The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe (10)

Chapter Ten

After Julia dashed off her mysterious note, Maggie asked, “May I see her?”

“I do not think it wise, my lady. While I can likely get you up there without being seen, I cannot guarantee your ladyship’s anonymity on the second floor. The evenings are no time for a lady to be strolling about in a place such as this.”

“We have our dominoes,” Julia suggested. She pointed to the cloaks and masks she and Maggie had adorned before coming inside.

“A fine suggestion, Your Grace, but the disguise would not be enough to conceal your identity. And I daresay His Grace would have a word or two to say should you be discovered. Likely he’d have me shut down.”

“I would never allow that,” Julia insisted. “Colton may be hotheaded, but he is quick to see reason once I strap him down and beat him about the head with it.”

Maggie wished she shared Julia’s confidence. But she knew better. And exchanging a quick, rueful glance with Madame, it seemed the abbess knew it, too. Men could do whatever they wanted in this world, and women were supposed to keep quiet.

“Have you packed her things?” Maggie asked.

“What little I could, yes.”

“How long has she worked for you?”

“A little over three years, my lady. Never had a speck of trouble with her. The rules here are quite strict and my girls are treated well. I have a reputation to uphold and I shouldn’t like for this to get out. I know that sounds callous—”

“Not at all,” Maggie assured Madame. “You have done the right thing, sending for Pearl. Between the three of us, we can squirrel her off somewhere, get her body healed. Perhaps find her a job in a household.”

Madame nodded. “I am forever in your ladyship’s debt. Your Grace’s as well.”

A soft knock sounded, interrupting. Madame strode to the door, a whisper of elegant silk. Pulling it open, she listened at the crack, then mumbled a few words.

“Your Grace, my lady, please excuse me a moment. There is a matter I must see to.” She curtsied. “Please make yourselves comfortable. There is sherry in the cabinet against the wall.”

With the unwelcome image of a girl battered and bruised stuck in her brain, Maggie walked to the cabinet for the promise of a drink. “Would you care for a sherry?” she asked Julia.

“No, thank you.”

Maggie heard the slide of metal and turned to see the duchess at the peephole. “Nothing lascivious whatsoever out there. Just a few overstuffed dandies.” Julia sighed and stepped away from the wall.

They chatted of unimportant gossip for several long minutes, waiting for Madame Hartley to return. Then Julia said, “You surprise me, Maggie.”

Maggie sipped her sherry. “Me? Whyever would I surprise you?”

“You must admit, what you and Pearl are doing, it is an unusual cause for a lady.”

Maggie didn’t like the shrewd, knowing gaze the duchess gave her. She tried to make light of it. “Shouldn’t we all strive to assist those less fortunate?”

“Yes, but one could do so in much more . . . acceptable ways. Most ladies hold benefits or serve on the board of various charities. Go knocking on doors to solicit funds for their causes. You, on the other hand, are in the thick of it. Rescuing these women, making sure they are not unfairly taken advantage of. It makes me wonder if this cause isn’t”—she waved her hand, searching for the right word—“personal to you.”

Maggie sipped her sherry. She hadn’t many female friends, had purposely not cultivated those relationships. Women were too intuitive. Whereas men saw what they wanted, the raucous parties and free champagne, women noticed more, which led to questions one would rather not answer.

But the duchess had come along tonight. Pearl had suggested it, knowing the resources at Julia’s disposal as well as her social standing, and Julia hadn’t even blinked before jumping in Maggie’s carriage. And while Maggie did not want to bare her soul, she owed her new friend an honest response.

“It’s none of my business, of course—”

“It is personal to me,” Maggie answered. “I know what it is like to suffer at the hands of cruelty. To reap consequences one never imagined nor deserved. You weren’t there during my debut, but if it weren’t for Hawkins, I very well could be earning my living on my back. Perhaps not in a place such as this, but kept all the same. So I feel a great sympathy toward the women with little choice but to sell themselves.”

“Oh, Maggie. My sincere apologies for bringing up unpleasant memories.” Julia’s quiet tone was heartfelt. “I was led to believe that Cranford . . . that you and he . . .”

