Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal

by Grace Burrowes

  “Were you up late listening at keyholes, Benjamin?”

  “I was up late thinking. Will you walk with me in the garden?”

  The same patience that had so comforted Maggie the previous evening was now a greater source of alarm than all his imperiousness or even the kisses intended to distract her. It suggested he was as determined on his course as she was on hers.

  When they gained the garden, Millie bobbed her curtsy at them, but it was a pretty day, so Maggie bade her leave the dog outside.

  Benjamin took Maggie’s arm and steered her toward the fountain, while the dog chased a butterfly in the opposite direction. “You like him, then?”

  “He’s a good fellow,” she said, wondering what the dog had to do with anything. “He has sense and doesn’t get excited over nothing, as a puppy is wont to do.”

  “Good.” More silence, until Benjamin gestured for Maggie to take a seat on a shaded bench. He came down beside her, and Maggie resigned herself to waiting.

  “I wrote to both of my sisters last night.” He spoke quietly, while Maggie resisted the urge to peer at him. “I realized I owed them both apologies.”

  “Whatever made you realize that?”

  “You. You made a decision when you were just a girl, and you’ve abided by that decision ever since. You’ve gone to great lengths to maintain your position, to appease Cecily without bothering anybody, but Maggie, it’s time to reevaluate your options.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Years ago, just about the time you were making your come out, my sisters suffered terribly at the hands of men without honor. I was too young, too unwise, to know what to do about it. My sisters made me promise not to spread the stink of scandal by calling out their malefactor, and the bastard left hot foot for the Continent.”

  The very quiet of his voice told her this recitation was costing him. “Benjamin, I am so sorry. For you, for your sisters.” She linked her fingers with his and squeezed, then made no move to withdraw her hand.

  It felt good to touch him, to offer comfort to him for a change, no matter how small the gesture.

  “I was sorry for them, too.” He brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed Maggie’s knuckles. “So sorry that when they said they needed privacy and peace, I left them alone at Blessings and went off to spend time polishing my Town bronze. When Alex declared she was going for a governess, I felt sorry enough for her not to make a fuss, though she’s an earl’s daughter, a lady in her own right, and entitled to so much more than drafty schoolrooms and other people’s children.”

  Maggie was almost distracted by the pleasure of watching his mouth form words, but he was leading up to a point she sensed would not sit easily with her.

  “For years I did as my sisters had requested: I left them more or less alone, I left them in peace, but, Maggie, it solved nothing. What might have been a decision made out of consideration for them became an unwillingness to admit I hadn’t known what to do. I realized I acted to avoid my guilt at failing to protect them.”

  He fell silent while Maggie’s heart tripped: my guilt at failing to protect them…

  “That is low, Benjamin.”

  “It is honest. You deserve the truth from me, even if it scares the hell out of you to be truthful with your parents. They won’t hold you accountable for Cecily’s schemes, Maggie. You will not lose your family over this.”

  The dog came trotting up then took a seat at Maggie’s feet, his head resting on her thigh. She smoothed her hand over his silky head and tried to breathe.

  “They will hate me. If it wasn’t for me, Cecily would have no hold over them.”

  “They love you. If it wasn’t for them, Cecily would have no hold over you.”

  Benjamin had put his finger on an essential, miserable truth: It was very likely that instead of protecting her parents, Maggie’s unwillingness to turn to them was in some fashion a way to protect herself.

  Her pride, her ducal connections, her heart—which in some particulars remained that of a child, even in the body of a mature woman.

  “There’s something you should know, Maggie.”

  She nodded but didn’t meet his gaze. The forbearance in his tone was burden enough.

  “Your mother intends to consign Bridget to the protection of the highest bidder tomorrow night.” If he had plunged a dagger into her heart, his words could not have wounded Maggie more deeply. “Cecily has assembled a dozen or so of the randiest, wealthiest bachelors and invited them to a gathering, the express purpose of which is to determine who among them will be Bridget’s first protector.”

  Well, of course. And then, when Bridget was ruined beyond all repair, Cecily would reveal to His Grace what had befallen his youngest, most innocent, and most blameless daughter.

