The Harlot Countess (5 page)

“Excellent. I’ll send a bank draft later today.”

“That is most kind of your ladyship.”

“I am happy to do it, as you well know. What else?”

Pearl toyed with her fan. “I have heard rumors that your ladyship is acquainted with the Earl of Winchester. Are they true?”

Maggie blinked. “Yes, I am. That is, our mothers were friends and the two of us were close during my debut. Why?”

“But you’ve seen him? Recently, I mean.”

Yes, unfortunately Maggie had.
The answers I require are best discussed in private.
His words from the previous evening still rankled. Did Simon truly plan to proposition her? She hadn’t decided whether to admit him to the house if he presented himself today. He deserved to be left waiting on the stoop.

Pearl was staring so Maggie answered, “Indeed, only last evening. Why?”

“Has your ladyship been informed about the proposal he plans to present?”

Maggie shook her head. She never paid attention to political matters. Pearl, however, was better informed than most when it came to Society gossip and politics. She’d once told Maggie that information proved almost as powerful a currency as money.

“The proposal has to do with rape. Forgive me for speaking plainly about an indelicate matter, but—”

“No, please do so. There’s no need to dance around it with me. Pray go on.”

“As you know, the facts can be hard to prove to a magistrate. Many times the woman may cry rape, but the man claims the act to be consensual. Lord Winchester’s law would, in such cases, force the man to provide compensation to the woman. An annual sum. Into perpetuity.”

Maggie’s jaw lowered. “A yearly stipend? No woman would want to be tied in such a manner to a man who’d violated her. A yearly reminder of what’s been done, and her attacker knowing where she lives . . . it’s terrible.”

“Precisely, my lady.”

“Why on earth would anyone even assume it to be a good idea?”

“I could not say. But perhaps your ladyship can set his lordship straight?”

The last thing she wanted to do was engage Simon in a political discussion. Perhaps there was another way, however. Many members of Parliament attended her parties, providing any number of opportunities to undermine Winchester’s efforts. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I shall leave it in your ladyship’s capable hands, then. I’ll certainly use whatever influence I have with my meager connections.”

Maggie suspected Pearl’s influence remained considerable, though she currently had no protector. “Excellent. I will do the same.”

“Now, I have one last request. One of our houses, over in Long Acre, has thrived with the embroidery instruction, so much so that a few girls would care to apprentice with a dressmaker. Perhaps your ladyship knows of a modiste who would appreciate a somewhat sullied pair of helping hands.”

“How many girls?”

“Three.”

Maggie bit her bottom lip, thinking. Possibly she could browbeat her own modiste into taking one girl, but she did not spend much on clothing or fripperies. And her social rank, while titled, was not as powerful as that of a lady without a scandalous past. That left her with little leverage. “I fear my position is not powerful enough for such a feat. It would take a lady with tremendous cachet to convince a modiste to take on these girls.”

“I know a lady who qualifies,” Pearl said. “And she happens to be in my debt. I once did her a favor and she was exceedingly grateful.”

“Wonderful. Let’s ask her.”

Pearl shook her head. “I cannot. For many reasons, I must not approach her directly. But your ladyship can....”

Simon presented his card at the door, unsure of his reception. Would Maggie refuse to see him? She’d been politely cool the previous evening after changing her costume, and there was every possibility she had a guest in the house.

His hand tightened on the crown of his walking stick.

One glance at his card and the servant ushered him inside. He noted she was the same woman who had admitted them the previous evening. Had Maggie no butler, then? He quickly handed over his things and followed to a comfortable sitting room in order to wait.

Aside from her lavish parties, it seemed Lady Hawkins lived responsibly, even frugally. The furnishings exhibited some wear. The rugs were serviceable plain wool rather than fashionable Aubusson carpets. True, an ample amount of coal sat in the grate, giving off a nice amount of heat, but it was a comfortable space without pretension or artifice. It suited her, he thought. Certainly a refreshing change from the extravagance of the other women he’d consorted with over the last few years—though, to be fair, mistresses were not exactly known for pinching a penny.

After a few moments, a small landscape portrait on the far wall caught his eye.

He closed in for a better inspection. A watercolor seaside scene. Quite smartly done, in fact. Waves pounded the beach and a selection of birds littered the sand, perfectly capturing the vibrancy and serenity of the location, as well as the chaos of the ocean. The artist had skill. Odd there was no signature in the corner. It had the look of a Gainsborough or Sandby, to his eye.

