Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  “Lavender,” said the Baroness, “you are looking quite pale. You mustn’t fret over Dickon. Like Casanova, he will always land on his feet.”

  “I trust,” retorted Livvy, “that, also like Casanova, he will no longer spend the greater portion of his tune in pursuit of pretty songbirds.”

  “Ah, no,” The Earl replied, his scarred hand resting heavily at the nape of her neck. “I promise you that I have reformed.”

  For the first time, Livvy considered the precariousness of her position, and Lord Dorset’s reaction should she betray him. The thought made her shudder. There was no question but that Dickon would have his revenge.

  “I am glad to hear you say so,” Lady Bligh re-marked.

  “But of course!” The Earl’s dissipated countenance was virtuous. “What is it they say about a bird in the hand?” He smiled upon his newly acquired fiancée, whose expression was mutinous.

  Crump could not have later said precisely how it happened, but one moment he was innocently observing a sentimental scene, and the next he was an unwilling participant in a most displeasing fray. Lady Bligh shrieked as Casanova leapt snarling from her lap to land on Crump’s shoulder. Claws dug into his coat, a nasty hiss sounded in his ear. Crump bounded quickly to his feet, but the animal refused to be dislodged.

  “Dear heaven!” cried Lavender, but Dulcie’s meaningful frown anchored her firmly to her chair. Calypso twittered madly as Lord Dorset cautiously approached the combatants. Had Crump been calmer, he might have found it surprising that so famed a sportsman would treat a simple house cat, albeit of a gigantic order, with such excessive care. But Crump, in terror of his life, had closed his eyes in prayer. A rough tongue began to inspect his ear. Convinced that he was to be devoured alive in Lady Bligh’s Grand Saloon, Crump embarked upon a manic dance.

  The Baroness rose and, with great presence of mind, poured the remainder of the Madeira over her obedient pet. Casanova, orange fur a-bristle, stalked majestically from the battlefield. His victory had never been in doubt.

  “Poor, poor man,” murmured Lady Bligh, as she ineffectually brushed droplets of Madeira from Crump’s coat. The Runner declined her aid and, sadly deflated, took quick leave of the home of the Barons Bligh.

  As the doors closed behind him, the Baroness turned to gaze benignly upon her co-conspirators, neither of who appeared particularly gratified by the role he had been called upon to play. “Such a droll little troll is our Mr. Crump. Tonight, Casanova shall dine upon beefsteak and cream.”

  Livvy, considering the treatment that the Runner had received at Dulcie’s hands, thought it far more likely that Dickon would dine on starvation rations of water and mouldy bread, and at no far distant date. The notion was quite delightful. Livvy could not know that Crump’s tattered Occurrence Book, which many a lawbreaker would have paid a king’s ransom to possess, now nestled most snugly in a hidden pocket of Lady Bligh’s stylish red gown.

  Chapter 5

  Livvy was discovering within herself a hitherto unsuspected flair for make-believe. Oppressed by Sir William Arbuthnot’s flowery compliments, and his mother’s malevolent abuse, Livvy took refuge in her own riotous imagination, even envisioning Lord Dorset, that fiend in human form, placing his heart at her feet, there to be summarily trod upon. In contrast with her current drudgery, the role of an Earl’s betrothed might not be unpleasant, even though it meant tolerating a fiancé as aggravating as Dickon. Such flights of fancy were not to be taken seriously, of course, but they were Livvy’s only escape from the brooding, malignant atmosphere of Arbuthnot House. With a grimace, she removed a cobweb from her path, nearly upending the tray she was carrying to Luisa. On her way, she found occasion to stop outside the library door.

  It was not to be supposed that Livvy was the sort of inquisitive female who would blithely poke and pry; indeed, were it not for the fact that she was anxious to speedily fulfill her mission and take her leave of Arbuthnot House, and the further circumstance that she heard Crump’s unmistakable amiable tones, she would never have stooped to eavesdropping. But, after a severe struggle with her conscience, and a harried inspection of the deserted hallway, stoop she did, applying one lavender eye to the door’s keyhole.

