Maggie MacKeever Read Online Free

ha’porth of spirit went against the grain.
    Delicately, she shuddered. “You mistake, milord. Me, I am much afraid. What if the Coffey lurks in ambush, waiting to revenge himself? I beg you permit me to remain tonight beneath your roof.”
    Quin did not immediately answer. Liliane crossed his fingers behind her back. Would he, or would he not?
    He beckoned the attendant. “I might as well be running a blasted hotel.”
     
    Chapter Five
     
    Lord Quinton was preparing to break his fast — the morning newspapers spread out on the mahogany table in front of him, alongside a pot of coffee and a plate piled high with boiled eggs and cold roast beef, although he had no appetite, and was wondering why anyone would choose to be awake at this ungodly hour — when his ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Beau Loversall. Beau was dressed for riding in dark blue coat and buckskin breeches and tall top boots, buff waistcoat with black stripes wide asunder, cravat tied in the Trone d’Amour. His golden curls were tousled, his expression reminiscent of the cat that had got into the cream.
    “An early rendezvous?” Quin ventured. “With Miss Fletcher, I presume?”
    “Miss Fletcher is holding me at arm’s length. Mrs. Thwaite, however, enjoys a brisk morning ride.” Beau examined the sideboard where food had been set out in chafing dishes. There were no servants in attendance, Quin preferring (result of his usually fragile condition) to greet the day in solitude. “What are you doing up so early? I was sure I’d find you still abed.”
    And so Quin would have been, had not sleep proved damned elusive. “In that case, why are you in my house?”
    “May I remind you Moxley’s previously belonged to a member of my family? It is practically a second home, and in some ways even better than my own.” Beau settled himself on an upholstered chair. “While Mrs. Ormsby rubs along well enough with Mrs. Thwaite, she dislikes Miss Fletcher’s manner. I suggested she might be more tolerant of a damsel half her age.”
    “Ah. Yet here you sit. Apparently unscathed.”
    Beau reached for the coffee urn, which was decorated with a rustic landscape populated by shepherdesses and sheep. “Appearances are deceptive. The lady has exceedingly sharp fingernails.”
    A brief silence descended on the chamber, while its occupants reflected upon the damage done their respective persons by their various amours. It was a pretty room, tinted pale blue with cornices a slightly darker shade, the ceiling embellished with relief mouldings in papier-mâché, the wallpaper lush with foliate scrolls and a small-scale repeating pattern of flowers and leaves.
    Quin raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright morning light. He fancied he was sober, and didn’t fancy it at all.
    The door opened. Liliane was wearing her own clothes this morning, a day dress of figured calico, doves’ breast with black flowers, the sleeves puffed at the top and fitted to the wrist. She was not, Quin noted with displeasure, wearing a cloak or a bonnet or any other item of clothing that might suggest her imminent departure. He inquired, “Why haven’t you left?”
    “More to the point,” said Beau, “why is she here at all? I distinctly recall you telling me the women who work at Moxley’s are not to be enjoyed. But you own the place, do you not, and ownership has privileges.” He rose. “Do join us, chérie. ”
    Privileges, had he? Quin wished someone would tell him what they were.
    Liliane approached the table and seated herself as close as possible to him while remaining out of reach. “You mistake, monsieur,” she explained to Beau . “I am not here because his lordship and I have the intimate connection, but because of the cochon Coffey, who will desire to revenge himself because I damaged his manly apparatus. It was no more than he deserved, for misusing me.”
     “The cad misused you?” echoed Beau, enjoying himself far more than Quin found