Art normally bored him to tears, but this . . . this
calmed
him. He could stare at it and not grow to hate it day after day. There was something about it, though, something familiar about the image. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Not the location, exactly—

The door opened, startling him.

“Good afternoon.”

And there stood Lady Hawkins, every bit as vibrant and lovely as the painting he’d just been studying. The combination of black hair, luminous green eyes, and porcelain skin made his breath catch—just as it had all those years ago. Only she wasn’t a girl any longer, but a woman with fuller curves. He wished he could have witnessed her transition, he realized.

She dropped a quick curtsy. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

He bowed. “I have not been waiting long. I’ve been admiring this picture here.” He gestured to the watercolor. “I was attempting to discern the artist, but it’s unsigned. Do you know who painted it?”

She smoothed the folds of her dark blue gown and drew near, her eyes on the painting. “Do you like it?”

The hesitation and attention to her clothing gave him the impression the question unnerved her. His first thought was that someone close to her had painted it. A lover, perhaps? “I do, very much. I’m not an expert when it comes to art, but this is well done.”

Satisfaction curved her generous lips. “Excellent.”

Definitely a lover.
A dark, irrational jealousy churned in his stomach. Would he forever be reminded at every turn just how many men had graced her bed? “Shall we sit?” he bit out.

“I painted it.”

“You?” He couldn’t hide his surprise, and a strange look passed over her face before she could hide it.

“Shocking that a woman possesses talent, I know.”

“I meant no such ridiculousness. You’re quite gifted.”

“You are too kind,” she murmured, though there was a tone in her voice that sounded . . . offended?

“Would you care to sit?” he heard himself ask again.

She cocked her head, studied him with an enigmatic expression. “I’d rather stand. I suppose it’s only polite to offer you refreshment. Shall I ring for tea?”

He refused as Maggie drifted away toward the armchair by the fire. Instead of sitting in it, she ran her fingers over the high back, stroking the fabric and regarding him thoughtfully. “Have you come to see if I live up to my name?”

“What?” he blurted. She couldn’t mean—

“We’re both aware of what everyone calls me, Simon. I’ve heard the word nearly every place I have turned for ten years. One would not think the residents of Little Walsingham to be so current on gossip, but”—she shrugged—“there it is. So have you decided to find out if I have earned the title?”

A vivid image flashed through his mind—one of Maggie on her back, skirts hiked up to her waist, legs spread invitingly—and lust swept through his groin. He had to force the arousing picture from his mind. “You believe I’ve come to try and fuck you.” He was deliberately crude.

She didn’t flinch. “Yes, I do. Why else would you visit? Or perhaps you wanted to see if I decorated my house with nude frescos. Or if I keep young men tethered in my chambers to have my wicked way with them whenever I want. You would not be the first to ask if the rumors were true.”

Astonishment rocked him back on his heels. Hard to say which he found more distasteful: that she’d said it, or that she thought so little of him in the first place. “And yet you seem determined to feed those rumors. With extravagant parties and dancing in pools, is it any wonder they talk about you?”

“If I give them something to talk about, at least they cannot fabricate stories out of sheer boredom. But really, this is all beside the point. Perhaps you should arrive at the purpose for your visit.”

Hostility and bitterness did not suit her. If anyone had cause for those emotions, it was Simon. “What has happened to you? What has given you cause for such venom?”

“
Life
happened to me, Simon. Everything you likely hoped for and worse.”

“Me? Hoped for?” He blinked. “I never wished you harm.”

“Did you not?” she asked, calmly.

“Maggie, you are not making sense. It’s as if you are blaming me for the affair with Cranford. And the others.”

“
Others?
” She gave a dry chuckle. “Of course. The others. How could I possibly forget them? Men, women, livestock . . . with so many, it has been difficult to keep them all straight.”

Simon clenched his jaw. She’d damn near broken his heart and that was cause for jests? “Do you think to make light of it?”

“The truth is rarely as humorous as fiction,” she answered, standing taller.

This conversation had gotten away from him. He rubbed at the tension settling at the nape of his neck.

“I think it best if you go.” She lifted the hem of her skirt and moved toward the bell pull behind him.

