Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal

by Grace Burrowes

  “Even a wormy apple can look shiny and red from the right angle.” She picked up her reticule and faced him. “Don’t work too hard.”

  She would have moved off, but he caught her by the arm and drew her into a hug. She’d lost weight since last he’d hugged her. “Don’t be a stranger, Maggie Windham.”

  “You could never be a nuisance on my doorstep.”

  She offered that in a voice slightly above a whisper while hugging him back, a surprisingly fierce embrace from his usually reserved sister. She drew away and headed for the house, clearly not expecting her own brother to escort her to the front door.

  Impossible woman, truth be known, but a sister was allowed to be impossible. He looked up a few minutes later to see Anna bustling in the gate from the mews.

  “Beloved wife.” He rose and held out a hand to her, his eyes traveling over dark hair, gorgeous eyes, and a lush, lovely figure. “Have you bought out the entire Strand?”

  “Of course. Are you rebelling against your ledgers, Westhaven? It’s a beautiful day, and this generally finds you planted at your desk.” She tucked against him as if it were her natural place in the world, which to him, it was.

  “Am I really so stuck as all that?”

  “You are so dedicated as all that. My guess is Her Grace came calling and blasted you away from your correspondence.”

  “Maggie. She says marriage agrees with me enormously.”

  Anna nuzzled his neck. “Perceptive woman, your sister. Shopping has left me a little fatigued. Have you time for a short nap?”

  “Of course.”

  But as he escorted his wife above stairs, Westhaven spared a thought to wonder why Maggie would be investigating the beau monde’s most trusted and discreet investigator.

  ***

  To see the letter sitting among her correspondence was almost a relief.

  Almost.

  Maggie passed her gloves and bonnet to her housekeeper and felt a familiar icy calm descend—it was never very far from her, welling up from her innards whenever she called upon it. It wasn’t ducal. She suspected it was a legacy from a mother who was able to smile and spread her legs repeatedly for men whom she liked not at all.

  Drunken men, men who neglected to wash, men with bad teeth and rough hands… Maggie pushed those thoughts to the edge of her mind, where they would lurk until the next time her imagination slipped its leash.

  “I’ll be at my desk for the balance of the afternoon,” she informed Mrs. Danforth. It was the signal to leave her in peace.

  Maggie dealt with all her other mail first, from her stewards and solicitors, from a friend she’d met in finishing school who’d married well and happily almost a decade since, from the widower neighbor with whom she kept in touch on farming matters. When her business was in order, she raised her eyes and looked out the window.

  She had a small life. A life narrowly circumscribed by the strictures of propriety and by her own love for the family into which she’d been adopted. She had a measure of independence, if she was careful, and she wasn’t plying her mother’s trade. She’d soon be too old for that fear to have any credence in any case.

  Her gut roiling with unease despite the reassuring internal litany, Maggie opened the letter, the page full of flourishes, curlicues, and ink blots to go with all the exclamation points.

  Greetings, Maggie!

  I adore spring! Spring means kittens in the mews and shopping! Mama says I’m to have a new wardrobe from the skin out, for soon I’m to start going about with her on calls. I’ll be fifteen soon, you know, and some girls are married at fifteen. We have gone to the milliner’s, too, where Mama ordered me the most cunning little toque, and, Maggie, I have to tell you, when Mama said from the skin out, she meant that very thing.

  I never knew lace had such uses! And it comes in colors, too. Pink and even red! Can you imagine!

  I have been reading a great deal on rainy days, though Mama says horrid novels are not what wealthy gentlemen are interested in discussing. My French is getting very good since our new lady’s maid—Adele is her name, though Mama calls her only Martin—has helped a great deal. I think Mama’s French must be quite rusty, for she doesn’t seem to understand when I use mine with her.

  Or maybe Mama is just preoccupied with the coming season. She goes out sometimes, to the theatre and the opera. Someday soon, I will accompany her, and won’t that be exciting!

