Or was his primary transgression that he’d been right all along? Maggie glanced at the drawer where she’d stuffed a beaded bag, fringed at the bottom, about fifteen inches square.
The reticule had not been misplaced, nor had it been stolen by a common sneak thief. The thing had fallen into the worst possible pair of hands, hands that would bring down any who attempted to aid Maggie, particularly a man whose family’s past included a scandal and whose present was rife with shady undertakings.
She set her note to the Hon. Benjamin Hazlit aside and reached for her tray of correspondence, only to feel the foreboding in her stomach congeal into dread. Another letter from Bridget. Maggie desperately wanted to hear from the girl—needed to—but enclosed with the letter would no doubt be a demand for money.
A great deal of money.
She slit the missive open with a penknife.
Dearest,
You should see my hair! I look at least eighteen now, with curls about my face and the part on the side. We hardly cut it at all, and Mama says I look ever so grown up. Is this how you felt when you first put up your hair? Excited and pleased and just the least little bit anxious?
And my wardrobe! Mama says we need not worry about money, for which I am grateful. I have new unmentionables of the sheerest silk with lace trimming and embroidery all around. My favorite is red silk with black lace, but Mama says that is for a special occasion. Adele does not approve. She says nothing, but I can tell.
When are you going to visit again, Maggie? I would love to show off all my new things. Mama says soon I can go driving with her at the fashionable hour. I cannot wait to be seen all dressed up. I understand now why ladies like to go to balls, though I’ve asked Mama when we’re to have a dancing master in to teach me the dances. My pianoforte is coming along, too, as is my French. You must come speak French with me, Maggie dearest. I miss you so, and it has been ages and ages since I saw you. I will soon be so grown up you won’t even recognize me.
All my love,
Your Bridget
Sweet, gracious God… conversing in French, wearing red silk peignoirs, and not yet fifteen. Though Bridget had couched matters in gushing, girlish hyperbole, the threat was clear, and yet Maggie was still at a loss for how to thwart it. Cecily was shrewd. Maggie would bet her entire fortune some demand or other was soon to materialize. The morning’s recent discovery guaranteed it.
“Mr. Hazlit to see you, mum.”
Mrs. Danforth was again wreathed in smiles, while Maggie felt the dread in her vitals shift to despair. She’d been hoping not to lay eyes on him again. Not to have to see his dark eyes, his hands, his mouth… She was going to miss that mouth until her dying day, and yet she would send Benjamin Hazlit on his way. For his sake, for hers, for her family’s, even for his family’s, she would.
“No need to announce me, Mrs. Danforth.” Hazlit stood behind the much-shorter housekeeper, his top hat in his hand. “I’m sure on such a pretty day you’ve more interesting things to do than keep track of me.”
“I’ll just see to the tea tray then, shall I?” Maggie’s housekeeper bustled off, smiling like a girl still in the schoolroom.
Hazlit prowled into the office and closed the door behind him. “You still aren’t getting adequate rest.”
“I will be in the near future. My reticule has been returned to me.” She did not report to him that it had been returned empty of Bridget’s previous letters. Cecily’s doing, no doubt, a guarantee to ensure the next exorbitant demand for funds was met without hesitation.
Hazlit was in the process of putting his hat on the mantel. Maggie watched him go still, watched the way his riding jacket pulled across his shoulders, watched him turn slowly, his eyes giving away nothing. “Has it, indeed?”
She rose from her desk, intending to literally hand him his hat. “Just this morning, I found it on the seat of my traveling coach.” And God help her, she was telling the truth—though certainly not the whole truth.
“I found something this morning, as well. It’s waiting for you out in the mews.”
“Mr. Hazlit…”
But he’d already sidled over to her desk, and damn him to the most vile hog wallow, he didn’t even need to turn her letter right way around to read it.
“You are discharging me?”
She crossed her arms. “The missing item has been recovered. You may keep the funds I paid you. I’m satisfied, Mr. Hazlit.” But gracious, merciful, everlasting God, could she have expressed herself in less fraught terminology?
He was before her, scowling down at her from such close proximity she could catch the spicy, exotic scent of him. “I’m not.”
She blinked and pulled her mind away from the study of the amber pin winking out from among the folds of his cravat. “You’re not what?”
He leaned in close and spoke right next to her ear. “Satisfied. Come with me.”
He took her hand and tugged her toward the French doors, leaving Maggie torn between reveling in the pleasure of his fingers laced with hers and nigh panicked that he wasn’t accepting his dismissal.
“Mr. Hazlit, the tea tray—”
“Bugger the tea tray. You and I have both already searched the traveling coach. This only confirms your reticule was stolen, and I would hazard a wild guess it was not returned with all of its contents.”
“Not a single penny was stolen.” Which ironically confirmed Cecily’s grasping hand in the matter.
He stopped so abruptly she almost fetched up against his chest. “And that only makes it worse, doesn’t it? Somebody is toying with you, proving they can break into your house, steal something of personal value, and then leave it with you the worse for wear when the whim strikes them. Were you or were you not paying attention when I showed you all the signs of forcible entry about your house?”
