“You gave me that,” she said, watching those graceful hands of his lift the lid. “You’re going to leave here without playing for me, aren’t you?”
“You’ve heard me play probably more than any other single person on the face of the earth. Just hum a few bars of Beethoven; you’ll hardly know it isn’t me.”
“One doesn’t hum Beethoven, for pity’s sake.” She cocked her head to study him, realizing that in some way, her baby brother had grown up, grown more mature for taking a wife. “Ellen is truly well?”
“She assures you of as much in her letter.” Val put the music box down, his signature smile in place. “I got a letter from Dev before I left Bel Canto.” He passed Maggie a slim epistle that bore their oldest brother’s slashing hand. “He seems to be thriving with his womenfolk.”
“Then lucky Devlin.”
“But you miss him, don’t you?”
“Of course I miss him.” Maggie plopped down on the bed, both appreciating and resenting Val’s perceptivity. “We’re close in age, and we share…”
“Bastardy.” Val crossed the room to sit beside her, taking her left hand in his right. “You’ve both been legitimated, you’re adopted, you’re accepted everywhere, and yet this haunts you.”
“It’s different for a woman, Val. I can’t buy my colors and guarantee my standing in the world by riding off to whack at Frenchmen. Devlin is a perishing earl.”
“He’s still our brother.” Val tucked a lock of hair behind Maggie’s ear. “And he specifically challenged me to look in on you and get your nose out of your infernal books. Spring is coming, Mags, and it’s time to dance.”
It sounded not like a lighthearted invitation but rather like a lecture.
Gracious.
She got to her feet. “Shoo. You have a call to pay on your mama, and she won’t want to let you out of her sight.”
“I’ll come by at eight, but let’s take your coach,” he said, rising as well. “Read Dev’s letter. I’m sure he’ll expect a prompt reply.”
“I’ll read it, and I will see you at eight, but I don’t intend to stay out all night, Val.”
“Nor do I.”
He was gone, leaving behind the peculiar sinking of spirit Maggie felt each time a member of her ducal family left her here, alone in her own quarters, just as she’d spent years begging and pleading for them to do.
***
“Good evening, Mr. Hazlit.”
The Winterthurs’ butler greeted him, though not in quite the stentorian tones the man might have used for the titled guests. It was the same in the receiving line. Grudging, hesitant, but polite tolerance from those who knew not what to make of the Hon. Benjamin Hazlit.
He preferred it that way, and it was better for business. He didn’t pause at the top of the grand staircase when a herald all but muttered his name, but made his way quietly into the crowd milling under the enormous chandeliers.
“Hazlit.” Lucas Denning gave him a nod and a grim smile. “I’d hoped the dancing would have started by now.”
“I hear the orchestra tuning up, but the first sets always take a while to form. What social cataclysm has wrested you from your club?”
Deene ran a finger around his starched collar and glanced about at the ladies in their finery. “Another lecture from my mother about duty to the succession. One might ask what social cataclysm has provoked your attendance. The hostesses never know whether it’s a coup when you show up or a reason to fret.”
Hazlit took a half step into the shadows under the minstrel’s gallery and visually assessed his companion. “We aren’t all golden gods such as yourself. Given the title, it truly is a wonder you aren’t married.”
Deene shuddered, and Hazlit had the impression it wasn’t entirely feigned. “Don’t say that word. I’m too young to be leg-shackled.”
“It’s the debutantes who are too young. We marry them off before they’ve put away their dolls.”
“Think that way, and you’ll soon be the one married off.”
They fell silent as a footman approached, offering champagne from a carefully balanced tray. Deene tossed back his wine then slunk off to the card room, no doubt intent on avoiding the matchmakers.
It was tempting to do likewise, but the evening was young, which meant nobody would be sufficiently inebriated to let slip the kind of information Hazlit came seeking. He made for the refreshment table and helped himself to a second flute of champagne, from which he drank nothing.