  I miss you. You must write to me. Teddy says you’re in great good looks these days, but Thomas says you look tired to him. I must go. Mama is teaching me games of chance, and it’s ever so fun.

  All my love forever and always,

  Bridget

  This was much, much worse than another demand for money, and worse than the last note, which had been merely chatty. Maggie considered ordering a cup of tea to steady her nerves, though what if she couldn’t keep it down? It wouldn’t do to make such a mess.

  But perhaps this was only the warning shot, fired across the bow of Maggie’s finances and her nerves. Cecily no doubt read every word Bridget penned, and yet in this note, unlike the previous one, Bridget had managed to convey a great deal of information—all of it alarming. A demand for money would follow, a bigger, bolder demand than any of the previous springs.

  And when that demand came, Maggie would pay it. She’d spent years of her life learning how to make money, just so she could always, always pay what needed to be paid when it needed to be paid. She was wealthy and getting wealthier by the quarter. The primary ingredient necessary to becoming wealthier still was to have coin to invest, and she did.

  Thank God, luck, hard work, or the fates, she had coin.

  And there was nothing else she’d rather spend it on, for no decent girl of almost fifteen wore red lace anywhere on her person.

  ***

  “Mr. Hazlit to see you, my lord.”

  Westhaven caught a smirk from his wife. They were taking tea in the library after a reviving little nap in the middle of the day. The butler had sense enough not to smirk, but Anna showed no such respect.

  “I’ll just see about sending a fresh tray,” she said, rising. “Mr. Hazlit can’t possibly have anything to say of interest to me.”

  “You’re abandoning me.” It was intended as a statement of fact, not a pout. His wife’s smirk became a grin at his peevish tone.

  “Shamelessly. Seems even after a nap, I’m quite tired. The effects of getting up and down all night with your son.”

  He rose and frowned down at her. “You and that baby.” Anna was even prettier now than when she’d been carrying, and he’d thought nothing on earth could be more attractive to him than his wife when enceinte. “You are the one getting up and down at night, but I am the one losing the most sleep. Go, then. I’m not fated to get my work done this day.”

  “Perhaps not.” She kissed him on the mouth as Westhaven saw Hazlit looming at the butler’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in my dreams, husband.”

  She patted his lapel and swanned off, only to pause before their guest. “Mr. Hazlit, a pleasure.”

  Hazlit took her hand and bowed over it. “My lady, you’re in radiant good looks. His lordship must be attending to more than just his letters if you’re blooming so nicely.”

  “Blooming?” She beamed at the man. “Westhaven, we must have Mr. Hazlit to dinner. He says I’m blooming.” She withdrew her hand. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business while I go blossoming on my way.”

  She closed the door quietly, leaving Westhaven to watch the bemused expression fade from Hazlit’s face.

  “Women in the throes of early motherhood should all be so serene as your lady wife,” Hazlit said. “You’re to be commended.”

  “I’m to be pitied.” Westhaven came around the desk to shake his guest’s hand. “Have a seat, why don’t we? And there will be a tea tray the size of Madagascar any minute, but I’ve whiskey, brandy, and port on the sideboard, as well.”

  “Why are you to be pitied?” Hazlit s
hifted to take a chair. There was a prowling quality to the man’s gait, a restlessness in his eyes, as if he never stopped inventorying his environment for information.

  “If my parents’ history is any indication, my wife will be gravid as often as not. It plucks a man’s nerves to see the woman he loves blithely managing under such myriad challenges.”

  Hazlit cocked his head. “You have become quite married, my lord.”

  “I’m quite pathetically in love with my wife.” Westhaven shook his head. He and Hazlit were not friends, but this was a conversation between friends, a conversation he might have had with Valentine or Devlin, or even—surprisingly—with His Grace. “Are you calling upon me in a business capacity today, Hazlit? I confess, my mind does not lend itself easily to business matters of late.”

  Hazlit pursed his lips and seemed to come to some inner conclusion. “She’ll be fine, Westhaven. She’s not like many titled ladies, who will sit about on their broad backsides, fainting and sighing and fretting because they’re too vain and stupid to discard their stays. She’s healthy, happy, and looking forward to many occasions of motherhood. You won’t lose her.”