When he was impassioned like this—or when he was kissing her—Maggie could see golden flecks radiating around the centers of his irises. His eyes weren’t dark so much as they were expressive.
“I saw the scratches around the locks, sir, and yet nothing is missing but my reticule. You have seen that the locks have been replaced with newer mechanisms, per your instruction.”
He was off again, towing her along behind him in the direction of the mews. “That’s only because they haven’t found your safe yet.”
“How did you know I have a safe?”
“I found it the first night I investigated your domicile.”
“You invest—Stop!” She wrenched her hand free and kept her voice down with effort. “You broke into my home? While I was sleeping in my own bed you prowled around my house like a thief?”
“Like a man trying to catch a thief.” He ran his hand through his hair, and something about his expression led Maggie to believe that while he admitted to sliding in a cellar window in the broad light of day, she wasn’t ever to have known about his nocturnal visits. That his composure was fractured allowed her to regain a little of her own.
“Trespassing is a crime, Mr. Hazlit.”
“Keeping a lady safe is not. If it’s any consolation to you, I found nothing that would incriminate you.”
“Gracious God.” She paced off, trying to absorb the enormity of his arrogance.
“I am sorry.”
She heard him shifting to stand behind her. They were in the back gardens, visible from the house, but only from the house. She turned, arms crossed over her middle.
“What are you sorry for?”
He studied her for a moment before one corner of his mouth kicked up. “For getting caught, if you must know. My partner Archer and I—he’s a relation of sorts as well—agreed years ago that standard procedure would include an unannounced inspection of the client’s premises. On occasion, our clients aren’t completely honest with us, and it can result in us being exposed to needless risk.”
“I am not exposing you to any risk. I am discharging you, effective immediately.”
He didn’t like it. She could tell b
y the way something calculating came into his gaze. “At least let me show you what I brought you.”
He wasn’t capitulating, Maggie understood that, as well, but he wasn’t going to press the point while standing in the gardens. She fell in step beside him and allowed him to hold the back gate for her.
They did not hold hands, which was a good thing. She’d told herself it was time their paths parted, and the return of the reticule—minus Bridget’s letters—took the decision from her, in any case. She would miss him—to herself she could admit that much—but she’d gotten used to missing the people she cared for.
“Steady there.” He took her arm when she would have stumbled. “I’ve actually brought you two things, though one is just a loan.” He led her to the mews where Maggie kept the aging team of carriage horses she used for her jaunts around Town.
She dropped Hazlit’s arm and stared. “That is my sister-in-law’s mare, but whose dog is that?”
The thing was a huge brindle-coated beast with a lot of Scottish deerhound in its ancestry. Its tail began to thump against the legs of the stable boy who held its leash, though the dog neither leapt toward them nor barked.
Hazlit took the leash from the stable boy and passed it to Maggie. “This is Deacon, and he’s your newest friend.”
“Dogs are messy, Mr. Hazlit.” She ran a hand over the animal’s head. “They shed and drool and worse. I have no use for a dog.”
“He’s getting on in years, though he has some good runs in him yet.”
Upon closer inspection, Maggie could see the few gray hairs around the dog’s muzzle. He was at the wonderful age when the destructive puppy energy had worn off and he was still spry, but could be trusted to lounge before a hearth for hours on end.
“You’ll have to take him back from whence you found him, Mr. Hazlit, though I appreciate the gesture.”
He knelt by the dog and looked up at her. “You won’t even let a dog stay close to you, Maggie? He couldn’t violate your confidences if you asked it of him, and he needs a home.”
Two pairs of brown eyes turned on her, making an unwelcome lump rise in Maggie’s throat. She was sending Hazlit on his way, and what harm was there in taking in a dog who needed a home?
“I do hope he knows to ask when he needs to visit the garden?”
Hazlit rose. “He’s a perfect gentleman. Why don’t we let him get settled in while we’re taking some air?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He glanced around then leaned in a little. “We’re going riding, Maggie Windham. I am in a position to know you have all the proper attire. I suggest you get into it. I am willing to serve as lady’s maid if you ask it of me.”
“Enough nonsense.” She paced off a few steps lest that particular lazy tone of voice steal her few remaining wits. “My schedule doesn’t permit me to go off frolicking with you, Mr. Hazlit, though I thank you for the invitation and for your efforts thus far on my behalf.” She turned to go, but his hand on her arm stopped her.
“That is my coach at the end of the carriage block, Maggie. It is unmarked, and the curtains can be tied closed. Your sidesaddle is in the boot, and we can bring the riding horses behind us as we leave Town. Nobody will see us together, and your brother tells me you love to ride.”
Brothers could be such a nuisance—a well-meaning nuisance.
“Westhaven also said his wife’s mare could use the exercise.”
As he spoke, Hazlit’s hand smoothed repeatedly over the dog’s head. After today, Maggie might cross paths with the man at the ducal mansion. They’d nod politely at each other and perhaps exchange pleasantries about the weather. She would never again feel that hand caressing her hair, never share another kiss with the first man to reawaken her long-denied wish for a husband and children of her own.
