?”

  “You don’t blab, either,” commented the Baroness’s old rival, “so I’ll tell you that it was. William was set on securing the succession. You’d think, from that boy’s carrying-on, that he was born nobility. Even now he’s hobnobbing with the swells in one of those dratted clubs.”

  The Baroness was not disheartened to find Sir William away from home. “Do you not wish for grandchildren, Luisa? Little creatures of joy and delight to dandle upon your knee?”

&nb
sp; The dowager choked on her brandy. “No more than you, I’ll warrant. Noisy, nasty little things.”

  Dulcie exhibited little interest in this sidelight on Sir William’s nursery days. “Arabella was not eager to oblige?”

  “Hah!” Luisa’s eyes glittered. “That one was too busy with your devilish nephew to spare her husband even token time. Not that I bear young Dickon any ill-will, though he’s bound for perdition as sure as I’m bound to this chair.” She paused to observe Lady Bligh’s reaction to this dire prediction, and derived great pleasure from her guest’s hastily averted face. “There’s little that goes on in this house that I don’t know, including my daughter-in-law’s reluctance to warm her husband’s bed. My nose for mischief has always been acute.”

  The Baroness contemplated that magnificent, and somewhat reddened, appendage. “You cannot deny that Arabella was stunning,” she murmured. “I wonder who would wish to do away with her.”

  “At least half her acquaintance, if not more. Arabella was not of an endearing nature.” Luisa reached again for the decanter. “She surprised a thief and he disposed of her.” Large yellowed teeth flashed. “Most conveniently.”

  “A thief who knew the safe’s combination? Come, Luisa, that won’t do!”

  Madame Arbuthnot raised her goblet. “My son ain’t as careful as he should be. Nor are servants what they once were.” Her words were slightly slurred. “I know why you’re here: you want to clear that rakeshame nephew of yours. You’re wasting your time, you know. I wouldn’t help you if I could.” The harsh voice ceased abruptly as the dowager’s head slumped forward. From the slack lips issued a hearty snore.

  Lady Bligh gazed upon the raddled dowager, a gruesome spider squatting in the center of her cluttered web. Jacobean paneling warred with Chinoiserie wallpaper; Geneva velvets mixed indiscriminately with Georgian brocades and Burgundian tapestries. A William and Mary tallboy was adorned with Queen Anne embroidery. In one corner sat an Elizabethan bread cupboard. It was rumored that Madame Arbuthnot never left this chamber, taking her meals at one of the scarred tables and passing her nights on the worn settee that looked far too fragile to support her weight.

  Luisa stirred. “You’re still here.” One swollen hand moved to her brow. “Sweet Christ, but I’ve the devil of a head.”

  “Did you think you’d dreamt me?” Dulcie inquired. “I fear, Luisa, that you are too much alone. Such excessive solitude often leads to disorders of the mind.”

  “Think I’m queer in the attic, do you?” The veined hands shook. “I’ll listen to no more nonsense, you insolent chit. You may take your leave.”

  “Luisa! I have only your best interests in mind.” Lady Bligh glanced significantly at the empty decanter. “You need a companion, someone to amuse you and run small errands. You would be much more comfortable.”

  “Hmmm.” Luisa contemplated such an addition to the household, a hapless creature whom she could bully and torment. A female in unfortunate circumstances would not quickly take offense. “You may be right.”

  “Of course I am.” The Baroness was brisk. “I know Just the person, an impoverished female who will suit you perfectly. She was left destitute by her, er, family and has had to seek employment.” The account was true, if highly abridged. “Primrose is a good, unassuming girl; I’m sure you’ll find her all that you might wish.”

  The dowager’s smile was wolfish. She would derive great satisfaction from abusing Lady Bligh’s protégée. “You and your unfortunates. Can’t you find any better way to pass your time?”

  “At my age?” The Baroness was a picture of feebleness. “The pursuits of youth are beyond me. Age has vanquished both of us, alas.”

  Gratified to consider her rival thus cut down to size, Madame Arbuthnot conceded that Dulcie had lost none of her style. “You’ve a good heart, Dulcie Bligh,” she announced, with rare generosity, “for all you’re a flibbertigibbet. Send the wench around.”

  “Bless you, Luisa.” The champion of the underprivileged rose. “You are not so unsympathetic as you would have the world believe.”

  Madame Arbuthnot remained enchanted by the notion of her old foe now fallen prey to decrepitude. “Stay and have some black pudding with me.” She cackled at Dulcie’s instinctive revulsion to this horrid, low-cost concoction. “It’s better fare than your nephew will have where he’s bound.”

  Lady Bligh was greatly moved by this grim reminder. “I must go,” she replied, in muffled tones. “Thank you for seeing me, Luisa. I will arrange to have Primrose call.”

  “Do that,” the dowager agreed cordially. “And give Dorset my regards.”

