The Harlot Countess

by Joanna Shupe

  “Ridiculous. I am not carrying a grudge. But did you see the way she encouraged Markham, flirting with him all night? Fairly disgusting.”

  “She’s a widow and has already earned a reputation for herself. Since most of polite society will not have her, I say she’s entitled to partake in fun wherever she can. And it is unlike you to pass judgment on another’s liaisons.”

  He pressed his lips together, unable and unwilling to comment. How could he explain it to Julia when he barely understood it himself?

  “Tonight almost makes me regret the small part I played in that fiasco during her debut. Perhaps you should have challenged Cranford after all.”

  “No, you were right. It would not have changed the outcome and likely could have made it all worse. Cranford may be many things, but a poor shot has never been one of them.”

  “I don’t know. There is a sense of grand romance. . . .” She trailed off. “Anyway, what’s done is done. I just cannot understand why you insist on punishing the woman. Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

  “Suffered?” he scoffed. “You’ve been to one of her parties. The woman lives like a French aristocrat before Robespierre started lopping heads off. I’d hardly call that a hardship.”

  “You are obviously more cynical and dim-witted than I give you credit for.” Julia blew out a breath. “Being on the outskirts of our Society is different for a woman than a man. I shouldn’t expect you to understand, but I do expect you to leave her be, Simon.”

  “Fine,” he snapped, then gentled his tone. “I’ll leave her be.” He heard the resolution in his voice but wondered if he truly meant it.

  Chapter Seven

  Early the following morning, the door of Maggie’s studio swung open and Rebecca’s voice rang out. “I couldn’t wait a second longer. I want to hear all about last evening.”

  Maggie didn’t look up. Sitting at the large wooden table she used for drawing, she continued to sketch, determined to get the image down perfectly. She’d been at it for over an hour. “Tilda, bring tea, if you would.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Maggie heard the click of the latch and then felt a presence at her back.

  “Are you working on the Scottish and Welsh drawings for Ackermann’s travel book?” Rebecca asked, up on her toes to peek over Maggie’s shoulder.

  Maggie hunched and covered the paper with her hands. “No. It’s another cartoon for the shop, and you’ll see it when it’s done, not before.”

  “Fine. Lud, you’re secretive about your work.” Becca crossed to the sofa near the tall row of windows. “It’s nothing to do with last night, I trust.” Silence stretched until Rebecca gasped. “Maggie! What are you thinking? Everyone will know Lemarc attended the duchess’s dinner party.”

  “No one would believe such a thing. People will merely assume he’s well informed.”

  “Still, it is an unnecessary risk in my opinion, but I know you will not listen to me. So what happened between you and Winchester last evening?”

  Maggie’s hand slipped. Damn. The lower right section would need to be redone now. “Must we talk about this now?”

  “Yes, I rather think we must. He must have been there because Tilda said you came home early, madder than a wet hen.”

  Curse her loose-lipped servant. Maggie put down her pencil and stood to take the chair nearest her sister. “Yes, he was there. Glaring at me from across the room the entire evening. He is the most infuriating man.”

  “An infuriating man you were once madly in love with. I worry you will not be able to resist him.”

  The memory of being pressed up against his body last night rushed back. I think I could take you against this wall. Right now. Right here. He may have turned her plan to tempt him around on her, but she would not fall for it a second time.

  She waved her hand. “He is the very last man I would choose to involve myself with.”

  “Especially when you could have your pick of all the men in the ton. It’s not fair; widows get to have all the fun.”

  Oh, yes. So much fun. The gossip, the snickers behind her back. The innuendo and improper invitations constantly hurled her way. Becca certainly had romantic visions of Maggie’s life, and Maggie loved her too dearly to ever crush them with the harsh reality. So she smiled and said, “I think you mean men get to have all the fun.”

  “Well, no one could argue with that statement. Tell me who else was there.”

