Maggie MacKeever Read Free Page A

brown eyes and sandy hair. “It is very bad of me to tease you! Pray forgive me, Rolf. What has Nikki done to annoy you now?”
    “Nikki don’t have to do anything!” muttered Lord Sweetbriar a trifle sulkily. “As you will find out for yourself. Dreading what scrape Nikki will next tumble into is every bit as fatiguing as rescuing her from the scrape itself.”
    Again Clytie thought of her errands, the execution of which would be much more enjoyable than yet another repetition of a conversation held several times before. “Once Nikki is married to my father, your responsibility for her will end,” she patiently pointed out. “And you will need no longer be concerned about her scrapes.”
    “No?” With a wildly rolling eye, Lord Sweetbriar enacted disbelief. “Your father will leave off his studies to keep her in line? He will not, and you know it as well as me. If you are thinking you can keep Nikki from cutting rigs, you may think again, Clytie; you ain’t a better fellow than I am, and I could not! For that matter, neither could my father, or else Nikki wouldn’t still have those accursed jewels, and there wasn’t any flies on him.” It then occurred to Rolf that this was no fit way to speak even of the unlamented dead. Nervously he glanced over his shoulder. “You know what I mean—the deuce!”
    Curious as to what had inspired Lord Sweetbriar’s outburst, as well as his sudden ashen color and sweat-beaded brow. Miss Clough also turned her head. At first she saw nothing more than the usual confusion of Oxford Street. Then Miss Clough glimpsed an oddly familiar figure. Possessing less sensibility than Lord Sweetbriar, who was currently gibbering in a wholly demoralized fashion, Clytie merely blinked.
    “I knew it!” muttered Rolf, leaning heavily upon Clytie’s shoulder. “I knew the minute Nikki first refused to give me back those wretched jewels that Papa wouldn’t rest easy in his grave. I told her so, too, but she only laughed. Well, she shan’t laugh at this, I’ll warrant! Dash it, I’m so overset I don’t know what I’m saying. Clytie, tell me that ain’t my papa risen from the grave!”
    Though Miss Clough would have liked very much to reassure Rolf on that head, she could not honorably do so; the gentleman who approached them had very much the appearance of the previous Lord Sweetbriar, though fortunately none of the aspect of one who has passed an entire year mouldering belowground. As opposed to his shroud, the gentleman was dressed carelessly in buckskin breeches and top boots. His brown hair was sun-streaked, his complexion swarthy; his pale blue eyes were almost the exact shade of his jacket of blue cèlest, which could only have come from the celebrated Weston of Bond Street.
    Because Miss Clough judiciously reserved comment, and because Lord Sweetbriar’s concentration was focused wholly on his determination not to swoon, the source of their mutual fascination was the first to speak. That comment, as well as a devastating smile, he directed at Miss Clough. “My nephew is still a mooncalf, it seems. Allow me to introduce myself, since Rolf appears incapable. Marmaduke Thorne, at your service, Miss—er?”
    Perhaps as result of the bizarre manner of their meeting, Miss Clough took this impudent gentleman in immediate dislike. Turning a cool shoulder on him, she roused Rolf from his openmouthed stupor by means of a sharp pinch. “You may relax, Rolf! It is not your papa risen from the grave to scold,”
    “Good God!” ejaculated the newcomer. “No wonder the pair of you looked as if you’d seen a ghost. I shouldn’t care to meet Reuben’s shade myself, not that I imagine they allow much freedom of movement where he’s gone. Tell you what, young Rolf: if Reuben should take to haunting you, you just tell him Duke’s come home.” To Miss Clough, who was regarding him with astonishment, Mr. Thorne explained: “Doubtless Reuben would rather haunt me than anyone else.