Surprising even himself, Simon’s hand darted out to catch her wrist. “Wait.” He glanced down at her small, gloved hand. For an insane moment, he wanted to feel the softness of her bare skin, to have her delicate fingers touch and stroke him in return. Once, she’d removed her gloves to trace the edges of a painting at an exhibit all those years ago and it had nearly driven his twenty-three-year-old body mad with desire.

Now why had that insignificant memory resurfaced ?

He dropped her arm. “Wait. I need your help.”

She took a step back and one black eyebrow shot up. “I am fairly certain you have a mistress for that.”

Annoyance rippled through him. Why did she assume everything had to do with fornication? “As it happens,” he ground out, “this is an entirely innocent request.”

She put more distance between them but did not reach for the bell pull. He folded his arms across his chest to keep from touching her again and got to his purpose. “Do you recall the cartoon in the print shop window, the Winejester fellow?”

“Yes,” she said after a beat.

“They were all drawn by the same artist, this Lemarc. I would like you to assist me in finding him.”

Chapter Five

A very good thing they were not sharing tea because Maggie surely would have choked. As it was, she could hardly breathe. Did he say . . . find Lemarc?

Good heavens.

He awaited her response, those cerulean eyes trained on her, when all she wanted to do was laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .

Through sheer perseverance, she hid her shock behind a mask of cool indifference. “You wish to find Lemarc? Whatever for?”

Simon shifted on his feet. “I find these Winejester drawings to be bothersome. For a number of reasons, I should like to see them stop.”

“And you believe you can convince Lemarc to stop producing them?”

“Yes.”

The arrogance in that one word astounded her. Did Simon think Lemarc would bow to an earl’s whims merely because of his station? It was well known that artists were temperamental creatures, herself included. The idea that he could dictate to Lemarc what she could and could not draw was ludicrous. And irritating.

“Why should he cease to draw such a popular character? Winejester is one of the reasons Lemarc has been discussed so often over the last year.”

“I plan to convince him.”

She swallowed a snort. God save her from male vanity. “I do not doubt it, but no one knows the identity of Lemarc. It’s a well-guarded secret. What makes you believe I would be able to help find him?”

He lifted a broad shoulder. “A suspicion, really. Your knowledge of art and techniques may lead to a discovery. I have a number of Lemarc’s paintings at my disposal. Perhaps you could look at them and see if something strikes a chord. A tidbit you’ve heard at a lecture or seen at an exhibit. It’s likely a waste of your time, but I would be grateful for your assistance.”

Waste of time, indeed. No one could unearth Lemarc by merely looking at some bird paintings, especially not that particular series. They had been painted four or five years ago near the shore and contained only birds and water—no people or buildings. If there were distinguishing marks in her paintings, she would’ve been found out long before now.

And truly, helping him was the very last thing she wanted to do. It was bad enough he had attended her party and cornered her there. “I am afraid I cannot.”

“May I ask why?”

She hadn’t expected him to press. What excuse could she give? Because she knew the effort to be a futile one? Because he deserved whatever inconvenience Lemarc’s cartoons produced a thousandfold? Or because, after all he’d done, he still made her heart race?

Into her silence, he said, “One afternoon, that is all I ask. If you do not see anything relevant, we’ll forget it entirely.”

“If I cannot discover anything, you shall give up searching for Lemarc?”

Simon shook his head. “Absolutely not. I plan to find him by any means at my disposal.”

That set her back. He did seem rather . . . determined. Hmm. Such tenacity did not bode well. Though she believed her secret safe, there was a kernel of panic inside her that he might succeed. Simon had a reputation for doggedly wearing down his opponents until he got his way, of using whatever means necessary to win. The notion of her career as Lemarc being exposed . . . ruined . . .

A sliver of dread slid down her spine.

Of course, staying involved in Simon’s quest meant she could throw him off the scent with misleading information. Keep him guessing. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. “Fine,” she agreed. “I would be pleased to aid in your search. To be fair, there are many more qualified than I to lend assistance. Perhaps you should think about asking another—”

“That is quite unnecessary,” he interrupted smoothly, smiling in triumph. “I think you are more than capable of the task.”

In a strange way, his faith in her was flattering. Little did he know she planned to undermine his efforts, ensuring his failure. In finding her. She had to bite her lip to keep a hysterical bubble of laughter from spilling out. “Very kind of you, my lord. When shall we begin our investigation?”

