Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (17 page)

“Women in the throes of early motherhood should all be so serene as your lady wife,” Hazlit said. “You’re to be commended.”

“I’m to be pitied.” Westhaven came around the desk to shake his guest’s hand. “Have a seat, why don’t we? And there will be a tea tray the size of Madagascar any minute, but I’ve whiskey, brandy, and port on the sideboard, as well.”

“Why are you to be pitied?” Hazlit shifted to take a chair. There was a prowling quality to the man’s gait, a restlessness in his eyes, as if he never stopped inventorying his environment for information.

“If my parents’ history is any indication, my wife will be gravid as often as not. It plucks a man’s nerves to see the woman he loves blithely managing under such myriad challenges.”

Hazlit cocked his head. “You have become quite married, my lord.”

“I’m quite pathetically in love with my wife.” Westhaven shook his head. He and Hazlit were not friends, but this was a conversation between friends, a conversation he might have had with Valentine or Devlin, or even—surprisingly—with His Grace. “Are you calling upon me in a business capacity today, Hazlit? I confess, my mind does not lend itself easily to business matters of late.”

Hazlit pursed his lips and seemed to come to some inner conclusion. “She’ll be fine, Westhaven. She’s not like many titled ladies, who will sit about on their broad backsides, fainting and sighing and fretting because they’re too vain and stupid to discard their stays. She’s healthy, happy, and looking forward to many occasions of motherhood. You won’t lose her.”

Westhaven looked out the window to the gardens profuse with the flowers Anna had brought into his life. “I should not need to hear the words, but thank you.”

Hazlit seemed amused. “Every husband needs to hear the words. Ask His Grace how many of his cronies he’s had to get roaring drunk during a lying-in. Ask him if the last child was any easier on him than the first one. But there’s a lesson for us men in this, too, I think.”

Westhaven passed his guest a tot of whiskey, for such a masculine discussion must needs be fortified with masculine drink. “What lesson?”

“The ladies’ courage is different from ours,” Hazlit said, accepting the drink. “But in some ways, their courage is greater.”

Westhaven propped a hip on his desk and peered at the man lounging in his guest chair. “Is there a Mrs. Hazlit who has inspired you to such observations?” A brother was entitled to be sure of these things.

“Not yet. God willing, I’ll find such a brave woman before I grow too much older.”

“My sister suspects you’ve a title.” Sisters were a safer topic than wives. “I told her to ask His Grace.”

“This would be Mag—Miss Windham?”

The slip was telling. Westhaven let it pass. “Maggie, to her familiars.” Among whom, it was just possible Benjamin Hazlit was about to number. Well, well, well. “She adores riding, you know.”

Hazlit’s gaze narrowed. “She told me she doesn’t keep a riding horse.”

“She doesn’t. Says riding is for young girls seeking to look over the mounted gentlemen in the park. She adores riding nonetheless.”

Hazlit seemed to absorb this information, though his expression was unreadable. “You’ve heard we went driving some days ago, I take it.”

“Maggie might have mentioned it. You’re to be commended for getting her out.”

Hazlit took a sip of this drink, no doubt configuring his reply carefully while he did. “I don’t think your sister would appreciate her family making anything of a single outing. She’s a skilled driver though, I did notice that. My offside gelding is not the most confident fellow, and he trusted her immediately.”

“Children, horses, and dogs…” Westhaven settled himself in the opposite wing chair. “They all love Maggie.”

A little considering silence fell, each man sipping his drink in turn.

“So we’re not to be getting ideas because Maggie has condescended to drive out with you?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. Not if I dance with her, not if we’re seen having ices together or shopping on the Strand. Your sister is not being courted.”

Interesting, when two people each insisted there was no courting going on.

“So you wouldn’t care to know Maggie’s sidesaddle is out in my mews right now, and Anna’s mare—a rather sizable creature with marvelous gaits, if I do say so myself—could use some exercise?”