  Westhaven looked out the window to the gardens profuse with the flowers Anna had brought into his life. “I should not need to hear the words, but thank you.”

  Hazlit seemed amused. “Every husband needs to hear the words. Ask His Grace how many of his cronies he’s had to get roaring drunk during a lying-in. Ask him if the last child was any easier on him than the first one. But there’s a lesson for us men in this, too, I think.”

  Westhaven passed his guest a tot of whiskey, for such a masculine discussion must needs be fortified with masculine drink. “What lesson?”

  “The ladies’ courage is different from ours,” Hazlit said, accepting the drink. “But in some ways, their courage is greater.”

  Westhaven propped a hip on his desk and peered at the man lounging in his guest chair. “Is there a Mrs. Hazlit who has inspired you to such observations?” A brother was entitled to be sure of these things.

  “Not yet. God willing, I’ll find such a brave woman before I grow too much older.”

  “My sister suspects you’ve a title.” Sisters were a safer topic than wives. “I told her to ask His Grace.”

  “This would be Mag—Miss Windham?”

  The slip was telling. Westhaven let it pass. “Maggie, to her familiars.” Among whom, it was just possible Benjamin Hazlit was about to number. Well, well, well. “She adores riding, you know.”

  Hazlit’s gaze narrowed. “She told me she doesn’t keep a riding horse.”

  “She doesn’t. Says riding is for young girls seeking to look over the mounted gentlemen in the park. She adores riding nonetheless.”

  Hazlit seemed to absorb this information, though his expression was unreadable. “You’ve heard we went driving some days ago, I take it.”

  “Maggie might have mentioned it. You’re to be commended for getting her out.”

  Hazlit took a sip of this drink, no doubt configuring his reply carefully while he did. “I don’t think your sister would appreciate her family making anything of a single outing. She’s a skilled driver though, I did notice that. My offside gelding is not the most confident fellow, and he trusted her immediately.”

  “Children, horses, and dogs…” Westhaven settled himself in the opposite wing chair. “They all love Maggie.”

  A little considering silence fell, each man sipping his drink in turn.

  “So we’re not to be getting ideas because Maggie has condescended to drive out with you?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. Not if I dance with her, not if we’re seen having ices together or shopping on the Strand. Your sister is not being courted.”

  Interesting, when two people each insisted there was no courting going on.

  “So you wouldn’t care to know Maggie’s sidesaddle is out in my mews right now, and Anna’s mare—a rather sizable creature with marvelous gaits, if I do say so myself—could use some exercise?”

  Hazlit’s lips quirked up. “Even if I borrowed the saddle and the mare from time to time over the coming weeks, I would not be courting your sister.”

  “Pity.” Westhaven rose and went to the window. His wife was kneeling before a bed of tulips just starting their decline, her face hidden by a wide-brimmed straw hat. He must ask her what a brother’s obligation was in such a circumstance.

  He turned to face his guest. “If you were to court Maggie, she’d probably drive you off with her lectures.”

  “What lectures would those be, my lord?”

  When had Hazlit come sauntering over to the window?

  “She starts off explaining the percents to you, why they are the most prudent, low-risk investment, and why some of your capital should be in them most of the time. Then she goes on about the financial pages and why this or that article is not as informative or disinterested as it might seem. She can get going on various investment schemes, if you’re the determined sort, bore you witless for hours.”

  “Those are decent topics of conversation, if a trifle unfeminine.”

  “In Maggie’s hands, the financial pages become weapons of destruction. Had you any amorous intent, she could lecture it right out of you. She indirectly owns a sizable portion of the swine industry in the Home Counties, though this is nigh a state secret with His Grace and me.”

  Hazlit looked intrigued, God help the man. “Swine?”

