The Harlot Countess (15 page)

So she forced herself out of his embrace, to rise and return home. Better that way. Safer. She could not allow herself to feel tenderness or affection for him, not now. Not ever.

Too late,
a voice inside her whispered. With her heart a shade too full of feelings this morning, she feared it was true.

Determined to forget, she turned back to her work, the one true solace from the melee of her life. No matter what chaotic mess tumbled down around her, there would always be the art. Her way of bringing joy and beauty into such a harsh, violent, and oftentimes cruel world.

The morning light had just begun to shift overhead when a knock interrupted.

“Yes?” She stretched her fingers to relieve the stiffness.

Tilda appeared. “Milady, that earl is back again, asking to see you.”

“Now?” Oh, dear. She had not expected him so soon. Had he come to update her on Cora? Or did he want to discuss last night? A strong sense of foreboding settled at the top of her spine. “Please show him in, Tilda. I’ll be down directly.”

The maid nodded and withdrew. Maggie spent a few minutes making herself presentable. Washed her hands. Removed her apron and hung it up. Smoothed her hair and pinched her cheeks. Then she found a pair of pristine white gloves from a table drawer and slid them on to hide the stains on her fingers. This routine calmed her, as it was something to focus on rather than the nervousness churning in her belly. She had no regrets about last night, far from it, but she did not wish to see him so soon.

In the sitting room, she found him at the window, his arms clasped behind his back. The very sight of sandy hair and those broad shoulders caused her heart to stutter. “Good morning.”

He spun and it immediately became apparent that something was terribly wrong. His bright, crystal blue gaze normally danced, either with mischief or intelligence. Today it was dull. He looked . . . lost. Angry.

She frowned and came forward. “Are you ill? You—”

“I should have known.” He stomped over to the wall and pointed at a frame. “This painting here, the landscape. I should have seen it then. I should have recognized your handiwork.”

She blinked. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, the painting?” She thought he’d come to talk about last night. Instead he wanted to discuss . . . her artwork?

He crooked a finger at her, beckoning. Dread settled in her chest, but she forced her feet to move to the wall. Her heartbeat seemed loud in her ears as she stepped closer.

“Here.” A long, elegant finger jabbed at a tiny bird wading in a tiny pool by the sea. “A plover with winter feathering.”

“Yes. That’s correct. I saw them quite often in Little Walsingham.”

“Obviously.” Simon stalked to a side table. He snatched a small painting and held it up for her. An exact match of that tiny plover.
Oh, no.
The bird paintings . . . she’d used the same pencil sketch for both . . .

The pieces fell into place. The air left her lungs in a rush while darkness filled the edges of her vision. She put a hand up to the wall, steadying herself. Heavens, was she going to faint?

“What an honor to finally meet you, Lemarc.”

Chapter Twelve

The derision in his voice was not lost on her. “How . . .” she asked, the sound surprisingly strong considering how weak she now felt. “How did you find out?”

“I hired a Runner. He followed McGinnis’s errand boy.”

“The abbey.” She closed her eyes.
Damn
. And here she thought she’d been so clever.

“Yes, the abbey. Really, Maggie, one would think you’d take more care. But then, you’ve never really tried to hide behind respectability, have you?” His jaw taut and shoulders rigid, he seemed to vibrate with raw fury. “I cannot believe you fooled me again. How you must have laughed at me all these weeks.
Winejester
. Christ!” He tossed the painting down on the table, where it landed with a smack. “I asked for your help in finding
yourself!
”

She flinched but did not shrink under the force of his anger. There was no time for hurt feelings or to acknowledge the fist-sized ball of regret lodged in her chest. No, this had to be managed. Simon was in a position, both politically and socially, to inflict damage on her—either as Lady Hawkins or Lemarc. Not that she cared about the personal side of things—she’d given up hope on that front many years ago. But she refused to see her livelihood threatened or, God forbid, eliminated.

“What will you do?” she asked him calmly.

His brow furrowed as he rocked back on his heels. “
What will I do?
Is that all you can think to say? You offer no apologies, nor even any explanations.” He made a dry, brittle sound, a bit like a hollow chuckle. “Of course. Why would you explain yourself? You never do.”

“Believe what you will. Everyone always does. No one is ever interested in the facts. But I must know what you plan—”

“I am, Maggie. I am quite interested in the facts. I should very much like to learn why you have proceeded to turn me into the village nincompoop. Was it not enough to make a fool of me ten years ago? You had to come back and do it once more for equal measure?”

A fool . . . ten years ago? Her jaw fell open. “Whatever are you talking about? Ten years ago you turned your back on me when the scandal broke. How, precisely, is that making a fool of
you
?”

“Oh, please. Cranford told me, Maggie. About him and the others.”

The words were a punch to the gut. Not a surprise, really, but hearing them said aloud hurt more than she’d ever imagined. Mostly because it was Simon, the one person who really should have known better. Not merely because of their friendship during her debut, but last night she’d given him a piece of herself, opened up to him in ways she hadn’t with another living person. And here, mere hours later, he still thought the worst of her. What would it take to win him over? How in Hades would she ever make him believe her?

