The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe (2)

Chapter Two

December 1819
London

 

A man’s past could easily be forgotten—unless it hung in a shop window on the busiest stretch of St. James, of course.

Simon Barrett, the eighth Earl of Winchester, stood frozen in the cold winter air, staring at yet another shining reminder of his illustrious, drunken youth. Despite the frigid temperature, an uncomfortable heat crawled up his neck. Hell, he hadn’t blushed since boyhood.

Still, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the drawing in the print shop window, a depiction of a man too soused to stand while a lady nearby was robbed of her jewels. There could be no doubt of the man’s identity. As if the tall frame, blond hair, and bright blue eyes weren’t enough, the artist had provided the character with a name: Lord Winejester.

“I’d almost forgotten that side of you, the rogue from our youth.”

Simon glanced at his good friend Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint. “Rather the artist’s point, I believe.”

Simon wondered again why this artist, Lemarc, had fixated on him. Was one of his opponents accountable for the cartoons? One did not rise to the upper ranks of Parliament without stepping on some toes.

“What number is this? I daresay it’s the fourth or fifth caricature of you in the last year. Lord Winejester is becoming quite popular. Mayhap you’ll get a commemorative spoon or plate, like Rowlandson’s Dr. Syntax,” Quint said, referring to the artist’s popular fictitious character.

“Oh, to dream,” Simon drawled.

Quint chuckled and nudged Simon’s shoulder. “Come now. You have laughed off the others. Why so grim now?”

Not entirely true. Simon may have laughed publicly, but privately these cartoons worried him. He’d worked too hard building his reputation to allow it to be tarnished. His influence and prestige amongst his peers would suffer if he continued to be portrayed as a buffoon. Mayhap it was time to suggest a certain artist apply his skills elsewhere.

And if said suggestion was perceived as a threat, well then, so be it.

“Shall we go inside?”

A bell tinkled over the door as Simon entered, Quint on his heels. A spacious room, the shop had rows of windows set high, right up to the ceiling, allowing light to bounce off every available surface, even on a gray winter day such as this. Framed art crowded the walls—landscapes, portraits, fashion plates, and life scenes in all different shapes and sizes—while racks of unframed canvases rested in the far corner. Simon strode to the long counter along the back wall, where an older woman stood patiently waiting. From behind small, rounded spectacles, her eyes widened and darted to the front window before settling back on his face. Well, at least I won’t need to introduce myself.

She dropped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lords.”

Simon removed his hat and placed it on the counter. “Good afternoon. I should like to speak with the owner.”

“I am Mrs. McGinnis, the owner. Would your lordship be interested in purchasing a print?”

“Not today. I am more interested in information.” He gestured to the front window. “Can you tell me how I might find the artist Lemarc? I find his work . . . interesting.” Quint snickered, but Simon ignored him.

“I am afraid the artist wishes to remain anonymous, my lord.”

This unsurprising response didn’t deter him in the least. Over the past few weeks, he’d made some casual inquiries regarding the artist and learned Lemarc was a sobriquet. “What if I offer to pay you for the information? Say, ten pounds.”

Her lips twitched and he got the distinct impression Mrs. McGinnis held back a smile. “My lord, I’ve had an offer as high as fifty pounds.”

“What about one hundred pounds?”

“I must apologize, my lord, but my loyalties remain with the artist. It would not be proper for me to disregard his wishes.”

Inwardly, he cursed the woman’s stubbornness, though one had to admire her devotion to Lemarc. “I’d like to purchase his cartoon in the window, then.”

Mrs. McGinnis shook her head. “I must apologize again to your lordship. That particular drawing is not for sale.”

His jaw nearly dropped. “Not for sale? No matter the offer?”

“No matter what your lordship offers. The artist would prefer to keep the piece in his own private collection.”

Damnation. Simon drummed his fingers on the counter, his mind spinning. He couldn’t even buy the cartoons to get rid of them.

Quint leaned forward. “Are there any other Lemarc pieces for sale?”

“Why, yes, my lord,” the shopkeeper quickly answered. “I have a collection of bird paintings done in watercolors by that particular artist, if your lordships would be interested to see them.”

“He’ll buy all of them.” Quint pushed a thumb in Simon’s direction. “Whatever you have.”

“Birds?” Simon gave Quint a hard glare. “Birds, Quint?”

“Buy them, Winchester. Trust me.”

Simon turned back to the shopkeeper. “How many?”

“Almost twenty, my lord. They’re quite nice, all done within the last few years. Would your lordships care to see them?”

