Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  “You have an odd notion of justice!” the Chief Magistrate retorted acidly. “Were anyone else to dare make such a suggestion, he would feel the lash of my tongue.”

  “Dear John. I do adore an authoritative man.” Perhaps it was the heat of the lanterns, and not the Baroness’s languishing look, that made Sir John’s head swim. “Do I often ask favors of you? Surely you can find it in your heart to do this one little thing!” The Chief Magistrate was saved making a response by Gibbon, who bore crystal glasses on a silver tray.

  “Ah, refreshments.” Dulcie’s voice was low and amused. “I fear that you do not properly value my efforts, sir! Never mind. You will in time come to appreciate my services to Bow Street.” Sir John blanched; this sounded ominously as if Lady Bligh meant to become Bow Street’s patroness.

  The Chief Magistrate drew forth his pocket watch and Gibbon swallowed, hard. Recent events had left their mark on the Baroness’s butler, but no trial had been so severe as the one he now endured. Jewels glittered everywhere, and Gibbon was sworn to appropriate none.

  “Well met, Sir John!” Hubert, stunning in emerald green, removed two glasses from the butler’s tray. “Do you still bewail the fact that I shall be tossed no nosegays from balconies while on my way to the gallows tree?”

  “Dressed in your winding sheet,” added Jael, who was wearing claret silk and countless gold baubles and exhibiting a surprising ease of manner amid exalted company. Gibbon turned away. Temptation had proven too great. Sir John’s treasured watch rested snugly in the butler’s hand.

  “That is my one regret.” Hubert’s satiric gaze rested on Sir John’s disgruntled countenance. “I should have dearly loved to design my own shroud. Black, of course. But embroidered with silver stars and moons.”

  “Popinjay!” Lady Bligh’s patrician nose twitched. “Do you fancy yourself an alchemist, Humbug, or a magician of old?”

  “There is magic in these fingers.” Hubert surveyed his hands with satisfaction. “I can, after all, transform the merest dross into gold.”

  “You’d be well-advised to better guard your tongue,” Jael remarked. Never had Sir John seen the gypsy so equable.

  “Ah, no.” Hubert’s well-tended fingers traced her scar. “No derogatory word concerning you, my treasure, has ever passed my lips!” Jael tossed her head, and Sir John’s eyes narrowed speculatively as he pondered the obviously easy terms between this disparate pair.

  “I should hope not,” commented Dulcie, not at all discomfited by her nephew’s marked attention to a female of no background and even less reputation. “Jael saved your skin, after all. Speaking of which, I believe we are to congratulate you. I trust you will not play ducks-and-drakes with this inheritance.”

  Hubert froze, in the act of taking snuff. “Confound you, Dulcie! Am I never to be allowed the gratification of surprise?” Only Hubert’s creditors knew that his sickly and irascible godfather had, in a moment of pique inspired by the vulture-like hovering of his family, made Humbug his heir; or that, before rational thought had reasserted itself, the old gentleman had died.

  “I doubt it greatly, Humbug.” The Baroness was kind. “You are not precisely unpredictable. Do take that oafish expression off your face; you are beginning to resemble one of Bat’s statuaries!” Since these were most vacuous examples of the stonecutter’s art, she paid him no compliment.

  “I remind myself,” said Hubert magnanimously, “that you have expended a certain amount of effort on my behalf, and shall therefore refrain from taking offense. I understand that you have told young Austin that my uncle is momentarily expected home?” He turned to Jael. “The kings and queens of Europe perambulated through their lands in medieval days, taking with them the whole court and conducting business from whatever site took their fancy. It is a tradition that my uncle follows, with all the grandeur of that long dead royalty.”

  “He is indeed returning.” The Baroness surveyed her many guests, but none displayed a tendency to misbehave. “Having journeyed extensively through the Middle East, surviving the permanent strife between the Turkish overlords and their subjugated peoples, and periodic waves of destructive plagues including a swarm of locusts that covered trees and houses so thickly that they appeared painted bright green, Bat has decided to at last return to England’s calmer shores.”

  Hubert raised his glass in the direction of Bligh House. “What architectural marvel will my uncle next create?” he asked thoughtfully. “I anticipate a harem ,with barred and latticed windows, an extensive garden and a marble swimming pool.”

