Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (2 page)

“My thanks.” He took the glove and tugged it on, then followed suit with the second.

Except his hand brushed Maggie’s while she held out his glove. She didn’t think it was intentional, because his expression abruptly shuttered further. He tapped his hat onto his head and was perhaps contemplating a parting bow when Maggie beat him to the exit.

She rose from her curtsy, her hair tumbling forward, and murmured a quiet “Good day,” before turning her back on him deliberately. To the casual observer, it wouldn’t have been rude.

She hoped Hazlit took it for the slight it was intended to be.

“Oh, Mags.” Evie bustled up to her side. “Let’s get you upstairs before Mama sees this.” She lifted a long, curling hank of hair. “Turn loose of that mantilla before you permanently wrinkle it—and whatever happened to put you in such a state?”

***

“Not the done thing to stare at a man’s daughters under his own roof.”

Lucas Denning, Marquis of Deene, kept his voice down, but Benjamin Hazlit heard him nonetheless.

“You’re happy enough to be staring,” Hazlit said, taking his walking stick from the footman.

Deene glanced around. “Discreetly. Not like I want to leap upon the girl naked. What on earth did you do to that woman? Her hair is quite the most glorious thing I’ve seen outside a certain brothel in Cairo.”

Hazlit felt an abrupt need to plant his fist in Deene’s handsome face. “Now who’s being rude?”

“We both are.” Deene grinned momentarily, turning his severe Nordic features almost boyish. “But Lady Maggie never affords me more than the passing notice due to a family friend, so it matters little. Are you off to your club for a beefsteak?”

“I am for home, and it’s a pretty day, so I’ll be on foot.”

“I could take you up. My tiger is walking my horses as we speak.”

“Thanks, but after sitting for two hours and listening to my betters parse the state of the realm, I can use some fresh air.”

They parted, Hazlit trailing after the guests who hadn’t been detained by a red-haired Amazon bent on mischief.

Except, to be fair, the whole little business had started without anybody intending anything, and it should have ended that way. Lady Maggie hadn’t appreciated his nonsense with the flower, so she’d stabbed him with his own pin.

She’d done him a favor, in truth, because his wits had gone begging at the sight of all that silky, warm hair tumbling around her shoulders. He’d caught a whiff of her fragrance, a clean, bracing scent laced with cinnamon, and he’d tangled his fingers in a few long, silky strands of her hair. The feel of it sliding over his skin had momentarily shut down his reasoning powers, something the lady must have sensed.

He didn’t often give offense to a lady, but there was something about Moreland’s by-blow that threw him off stride and brought out the ungallant side of his nature. They’d met only a handful of times, for Hazlit generally avoided the ballrooms and soirees and Venetian breakfasts. His half brother had recently become the first man to marry into the present generation of Windham daughters, making it even more imperative that Hazlit keep his distance.

Socially, he had to keep a hand in, mostly for business purposes, but nobody was glad to see him arrive at their polite functions, and everybody was relieved to see him leave. The parliamentary matters were little better. On behalf of the Earl of Hazelton, for whom he ostensibly worked, he attended meetings such as Moreland’s earlier strategy session. Moreland and a few of the senior titles knew better, but they kept their mouths shut.

Miss Windham’s mouth had been open. For just an instant, her jaw had dropped, presumably at the heat in Hazlit’s gaze. That was not well done of him. She was a lady, for all her unfortunate origins, and he was a gentleman.

Most of the time.

He made his way to his town house in less than a half hour, which really wasn’t long enough to get the mental stench of the duke’s meeting out of his mind. Moreland was a staunch Tory, though he had sympathy for the yeoman and could be surprisingly effective garnering votes from the moderates on even the most divisive issues.

Still, Moreland’s meetings went on forever and all too often degenerated into grumbling and finger-pointing.

Hazlit handed his hat, walking stick, and gloves to his butler, glanced at the longcase clock in his foyer, and headed for his library. There was still time to plough through several hours’ worth of correspondence and reports prior to the evening’s obligations.

