Maggie MacKeever by Lady Sweetbriar Page A

Russia, I wish you would not, because if I married Reuben when I could just as well have had you—Paugh! The notion is enough to put one devilish out of humor! As for your help, I must refuse it, though I am grateful for the offer.”
    “Why must you refuse it?” Mr. Thorne left the matter of his own finances unresolved. “Do you think your Avery might take offense?”
    Lady Sweetbriar looked rueful. “He should, certainly; but I don’t know that he would! I will admit that I don’t understand Avery. Not that it signifies, because I did understand Reuben, and it made not a jot of difference.”
    “Then let me help you.” Though Mr. Thorne had long been parted from his companion, he immediately recognized the signs of a conscience grappling with guilt. “Your fiancé need never know.”
    “I would know!” Lady Sweetbriar ventured out from behind the tripod table and moved to the fireplace. Avaricious as she might be, Nikki would accept no investment in her future without giving good value in return. Even the aloof Sir Avery Clough must balk at his intended bride paying out such dividends, she thought. At least she hoped he would. “Oh Duke, you were the best of all my flirts—not that you were a flirt, precisely—no, no! Stay your distance! We must put all that behind us now.”
    For a lady determined to forget her past, reflected Mr. Thorne, Nikki displayed a queer tendency to dwell thereupon. But he had long ago learned the futility of engaging the fair sex in argument. “As you wish,” he therefore responded, and smiled. “You are in looks, Nikki. Are those some of the family baubles you’re wearing?”
    This chance remark—Mr. Thorne not yet being aware that the Sweetbriar jewels were a point of sore contention between Nikki and Rolf—reminded Lady Sweetbriar of her ill-usage. “Don’t try and bamboozle me, Duke: you know perfectly well that these are Sweetbriar heirlooms.” She clutched at the gems hung round her neck. “Yes, and you must know also about Reuben’s wretched will, and that he left the jewels to Rolf, because Rolf talks about little else! I give you fair warning: Rolf shan’t have them back. And it will do you no good to try and cajole me in his behalf. Oh, I recall very well that you once had the knack of getting around me—yes, and look where that led us! You to Russia, me to Fitzroy Square, and Reuben to an early grave.”
    “Cut line, Nikki!” In protest, Mr. Thorne held up his hand. “Rolf said nothing to me about your baubles, or much of anything else except some female he wishes to wed. Her praises he sang so profusely I began to wonder why such a paragon would content herself with less than a duke. So you see your fears were for naught, Nikki.”
    Had they been? wondered Lady Sweetbriar. Did she pose imaginary difficulties for herself?
    After careful assessment of the situation, she decided she did not. Rolf was determined to reclaim the Sweetbriar jewels; she was equally determined he must not. For a year the fate of the gems had hung in the balance—but now Lady Regina Foliot sought to tip the scales. If Rolf had an ally, Nikki thought she must also—and who could better serve than Rolf’s own uncle as an agent in the enemy camp?
    Thinking to persuade Marmaduke to her viewpoint, Lady Sweetbriar turned to him with her most bewitching smile. Then she uttered a little shriek. While she had been deep in cogitation, he had left his chair.
    “Don’t act so blasted missish!” Mr. Thorne caught Lady Sweetbriar by the arms before she could back into the fireplace. “I’ve no intentions of making advances, Nikki.”
    Looking simultaneously cautious and confused, Lady Sweetbriar frowned up into his swarthy face. “You don’t?”
    “I don’t.” Mr. Thorne smiled. “Unless, that is, you want me to.”
    That was a relief, at any rate; naturally a lady affianced to one gentleman could not wish another to pay her court. Wondering how best to wheedle Duke to lend her his