  Tilda returned with tea just as Maggie began a recounting of the evening, starting with a description of the Colton town house. By the time tea had been poured, she’d told almost all of it and ended with her decision to come home early.

  “You’ve left out the most important tidbit,” Becca said. “What caused you to leave prematurely? Something—or some one—obviously upset you.”

  Maggie lifted a shoulder and took a sip. “A small disagreement. Nothing worth mentioning.”

  “Liar. What did he say to you? I swear, if he was cruel—”

  “I love that you worry, dear sister, but there’s nothing you can do to change the minds of the stubborn.”

  Her sister tapped her toe, a sure sign Becca was deep in thought. Maggie sipped her tea and kept silent. Finally, Becca’s eyes grew wide, then narrowed. “So Winchester believes all those terrible rumors about you? He should be the one man to know better. I swear, I will never forgive him for not standing up for you when—”

  “Oh, Becca.” Maggie sighed. “What’s done is done. Many times we expect more from our friends than they are prepared to give. Or capable of giving, really. I’m grateful I learned where I stood when I did. Otherwise, I could have spent many miserable years with a man who cared so little for me.”

  “Instead you spent many miserable years with a man old enough to be your father.”

  “They were not miserable. Lonely, certainly, but not miserable. Hawkins preferred his mistress and I had no arguments to the contrary.”

  Becca leaned over to grip Maggie’s hand. “And you do not see that as miserable?”

  Maggie smiled, shook her head. “No, I certainly do not. Not everyone finds love as you and Marcus did. You are one of the rare examples of a happy marriage, Becca. And while I could not be more pleased for you, not everyone is so fortunate.”

  “And I have you to thank for my marriage to Marcus. Had you not married Hawkins, I never would have found my husband.”

  Maggie squeezed her sister’s fingers affectionately. After the scandal, Maggie had the choice to marry Hawkins or bring shame on her entire family, including her innocent younger sister. Under no certain terms would Maggie have deprived Becca of the ability to debut and find a husband, no matter what it cost her personally. So she’d married Hawkins, endured the painful and embarrassing wedding night, lived in the little town where the whispers and innuendo followed, and buried herself in her art. But Becca’s gratitude and happiness made the past ten years worthwhile.

  “I only wish Papa had lived long enough to see how successful you’ve become,” Becca continued. “He would be so proud of you.”

  Tears pricked Maggie’s eyes before she could prevent it. She missed her father, whose sensitive artist’s soul had been so much like her own. It hurt to think his final memories of her were of shame and disappointment. All she’d ever wanted was to make him proud, and she’d failed miserably while he’d been alive. Perhaps now, from wherever he rested, he would see all she’d accomplished in a short amount of time.

  She exhaled, released Becca’s hand, and sat back. “At least he saw you happily married. He knew how much you loved Marcus.” Watching her father’s grin during Becca’s wedding ceremony had been bittersweet for Maggie; Papa’s joy at Becca’s match only sharpened the contrast of his unhappiness during Maggie’s hasty wedding.

  “Yes, but you were always his favorite. And he knew how talented you were, even then.” Cup in hand, Becca relaxed on the tiny sofa. “I do so love this space. It’s quite relaxing up here.”

  “I
spend most of my time here,” Maggie said, “as you know. Just look at the stains on my hands.” Maggie had purchased the town house with a portion of her jointure. The best feature of her town house by far was the small glass room on the upper floor.

  The previous owner had been a sculptor and he’d joined the top-floor nursery and smaller bedroom into one giant windowed studio. The space was an artist’s dream. Two dormer windows had been combined to form one long row of windows—each comprised of small squares separated by thin glazing bars—for maximum light. All of them opened with hinges to allow for fresh air when she painted. There were glass windows in the ceiling as well, and they could be vented and propped open using a long pole. With its high ceilings and privacy, the room was quiet, airy, and bright. Maggie loved it.

  All she needed was this space and her paints. A pencil and some canvas. Simple things that in no way included the Earl of Winchester.

