Chapter Twelve
The derision in his voice was not lost on her. “How . . .” she asked, the sound surprisingly strong considering how weak she now felt. “How did you find out?”
“I hired a Runner. He followed McGinnis’s errand boy.”
“The abbey.” She closed her eyes. Damn. And here she thought she’d been so clever.
“Yes, the abbey. Really, Maggie, one would think you’d take more care. But then, you’ve never really tried to hide behind respectability, have you?” His jaw taut and shoulders rigid, he seemed to vibrate with raw fury. “I cannot believe you fooled me again. How you must have laughed at me all these weeks. Winejester. Christ!” He tossed the painting down on the table, where it landed with a smack. “I asked for your help in finding yourself!”
She flinched but did not shrink under the force of his anger. There was no time for hurt feelings or to acknowledge the fist-sized ball of regret lodged in her chest. No, this had to be managed. Simon was in a position, both politically and socially, to inflict damage on her—either as Lady Hawkins or Lemarc. Not that she cared about the personal side of things—she’d given up hope on that front many years ago. But she refused to see her livelihood threatened or, God forbid, eliminated.
“What will you do?” she asked him calmly.
His brow furrowed as he rocked back on his heels. “What will I do? Is that all you can think to say? You offer no apologies, nor even any explanations.” He made a dry, brittle sound, a bit like a hollow chuckle. “Of course. Why would you explain yourself? You never do.”
“Believe what you will. Everyone always does. No one is ever interested in the facts. But I must know what you plan—”
“I am, Maggie. I am quite interested in the facts. I should very much like to learn why you have proceeded to turn me into the village nincompoop. Was it not enough to make a fool of me ten years ago? You had to come back and do it once more for equal measure?”
A fool . . . ten years ago? Her jaw fell open. “Whatever are you talking about? Ten years ago you turned your back on me when the scandal broke. How, precisely, is that making a fool of you?”
“Oh, please. Cranford told me, Maggie. About him and the others.”
The words were a punch to the gut. Not a surprise, really, but hearing them said aloud hurt more than she’d ever imagined. Mostly because it was Simon, the one person who really should have known better. Not merely because of their friendship during her debut, but last night she’d given him a piece of herself, opened up to him in ways she hadn’t with another living person. And here, mere hours later, he still thought the worst of her. What would it take to win him over? How in Hades would she ever make him believe her?
The answer was evident: He would never believe her. He was like the rest of them, the grasping, malicious so-called gentlemen and ladies who liked nothing more than a good, salacious story at someone else’s expense.
A prickling started behind her eyes and Maggie clenched her fists. No tears. Not for him. Not for any of them.
She hardened her heart, putting up a wall of icy resolve while straightening her shoulders. The same protection she adopted every time a lady gave her the cut direct on the street. Each time a rogue propositioned her at one of her parties. When the invitations to the biggest Society events never arrived at her address. Her Irish stubbornness, her father would have said. And for once, she was glad of it. They would not win. She would have the last laugh, pointing out their ridiculousness while pocketing their coin. Her success and independence had been hard fought, and she would not give it up.
Simon continued to glare at her, his body poised for a fight with his rigid jaw and aggressive posture. He plainly wanted her angry. Not surprising, since it was what they all longed to do: insult the Half-Irish Harlot enough that she buckled under the strain and carried on like a common doxy shouting down a customer on the streets of Covent Garden. Not damned likely.
So she withheld her anger, buried it deep inside, and regarded him evenly. Part of her considered maintaining her silence. After all, she’d learned years ago of the futility of trying to change a person’s mind once set. And it wasn’t as if the facts would change anything. Only Becca knew the truth, her sister being the one person Maggie had confided in.
But she wanted to say it, needed to say the truth, if only to watch Simon’s face when it sunk in.
She lifted an eyebrow, doing her best impersonation of a haughty dowager duchess. “I do not know what you were told or what letters you speak of. Ten years ago, I never involved myself with another man.”
“I have seen your letters to Cranford with my own eyes. I’ve seen the proof.”