Maggie’s hands curled into fists. “No. Most assuredly not. He was to marry my friend, Amelia. Said he wanted to ask me questions about her. I didn’t know any different. Why wouldn’t I believe him? He had seemed nice enough, quick with a smile and a joke. We’d even danced a few times. But he didn’t wish to ask questions about his betrothed. He presumed—” She took a very unladylike gulp of sherry. “He presumed I would be amenable to his advances.”

“But you were not.” Julia stated it as fact, not a question.

“Indeed not. Fought him off, in fact. I got away but became disheveled in the process. And when your dress is torn and the gentleman in question is grinning from ear to ear, no one believes you did not ask for it.” She lifted a shoulder. “And the damage is done. The Half-Irish Harlot was born.”

“Oh, dear,” Julia whispered, a deep frown on her face. “Had he never even asked, the nitwit?” she mumbled.

Maggie returned to the cabinet, intent on a second sherry. She didn’t normally imbibe heavily, but why not? This was a week for firsts, it turned out. “Who never asked? Cranford?”

When the latch on the door sounded, Maggie spun, expecting to see Madame Hartley.

A furious Duke of Colton appeared instead. Followed by—

Behind stood an equally furious Earl of Winchester. Maggie refused to shrink under his frosty blue stare. He was not her husband or her father. She answered to no one, not even the man who’d given her more pleasure in one afternoon than she’d had in a lifetime. She squared her shoulders as the duke stalked directly toward Julia.

“I ought to paddle your backside, madam,” Colton snarled at his wife.

Julia snorted. “As if that would be any kind of punishment. And calm yourself, Colton. No one has seen us and we haven’t left this tiny room. Do not make me regret sending for you.”

Simon came in to lean against the wall, his large frame making the small room even more suffocating. He folded his arms over his chest, crossed his booted feet at the ankles. While he may appear relaxed to someone unacquainted with him, Maggie knew better. The set of his jaw, the brisk, efficient movements, the light jumping in the depths of his gaze . . . He was livid.

Madame Hartley breezed in behind the men, shutting the door. “Your Grace, my lord, may I offer either of you a glass of port or claret?”

“By all means, and why not play a hand of whist or two while we’re at it,” Colton nearly shouted. “Have you all lost your minds?” He grabbed Julia’s wrist. “Come. We are leaving.”

“Wait,” the duchess cried, neatly breaking free of her husband’s grasp. “You haven’t learned why I needed you and Simon to rush here.”

Surprised, Maggie’s eyes flew to Simon, whose own steely blues were locked on her face. She couldn’t look away. Her skin prickled, a warmth slowly spreading out through her veins, as she remembered yesterday afternoon. She forced it back, buried it deep where she kept all the memories better not revisited.

“Indeed,” Colton drawled with a sneer. “This I cannot wait to hear.”

“Madame, pray tell my husband and Lord Winchester what you told us earlier.”

Madame Hartley gave the men the details, keeping to the facts. As the abbess spoke, Maggie watched the play of emotions over Simon’s face. From fury to curiosity, to outright horror, then back to fury—thankfully not directed at her this time.

The duke’s anger shifted elsewhere as well. He ran a hand through his hair. “Christ. Who did it? Who was the blackguard responsible?”

Madame shook her head. “I would rather not say, Your Grace.”

“Yes, I know. But I’d rather you did say, and we both know I always get what I want. You will tell me before I leave.”

“I should like to see the girl,” Simon said quietly, the first words he’d uttered since entering.

Madame’s brows lowered. “With all due respect, my lord, I am not so certain that is wise. She is . . . not in her right mind. I am worried the presence of a man, even your lordship, will upset her further.”

“Madame, you know me. I daresay this isn’t the first case I’ve seen, nor will it be the last. If she needs help, I’ll gladly give it, but you must allow me the chance to get her out of here. I will be gentle, I swear.”

His statement confused Maggie, but she had to stick to the matter at hand before she lost her chance. “I should like to come as well,” she put in.

Simon’s head swiveled and blue ice pinned her to the spot. “Over my dead body.”

Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but Julia cut her off. “It’s best he goes alone, Maggie. Simon will take care not to frighten her. Truly, I wouldn’t have sent for him if I thought he could not help.”

So Simon’s presence here had been Julia’s true goal. Not the duke’s. What didn’t Maggie know about Simon? How could he be the best person to deal with a frightened, broken prostitute?

