Chapter Twenty
“No sign of him, my lord,” Hollister said, striding into Simon’s study after being announced.
Simon grit his teeth in frustration as Colton said, “It’s as we expected. He’s gone into hiding.”
“Probably watched us chasing the delivery boy this afternoon and realized Sir James would be caught,” Quint noted.
They had split up after dealing with Sir James in order to find Cranford. Hollister and Colton had taken the more disreputable locations Cranford had been known to frequent, while Quint and Simon had searched the clubs and West End haunts. It was after midnight, however, and failure hung over them like a dark cloud.
“Unless he’s still in Paris,” Colton said. “There’s no way to know for sure. I’ve been hunting him for weeks. If he were in London, I would have smelled a whiff of him by now.”
“Not necessarily,” Quint said, lowering his cup and saucer to the table. “He could be languishing in an opium den for all we know.”
“And still managing to pull Sir James’s strings? No, I do not believe so.” Simon stood up to stretch his legs, his mind turning over to find a solution. “What do we do now?” he asked no one in particular.
The room remained silent until Quint said, “Tell me again what Cranford said to Maggie in Paris?”
Simon rubbed his temples and tried to remember all Maggie had told him. It had taken some persuasion to get the full story from her several days after the fact. “She asked him to reveal himself and he refused, telling her he would do so in good time. He admitted he knew her to be Lemarc, and also told her that I would use her.”
“I stand by my hypothesis that this is personal about you, Winchester,” Quint said. “And those remarks only confirm it. What does Cranford have against you?”
Simon shrugged. He never had understood it himself.
“Nothing from school or university that I recall,” Colton said. “Cranford was a few years older than us and I hardly remember him.”
“That day, at Brooks’s, you looked ready to throttle Cranford,” Quint said to Simon. “What did he say to make you so angry?”
Simon had mostly forgotten that conversation. “He warned me away from Maggie—veiled as friendly concern, of course—and poked fun at Sir James.” At the sideboard, he poured a fresh glass of claret.
“What doesn’t fit is the attack on the girl at Madame Hartley’s,” Quint said. “Cranford is a thief and a liar. A swindler. He doesn’t strike me as a murderer.”
“He did attack Maggie during her debut,” Simon pointed out. “Made advances and got rough when she rebuffed him.”
“I want to talk to Maggie,” Quint said, coming to his feet. “Perhaps she can recall something more about what Cranford said on the balcony.”
Though the hour was late, Maggie found herself strangely awake when the duchess departed. The guard remained at the front door, and the idea that she was a prisoner in her own home made her edgy and restless. She decided to return to her studio.
After dismissing Tilda, she climbed the stairs to her haven, a lantern in hand to light her way. The studio dark, she took a moment to light several lamps around the room. When she finished, a shadow in the corner caught her eye. Maggie turned and strained to see if something lurked there.
Just as she took a step closer to investigate, a form emerged from the blackness. She froze in horror as the light slowly revealed Lord Cranford’s face.
His expression was chilling, with dark eyes glittering in her direction. Maggie bit back a gasp. “Wh-what are you doing here?” she choked while edging away.
“Am I not invited? I thought this was one of your infamous parties.”
“You are never invited here for any reason.” She flicked a glance toward the only door. Unfortunately he stood closer to it.
“Thinking of running?” He shook his head. “You’ll never make it in time. Though I would enjoy subduing you.”
A shiver flew down her spine. She thought of Cora, the girl from Madame Hartley’s that had nearly been killed. Was Cranford capable of such brutality? He had been rough that night in the Lockheed gardens, but he hadn’t hit or injured her. Still, the possibility of violence kept her from lunging for the door.
She raised her chin. “Perhaps I’ll scream. The entire house will come to my aid.”
His arm shifted, materializing from behind his back. A small pistol now pointed at her. “You may try, but I cannot believe it worth your life. Especially since you shall want to hear what I have to say. Do have a seat, Maggie.”
Maggie slowly lowered onto a small wooden stool, casting subtle glances for a weapon in the vicinity. Her studio was tidy, however, and nothing lay within reach but a lead pencil. When Cranford shifted to lock the door, she snatched the pencil and concealed it in her skirts before he spun around.
He moved toward her, his black trousers and ruby-red topcoat a strangely civilized contrast to the sneer he sported. She vowed silently to remain calm, not to allow him to frighten her. Drawing in deep breaths, she kept her gaze trained on his face. “You do not want to do this,” she told him. “It’s a mistake.”
He stopped a few feet away, his right eye twitching slightly. “Do you toss your skirts up whenever he crooks his spoiled, privileged finger? Spread your legs and let him plow you to his heart’s content, like a whore would? Is that what you are for him?”
God, he was talking about Simon. She forced down the revulsion at Cranford’s crude words. “So this is about Winchester?”
“Why him? I’ve never understood it. You rebuffed me and yet jumped into his bed at the first opportunity.”
“You were betrothed to my friend!” Not to mention it had always been Simon for her, since the first time his brilliant blue eyes shined down at her.
“He cannot have everything! Why should they have it all?” Nostrils flared, he took a few deep breaths as if he were struggling to get back under control.
They? “Winchester’s family, you mean?”
“He and every other privileged, spoiled man with a title. They do nothing but roll around in money they did not earn. Wagers, gaming hells, boxing matches . . . they throw it away like crumbs.”
“But you are a viscount. You have—”
“Debt. I have a crumbling estate not worth the paper it’s printed on. I’ve had to scrape and suffer, marry a woman I detested just for her dowry. But I will get mine.” He gestured to her with the pistol. “That, my dear, is where you come in.”
Mind reeling, she clenched her hands tightly in order to stay focused. “What do you mean to do?”
