Chapter Four
“Better not have too many, Winejester!”
Three young men dissolved into laughter, and Simon forced a smile and raised his glass toward them. He recognized each one, the fools. “Appreciate the warning, Pryce.”
Colton made a noise. “The reason you should humor those walking cocks is unfathomable to me. It’s as if your bollocks have shriveled up and fallen off since you started up in Parliament.”
“Pryce’s father is the Earl of Stratham, one of my biggest allies. Pulverizing his son for a drunken jest is not how the game is played, Colt.”
“Exactly why I never took up my seat in Lords. Too many favors and slaps on the back. No one saying what they truly mean. I don’t know how you tolerate it.”
Simon sighed. Colton knew him better than anyone, but not even his childhood friend would understand. Colton’s father had been a cold-hearted bastard, not particularly well liked in either Parliament or Society. But Simon could perceive his family’s legacy everywhere he turned. Some men came from a long line of butchers or blacksmiths; the Barrett men were statesmen, helping to shape the policy and future of the realm since Henry the Sixth. The fifth Earl of Winchester had once served as Lord President of the Council. And Fox himself had taken counsel with Simon’s father on occasion.
His father had died at forty-five. Rare heart condition, they’d said. Simon had no idea if his own health would follow a similar path—if he were going to keel over and expire, dear God, let it be a surprise—but he did intend to do something worthwhile in the time he had left.
So six years ago, he had taken up his seat in Lords. Turned out he had the family knack for politics as well, and he’d quickly gained a reputation for backing the winning side. He enjoyed the competitiveness of Parliament. The thrill of success. The challenge of exploiting an opponent’s weakness to get what he wanted.
“I rather like the Winejester cartoons,” Colton continued. “At least I’ll always have those to remember our drunken escapades.”
Simon turned sharply. “Have you purchased one?”
Colton’s lips twitched. “I’ve tried. Twice. Curst shopkeeper won’t sell it to me.”
“Well, I wish they would stop. Certainly there are more interesting subjects to skewer.”
“Doubtful.” Colton followed Simon’s gaze to the circle of men on the other side of the room. They both knew who stood in the center of that pack of jackals. “Do you plan to stare at her all night, my friend? You’re glowering like an elderly chaperone, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.”
Simon took a healthy swallow of champagne, wished for something stronger. “I’m trying to reconcile the somewhat shy and sweet girl I knew with this confident and brazen . . .”
“One can change,” Colton murmured. “Or perhaps you never really knew her at all—you only assume you did.”
Yes, she had certainly duped him. How many men had she taken to her bed before Cranford had revealed her true nature? And to think, he’d even asked his mother for the Winchester rubies as a betrothal gift.
Watching her flirt and entertain her circle of admirers put him in a foul mood. Which must have shown on his face because Colton asked, “Wondering whom she may choose tonight?”
“The fortunate sod,” Simon growled.
“Who says she’ll take only one? There were plenty of nights where I—”
“God, don’t say it. You know how much I loathe it when you attempt to be insightful.” Simon threw back the rest of his bubbly. “I’m off. Give Julia my excuses and I’ll see you on the morrow, if you’re about.”
“Allow me to guess,” Colton drawled. “Curzon Street.”
No need to answer. Colton was right and they both knew it. He shoved his empty glass into his friend’s hand and headed for the door.
Outside, Simon set a brisk pace for the small house where his current mistress, Adrianna, resided. Curzon Street was not far, so he told his coachman he’d rather walk. If nothing else, he needed the cold air to clear his head. The sight of Maggie surrounded by her throngs of admirers gave him a pounding ache precisely behind the eyes.
He knew what those men saw because he’d seen it once, too. Maggie could hold the attention of a room merely by lifting a dainty finger. Heart-stoppingly beautiful, her unique looks and confidence could bring a man to his knees. It had taken him years to forget her.
So Adrianna was precisely what he needed at the end of this evening. A soft, warm, and willing body to take his mind off everything else. He’d first met Adrianna at Drury Lane, where she’d upstaged Kean in a production of Brutus. It had taken some doing to get her away from her former protector, but Simon had charmed her until she relented—charmed as well as promised better lodgings and more money.
They got on well and she was an enthusiastic and adventurous lover. He hadn’t planned to see her this evening so he had no clue whether she was in. Approaching the tiny brick house, he noticed the lamps were on. That boded well. He took the front steps quickly, rapped on the door.