Lord Cranford had letters . . . from her? The idea was preposterous. She’d never written the man a word, let alone an entire letter. “I never wrote letters to a man, most certainly not Lord Cranford. I do not know what you were shown, but they were not from me. I was a virgin when I married Hawkins.”
Simon blinked, and she could see the doubt creeping into his piercing blue gaze. “I don’t understand. You were caught with Cranford, alone. Disheveled. He told everyone . . .”
“That, thanks to my half-Irish blood, I would lift my skirts for anything in breeches?” she finished.
A muscle twitched in Simon’s jaw, but he nodded.
“And everyone in London believed him, including you.” She strode to the window. Down on the street, two young girls walked arm in arm toward the park, their maids trailing a respectable distance behind. The two girls laughed, enjoying a carefree day in their sheltered existence, and Maggie felt a stab of envy. What must it feel like, to have your whole life ahead of you, untarnished by hate and judgment?
“Are you saying Cranford lied? Why the devil would he do that?”
Maggie kept her gaze on the cold, gray London morning. “I could not say. I rebuffed his advances, quite vigorously I might add, and I can only assume I injured his male pride.”
“Wait, Cranford . . . made this all up? To gain what, your ruination? It makes no sense. And what sort of advances of Cranford’s caused you to be found in the state you were?”
She turned away from the street and regarded him. He watched her intently, a frown pulling at his handsome face. “Really, Simon, I’m quite certain you can imagine.”
He stiffened, his nostrils flaring. “Goddamn it. Why, Maggie? Why did you not tell anyone?”
“No one would have believed me. Even my own mother did not. You know how it looks when that sort of situation arises. Everyone accepts the word of a gentleman.”
“I would have believed you, Maggie. Me. I would have listened and tried to help you. You should have come to me with the truth.”
Didn’t he see? It should have been unnecessary. That was the point. He should have believed her incapable of such terrible duplicity. Simon had been the one bright spot in her Season, when she’d been surrounded by whispers and mocking smiles. She hadn’t fit in, her dark, Irish looks far from the superior pale English girls; but next to Simon, her less-than-impeccable pedigree hadn’t mattered. One grin from him had made the rest of it endurable. She’d been a silly young thing with a crush on the most handsome man in the ton, and the feeling had appeared mutual. Yes, Cranford had lied; however, Simon had never even given her a chance to explain.
“I see,” he said, his voice flat. He almost sounded hurt. “So Cranford ruins you, you do not trust me enough to confess the truth, and prefer to marry Hawkins instead. So tell me how I am the one turned into a drunken wastrel in your cartoons? What in God’s name did I do to deserve it?”
She could not—would not—explain the true reasons for that. Would not tell him of her broken heart and foolish hopes for their future together, hopes so wrongfully shattered. It sounded terribly . . . dramatic. Hell hath no fury and all that nonsense. She preferred to store up her drama for when it could do the most good.
“Was it because of my upcoming proposal? Was this some sort of effort to discredit me publicly?”
Surprise, followed by relief, swept through her. Heavens, why hadn’t she thought of it? Yes, let him think her cartoons were political rather than personal. She latched on to the explanation. “I do not care for your proposal. It will hurt the very women you are trying to protect.”
“That is no reason to turn me into London’s biggest folly, Maggie.”
“Perhaps, but you should thank me. The popularity of the cartoons ensures everyone will remember the name Winchester for years to come.”
His eyes rounded. “Yes, but for all the wrong reasons. You’ve taken a venerable family name and turned it into a something synonymous with drunken irresponsibility. How, precisely, is that a situation that elicits my gratitude?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps in time you shall feel differently.”
“Doubtful. And I cannot help but notice you are surprisingly calm in all this. I should think you would be more concerned, considering I now know your secret. What will the world say, I wonder, when they learn the identity of Lemarc?”
When, he said, not if. Her stomach knotted painfully, but she refused to show it. “Is that what you plan to do? Unmask Lemarc? I doubt anyone would care, and it won’t exactly help your standing in Parliament to be linked with such a scandalous artist.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, the fine wool of his frock coat pulling over wide shoulders and finely honed biceps. She could remember tracing the muscles last evening, committing his well-proportioned torso to memory so that she might sketch it later. The now-bittersweet memory made her chest ache.