  Crump stood at a window draped with badly worn damask, looking down at the street. The Runner was not in the most pleasant of moods, having spent the previous evening in a Covent Garden gin shop where one could become drunk for a penny and dead drunk for two. So considerate was the establishment that it provided free beds of straw on which the clientele might sleep off the harrowing effect of Madame Geneva and Strip-me-naked; and, while Crump had not been reduced to such ignominy, he had encountered considerable difficulty in finding his way home. He turned and narrowly avoided collision with a set of library steps, earning Sir William’s unvoiced scorn.

  Crump cleared his throat. “I’ve come upon a very painful errand, sir,” he said. “Sorry as I am to intrude in your time of sorrow.”

  With a creak of rigid corsets, Sir William waved a fleshy hand. “Never mind all that.” Unlike the Prince Regent, upon whom he modeled himself, the Colonel was neither graceful nor charming, easy nor urbane. “You’ve come about my missing papers; well, get on with it!”

  “Papers?” Crump was taken aback.

  “Yes, papers! Are your wits wandering, man? You’re from Bow Street, ain’t you?” Somewhat bewildered, Crump admitted the truth of this. “Then you’re here about the papers that are missing from my library.”

  “Valuable papers?” inquired Crump, with a twinge of avarice.

  For some strange reason, Sir William exhibited unease. “Not particularly—personal matters. You know how it is.”

  Crump knew only that the Quality were full of whims and oddities. “Might these papers be connected with the sad events that occurred recently on these premises?”

  “No, no!” Sir William might have been speaking to a dim-witted two-year-old. “They disappeared at a later date, and from this very desk.” It was a handsome piece, ornamented with a brass gallery, and pigeonholes ranged in the form of a shallow horseshoe.

  Crump was indignant at being mistaken for one of sufficiently lowly stature to deal with worthless papers that were doubtless just misplaced. “Then they’re no concern of mine.”

  Sir William regarded his visitor. “If you’re not here about the papers,” he demanded, “why the devil are you here?”

  “I’m from Bow Street, like I said.” Crump added Sir William to his extensive list of those he’d like to see committed to Newgate to await an unspecified but terrible fate, said roster currently headed by Lord Dorset. “The name is Crump.”

  Sir William wilted visibly. “A Runner?” he inquired cautiously.

  Crump was not unused to this reaction, and most edifying it was. “Aye.” If he swaggered slightly, it was forgivable. “I’d like some information, guv’nor, about the unfortunately deceased.”

  Sir William looked briefly blank, and then understanding dawned. “You mean Arabella? I told your superiors all they need to know when I reported the crime. There is nothing further to discuss.”

  It became clear to Crump that Sir William was of a limited intellect. “Afraid you have no choice, guv’nor. Unless, that is, you wish to accompany me to Bow Street headquarters and talk to the Chief Magistrate.” He hooked his thumbs in his mustard-colored waistcoat. “Take your pick, Sir William. I’m sure it makes no difference to me.”

  Sir William appeared unhappy at having the situation made so plain. There was no doubt that he was greatly affected by his wife’s untimely end; his watery gray eyes were bloodshot, his ample flesh an unhealthy hue. “Get on with it,” he repeated unappreciatively. “I’m a busy man.”

  Crump drew forth his Occurrence Book, which had vanished only to innocently reappear atop a cluttered fable in Crump’s untidy room, an event that had led the Runner to disavow all alcoholic beverages save a dog’s nose, a relatively innocuous concoction of warm porter, moist sugar, gin and nutmeg. I
t was not a resolution that he’d kept long. “First I must tell you that we’ve not yet found any trace of Lady Arabella’s jewels.”

  Sir William turned his head, no small feat considering the high points of his stiffly starched collar, and glowered at his visitor. “You’re not very eager to earn five hundred Yellow Boys.” In the hallway, Livvy gasped at the size of this reward. She wondered cynically if Sir William were more concerned with the entrapment of his wife’s killer, or the return of her jewels.

  Crump was, in fact, as eager to find the jewels as Sir William. The Runner’s nocturnal excursions were not, as they might appear, mere debauchery; nor had he any particular professional interest in the mollishers who sluiced their throats with jackey, or the young pleasure-seeking bucks of the town who woke to find their pockets picked and their breeches gone. In regard to the missing jewels, however, his extensive inquiries had come to naught.

