The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe (19)

Chapter Nineteen

London
A week later

 

“I came as soon as I could,” the Duke of Colton said as he strode into the drawing room.

Simon rose and went to the sideboard. “I am grateful, Colt. Sit down and I’ll pour you a brandy.” The London weather had turned frigid in these first few days of February. Though Simon had returned not even an hour ago, the wet cold had already seeped into his bones. He refilled his own glass, then splashed a healthy amount of brandy in a snifter for Colton.

As he sat, Mrs. Timmons knocked on the door. “My lords, Your Grace. I have a fresh pot of tea.” Simon waved her in and the housekeeper set the tray down. A maid followed behind with a tray of sweets. “Would you care for Sally to pour the tea?” Mrs. Timmons asked.

“No, I think we gents can manage. Thank you.”

The women both bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, closing the door.

“Why’d you say no? I like your maids.” Quint selected a piece of cake, popped it in his mouth. “They’re prettier than mine.”

“You’d get prettier servants if you acted more like a viscount instead of a demented Bedlamite,” Colton noted. “Now, Winchester, what’s the hurry? When did you return from Paris?”

“Nearly an hour ago. Before we get onto other problems, tell me. How goes the search for Cranford?”

Colton shook his head. “Still cannot find him, I’m afraid. Fitz and I have turned the city on its head in our search.”

“Damnation,” Simon said and slapped the armrest.

“My thoughts exactly,” Colton said. “We saw what he did to the girl at Hartley’s. Another girl was beaten, raped, and killed in St. Giles not long after. Man fit Cranford’s vague description and one of her friends noticed a signet ring.”

“Not to mention what he did to Maggie,” Simon added. “Where in Hades is he hiding?”

“Couldn’t say. But O’Shea’s men are keeping an eye out with the promise of a reward. He’ll turn up eventually.”

“Unless he’s boarded a steamer for America,” Quint finished, unhelpfully in Simon’s opinion.

“Even a visit to that godforsaken country will not stop me from exacting retribution,” Simon told them. “No matter where I must go, Cranford will pay for every second of suffering Maggie endured.”

“Provided she isn’t arrested for sedition first, I presume,” Quint said.

“Sedition?” Colton’s eyes widened. “What’s this?”

Simon caught Colton up on the developments, from Maggie as Lemarc to the blackmail letters received in Paris.

The duke slumped back. “Staggering. The whole business. So let me see if I understand. You court Lady Hawkins during her debut until the scandal breaks, upon which time Cranford shows you a bunch of letters from her professing her undying love for another man. So she marries Hawkins instead of you, and when Hawkins dies she returns to London as Lemarc, sets McGinnis up with a shop, and Winejester is born.”

Simon swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “Yes.”

“Deuced clever, that woman. You have to admire her.”

“Indeed,” Quint agreed. “She’s built a reputable name for herself. Lemarc is respected amongst artists. There was even talk of inviting him—er, her—to exhibit at Somerset House.”

“I don’t mean just the work,” Colton clarified. “Though it is impressive. I mean her plan to make Winchester suffer. Not all ladies would turn a former paramour into a popular caricature. Think she’d sell me one of the cartoons now?”

“I’ll allow that,” Simon returned, “when Julia permits me to inform you of how she spent her time in London all those years you were away.”

The duke’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “What do you mean by that? Spent her time, how?”

Simon didn’t answer, merely smirked. When it looked as if Colton might work himself into a righteous fury, Quint put a hand up. “Children,” he said, “I believe we should return to the issue at hand. I’ve been thinking on the blackmailer since Paris. From the sound of the letters, I think it safe to assume he’s someone close to you, Winchester.”

“Me? Why me?”

“He’s too smug. Rubbing your nose in it. This is personal for him. Or her. He’s laughing at you, trying to bleed money out of both of you. But he asked you for more money. Makes me think it’s someone out to hurt you, specifically, and hurting Lady Hawkins is a secondary motive.”

Simon let that sink in while he reached for a small cake. Who would hate him so much? A political opponent, possibly.

