Lady Sherry and the Highwayman by Maggie MacKeever Page A

recall having seen before. Only a fool would allow himself to be certain of Marguerite. Or trust her not to plant the antlers on his brow.
    Lord Viccars was no fool. He definitely didn’t trust this sweet-smelling female who was kissing him so passionately. If she could find a wealthier and more generous protector—she had long had her eye on the Regent, but he preferred much older women, alas, and moreover his pockets were perennially to let—she would immediately give Andew his congé.
    Such uncertainty was curiously stimulating. Lord Viccars swept Marguerite up into his arms and strode out of the drawing room and up the graceful mahogany stair.
    Marguerite’s bedchamber was as inviting as the woman herself. It was dominated by a large canopied bed with silken curtains that could be drawn closed or left open at whim. The other furnishings were equally elegant. The walls were covered with a pretty patterned paper, and an Axminster rug lay upon the floor. Soft candlelight rendered the scene most pleasing to the eye.
    Andrew was not paying much attention to his surroundings at that particular moment, however. For one thing, he had seen this chamber many times before. Moreover, Marguerite was whispering some extremely naughty suggestions in his ear.
    He carried her across the room to the bed, and set her on her feet. She smiled roguishly and helped him out of his well-fitting jacket, his waistcoat, his— but the prurient details of Lord Viccars mounting his mistress have no proper place in this account. Suffice it to say that femme entretenue though Marguerite may have been, she could on occasion comport herself like the lowest Covent Garden nun, to her protector’s surprise and delight.
    Sometime later, Lord Viccars was sprawled on the rumpled sheets, lingering over a bumper of fine old brandy known as “diabolino” and savoring the view of Marguerite en déshabillé. “I’ve brought you a present. A small token of my affection. You will find it in my pocket.” Marguerite searched eagerly through his discarded clothing. At least she was honest in her avarice, he mused, unlike ladies better bred and born.
    Andrew did not include Lady Sherry in this assessment, of course. He watched Marguerite fumble with a jeweler’s box, her lower lip caught in enchanting frustration between her teeth, and wondered what Sherry would make of his acquaintance with this unscrupulous little jade.
    There was nothing untoward in the relationship. It was the thing for gentlemen to have mistresses, after all. Andrew would give up Marguerite when he was married, naturally. Not that he wished to, any more than he wished to dwell again in his venerable town house. Both sacrifices were required of him if he was to take a wife.
    The case would not open. Pouting, Marguerite held it out. He would miss her, Andrew realized with some surprise, as he opened the box.
    Marguerite’s eyes lit up when she glimpsed the diamond and emerald necklace that nestled within. Then nothing would do but that he should fasten it on for her and she should strike various poses for him.
    So very grateful was Marguerite for her present, and so provocative were the poses she struck, that no few hours elapsed before Lord Viccars departed from the little Italian villa in Marylebone. His gait was not entirely steady, due less to a liquor known as diabolino than to physical excess.
    His thoughts were very clear, at all events. He was quite satisfied with Marguerite’s response to his gift of the necklace, and wondered what gift he might make to Lady Sherry that would rouse a similar excess of gratitude. Not similar, precisely; a gentleman could not regard his fiancée in the same light as a member of the muslin company.
    Andrew pondered these matters as his carriage rattled through the dark and foggy streets. How was he to influence a lady whose sentiments he could not anticipate from one moment to the next? He could hardly lavish on her such presents as he had given