  “Take me to His Grace, Benjamin.” She scooted off the bench and wrapped her arms around the dog. “Before I lose my nerve, please send for the closed carriage and take me to Their Graces.”

  ***

  A woman gone quiet with her troubles was enough to unnerve most men. Benjamin Portmaine was not just any man—he was the one fellow in the land who did not believe that the competent, independent, pragmatic appearance Maggie Windham showed the entire world was the sum total of the woman. He was the man who wanted not only to know Maggie’s dreams but to make them come true.

  “It will be all right.” He offered words of comfort, the same words he’d offered her on another coach ride just a few short weeks in their past. Then, as now, she let herself lean into him, if only physically.

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I can. I wish you knew it, too.”

  He based his sanguine prognostication on what he knew of Percy Windham, what he suspected about Esther Windham, and what he simply hoped was true about Maggie Windham.

  She was still wearing his ring, for example, and he did not for one moment believe she was simply preserving a piece of jewelry from an absentminded maid.

  And despite Maggie’s muttering about packet schedules and foreign shores, he would not entertain the idea of her departing with her sister, and without him. In any case, he did not believe such an outcome was consistent with Maggie’s dreams.

  He also did not believe Cecily was going to back down unless faced with a veritable ducal armada of opposition to her scheme—because arranging an accident for the woman wouldn’t serve. She was Maggie’s mother, and Maggie was capable of prodigious feats of guilt.

  Maggie frowned out the coach window. “Westhaven must be calling. I don’t recognize that other carriage.”

  “It’s Deene’s.”

  “You arranged for them to be here?”

  He considered—for one instant—not lying, but prevaricating. “I did, both of them. If St. Just and Lord Valentine had been in Town, I would have summoned them as well. Sindal, too, since he’s my half brother and married to your sister Sophie.”

  She closed her eyes and let out a sigh. “This is a private business, Benjamin. You had no right to go rousing the entire regiment. Their Graces will not thank you, and I do not thank you.”

  “You will, but before we go in there, I’ve a little more gossip to impart.”

  She opened her eyes, and Ben had never seen such a combination of despair and beauty. “What?”

  “Some people are concluding that Bridget is your daughter. Deene suggested if that were the case, somebody ought to be calling the girl’s father out.”

  She cocked her head. “Lucas said that?”

  “To my face. And we need Westhaven’s legal training, because no matter how much you trust Kettering, I’ll not bring the lawyers into this situation unless you demand it.”

  She shuddered. “No lawyers.”

  “We are agreed on at least that much.”

  Before he climbed out of the coach, he paused to kiss his intended. “For courage, Maggie Windham, which you have in glorious abundance.”

  She searched his gaze, her eyes luminous with trepidation. “You hav
e a plan.”

  “I have several, depending on what we learn from your parents. All that’s required of you is that you trust me to see the best one implemented.”

  When she might have argued, he ducked out of the coach and handed her down. She emerged from her carriage with all the grace and dignity of a lady raised under the ducal roof, while Ben offered his arm and prepared to make good on promises he had no clear idea how he’d keep.

  ***

  “You say Hazelton summoned you here?” Percival, Duke of Moreland, perused first his heir and then the Marquis of Deene. “Both of you?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Deene answered. Westhaven merely nodded, and to his papa’s expert eye, looked a trifle worried.

  “For a man who has only recently acquired Maggie’s consent to marriage, that’s a bit high-handed. My love, do you know what this is about?”

  When his duchess might have answered, the butler appeared at the drawing-room door. “Lady Maggie and Lord Hazelton, Your Graces, my lords.”

  While Her Grace handled the introductions and discreetly signaled for tea, His Grace regarded his oldest daughter and the way Ben Portmaine hovered around the girl, clucking and fussing like a mother hen—or a particularly smitten rooster. His Grace passed on tea—never could abide the stuff unless crème cakes were in evidence, as well—and waited for Hazelton to get down to business.

  Though a man could wait only so long.