Before he sat at his desk, though, Hazlit scanned his shelves until he came across a volume of Wordsworth. He unfastened the little rose from his lapel and tucked it carefully between the pages of the book, then forced himself to get down to work.

***

“Valentine!” Maggie flew across her bedroom, throwing her arms around the tall, dark-haired man who’d appeared unannounced in her chambers. “Oh, I have missed you so, you scamp. You scoundrel! When did you get back to Town, and is Ellen with you?”

He hugged her tightly, a good solid hug as only a brother who’d been rusticating with his new wife since Christmas could deliver to his sister, and kept an arm around Maggie’s shoulders as he walked her to a window seat.

“Ellen accepted my plea for her to eschew travel,” Valentine said. “She gave me a letter for you.” Val passed her a single folded piece of paper.

“Ellen is well?” Maggie asked, some of her joy dimming as she glanced at the pretty hand on Ellen’s note. Ellen and Val had been married only a short time, and already, they were in anticipation of a joyful event. She was happy for them, truly she was. Also envious.

“Ellen is quite well, though my own nerves are sorely tried to think of her increasing. But, Mags”—he glanced around at the upheaval in her sitting room—“have I come to Town only to find my sister taking fits?”

If Maggie Windham loved any men, it was the men of her family—her father and brothers, Uncle Tony, and her cousins. They were the best of fellows, but they fretted endlessly and called it doting on her, her sisters, and the duchess.

“I’ve lost track of a favorite frippery. I got a little carried away searching for it.”

“I’ll buy you another. I’m back in Town to do rehearsals with the Philharmonic Society but expect I’ve already been spotted by Her Grace’s spies. I might as well take you shopping before I face the maternal interrogation.”

“You don’t have to stay at the mansion. You could stay at Gayle’s place, since he and Anna have the room.”

“He said as much.” Val rose and began to wander the room, putting things to rights. He was sinfully handsome, with emerald green eyes, sable hair just a tad too long, and hands that could conjure from any kind of keyboard the sweetest music ever played.

But he had the Windham gift for fretting over family, probably amplified by impending fatherhood.

“You are not my lady’s maid, Val.” Maggie rose to straighten the pillows her searching had thrown into disorder.

“I’m your darling baby brother,” he replied, holding up a dancing slipper with little roses embroidered on it. “Lovely, but not very well used. Are you still impersonating a recluse, Mags?”

“I go out,” she said, folding an afghan over her fainting couch. “Her Grace will not permit me the privacy I’d choose, were I allowed.”

“Neither will I.” Val held up another slipper. “I’m attending the Winterthurs’ ball tonight. Say you’ll come with me to be my protection. If I’d known how sincerely the merry widows considered married men fair game, I’d likely have declined tonight’s invitation.”

“You’d best call on your mother before you show your face in public,” Maggie warned. “She could hardly sip her tea today, so anxious was she to interrogate you in person about your wife’s well-being.”

“She’s your mother, too.” Val began draping silk stockings over the open lid of a cedar chest.

“She is not my mother. Valentine, those are my unmentionables.”

He shrugged. “I like unmentionables. I like pretty things and pretty ladies. Come dancing with me tonight, Mags. I won’t go without you.”

“Very well, but you come by for me after you’ve made your bow at the mansion.”

“Fair enough.” He smiled at her, wrapping a stocking around his neck and holding it up like a noose. “If I tell Her Grace you’re to come out socializing with me, she’ll hardly let me finish my tea.”

“Stop disrespecting your sister’s personal effects.” She snatched the stocking from around his silly neck. “And how are you, really? You look tired.”

“I’m working on a new composition, and it rather takes over my schedule. Ellen is very understanding, perhaps too much so.” As he spoke, he picked up a little music box from Maggie’s vanity.

“You gave me that,” she said, watching those graceful hands of his lift the lid. “You’re going to leave here without playing for me, aren’t you?”