  “Pigs reproduce at a terrific rate, much faster than sheep, and yet they require a great deal less space to raise than sheep, and most do not require grazing, per se. Pork is considered by most preferable to mutton, the hide is valuable, and the meat takes well to preservation. Swine, Mr. Hazlit. Do the math or Maggie will do it for you. She’s thinking of investing in peaches next. If she does, you can bet the Moreland resources will be nodding in that direction, as well.”

  “Fascinating. And yet she lives very modestly.”

  “She has her charities.” Outside, Anna was getting to her feet, a maneuver that made Westhaven impatient to be back at her side. “I suggest you ask Maggie about her causes, as they are near to her heart.”

  A knock on the door indicated the tea tray was arriving. Westhaven watched while Hazlit’s glance went from the tray in the footman’s hands to the back terrace to his host’s face. Now they must sit and eat polite portions and discuss the coming race meets or some beast lately on the block at Tatt’s. Good manners could be such a burden.

  “At the risk of ignoring good food, my lord, do you suppose you might introduce me to your wife’s mare?”

  “Capital notion. Grab a few tea cakes, why don’t you? We can go out by way of the garden.”

  A thought struck him as they headed for the back of the house. “Would you have the time to take on another small project for Their Graces? This one shouldn’t involve haring off to the North in search of my wife’s antecedents.”

  Hazlit’s eyebrows rose, and he paused inside the door leading to the terrace. “What sort of project?”

  Westhaven could see his wife through the door’s glass, arching her back with both hands propped at the base of her spine. He spoke quickly, not wanting to belabor an insignificance. “A routine investigation of a potential spouse for one of my sisters. It will probably come to nothing, if you ask me. The gentleman in question doesn’t strike me as ready for parson’s mousetrap, but then, who among us advertises when he is?”

  “The gentleman in question?”

  “Lord Deene. Her Grace is hopeful Evie might bring him up to scratch.”

  “May I consult my calendar before giving you an answer?”

  Westhaven swung around to consider Hazlit, but the man’s face, as usual, gave away nothing. “Take as long as you like to consult your schedule or conclude whatever bit of sleuthing you’re about. The last time I spoke with Evie, she thought she was preserved from the risk of marriage by virtue of being the youngest. Come along. Anna can join us on
our visit to the stables.”

  ***

  Three days had passed since Maggie had gotten Bridget’s latest letter. Three days of miserable spring weather—cold, wet, windy, and perfectly suited to hiding indoors.

  Maggie should never have gone driving in the park.

  She should never have taken Mr. Hazlit shopping.

  She should right this minute be sending him a note excusing him from further obligation to her.

  She’d find her own letters. They weren’t so very incriminating, not unless they were placed in a larger context…

  “Mr. Hazlit to see you, miss.” Mrs. Danforth waited in the open door of the office, her plump frame fairly quivering with approval.

  “No need to stand on ceremony.” Hazlit shouldered past the housekeeper, patting her arm as he did. Maggie could almost see the woman’s spine melt when he tossed a toothy smile at her for good measure.

  “Mr. Hazlit.” Maggie got to her feet, ignoring the very notion she might be pleased to see him, too. “This is a surprise.”

  “I’ll just see about the tea tray.” Mrs. Danforth beamed at Hazlit and bustled off.

  “Don’t blame her.” Hazlit advanced into the room, leaving the door only a few inches ajar. “She wants to see you happily wed with babies to love and fuss over.”

  Maggie crossed her arms, stoutly ignoring the image his words brought to mind. “You and she have been discussing my future?”

  “Good intentions on the part of a devoted staff hardly require discussion. How are you?” He picked up her hand, preventing Maggie from turning her back on him.

  “I’ll be much better when you find my reticule. I’m hoping you disturbed an otherwise peaceful afternoon to report some progress?”

  He petted her hand. Smoothed his fingers over her knuckles while he regarded her with a frown. “No, I do not have progress to report, though on the staff’s next half day, I’m going to search this place from cellars to attics. I have inquiries out among my contacts, but these things take time to bear fruit. You still look tired. What’s amiss, Maggie Windham?”