  Overlooking Sir William’s annoyance, he went on. “That’s as may be, but before Bow Street returns those sparklers, you and I need to have a heart-to-heart talk.”

  Sir William’s agitation grew. “Talk?” he blustered. “What about? I’m sure I told Sir John all he needs to know!”

  So extreme was this reaction that Crump immediately smelled a rat. “Not all.” He was extremely bland. “It has come to our attention that you quarrelled with your wife on the night that she was, er, called to her eternal rest.”

  Sir William was so startled by this statement that the vast array of fobs and seals and pins displayed on his well-corseted chest wriggled frantically. “Nonsense! It was a mere disagreement, nothing more.” He assayed a weakly conspiratorial smile. I’m sure I needn’t tell you how these things are, eh, Mr. Crump?”

  “I’m afraid,” replied the Runner, “that you do. Bow Street is most particular about these small details.”

  Sir William rose abruptly and threw open a window. Clad in a blue coat, crimson waistcoat and canary pantaloons, he resembled nothing so much as a corpulent pouter pigeon. “Deuced close in here!”

  It was true that the library was permeated with a strange odor—a mixture of bandoline, perfume and the particularly pungent scent of tobacco that clung to Crump’s small person—but the Runner was not to be distracted. “The quarrel, guv’nor?” he prompted. “If you please.”

  Sir William raised empty hands in a gesture of resignation. “It is a trifle awkward. There’s no use trying to wrap it up in clean linen, I suppose.” He sat again at his desk, the only pristine area in an otherwise chaotic room, and surveyed his visitor intently. “May I trust you to keep a still tongue in your head?”

  “Mum as an oyster!” retorted the Runner, and awaited enlightenment.

  Sir William deliberated. “My wife,” he said at length, “was much younger than I, and with a taste for gaiety. I was warned—but that’s neither here nor there. In a nutshell, I soon found that Arabella’s interests did not march with mine.”

  “Ah.” Crump exhibited spurious sympathy. According to gossip, Lady Arbuthnot had no sooner become a bride than she’d embarked upon an all-out campaign to plant the antlers on her bridegroom’s florid brow.

  Sir William sighed heavily. “I tell you this in the strictest confidence: my wife’s behavior was not as circumspect as it should have been.”

  “Ah!” Had Crump not evolved a habit of emotional detachment, he might have pitied this foolish man. It was Sir William’s misfortune to triumph at nothing, even matrimony; vaunting ambition prompted him to spread himself too thin, if such a phrase could be applied to one of such remarkable girth. He excelled not at equestrianism, as did Lord Petersham, Tommy Onslow, and Sir John Lade; nor in wit, as did Sidney Smith and Luttrell; nor even at gastronomy, a field dominated by Lord Sefton.

  “In a word, she was unfaithful to me.” Sir William toyed with thick brown side-whiskers, which owed their luxuriant appearance to the judicious application of artificial hairpieces. “I taxed her with it, and she immediately got on her high ropes.” He appeared to be in the throes of a vast melancholy. “Are you a married man, Crump?”

  “Och, I’m too peevy a cove to be caught in a parson’s mousetrap!” The Runner recalled the conversation to its original purpose. “So you confronted your wife with her infidelity and a quarrel ensued. What then, guv’nor?”

  “There’s nothing worse,” Sir William commented with feeling, “than a woman in the sullens. They can make life damned uncomfortable.”

  The pitfalls of Society were many, including vice, profligacy, and extravagance. Crump didn’t imagine that Lady Arbuthnot had avoided a single snare. “I take it that your wife refused to give up Lord Dorset?”

  “Dorset!” Sir William underwent a startling transformation. His pudgy visage was suffused with color; his eyes threatened to pop out of his head. “Prove that devil killed my wife and you shall have seven hundred Yellow Boys!”

  Even Crump’s practiced poise deserted him at this staggering offer, but he knew how ephemeral were the promises of the Quality. “You wouldn’t be,” he inquired jovially, “trying to bribe a Bow Street officer? That’s a very serious offense.”

  Sir William, too, made a fast recovery. “You misunderstood,” he said, and dropped his head into his hands. “I want my wife’s murderer caught, and to the devil with the- cost!”

