Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (41 page)

He fed her a bite of sandwich sporting butter, mustard, thinly sliced ham, and a tangy yellow cheddar.

“I don’t think the ham is agreeing with me. Something about the smokiness.”

He removed the ham from the sandwich and popped the meat into his mouth. “Did you get any rest at all last night?”

“Some.”

“Maggie…” He took her empty teacup and set it aside, then studied her for a long moment. “Come here.”

She scooted over the few inches necessary to accept his embrace, all of her upset and misgivings going quiet at the feel of his arms around her. She would miss his embrace—miss it sorely, for all her remaining days and nights.

“It will be all right, my love. I have a plan. Shall I tell it to you?”

“Please.”

When he told her
this
plan, she couldn’t find a flaw in it—though she still managed to worry, right up until darkness fell and Deene took them up in his town coach.

***

“For the love of God, hurry.” Adele was flustered, and that more than anything penetrated the thick haze of anxiety clouding Bridget’s mind. “Some marquis fellow has shown up nearly an hour before madam was expecting her guests—not that Polite Society ever shows up on time—and he’s got some viscount in tow, and they aren’t to be kept waiting.”

“A marquis?” Bridget had seen a few marquises in the park or escorting their ladies about on The Strand. They were invariably old and overweight. “I hadn’t realized Cecily was aiming so high.”

Adele took her by the hand and pulled her over to the vanity. “We haven’t time to use those awful paints, thank God, and your hair can’t be too elaborate.”

Bridget sat, feeling as if she were watching some nervous adolescent play a particularly ill-timed game of dress up. “Adele, I don’t want to do this.”

“Yes, you do. These two are both handsome as gods, my girl, and I’ve some acquaintance with the viscount fellow. If you can snabble the marquis, you won’t have to simper and smile your way through the evening while your mother does business over the champagne punch. Be nice to the marquis—it’s what your mother will expect you to do.”

“Handsome has little to do with kind.”

“Hold still. Listen to me, Bridget.” She switched to French, shooting a particular look at the chambermaid giving Bridget’s replacement gown a final pressing. “You want to meet these two lords as soon as may be, and you want to be on your best manners when you do. Your sister would want you to trust them.”

Bridget blinked and studied Adele’s reflection in the mirror, but Adele’s eyes gave nothing away. All too soon, Bridget was standing before her mirror, her hair artfully tumbling from her crown, her powdered and scented bosom far too evident above her bodice, and her nerves as tight as fiddle strings.

“Adele, I can’t do this. I don’t care if Cecily does beat me. One of those men could take me home with him tonight, and the thought… I think I’m going to be sick.”

Adele seized her by the shoulders and gave her a small shake. “You are going to be strong. Your mother has her guests in the small parlor, so the caterers can finish in the salon. But if you don’t go down now, then Cecily will come up here. I need you to keep her down there.”

Adele was trying to communicate something Bridget simply could not grasp. Tears were threatening, which would aggravate Cecily no end.

“
My
sister
would expect me to trust these men?”

Adele nodded slowly once, up and down.

“Then I must trust them.”

Bridget turned and left the room, seeing no alternatives—none whatsoever. She had no memory of descending the steps, but all too soon she was standing outside the door to the small parlor, her hand shaking on the latch. She tapped on the door three times—a little death knell for her virtue—then pasted a smile onto her face and swept into the room the way her mother had taught her to.

Only to stop abruptly after two strides. Adele had not lied. Two exceptionally handsome men lounged near the window, their virile, blond beauty making Cecily look exactly like what she was: an aging strumpet far past her prime, trading on nothing more than venal motives and expensive tastes.

“Miss O’Donnell.” The taller of the two set his drink aside and crossed the room. “Deene, most assuredly at your service.” He bowed over Bridget’s hand, his expression gravely attentive. When he straightened, he paused for a moment and perused Bridget’s features with a kind of mesmerizing intensity.

“Your sister will see you safe.” When he spoke French, it was so beautiful to the ear. Bridget had to concentrate to extract the meaning of his words. He must have seen her befuddlement, because the blasted man did not drop her hand until he’d aimed a very solemn wink at her, as well.

Her sister… Bridget curtsied and replied in French, as well. “I’m sure that is so, my lord.”

“Bridget!” Cecily’s voice was shrill with false cheer. “Come meet Viscount Blessings. He is also very partial to ladies of your coloring.”

Even in her innocence, Bridget had to stifle a wince. Would her mother be suggesting the gentlemen examine Bridget’s teeth next?

“Madam.” Lord Deene’s tone was glacial. “Perhaps I was not clear, or perhaps the toll of long years in your profession has limited your understanding, so I will endeavor to speak more slowly. I came here prepared to reach an agreement with you”—he turned to Bridget—“assuming the young lady is willing?”

Bridget nodded, her heart thumping in her chest while Deene went on in insufferably condescending tones. “I will not dicker and squabble while you comport yourself like a whoremonger before such a delicate flower. Blessings, show Madam the jewels.”

***

“I used to tell Bridget to be glad her mother didn’t sell her.” Maggie stared out the window of Deene’s elegant coach, watching the front stoop of the house Archer and Deene had disappeared into a lifetime and twenty minutes ago. “I was such an idiot.”

Benjamin shifted on the bench beside her but kept hold of her hand. “When you took Cecily on, you were not much older than Bridget is now, Maggie. Bear that in mind when you’re flagellating yourself for managing the best you could.”

“But to think I would be more capable of dealing with Cecily than His Grace would be…” She shook her head, worry and regret trying to erode the calm she felt emanating from Benjamin.

“Her Grace made the same mistake—thought she was better situated than Moreland to deal with Cecily—if a mistake it was, and she was no match for Cecily either.”