“Do you plan to turn the blackmailer over to the Crown?” Colton asked.

“It’s the only way. I won’t give them Maggie. Or Mrs. McGinnis.”

Quint reached for more tea. “I assume you’ll arrange to pay and then watch to see who comes to retrieve the money.”

“Yes, I daresay that is what Hollister will recommend,” Simon said, referring to the investigator. “Whatever the plan, it should happen quickly. Once word travels that Maggie and I have returned, I suspect the blackmailer will contact us.”

“I am surprised Lady Hawkins did not join us today, as this is a concern to her as well,” Colton noted.

Simon did not immediately reply, so Quint said, “She left him in Paris. Snuck out in the middle of the night.”

Colton chuckled. “Oh, extraordinary. I adore this woman. Verily, Winchester, you deserve everything she gives you.”

A knock on the door offered Simon a blessed reprieve. “Enter,” he called. His butler appeared. “A Mr. Hollister to see you, my lord.”

“Excellent. Show him into the study, Stillman.” He stood. “Come along, both of you, and do try to be helpful.”

 

 

Four days later Mrs. McGinnis received succinct instructions:

The location worked to their advantage. Hyde Park allowed for a multitude of hiding places from which they could keep vigil over the parcel. It seemed doubtful the blackmailer would retrieve it himself, as it was too great a risk, but someone would surely come to collect such a large sum of money. All they needed to do was wait and then follow.

Simon refused to allow Maggie’s involvement. She was kept abreast of the developments, of course, but Simon did not want her anywhere near the blackmailers. He could well imagine how angry this made her, especially when he had Hollister post a man to guard her house, but he couldn’t risk her name attached to this operation in any manner. She needed to be far, far removed.

He hadn’t seen her since Paris. He missed her. Terribly. Missed her stubbornness and her laugh. Her feisty temper and her wicked wit. And at night he ached for her soft, strong hands teasing him to madness. Nevertheless, he needed to stop this threat against her first. Once the forger and blackmailer were in the hands of the Crown, Simon could go to her and discuss their future, a future that very much included Maggie as the Countess of Winchester.

On the day of the delivery, Hollister stationed over twenty men in the park. Whoever came to collect the parcel would not get away, though that fact did little to lesson Simon’s anxiety. The person responsible for this scheme stood between Simon and everything he’d ever wanted, and his entire future hinged on removing that obstacle.

As they expected, not even a minute after Simon placed the book on the bench, a young boy came to collect it. Simon and the other men followed him closely, staying far enough behind as to not draw his attention. They ended at Jermyn Street, where the boy knocked on a door, handed over the parcel, and collected a few coins before sprinting off. The partition closed quickly, the entire transaction happening in the blink of an eye.

“That’s our man,” Hollister murmured to Simon. They were positioned across the street. “He took the parcel.”

“Let’s go in, then.” Simon eyed the door, then asked, “You have your lock-picking tools?”

“Indeed, I do. We’ll sneak in and catch your blackmailer unaware. I’ll put some men on the sides and back of the building in case he tries to run.”

Hollister picked the locks with the efficiency of a seasoned dubber, then turned the handle carefully to noiselessly open the door. He gestured for Simon to lead the way.

Pistol in hand, Simon crept up the stairs, Hollister directly behind. The treads squeaked and groaned under their weight and they had to go slowly. When Simon reached the top, he checked the latch and found it unlocked. He threw open the door and rushed in, the investigator on his heels.

The large apartment was devoid of furniture, save a table and a few chairs scattered here and there. He saw well-used art supplies—canvases, easels, frames, paint, and brushes—which explained the heavy smell of turpentine in the air. A small, unfamiliar man sat at a table, paper and pencils in front of him. Wide-eyed, he carefully raised his hands in surrender.

Movement in the back caught Simon’s eye. A head topped with thinning brown hair disappeared out the side window.

Simon rushed forward, determined to catch whoever was attempting an escape. Drawing nearer to the edge, he could see a rope attached to a hook in the sill. He leaned out the window in time to see a familiar face letting go of the rope and dropping into the alley below.

