Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  “Not obstinate,” amended the Baroness, “but stubborn as a jackass!” She smiled at various curious-bystanders, and whisked her nephew into the golden drawing room, where heavily gilded Corinthian pillars were cleverly arranged. “I refer, of course, not to you, but to Bat.”

  “Of course.” The fifth Baron Bligh’s unflattering nickname combined his tendency toward flight with his resemblance, in certain more ferocious moods, to Attila the Hun. “Have you received word recently from my uncle?”

  “Ah, yes. He has been to Palmyra, the ruined city of Queen Zenobe, where only a handful of European men had previously been seen.” An unfathomable gleam appeared in Dulcie’s eye. “Accompanying him were seventy Arabs, Bedouin chieftains with ostrich feathers decorating their lances, and twenty-two camels loaded with stores. Thus far fortune continues to smile on Bat, a most regrettable circumstance, since there is no doubt that he deserves, at the very least, to be boiled in oil!”

  Lord Dorset’s humor was lightening by leaps and bounds. They passed through a small bow room, hung with more Dutch pictures, into a dining room with black and gold doors, scarlet-upholstered furniture, and a ceiling painted to represent a summer sky. “May I inquire what Max has done to incur such grave displeasure?”

  “You may not.” The Baroness, whose ensemble clashed shockingly with the decor, led the way into a Gothic conservatory that was designed like a cathedral with nave and two aisles. “The Stanhope woman reached Palmyra before him, and left her name carved in a conspicuous spot on the ruins.”

  The Earl quite properly vouchsafed no comment. His uncle’s friendship with Lady Hester Stanhope, though of long standing, was free of any amorous intent on the part of either party, a fact that Dulcie deplored as unnatural. Dickon’s harsh features relaxed as he contemplated the career of a fellow adventurer. There were blots aplenty on the Bligh escutcheon, but the fifth Baron called to mind one distant ancestress who had shared a brief, but dizzying, adventure with a handsome Romany who had come on a horse-thieving expedition, but pillaged the lady of the establishment instead. Long suppressed and much diluted, the profane gipsy blood had resurfaced, tenfold in potency, in Maximilian Bonaventure Bligh.

  Hexagonal lanterns hung from the points of the arches. Prinny, clad in his heavily embroidered Field Marshall’s uniform, embellished with a magnificent aigrette and the garter star, dominated the huge chamber, not by size alone but by force of personality. “We will be besieged with questions regarding your fiancée,” murmured the Baroness, “since the announcement has appeared. I think it best to say she is indisposed.”

  “Is she?” inquired Dickon, more interested in the stained glass windows that bore the arms of England’s various sovereigns than in Livvy’s well-being.

  “I trust not.” Lady Bligh tapped an elegant foot in time with music that issued from another room. “Although if Luisa means to feed her on black pudding, she may soon be. No, I simply mean that no one must discover that Lavender is at Arbuthnot House, where she is masquerading under the name of Primrose.”

  Dulcie walked on, drawing Dickon along into the gardens, where a long covered walk, erected for the occasion, was decorated with flowers and mirrors. “The devil!” he protested. “What are you up to, Dulcie? Who are you looking for?”

  The Baroness adjusted her headdress, which had a tendency to slip to one side. “No one at all, dear Dickon. It is a pity that you possess such a suspicious mind.” Her glance was sympathetic. “I daresay it must be quite uncomfortable.”

  Lord Dorset’s mouth twitched. “Don’t be thinking,” his aunt added, with startling accuracy, “to abandon me here so that you may indulge in less respectable pursuits. It will not harm you in the least to spend one evening as behooves a gentleman—and, in the eyes of Bow Street, it may do you a great deal of good.”

  The Earl glanced around him, as if expecting to encounter Crump’s genial blue orbs, but Crump was not one of the Runners assigned to this affair. “Rumor has it,” he remarked, “that you are growing damned familiar with Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate.”

  “Rumor also has it,” Dulcie retorted, “that you murdered Arabella and made off with her jewels.” Having put her nephew most firmly in his place, she smiled serenely. “Take a lesson from this, Dickon, and henceforth believe not all you hear.” The Earl, who habitually ignored all the titillating on-dits that flew about the town, a tendency perhaps developed in self-defense since a great deal of that scurrilous gossip concerned him, looked even more saturnine.