Adrianna’s maid, Lucy, answered. She confirmed Adrianna was in, took his things, and asked him to wait in the small sitting room in the front. Odd, since he normally would venture directly to Adrianna’s bedchamber. Instead of trying to understand the workings of his mistress’s mind, Simon used the opportunity alone to get a strong drink. He splashed a liberal amount of his favorite scotch whisky into a tumbler. Imported from an illegal distillery in one of the Inner Hebrides, the whisky did not come cheap. But it’s worth every shilling, he thought, taking a swallow as he settled on the small sofa to wait.
Why did Maggie not dance any longer? She had loved to dance all those years ago. He knew because he had partnered with her at least once during every party. And each time he’d arrived to claim their set, her eyes had sparkled, a secret joke between the two of them—
The latch sounded and Adrianna burst through the door. Her long, brown hair swirled down her back, a black silk dressing gown covering her petite, but generously endowed, body. By the way her breasts bounced and swayed, it was clear she was naked under the thin fabric. Excellent. That would certainly expedite matters.
“Darling! I had no idea you planned to come tonight.” She crossed to the sofa and sat down, leaning over to kiss him. “Is something amiss? You know how I worry when you stray off your routine.”
He frowned. Was he so regimented, then? So predictable and boring? “Everything is fine. I was out nearby and thought I would see if you were home. Were you going out?”
“I have a late supper with friends, but I’m more than happy to cancel my plans.”
“No, it’s unfair of me to come unexpected. I was just in a mood.”
She lifted her brows and gave him a sultry smile. “Is that so? What kind of mood ? The kind of mood where I get on top and—”
He laughed. “You are incorrigible, you saucy wench. I’m only staying for the drink.” He finished the whisky and leaned forward to place the glass on the table. “I’ll see you this week. Tuesday, as always.”
Adrianna threw a leg over his waist, lifting her dressing gown to sit astride him. “Maybe I better give you a reason to come back, then.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her mouth on his, kissing him deep and hard. The soft, enticing weight of her heavy breasts rested on his chest. He felt his body begin to respond, so he gently put some distance between them.
“Tuesday,” he told her. “We’ll finish this on Tuesday.”
“I can hardly wait,” she said, grinding down on his growing erection. “Why don’t I suck you now? You know how much you love my mouth. I’m certain it won’t take long.”
He considered it. Adrianna was incredibly skilled. But every time he closed his eyes he saw midnight hair and flashing green eyes. Imagined it was Maggie on her knees, taking his cock between her luscious—
“I see you like that idea,” Adrianna purred, her clever fingers working their way to the buttons on his breeches.
He grabbed her hand. “Not tonight. Not if you’re on your way out.” And definitely not when all he could think about was Maggie.
What in God’s name was wrong with him? He’d never been distracted by thoughts of another woman while enjoying Adrianna’s charms. Ever. However, Maggie kept invading his brain, even at the most inopportune moments. He did not want Adrianna; he wanted another woman. Craved her with every molecule in his body.
No doubt there were other men in London likely experiencing the very same reaction.
“Fine.” Adrianna pouted, regaining his attention. “I’ll see you on Tuesday, then.” She kissed him once and then stood up. Not that he’d expected her to argue, but her easy acceptance had him frowning. Was she so eager for him to leave? When he’d first set her up in this small house, they had enjoyed many evenings together, but over the last six months he’d settled into a pattern of twice weekly visits. He hadn’t given a thought about what she did on those other five nights.
Smoothing down her dressing gown, she added, “I best get to it. It will take some time to finish dressing.”
A rap on the front door sounded. Simon heard Lucy, the maid, hurry down the hall. A single male voice drifted through the walls. Adrianna’s eyes darted to his face and Simon registered the guilt there.
“You’re not going out, are you?”
Her fingers twined in the loops of her dressing gown, and she swallowed. “No,” she said, quietly.
He sighed. “Hell.”
The sun peered out from behind a large cloud just as Maggie entered the park. She’d offered many times to host these meetings at her own house, but her companion staunchly refused. As if Maggie gave a whit for propriety. Besides, did anyone truly care with whom the Harlot associated with these days?
She had no trouble spotting the carriage. Though plain and without distinguishing marks, it was the only conveyance with the curtains drawn on such a lovely winter day. She slowed her mare, dismounted, and threw the reins to her groom.