“You’ve heard me play probably more than any other single person on the face of the earth. Just hum a few bars of Beethoven; you’ll hardly know it isn’t me.”

“One doesn’t hum Beethoven, for pity’s sake.” She cocked her head to study him, realizing that in some way, her baby brother had grown up, grown more mature for taking a wife. “Ellen is truly well?”

“She assures you of as much in her letter.” Val put the music box down, his signature smile in place. “I got a letter from Dev before I left Bel Canto.” He passed Maggie a slim epistle that bore their oldest brother’s slashing hand. “He seems to be thriving with his womenfolk.”

“Then lucky Devlin.”

“But you miss him, don’t you?”

“Of course I miss him.” Maggie plopped down on the bed, both appreciating and resenting Val’s perceptivity. “We’re close in age, and we share…”

“Bastardy.” Val crossed the room to sit beside her, taking her left hand in his right. “You’ve both been legitimated, you’re adopted, you’re accepted everywhere, and yet this haunts you.”

“It’s different for a woman, Val. I can’t buy my colors and guarantee my standing in the world by riding off to whack at Frenchmen. Devlin is a perishing earl.”

“He’s still our brother.” Val tucked a lock of hair behind Maggie’s ear. “And he specifically challenged me to look in on you and get your nose out of your infernal books. Spring is coming, Mags, and it’s time to dance.”

It sounded not like a lighthearted invitation but rather like a lecture.

Gracious.

She got to her feet. “Shoo. You have a call to pay on your mama, and she won’t want to let you out of her sight.”

“I’ll come by at eight, but let’s take your coach,” he said, rising as well. “Read Dev’s letter. I’m sure he’ll expect a prompt reply.”

“I’ll read it, and I will see you at eight, but I don’t intend to stay out all night, Val.”

“Nor do I.”

He was gone, leaving behind the peculiar sinking of spirit Maggie felt each time a member of her ducal family left her here, alone in her own quarters, just as she’d spent years begging and pleading for them to do.

***

“Good evening, Mr. Hazlit.”

The Winterthurs’ butler greeted him, though not in quite the stentorian tones the man might have used for the titled guests. It was the same in the receiving line. Grudging, hesitant, but polite tolerance from those who knew not what to make of the Hon. Benjamin Hazlit.

He preferred it that way, and it was better for business. He didn’t pause at the top of the grand staircase when a herald all but muttered his name, but made his way quietly into the crowd milling under the enormous chandeliers.

“Hazlit.” Lucas Denning gave him a nod and a grim smile. “I’d hoped the dancing would have started by now.”

“I hear the orchestra tuning up, but the first sets always take a while to form. What social cataclysm has wrested you from your club?”

Deene ran a finger around his starched collar and glanced about at the ladies in their finery. “Another lecture from my mother about duty to the succession. One might ask what social cataclysm has provoked
your
attendance. The hostesses never know whether it’s a coup when you show up or a reason to fret.”

Hazlit took a half step into the shadows under the minstrel’s gallery and visually assessed his companion. “We aren’t all golden gods such as yourself. Given the title, it truly is a wonder you aren’t married.”

Deene shuddered, and Hazlit had the impression it wasn’t entirely feigned. “Don’t say that word. I’m too young to be leg-shackled.”

“It’s the debutantes who are too young. We marry them off before they’ve put away their dolls.”

“Think that way, and you’ll soon be the one married off.”

They fell silent as a footman approached, offering champagne from a carefully balanced tray. Deene tossed back his wine then slunk off to the card room, no doubt intent on avoiding the matchmakers.

It was tempting to do likewise, but the evening was young, which meant nobody would be sufficiently inebriated to let slip the kind of information Hazlit came seeking. He made for the refreshment table and helped himself to a second flute of champagne, from which he drank nothing.

Wallflowers and companions were a source of intelligence that often went unnoticed, so Hazlit scanned the ladies seated among the potted ferns and mentally started filling out dance cards.