Quint answered, “No, that won’t be—”

Simon gripped his friend’s shoulder and began towing him toward the front door. “Excuse us a moment, won’t you, Mrs. McGinnis?”

“Of course. Take all the time your lordship requires. I’ll just be in the back.” She disappeared into the recesses of the shop, leaving the two men alone.

Simon frowned at Quint. “Why the deuce am I purchasing almost twenty bird paintings? I loathe birds.”

“Because some are regional, you oaf,” Quint whispered. “We might be able to find a common thread in the types of birds drawn and narrow down a county where Lemarc resides. At least that will give you a location in which to begin your search.”

Simon blinked. “Quint, that’s . . .”

“I know. Now buy the blasted pictures so we can get to the club. I’m starving.”

He’d momentarily forgotten Quint’s love of puzzles. “Fine. Consider this your project, then. Give me one of your cards.” Quint produced a card, and Simon called for Mrs. McGinnis. “I’ll take all the bird paintings,” he told the shopkeeper when she returned, withdrawing a card from his breast pocket. “Send the bill to me, but deliver the pictures to this address.” He handed over Quint’s card.

“With pleasure, my lord. Would your lordship care to have them framed?”

Might as well, he thought. He’d find somewhere to use them. Shooting practice, perhaps. “Indeed. I bow to your expertise, Mrs. McGinnis. Choose whatever frames you deem appropriate. How long before they’re ready?”

“I’ll get my boy on it straightaway. I should have them to your lordship day after tomorrow.”

At that moment the bell over the door clanged, and he turned to see a small figure burst into the shop. A lady, by the look of her fashionable bonnet and black pelisse. She seemed to freeze upon seeing them but then inclined her head. There was something oddly familiar—

“Lord Quint,” he heard her say.

Quint bowed. “Lady Hawkins. How nice to see you again.”

The room suddenly lost all its air. Or perhaps Simon’s lungs refused to cooperate because a burn had sparked in his chest, a pressing heat as if the ceiling had collapsed on him. God’s teeth, he hadn’t expected to see her here. To see her anywhere, really. Ten years. It had been ten years since they’d last faced one another. He’d heard all about her, of course. From all accounts, the woman thrived on spectacle and notoriety—which struck him as odd, considering he remembered her as thoughtful and, well, shy.

But he’d never really known her at all, had he? The scandal when she was still Lady Margaret, along with the behavior she’d exhibited since the end of her mourning period, had certainly proven that.

Shock rendered him frozen, and the only thing he could do was stare. The years had certainly been kind to Lady Hawkins, if her appearance was any indication. Wisps of black hair fell out of her bonnet, her delicate features fairly glowing from the cold. She had creamy skin without a hint of imperfection, and green eyes that whispered of the Irish meadows of her ancestors. As he watched, her generous mouth twisted into a small smile. He remembered the simple beauty of that smile, the lengths he’d gone to in order to see it.

There had been a time he would have done anything to make her happy. Such a foolish, foolish boy he’d been. Anger simmered in his gut at her faithlessness—anger he forced away for its sheer ridiculousness. It had been a decade, after all.

“Lord Winchester, it has been a long time,” he heard her say, her tone cool and quiet.

He bowed stiffly. “Lady Hawkins. How wonderful to see you.” Even to his own ears, it sounded flat.

She didn’t respond and an awkward silence fell. Devil take it, but he had no idea of what to say to her. Both his feet and tongue felt rooted to the floor.

Finally, Quint asked, “Are you purchasing a print?”

She stepped toward the counter, the top of her head barely reaching Simon’s shoulder. “I did, last week. Now it’s been framed and I’ve come to collect it. You?”

“Winchester’s the one buying today,” Quint said.

Lady Hawkins turned, her questioning gaze colliding with his. Hard to miss the intelligence—at once both familiar and mysterious—lurking there. He cleared his throat. “I’m purchasing a collection of bird paintings.”

“Are you?”

“Indeed, my lady,” the shopkeeper confirmed. “All nineteen pictures by Lemarc. His lordship bought every one.”

“Ah. Have you discovered an interest in ornithology, sir?”

The sound of her voice, teasing him in that unique, husky way, prickled over his skin. He didn’t intend the visceral response but found himself helpless to stop it. She’d teased him quite often over the months they’d spent together. She’d made him laugh, more than he’d ever thought possible, and it had not gone unnoticed when it had stopped.

Had she made the late Lord Hawkins laugh? And what of the other men in her past?