He said, “I believe they’ll be too occupied discussing how Lemarc is truly a woman—and a lady at that! Are you prepared for what that will do to your reputation? Your future?”
“Do not tell me you are concerned with my reputation,” she scoffed.
His lips compressed into a thin line, and he shifted toward the wall, giving her his profile. He did not speak for a long moment. Finally, he said quietly, “I have always been concerned with your reputation. And if I had known—or even suspected—what Cranford had done, I would have stepped in. Prevented you from marrying Hawkins. Challenged Cranford. I would have—”
He broke off, so she finished, “Rescued me?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “It’s too late, Simon. We cannot change what happened. It’s done. And I gained something quite powerful at the end. It took years, but I’ve achieved my freedom. I won’t give it up. Not for you, not for anyone.”
“Yes, you’ve made it clear how you feel about my involvement, both then and now.”
The steady tick of the mantel clock echoed in the ensuing silence. Simon’s gaze remained fixed on the wall, away from her. Maggie had no idea what to say. Part of her wanted to confess how much she’d needed him all those years ago, but what good would that do either of them now? He was angry with her for a number of reasons, and perhaps that was for the best.
“What will you do, now that you know about Lemarc?” she asked him.
“Is that your only concern, that I will reveal your secret?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“Once I decide, I’ll be certain to let you know.” With his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might crack, he quit the room.
The Black Queen was shabby, much shabbier than the last three locations they’d visited tonight. Simon stopped inside the main room of the gaming hell and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Smoke hung heavily in the air, making it both difficult to breathe and harder to see. But perhaps that was a blessing, considering the type of patrons who frequented these places.
Men were scattered at the tables, desperation clinging to them like cloying perfume, while the working girls strolled about waiting for a fare. This was not the sort of semi-respectable establishment that catered to wealthy aristocrats; no, in this place, one risked getting a knife under the ribs over the wrong turn of the dice. And it was precisely the sort of hovel in which Simon expected to find Cranford. Of course, he’d said that about each of the dozen places they had searched over the last two nights.
Colton had been on Cranford’s trail since the night they’d rescued Cora from Madame Hartley’s, as the abbess strongly suspected Cranford of the violence. The Duke of Colton was not known for his subtlety, however, and Cranford had likely learned of the search before it had even begun. The viscount had all but disappeared. Knowing Cranford’s penchant for gambling, however, Simon believed the seedier hells were a good place to start looking.
“Well, where should we begin?” Colton asked, coming up alongside.
“Why don’t I find the owner this time? You can search the crowd.”
“You certain? Fitz says this one’s run by O’Shea and it’s his favorite haunt.”
“Yes. I’ll return in a few moments.”
Before he could walk away, a hand caught his shoulder. “Winchester,” Colton said. “You’ve been at it for, what, nearly thirty hours without sleep? I know you want to find him but—”
Simon stiffened. He did not merely want to find Cranford; he needed to find Cranford. Needed to find him in order to break his jaw. Or his nose. Possibly both. No measure of retribution was too harsh. Cranford had ruined Maggie’s life. Hell, he’d ruined Simon’s as well. Without those letters, Simon would have offered for Maggie. He would have—
“Very well.” Colton raised his hands up in surrender. “I can tell you won’t be talked out of it. I was merely going to suggest getting some rest in the very near future. You’re starting to scare even me.”
Simon didn’t want to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the hurt on Maggie’s face, a sorrow no one could possibly fake. No one would have believed me. Everyone always accepts the word of a gentleman. And after Cranford attacked her, the bastard. How frightened she must have been, how heartsick to know she’d done nothing to deserve her downfall. Fury flared in Simon’s belly once more, the anger that had kept him going since walking out of Maggie’s house two days ago. “I can sleep after I put a bullet through Cranford’s heart.”