Wallflowers and companions were a source of intelligence that often went unnoticed, so Hazlit scanned the ladies seated among the potted ferns and mentally started filling out dance cards.
Abigail Norcross’s companion for starters.
Then the companion of Lord Norcross’s current discreet interest.
Perhaps Norcross’s widowed sister.
That would likely bring him up to the supper waltz, and since there was no telling who might make a late appearance, he left his evening open thereafter.
***
“Helene, how nice to see you.” Maggie gave her friend’s hand a squeeze. “Budge over so I can malinger among the ferns with you.”
Helene obligingly scooted over. “I saw you dancing with Lord Val. Brave of him to show his face without his new wife.”
“He is brave.” Braver than Maggie, in any event. She settled her skirts around her as she took the half of the padded bench Helene Norcross Anders made available to her. “Growing up the youngest of five brothers, Val is both cannier and more determined than some of his elders. Now, who has made a cake of themselves, and which gentlemen are on the prowl?”
“You aren’t a widow yourself, Maggie, to be taking such an approach to an evening of dancing.”
“I’m not dancing.” Maggie held up a slippered foot and wiggled her toes. “And you’re not spilling. Come, Helene, I’m stuck here until after supper. You might as well entertain me.”
“The debutantes are all atwitter because Deene’s here, and word is he’s looking for a wife.”
“I like Deene,” Maggie said. “He doesn’t dissemble with a lot of flummery and false smiles.”
“One hears he’s particularly friendly with the fashionable impure,” Helene said. “Were I them, I’d be snuggling up to Deene before many of his peers. There he goes now, and God help the twit on his arm. She looks like she went poaching for hares and got a boar in her gun sights.”
“Naughty, Helene.” Maggie hid her smile by pretending to search in her reticule.
“The truth often is.”
They chatted away for the balance of the first set. Helene was a pretty, well-to-do widow, and a few of the more determined fortune hunters tried to get her to stand up. Maggie watched her deftly turn them aside with polite excuses, but Helene adopted a different tactic when Benjamin Hazlit approached.
And oh, didn’t he look superb in his evening finery? Against his dark complexion and dark hair, his linen gleamed in the candlelight, and the gold of his stickpin and cuff links winked in coy contrast to his black evening coat. He was as well tricked out as any of the titles in the room, and he had the height and bearing to make evening attire truly magnificent.
No rose, though. On his lapel was a bright red carnation. Maggie caught a whiff of the scent when he bowed over her hand.
The hand he held just a moment too long, the idiot.
“I was hoping Lady Anders might do me the honor of the supper waltz,” Hazlit said. The smile he aimed at Helene dazzled, for all it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I promised this set to my brother,” Lady Helene replied, her show of regret equally superficial. “Perhaps you’d lead Miss Windham out in my stead? She’s been sitting here this age, good enough to keep a widow company amid all this gaiety.”
Maggie glanced at her friend but saw only devilment in Helene’s eyes.
“Lady Magdalene?” Hazlit held out a gloved hand. “May I have this dance?”
The smile dimmed on his handsome face, and his
gaze held hers. As much to get away from his inspection as anything, Maggie put her hand in his and rose. “I would be honored.”
“Lady Helene, my thanks,” he said, holding up his left hand for Maggie to place her fingers over his knuckles.
And it would be a blasted waltz.
“You do not look honored,” he said, leading her to a position on the floor. “You look like you’re plotting the end of an association with Lady Anders.”
“Helene has a peculiar sense of humor, but she knows I will retaliate at some point. I’ll make her dance with His Grace or perhaps with Deene.”
“That would set tongues wagging.” He held out his left hand for Maggie to place her right in it. When she hesitated, he put her left hand on his shoulder, and took her right in his.
“Really, Lady Magdalene, am I so offensive as all that? Your parents allow me under their roof, and your sister was happy enough to marry my half brother.” His hand at her waist was warm, even through her gown and stays.