“That means birds,” she said, drawing his attention back to the conversation. “I asked if you are interested in birds.”

“More like ladybirds,” Quint muttered, and Lady Hawkins chuckled.

“Yes, I’m aware what ornithology is,” Simon answered. “While I do not claim to be an expert on birds, I find myself suddenly fascinated by them. And you, madam?”

She turned away in order to stare at some bric-a-brac in the glass case. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t know a partridge from a nuthatch, I’m afraid.”

“Have you been to any of the other recent art exhibitions?” Quint asked her.

Other exhibitions? Simon wondered over that. Quint had definitely failed to mention bumping into Lady Hawkins. Odd, since Quint knew the history between her and Simon. Not that Simon cared, of course. He most definitely did not.

“I haven’t had the time,” she was saying. “Did you purchase that painting you were admiring at the Waterfield exhibit?”

“No. I had no interest in buying it,” Quint admitted. “I was trying to deduce how the artist achieved that particular shade of yellow. I’ve not seen one so bright before.”

“It’s produced from a metal called cadmium. I’d only read about the technique before that exhibit.”

“Extraordinary. They must use an acid solution. . . .” Mumbling under his breath, Quint pulled a small notebook and lead pencil from his pocket, then began making furious notes as he strode directly out the door.

“Nice to see some things never change,” Lady Hawkins said. “It appears Lord Quint still becomes utterly absorbed in whatever he’s doing.”

“I had no idea you and Quint were so friendly.”

She searched his face. “Yes, well. Not everyone turned their back on me, I suppose.”

Murmured under her breath, the comment struck Simon as odd. She had made her choices all those years ago, deciding on Davenport, who was now Lord Cranford. That it hadn’t worked out with Cranford had been unfortunate for her, assuredly; her reputation had suffered a heavy blow. But she must have known the potential consequences when she’d risked it all to dally with Cranford. So how was any of what had happened a surprise?

“Would your lordship care for a receipt?”

Startled, Simon turned to Mrs. McGinnis, whose presence he’d completely forgotten. The older woman waited patiently for his answer, but then Lady Hawkins shifted, unintentionally gaining his attention as she drifted off to investigate a painting on the far wall. He shouldn’t want to stay, should take this opportunity to put as much distance as possible between the two of them . . . but he couldn’t do it. He needed to trail after her, talk to her. To what end? he berated himself. To make polite chitchat? God, he was an imbecile. “Yes, I would,” he heard himself tell the shopkeeper.

Mrs. McGinnis hurried to the back of the store, and Simon strolled to Lady Hawkins’s side. “You seem to know a bit about art.”

“A bit. I’ve studied here and there over the last few years.” She shrugged and then gave him a bold appraisal, the pale green flicker raking him from head to toe. “You seem well. Not that I would have expected otherwise.”

Something in her tone had him frowning. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it has been a long time and you appear more . . . I don’t know, more earlish than I recollect.”

“Earlish?” Despite himself, he chuckled. “I am the earl, Lady Hawkins. I was also the earl back when—”

He couldn’t finish it, the words sticking in his throat. Had she known? Had she any notion of what he’d felt for her? Hell, there was a time when just a glimpse of the curve of her neck would give him fits.

He had dreamt of seducing her but intended to wait until they could be married. The more fool he, believing she felt the same.

“How is your mother? I have such fond memories of her,” Lady Hawkins asked.

Simon shifted on his feet, restlessness nearly overcoming him. He wanted both to bolt and never move in equal measure. “She is quite well, thank you. And yours?”

“Her health is rather poor, I regret to say. But we’re managing.”

“I’m sorry, Maggie.” The familiar name slipped out before he could take it back.

She swallowed, but her expression gave nothing away, her gaze still trained on the paintings. “No apologies necessary, Simon,” she said, returning the familiarity. “One thing I’ve learned about myself in all these years is that I’m very good at managing.”

“Yes, that’s what I hear.”

Her head swung to face him. “Do you?”

“You are all anyone talks about.”

Her brow lifted. “And here all I find is constant commentary on your feats in Parliament, Lord Winejester.”

His shoulders stiffened, an instinctual reaction to the character name. Of course she had seen the cartoon in the window. Resisting the urge to stalk to the front and rip it down, he gritted out, “I am afraid they exaggerate.”

“Yes, but that is what the ton does so well.”

He couldn’t very well argue with that.

“I thought you would have attended one of my parties by now,” she continued.

“I do not recall being invited,” he countered.