  “Hazelton, if you’re here to inform us that we’re to be grandparents ere a few months are gone, I hardly see what Deene’s presence adds to the gathering.”

  That earned him a slight frown from his duchess, but he’d weathered many of her frowns—most in good cause.

  “Deene has information that will be relevant to the discussion, Your Grace.” Hazelton’s tone was just deferential enough for politesse. “I believe Lady Maggie can trust Lord Deene’s discretion.”

  “She can.” That from Deene where the handsome dog lounged against the mantel. “The Windham family can trust my discretion, and that should be beyond doubt.”

  Oh, it was. Deene had been the one to convey the sorry circumstances of Bartholomew’s passing in a Portuguese tavern, the details of which had never once become the subject of gossip.

  “Stand down, Deene. I’m too old even to serve as a second anymore.”

  Another frown from Her Grace, this one more pronounced.

  “Your Graces,” Maggie spoke very quietly, “I have some things to tell you, and I’m not sure how to start.”

  “Best state it plain, my girl. Her Grace and I are made of stern stuff, and whatever it is, we’ll sort it out.” But for all his bluff tone, His Grace felt a frisson of tension in his chest. Maggie had never given them one spot of trouble—not one—and yet, Her Grace’s expression had become a deceptively polite mask.

  Maggie’s gaze went to Hazelton’s, and something seemed to pass between them.

  “I don’t know quite how else to tell you, but my mother—Cecily—claims I have a sister.” Maggie was watching Her Grace now. “A full sister.”

  “Oh, for the love of God.” Her Grace rose from before the tea service and began to pace. “When did she reveal this supposed sister to you?”

  Maggie watched the duchess cross to the window. “I’ve known since shortly after Bridget was born. She’ll be fifteen years old tomorrow.”

  Between trying to do the math, keeping an eye on his daughter, and watching his wife’s usually serene countenance fill with ire, His Grace—for one of the few times in his life—did not know what to say.

  “My love, perhaps you’d like a moment—”

  Hazelton interrupted. “If Your Graces would let Lady Maggie finish, please.”

  Maggie looked grateful for this intervention, so His Grace held his tongue and sent his wife a visual plea for patience. Her Grace went one better, crossed the room, and slipped her hand into his.

  “Bridget is very pretty,” Maggie said, “and her mother intends to launch her on a career of… vice, and I don’t know how to stop her. I’m sorry… I’m just so sorry. I didn’t want to bring this to you, but Cecily is shrewd and she knows the law and I just…”

  Hazelton tucked an arm around Maggie, and the room went silent. Westhaven was trying to look anywhere but at his parents, Deene was frowning, and His Grace could feel the duchess holding back a boiling vat of indignation.

  “Esther.” His Grace spoke very quietly, and he most assuredly did not wheedle. “It isn’t what you think.”

  “More to the point,” said Her Grace through clenched teeth, “it isn’t what Maggie thinks.”

  He turned to peer at his wife, but his duchess had aimed a green-eyed glare on dear Maggie.

  “Maggie Windham, you are exceptionally bright, probably brighter than all your brothers put together. When was the Peace of Amiens?”

  Maggie turned a puzzled gaze on Her Grace. “For the most part, the summer and fall of 1802.”

  “And when was this Bridget born?”

  “Spring of…” Maggie’s brows knit in a ferocious scowl. “1803. But you and Papa went to Paris during the Peace, along with the rest of Polite Society. You were gone for months.”

  “This girl, this Bridget, she is very likely your sister—your half sister,” said Her Grace in a terribly stern voice. “His Grace is not her father.”

  Maggie’s brows drew down. “Cecily will claim she followed Papa to France. It’s possible she did follow him.”

  “The woman speaks not a word of French,” His Grace retorted. “And I assure you, I can produce all manner of witnesses who will report she remained in London. One hears things in the clubs, and that creature cannot bear to stir far from her preferred hunting grounds.”

  Maggie’s gaze swiveled from the duchess to His Grace, her expression uncertain. “You’re sure, Papa? Sure of these witnesses?”