  “Maggie,” Becca said, regaining her attention. “You know the work I’ve been doing with the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. The committee has planned an event to raise money and I hoped to use some of your artwork, if you’re amenable. They’ve some other pieces, by Rowlandson, Pugin, and the like, and Lemarc’s work would surely generate some interest as well.”

  “Of course. Whatever you need. I would be honored.”

  “What do you think about donating some pieces under your own name? You’ve dreamed of establishing a more respectable career outside of Lemarc. This could be a most advantageous opportunity.”

  The idea had merit. It would allow her greater freedom to admit her passion to the world. She would no longer need to keep her work a secret. But would Society accept her? Women artists were not as well received as their male peers. Patrons were harder to come by and commissions were scarce enough as it was. It was easier in France, where a few women, such as Vigée-Lebrun and Ducreux, had already succeeded. The English had not been as quick to embrace female artists, however.

  Still, if she could do her own pieces and continue on as Lemarc as well . . . But who would purchase art by the Half-Irish Harlot? Hard to guess whether her reputation would make the art more popular or herself more of an outcast.

  “I will think on it. When does this event take place?”

  “A few months yet.”

  “If I start working under my name, there is a chance of social recrimination, which could affect you and Marcus.”

  “I shan’t mind a bit. You have a gift, Maggie, and it should be celebrated, not hidden away. Let them gossip all they like. You know the talk only leads to the sale of more pieces.”

  “Afternoon, Quint. Nice of you to tidy up for me.”

  Simon stepped over the usual stacks of papers and books along the floor on the way to the viscount’s desk, where his friend was studying something. Quint straightened, giving Simon a good look at today’s sartorial transgression. A violet coat over a green striped waistcoat, topped with a cravat so loosely tied it more resembled a sash. Simon cringed. He loved Quint, but the way his friend dressed would have Brummell fainting dead away in the street.

  Last evening, Quint had revealed he’d made progress with the birds and asked that Simon call today. Even still, it seemed Quint was entirely taken off guard by Simon’s arrival.

  “Winchester! Glad you’re here. I’d offer you a chair, but . . .” Quint gestured to the two across from the desk, which were filled with books. “Hold on and let me just get the—” Quint shuffled about, then carefully laid out seven framed portraits on the desk. When he was done, he waved a hand. “Your bird engravings.”

  “Weren’t there almost twenty of them?”

  “Yes, but I’ve eliminated all of the usual birds. Ones found anywhere in England, such as the partridge, magpie, woodpecker, and the like. What we have here are the only seven that matter in narrowing down where our famed artist might reside.”

  “Or once visited.”

  “Perhaps,” Quint allowed. “But as you’ll see, some of these birds span seasons. So if the artist only took a short vacation, he likely wouldn’t have seen summer birds and winter birds. In my opinion, the artist spent a considerable amount of time in this area, watching wildlife.”

  “Yes, that makes sense.”

  “Now, let’s study the remaining lot. The top row”—he pointed—“are the male golden oriole, female dotterel, and nightingale. All summer feathering, mostly located only in eastern England. The second row, the bar-tailed godwit, plover, redwing, and dunlin, are depicted with their winter feathering. All can be seen in eastern England during the winter.” Quint slid two of the frames down to separate them. “What’s interesting is that both the godwit and the dunlin are coastal birds, specifically living around estuaries all throughout England.”

  “We’re thinking somewhere in eastern England, near the coast or an estuary?”

  “Well, that was my conclusion until I landed upon this one.” Quint bent, produced another framed painting from his desk drawer. “This appears to be, at first glance, a type of grouse, which you find up north on the moors. But I can’t place it.”

  “So what is it?”

  “The devil if I know. It’s no bird found in England.”

  They both stared at the painting for a long moment. “What if Lemarc got it wrong?” Simon suggested.

  “You mean he invented a bird?”

  “That or perhaps painted it from memory—only he didn’t remember it correctly.”

  “You might be on to something. Grab that book over there, will you? The black one with the yellow lettering.”