  “Do you?” The Baroness seemed to look upon vistas invisible to ordinary mortals, and Sir John was stricken with severe jealousy. “I, Humbug, anticipate a great deal more.”

  “My aunt,” explained Hubert, as Crump joined them, “delights in posing us puzzles. It is part of her ineffable charm.” Lady Bligh rapped his knuckles smartly with her fan.

  Crump did not know if his sense of vast relief was due to the closing of the damnable Arbuthnot case, or the five hundred Yellow Boys that he had received from Lady Bligh as a reward for his efforts, or his immoderate consumption of fine champagne. He was suffused with a rosy affection that encompassed even the acid-tongued Hubert and the steely-eyed Jael.

  “So, Hubert, your fortunes have been repaired.” Sir John was anxious to turn the conversation away from the irritating topic of the fifth Baron. “I am glad to hear it. Perhaps now you will no longer be tempted to masquerade as a highwayman.”

  Hubert shuddered convincingly. “Not I! The ghastly vision of myself dangling from a rustic gallows was a sharp enough lesson for me.”

  Jael was not particularly interested in further discussion of Hubert’s change of fortune. “What happened,” she asked abruptly, “to that confounded Count? Gwyneth’s husband?” Her tone left no doubt that this gentleman had aroused her antipathy.

  “He is on his way, I trust, to his home in Hungary.” Sir John spoke cautiously. “I thought it best for all concerned if we simply let him go, since no formal charge was made.”

  “God’s bones!” Jael’s golden earrings danced with the force of her annoyance. “Better you had turned him over to me.”

  “Such blood thirst, my treasure! Never mind, we shall find some deserving individual and you shall make mincemeat of him,” soothed Hubert. “Although I find myself in such sunny temper, inspired by Dame Fortune’s caress, that I rather wish you would refrain.”

  It had crossed the Runner’s befuddled brain that Jael was an even unlikelier attendant at this spectacular celebration than he was himself. He peered at the gypsy appraisingly. “Hubert,” explained the Baroness, “has received a much-needed inheritance. We trust it will inspire him to speedily mend his ways.”

  Hubert smiled, sublimely unconcerned that every member of the small group knew him to be the infamous Gentleman. “Dear cousin Bertram. I’ll own I never expected him to come up to snuff!” He noted various puzzled expressions. “My godfather, you know. He was the most redoubtable old gentleman, a veritable old Tartar with an adder’s tongue.”

  “One hardly needs add that Humbug was the only relative whom Bertram could tolerate.” Lady Bligh regarded her shameless nephew. “Like attracts like, they claim. What now, Hubert? I have a persistent notion that you will bask in the Spanish sun.”

  Jael’s cold eyes gleamed. “You’re a witch, Dulcie Bligh.”

  “Were it some previous time,” Hubert agreed, “it might take our combined efforts to save you from the stake, dear aunt! But yes, I have decided that a change of scenery might be beneficial to my health.” His irrepressible gaze rested upon Sir John. “I do not mean that the august authorities might change their minds, but I believe it might be wise to temporarily place myself somewhere beyond the reach of the law’s long arm.”

  “You’ve a portrait to finish.” Dulcie pinched Sir John. “Jael, of course, will accompany you.”

  “My health is far more precarious than that of this dandy fellow!” Jael studied Lady
Bligh. “I’ve made enemies for your sake, Baroness.”

  “Not for mine, I think,” Dulcie retorted. Crump, who had finally assimilated the startling fact that Hubert meant to go off in the company of the disreputable gypsy, was filled with profound shock. Jael did not suit his notion of a gentleman’s light-o’-love.

  “It is amazing,” Hubert mused, “how much tragedy evolved from Arabella’s youthful indiscretions. But I have promised to say no more of that!” He took Jael’s arm. “Come, my treasure! Our trials are now ended. Let us wander among the beau monde and raise such eyebrows as we may.”

  “One moment, gypsy.” Sir John could no more withstand Dulcie than the march of time. The troublesome diamond necklace changed hands. “Arabella’s aunt considers this to be rightfully yours.”