The driver jumped to the ground at her approach. “Morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Biggins. How’s her mood today?”
“Excitable, my lady,” he answered with a smile and opened the door. “But I am used to it.”
A volume of purple silk rustled as Maggie climbed inside.
“Quit complaining, you puppy. You have the easiest job in all of London,” the woman snapped and then gentled her voice. “Come in, my lady. Please, have a seat.”
The lamps in the carriage gave off a warm glow, revealing the delicate face of Pearl Kelly, London’s current reigning courtesan. Swathed in a resplendent violet morning dress and expensive jewelry, Pearl could easily have passed for nobility if one didn’t know her background. Born in the slums of London, she’d used her unparalleled wit and quick mind to make an illustrious name for herself.
She and Maggie had become friends of a sort. When Hawkins died, Maggie had moved back to London a much different woman. No longer a sheltered innocent, she now understood the difficulties women faced in a man’s world—especially those without money or family connections. She’d decided to help other fallen women, even if the label was earned. Women had so few choices in this world, a fact she understood better than most, so should she not try and help those less fortunate?
Through Tilda, Maggie had learned of Pearl’s wretched childhood. As a girl, Pearl had suffered abuse and left home at eleven years of age. No one quite knew what had happened to her between quitting home and finding her first protector. Pearl never said, but one could assume they had not been the happiest of times. After learning of Pearl’s struggle, Maggie had believed the courtesan to be the perfect choice for her plan. She’d approached Pearl with a proposition: If Maggie provided the money, would Pearl see it used to help the London girls and women who traded their bodies for coin?
Pearl had jumped at the opportunity. The courtesan provided knowledge of the brothels and how best to help the girls earning a living there. She was acquainted with the owners, aware of who would be receptive to new ideas, and who would use additional funds in the intended manner. And when they were fleeced by an owner, which had only happened once, Pearl employed a few large men to send a message.
Maggie liked to hope the efforts made a difference. While one could never prevent a girl from making a living on her back, Pearl and Maggie did try to keep them healthy and safe.
“Good afternoon, Pearl. You look stunning, as usual.”
Pearl waved the compliment away, though Maggie knew it pleased her. “I feel tired, my lady. I am considering a young man and he is much more . . . energetic than I’m used to. Though I must say, one learns to appreciate exuberance at my age. It far outweighs experience.”
Maggie chuckled. “Considering Hawkins was nearly thirty years my senior, I understand. In my next life, I hope to be blessed with a young buck.”
Pearl made a disbelieving sound. “Next life? If your ladyship will forgive my impertinence, you are young, beautiful, rich . . . what in heaven’s name are you waiting for?”
Maggie had no idea, to tell the truth. At twenty-eight, she’d had two lovers: her husband and a Frenchman she’d met while studying in Paris. Both experiences had been disasters.
“I can see I have brought up unhappy memories, so my apologies,” Pearl said. “And I did not arrange this meeting to discuss our current amours—though should your ladyship ever seek advice, you only need ask. What I don’t know about men could fit on the head of a pin.”
“Thank you. I may take you up on your offer one of these days.”
“Indeed, I hope so. Talking about men is my very favorite thing to do.” She smirked. “Well, second favorite anyway.”
They both laughed, and then Maggie asked, “So if we aren’t discussing men, what are we discussing?”
Pearl smoothed down the folds of her skirt. “A few matters. The first, my lady, is I have spoken to the owner of The Goose and Gander. She has accepted our terms in exchange for the money.”
“Excellent. I’ll send a bank draft later today.”
“That is most kind of your ladyship.”
“I am happy to do it, as you well know. What else?”
Pearl toyed with her fan. “I have heard rumors that your ladyship is acquainted with the Earl of Winchester. Are they true?”
Maggie blinked. “Yes, I am. That is, our mothers were friends and the two of us were close during my debut. Why?”
“But you’ve seen him? Recently, I mean.”
Yes, unfortunately Maggie had. The answers I require are best discussed in private. His words from the previous evening still rankled. Did Simon truly plan to proposition her? She hadn’t decided whether to admit him to the house if he presented himself today. He deserved to be left waiting on the stoop.
Pearl was staring so Maggie answered, “Indeed, only last evening. Why?”
“Has your ladyship been informed about the proposal he plans to present?”