  Simon followed Quint’s direction until he found the book entitled Birds Throughout England. He handed it over.

  Quint flipped through to the section containing grouses. He rustled through the pages quickly. “Aha. Here, a male red grouse.” He placed the book down on the desk alongside the framed painting. The men moved their eyes back and forth to study each image.

  “Look here, the bill is all wrong.” Simon pointed to the painting. “And according to the book, there should be yellow edging on the wing feathers, which is missing in Lemarc’s version.”

  “But it’s close enough we can assume this is what Lemarc attempted to paint. He didn’t have one in front of him, however, so did it from memory.” Quint slapped Simon on the back. “Well done! I knew you were smarter than you appeared—”

  “Easy, man. I am still able to pin you to the ground with one hand tied behind my back.”

  His friend chuckled and picked up the grouse painting. “I believe we can discount this one altogether, then.”

  “I agree. Lemarc likely had seen one in his lifetime but didn’t have a recollection recent enough to work from when completing the painting.”

  Quint flipped the picture over. “So, without the grouse, your artist is near an estuary in eastern England. My opinion would be Suffolk or Norfolk, near the sea.”

  “Which doesn’t do much good. Those counties are rife with estuaries.”

  Quint put a hand to his ear, cupping it. “Beg pardon? Was that a ‘thank you, Quint’ I just heard?”

  Simon grinned and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Thank you, Quint. This is brilliant, though I daresay I’d hoped for a closer range.”

  “You are aware that birds fly, are you not? The best we could hope for was a small region.” Quint pushed a stack of books onto the floor and flopped down in the now-empty chair. “We’ve narrowed it down to two counties. What more do you want?”

  “My apologies. I’m being churlish.” He sat on the edge of the desk, the only remotely clean surface in the room. “Hopefully the Runner I’ve hired can narrow it down further. May I take these with me?”

  “Of course. Tug the bell pull, will you? I haven’t eaten all day and no doubt my housekeeper is on the verge of hysteria.”

  Simon strode over and did as Quint asked, remarking, “How long have you had this one?”

  “Five weeks. I hope she lasts.”

  Not likely, Simon though
t. Though he could afford to pay well, being in Quint’s employ had to be more bloody trouble than the job was worth. The viscount buried himself in projects from time to time, with any normal routine abandoned for his whims. Sometimes he didn’t remember to eat until well into the night.

  Simon collected the eight frames off the desk, then went to the door. “I shall leave you to it, then. I’ve got an errand to run. Will I see you later at the club?”

  “Doubtful. I’ve a clock that’s running a few minutes slow and I want to—”

  Simon held up a hand. Quint could talk details until cock’s crow, and Simon was pressed for time. “No need to spell it out for me. Thank you for the information on the birds, Quint. As always, you’ve been brilliant.”

  “I’ll expect you to have that inscribed on my tombstone.”

  “Again, my thanks. I shall see you tomorrow, then.” Simon lifted the handle and escaped into the hall.

  Normally Simon would linger. However, his mother had sent a note requesting his presence for tea and, before that, he wished to deliver the bird paintings for Lady Hawkins’s inspection.

  The ride to Maggie’s did not take long. He had no clue whether she was receiving callers or not, so he bounded up the steps, the pictures cradled in his hands. Perhaps he could leave them with a servant.

  He doubted she would see him—not after their exchange during the dinner party last evening. Maggie had been furious when she left; everyone had seen and commented on that fact. And honestly, what had prompted him to act the way he had? If she wanted Markham, why in hell should Simon stand between them?

  When the door opened, Simon found the same servant he’d encountered on previous visits staring back at him. He presented his card and requested an audience with Lady Hawkins. The woman eyed him critically before allowing him entry. She held out her hands to take his things, so he rested the paintings on a small table and began removing his greatcoat.

  A card on the table caught his eye. The name on it, easily read even from his height, caused him to gnash his teeth. “Has Lord Markham departed?”