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.”
“Truly, I am honored,” Maggie replied, with a genuine smile and a proper curtsy.
“None of that,” the duchess said. “We’re amongst friends. Well, mostly friends anyhow.”
“Lady Hawkins.” The Duke of Colton arrived at his wife’s side. A dark and handsome man, one could easily imagine how he’d earned his reputation as the Depraved Duke. “How lovely to see you. My wife has been speaking of you all week.”
“Good evening, Your Grace. I am happy to be included.” Not to mention baffled.
“Come along,” the duchess said, “and I’ll introduce you to tonight’s group.” Slipping her arm through Maggie’s, the duchess thankfully steered them in the opposite direction from where Simon stood.
The introductions took several minutes. Most were familiar faces—the men, at least. When the duchess excused herself to check on the other guests, Maggie found herself with Lord Quint. The viscount gave her an elegant bow, stood, and pushed overly long brown hair out of his face. “Lady Hawkins. I look forward to more discussions on painting this evening. Do you plan on attending the Bathmore exhibit in two weeks’ time?”
“I do, indeed. I am curious to see if this new batch of paintings solves the perspective issues in his last exhibit.”
Quint chuckled. “You are a harsh critic.”
“I suppose that is true. I am much more interested in the technique and the choices an artist makes rather than the end result.”
“I quite agree. I find myself fascinated by the whys and hows of things.”
Quiet and whip-smart, Quint had a subtle handsomeness under that rumpled exterior. Even his appalling fashion sense was endearing. So why did she not get fluttery in his presence instead of Simon’s? Quint would be better suited to her, with his keen eye and perceptive nature, and he seemed much too reasonable to mind her blackened reputation.
Not that it mattered, as she intended to avoid the male species.
Another familiar face joined them. A bit older than the others, Lord Markham’s presence tonight had been an unwelcome surprise. He’d attended a few of Maggie’s recent parties, never failing to issue at least one not-so-veiled invitation to her during the evening. She never encouraged him, but some men were more determined than others.
“Lady Hawkins.” Markham bowed, his smile a touch too wide as his eyes traveled up and down her form. “May I say how happy I am to find you here this evening? I had no idea you were on such intimate terms with Colton.”
The gleam in his gaze said exactly what intimate terms he assumed. From everything Maggie knew, the duke and duchess were happily married, and there had been no rumors regarding the duke and another woman since his return from the Continent. But even if Colton did have discreet affairs, did Markham truly think the duchess the sort of woman to tolerate her husband’s conquests at her dinner table?
“Her Grace issued the invitation after she attended my party last week,” Maggie told him.
“Indeed,” Markham said, giving her an audacious wink that caused bile to rise in her throat.
Yes, why else would the Half-Irish Harlot be invited? Markham’s assumptions were likely being made by everyone here, save Colton and his duchess. She straightened her spine to stand a bit taller. Let them think what they would; they always did.
“Excuse me,” Quint murmured before sliding away. Maggie considered clutching his arm in order to prevent his escape, but Quint proved too quick.
Markham took this as an invitation to move closer. Desperate for help, Maggie glanced wildly around the room. Her gaze swung in Simon’s direction, then stopped. Sharp blue eyes were locked on her, the irises bright with cold fury. She’d never seen him so furious. What in heaven’s name?
“Lady Hawkins,” Markham whispered, boldly reaching out to touch her hand.
Simon didn’t miss Markham’s audacity either. A muscle in the earl’s jaw clenched before he pointedly turned away. An idea occurred. Perhaps if she kept Markham close this evening, Simon would maintain a distance. The notion was a harsh one and would ensure a tedious evening—but a woman must do what she must, after all.
She gave Markham a blinding smile. “Yes, my lord?”
The viscount blinked. “Oh, yes. Well, I had hoped to escort you to dinner. You never—”
“Yes,” she blurted. “I meant to say, I would be honored.”
“Excellent.” Markham puffed up, his ruddy face turning a bit ruddier. “I quite enjoyed your last party. Interesting how Rowlandson had that cartoon about the mermaids.”
“Lemarc,” she corrected.
Markham’s brows dipped. “I beg your pardon?”
“The cartoon was drawn by Lemarc, not Rowlandson.”
“Oh, yes, Lemarc. Clever gents, those cartoonists. I wonder how they’re privy to the on-dits used in their drawings.”
If they’re smart, they host parties. “Who knows? Perhaps they are more resourceful than we give them credit for.”
He leaned in, as if to share a great secret. “All you need is to press a coin into the right palm, m’dear. Any information can be bought.”
That comment gave her pause. Markham was active in Parliament, so was he speaking from experience? More to the point, perhaps she could use this opportunity to undermine Winchester’s proposal. Yes, this evening was looking up.
At that moment, the duchess announced dinner. Markham presented his arm. “Shall we?”