“As soon as possible, I think. I’ll send a note, if that is acceptable.”

“Yes.” Maggie tried not to think about how impossibly handsome he was. Of course, the light blue jacket and breeches did offset his fair coloring, making the blue of his eyes even brighter. His shoulders—

Curse her feminine biology. Being a woman was decidedly unfair.

Instead, she concentrated on the smug, satisfied smile he now wore. Yes, he’d gotten precisely what he wanted today. Oh, how she longed to wipe that expression off his face. “Does anyone ever say no to the Earl of Winchester?”

“Rarely. I can be very persuasive.”

“So I have heard. You have a reputation in Lords for getting your way. I suspect you could talk a nun into giving up the cloth and throwing in with a band of gypsies if you wanted.”

The edge of his mouth kicked up. “That charming, am I?”

She could’ve bitten her tongue. “More like full of useless wind.”

His head fell back and he let out a deep, rich laugh. She loved his laugh. It was the kind of sound a woman felt deep in her belly, warming her from the inside out. She now knew what those stirrings represented, the kindling of desire. Her husband had never elicited passion from Maggie; their few couplings had been quick and perfunctory. Then Charles had taken ill and any obligations in the marriage bed had been rendered impossible. A relief to both parties concerned, to be sure.

But when Maggie went to study in Paris, there had been another man. She’d been attracted to the handsome and worldly Jean-Louis and, God save her vain soul, the attention had been quite nice. Her friend Lucien had encouraged her to take on a lover, one closer to her own age, and she’d liked Jean-Louis, so where was the harm? It had been an unholy disaster, however. The heavy breathing, the sweating, the embarrassment . . . it had all served to convince her of one terribly ironic thing:

The Half-Irish Harlot was frigid.

She’d come to accept it as fact, especially since every sort of lewd invitation had been issued during her parties and she’d felt absolutely nothing. No twitches or flutters, no racing of her pulse, or anything else the poets waxed on about.

She knew she should feel
something.
In fact, it had been Simon who’d provided a hint of what a woman could feel for a man all those years ago. Through the rose-colored spectacles of youth, she’d noticed things about him: the unique color of his eyes, his quick smile, the fall of hair over his forehead. It had all made her quite breathless.

She was no longer a girl, however, and with a woman’s perspective she could well picture what was under his fine clothing. Broad shoulders atop a sculpted chest, slim hips, and long, muscular legs, a shaft jutting out proud and hard—

Heat suffused her entire body, blood thrummed in her veins, and moisture pooled between her thighs. Swallowing, she closed her eyes. Heavens, she wanted him. Lusted after him, even.

Absolutely intolerable. She would not allow it.
Could not
allow it.

The room had grown unnaturally still. She found him studying her, his gaze locked on her hands. Maggie looked down. Her fingers were clutching the top of the wingback chair in a white-knuckled grip. She would not be surprised to find indentations from her nails in the fabric. She forced her hands to relax.

He lifted one supercilious brow, a knowing smirk on his lips, and mortification burned in her chest. He was aware of, or suspected, the direction of her thoughts, the blackguard.

Straightening, she asked, “Is that all?”

“You appear”—he gestured to his face and neck—“flushed. Is it overly warm in here? I should hate to think you’re coming down with a fever of some kind.”

Unbelievable, his impertinence. “A
gentleman
would not comment on the color of a lady’s skin.”

“Shall I open a window, Maggie? Fetch a cool cloth? I shouldn’t want you to—”

“All I need,” she bit out, “is for you to
leave
.”

He smiled, bowed. “As you wish, my lady.”

 

 

So the attraction was reciprocated. Interesting.

Simon knew the signs of a woman’s desire—high color, heavy lids, rapid breathing, tight, beaded nipples poking through cloth—and Maggie had exhibited those and more. His own body’s reaction to her lust had almost knocked him to his knees. Christ, he’d wanted to take her right then on the small sofa. Rutted like an animal in heat until he lost himself in her.