Simon stalked to the man watching over the floor. Nearly every hell was organized the same: the owners remained in the back, away from the action, while men they trusted stayed on the floor to keep an eye out for cheating. So Simon knew this man wasn’t the one in charge, but he could help Simon find him. “I need to see your employer.”
The keen, dark eyes continued to sweep the floor. “’E’s busy.”
“Counting money, I’ve no doubt.” Simon stepped closer, his posture threatening. “I need information, and if I do not get what I need, I’ll be back each night with authorities from the Crown to shut you down until I do.”
The man sighed and glanced up toward a walkway on the second floor. His hands gave a few rapid signals then he waited. Finally, he nodded and told Simon, “Through the door in the back. Tell ’em Piper said to go up.”
Briskly, Simon followed the directions and soon found himself climbing a narrow staircase to the second floor. A large man waited at the top. “Follow me,” he said before leading Simon through a series of corridors. He stopped and unlatched a scarred wooden door. “Through here.”
Simon crossed the threshold, then stopped. A group of rough-looking men were playing cards around a small, round green baize table. They all raised their heads to stare at Simon.
“Well, well, well.” The largest of the men put down his cards and picked up his cigar. “An earl and a duke in my place tonight.” He slapped the shoulder of his neighbor. “I must be comin’ up in the world, boys.” The men all sniggered but watched Simon cautiously.
“Mr. O’Shea, I assume?”
The man’s mouth hitched and he sprawled back in his chair. “Just O’Shea. We prefer not to use titles on this side of London. I hear you’re interested in a spot of information. Hard to imagine what an earl needs to find in The Black Queen. Unless you’re lookin’ for a bit of rough trade, that is.”
Simon shook his head. “I am looking for someone. Wondered if you might know where I can find him.”
O’Shea smirked. “And why do you think I can help find one of your fancy friends?”
“This man is no friend. He’s titled, but his tastes run a bit . . . darker. Word has gotten round that my friends and I are anxious to find him, and I think he’s hiding out somewhere in London. Perhaps in your part of town.”
“Who?” O’Shea asked and blew a smoke ring.
“Viscount Cranford.”
Simon saw the flash of recognition before O’Shea quickly masked it. “Not sure. Might be familiar.” He idly scratched his neck. “What’s it worth to you?”
Land, money, power. He’d give anything on earth, anything within his control to learn the answer—not that he’d tell that to O’Shea. “What do you want?”
O’Shea grinned. “Let’s have a drink first.” He pointed to one of the men at the table. “Get the bottle from the bottom drawer of the desk, will you? And a clean glass for his lordship.”
The man stood and O’Shea gestured to the empty chair. “Have a seat, Lord Winchester.”
Simon came over and lowered himself into the chair. As he did, the other men at the table all stood, dispersed, leaving just him and O’Shea.
James O’Shea was a thug but also a crafty businessman. He owned most of the hells, brothels, and gin shops in East London. Rumor had him beating a man to death because the man forgot to pay for a drink. Simon wasn’t worried, however. He’d negotiated bills, peace treaties, contracts with mistresses.... He could handle O’Shea. The key was to remain calm and let the other side reveal a weakness first.
A glass was placed in front of both of them and the bottle set by O’Shea’s elbow. “Now,” O’Shea said, uncorking the unmarked bottle and pouring a small amount of light brown liquid in each glass. Simon assumed it to be whiskey, though a strange, sharp odor emerged to make his nostrils twitch. “I’ll tell you what I know. After you have a drink with me.”
Simon snatched up the glass. Without pausing, he brought it to his mouth and tossed the entire thing back. As soon as the spirits hit the back of his throat, he realized his mistake. Bloody everlasting hell . . . It was like nothing he’d ever tasted before, like swallowing a burning ember. All the air left his body as fire scorched his insides. He could feel his eyes water as he struggled for breath. Dimly, he heard O’Shea chuckle as the man drained his own glass.
After what felt like several minutes, but was likely seconds, Simon dragged air into his lungs. He did his best to appear unaffected though flames were roasting him from the inside out.
