Free Maggie MacKeever by The Baroness of Bow Street

her hands and reminded herself that she was mourning the lover who’d been so cruelly torn from her arms. “I tend to agree with you,” he said. “I cannot see Leda provoked to murder. If only we knew the details.”
    “We will.” The Baroness smoothed her startling green curls. “You may trust me for that.”
    “I think I must,” replied the Viscount ruefully. “Never have I felt so helpless. Even my uncle, who might have been induced to come to Leda’s aid, though not without strenuous protest, is unapproachable,” His mouth twisted wryly. “Percy is suffering from a severe case of the gout, brought on by the consumption of a turkey stuffed with chestnuts.”
    “Percy,” Lady Bligh said absently, “is an ass.”
    “I don’t suppose,” ventured the Viscount, “that you’d care to tell me how you learned of Leda’s arrest? I don’t believe the matter is generally known.”
    “It will be,” the Baroness prophesied. “Mignon, pray fetch our visitor some claret.”
    Reluctantly, Mignon rose to obey. So confusing and unwelcome were the emotions roused in her by sight of Viscount Jeffries that she would have preferred to empty the decanter’s contents over his damnably handsome head. Their hands touched as he took the glass from her. Mignon flushed and turned quickly away, mightily resenting the amusement in his eyes.
    Ivor dropped his gaze to his claret glass. “Perhaps you have wondered at my concern with Leda’s predicament.”
    “Explanations are unnecessary,” Lady Bligh interrupted. “Indeed, I beg that you refrain.”
    Ivor looked inquiringly at his hostess, who was frowning at the closed door. “But I must. It is important that you know.”
    “I don’t suppose,” sighed Dulcie, “that you’d take my word for it that I already do know?”
    “How could you?” inquired Ivor gently, and set down his glass on a table inlaid with brass. “When you have no idea of what I mean to say?”
    Lady Bligh pulled the orange cat onto her lap, where it purred gustily. “You will not wish to make Mignon privy to your secrets. You would do much better to postpone your confessions until another day.”
    Ivor glanced at that young lady, who paused in her restless pacing of the room—an exercise that revealed to the discerning observer a pleasing grace and an even more pleasing physique—to stare indignantly at her aunt.
    “If I could help it I would not tell, but it must come out.” As Ivor searched for words, he surveyed his gleaming boots. “As you may know, my family traces its line back to Osbert, Duke of Calvert, who founded the Abbey, of Coventry, married the famous Lady Godiva, and died in 1087.” Lady Bligh tapped her fingers on her knee and he speeded up his tale. “Succeeding generations were raised with a strong sense of duty and family—too much so, I sometimes think—and my uncle Percy must be the highest stickler of them all. My father, on the other hand, was something of a loose screw, or so I’m led to understand. When my parents were divorced, Percy insisted my mother resume use of her maiden name.”
    “What an extraordinary affair.” The Baroness dumped the cat onto the floor and rose to her feet. “Divorce is shocking, to be sure; however, you need not let it trouble you. Some of the best people have been divorced, even members of my own family.” Despite his protest, she refilled his glass. “I’m sure Mignon will not hold it against you.”
    “Dulcie!” gasped that damsel, who had paused to lean in a somewhat unladylike manner on the back of a settee.
    “You misunderstand,” said Ivor. “I’m not acquainting you with my family history merely to pass the time.” Lady Bligh opened her mouth but he overrode her protest. “I had been accustomed to thinking my mother dead until I made Leda’s acquaintance, which was quite by accident. Even then, she didn’t tell me, but she has a co-worker who is not so scrupulous.” He smiled. “I’ll swear Willie knows