Hazlit’s lips quirked up. “Even if I borrowed the saddle and the mare from time to time over the coming weeks, I would not be courting your sister.”

“Pity.” Westhaven rose and went to the window. His wife was kneeling before a bed of tulips just starting their decline, her face hidden by a wide-brimmed straw hat. He must ask her what a brother’s obligation was in such a circumstance.

He turned to face his guest. “If you were to court Maggie, she’d probably drive you off with her lectures.”

“What lectures would those be, my lord?”

When had Hazlit come sauntering over to the window?

“She starts off explaining the percents to you, why they are the most prudent, low-risk investment, and why some of your capital should be in them most of the time. Then she goes on about the financial pages and why this or that article is not as informative or disinterested as it might seem. She can get going on various investment schemes, if you’re the determined sort, bore you witless for hours.”

“Those are decent topics of conversation, if a trifle unfeminine.”

“In Maggie’s hands, the financial pages become weapons of destruction. Had you any amorous intent, she could lecture it right out of you. She indirectly owns a sizable portion of the swine industry in the Home Counties, though this is nigh a state secret with His Grace and me.”

Hazlit looked intrigued, God help the man. “Swine?”

“Pigs reproduce at a terrific rate, much faster than sheep, and yet they require a great deal less space to raise than sheep, and most do not require grazing, per se. Pork is considered by most preferable to mutton, the hide is valuable, and the meat takes well to preservation. Swine, Mr. Hazlit. Do the math or Maggie will do it for you. She’s thinking of investing in peaches next. If she does, you can bet the Moreland resources will be nodding in that direction, as well.”

“Fascinating. And yet she lives very modestly.”

“She has her charities.” Outside, Anna was getting to her feet, a maneuver that made Westhaven impatient to be back at her side. “I suggest you ask Maggie about her causes, as they are near to her heart.”

A knock on the door indicated the tea tray was arriving. Westhaven watched while Hazlit’s glance went from the tray in the footman’s hands to the back terrace to his host’s face. Now they must sit and eat polite portions and discuss the coming race meets or some beast lately on the block at Tatt’s. Good manners could be such a burden.

“At the risk of ignoring good food, my lord, do you suppose you might introduce me to your wife’s mare?”

“Capital notion. Grab a few tea cakes, why don’t you? We can go out by way of the garden.”

A thought struck him as they headed for the back of the house. “Would you have the time to take on another small project for Their Graces? This one shouldn’t involve haring off to the North in search of my wife’s antecedents.”

Hazlit’s eyebrows rose, and he paused inside the door leading to the terrace. “What sort of project?”

Westhaven could see his wife through the door’s glass, arching her back with both hands propped at the base of her spine. He spoke quickly, not wanting to belabor an insignificance. “A routine investigation of a potential spouse for one of my sisters. It will probably come to nothing, if you ask me. The gentleman in question doesn’t strike me as ready for parson’s mousetrap, but then, who among us advertises when he is?”

“The gentleman in question?”

“Lord Deene. Her Grace is hopeful Evie might bring him up to scratch.”

“May I consult my calendar before giving you an answer?”

Westhaven swung around to consider Hazlit, but the man’s face, as usual, gave away nothing. “Take as long as you like to consult your schedule or conclude whatever bit of sleuthing you’re about. The last time I spoke with Evie, she thought she was preserved from the risk of marriage by virtue of being the youngest. Come along. Anna can join us on our visit to the stables.”

***

Three days had passed since Maggie had gotten Bridget’s latest letter. Three days of miserable spring weather—cold, wet, windy, and perfectly suited to hiding indoors.

Maggie should never have gone driving in the park.

She should never have taken Mr. Hazlit shopping.

She should right this minute be sending him a note excusing him from further obligation to her.

She’d find her own letters. They weren’t so very incriminating, not unless they were placed in a larger context…

“Mr. Hazlit to see you, miss.” Mrs. Danforth waited in the open door of the office, her plump frame fairly quivering with approval.