“Hmm. Is that what keeps you away? An invitation?”

She was laughing at him, he realized. Mocking him. But something else . . . Her rigid shoulders and the flat line of her mouth suggested anger. Simon turned that knowledge around in his mind and tried to make sense of it.

“Pardon me, but here is a receipt, my lord,” Mrs. McGinnis called from over by the counter.

Maggie moved to the other side of the store, dismissing him, and Simon had no choice but to retrieve the receipt from the shopkeeper. He tucked the small piece of paper in his pocket.

“Good afternoon, Lady Hawkins,” he said to Maggie’s back.

She didn’t turn, merely waved her hand. “And good afternoon to you, Lord Winchester.”

Once outside, he found Quint still scribbling away. While Simon waited for his friend, he couldn’t resist turning toward the shop, telling himself it was to study the embarrassing drawing once more . . . yet found his eyes drawn to Lady Hawkins instead.

“You saw her and did not tell me,” he mentioned as casually as possible.

Quint’s head snapped up. “I didn’t think you would care either way.”

“I don’t. I was merely surprised.”

“Indeed,” Quint drawled, then returned his attention to his notebook. “And people say I am a terrible liar.”

 

 

“May I stop smiling?” Maggie felt foolish, with a fake grin nearly sewn on as she stood at the counter.

“Not yet, my lady. The gentlemen are still in front of the window, looking at the shop.”

“Any suggestions? I feel like a half-wit standing here and gawking at you.”

“Why don’t you stroll about, and I’ll go in the back as if I’m retrieving your frame.” Mrs. McGinnis gave her an apologetic glance before escaping into the depths of the store. Taking the woman’s advice, Maggie strolled to the stack of prints resting against the wall and tried to calmly flip through them, though her heart raced faster than a sparrow’s wings. Simon had actually been here, staring at the cartoon. What had he experienced when he looked at it? Humiliation? Anger?

Satisfaction roared through her.

He didn’t know, of course. How could he possibly realize who was responsible for the caricatures of Lord Winejester? Only three people knew of her hidden talents: her sister, her mentor, Lucien, and Mrs. McGinnis. None would ever reveal her secret.

Heavens, when Simon had turned that intimate, boyish smile on her she’d felt the warmth all the way down to her toes. He must have every woman in London falling at his feet, just as she had done once.

Never again.

Yes, she’d been foolish enough to trust him. Love him, even. But she was no longer foolish or naïve. She was smarter now. Stronger. An entirely different person.

Worse than the flirting had been Simon’s effort to engage her in friendly conversation, as if he hadn’t a thing to apologize for. As if he hadn’t turned his back on her at the precise moment she’d needed him most.

Out of all that had happened since the scandal, Simon’s betrayal had hurt the most. Which was why she took such delight in his very public humiliation at her hand. She knew of his reputation now—a respected and powerful young leader in Parliament. Never on the losing side. Reputed to be fair and intelligent, the rakehell ways of his youth long forgotten.

Maggie had not forgotten. How could she, when the whispers of her downfall followed her wherever she went?

The name used to upset her, especially when the ladies did not bother lowering their voices before saying it. But over the years she’d learned to embrace the name, to use it to her advantage. If one is a fallen woman, one learns to pick herself up or stay down—and Maggie had no intention of letting the ton crush her. No, it would be quite the other way around.

Well, perhaps not crush—but definitely suffer. Fortunately Lemarc’s popularity gave her the forum to expose the hypocrisy and ridiculousness that comprised London Society. Lucien, her friend, frequently said artists should use art to expunge any pain and suffering, and she’d held on to her anger for far too long.

“They’ve left, my lady.” Mrs. McGinnis returned, a brown parcel in her hands.

“Thank heavens.” Nearly collapsing with relief, Maggie placed a hand over heart. “I nearly expired when I came in and found him here. What did he want?”

“The cartoon, of course. Tried to bribe me in order to get Lemarc’s real name. When that failed, his lordship offered to buy the picture, whatever the cost.”

“Whatever the cost? Well, I’m sorry to have prevented a sale. Just think of all the money you would make if we could reveal Lemarc’s identity.”

Mrs. McGinnis shook her head. “If we did, I’d certainly lose in the long run, my lady. It’s the mystery that brings ’em in the door, if you don’t mind my saying so, and your ladyship’s talent has them buying up everything as quick as you draw it. Those bird watercolors were the last I had.” She reached out and patted Maggie’s hand. “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for your ladyship. Indeed, no one could offer me enough money to give up our secret.”