His arm came around her shoulders, and she let herself rest against him. “I hate this waiting, but I tell myself that this time next week, Bridget and I can be on our way to Italy or Portugal.”

She hadn’t meant to say that, but fatigue, anxiety, and the warmth and comfort of Benjamin’s solid male presence had loosened her tongue.

“Hush.” She felt his lips graze her temple, suggesting he was too preoccupied to heed her words. “You think Cecily will wreak revenge on you for stealing her ticket to a well-heeled old age, but I won’t allow it, and Their Graces won’t allow it.”

“You are such a good man, Benjamin.” She nuzzled the wool of his coat then turned her head to stare again at the well-lit terrace of the town house Cecily had selected for her current venture. Maggie was tempted to close her eyes, but some superstitious corner of her soul suggested if she stared hard enough, then soon she’d see Deene escorting Bridget out of that awful woman’s house and into the safety of Maggie’s waiting and anxious arms.

***

Maggie was growing heavy against his side, paying the toll for sleepless nights, unrelenting anxiety, and more worry than any lady ought to have shouldered on her own, much less when she had loving family—and a devoted fiancé—to aid her.

Now was not the time to argue with her regarding her plan to whisk Bridget off to the Continent, though Ben had no intention of allowing such folly. A coach trotted past slowly enough that Ben caught a glimpse of a lacquered crest on the door, and Maggie struggled upright beside him.

“Are the vultures gathering?”

He let her ease from his side but kept her hand in his. “Not yet. No one with any sense of fashionable manners wants to be the first to arrive, so young Lord Venable will circle the block for a bit before he alights. If Cecily’s guests do start to gather, we have a contingency in place.”

“A plan?” She turned her head to peer at him in the dim glow of the nearby streetlight. “Even for this you had a plan?”

“You were right: no one can be allowed to see Bridget. She deserves as much chance at a decent match as any other innocent girl, so Archer sent over an evening gown sized for Adele Martin’s figure. Adele is young, has red hair, and knows how to deal with amorous men.”

“Adele…” Maggie smiled at him, a great, toothy benediction that warmed a man of shadows in all the best places, and then she finished the job: “Oh, Benjamin, I do love you.” She cuddled into him, to every appearance unaware that she’d just uttered words to send a man’s heart thundering all over inside his ribs.

She sighed mightily, and before Ben could think of a way to point out to her the enormity of her admission, the door to the town house swung open. Deene came down the steps, Bridget on his arm, Archer trailing obsequiously behind.

“Maggie, my love?”

“Hmm?”

“We’ve got her.” He kissed her soundly on the mouth and climbed out of the coach to watch as Deene—with an unhurried casualness for which Ben would make him pay—led Bridget to the coach and handed the girl up. Subdued squeals of feminine glee issued forth, while a footman emerged from the house and, one by one, blew out every lamp on the front terrace.

“You have the documents?”

Deene handed over a ribboned sheaf of papers. “A bit of a tight moment locating another adult male of sound mind, but the butler you sent over from the employment agency eventually served in addition to Blessings. That woman is probably in there still ogling all that paste.”

“And Bridget’s things?”

“When you’re out of sight, I’ll have my footmen nip around back and fetch the trunk Adele packed.”

“Have them fetch it now.” Ben started off in the direction of the town house. “As soon as you have Bridget’s things secure in the boot, take the women to Moreland.”

“And just where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“To finish a case.”

When he got to the door of Cecily’s town house, he didn’t knock. He barged in, located the woman who’d created such mayhem in Maggie’s life, and gave himself permission—just this one last time—to deal in shadows and darkness.

***

“I don’t understand.” Bridget studied her older half sister, a woman she didn’t know very well, for all she did love her. “You are engaged to the very man who’s responsible for extricating me from Cecily’s schemes, and yet you want to go to Italy?”

“I don’t want to go, exactly, but I think a change of scene would do us both good.” Maggie was finding something fascinating outside the window, for she surely did not meet Bridget’s gaze as she offered this balderdash.

“A change of scene.” Bridget glanced around at the elegant comfort of the first ducal residence she’d ever been inside. They were in some sort of small family parlor overlooking sprawling back gardens riotous with spring flowers. “I rather think this scenery quite nice.”

“We’re not staying here.” Maggie rose from her rocking chair and started pacing. “It has only been a week, but Cecily might find us out—she will find us out, eventually—and then she’ll come seeking all manner of vengeance. I don’t want you here when she does.”

“But you said Their Graces have custody of me. Cecily signed papers, and her signature was witnessed. I watched her sign them, too.”

“Papers can be stolen or lost; Cecily can claim fraud; she can bribe one of the witnesses.”

“Maggie, when did you become such a pessimist?”

This got her older sister’s attention, because Maggie turned her head and peered at Bridget. “I’m not a pessimist, dear heart, but I know what Cecily is capable of.”

“And is this why you won’t marry your earl? Because you think she’ll go after him if you do?”

Maggie, pretty, brave, competent Maggie subsided back into her chair and bowed her head. “She will. She’ll stop at nothing once she understands exactly what has happened. I know this, and I’ve tried to tell Benjamin, but he’s proud, and he’s too good-hearted himself to understand what she’s capable of. He doesn’t listen.”

“Sister?” When Maggie looked up, Bridget pointed to the large, dark, unsmiling man looming in the doorway. “I think he’s listening now.”

***

Ben’s intended looked so pretty sitting in a sunbeam by the window, the light picking out all the fiery highlights in her hair and bringing out the freckles dusting her cheeks.

“Miss Bridget, you are in error regarding one detail.” He advanced into the room and left the door open behind him. “Their Graces are not your guardians, I am. As your legal custodian, I am ordering you to scat.”

The girl blinked at him, her eyes brown instead of green, but otherwise much like Maggie’s. “Scat, my lord?”