  She wasn’t asking about the witnesses, not just the witnesses. It broke a father’s heart to see the doubt in her eyes, but it warmed his soul to see the hope.

  “Daughter, I am certain.”

  The doubt ebbed, replaced by profound, visible relief. His Grace let out a breath he’d been holding for quite some time. “I gather you are concerned for the girl nonetheless, which does you credit, Maggie.”

  “And with the child in the hands of that viper,” Her Grace spat, “Maggie should be concerned. I cannot believe the woman had the temerity to approach you.”

  Hazelton got to his feet just when His Grace would have served up a soothing platitude.

  “At the risk of differing with my future mother-in-law, I believe Your Grace well knows the temerity Cecily is capable of.”

  Before His Grace’s eyes, his lovely duchess transformed from a woman seized with indignation to a lady with haunted green eyes.

  “Lord Hazelton.” Her Grace drew herself up to her considerable height. “You will choose your words carefully in this house.”

  Hazelton glanced down at Maggie, whose hand he held before her own parents. Then he looked up and speared his future mother-in-law with a look of ominous compassion. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but how long has Cecily been blackmailing you?”

  ***

  Oh, the hurt in Percy’s beautiful blue eyes, the confusion. Esther dreaded to see it.

  “It isn’t blackmail, exactly.” As she spoke, Esther saw Westhaven watching her from across the room, or perhaps watching both his parents, his expression unreadable.

  And Maggie… dear, precious Maggie appeared torn between relief and consternation, while Deene looked bored and Hazelton looked worried for his fiancée.

  “Duchess,” said His Grace. “You owe no explanations. None.”

  How she loved Percy Windham. His gaze held steadfast understanding, and perhaps some worry—for her—but no reproach, not a hint of reproach.

  “I think perhaps I’ve been silent too long,” Esther said. “And if I don’t owe explanations, I certainly owe apologies.”

  “Not to me—” beg
an His Grace stoutly, but Esther quieted him with a look.

  “Yes, to you, and to Maggie, at least. Cecily approached me very soon after Maggie came to live with us.”

  “But we paid the blasted woman off! We adopted Maggie, and that should have been an end to it.”

  “Should have been,” Esther said. “Shall we sit?”

  “Of course, my dear.” He seated her then glared at their son. “Westhaven, stop lurking at the window like the family duenna. Deene, fetch a man a drink, and you, Hazelton, pour Maggie a spot of tea before the girl faints into your waiting arms.”

  While the younger men complied with the duke’s orders—issued to give her time to compose herself, Esther was sure—Her Grace arranged her skirts and tried to find a way to explain a poor decision turned disastrous.

  “Cecily crossed her path with mine a few weeks after the adoption was final and seemed genuinely interested in Maggie’s welfare. In the course of the conversation, she also conveyed that she’d like to see Maggie herself, to spend time with her daughter.”

  Esther made herself meet Maggie’s gaze, hoping to find at least tolerance there. Forgiveness might come someday—Maggie was that good-hearted—but for now, the truth was the least she owed her adopted daughter. “I did not trust Cecily’s intent, and it soon became clear if I wanted her to keep her distance from me and my family, then I’d have to make it worth Cecily’s while.”

  “My God…” His Grace, perched on the arm of her chair, scowled mightily. “This is why you lost all that jewelry, isn’t it?”

  Westhaven addressed himself to the tea service. “And why my mother, who is as intelligent as a woman can be, had such trouble keeping track of her pin money.”

  “You’re both right, and I do apologize, but I considered Cecily to be my responsibility. I became Maggie’s mother when we adopted her, and that gave me the right to protect her.”

  “Oh, my love…” His Grace raised her fingers to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “My dear, I wish you’d told me. I want to throttle the damned woman or perhaps throttle myself for not managing her more astutely.”

  “Papa, what could you have done?” Maggie spoke up, and her defense left Esther pleased and surprised. “Cecily is even now claiming Bridget is yours. Any dealings you had with Cecily would have only given her more ammunition to use against you, and if she thought Her Grace could produce impressive sums of money, only think how deeply she might have stuck her fingers into a duke’s pockets.”