The answer was evident: He would never believe her. He was like the rest of them, the grasping, malicious so-called gentlemen and ladies who liked nothing more than a good, salacious story at someone else’s expense.

A prickling started behind her eyes and Maggie clenched her fists. No tears. Not for him. Not for any of them.

She hardened her heart, putting up a wall of icy resolve while straightening her shoulders. The same protection she adopted every time a lady gave her the cut direct on the street. Each time a rogue propositioned her at one of her parties. When the invitations to the biggest Society events never arrived at her address. Her Irish stubbornness, her father would have said. And for once, she was glad of it. They would
not
win. She would have the last laugh, pointing out their ridiculousness while pocketing their coin. Her success and independence had been hard fought, and she would not give it up.

Simon continued to glare at her, his body poised for a fight with his rigid jaw and aggressive posture. He plainly wanted her angry. Not surprising, since it was what they all longed to do: insult the Half-Irish Harlot enough that she buckled under the strain and carried on like a common doxy shouting down a customer on the streets of Covent Garden. Not damned likely.

So she withheld her anger, buried it deep inside, and regarded him evenly. Part of her considered maintaining her silence. After all, she’d learned years ago of the futility of trying to change a person’s mind once set. And it wasn’t as if the facts would change anything. Only Becca knew the truth, her sister being the one person Maggie had confided in.

But she wanted to say it, needed to say the truth, if only to watch Simon’s face when it sunk in.

She lifted an eyebrow, doing her best impersonation of a haughty dowager duchess. “I do not know what you were told or what letters you speak of. Ten years ago, I never involved myself with another man.”

“I have seen your letters to Cranford with my own eyes. I’ve seen the proof.”

Lord Cranford had letters . . . from her? The idea was preposterous. She’d never written the man a word, let alone an entire letter. “I never wrote letters to a man, most certainly not Lord Cranford. I do not know what you were shown, but they were not from me. I was a virgin when I married Hawkins.”

Simon blinked, and she could see the doubt creeping into his piercing blue gaze. “I don’t understand. You were caught with Cranford, alone. Disheveled. He told everyone . . .”

“That, thanks to my half-Irish blood, I would lift my skirts for anything in breeches?” she finished.

A muscle twitched in Simon’s jaw, but he nodded.

“And everyone in London believed him, including you.” She strode to the window. Down on the street, two young girls walked arm in arm toward the park, their maids trailing a respectable distance behind. The two girls laughed, enjoying a carefree day in their sheltered existence, and Maggie felt a stab of envy. What must it feel like, to have your whole life ahead of you, untarnished by hate and judgment?

“Are you saying Cranford lied? Why the devil would he do that?”

Maggie kept her gaze on the cold, gray London morning. “I could not say. I rebuffed his advances, quite vigorously I might add, and I can only assume I injured his male pride.”

“Wait, Cranford . . . made this all up? To gain what, your ruination? It makes no sense. And what sort of advances of Cranford’s caused you to be found in the state you were?”

She turned away from the street and regarded him. He watched her intently, a frown pulling at his handsome face. “Really, Simon, I’m quite certain you can imagine.”

He stiffened, his nostrils flaring. “Goddamn it. Why, Maggie? Why did you not tell anyone?”

“No one would have believed me. Even my own mother did not. You know how it looks when that sort of situation arises. Everyone accepts the word of a gentleman.”

“I would have believed you, Maggie.
Me
. I would have listened and tried to help you. You should have come to me with the truth.”

Didn’t he see? It should have been unnecessary. That was the point. He should have believed her incapable of such terrible duplicity. Simon had been the one bright spot in her Season, when she’d been surrounded by whispers and mocking smiles. She hadn’t fit in, her dark, Irish looks far from the superior pale English girls; but next to Simon, her less-than-impeccable pedigree hadn’t mattered. One grin from him had made the rest of it endurable. She’d been a silly young thing with a crush on the most handsome man in the
ton,
and the feeling had appeared mutual. Yes, Cranford had lied; however, Simon had never even given her a chance to explain.

“I see,” he said, his voice flat. He almost sounded
hurt
. “So Cranford ruins you, you do not trust me enough to confess the truth, and prefer to marry Hawkins instead. So tell me how I am the one turned into a drunken wastrel in your cartoons? What in God’s name did I do to deserve it?”

She could not—
would
not—explain the true reasons for that. Would not tell him of her broken heart and foolish hopes for their future together, hopes so wrongfully shattered. It sounded terribly . . . dramatic.
Hell hath no fury
and all that nonsense. She preferred to store up her drama for when it could do the most good.

“Was it because of my upcoming proposal? Was this some sort of effort to discredit me publicly?”

Surprise, followed by relief, swept through her. Heavens, why hadn’t she thought of it? Yes, let him think her cartoons were political rather than personal. She latched on to the explanation. “I do not care for your proposal. It will hurt the very women you are trying to protect.”