  It was not to be supposed that Lord Dorset and his aunt passed unremarked through the lordly and celebrated crowd. Heads turned to follow their progress; behind exquisite fans and long white kid gloves, speculation flowed like wine. The ton had reached no conclusion concerning Lady Arabella Arbuthnot’s abrupt departure from this life, but it was generally conceded that the brusque and impatient Lord Dorset was all too capable of committing the foul deed. Dickon’s partiality for immoral women and amoral company was recalled and zestfully discussed. “Poor Lavender,” murmured the Baroness, apropos of nothing at all.

  “Poor?” repeated the Earl. “On the contrary, your companion is to be envied. She has a comfortable position and duties that can hardly be considered onerous, coupled with what I’m sure is an overly generous wage.”

  Lilac plumes quivered. “Lavender,” Lady Bligh snapped, “is beyond price! May I remind you, Dickon, that you are speaking of your betrothed?”

  “You may not,” replied Lord Dorset bluntly. “If you had sought to do so, you couldn’t have shackled me to anyone less to my taste, or to anyone less suitable.”

  “Fustian!” Dulcie was preoccupied. “ Had I set myself to the task, I could have done much worse by you.” Her attention was focused on the couple that approached them from the gardens. “You are merely piqued that Lavender does not approve of you.”

  “Humbug!” ejaculated the Earl, with loathing. This expletive was not inspired by his aunt’s companion but by the Exquisite who minced toward them. Dickon had not yet recognized the lady who leaned heavily on the gentleman’s languid arm.

  Hubert Humboldt had all the earmarks of a fop: He was attired in the highest kick of fashion, in silk coat and breeches of midnight blue, a waistcoat with blue spots, pale pink stockings, and a cravat as ample as a tablecloth. Knots of ribbon sprouted from his knee. “Damned man-milliner!” growled Dickon.

  Hubert’s slender build made him appear deceptively effeminate. Malicious dark eyes glittered in a face that might, in a man less ready to wield a wicked, wounding tongue, have been judged personable. The face was also adorned with side-whiskers, a daring moustache, and a black silk patch. With a flourish, Dulcie’s least-liked nephew kissed her hand.

  “Hubert.” Lady Bligh might have been dispassionately observing a particularly repulsive reptilian species. “We have not seen you for some time.” This lapse did not appear to occasion any regret on Dulcie’s part.

  “I stand convicted of neglect.” So serene was Hubert’s self-possession that he exhibited neither wounded sensibilities nor overt dismay. One hand, of a dazzling purity achieved through the application of enamel, touched brown curls arranged in that state of Machiavellian disorder known as the Windswept style. “How remiss of me! Poor Livvy will think me a fickle creature. I trust she does not nourish a broken heart?” Hubert’s breath was scented with myrrh.

  Lord Dorset was happy to deflate these pretensions. “You really should read the newspapers,” he remarked. “I must inform you, cousin, that ‘poor Livvy’ has agreed to become my wife.”

  “I might remark,” murmured Humbug, waving a highly scented cambric handkerchief, “upon the astonishment engendered in me by so shocking a mésalliance. However, I hold a high opinion of Livvy and shall leave such tittle-tattle to my peers. It signifies not to me, after all, if my noble cousin chooses to ally himself with a mere paid companion. Indeed, I am positively smitten with admiration—considering the débâcle of your first marriage! —for your bravery!�
�

  “Brave Livvy, I should say,” offered his companion, moving into view. The Countess Andrassy was a bronze-haired beauty, whose face was marred only by restless discontent. Shadows painted around her slanted eyes gave her a look of interesting exhaustion. “Whoever she may be.”

  While Lord Dorset struggled mightily for speech, it was left to the Baroness to greet his ex-wife. The scandal attendant upon the dissolution of their union— for divorce was uncommon, and this particular divorce had been outstandingly scurrilous—had for many a long day occupied Polite Society. “Gwyneth,” she stated, with a regal inclination of her head.

  “I do not think,” observed Hubert, “that the family is overjoyed at your reappearance, Gwyneth dear. Perhaps they will feel differently when you explain your return to London.”

  “I wouldn’t make book on it,” Dulcie said.

