“Of course. You left it with Their Graces?”
“I’m off to the mansion once I change, and yes, I’ll pass it along to them.”
Val stayed long enough to finish his breakfast, but for the second time, he left without even sitting down at Maggie’s piano. When he was gone, Maggie went upstairs, promising herself she would not panic. Methodically, she searched her rooms again—bedroom, sitting room, dressing room.
No reticule.
She searched her back hallway and the closet off the foyer. She traced her usual path from the kitchen to the mews and then wandered every inch of every walkway in her gardens.
No reticule.
She took a break and read the financial pages of the paper, something she’d been doing since the age of twelve, and then repeated her entire search.
Still no reticule.
Her brother Gayle, Earl of Westhaven and the Moreland heir, chose to stop by and share luncheon with her. All the while she was smiling and nodding at his conversation, Maggie was also trying not to panic.
Where in all of perishing creation could that reticule be?
Two
William the Conqueror had been a bastard.
King Charles II had sired twelve bastards at least, raising three of them to dukedoms with a flourish of the royal pen.
More recently, the Duke of Devonshire had raised two—or was it three bastards?—in the miscellany sharing a roof with him, his duchess, and his mistress.
One of the royal princesses was more than rumored to have a bastard son being raised by the boy’s father, and the royal dukes had propagated bastards at a great rate in response to their dear papa’s Royal Marriages Act.
These facts and more like them had been imparted to Maggie at her first private tea with Esther, Duchess of Moreland. Maggie had been thirteen, a year into the ordeal of having her courses among a houseful of brothers over whom she towered, a year into the mortification of needing a corset before any of her friends had confessed to same.
With almost two decades of hindsight, Maggie could see Her Grace had been trying to impart reassurance, but what had come across to a young girl floundering for confidence was something on the order of: “Sit up straight, quit feeling sorry for yourself, and stop tapping your spoon on your teacup.”
Private teas could still be harrowing to her and her sisters both.
Maggie had only recently begun to suspect private teas were just as harrowing for Her Grace, except that good lady had raised ten children and survived three decades of marriage to Percival Windham. When Esther Windham took a notion to see a thing done, Wellington’s determination paled by comparison.
So it was to Esther’s example Maggie turned when her reticule remained missing for a third day.
***
The life of an investigator wasn’t easy. Gathering information in the ballrooms kept a man up late of an evening, and meeting clients at breakfast or while riding at dawn had him out of bed before first light.
Hazlit often solved the dilemma by spending the waning hours of the night at his desk, reading reports and getting the bulk of his sleep in the daylight hours. He was no different from many of his peers in this regard, at least during the spring Season.
Lady Norcross had gone to ground, and Hazlit had a sneaking suspicion he knew why. A word whispered in Helene Ander’s ear by a certain presuming, statuesque redhead, a little warning between Helene and her sister-in-law, and that would be that. He tried to feel some stirring of regret for Lord Norcross, but taking on the man as a client had been a mistake.
Hazlit made his way back to his chambers, only to find some servant had pulled back all the drapery, leaving his sitting room flooded with sunlight.
Spring was trying to advance, but it was heavy going. Hazlit considered spending the morning loitering at the coffee shops rather than catching forty winks, and his eyes fell on the jacket he’d worn to Moreland’s meeting earlier in the week.
A little glint of fiery gold at the cuff had him examining the sleeve.
And damned if there weren’t three long, reddish-gold strands of hair caught on the button. Very long. So long that when he coiled them around and around and around his finger, they made a band as thick as a wedding ring.
A token of a well-fought skirmish. He rummaged in his wardrobe for the sewing kit, bit off a length of silk thread, and tied it around his prize.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Hazlit’s butler, Morse, stood in the doorway, attired in sufficient dignity to grace the Regent’s residence.
“What is it?”
“A lady to see you. I put her in the small parlor and ordered her tea and cakes.”
“A lady?” As opposed to a female, since Hazlit employed women as eyes and ears at many levels of society. They generally came in through the mews, after dark, cloaks pulled up over their hair, or they suffered his wrath.
Morse extended a calling card on a silver salver, the salver held in a gloved hand. Hazlit read the card.
Well, well, well.
Another skirmish. His fatigue fell away. He shrugged into a morning coat, gave his cravat a last-minute inspection, and headed downstairs. His only detour on the way to the small parlor was to tuck his little token into the pages of Wordsworth, several poems away from the drying rose.
“Miss Windham, a pleasure.” He bowed over her hand, automatically taking in the details.
She was pretty in the morning sunshine, though that wasn’t a detail. He put her age around thirty, which by his lights was the start of a woman’s prime or her decline, depending on how she lived her life. Too often late nights, excessive food and drink, and moral laxity aged a lady before her time. She might catch a man’s eye by the light of the evening’s candles, but morning sun was a brutal mirror of truth.
And the truth was, Maggie Windham was lovely. She had none of the lines of incipient dissipation creeping up around her full mouth. Her eyes were clear and limpid green, the same shade as her beautifully tailored walking dress. Her hair had the healthy luster of a lady who enjoyed fresh air and proper nutrition.