Maggie shook her head. She never paid attention to political matters. Pearl, however, was better informed than most when it came to Society gossip and politics. She’d once told Maggie that information proved almost as powerful a currency as money.
“The proposal has to do with rape. Forgive me for speaking plainly about an indelicate matter, but—”
“No, please do so. There’s no need to dance around it with me. Pray go on.”
“As you know, the facts can be hard to prove to a magistrate. Many times the woman may cry rape, but the man claims the act to be consensual. Lord Winchester’s law would, in such cases, force the man to provide compensation to the woman. An annual sum. Into perpetuity.”
Maggie’s jaw lowered. “A yearly stipend? No woman would want to be tied in such a manner to a man who’d violated her. A yearly reminder of what’s been done, and her attacker knowing where she lives . . . it’s terrible.”
“Precisely, my lady.”
“Why on earth would anyone even assume it to be a good idea?”
“I could not say. But perhaps your ladyship can set his lordship straight?”
The last thing she wanted to do was engage Simon in a political discussion. Perhaps there was another way, however. Many members of Parliament attended her parties, providing any number of opportunities to undermine Winchester’s efforts. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I shall leave it in your ladyship’s capable hands, then. I’ll certainly use whatever influence I have with my meager connections.”
Maggie suspected Pearl’s influence remained considerable, though she currently had no protector. “Excellent. I will do the same.”
“Now, I have one last request. One of our houses, over in Long Acre, has thrived with the embroidery instruction, so much so that a few girls would care to apprentice with a dressmaker. Perhaps your ladyship knows of a modiste who would appreciate a somewhat sullied pair of helping hands.”
“How many girls?”
“Three.”
Maggie bit her bottom lip, thinking. Possibly she could browbeat her own modiste into taking one girl, but she did not spend much on clothing or fripperies. And her social rank, while titled, was not as powerful as that of a lady without a scandalous past. That left her with little leverage. “I fear my position is not powerful enough for such a feat. It would take a lady with tremendous cachet to convince a modiste to take on these girls.”
“I know a lady who qualifies,” Pearl said. “And she happens to be in my debt. I once did her a favor and she was exceedingly grateful.”
“Wonderful. Let’s ask her.”
Pearl shook her head. “I cannot. For many reasons, I must not approach her directly. But your ladyship can....”
Simon presented his card at the door, unsure of his reception. Would Maggie refuse to see him? She’d been politely cool the previous evening after changing her costume, and there was every possibility she had a guest in the house.
His hand tightened on the crown of his walking stick.
One glance at his card and the servant ushered him inside. He noted she was the same woman who had admitted them the previous evening. Had Maggie no butler, then? He quickly handed over his things and followed to a comfortable sitting room in order to wait.
Aside from her lavish parties, it seemed Lady Hawkins lived responsibly, even frugally. The furnishings exhibited some wear. The rugs were serviceable plain wool rather than fashionable Aubusson carpets. True, an ample amount of coal sat in the grate, giving off a nice amount of heat, but it was a comfortable space without pretension or artifice. It suited her, he thought. Certainly a refreshing change from the extravagance of the other women he’d consorted with over the last few years—though, to be fair, mistresses were not exactly known for pinching a penny.
After a few moments, a small landscape portrait on the far wall caught his eye.
He closed in for a better inspection. A watercolor seaside scene. Quite smartly done, in fact. Waves pounded the beach and a selection of birds littered the sand, perfectly capturing the vibrancy and serenity of the location, as well as the chaos of the ocean. The artist had skill. Odd there was no signature in the corner. It had the look of a Gainsborough or Sandby, to his eye.
Art normally bored him to tears, but this . . . this calmed him. He could stare at it and not grow to hate it day after day. There was something about it, though, something familiar about the image. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Not the location, exactly—
The door opened, startling him.
“Good afternoon.”
And there stood Lady Hawkins, every bit as vibrant and lovely as the painting he’d just been studying. The combination of black hair, luminous green eyes, and porcelain skin made his breath catch—just as it had all those years ago. Only she wasn’t a girl any longer, but a woman with fuller curves. He wished he could have witnessed her transition, he realized.
She dropped a quick curtsy. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”
He bowed. “I have not been waiting long. I’ve been admiring this picture here.” He gestured to the watercolor. “I was attempting to discern the artist, but it’s unsigned. Do you know who painted it?”