“You enjoy being difficult,” Maggie said as the orchestra began the introduction. “It isn’t becoming in a grown man. I’d take offense but I suspect you’re like this with most everybody.”
“I can be charming.”
“When it suits your purpose,” she said as the music began. “That isn’t charm, Mr. Hazlit. That is guile.”
His rejoinder was to dance her around the room, holding her a little more closely than convention allowed, a little more firmly.
She liked it.
She was a good-sized female, and there were few enough partners with the height and presence to lead her on the dance floor. Maggie didn’t lead, though it was tempting with the more timid men, but she had to be careful she didn’t turn too exuberantly, lean too much, step too far. Partners lacking in assurance could lose their grip on her, stumble, or tangle their feet with hers.
Not Hazlit. He danced well, maybe even better than her brother Val, whom she would have said was her favorite partner.
Before. Before this obnoxious man floated her around the ballroom in his strong arms, his legs moving with hers so smoothly Maggie never once had to look down. It was… disconcerting, to be handled with such confidence and to like it so well.
“Now I know how to still your sharp tongue.” He spoke right into her ear, his cheek almost against her temple. If he moved any closer, they’d become objects of talk. “All I have to do is stand up with you, and your temper falls silent.”
“I don’t generally dance.”
“I know, though I can’t fathom why. You move like a sylph.”
“Are you teasing me?”
“I am not.” He pulled back to study her by the candlelight. “I’ve partnered many women, and you are an accomplished dancer.”
She relaxed a little at his words, because Hazlit might be a wretch, but he was an honest wretch. He’d tell her to her face when he was making fun of her.
“I want you to promise me something,” Maggie said. He spun her under his arm and brought her back to waltz position. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to be holding her just a bit closer.
“I don’t make promises lightly, my lady,” he said, his expression becoming severe. “Just because I like to dance with you doesn’t mean you can trespass on my good nature.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a good nature. I want you to promise me you won’t be spying on any of my family members ever again.”
Silence stretched between them while the music played on, and her partner never missed a step.
***
Benjamin Hazlit was a gentleman when anybody was looking. He did not labor for his living, did not get his hands dirty, did not toil in the creation of something—pots, barrels, corn, ale—such that he’d be denied the status of a gentleman. But because of what he did when others weren’t looking, weren’t watching closely, he was suspect in the eyes of Polite Society.
It would soon be impossible to pursue his livelihood, so interested had his neighbors become in his doings.
“You’re bold,” he said to his dancing partner, emphasizing his words by holding her a little too closely on a tight turn. “I’ll grant you that.”
“Not as bold as you,” she said, twirling gracefully. “You sneak and snoop and lurk in gardens until nobody has any privacy.”
“If I lurk in gardens, I do so to flirt and steal kisses, the same as any other callow swain.”
She snorted her disbelief, and Hazlit decided his point was better made in private. As they neared the French doors, he danced her off the floor and out onto the flagstone terrace.
“Mr. Hazlit.” She drew back, or tried to. “Whatever are you about?”
“You brought up a subject best aired privately. No doubt you assumed the dance floor was a place where you could upbraid me with impunity. Think again, Lady Magdalene.”
“I don’t use the title.”
The words were shot out of a cannon armed with dignity, but Hazlit heard a little of the hurt also propelling them along.
“Their Graces adopted you. I know that much, since your father thinks my confidence can be trusted.”
She glanced up at him sharply in the near darkness. “Adopted perhaps, but I do not use the title.”
Her motivations were a little mystery, and Hazlit enjoyed mysteries far more than he should, though unraveling Maggie Windham’s motivations wasn’t what brought them out into the chilly night air.
“Miss Windham, then.” He frowned down at her as she rubbed her hands over her arms. “About my investigations.”
“Your snooping.”
He draped his evening coat around her shoulders and had the satisfaction of seeing he’d rattled her composure. A notice to the Times was in order for that coup. “May I remind you, your family retained me to research the origins of your brother’s housekeeper—the very lady now married to him.”