Maggie squeezed the other woman’s fingers. “Thank you. Your loyalty means everything to me.”

“It’s me who’ll be giving thanks. If not for your ladyship, I’d still be in Little Walsingham, suffering beatings from that devil I married. I owe everything to you for giving me a bit of money and artwork to set up my shop. And I shan’t be forgetting it.”

“We saved each other, then. Without your friendship, I wouldn’t have survived.” The other women in the village had only wanted to gawk at the scandalous woman who’d married their old, wealthy baron. Friends had not come easily.

Mrs. McGinnis chuckled and pulled back to wipe her eyes. “Aren’t we a pair, then? Well, those days are behind us now. And look at you—the talk of London!”

Simon’s words came back to her. You are all anyone talks about these days. She wondered what stories he’d heard. No doubt whatever he’d been told only confirmed the intelligence of his actions ten years ago. “Well, I’m proud of the work all the same. Speaking of work, why did Lord Winchester buy the birds, do you suppose?”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Could not say, my lady. His lordship’s friend, Lord Quint, talked him into it. They retreated to the corner for a private conversation. After that, Lord Winchester agreed to buy the pictures without even seeing them, and the lot’s being shipped to Lord Quint’s address.”

Maggie frowned. Bought them without looking at them? Sending them on to Lord Quint? The whole business struck her as odd, plus she hated not knowing why someone did something. An annoying quality but one that made her a keen observer of human nature, which in turn produced sharper and more provocative drawings. Her sister had told her time and time again to let things be, despite her stubbornness to reason things out. But Maggie simply couldn’t.

“Care to tell me what the earl did to your ladyship to be featured in so many of Lemarc’s drawings?”

Maggie waved her hand. “He hasn’t been in that many. Prinny’s been in far more, and I’ve never even met the Regent.”

“You cannot fool me. I know your ladyship only too well. You’ve made a mockery of Lord Winchester, and there’s a good reason why.”

Oh, yes. She had a good reason.

Mrs. McGinnis studied her carefully, so Maggie said, “I remember him from my debut, and those are days I’d much rather forget. I trust you are charging him a handsome sum for the watercolors.”

“I will, indeed. Your ladyship will earn a small fortune off the Earl of Winchester. Now, to what do I owe the honor of this visit today?”

“I wanted to let you know I finished the architectural drawings as well as a new cartoon for the window. We’ll use the usual delivery procedure. How’s the day after next?”

“Excellent!” The shopkeeper clapped her hands. “The tourists will love the architectural prints. There is another matter we should discuss as well. I’ve received a letter from Ackermann. He’s compiling a travel book on Scotland and Wales and wishes to hire your ladyship—er, Lemarc—for the illustrations.”

Rudolph Ackermann, owner of The Repository of the Arts, produced highly successful books on travel, architecture, and gardening. Mrs. McGinnis had been showing him Maggie’s work for months now, begging him to allow Lemarc to illustrate an upcoming book. The work would be tedious, but it would pay well and provide excellent exposure. More importantly, Ackermann’s approval would go a long way; the man never worked with fly-by-night or avant-garde artists. This would put her work alongside notable current artists such as Rowlandson and Gillray.

“He requires almost one hundred aquatints,” Mrs. McGinnis continued into Maggie’s stunned silence. “Shall I tell him yes?”

“Yes! By all means, what wonderful news,” she blurted and reached forward to squeeze Mrs. McGinnis’s hands. “Thank you for working so hard on my behalf.”

“The arrangement will do us both good, my lady. Between Ackermann’s job and your friend from Paris, we’ll soon have all of London buzzing. Perhaps by summer, we’ll be able to afford a larger shop over on the Strand.”

“Oh, excellent. You’ve heard from Lucien.”

Lucien Barreau was one of Maggie’s dearest friends. She met him while studying in Paris a few years before Hawkins passed on. He’d served as her mentor, teaching her about the business of being an artist as well as helping her hone her craft. His talent was limitless, but he refused to show his work in Paris, the fear of rejection keeping him from acclaim. After a long battle, however, Maggie had finally convinced him to sell his work in London with Mrs. McGinnis.

“Indeed. He wrote earlier in the week, saying he’s got upwards of two hundred etchings to send us. The sample he sent, it was remarkable. Would your ladyship care to see it?”

“No need. I know his work well. The public will lap up his elegant style of drawing like sweet cream.”