O’Shea grinned, showing of a mouth full of crooked, yellowed teeth. “My own personal stock. Cooked up by my brother in Dublin.”
“To try and kill you, one may only assume.”
O’Shea laughed, a deep and booming sound. “I’ll be sure and tell ’im you said so. Now, your Lord Cranford. I also have an interest in findin’ him.” He reached forward and refilled both glasses, which caused Simon’s stomach to roil in protest. “He owes me a good deal of money, and I keep an eye on men who owe me that deep.”
“And?” Simon prompted when O’Shea fell silent.
“Finish your drink and I’ll tell you a bit more.”
A game. O’Shea was turning this into a game to see how badly Simon wanted the information. Annoyed, Simon picked up the glass, determined to get answers no matter the cost. O’Shea lifted his own drink and toasted, “Sláinte.”
The next morning, Simon stepped down the corridor toward Colton’s breakfast room, his movements careful and deliberate. Anything not to jostle his head more than necessary. A blunt hammer would be doing less damage than the current pounding inside his skull. At the very least, he prayed he did not cast up his accounts on the marble floor.
A footman, blessedly averting his eyes from the undignified sight of an earl suffering a hangover, opened the door. Simon found Julia alone, behind a small table, china cup in her hand. “Good morning, Simon. Pray sit down. Would you care for food?”
Simon’s stomach flipped. “No, thank you,” he managed, then crossed the room and lowered into a chair. “I appreciate the bed last evening. Though I’m not sure why Colton did not drop me at home.”
“He was worried about you, you dolt. You couldn’t even stand. Now I’m worried about you, as well. We’re all worried about you. And I mean to find out what is going on.”
Simon dragged a hand down his face. “I do not have time for a chat, Jules. I must get home and change. I slept in these clothes. I haven’t done that since university.”
“Rumpled appearance aside, I think you can spare me a few minutes. And I don’t believe this has anything to do with your appearance. No, I believe this has more to do with your search for Cranford. I can see your surprise. Did you think me unaware of what you and Colton have been up to?”
“Yes,” he admitted, too ill to lie. “What did he tell you?”
“He told me all of it, including the information you nearly drowned yourself in rotgut to learn last night.”
Simon stiffened, searched his muddled brain. What had O’Shea said? That Cranford owed him a large amount of money. And Cranford kept a house his wife did not know about. The house was in . . . Holborn? Bloomsbury? Dammit, he couldn’t remember. “How did Colton find it out?”
“O’Shea told him. And Colton and Fitzpatrick have already checked the location of Cranford’s apartments. Cranford is no longer there. Cleared out weeks ago. But you needn’t worry; they will continue to turn the city up and over until they find him. There’s nothing more to be done. I wish to discuss what you plan to do about Maggie.”
He tensed. “About Maggie?”
“Do not play dense. Were you aware she’s run off to Paris?”
No, he hadn’t known. He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. Why would she go to Paris? He recalled their last conversation and winced. In his hurt and anger, he’d allowed her to believe, erroneously of course, that he might reveal her as Lemarc. Had she believed him? The idea made him feel worse. “When Cranford has been dealt with, I will find Maggie.” And apologize.
“Simon, you and I have never kept secrets from one another.”
He lifted an eyebrow, causing her to chuckle. “Fine. We usually do not keep secrets from one another. Happy?”
“Mildly. And your point?”
“I want to know what’s happened with Maggie. What caused her to run off for Paris and for you to kill yourself in a search for Cranford?”
He knew that particular determined glint in her eye. Julia would not relent, and perhaps it might do Simon some good to tell someone. “I’m assuming Colton told you of Maggie’s scandal, that Cranford lied, showing me false letters to make me believe the affaire consensual.”
“Yes. Maggie told me some of that tale as well. At least her side of it.”
Simon’s jaw dropped. “Maggie told you? When? Why did you not tell me?”
Julia looked down her nose at him—impressive since he towered over her, even sitting. “At Madame Hartley’s. And I would not betray her confidence in such a manner. If she wanted you to know, she would have told you.”