But he had been duped before. What a clever actress she’d been ten years ago, with her coy smiles and lingering glances. He hadn’t questioned her feelings until he’d seen the irrefutable proof of her perfidy. So he would not allow her to humiliate him once more—or have her questionable standing damage his reputation in Parliament. Hard to argue for preserving morals for future generations when linked to the most scandalous woman in Society.
As an earl,
his father had said,
people will depend on you to do the honorable thing.
Without a doubt, the honorable thing would be to keep his distance from Lady Hawkins.

Therefore, as he returned to his study at Barrett House, he put the idea of tumbling Maggie firmly out of his mind. There were other matters to attend to today.

First there were meetings with members of Liverpool’s circle to outline Simon’s upcoming proposal, a law that would force men convicted of rape to pay financial restitution to their victims. Then he sat with his secretary to deal with correspondence before his solicitor arrived to review a contract for a parcel of land in Scotland. By the time late afternoon crept over the city, he was starving.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Timmons, arrived with the footman bearing provisions. “My lord,” she said, “a Mr. Hollister is here to see you. But before you begin your meeting, may I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course, Mrs. Timmons. Thank you, Michael,” he told the footman, dismissing him.

“My lord, a girl presented herself at the back door last night, a cousin to one of our lower housemaids. I’ve taken her on, which means I must place one of our older girls in another residence. I sent a note to the viscount’s housekeeper, but I believe she’s new and not yet acquainted with our staffing arrangement.”

Simon sighed. “I’ll speak to Quint. His housekeepers do not last, as you well know.”

“Thank you, my lord. That would be most helpful. The duchess’s housekeeper, however, was only too glad to take Annie. I’ve got the girl packing her things now. Shall I give her the usual reference and severance ?”

“Yes, please, Mrs. Timmons. And thank you for your diligence.”

“It is my pleasure, my lord. It’s a sorry thing, to see a twelve-year-old girl with bruises all over her face and body.”

“The girl from last night?” Mrs. Timmons nodded, so Simon said, “Tell the staff to give her some time to heal before putting her to work, then.”

“I will, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Timmons. Show Hollister back, if you please.”

She returned a few minutes later, a beefy, unremarkable man behind her. The man entered and gave a polite bow. “My lord. It is an honor.”

Simon’s approach to finding Lemarc had many facets. Quint would study the bird paintings to narrow down a possible location, and Maggie could examine the works for any clues in the artist’s technique. But the most likely method to elicit results would come through an investigator.

Hollister came highly recommended. He’d toiled for Bow Street for years, more recently taking on discreet work for members of Society. On looks alone, he seemed well suited for it; one could imagine the man blending in anywhere.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Hollister. If you’ll have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs opposite the desk.

Hollister, limping ever so slightly, came forward and lowered into a chair.

“I’ll get to the point,” Simon started. “I need you to find someone. Have you heard of the artist Lemarc?”

 

 

Maggie arrived fashionably late.

The stone monstrosity that passed for the Duke of Colton’s residence loomed like a setting in a gloomy Gothic novel. The lamps and torches blazed in the darkness to illuminate the pointed arches and flying buttresses. Good heavens, were those gargoyles? She often sketched buildings and churches, and her fingers itched for her charcoals as she waited on the stoop.

Hard to believe she’d been invited tonight. It’d been quite some time since she’d been asked to a dinner party of this caliber. Of course, she had reached out to the Duchess of Colton first, to request an audience, when the duchess replied with a dinner invitation.

One could only hope for an intimate gathering or, at the very least, that the guests had been warned of her attendance. Perhaps then the whispering and snickering would be kept to a minimum.

The door swung open and she was shown in. At first glance, the inside of the structure was nothing like the outside. Warm and comfortable, the home had fresh flowers and plenty of bright candlelight. As Maggie climbed the stairs, she noted a Greuze painting on the wall. Impressive. The duke and his duchess had excellent taste.

When she stepped into the salon, the first person her eyes found was Simon. He stood across the room, tall, lithe, and handsome. The shock of his appearance felt similar to a kick to the stomach, and she appreciated it about as much.

Blast it all
. She should have expected him to be in attendance, considering his relationship to the duke. If she’d known, however, she certainly would have refused the invitation. The memory of their last exchange still haunted her. Why did he, of all men, elicit such wanton, lustful feelings from her?

A blond beauty in a pale pink gown rushed forward to clasp her hands, diverting her attention. “Lady Hawkins,” the duchess exclaimed. “I am indeed grateful you decided to attend our motley gathering.”