Madame Hartley nodded. “Very well. Even though you know the way, I’ll show you up.”

There was no good earthly reason why that statement should upset Maggie, but the words were a barb sliding up under her rib cage. Of course he’d spent time here. Any lord with a few quid in his pocket likely would. She thought about the scene she’d witnessed earlier. What type of girl would Simon choose?

Before she could ponder it further, Simon straightened and trailed Madame Hartley to the door. “Stay here,” he turned to say, looking directly at Maggie.

Why did he feel the need to order her about? She clenched her jaw, but gave him a brief nod and watched his broad back disappear into the hall.

Simon forced his anger down as he trailed Madame Hartley up the back stairs to the second floor. He couldn’t think on how reckless, idiotic, cork-brained—

Did the woman care absolutely nothing whatsoever for her reputation?

A brothel. Her social standing already teetered on the edge of respectability. How could she—?

He stopped those thoughts, took a breath. He needed to remain calm for the task at hand. Maggie had him knotted up. No female had ever been able to accomplish it, not to the degree and with the expediency to which she succeeded.

They went up another set of stairs, to where the girls roomed. This was a part of the house he’d never explored, and he wished he needn’t do so now. Colton would find the man responsible, Simon had no doubt. And while the duke carried out the retribution, Simon would see the girl well taken care of. Perhaps not totally healed, but better off, anyway.

At the far end of the corridor, they stopped. “This is Cora’s room, my lord. I’ll accompany you.” Madame Hartley gave a brisk knock. “Cora, it’s Madame. I’m coming in.” She withdrew a set of keys from a pocket sewn into her skirts and unlocked the door.

The room was pitch dark. Using the light from the hall, Simon could see the outline of a tiny bed and dresser. A small shape darted to the corner. Good God. It was the girl.

Madame opened the door wider, allowing more light in. The sight nearly knocked him to his knees. Her face grotesquely swollen, Cora huddled there, pressed tight against the wall with a large knife in her good hand. The broken arm had been wrapped in a strip of linen, close to her chest to hold it still. She had on a shift that barely covered her, and he could see glimpses of cuts and bruises on her pale flesh.

But it was her eyes that worried him most. Glassy and bright, they darted wildly, reminding him of a feral creature that had been unwittingly trapped.

“Stay back,” she breathed. “I won’t do it no more.”

“Cora, we’re here to help you,” Madame said gently. “This is—” She glanced helplessly at Simon, the question in her gaze clear. How should she introduce him?

To be sure, his speech pattern and manner of dress would proclaim him quality, but better to ease into it gently. No telling who did this to her. It could be any number of titled men. He didn’t want the word “earl” to upset her further.

Simon stepped forward, bent on his haunches. “I am a friend. I’m here to help you. But I cannot do so if you’re intent on keeping—”

Cora began keening—a low wail that sent shivers down Simon’s spine—and for an instant he assumed he’d frightened her. He straightened, stepped back, only to notice that the girl’s stare remained focused on Madame. Could it be the abbess frightening her?

“No more,” Cora repeated, shaking her head. “You can’t force me.”

Simon then knew it was the girl’s employer causing the hysterics. Whether Madame Hartley meant to keep the girl wasn’t the issue; the girl believed she’d be forced to endure another man’s advances.

“Madame,” he said gently, “allow me a moment alone with her.”

Madame departed and the room fell into gloomy silence. Since there was no chair, Simon sat on the edge of the bed. Cora’s harsh breathing filled the tiny space, and Simon waited. Cora had to see that he meant no harm.

After a few moments, when she quieted, he said, “I had a nurse. I was six and had a silly infatuation with her. I used to follow her about any chance I could, trailing her like a puppy. Well, one day, I couldn’t find her. Went looking all around and finally discovered her in the stables. A groom had her pinned and was using her roughly. I peeked through the stall and saw how she told him no, how he overpowered her. When I ran for help, they told me not to concern myself, that I would understand when I was a man.”

He frowned, realizing he’d never actually told this story to anyone before. The memory was sharp, and it disturbed him how many details he could recall, from the grunting, her cries, the color of her petticoats. He exhaled and continued, “They sent her away after that, but I’d always wondered what happened to her. I never found out until years later. When I left university, I hired some men to find her. Long disowned by her family, she’d bounced from place to place until she settled in Southwark. Scars on her face, body riddled with pox, her entire future had changed because of what happened in my family’s stables, a future that might very well have been prevented had the right person taken responsibility for his deeds.”