“Gayle and Anna’s situation was made more perilous by your prying. I will not have it, do you understand me?” She paced away from the house, probably not even realizing she was heading for deeper shadows.
Hazlit fell in step beside her, more than comfortable with poorly lit spaces. “So you will deprive me of my living and deprive your titled peers of the useful services I perform?”
“You brought Lucille Ramboullet back to her papa after she tried to elope. She’s now married to Alfred Huxtable, a man twice her age.”
Hazlit tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, as if they were merely chatting, not… bickering. “Which puts the doddering Lord Huxtable at about five-and-thirty years old. The girl ran off with a scoundrel who has pockets to let and was after her money. She’s seventeen, Miss Windham, without a brain in her pretty head. Do you claim her judgment on the matter should have carried the day?”
“She ran for reasons. Her circumstances are instructive of the mischief your so-called investigating creates.”
“We are not going to agree on this,” he said, pausing and frowning. Magdalene Windham was notably retiring, firmly on the shelf—which was a waste of glorious hair, if nothing else—but in her castigation of him, Hazlit detected a genuine note of outrage.
Alarm.
She had secrets. He realized this between one heartbeat and the next, and knew not a little temptation to ferret out those secrets. He did sometimes go secret-hunting without a client’s money to show for it. It kept his senses sharp.
“I do not lurk in gardens.”
She turned to look over the grounds. “You’re lurking in one now.”
The moon was coming up, not quite full but spreading illumination as it rose from the horizon.
“I am being chastised for earning my coin providing a needed skill. Come. If we linger near a torch, we’ll be seen having our disagreement, and neither one of us wants that.”
She took his suggestion, as he knew she would. Magdalene Windham presented at least the appearance of propriety, though he could guess all too easily what kinds of secrets she was hiding. With hair like t
hat…
“Shall we sit?” he asked when they’d gone far enough from the terrace to have privacy. “You’re less likely to raise your voice if we’re not on our feet.”
“I’m less likely to slap you,” she rejoined, though there was little heat in her voice. “You think I’ll start begging, but I’ve done some watching and listening of my own, Mr. Hazlit.”
“You’re entitled to listen at keyholes, while I am not?” He purposely sat right beside her, body to body, wanting to disconcert her.
Or perhaps keep her warm, or do both.
“I do not listen at keyholes. I listen to my family’s table conversation. Just the other night, Her Grace asked how it is that of all the titled lords in Parliament, only the Earl of Hazelton sends a factor to attend confidential meetings. Of all the earls in the land, only Hazelton manages to vote his seat occasionally, but nobody can describe the man’s appearance in any detail. His Grace gave her a look and asked for more potatoes. Papa abhors potatoes. He says they’re peasant fare but permits them on the table because Evie loves them.”
Damnation.
“Hazelton is reclusive,” Hazlit said, but a distraction was in order. He tucked a lock of her hair, her warm, glorious, silky hair, over her ear.
“Hands to yourself, Mr. Hazlit. I have brothers, and I can protect myself if need be.”
“How would you protect yourself? I’m at least half a foot taller and probably six stone heavier.”
“You’re a man.” She hugged his coat closer. “You have at least one other set of vulnerabilities besides your arrogance and your pride.”
“Nasty, Miss Windham.” Wonderfully nasty.
She gave him a disparaging glance. “Do you think it’s easy being Moreland’s bastard?” She turned her face to the rising moon. “There were two schools of thought among the so-called gentlemen. The first believed my unfortunate origins meant my morals would be as corrupt as my mother’s—His Grace being completely without blame—and I was fair game.”
They would, Hazlit silently conceded. Most men would, that is. They would hope she was fair game.
“The second group thought I ought to be grateful for the hand of any cit or baronet’s son who offered for me. Thank God for Papa’s stickling, or I would have had eight offers my first season.”
Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal Page 2