“Did she also tell you that she is Lemarc? That she is responsible for the Winejester cartoons?”
Julia blinked. She opened her mouth, closed it. “No. She did not. I . . . I never would have guessed. Not in a hundred years.”
Simon snorted. “Nor would have I. But there you have it.”
“When did she tell you?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t. I hired a Runner. He discovered it.”
“Heavens. She is . . . well, the work is impressive. The chalk drawings must have been hers. She’s a genius.”
Yes, a clever, beautiful, infuriating genius.
“And allow me to guess,” Julia continued. “You were furious and she was unapologetic.”
“At the start. But there’s more.” Simon recounted the entire tale for Julia, starting with how Maggie hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth during the scandal, the creation of Lemarc to discredit him politically, and finishing with his threat of revealing her identity.
“Oh, Simon.” Her blue eyes filled with pity. “Do you not see it? Are you so blind that it has not even occurred to you?”
“See what?”
“Do you not remember doing anything as a small boy to gain a girl’s attention? Tugging on her hair or putting a worm in her half-boot?” He must have stared at her blankly, because Julia said, “Well, very likely you never needed to. The point is she wanted you to notice her.”
“By making me out to be a ninny? Come on, Jules.”
“Clearly you broke her heart. All the more reason to choose you as her target. You should be flattered.”
It was close to what Maggie had admitted the day he had confronted her. She hadn’t said anything about a broken heart, of course, but implied he should be grateful for his immortalization in cartoon form. He rubbed his jaw, let the idea sink in.
“And let’s not forget those cartoons have increased your popularity tenfold. Winejester has not hurt your reputation—quite the opposite. The character has solidified you as one of the premier political men of the age. She’s done you a great service.”
“Hardly feels as such.”
“Because of your pride. And your feelings for her.”
“She should have trusted me,” he admitted. “During the scandal. If she’d come to me then, I—” He couldn’t finish it. But he did not need to; if one person knew what he was feeling, it was Julia.
“I know,” Julia said, kindly. “And it’s clear I should not have prevented you from issuing a challenge to Cranford. I will need to beg her forgiveness for my role in all this. . . .” She paused to heave a sigh. “What happened during her debut, it gives me shivers. She was so young. I understand you believed Cranford and his false letters, but you ought to have sought her out, Simon. You should have at least given her a chance to be heard.”
“Are you saying I deserved Winejester?”
“No. Yes.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t know. But I’m saying she obviously cares about you. And it’s clear you love her. So whatever are you going to do about it?”
Love. Did he love Maggie? How could one love a woman he neither understood nor even knew? “I need coffee.” He got up, went to the sideboard, and helped himself to a cup. After a healthy swallow, he decided not to quibble over the word. What he felt for Maggie was a tangle of emotions too strong to name. And he had no idea how she felt about him. He resumed his seat. “I cannot face her until I’ve dealt with Cranford.”
Julia’s brows drew together. “Are you prepared to walk away from her a second time?”
“No,” he answered sharply, surprising them both. “I just need . . .”
“Time? I’m afraid you don’t have it. She’s on her way to Paris right now with no plans to return to London. I’m told she gave orders to close up the town house. Who knows how long she’ll stay in France or where else she’ll go. Can you afford to let her slip away? Because the longer she thinks you’ve let her go, the more hurt she’ll be when you finally find her.”
He had to explain it plainly, so she would understand. “I need to make Cranford suffer, Jules.”
She huffed, a sign he recognized as extreme annoyance. “You’re making this about you and your need for revenge, Simon. This isn’t about you. It’s about Maggie, and, from what little I can tell, it seems she has made peace with her past. It’s remarkable what she’s accomplished. You were singled out in those cartoons because you hurt her. Terribly. And now you’ve hurt her all over again.”
He finally saw it. As if a ray of sunlight had burst through the dark sky, he knew Julia was right. Maggie should be his focus. What mattered was finding her and putting the past to rest. Because the thought of losing her forever had a fist-sized ball of panic welling up in his chest.
“Go to her, Simon. She’s hurting and you are the only one who can make it stop.”