“My mistake was in trusting Sir James. The man is a buffoon. But you, however . . .” His mouth curved. “I should have used you right from the start. He’ll do anything you ask, won’t he?”
Sir James? What was he talking about? She gripped the pencil, praying it would be enough when the time came. “Not any longer. We are no longer . . . close.”
He gave her a peevish look. “Please. Do not waste my time with lies. I’ve seen him with you, seen the way he watches you. God, you should have seen his face when I showed him those letters all those years ago! He truly believed you’d written them. I nearly pissed myself with joy.”
“I thought this was about money,” she blurted. “Or do you derive pleasure from ruining the lives of others?”
“Everything is about money—in this case the money I’ve worked damn hard to get. I’ve been forced to cozy up to Sir James for years just to bilk the Winchester estate of thousands of pounds.” He grinned. “Ruining lives is merely an additional benefit.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “As you ruined Cora’s?”
He blinked, confusion lining his forehead. “Cora?”
“The girl from Madame Hartley’s.”
“I know of no one named Cora,” he said, taken aback, and Maggie believed him. “I’ve never cheated one of Hartley’s girls.”
So another man was responsible for the attack on Cora. Madame Hartley had been wrong. Maggie filed that away for later. “I will not help you steal money from Winchester.”
“Oh, you will, madam. Or I will expose you as Lemarc to everyone in London.”
Maggie froze as the pieces fell into place. Cranford was the blackmailer. God, would she never be rid of this man? “How did you learn I was Lemarc?”
“Followed you. And everyone else will find out if you do not help me.”
“You wouldn’t dare. It’s your only hold over me.”
“Wrong,” he said with a sneer. “If you do not help me, I’ll ruin you. Again. So before you say no, think of your sister’s reputation. Think of your livelihood. Think of Winchester’s family and his brilliant political career,” he finished with a high drama Henri would envy.
She would never steal from Simon or abuse his trust in such a devious manner—even if it meant ruination once more. Besides, her sister had been the one to encourage Maggie to reveal herself as Lemarc; the likelihood of scandal had not concerned Becca in the least. And since Maggie and Simon were finished, any disgrace she endured would not affect him.
“Go ahead and do it, then. I’ll not help you.” She rose, still hiding the pencil in her skirts. “You’re a coward and a thief, Cranford, and everyone in London will soon know it.”
His face slackened, as if he couldn’t believe she had refused. The hand holding the pistol wobbled. “You would not dare. You shall be imprisoned for those drawings.”
She no longer cared. Without Simon, nothing else mattered. “I might, yes. At the very least, I hope they allow me a pencil.”
He blinked and his gaze slid away as he tried to regroup. Sensing this was her moment, she lunged forward, pencil raised, and aimed for his shoulder or neck—any vulnerability at which she could strike to aid in her escape.
Her skirts rustled, betraying her movements, and his head snapped up in time to see her coming. He hadn’t a chance to aim the pistol at her, however, and the force of her body knocked it from his hands, the weapon clattering to the floor. Her pencil hit the flesh of his shoulder and he yelped, shoving her hard with both hands to send her careening back into the wooden table. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and she watched, helpless, as Cranford lifted a nearby burning lamp and hurled it into a stack of paintings and empty canvases.
“No!” she cried. With horror, she saw the lamp crash open, kerosene spilling, and the reaction was instantaneous. Flames erupted and engulfed the canvases, burning them at an alarming rate. Her heart raced. Fire was every painter’s biggest fear, considering the mineral spirits and oil of turpentine so necessary in every studio.
Movement caught her eye. She turned to find that Cranford had retrieved his pistol and was leveling it at her once more. The flames leapt higher and the acrid smoke from the burning oily rags seared her eyes. Cranford pulled the trigger, but the pistol misfired, and the heat pushed him back. He turned to the door and she knew she had mere moments before the cleaning fluids succumbed to the blaze and all was lost. The resulting explosion was sure to level the room and leave her no hope for escape. Maggie sprinted for the door, but Cranford was faster. He slipped into the corridor, and slammed the door shut before Maggie could reach it.
Just as her hands touched the wood, she heard him lock it from the outside. “Let me out!” she screamed, pounding on the flat surface. “Let me out! I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Just do not let me die in here!” She kept beating, her fists aching, yelling for him, Tilda, or anyone who might be within earshot. With all her strength, she threw her body against the partition—and met naught but resistance. “Damnation!” she cursed.
Looking around, Maggie realized with horror that more than half the room was already ablaze. The fire was mere inches from her solvents, and black smoke billowed toward the ceiling, burning her lungs with every breath. She knew she had a scant few minutes, if not seconds, to live.
She went to the row of windows and swallowed hard. Jumping down meant certain death. She looked up at the window in the ceiling but knew immediately it was of no help. Even if she could reach it, the sliver of an opening was too small to crawl through. She coughed, hardly able to breathe, and realized she had one choice. Quickly, she climbed out on the thin ledge that ran beneath the windows. It was no deeper than the length of her foot, so she flattened herself against the house as best she could, her nails digging into the stucco. Do not look down. . . . Do not look down.
Still worried about the imminent explosion, Maggie searched for a path to safety. Inching along the ledge carefully, she made her way to the side of the town house as quickly as possible. She’d never been happier that the town houses were so close together in London. Drawing in a deep breath, she leaped across the small divide to the adjacent building’s corresponding ledge.
When she landed, her feet wobbled and, heart in her throat, she clutched the building to steady herself. After a harrowing few seconds, she gained her balance and exhaled in relief. She pressed her face to the surface, so grateful she could nearly kiss the building.
Her troubles were not over, however; if her studio exploded, this house could very well go up in flames as well. It was imperative to reach the ground as quickly as possible.