Maggie MacKeever by The Baroness of Bow Street Read Free Book Online Page A

or portmanteau, and who prided himself that his master never set foot outside his lodgings in clothing improperly pressed or boots that lacked a mirror-like perfection. But Simpkin, for all his virtues, possessed one less-than-admirable trait: he eavesdropped.
    It was purely a matter of expediency, of course, and one for which Simpkin was nicely rewarded by his master’s wife, who liked to be kept informed of her spouse’s peccadilloes. Lord Warwick was not required to live in this elegant hotel at the West End of Town; he had a home of his own, a perfectly suitable establishment which had been graced by a long succession of his eminent ancestors. That fine structure, however, was currently occupied by Lord Warwick’s wife, a lady so lost to the precepts of good taste that she had lately attended a ball so covered with jewels that she could not long remain standing and had to be followed around with a chair. While accepting her largess, Simpkin deplored a lady so lacking in discrimination that she had most recently announced to the world that her husband kept by his bedside little books of nursery rhymes. All in all, thought Simpkin judiciously, it was as well Lord and Lady Warwick had chosen to live apart. He stopped and applied his eye to the keyhole.
    Lord Warwick stood by his writing desk, his features mottled with rage. Confronting him was a small white-haired woman clad in black. As the valet watched, she brandished a fist beneath his master’s nose. “You needn’t threaten me!” she said. “I’ll publish an entire series of scurrilous articles about people in high places, yourself included, you damned humbug!” In the hallway Simpkin, having come to a belated recognition of Leda Langtry, groaned.
    “You exhibit boundless effrontery in the most revolting manner, madam.” Lord Warwick was a tall, stooped man with gray hair, a hooked nose, and features that could have been pleasant but were instead always sour, perhaps due to the tenor of both his disposition and his thoughts, which at that particular moment concerned his visitor’s decapitation by means of the ancient Sword of Justice that hung on the Old Bailey’s wall. “Come, be reasonable. I will admit that I can hardly blame you for holding no high opinion of a Prince who excels at nothing more regal than shooting chimney pots and riding horses upstairs, but I can and do blame you for publishing your opinion to the world.”
    Leda promptly demonstrated a recklessness only to be expected from the female who had visited the insane in an American asylum, invaded a convent and interrogated the nuns, and smoked a peace pipe with heathen redskins. “Thus requiring public punishment,” she commented, “and adding to the not inconsiderable matters which you must, as your Regent’s right hand, personally oversee.” Her tone conveyed little appreciation of Lord Warwick’s exalted position. “Poor man! You would much rather deal with Princess Caroline, would you not? I understand she is currently conducting herself indiscreetly with an Italian of humble origin, so we must conclude that she does not return your regard.”
    Lord Warwick looked discomfited, but Leda had not finished. “Then there is the shocking lack of decorum in the Lower House. I myself have seen the chosen representatives of the people sprawling on the benches with their hats on, talking of insignificant trifles while serious discussions went on! That would make an excellent topic for a newspaper article, would it not?”
    “I see it is no use,” he said grimly, “to discuss the matter with you. If you have finished with your recriminations and your idle threats, I ask that you vacate these premises. The intervention of Lady Bligh will not protect you a second time. Since your moments of liberty are limited, I suggest you make good use of them.”
    “Oh, I shall.” Leda looked smug. “Fancy, you and Princess Caroline! I hadn’t suspected—but there it is. My readership will be