“No need to stand on ceremony.” Hazlit shouldered past the housekeeper, patting her arm as he did. Maggie could almost see the woman’s spine melt when he tossed a toothy smile at her for good measure.

“Mr. Hazlit.” Maggie got to her feet, ignoring the very notion she might be pleased to see him, too. “This is a surprise.”

“I’ll just see about the tea tray.” Mrs. Danforth beamed at Hazlit and bustled off.

“Don’t blame her.” Hazlit advanced into the room, leaving the door only a few inches ajar. “She wants to see you happily wed with babies to love and fuss over.”

Maggie crossed her arms, stoutly ignoring the image his words brought to mind. “You and she have been discussing my future?”

“Good intentions on the part of a devoted staff hardly require discussion. How are you?” He picked up her hand, preventing Maggie from turning her back on him.

“I’ll be much better when you find my reticule. I’m hoping you disturbed an otherwise peaceful afternoon to report some progress?”

He
petted
her hand. Smoothed his fingers over her knuckles while he regarded her with a frown. “No, I do not have progress to report, though on the staff’s next half day, I’m going to search this place from cellars to attics. I have inquiries out among my contacts, but these things take time to bear fruit. You still look tired. What’s amiss, Maggie Windham?”

He was regarding her with some peculiar light in his eyes. Maggie had the sense she wasn’t with Mr. Hazlit, the hired investigator, but perhaps with Benjamin Hazlit, the man. His expression wasn’t one of clinical inquiry but rather of faint worry.

For her.

A blasted lump rose in her throat, having something to do with that look in his eyes, and something to do with the babies she would never have to fuss over or love.

She snatched her hand back and stalked over to the window. “This is not a convenient time to indulge your notions of a sham connection between us, Mr. Hazlit.”

He eyed the door, warning her with one glance she’d broken the rules.

But then, so had he. With that soft, slightly anxious look in his dark eyes he’d broken rules and commandments and the equivalent of papal bulls issued by Maggie’s common sense and countersigned by her instinct for self-preservation.

She heard him building up the fire but kept her gaze on the back gardens. The flowers would like the rain, of course—

“Mr. Hazlit!” She kept her voice down with effort, but when a man sneaked up behind a lady and slid his arms around her waist, some exclamation was in order.

“Hush.” He turned her in his arms, though part of Maggie was strongly admonishing herself to wrestle free. He’d let her go. She trusted him that far, when a servant was likely to appear any moment with a tea tray. “Something has you in a dither. Tell me.”

His embrace was the most beguiling, irresistible mockery of a kindness. Gayle had offered her a hug a few days ago, a brusque, brotherly gesture as careful as it was brief. This was different.

This was… Benjamin Hazlit’s warm, strong male body, available for her comfort. No conditions, no awkwardness, no dissembling for the benefit of an audience.

She sighed and tucked her face against his throat, unwilling—or unable—to deny herself what he offered. For a few moments, she was going to pretend she wasn’t alone in a sea of trouble. She was going to pretend they were friends—cousins, maybe—and stealing this from him was permitted. She was going to hold on to the fiction that she was as entitled to dream of children and a husband to dote upon as the next woman.

“You are wound as tight as a fiddle string, Maggie Windham.” Hazlit’s hand settled on her neck, kneading gently. “Are the domestics feuding, or has Her Grace been hounding you?”

“She never hounds or scolds.” Maggie rested her forehead on his shoulder, her bones turning to butter at his touch. “She looks at us, disappointment in the prettiest green eyes you’ve ever seen, and you want to disappear into the ground, never to emerge until you can make her smile again. His Grace says it’s the same for him.”

When she was held like this, Maggie could detect a unique scent about Hazlit’s person: honeysuckle and spice, like an exotic incense. It clung to his clothing, and when she turned her head to rest her cheek on the wool of his coat, she caught the same fragrance rising from the exposed flesh of his neck.