Cora was quiet, her eyes serious but no longer wary. Her grip on the knife had loosened, though she hadn’t let it go.

Simon added softly, “Let me help you. I can see you trained as a housemaid, or in the kitchens if you’d rather. A job where you needn’t worry about your day-to-day safety. And no one will touch you.”

“No one?” she asked softly.

“No one,” he repeated.

“Why would you want t’help the likes of me?”

“Because I can.” He held out his hand. “But before I can help you, I need to get you out of here. May I have the knife, Cora?”

The girl glanced down, surprised, as if she hadn’t even realized she still held it. Carefully, she placed it on the wood floor. Simon stood up and moved closer, lifting his hands so he didn’t frighten her. “I’m going to pick you up to carry you down the stairs. I’ll put you in my carriage and take you to Barrett House. There, my housekeeper will see you’re properly taken care of. I’d like my physician to come and see about setting your arm, perhaps give you something for the pain. Does all that seem acceptable?”

Cora’s swollen eyes filled as she nodded. “I don’t want t’do this no more.”

“I know. I promise you won’t have to.”

 

 

When the door closed behind Simon and Madame Hartley, Colton stalked to the sideboard. “I hope she’s got something stronger than sherry in here.”

“No doubt she still keeps your private reserve on hand somewhere. After all, you were her best customer for years.” There was no jealousy in Julia’s tone. It was clear she was teasing her husband.

“Indeed.” He grinned at her. “I cannot argue, though it has been some time.”

“And that does not bother you?” Maggie asked the duchess, curious about her friend’s attitude.

“Not a bit,” Julia said. “We were not married at the time. This was years ago, before Colton left for the Continent. All young men sow their oats before settling down. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“We spent many wonderfully debauched evenings here,” Colton said wistfully, now holding a glass of what looked like whisky. He laughed. “Of course, Winchester’s three-day sojourn here is the stuff of legend, though it happened, let’s see, eight or nine years ago. I wish I could’ve seen it but I’d just left for France. So it must have been . . . May or June, I suppose.”

“Ten years ago, husband. You left for France ten years ago. But who’s counting?” the duchess quipped.

Maggie frowned. Ten years ago. In May or June? That would have been right about the time of her scandal and subsequent marriage to Hawkins. So when Maggie’s life was being irrevocably ruined, he’d been . . . celebrating with a bacchanal orgy to make a Roman envious? For three days? She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath.

“Quint wrote me, though. Told me that Winchester—”

“Nick, darling, do shut up,” Maggie heard Julia say and lifted her lids to find the duchesses’s gaze trained on her face.

Colton gave Maggie a contrite smile. “My apologies, madam. My comments were in poor taste.”

“Everything you do is in poor taste, you devil,” Julia quipped. “Maggie, forgive him. Some days I believe my husband to have been raised by wolves.”

That got Maggie to smile despite the searing pain in her chest. “No apologies necessary. It was a long time ago and, verily, why should I care?” She gestured to Colton’s glass. “Is there any more of that?”

The duke raised an eyebrow. “Plenty. Shall I pour you a dram?”

God, yes. “Please.” Maybe the whisky would wash the bitterness and anger out of her mouth.

“Me as well,” Julia put in. “I’d say we could all use a strong drink about now.”

Seconds later, Colton placed a crystal glass in Maggie’s hands, then gave one to his wife. Maggie watched him lean in and whisper something to the duchess that made Julia turn a deep scarlet. It was obvious the two were very much in love, and Maggie felt a sharp pang of envy. Her marriage had been devoid of any feeling, a strict business arrangement with nothing but responsibility and duty. What must it be like to share your life with someone who worships the very ground you walk on? she wondered, lifting the whisky to her lips.

As expected, the first swallow burned like the fires of hell. Maggie gasped, waited for her lungs to draw air once more. She’d had some experience with strong spirits, though she never could claim much tolerance for this particular one.

Dimly, she heard Julia coughing and the duke laughing, so Maggie assumed her friend’s experience hadn’t been much different than her own.