Sir James. His bloody brother-in-law. A furious growl rumbled in Simon’s throat. “Stop him!” Simon shouted to Hollister’s man at the entrance of the alley as Sir James ran toward the street.

The man raced into the alley, toward Sir James, and Simon spun away from the window and sprinted for the stairs. “Wait here,” he told Hollister, who stood with his pistol trained on the unknown man at the table.

Simon thumped down the steps and wrenched open the front door. Christ, now it all made sense. The money. The notes. That it had been a personal attack.

The damned idiot.

Once on the street, Simon found that Hollister’s man had Sir James pinned in the back of the alley. James struggled to escape the larger man’s grip, but Hollister’s man held fast, leaning his larger body into James’s girth to keep him still.

When James saw Simon approach, he stiffened. Fear flashed over his fleshy features before he thrust his chin up defiantly. “Here now, Winchester, what’s—”

“Do not say one word, you miserable excuse for a man.” Anger burned in Simon’s throat. He’d never wanted to punch anyone so desperately in all his life. James had been a pustule on Simon’s backside ever since the day he’d married Sybil. A blackmailer. Everlasting hell.

“Want me to send for the authorities, my lord?” Hollister’s man stepped aside and produced a pistol from his coat. He pointed the weapon at Sir James.

Simon scrubbed a hand across his jaw, hating the position he’d been put in. It would be so much easier to turn everything over to the Crown. “No. Not yet, at least.”

“You cannot have me . . . arrested!” Sir James sputtered indignantly. “Think of the scandal. Your mother and sister. Why, it would—”

“Enough! I can do whatever I damn well please, James, including having you sent to the hulks, if I bloody well choose.”

He needed to speak with James alone. As much as he wished otherwise, this was family business and no one should overhear it. He turned to Hollister’s man. “Watch the entrance to the alley.” The man nodded, took a few steps toward the street, and turned his back.

Simon narrowed his eyes on James. “Give me one good reason not to strangle you here and now.”

James pushed away from the brick wall, straightened his clothing. “Sybil would never forgive you. And not even peers are able get away with murder.”

“They can if they’re smart about it. I daresay I’d be lauded as a hero in this case.” Simon crossed his arms to keep from throttling James. “I cannot believe you thought this scheme would work. I should just put a ball in your bloody duplicitous heart.”

“So do it!” the other man shot back, throwing up his hands. “I have nothing left to live for. We’re completely done for. You’ve taken all our money, and I’m forced to depend on the kindness of relatives like a . . . a damned spinster aunt. You—”

“So the answer is to blackmail me? Hell, James, what else could I do? You spend every farthing you get your hands on. You’re determined to drag my sister down with you, and I will not have it. You’ll not bankrupt the estate. Not as long as I am the head of the family.”

“As if we all need a reminder you are the mighty and powerful Earl of Winchester,” James sneered.

Simon’s jaw clenched tightly. Shouldn’t his brother-in-law be begging for forgiveness right now? He took a calming breath. “Who put you up to this? I know this was not your idea.”

“How do you know that? I am more clever than you give me credit for!”

“I give you precisely the credit you deserve, you notorious nincompoop. Now tell me who you have been working with.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

Simon stalked forward, wrapped a fist around James’s cravat, and shoved him against the rough brick. “Because if you do not, I will cut off your bollocks and feed them to the pigs. Start explaining, James.”

James pressed his lips together, spite glittering in his eyes.

“Fine,” Simon said, calmly. He released his hold—only to plow a fist in James’s belly. The man doubled over, wheezing. Simon straightened his cuffs and waited for him to recover.

“Piss. Off,” James rasped.

Simon wrapped his fingers around James’s throat, yanking the man upright and slamming him into the brick. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

James said nothing, his gaze openly hostile, so Simon leaned in to snarl, “I shall squeeze your throat until you tell me what I want to know. If you do not tell me, I’ll cut off your supply of air.”