  “Your kindness knows no bounds.” The Baroness pressed a dainty lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes. “Pray don’t trouble yourself; I will find my own way out.” She left Luisa shaking with vicious glee.

  Once in the hallway, Dulcie’s melancholy miraculously disappeared. The bowed shoulders straightened, the grief-stricken features took on brisk determination. Madame Arbuthnot would have been greatly incensed to see her favorite enemy move so youthfully. Rustling faintly, the Baroness strode toward the library, Sir William’s private domain.

  Chapter Four

  Dulcie sat in the Grand Saloon, beneath a stained glass window of abstract design, which she claimed was Saint George slaying the dragon and which her nephew irreverently identified as the legendary Sir Philpott Bligh—better-remembered for his alcoholic capacities than for the daring he exhibited during the Crusades— locked in mortal combat with an extremely obstinate mule.

  The Baroness took stock of her ill-assorted troops. “It must suffice,” she sighed, “though it is not what I would like. Still, we shall contrive.”

  Livvy would have given a great deal to learn precisely how the Baroness had passed her morning; Lady Bligh unmistakably resembled a canary-fed cat. Thus reminded of her duties, Livvy cast an anxious eye upon her charges. Calypso muttered darkly, one wary eye fixed on Casanova, who dozed innocently upon a satin-covered couch. Livvy pondered their presence in the little-used Grand Saloon. The stage was well set; it remained to discover for whom.

  Lord Dorset manifested his customary indifference. Livvy marveled at this imperturbability, a less-than-endearing trait. The Earl looked very well in his coat of bottle green and beige unmentionables, and if he experienced any curiosity about Dulcie’s summons, it was not evident. Nor did he display annoyance at being distracted from his usual pursuits, though at this hour Lord Dorset was more often found in the fencing rooms in St. James’s Street, in “Gentleman” Jackson’s Bond Street boxing saloon, or examining the latest equine acquisitions at Tattersalls.

  Sensing her attention, Dickon cocked an inquiring brow. Livvy looked hastily away.

  “Gibbon,” Dulcie said. Her tone made the butler start guiltily, for he had recently appropriated a fine diamond stickpin from an unsuspecting caller, and feared his mistress’s eagle eye. “I will not scold you,” the Baroness went on, “but you must try to curb these unbecoming impulses.”

  Chastened, Gibbon bowed his head. “I assume,” his employer continued, as she arranged a vase of newly cut flowers, “that you have retained your old contacts?”

  Gibbon tried desperately for an expression of nonchalance. He succeeded only in looking like one discovered with both hands stuck somewhere they should not have been.

  “Come, come,” Lady Bligh prompted, with more than a trace of acerbity. “Don’t shilly-shally, Gibbon, we haven’t the time! Do you still consort with the criminal element, pawnbrokers and dealers in stolen goods?”

  Gibbon looked uncomfortable. “Pawnbrokers are not necessarily criminals, my lady, for all they’re clutch-fisted misers, to a man.”

  “Answer me.”

  He bowed his head. “I see such people occasionally, my lady. Purely in a social context, of course.”

  “If you wanted to dispose of some stolen items, I daresay you would know where to go?” Dulcie’s tone was wry.

  “I, my lady? I have no traffi
c with fences, and that’s a fact.”

  The Baroness did not bother to dispute this unlikely statement. “You are going to,” she announced, and produced a handwritten list. “I want you to discover the whereabouts of these items. Bow Street will be making similar inquiries, so you must be quick.”

  Gibbon goggled at his mistress, who might have been sending him blandly to the local apothecary. She handed him a heavy purse. “I doubt, however, that Bow Street can pay so handsomely for information as I. You must also be discreet; I do not care to have the suspicious Mr. Crump learn of my interest in these gems.”

  Gibbon digested this comment. “I will contrive to satisfy your ladyship. You needn’t fear that Crump will steal a march.”

  “I trust not. When Crump calls, you will extend him the hospitality of the house.” At this indication that his nemesis was likely to become a frequent visitor, Gibbon twitched “Allow him to wander at will,” Dulcie added, “and make sure you keep a sharp eye on him.”

  Gibbon moved toward the door. Lady Bligh stopped him with a word, and held out an imperative hand. Gloomily, the butler extended the pilfered stickpin. The Baroness said, “I will see Mary now.”

  Silently, Livvy and the Earl watched Gibbon exit the room. With unusual patience, they awaited Dulcie’s explanation of the proceedings. It was not forthcoming.

  As Mary stepped into the room, her eye moved appreciatively to Lord Dorset. The Earl winked.

  “Come here, child.” Dulcie grasped Mary’s chin and forcibly diverted her attention. “I want you to do something for me.”

  “To be sure, my lady.” In Dulcie’s household, Mary was allowed to indulge her ambition to be an abigail, with Livvy a willing guinea pig; elsewhere, she could hope at best to be a housemaid. Mary would do anything for the Baroness, a fine lady and an even kinder mistress, despite her painful habit of pinching Mary’s rosy cheeks.