“Gad, how can you men drink such vile stuff?” the duchess rasped.

Once Maggie caught her breath, a pleasant warmth spread throughout her belly. Everything inside her relaxed. Loosened. Like a watch spring wound too tightly, her entire body . . . unfurled.

The second taste went down easier.

Colton raised his own glass in appreciation. “You hardly blinked on the first swallow. My admiration, madam.”

“Must be my Irish blood,” Maggie said with a rueful smile. “At least it’s useful for something.”

She hadn’t finished half her glass when Madame returned. The abbess explained that Simon planned to take the girl to Barrett House and would need transport since he’d traveled there in the duke’s carriage. Maggie immediately offered to take them. Not that she particularly cared to spend any amount of time with Simon. She’d much prefer never to see him again, in fact, but overseeing the girl’s care took precedence over any hurt feelings.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d never had hurt feelings before.

In moments, the two women had reaffixed dominoes and pulled cloak hoods over their heads. The back hall stood empty, so the duke led their small party to the mews.

Both carriages stood waiting, the cattle blowing clouds of impatient breath in the frigid air. Colton handed Maggie up first, had a quick word with her coachman, and then both he and Julia disappeared into his carriage. Maggie huddled against the squabs, the warming brick at her feet, as she watched the duke’s carriage lumber off.

At last, Simon appeared, hatless, his greatcoat wrapped around a large bundle in his arms. Maggie straightened as her coachman hopped down and pulled open the door. Simon maneuvered the entrance neatly, not even putting the girl down to step up and in. He settled on the seat, the girl resting on his lap protectively, and the door closed. She rapped twice on the roof and the carriage set off.

Maggie couldn’t see the girl’s face under the heavy wool of his coat. “Is she awake?” she whispered.

“No,” he answered. “She’s passed out, from the pain of moving her, I assume.”

“I want to help.”

“No. I will take her to Barrett House and then see you home.”

The dim lamplight outlined the hard set of his jaw. He clearly did not want her along, but that was too bad. Nothing would keep Maggie away. She lifted her chin, not avoiding his piercing blue gaze.

At length, he blew out a breath. “I know better than to argue when you’ve got that particular look on your face. So come to Barrett House, if you wish. You may assist once she’s inside and made comfortable. I’ve already sent for my physician to be roused out of bed.”

A hundred questions burned her tongue, but Simon turned to the window, all but ignoring her. She bit the eager words back, forced herself to wait. Before daybreak, she’d have her answers—both about the girl and the reason for his involvement.

 

 

He hadn’t expected to find her asleep.

Simon had maintained a respectable distance all evening while Maggie, his housekeeper, and his physician all tended to Cora’s injuries. When they finished, Simon spoke at length with his physician regarding the girl’s care. Thankfully, Madame Hartley’s bonesetter had done an excellent job on Cora’s arm. Dr. Gilchrist believed the girl would regain full use of it with no ill effects other than a slight stiffness in poor weather. The physician was concerned, however, about internal bleeding. He’d given Maggie and Simon’s housekeeper signs to watch for.

After Dr. Gilchrist quit the house, Simon returned to his study for a brandy.

He needed to gather his wits. Maggie was here. In the house. Just the idea of it made his cock half hard. God, he wanted her in his bed. Wanted her ink-colored hair to fan over his pillows, her pale, creamy limbs gracing his sheets. The picture caused his skin to prickle, need making him restless and randy.

Which was hardly appropriate, considering the reason for her presence in his house. He shouldn’t be lusting after the woman, shouldn’t be thinking of all the ways he wanted to pleasure her despite all that had transpired tonight. She wasn’t here for him, he reminded himself.

So he’d kept to his study, drinking. Cowardly, but better to avoid her than do something he’d regret.

As the hour grew later, he expected Maggie to barge into his study to pepper him with the questions she’d obviously longed to ask during the ride from Madame Hartley’s. Curiously, she hadn’t. He wondered if maybe she’d left. Snuck out without a word. He wouldn’t put it past her. In fact, he’d put very little past her. The woman had a spine of steel.

So he was surprised at half past one to find Maggie in a chair at Cora’s bedside, asleep.