  Jael, the diamonds securely tucked away, cast Dulcie one last glance before turning to Hubert with a sultry smile. “You promised me fireworks. So far I’ve seen none.”

  Humbug’s voice, for once, was totally devoid of malice. “If it’s fireworks you wish, my treasure, then it’s fireworks you shall have.”

  “There are unexpected depths to Hubert’s character,” remarked Sir John, as that gentleman led his companion into a more private portion of the garden.

  “Dear John.” Dulcie smiled, with the effect of a thousand candles springing into light. “Jael has been Humbug’s mistress for a good many years, though she wished the connection kept secret. She could hardly command the respect of her minions if they knew of her liaison with an aristocratic gentleman, or so she claimed. I suspect it was actually concern for Hubert’s reputation that prompted her reticence; Jael’s experience with the Upper Ten Thousand has left her with few illusions concerning them.”

  “An embarrassing couple, surely?” asked Sir John. They continued their wanderings, leaving Crump behind to absorb further quantities of champagne. “I’m surprised you condone a relationship that many would consider ruinous.”

  “Good heavens, I’m no prig!” The Baroness was offended. “It’s not as if he meant to marry her—in fact, I doubt Humbug will ever wed, not fancying himself in a patriarchal role. As for the other, they are remarkably well suited, and Hubert has shown Jael a devotion that I would not have thought possible in him. He first admired her when she was the ruling belle of the demimonde, and was quick with assistance when she fell upon hard times.” Dulcie touched her copper curls, already threatening to come unpinned. “Naturally, I am not supposed to know the tale.”

  “Naturally.” Sir John was wry. “Sometimes, Dulcie, I think you know too much for your own good! It was Jael who initiated Hubert into the mysteries of highway robbery?”

  “I think not.” They passed a cluster of more notable guests, among them the incomparable Brummel and the Prince Regent himself, for once on amiable terms. “Jael would not wish Humbug to embark upon a career so unsuitable to one of his birth, though she is hardly the sort of female to seek to dissuade him from any chosen course.”

  Sir John watched Austin and Culpepper engaging in a game of tag among the stately trees, and reflected upon the endless unpredictable actions of the Bligh family. “And I,” added the Baroness, firmly closing the subject, “am quite fond of Jael, who is possibly the one proof that Humbug possesses a modicum of sense. Odd, isn’t it, how evil may bring good? If not for Luisa’s machinations, Dickon might never have discovered the delightful character of my dear Lavender, and Jael might still be hiding, so to speak, in the woodwork. And there is Austin, who now chatters like a magpie as if to make up for the years in which he did not speak at all.”

  “That’s all very well for Dickon,” observed Sir John, “but what of Mrs. Lytton?”

  “Dickon is fast mending his ways. I hope he does not mean to become a model of propriety.” The Baroness glanced at Bligh House, and then turned again to the Chief Magistrate. “I think Mary will do as Livvy’s abigail. They get on well, and if nothing else, it will give Gibbon some peace. I suggest, dear friend, that you have a word with Gibbon before you take your leave.”

  Visited by a terrible suspicion, Sir John felt for his pocket watch. Dulcie’s attention wandered again to a certain candlelit window of Bligh House. She screwed up her exquisite features as if, by intense concentration, she might visualize the scene being played within the confines of that chamber.

  ***

  Livvy and Dickon were not the only occupants of the Feather Room; Casanova and Bluebeard also sought refuge from the furor that swept through Bligh House. The Feather Room was one of the Baron’s earlier efforts and, though unusual, it fell short of the extraordinary effects that he later achieved. Three round-headed Venetian windows were set, like a triptych, within relieving arches; large canvas-mounted frames, displaying mounted feathers collected from every conceivable and unwilling source, hung upon the walls.

  Mrs. Lytton wore a gown of richly figured pale blue French gauze over white satin and a large quantity of Lady Bligh’s fabulous collection of sapphires; the soft candlelight struck pewter sparks from her blue black curls; and her woebegone expression might have befitted the most miserable match girl. Lord Dorset, clad in fashionable evening attire that set off his muscular physique to perfection, paced the floor as restlessly as a caged jungle beast. His expression was equally fierce.