That hair…
She half rose to offer him a little curtsy, then subsided onto the sofa. “Will you be seated, Mr. Hazlit?”
He took a place next to her, just to watch her eyes widen in surprise, though that was her only reaction—no nervous shifting away or popping out of her seat.
“It is a pleasure to see you, Miss Windham, as stated, but an unexpected pleasure. Particularly as you’ve come calling all on your lonesome, no lady’s maid trailing about, no younger sister at your side.”
A question dangled on the end of his observation, but his guest was saved responding by the arrival of the tea tray.
“Shall I pour, Mr. Hazlit? And I assure you, my footman is flirting with your scullery maid as we speak.”
“Please. It isn’t often my tea tray is graced by such a pretty lady.”
She drew off her crocheted gloves and set them beside her on the sofa, revealing, of course, pretty hands. Not small, but slim, long-fingered, and ringless. Her nails were short and unpainted, which surprised him a little. Practical hands, not ornamental.
“How do you like your tea?”
“Sweet, nearly white.”
She served him, prepared a cup for herself, and only then met his gaze. “I need your help.”
He nearly sputtered his tea all over them both, so effectively had she surprised him. He took a deliberative sip, letting a silence stretch until he was good and ready to offer return fire.
“You expect me to believe a duke’s daughter with no less than three strapping brothers extant requires my assistance?”
“I am a duke’s daughter, but having titled antecedents doesn’t smooth every bend in the road of life, does it, Mr. Hazlit?”
She let a little silence of her own build, and Hazlit nearly saluted with his teacup.
She was good. By God, she was good.
“I am not enthusiastic about working for a fem
ale. Nothing personal.”
She didn’t even flinch at his brusque tone but took a delicate sip of fine Darjeeling. “Her Grace has mentioned that you will work for a lady.”
“Exceptions, all. I assume you’ve conferred with her regarding retention of my services?”
“I have not, but I know you are a demanding employee.” She grimaced a little at her tea.
“How would you know such a thing?” For it was the truth.
“You will determine the time and place of all meetings. You will not render any reports in writing but will convey them only orally. You demand compensation at the outset in cash and return unused monies in cash only. You’re rather like a barrister in that you don’t solicit business, but one accounts oneself lucky to have your services.”
“I don’t believe the analogy flatters me.”
“Nor was it intended to.”
He might have missed it, because she bent her head to sip her tea. His living depended on noticing the small clues, though, so he saw the first tiny temptation to turn her lips up into a smile. She hid it almost fast enough.
Miss Windham, Miss Windham… She was here in broad daylight but without a companion to ensure the proprieties. He still didn’t know what her game was and really did not have time for games in any case.
“Very well.” He was gentleman enough to wait until she set down her teacup. “If you’re prepared to pay the shot.” He named an exorbitant sum and waited to see how she’d regroup without sacrificing her considerable dignity.
“You’d prefer it in cash?”
“I will accept it only in cash.” He felt a twinge of pity for her. A very small twinge.
“I’ll have the sum delivered to you before the sun sets. More tea?”
“Please.” He frowned at her practical, pretty hands while she poured tea he didn’t particularly want. Of course, the money would never materialize, and that would be that. While he reasoned himself to this conclusion, she executed the tea ceremony like the daughter of a duke.
No, he corrected himself, like the daughter of a duchess.
“Cakes, Mr. Hazlit?”
“Thank you. My breakfast is becoming a distant memory.”
She passed him a plate with two cakes, their hands brushing as she did.
By accident? By design? He was becoming unwittingly curious as to Miss Windham and her stratagems. “You’re not having a sweet?”
“One must refrain occasionally for the sake of fitting into one’s gowns.”
He flicked an eye over her, though did not permit himself to linger at the obvious locations. “Your sacrifice is duly appreciated; but tell me of your circumstances, Miss Windham, and how I might be of service.”
She stirred her tea, a slow dragging of the spoon around the bottom of the teacup. A tell, he suspected. A small, personal flag denoting nervousness or impending mendacity.
“I’ve lost something precious.”
“Jewelry? That’s easy enough, as it usually turns up somewhere around Ludgate, kept out of sight for all but particular customers. Was it something that could have been easily broken down and fenced?”
“Why would anyone put a fence around jewels?” She frowned, those little creases appearing between her brows.
“Let me acquaint you with a bit of terminology, Miss Windham. When a thief steals something distinctive, something of value, he can hardly stand on a street corner and wave it about, inviting bids.”
“Or she cannot.”
“Just so. If the goods are to be liquidated profitably, they are usually transferred to a merchant who traffics in such items, for example, the jewelers over by the City. The thief is given some coin for his wares but nothing like what the thing would be worth if sold openly. The jeweler can recover a great deal for it, though, since he’s selling to legitimate customers. The jeweler is the fence.”
“And if somebody asks, the jeweler will say it was sold to him as part of some Northumbrian dowager’s estate?” The frown smoothed, but her mouth was disapproving.
“You understand the criminal mind.”
“I understand not getting caught.”