Watching her, he hardly breathed for fear of waking her. She was so lovely, unguarded in her slumber. Black lashes a stark contrast to her pale skin. Full, pink lips parted slightly. Tendrils of hair framed her delicate face like streaks of midnight, her breasts rising and falling gently.

He started when a presence came alongside him.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Timmons, whispered, “Pardon the intrusion, my lord. I’ve had the yellow chamber made up for her ladyship.” She tilted her head toward Maggie. “She didn’t want to leave the girl earlier. Fell right asleep not long after the girl did.”

He’d figured as much but he nodded anyway. “Thank you, Mrs. Timmons. I’ll see that Lady Hawkins finds her chamber.”

“Very good, my lord. I’ve asked one of the maids to sit with the girl. I’ll have your lordship notified should her condition change.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. Good night.”

“Good night, my lord.”

Simon glanced at Maggie, his chest filling with a warmth he’d never experienced. She hadn’t wanted to leave Cora, a girl who most women of the ton would not even dare look at, let alone speak to. Whatever he’d originally believed regarding the reason for her presence at Madame Hartley’s tonight, it was now clear she and Julia had been on a rescue mission. So why the devil would the abbess send for two ladies of quality? Julia was an open book; Simon had known her long enough to be privy to all her secrets. And while there were many, none involved a crusade such as this. But Maggie was a mystery. What was her interest in all this?

One thing for certain: she was unlike any other woman of his acquaintance. He liked that about her. Always had. From the instant he’d met her, he’d liked her spirit, her fire. One had to respect how she refused to cower before the ton. Even before her scandal, when they snickered about her Irish blood, her poet father, or her looks, which were so unlike all the other English girls, Maggie had faced them down with her head high.

He knew because he’d been watching. Due to his mother’s friendship with Maggie’s mother, Simon had been directed to dance with Maggie once each night that Season. Initially, he’d chaffed at the order but found the girl so compelling he could not stay away. In addition to her beauty, she had wit. Not a quality many her age possessed, sad to say, but Simon appreciated it. She made him laugh. Better yet, she made him think.

The question, though, was what to do about her now.

He bent, slid his hands underneath her, and, as gently as he could manage, lifted her. She barely stirred, merely threw her arms around him and burrowed her face into the side of his throat with a sigh. As if they’d done this a hundred times.

Suddenly, he wished they had.

Those were thoughts he did not care to entertain at the moment, not when her soft, womanly curves were pressed intimately against him. He carefully strode to the stairs, took them slowly. Though he could claim the fear of waking her had him moving leisurely, the true reason was a reluctance to let her go.

Simon stepped into the yellow chamber. This was his mother’s old suite. He’d never had a woman stay in this room; guests normally stayed on the other side of Barrett House. Odd that Mrs. Timmons had chosen it, but he didn’t mind. He wanted Maggie here. Close to him.

He lowered her to the coverlet. She rolled away, settling into the pillow though her breathing remained steady. He stood there, deciding. He could leave her fully clothed, but women’s garments were not particularly comfortable. And she would require help to get out of them.

He could be practical about it. Wasn’t as if he hadn’t undressed his fair share of ladies before. Just get it done and leave, man.

The idea nearly made him laugh.

He itched to undress her, but his motives were anything but pure. A familiar ache quickened in his groin as he remembered the previous afternoon’s encounter in her drawing room. The warm clasp of her body. How she’d clutched at him, clung so hard he’d felt the sting of her fingernails through his clothing. And when she’d reached her pleasure at last . . . Christ on a pony, he would never forget her expression as long as he lived. As if he’d gifted her with something precious and rare.

He shook himself. Hardly gentlemanly to stand over her like a lecher. And to remove her clothing would undoubtedly wake her. Slippers. He could deal with slippers. Efficiently, he bent, slid them off her feet, and placed them on the floor.

Perhaps he should loosen the fastenings of her gown. No way to get the contraption off without her cooperation, of course, but he could make her a bit more comfortable. Without jostling her, his fingers plucked at the laces, and as the fabric parted, he caught enticing flashes of her undergarments. His hands slowed. What if he—

What in hell was wrong with him? He was four and thirty, not four and ten. And a gentleman. Had he completely lost his mind? He forced himself to drop the laces and pull the bedclothes over her still-dressed form. Then he strode to the adjoining door, where he resolved not to think on Maggie any longer.