  “Confound it, Livvy!” the Earl exploded. “What more can you wish me to do? I have demonstrated my affection for you in every imaginable way, both proper and not; I have proposed to you on bended knee! Yet all you do is weep into that damned handkerchief and tell me it will not do.”

  Livvy sniffled and sought to regain her poise. “Well, it won’t! If you would only admit it, you know that as well as I.” Casanova leapt into her lap and Livvy clasped the huge orange cat, heedless of the damage to her gown. “I regard you far too highly to marry you.”

  The Earl swore a terrific oath and hurled an inoffensive pillow across the room. Bluebeard, perched on the back of a tapestried chair, clucked reprovingly.

  “Never did I think that you would turn missish, Livvy!” Quailing, she refused to meet his eye. “You have treated me to a rodomontade worthy of the flightiest schoolgirl!”

  Livvy’s tear-blurred gaze rested indiscriminately on peacock plumes, pheasant tails, and cock’s feathers. Her first wild ecstasy at Dickon’s proposal of marriage had succumbed to an onslaught of common sense. If Lord Dorset was not aware of the un-suitability of this match, she was; if he had no regard for his position in the world, then she must. “Do not plague me, Dickon; I have made up my mind.”

  “I see.” The Earl’s expression was unreadable. “It is my accursed reputation, I suppose. You fear that one with my libertine tendencies will cause you only distress.”

  “Rubbish! You think me a milquetoast lady, to be sure!” Livvy clutched the cat so tightly that Casanova growled. “Acquit me, at least, of that! Our marriage will not take place due to my unsuitability, not yours.”

  “I see.” For a thwarted and rejected lover, Dickon was inordinately meditative.

  “You are,” continued Livvy, encouraged by his receptive attitude, “a gentleman, one of impeccable background and lineage, despite your divorce. It is unthinkable that you should ally yourself with a female like myself who has neither fortune, family, nor beauty to recommend her. Far better, Dickon, to regard our acquaintance as nothing more important than a pleasant interlude.”

  It was not difficult to understand why the Earl was known as a most provoking and unpredictable man, for he greeted this soul-baring honesty with the faintest twitch of his lips and a slightly elevated brow. “So in future when we meet, I am to greet you with a polite indifference? You expect me, in short, to forget that I have held you in my arms?” He met her scowl with innocent eyes. “I only ask enlightenment, sweet Livvy, so that I may know how to go on.”

  “The occasion will not arise.” Livvy wondered why nobility of action was so invariably dispiriting. “I am leaving Dulcie’s employ. After tonight, Dickon, we shall not meet again.”


  While not expecting her impatient suitor to accept this information without protest, she had not anticipated that he would yank her roughly to her feet, sending Casanova tumbling to the floor. “You,” snapped Lord Dorset, “are talking gibberish!” His sapphire eyes were black with the force of his rage. “I am no polite cavalier, my darling, to obey your least command, particularly when it would mean a great deal of discomfort to myself. You have given me no good reason why our marriage should not take place, but have instead mouthed a great deal of nonsense that is totally unlike you.”

  “I-” Livvy protested.

  “I have in my pocket a special license, and every intention of marrying you. And I don’t intend to let you out of my sight until the thing is done!”

  Most young ladies would have been stricken dumb by the implications of this last determined remark, but Livvy merely regarded Dickon with something approaching awe. “Did you mean what you said? Earlier?”

  “Which?” inquired the Earl.

  “That you would be uncomfortable if I went away.” Livvy, in contemplation of her own unhappiness, had not considered that Lord Dorset might suffer a similar distress.

  “Uncomfortable?” Dickon echoed with disbelief. “Sweet Livvy, I should be wretched, which is precisely why I do not intend to let you go!” He shook her, not ungently. “Don’t you understand yet, you silly girl? I love you, I want to share my life with you, to make up to you all that you’ve been denied.” Livvy blinked rapidly and he drew her closer into his arms. “Never has there been a woman like you, Livvy, and never will there be again. If you will not marry me, I shall doubtless turn into a crusty old curmudgeon whose foul temper is the terror of his acquaintance and whose profligate excesses are the talk of London. Could you have it on your conscience to condemn me to such a fate?”