“You would not dare,” James returned, though his gaze darted over Simon’s shoulder nervously, as if looking for assistance.

“Wouldn’t I?” Simon tightened his fist across James’s windpipe and James yelped. “It’s the perfect place to kill you. They shall find your body in this alley and assume you were set upon by a thief or ruffian. No one will ever suspect me.” James began to struggle, but Simon was considerably larger and stronger. His brother-in-law turned a nice shade of red.

“Let me go, you madman!”

“No chance,” Simon bit out. “Not until you tell me who.” To illustrate his point, he pressed even harder.

James’s eyes bulged. “All right! Let me go and I’ll tell you,” he whispered.

“Now, you maggot. Or I’ll strangle you where you stand.”

“Cranford!” James shouted as best he could. “It was Cranford. Now let me go!”

Simon froze, unable to breathe. Cranford? Blackmailing Simon and Maggie? God above, why? He relaxed his grip on James, and James slumped against the wall to suck in air.

“Cranford?” Simon repeated and sorted what he knew of both men. “You and Cranford cooked up this scheme? How in hell did that come about?”

“We’re friends.” James stuck up his chin. “Have been for a long time. In fact, he’s brokered many a deal for me over the past few years. He’s got good ideas and always knows where the solid investments can be made.”

“James, you’ve never made a solid investment in your life. Have you been . . . giving Cranford money?”

“Only when the opportunity arises. Can’t get in every time, you see. And it ain’t his fault when the business fails. He’s a solid chap.”

Everlasting hell. Cranford had been bilking James out of money for years, it seemed. No, make that Winchester money. “No, he’s not. Cranford is a liar, a rapist, and possibly a murderer. Now we know he’s a swindler and a blackmailer, too. Jesus, James.” Simon pinched the bridge of his nose.

“A . . . rapist? A murderer? No, that can’t be right.”

“Tell me how you were to contact him after today’s payment.”

James shook his head. “I wasn’t. Said he would contact me when he got back from Paris.”

“Cranford was in Paris?” Simon’s stomach clenched as the pieces began to fall into place. The man on Maggie’s balcony. The carriage accident. The fact that the blackmailer knew how to contact them. He put a hand to the wall to steady himself. “So did you send the note to Mrs. McGinnis, asking for the money?”

“Cranford told me what to say.” He scratched his head. “Now that I think on it, seems unlikely he’s still in France. How would he know you both were here otherwise?”

Simon pondered James’s surprisingly astute question. “Is the man in that room there the one who has been forging Lemarcs?”

“Yes. I found him. Good, isn’t he?”

Simon’s lip curled and he quashed the urge to strangle James once more. “Not a fact you should be proud of at this moment, James.”

James instantly sobered. “So what do you plan to do, now that you know?”

Simon considered his options. He mostly wanted to finish what he’d started in this alley, but killing James would prove difficult to explain to the family. What he needed was to get rid of James for good without committing murder. “Fortunate for you that I maintain a house in Edinburgh. I see a lifetime of Scotland in your future, James.”

 

 

Maggie stalked the floors of her studio, furious at being forced to remain home. The afternoon light had already started to fade. Surely the money had been turned over to the blackmailer by now, and she knew Simon and Mr. Hollister planned to follow whoever retrieved the parcel. Had they found the blackmailer? What was happening? She wanted to pull her hair out from the frustration.

She should be there. And she would be there, if it weren’t for Simon’s heavy-handedness.

He’d actually posted a man at her door to ensure she could not leave. Trapping her, as if she were a prisoner. The gall of that man . . .

He had no right to be making decisions for her or solving problems on her behalf. Nothing had changed between them since Paris. The threat of sedition still loomed, not to mention a madman was running amok in an attempt to ruin her life. Did Simon not realize the risk to his reputation if her identity was discovered ? Or what about his political standing when his name became linked to hers?

That he would be willing to walk away from his family legacy both humbled and terrified her. She would not allow him to do it, of course, would never force him to choose. Though he’d brushed away her concerns, Maggie knew what would happen if they married. Eventually he would come to resent the ramifications of their association. Resent her.

