Maggie MacKeever by The Right Honourable Viscount

cousin is a trifle, er, garrulous.”
    “Your cousin, Miss Phyfe, is a beautiful nitwit!” Lord Darby replied.
    Miss Phyfe’s eyes widened. “But I thought—”
    “You thought I had taken a fancy to her?” Lord Darby looked saturnine. “The lady is charming, in her own fashion, but that fashion is not what I prefer. Ninnyhammers, no matter how lovely, are not in my style. Not that I should say so! I do not know what it is about you that invites indiscretion, Miss Phyfe.”
    “Nor do I!” retorted Morgan, who had never invited a gentleman to indulge in discretion in all her eight-and-twenty years—who had, in point of fact, never even thought of it until this moment. Now that she did think of it, pink flushed her cheeks. “No more of this, I beg! You are the most provoking man.”
    Indeed he was, and so he proved; his gray eyes grew warm and his gaze intent. “And you are a darling. Miss Phyfe!” Having delivered this broadside, he awaited her response.
    A number of expressions played across Morgan’s mobile features; she looked startled, annoyed, totally confused. Had no one ever before made her the object of a flirtation? It would seem not. Lord Darby was somewhat surprised that the gentlemen of Miss Phyfe’s acquaintance should prove so unanimously shortsighted that they failed to look beyond unfashionable raiment and seditious sentiments to see how exceptionally attractive she was.
    She looked at him, her perfect features blank. Then her lips twitched, and her eyes sparkled, and she gave voice to such delighted laughter that the other occupants of the box stared. “Touché!” she murmured, chuckling still. “We are even now, I think. I suppose you meant to repay me for going on at you about your lack of politics, and I admit to being a trifle highhanded in that quarter. But did you understand the situation, sir, you would admit that it is serious.”
    How serious, his lordship was beginning to understand, and the discovery intrigued even as it appalled. “I am not quite so ignorant as you think me. Your comments on the occasion of our last meeting inspired me to make some inquiries of my own.”
    Had she made a convert, then? Morgan brightened. “Inquiries, sir?”
    Lord Darby quirked a brow. “Inquiries, Miss Phyfe. Among the things I have been reading was a certain dissertation upon lilies of the field. To use a man’s own words against him is hardly sporting, Miss Phyfe! I shall not hold it against you, nonetheless. I understand your motives.”
    “You do?” inquired Morgan, who was not similarly enlightened.
    “I do,” responded his lordship, and in fact he did. It was his own motives that remained in doubt. “As the voice of the people you must demand parliamentary reform, removal of the present ministry, and peace in place of starvation and misery and want. Every other consideration—such as consideration of my wounded feelings—must take second place.”
    “It must?” Miss Phyfe felt a trifle befuddled by this volte-face. “You were?”
    “I was what? Wounded? You must not allow yourself to be distracted by such trivialities, my girl.” Lord Darby was enjoying himself immensely. Even more, he enjoyed the unusual indecision on his companion’s forceful features, and promptly set about furthering it.
    To do so was not especially kind of him, but kindness is not a quality ordinarily possessed by successful rakehells. “Recall the plight of the common man, who owns no land, and who consequently has no voice to choose those who represent him in Parliament. Though he is not a freeholder, he is still a man, and he is not fairly used in being denied his rights as a citizen. He too should be consulted with regard to the interests of his country. Men should be the object of representation, not land.”
    To this impassioned oratory, Miss Phyfe listened enthralled. At its conclusion, she sighed. “What an excellent champion you would make for our cause. If only you meant a word of it! Men