  “Trust Bow Street,” Crump replied, without real sympathy. Sir William, whether driving in his racing curricle or mourning his dead wife, remained only a figure of fun. “It will be attended to. Everyone connected with your wife is being closely investigated. Very closely indeed.”

  “I loved my wife, fool that I may have been. Dorset killed her as sure as I’m sitting here.” Crump made soothing noises but Sir William pounded the desk with a vigor that made Livvy, still crouched in the hallway, start nervously. “I tell you. Crump, with or without Bow Street’s help, I’ll see the villain hang!”

  Livvy, whose brief stay at Arbuthnot House had brought her into entirely too much contact with Sir William, could stomach no more. She stood, wincing at the protest of cramped muscles, and stole silently away.

  * * * *

  It was nearing nine o’clock, and a solid stream of carriages reached from Carleton House to the top of Bond Street. The Prince Regent hosted a fete with as much élan as he gave away his heart, an item proffered on many occasions with veritable barrages of billets-doux, exchanges of hair, mementoes and trinkets, protestations of undying affection, and hints of an unlikely marriage ceremony. All the Quality were there, and each waited, patiently or impatiently, for his or her coach to approach the doors of Carleton House.

  “I hear,” said Lady Bligh, inclining her sea-green head to the Russian Ambassador and his wife, whose carriage stood nearby, “that nearly two thousand invitations were extended to this affair.” Lord Dorset growled.

  “Shame, Dickon!” protested the Baroness, albeit insincerely. “Can you not drum up a little more enthusiasm? After all, it is no small mark of favor to be recognized despite your current unfortunate situation. The world will take it to mean that Prinny is convinced of your innocence.”

  Judging from the impatient expression on his haughty features, Dickon regarded this royal vindication with no particular joy. “Not a fatter fish than he,” quoth the Earl, “flounders round the polar sea.”

  “Tsk!” Thus the Baroness disposed of Percy Shelley’s efforts. “Do strive for a more pleasant expression; we shall be the cynosure of all eyes.” Clad properly for so momentous an occasion, Lord Dorset wore a coat and breeches of claret velvet, a frilled shirt, and Florentine waistcoat. He also wore a savage scowl.

  Dulcie ignored her nephew’s silence, and bestowed a tolerant nod upon Mr. Romeo Coates, a wealthy Tulip of Fashion who possessed a fine diamond collection. The Earl, less broadminded, observed the Tulip’s carriage, shaped like a kettledrum and drawn by white horses, upon which was prominently displayed a large brazen cock and the equally brazen motto, “While I live I’ll crow.” Stung by the Earl’s sneer, Mr.
Coates reflected that he, for one, would not be the least displeased if Dorset were to hang.

  At last their carriage drew up to the doors of Carleton House and the Baroness alit, presenting a perfect illustration of vain and empty-headed frivolity. “What a marvelous era we live in,” she remarked, taking firm hold of Dickon’s muscular arm and steering him relentlessly through the courtyard where, in full State regalia, the band of the Guards played. “Think, Dickon! Catalini, Bianchi and Naldi are singing opera; Edmund Kean is acting at Drury Lane.” They were received in the octagon-shaped hallway by members of the Prince’s household.

  “And Byron,” the Earl observed a limping, aloof individual with dishevelled curls and a rapt expression, “dines on vinegar and potatoes while Prinny, over cherry brandy, concocts new and grandiose building schemes to transform London into a city equal in splendor to Imperial Rome.” His expression lightened as he regarded his aunt, resplendent in a trained evening dress of lilac silk open in front to exposes decorative petticoat edged with silver fringe and decorated with festoons of green bulrushes tied with silver cords and tassels. Atop her green curls was an elaborate headdress of pearls, amethyst and jade, surmounted by seven lilac-tinted ostrich plumes. “Confess, Dulcie! What secret motive prompted you to drag me here?”

  “I considered an evening at Carleton House might prove amusing.” The Baroness was bland as custard. They passed down to a suite of rooms on the ground floor, along a large hall hung with Dutch paintings, and into a library. “I cannot think where you came by this extraordinarily disobliging nature.”

  “Can you not?” The Earl’s gaze rested upon a bookcase, in the Gothic style, enlivened with buhl cabinets and miniature sculptures and triumphal arches. “Odd, since you have repeatedly observed that my obstinacy is strongly reminiscent of Max.”