Her chest constricted, making it painful to draw breath. The temptation to throw it all away, to run to Simon and ignore the consequences nearly overwhelmed her . . . but she resisted it. She knew what it was like to have Society turn its back on you, how ugly one’s life could become when it was no longer in your control. Simon had been worshipped from the cradle, the golden heir to one of the wealthiest families in England. He had no idea of what awaited him should she give in.

So she would be the reasonable one. She would learn how to survive without him. She had no choice, really, because as soon as the blackmailer was dealt with Maggie planned to leave England for good.

“The Duchess of Colton to see you, milady,” Tilda said at the door.

Maggie’s chest fluttered as hope rose within her. She had not seen Julia since returning from Paris. Had the duchess brought news of the blackmailer? Maggie dashed past her servant and into the corridor. “No need to bring her up, Tilda. I shall go down!” she tossed over her shoulder.

She raced down two sets of stairs until she reached the front sitting room where Tilda always placed waiting guests. The duchess was examining a painting on the wall when Maggie entered. “Julia,” Maggie panted. “Have you any news?”

Julia turned and shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I was hoping you might have learned something. The wait, at home by myself, was interminable.”

Maggie sagged and tried to catch her breath. “Well, at least we may wait together, then.” She crossed and rang for tea.

“You are very talented.” Julia once again stared at the landscape, the one with the plover Simon had used to identify Maggie as Lemarc. “And Winejester was a stroke of genius.”

“Thank you, though part of me wishes I’d never thought of the name. None of this mess would have transpired in such a case.”

“You cannot mean that,” Julia exclaimed. “I was told you and Simon worked out your differences in Paris.”

“Allow me to guess,” Maggie drawled. “Simon told you that.”

Julia’s brow creased with concern. “Yes, he did. Is it not true?”

Maggie sat and arranged her skirts, deciding how best to answer. If she were honest, would Julia keep her confidence or repeat everything to Simon? When she hedged, the duchess lowered into a nearby chair.

“Maggie, I must confess something to you. I’m afraid . . .” Julia sounded unusually grave, her blue eyes showing signs of both worry and guilt. “Well, it’s time you knew, anyway.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Julia nodded. “Indeed, it is. And it’s something I should have mentioned ages ago. You see, back during your debut, when the scandal broke . . .” She cleared her throat and folded her hands in her lap. “He wanted to challenge Cranford and I convinced him not to.”

Maggie blinked. “Simon? Simon wanted to challenge Cranford?”

“Yes. He was furious. Convinced that Cranford had dishonored you. Of course, I did not know any of the particulars, else I would have let him issue the challenge. But I was selfish; I was sixteen, had just been married off to a stranger who immediately abandoned me. Simon had been my friend since childhood. At the time, I was petrified he’d either be killed or be forced to leave England as well. So I convinced him to speak with Cranford first, instead of meeting over pistols at dawn.”

A duel. Simon had been willing to defend her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, one of amazement and gratitude. For so long, she’d assumed them all eager to shun her after the scandal, but Simon had cared enough to want to risk his life for her. Thank heavens Julia had talked him out of it. If he’d been killed . . . well, no sense dwelling on the past. Suffice it to say, she was grateful he hadn’t died.

While Maggie struggled with this information, Julia shifted a bit in her seat. “I feel positively wretched over it, Maggie. If Simon had issued the challenge, your entire life would be different. Not only that, but the two of you would have ended up together much sooner.”

“Perhaps . . . or perhaps not,” Maggie allowed. “We shall never know what may have happened. Cranford may very well have killed him.”

From the frown on her pale face, Julia did not appear reassured. So Maggie said, “Honestly, I am glad you stopped him. Challenging Cranford would have been monumentally idiotic.”

“Maggie,” Julia said gravely, “your reputation, your nickname. The cruelty you endured . . . none of that would have happened if I’d let him issue the challenge. You would be happily stowed away at Winchester Towers with four or five babies by now.”