“That is no reason to turn me into London’s biggest folly, Maggie.”

“Perhaps, but you should thank me. The popularity of the cartoons ensures everyone will remember the name Winchester for years to come.”

His eyes rounded. “Yes, but for all the wrong reasons. You’ve taken a venerable family name and turned it into a something synonymous with drunken irresponsibility. How, precisely, is that a situation that elicits my gratitude?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps in time you shall feel differently.”

“Doubtful. And I cannot help but notice you are surprisingly calm in all this. I should think you would be more concerned, considering I now know your secret. What will the world say, I wonder, when they learn the identity of Lemarc?”

When
, he said, not
if
. Her stomach knotted painfully, but she refused to show it. “Is that what you plan to do? Unmask Lemarc? I doubt anyone would care, and it won’t exactly help your standing in Parliament to be linked with such a scandalous artist.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, the fine wool of his frock coat pulling over wide shoulders and finely honed biceps. She could remember tracing the muscles last evening, committing his well-proportioned torso to memory so that she might sketch it later. The now-bittersweet memory made her chest ache.

He said, “I believe they’ll be too occupied discussing how Lemarc is truly a woman—and a lady at that! Are you prepared for what that will do to your reputation? Your future?”

“Do not tell me you are concerned with my reputation,” she scoffed.

His lips compressed into a thin line, and he shifted toward the wall, giving her his profile. He did not speak for a long moment. Finally, he said quietly, “I have always been concerned with your reputation. And if I had known—or even suspected—what Cranford had done, I would have stepped in. Prevented you from marrying Hawkins. Challenged Cranford. I would have—”

He broke off, so she finished, “Rescued me?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “It’s too late, Simon. We cannot change what happened. It’s done. And I gained something quite powerful at the end. It took years, but I’ve achieved my freedom. I won’t give it up. Not for you, not for anyone.”

“Yes, you’ve made it clear how you feel about my involvement, both then and now.”

The steady tick of the mantel clock echoed in the ensuing silence. Simon’s gaze remained fixed on the wall, away from her. Maggie had no idea what to say. Part of her wanted to confess how much she’d needed him all those years ago, but what good would that do either of them now? He was angry with her for a number of reasons, and perhaps that was for the best.

“What will you do, now that you know about Lemarc?” she asked him.

“Is that your only concern, that I will reveal your secret?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Once I decide, I’ll be certain to let you know.” With his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might crack, he quit the room.

 

 

The Black Queen was shabby, much shabbier than the last three locations they’d visited tonight. Simon stopped inside the main room of the gaming hell and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Smoke hung heavily in the air, making it both difficult to breathe and harder to see. But perhaps that was a blessing, considering the type of patrons who frequented these places.

Men were scattered at the tables, desperation clinging to them like cloying perfume, while the working girls strolled about waiting for a fare. This was not the sort of semi-respectable establishment that catered to wealthy aristocrats; no, in this place, one risked getting a knife under the ribs over the wrong turn of the dice. And it was precisely the sort of hovel in which Simon expected to find Cranford. Of course, he’d said that about each of the dozen places they had searched over the last two nights.

Colton had been on Cranford’s trail since the night they’d rescued Cora from Madame Hartley’s, as the abbess strongly suspected Cranford of the violence. The Duke of Colton was not known for his subtlety, however, and Cranford had likely learned of the search before it had even begun. The viscount had all but disappeared. Knowing Cranford’s penchant for gambling, however, Simon believed the seedier hells were a good place to start looking.

“Well, where should we begin?” Colton asked, coming up alongside.

“Why don’t I find the owner this time? You can search the crowd.”

“You certain? Fitz says this one’s run by O’Shea and it’s his favorite haunt.”

“Yes. I’ll return in a few moments.”

Before he could walk away, a hand caught his shoulder. “Winchester,” Colton said. “You’ve been at it for, what, nearly thirty hours without sleep? I know you want to find him but—”

Simon stiffened. He did not merely
want
to find Cranford; he
needed
to find Cranford. Needed to find him in order to break his jaw. Or his nose. Possibly both. No measure of retribution was too harsh. Cranford had ruined Maggie’s life. Hell, he’d ruined Simon’s as well. Without those letters, Simon would have offered for Maggie. He would have—

“Very well.” Colton raised his hands up in surrender. “I can tell you won’t be talked out of it. I was merely going to suggest getting some rest in the very near future. You’re starting to scare even me.”

Simon didn’t want to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the hurt on Maggie’s face, a sorrow no one could possibly fake.
No one would have believed me. Everyone always accepts the word of a gentleman.
And after Cranford attacked her, the bastard. How frightened she must have been, how heartsick to know she’d done nothing to deserve her downfall. Fury flared in Simon’s belly once more, the anger that had kept him going since walking out of Maggie’s house two days ago. “I can sleep after I put a bullet through Cranford’s heart.”