She smoothed the folds of her dark blue gown and drew near, her eyes on the painting. “Do you like it?”
The hesitation and attention to her clothing gave him the impression the question unnerved her. His first thought was that someone close to her had painted it. A lover, perhaps? “I do, very much. I’m not an expert when it comes to art, but this is well done.”
Satisfaction curved her generous lips. “Excellent.”
Definitely a lover. A dark, irrational jealousy churned in his stomach. Would he forever be reminded at every turn just how many men had graced her bed? “Shall we sit?” he bit out.
“I painted it.”
“You?” He couldn’t hide his surprise, and a strange look passed over her face before she could hide it.
“Shocking that a woman possesses talent, I know.”
“I meant no such ridiculousness. You’re quite gifted.”
“You are too kind,” she murmured, though there was a tone in her voice that sounded . . . offended?
“Would you care to sit?” he heard himself ask again.
She cocked her head, studied him with an enigmatic expression. “I’d rather stand. I suppose it’s only polite to offer you refreshment. Shall I ring for tea?”
He refused as Maggie drifted away toward the armchair by the fire. Instead of sitting in it, she ran her fingers over the high back, stroking the fabric and regarding him thoughtfully. “Have you come to see if I live up to my name?”
“What?” he blurted. She couldn’t mean—
“We’re both aware of what everyone calls me, Simon. I’ve heard the word nearly every place I have turned for ten years. One would not think the residents of Little Walsingham to be so current on gossip, but”—she shrugged—“there it is. So have you decided to find out if I have earned the title?”
A vivid image flashed through his mind—one of Maggie on her back, skirts hiked up to her waist, legs spread invitingly—and lust swept through his groin. He had to force the arousing picture from his mind. “You believe I’ve come to try and fuck you.” He was deliberately crude.
She didn’t flinch. “Yes, I do. Why else would you visit? Or perhaps you wanted to see if I decorated my house with nude frescos. Or if I keep young men tethered in my chambers to have my wicked way with them whenever I want. You would not be the first to ask if the rumors were true.”
Astonishment rocked him back on his heels. Hard to say which he found more distasteful: that she’d said it, or that she thought so little of him in the first place. “And yet you seem determined to feed those rumors. With extravagant parties and dancing in pools, is it any wonder they talk about you?”
“If I give them something to talk about, at least they cannot fabricate stories out of sheer boredom. But really, this is all beside the point. Perhaps you should arrive at the purpose for your visit.”
Hostility and bitterness did not suit her. If anyone had cause for those emotions, it was Simon. “What has happened to you? What has given you cause for such venom?”
“Life happened to me, Simon. Everything you likely hoped for and worse.”
“Me? Hoped for?” He blinked. “I never wished you harm.”
“Did you not?” she asked, calmly.
“Maggie, you are not making sense. It’s as if you are blaming me for the affair with Cranford. And the others.”
“Others?” She gave a dry chuckle. “Of course. The others. How could I possibly forget them? Men, women, livestock . . . with so many, it has been difficult to keep them all straight.”
Simon clenched his jaw. She’d damn near broken his heart and that was cause for jests? “Do you think to make light of it?”
“The truth is rarely as humorous as fiction,” she answered, standing taller.
This conversation had gotten away from him. He rubbed at the tension settling at the nape of his neck.
“I think it best if you go.” She lifted the hem of her skirt and moved toward the bell pull behind him.
Surprising even himself, Simon’s hand darted out to catch her wrist. “Wait.” He glanced down at her small, gloved hand. For an insane moment, he wanted to feel the softness of her bare skin, to have her delicate fingers touch and stroke him in return. Once, she’d removed her gloves to trace the edges of a painting at an exhibit all those years ago and it had nearly driven his twenty-three-year-old body mad with desire.
Now why had that insignificant memory resurfaced ?
He dropped her arm. “Wait. I need your help.”
She took a step back and one black eyebrow shot up. “I am fairly certain you have a mistress for that.”
Annoyance rippled through him. Why did she assume everything had to do with fornication? “As it happens,” he ground out, “this is an entirely innocent request.”
She put more distance between them but did not reach for the bell pull. He folded his arms across his chest to keep from touching her again and got to his purpose. “Do you recall the cartoon in the print shop window, the Winejester fellow?”
“Yes,” she said after a beat.
“They were all drawn by the same artist, this Lemarc. I would like you to assist me in finding him.”