“Lord, I should hope not,” Maggie snorted.

Julia cut her a glance. “Would it have been so terrible?”

Sobering, Maggie thought how best to express her thoughts. Not many women would understand, but perhaps Julia might. “My marriage to Hawkins was not a tragic one, and I had a great deal of freedom to learn and practice my skills. I traveled to Paris. I met Lucien. I gained insight into myself I never would have achieved without the scandal. I do not regret one minute of it. And while I might wish for others to remain unblemished by it, my reputation allows me certain liberties I’d never otherwise possess. I’ve led a life most of the women of our world will never know. It has not been perfect, but at least I can say I truly lived.”

She’d never put it all into words before, but Maggie meant every single one. Tension she’d carried for far too long disappeared off her frame, making her lighter, happier. So what if some of them snickered behind her back? Maggie could be more than the proper Lady Margaret Hawkins; she was also Maggie, the Half-Irish Harlot, as well as Lemarc. Pity the rest of them only had one persona.

“It relieves my mind to hear you say so,” Julia said. “I would not blame you if you told me to go to the devil. I would.”

“No. I’ve grown too fond of you. Besides, you were only concerned with Simon’s welfare, and rightly so.”

“Do you love him?” Julia cocked her perfectly coiffed blond head. “I must say, I’ve never seen him like this over a woman. If you break his heart, I do not want to have to choose sides.”

Love him? She’d thought she loved him once, when she was a girl. Now she tried not to think on it, tried to think of their relationship as fleeting. A passing fancy they would both recover from when it ended—and it would end. There was no choice, considering the people they had both become.

She decided to be honest. “I plan on leaving London once my affairs have been settled here, so do not worry over choosing sides.”

“Leaving?” Julia’s face clouded with confusion. “But I assumed.... Does he know?”

Maggie shook her head. “No. I’ve told no one.”

“Why?”

Was it not obvious? Her tongue thick and uncooperative, Maggie gestured to the room. “Because of Lemarc. Because of the Half-Irish Harlot. Because of everything I am.” Or rather, everything she was not. She gave a dry laugh. “Can you see me, a political hostess? It’s laughable.”

“Yes. I can,” Julia snapped, straightening her shoulders. “Are you telling me you think you are not good enough to stand as Simon’s wife? That you are unworthy ?” She shot to her feet and began moving angrily about the room. “Has he in any way intimated—”

“No !” Maggie rushed out. “Absolutely not. He said he wants to marry me, though I expect him to change his mind once he’s had time to consider the unfortunate ramifications of such a rash action.”

“Rash? The two of you have waited nearly ten years for one another. How is that rash, exactly?”

Tilda entered with tea, and both women waited patiently for the servant to depart. Maggie busied herself with pouring while Julia resumed her seat. The duchess had clearly romanticized Simon and Maggie’s relationship. Maggie, on the other hand, hadn’t romanticized anything in quite a long time; she’d learned to be practical out of necessity, even when doing so proved difficult.

“You should know,” Julia said, accepting her cup and saucer, “that while the Winchester men have all been brilliant statesmen, there’s not a one without a scandal in his past. And while Simon may seem respectable now—”

“Men are forgiven their scandals,” Maggie gently reminded. “You know that. It’s much different for women. And he will come to resent me for it.”

“Do not underestimate yourself or Simon. And I would throw Colton’s considerable weight behind the two of you as well. We would be a formidable force, all of us together.”

Not when the world discovers Lemarc’s true identity, Maggie thought. That piece of news went way beyond an average scandal. If the blackmailer had his way, Lemarc would be unmasked and sent to prison for a long time. And even if this particular threat passed, there would forever be another one, someone else trying to ruin Lemarc. How could she allow Simon—as well as her friends—to be embroiled in her dramas time and time again? Better to leave while she still could.

Nevertheless, she did not want to argue with the duchess. “Let us speak of more interesting topics. You’ve never told me about meeting Colton in Venice. Tell me how you were able to get the Depraved Duke to fall in love with you.”