“I certainly hope so. Shall the new cartoon go up immediately, or did your ladyship want to keep this one up a bit longer?”

“Keep this one up another week. No use giving Lord Winchester the impression his visit swayed you into taking it down. No, let him stew a few more days.”

The bell above the door tinkled as three young ladies entered the shop. They were young, apple-cheeked English blossoms, dressed in clothing that bespoke wealth, their maids dutifully waiting outside. Clutching each other’s arms, the girls laughed and smiled gaily. Maggie felt a hundred years old merely observing them. Had she ever been so carefree, even before the scandal?

“Pardon me, my lady,” Mrs. McGinnis said before hurrying over to assist the newcomers.

Maggie wandered to study a group of paintings on the near wall. She encouraged Mrs. McGinnis to stock all the au courant artists; after all, Lemarc alone could not sustain the shop. In addition to garnering sales, this practice offered Maggie a chance to measure up the competition. These were a series of new pretty Irish landscapes by Mulready. Quite nice, actually.

“Do you know who that is?” she heard one of the girls whisper behind her a few minutes later, the comment purposely loud enough to reach Maggie’s ears. Maggie stifled a sigh, kept her back turned.

“Shhh,” another girl said.

“No, who is it?” the third one asked.

Maggie resisted the urge to spin and hiss at them like a snake-headed Gorgon. While it would be supremely satisfying, Mrs. McGinnis wouldn’t appreciate Maggie scaring the customers, not to mention a thwarted sale would deprive the owner her livelihood. Maggie did stand her ground, however; under no circumstances would she give the girls the satisfaction of chasing her away. Let them say what they would. She’d heard it all anyway.

“. . . Irish harlot.”

A gasp. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I saw her at the Reynolds exhibit a few months ago. Mama wouldn’t even let me look at her.”

Lest you be turned to stone, Maggie thought.

“Wait, I have no idea who you’re talking about. Who is she?”

There was some murmuring and then, “I heard all about her from Lady Mary, who is friends with Lady Cranford.”

Amelia. Maggie should have known.

The girl continued in a quieter tone, so Maggie only caught pieces of the conversation. “. . . debut she . . . half the men of the ton. Lady Cranford caught her . . . her betrothed at the time . . . scandal . . . marry Lord Hawkins.”

Maggie could guess at what she’d missed, and she was surprised that the words still stung after all these years. The twisting of facts, the gross injustice of the lies spread about her. Only the last portion, about the scandal and her subsequent marriage to Charles, happened to be true. She swallowed the lump of resentment in her throat.

“And you’re certain that’s . . .”

Maggie could feel the weight of their stares on her back.

“Most definitely.”

“Mama told me not to wander off at parties or people might think I am like her.”

“No one would ever think that, silly. I vow, it’s in the blood. What else could one expect from a piece of filthy Irish—”

Maggie spun on her heel to face them. The girls shrank back, startled, and Maggie made certain to look each one in the eye. No one spoke, and unsurprisingly the girls did not hold her gaze. Each one turned to the counter, silent as a painting. At that precise moment, Mrs. McGinnis stepped out from the back room of the shop, a canvas in her hands. When she saw Maggie’s face, she raised an eyebrow.

Maggie shook her head but stepped up to the counter. “Mrs. McGinnis, thank you for your assistance today. I believe I shall return later when your shop isn’t quite so . . . overrun.”

Concern evident behind her spectacles, Mrs. McGinnis returned, “Very well, my lady. It has been my pleasure. I am always happy to help your ladyship.”

Chin high, Maggie swept out of the shop. The frigid air slapped her skin, though she hardly felt it with all the anger coursing through her veins. Not about to scurry away like vermin, she stepped over to examine the front window. Mrs. McGinnis was a genius with arranging paintings and engravings to best draw the customer’s eye. The woman hadn’t known much about art in Little Walsingham, but some people had a gift for discerning beauty. Mrs. McGinnis liked what she liked and, as it turned out, customers agreed.

She sighed. Really, it had been absurd to let those three vipers-in-training get under her skin. Provoking a reaction was precisely what the gossips wished for, and Maggie tried, in a perverse sort of revenge, to never give them the satisfaction. Today’s failure had likely been a result of Simon’s unexpected presence. She’d never thought to run into him here, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps at one of her gatherings or an exhibition—a place where she’d have a bit of warning, some time to prepare herself.

The Winejester cartoon caught her eye. Right in front, it held a place of prominence in the display. The image made Maggie smile, her first real smile of the day.

Perhaps it was time for another party.