“Have you been caught, then?” He kept his gaze on her face. “Is the missing object a lover’s token you shouldn’t have?”
“Gracious!” She sat back, looking dismayed but not insulted. “Investigating must call for a vivid imagination, Mr. Hazlit.”
“Hardly. Human nature seems to draw most people into the same predictable peccadilloes over and over. So which misstep have you taken? Do you need to locate the child’s father? Pay off his wife to keep her mouth shut? Those aren’t strictly investigatory matters, but I can see where the need for discretion… What?”
“I should slap you.” The words weren’t offered with any particular animosity, more a tired acceptance. “You are a man, though, and allowances must be made.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“And well you should.” She sipped her tea then tipped her head back to regard him. “Despite the foul implications of your questions, Mr. Hazlit—questions I doubt you would have put to any of my sisters—I still need your help, and I still intend to retain you. I have committed no indiscretion; I have no ill-conceived child on the way; I need not go for a tour of the Continent to eschew my dependence on laudanum.”
“So your problem is not that serious,” he said, relieved for her to find it so, and irritated with himself—for no particular reason.
“It is only serious to me. I will meet with you to discuss the details when your retainer has been delivered.”
“I’ll speak to you tonight at the Livien soiree.”
Distaste flitted through her eyes, but he steeled himself against it. She started this little game; let her cry forfeit if she couldn’t keep up with his rules.
“Until tonight then.”
She took her leave, going right out the front door for all the world to see, and he had to wonder again what exactly Miss Maggie Windham was about.
***
“So what’s your brother up to?” The Duke of Moreland kept his voice down even in his private study, lest his duchess catch him interrogating one sibling about the other. Bad parental form, she claimed, but the children outright told her things they’d never confide in their dear old papa.
Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven, shot his father an amused look from his place in the opposite armchair.
“As far as I know, Dev’s rusticating in Yorkshire, and Val will soon again be enjoying connubial bliss with Ellen in Oxfordshire.”
The duke sat back, smiling broadly. “St. Just is making a go of his earldom, we can say that for him, and he married a good breeder, too. No complaints from this quarter, but I speak of young Mozart. He’s departed from his wife’s side and is larking about with Fairly here in Town, or with Fairly’s piano.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“He never sits still long enough unless his handsome arse is planted on a piano bench.” His Grace’s gaze traveled over the paneled ceiling twelve feet above their heads. And this was one of the mansion’s cozier rooms.
Westhaven shifted in his chair, crossing his legs with a casual elegance His Grace could only envy. “Last I heard, Val was helping rehearse the Philharmonic Society ensemble and scribbling away on some new composition.”
“He’s always scribbling away on something these days. I think it agrees with him. How is our Anna?”
“She sends you her regards, and I’ve sneaked a box of crème cakes to the kitchen for your personal delectation.”
“Any of ’em chocolate?”
“At least half. I took all the chocolate ones headed for Maggie and switched them to your box.”
“Miss Maggie does enjoy her sweets. Did you know she danced with Ben Hazlit?”
“Keep your ducal paws off, Your Grace,” Westhaven said, his tone deceptively mild for the implied rebuke. “Val said it was merely a polite waltz, and they declined to share supper with each other.”
�
�Val said. Do you think he’d hint his sister finally took an interest in a decent man? Thick as thieves, you lot.”
“So why are you asking me?”
“Because, dear fellow, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, your unmarried sisters will be your cross to bear.”
Westhaven rolled his eyes. “Not the threat-of-death speech. You’ve never felt better, and you know it.”
“Mark me, my boy, a woman left unmarried gets up to tricks. Think of Sophie’s little Christmas revel all on her own—or almost on her own but for Sindal’s dubious company. Think of your sister Evie and that ghastly footman. Disaster was at hand, and if fate hadn’t intervened…”
“Evie would be married to a handsome footman. Maggie isn’t Evie, and Hazlit isn’t a footman.” And the very calm with which his son spoke was a source of pride to His Grace. The boy—the man—was going to make a splendid duke.
“Hazlit is not a commoner, either,” the duke said, quietly.
“He told me as much in the course of our dealings. But if I were you, Your Grace, I would not try to push Hazlit on Maggie. She’ll balk and head for the barn at a dead gallop, and Her Grace will scold you and hide your stash of cakes.” Westhaven rose and went to the sideboard, pouring himself half a glass of… lemonade.
Perhaps the Windham heir was not quite so ducal yet.
“Good heavens, as bad as all that? Has Maggie said something to you?”
“No, she has not.” Westhaven eyed the crystal goblet in his hand. “Not that I’d violate her confidences when you’ve yet to ask her yourself.”
“Such a stickler I’ve raised.” But the duke let a little pride infuse his words, for Westhaven was a stickler in the best sense. A detail man who was fast putting the duchy back on sound financial footing.
“Tell Her Grace I’m sorry I missed her.” Westhaven drained his glass and set it aside. “And do not let me hear of you meddling in Maggie’s affairs, or Hazlit’s. And a word of advice?”
“I’m not too arrogant to turn aside a prudent man’s advice.” Provided the man was his own son.
Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal Page 4