  Countess Andrassy observed the small fortune in amethysts and jade that was draped about Lady Bligh’s elegant person, and controlled her temper. Lord Dorset, having regained control over his emotions, wore an indifferent mask.

  “Aunt!” Hubert protested, with rancorous enjoyment. “It is a very moving tale.”

  “I’m sure it must be,” Dorset remarked, with every indication of boredom. “Gwyneth was ever mistress of the storytelling art.”

  Emerald eyes flashed. “Ah, you’re a fine one to talk, with your forays to the dens of vice and God knows what other depravities. I cannot trust myself to say more!” She rolled her eyes heavenward, as if a familiar figure might be perched, harp in hand, upon some passing cloud. “I haven’t slept a wink since I heard of poor Arabella’s sad end. Mercy! I am so distracted I can say no more.”

  “Then don’t,” advised the Earl. For one so grievously stricken with nerves, Gwyneth looked remarkably robust in a dress of semi-transparent and clinging white gauze, striped with blue, which clearly revealed a Junoesque physique undisguised by even a single petticoat. Perched on her bronze curls was a cap of gold net.

  Lady Bligh, who disapproved of the prevailing taste for semi-nudity, perhaps feeling that it was a practice that should be engaged in by no one but herself, adjusted her plumage, leaving one ostrich plume to caress her unlined brow. “ My dear, you’ve missed your calling; you should have gone upon the stage. I assume you have some reason for accosting us. Pray enlighten us, with a minimum of histrionics.”

  Gwyneth scowled. Highly entertained, Hubert offered her his handkerchief.

  “I hastened to England as soon as I heard,” Gwyneth applied the handkerchief to her nose, causing Hubert a shuddering dismay, “leaving my poor husband to fend for himself. I was sure that I would find that Dickon had been denounced to the Runners, and that my darling child had been turned over to some tyrant who would bully and mistreat him.” She clasped her hands. “You can imagine a mother’s dismay!”

  “To be truthful,” commented Dulcie, since both her nephews seemed to be bereft of speech, “I cannot. Your fears were groundless, Gwyneth; as you see, Dickon has not been taken into custody. Therefore, you may safely go away.”

  “I mean,” Gwyneth said stubbornly, with a cautious glance at her ex-husband, “to see my son. It is cruel and unnatural to keep him hidden away like some fairground freak.”

  “Monstrous, indeed,” agreed Lord Dorset, at last finding his voice, “if that were the case. It is not, however: Austin’s company is denied to no one but you.”

  “Yes, to me, his mother!” Hubert looked faintly nauseated as the handkerchief was next applied to the emerald eyes. “Heaven only knows how Austin must be suffering from the lack of his mother’s love.” Gwyneth treated her audience to a wistful smile. “We were such dear friends, my son and I, in happier days.”

  “I’d no notion of that,” Lady Bligh remarked. “One truly does learn something new every day.”

  “I will see my son!” cried Gwyneth, with a remarkable recovery of her animation. “You cannot deny me! It is a mother’s right.”

  “Never!” announced Lord Dorset, with a vehemence that made Hubert wince and caused even Prinny’s head to turn. The Regent gazed upon Dulcie with marked approval, a circumstance that caused several interested observers to recall his disagreeable taste for ladies of mature years. Although Lady Bligh could not by any stretch of the imagination be called grandmotherly, and despite her wonderfully youthful appearance, which a great many of her less fortunate contemporaries contemplated with sour chagrin, she was undeniably a great-aunt.

  “Children! This discussion would best be put off until a more private moment.” The Baroness shepherded the combatants toward a huge supper table, intended for only the principal guests, which extended through both the conservatory and dining room. Hubert gazed fascinated upon the silver fountain, complete with green moss flowers, fanciful bridges and gold and silver fish, which served as the table’s centerpiece.

  Smartly, Dulcie pinched his arm. “A word to the wise, nephew: stay away from the cent-per-cents.”

  Hubert looked startled, as well he might, for what could his aunt know of the moneylenders who battened on those unfortunate enough to lack sufficient funds? It was a condition with which Hubert was well acquainted, for money ran through his well-tended fingers like water through a sieve. “Damned if I know,” Hubert muttered, “how you know the things you do.”