She desired him, which was folly enough, but she also cared for him. This inconvenient realization had come to her between one step and the next while she ambled along at his side—contemplating his absence. She wouldn’t be sending him away—sending him far from the entire sordid and expensive mess keeping her a prisoner in her own life—if she didn’t care for him a great deal.
“If we go riding, we will not be seen?”
“I doubt Richmond is teeming with people today. Lady Davenroy is holding a Venetian breakfast, and Lord Montrose is gathering his forces in preparation for some upcoming votes. We won’t be seen by anybody of note.”
He couldn’t guarantee that, but Papa would be at Lord Montrose’s meeting, and Her Grace would likely be at Lady Davenroy’s breakfast. It was well Maggie was cutting ties with Benjamin Hazlit—he was entirely too clever and observant for her peace of mind.
“How did you find my safe?”
“The hinges holding the picture in front of it are just a little worn. The painting hangs perhaps a quarter inch off because of it. Nice painting, though.”
“My sister Jenny did it a couple of years ago. You’ll wait for me to change?”
“My dear, I will always wait for you.”
She let that blather pass for the nonsense it was and headed into the house. She loved to ride, and her escort had been clever enough to make it possible for them to do so without being seen.
And he was right: nobody was going to be touring Richmond at this hour, so where was the harm in one final outing with the only man to catch her eye in years?
***
The enormity of the plan hatching in Hazlit’s mind made what should have been simple difficult. His line of work required that he be able to make a convincing show of paying attention to another’s words while taking in details of the surroundings, listening to nearby conversations, and otherwise dividing his focus.
Except that taking any part of his attention from the woman beside him was nigh impossible.
Maggie Windham grew prettier the farther he took her from Town. Her speech grew more animated, she laughed occasionally, and when they’d gained the green fields of the countryside, she patted the seat beside her, bidding him to join her on the forward-facing bench.
“Why do you dwell in Town when you’re happier in the country?” It wasn’t a question he would have attempted even five miles ago.
“Why do you dwell in London when your heart is in Cumbria?” Her eyes held laughter and a little challenge. He’d never seen her looking lovelier or more relaxed, which affirmed the course he was considering—the only course for a man who’d finally found a woman toward whom he felt both protective and possessive.
“I dwell in London because of my sister’s situation…” He fell silent. Avis had had twelve years to come to terms with her situation, and she was very happily married now to a decent fellow on the neighboring estate. “Going home would have been difficult previously, and now I have obligations in the Lords.”
“You have a title, don’t you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “An earldom. Earl of Hazelton.” She cocked her head, and he waited for her mouth to flatten as she realized he’d been deceptive by omission.
“Papa was a reluctant duke. He didn’t want to sell out his commission and man the title, as he put it. I won’t tell.”
She wouldn’t. It came as a small surprise to realize he trusted her to keep his confidences in this.
“I’m running out of time,” he said, glancing through a crack in the leather curtains. It was a gorgeous day, so pretty it made a man… homesick. Maggie’s fingers laced with his.
“Running out of what sort of time?”
“An earldom is not a simple thing to obscure. Your papa has been complicit in my scheme, because he recalls the ordeal my sisters went through and understands my reasons, but people suspect. There are only so many times I can shuffle into Parliament all but wearing a disguise. Then too, it’s one thing to send a mere mister after an errant daughter or missing love token. It’s quite another to repose nasty secrets in a belted earl.”
She squeezed his hand. “You are telling me this because we’ve reached a parting of the way
s.”
No, he was not, but it was as much of an opening as she’d give him, and the weight of his recently hatched scheme was pressing on his chest.
“In truth I do not want to part ways with you, Maggie Windham, and I’d ask you for a fair hearing.”
She turned her head to meet his gaze, though her bearing had become positively imperial with a simple lift of her chin. “I’m listening.”
“I have an heir, but he’s a distant cousin who wants nothing to do with titles, votes, or the obligation my sisters represent. He’s a Town man, handy with the ladies, and not given to agricultural matters in the least.”
“Is this Archer?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes. I’d like you to meet him.”
She shook her head, but he forged on rather than let her start on her protestations.
“One reluctant heir is not adequate to secure the succession. I am attracted to you, and I think the attraction is mutual. I am asking you to marry me, Maggie Windham. Cry the banns, reserve St. George’s, your mama weeping in the first row while your brothers glare at me for my audacity…”
He could not gauge her reaction.
“Her Grace is not my mother, and my brothers would not glare at you, and while I understand the honor you do—”
She tipped her head back, eyes closed. He watched while her throat worked and felt her hand clench in his. “Benjamin, I cannot.”
He had expected an uphill battle. He had not expected the single, silver tear that slipped from the corner of her closed eye and trickled down her cheek.
“Why not?”
She shook her head and accepted his handkerchief. “I’m just a by-blow, and being your countess would only ensure I was the subject of constant gossip. Our children would be ostracized; I’d be the subject of much criticism…”
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