  “Have I impressed you?” inquired Dulcie. “Had I but the time, I could tell you a great deal more.”

  Hubert quickly deflected her attention to his long-time rival, Dickon. “Who would have thought,” he said fastidiously, “that a connection of mine could turn gallows-bait?”

  “I knew it all along,” commented Gwyneth smugly, ready to resume hostilities. “How like Dickon to bungle the thing.”

  “I believe,” continued the Baroness, ignoring these intended diversions, “that there is a certain jeweler in Cranbourn Alley with whom you are not unacquainted, Humbug.”

  Hubert’s supercilious countenance darkened. “Hell and the devil confound it!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, yes,” said Dulcie. “It’s evident that I’m a knowing one. Tell me more about this jeweler, nephew.”

  “I’d hoped you wouldn’t find out.” Hubert was sunk in gloom. “Oh, very well! Sir William Arbuthnot was also one of Hamlet’s customers. I learned of it by accident, when I came upon him pledging his gold and silver plate.” The Earl wore an arrested look, while Gwyneth stared wide-eyed.

  Lady Bligh idly twisted a sea green curl. “Playing deep, was he?” she mused. “This shines an entirely different light on the matter. No wonder Sir William is so anxious to recover Arabella’s jewels.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Hubert said, “but deep basset’s been his ruin. Arabella was forever wasting the ready, moreover, and Sir William was hard pressed to raise the wind.”

  Lord Dorset exhibited little gratitude for Hubert’s disclosures. “Humbug, too, has had deep dealings lately,” he observed indifferently. “Perhaps you should warn him, Dulcie, not to follow Sir William’s path.”

  “Rot!” retorted Hubert. He smiled with a notable absence of warmth. “I have not yet been done up, nor do I expect to be.”

  “Having,” murmured Dulcie, “unexpected resources at your disposal.” Gracefully, she helped herself to snuff. “But I shall warn you anyway, Hubert: take care lest you meddle in matters that are none of your concern. You may speedily find yourself in the suds.”

  “Lud!” Hubert wrenched his handkerchief from Gwyneth and applied it to his dampened brow. “You sound quite maternal, Dulcie. Can it be that you cherish a sneaking affection for me?”

  The Baroness tilted her head, to the detriment of her headdress. “You are an irritating creature, but less foolish than you seem.” Her thoughtful gaze rested on Hubert’s startled features, surely paler than the occasion warranted. “All in all, I think I would not care to see you hang.”

  So intrigued was the Earl by this statement, which implied that his cousin might share a fate with infamous cutthroats and
common felons, that he applied one sardonic eye to his ornate quizzing-glass. Hubert licked dry lips but offered no comment.

  It was left to the Countess Andrassy to forestall the questions that hovered thick in the air. With a moan worthy of a shade doomed to walk the earth for time immeasurable, she sank senseless to the ground.

  Chapter 6

  “Speak one more word to him,” Bertha hissed, “and I’ll cut out your miserable tongue!”

  Livvy was in a dilemma. There was no doubt that this homely, furious creature meant exactly what she said. “I’m a servant in this house,” Livvy protested, “just as you are. I cannot bid Sir William go to the devil, much as I might wish to do so!”

  “Ah, but do you wish to do so, miss?” Bertha squinted balefully. “That’s the heart of the matter, it seems to me.”

  Livvy absently rubbed her backside. Never had she sported so many bruises on various portions of her anatomy, souvenirs of Sir William’s overtures, which invariably began with a hearty pinch. “To be blunt, the master isn’t what I can like.”

  They stood in a plain boxed-in staircase that led to the kitchen and the lowest regions of Arbuthnot House. Bertha stood scowling with her hands on her hips, and Livvy hoped fervently that Lady Arabella’s one-time abigail would not succumb to an urge to push her rival down the narrow stairs.

  To Livvy’s surprise, Bertha grinned. “He’s a toplofty clown, Sir William is, and I can see why a lady like yourself would have no liking for him.” The smile disappeared. “But he suits me well enough!”

  Bertha, after Arabella’s death, had found a new place: in Sir William’s bed. This circumstance would have passed beneath Livvy’s notice had not Sir William been led by his amatory success to envision himself a latter-day Don Juan, and made it increasingly obvious that he was prepared to transfer his favors to his mother’s new companion.