by Joanna Shupe
Simon caught Colton up on the developments, from Maggie as Lemarc to the blackmail letters received in Paris.
The duke slumped back. “Staggering. The whole business. So let me see if I understand. You court Lady Hawkins during her debut until the scandal breaks, upon which time Cranford shows you a bunch of letters from her professing her undying love for another man. So she marries Hawkins instead of you, and when Hawkins dies she returns to London as Lemarc, sets McGinnis up with a shop, and Winejester is born.”
Simon swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “Yes.”
“Deuced clever, that woman. You have to admire her.”
“Indeed,” Quint agreed. “She’s built a reputable name for herself. Lemarc is respected amongst artists. There was even talk of inviting him—er, her—to exhibit at Somerset House.”
“I don’t mean just the work,” Colton clarified. “Though it is impressive. I mean her plan to make Winchester suffer. Not all ladies would turn a former paramour into a popular caricature. Think she’d sell me one of the cartoons now?”
“I’ll allow that,” Simon returned, “when Julia permits me to inform you of how she spent her time in London all those years you were away.”
The duke’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “What do you mean by that? Spent her time, how?”
Simon didn’t answer, merely smirked. When it looked as if Colton might work himself into a righteous fury, Quint put a hand up. “Children,” he said, “I believe we should return to the issue at hand. I’ve been thinking on the blackmailer since Paris. From the sound of the letters, I think it safe to assume he’s someone close to you, Winchester.”
“Me? Why me?”
“He’s too smug. Rubbing your nose in it. This is personal for him. Or her. He’s laughing at you, trying to bleed money out of both of you. But he asked you for more money. Makes me think it’s someone out to hurt you, specifically, and hurting Lady Hawkins is a secondary motive.”
Simon let that sink in while he reached for a small cake. Who would hate him so much? A political opponent, possibly.
“Do you plan to turn the blackmailer over to the Crown?” Colton asked.
“It’s the only way. I won’t give them Maggie. Or Mrs. McGinnis.”
Quint reached for more tea. “I assume you’ll arrange to pay and then watch to see who comes to retrieve the money.”
“Yes, I daresay that is what Hollister will recommend,” Simon said, referring to the investigator. “Whatever the plan, it should happen quickly. Once word travels that Maggie and I have returned, I suspect the blackmailer will contact us.”
“I am surprised Lady Hawkins did not join us today, as this is a concern to her as well,” Colton noted.
Simon did not immediately reply, so Quint said, “She left him in Paris. Snuck out in the middle of the night.”
Colton chuckled. “Oh, extraordinary. I adore this woman. Verily, Winchester, you deserve everything she gives you.”
A knock on the door offered Simon a blessed reprieve. “Enter,” he called. His butler appeared. “A Mr. Hollister to see you, my lord.”
“Excellent. Show him into the study, Stillman.” He stood. “Come along, both of you, and do try to be helpful.”
Four days later Mrs. McGinnis received succinct instructions:
Thursday, three o’clock in the afternoon, leave a book containing the bank drafts on the first stone bench along the footpath from Stanhope Gate to the Serpentine.
The location worked to their advantage. Hyde Park allowed for a multitude of hiding places from which they could keep vigil over the parcel. It seemed doubtful the blackmailer would retrieve it himself, as it was too great a risk, but someone would surely come to collect such a large sum of money. All they needed to do was wait and then follow.
Simon refused to allow Maggie’s involvement. She was kept abreast of the developments, of course, but Simon did not want her anywhere near the blackmailers. He could well imagine how angry this made her, especially when he had Hollister post a man to guard her house, but he couldn’t risk her name attached to this operation in any manner. She needed to be far, far removed.
He hadn’t seen her since Paris. He missed her. Terribly. Missed her stubbornness and her laugh. Her feisty temper and her wicked wit. And at night he ached for her soft, strong hands teasing him to madness. Nevertheless, he needed to stop this threat against her first. Once the forger and blackmailer were in the hands of the Crown, Simon could go to her and discuss their future, a future that very much included Maggie as the Countess of Winchester.
On the day of the delivery, Hollister stationed over twenty men in the park. Whoever came to collect the parcel would not get away, though that fact did little to lesson Simon’s anxiety. The person responsible for this scheme stood between Simon and everything he’d ever wanted, and his entire future hinged on removing that obstacle.
As they expected, not even a minute after Simon placed the book on the bench, a young boy came to collect it. Simon and the other men followed him closely, staying far enough behind as to not draw his attention. They ended at Jermyn Street, where the boy knocked on a door, handed over the parcel, and collected a few coins before sprinting off. The partition closed quickly, the entire transaction happening in the blink of an eye.
“That’s our man,” Hollister murmured to Simon. They were positioned across the street. “He took the parcel.”
“Let’s go in, then.” Simon eyed the door, then asked, “You have your lock-picking tools?”
“Indeed, I do. We’ll sneak in and catch your blackmailer unaware. I’ll put some men on the sides and back of the building in case he tries to run.”
Hollister picked the locks with the efficiency of a seasoned dubber, then turned the handle carefully to noiselessly open the door. He gestured for Simon to lead the way.
Pistol in hand, Simon crept up the stairs, Hollister directly behind. The treads squeaked and groaned under their weight and they had to go slowly. When Simon reached the top, he checked the latch and found it unlocked. He threw open the door and rushed in, the investigator on his heels.
The large apartment was devoid of furniture, save a table and a few chairs scattered here and there. He saw well-used art supplies—canvases, easels, frames, paint, and brushes—which explained the heavy smell of turpentine in the air. A small, unfamiliar man sat at a table, paper and pencils in front of him. Wide-eyed, he carefully raised his hands in surrender.
Movement in the back caught Simon’s eye. A head topped with thinning brown hair disappeared out the side window.
Simon rushed forward, determined to catch whoever was attempting an escape. Drawing nearer to the edge, he could see a rope attached to a hook in the sill. He leaned out the window in time to see a familiar face letting go of the rope and dropping into the alley below.
Sir James. His bloody brother-in-law. A furious growl rumbled in Simon’s throat. “Stop him!” Simon shouted to Hollister’s man at the entrance of the alley as Sir James ran toward the street.
The man raced into the alley, toward Sir James, and Simon spun away from the window and sprinted for the stairs. “Wait here,” he told Hollister, who stood with his pistol trained on the unknown man at the table.
Simon thumped down the steps and wrenched open the front door. Christ, now it all made sense. The money. The notes. That it had been a personal attack.
The damned idiot.
Once on the street, Simon found that Hollister’s man had Sir James pinned in the back of the alley. James struggled to escape the larger man’s grip, but Hollister’s man held fast, leaning his larger body into James’s girth to keep him still.
When James saw Simon approach, he stiffened. Fear flashed over his fleshy features before he thrust his chin up defiantly. “Here now, Winchester, what’s—”
“Do not say one word, you miserable excuse for a man.” Anger burned in Simon’s throat. He’d never wanted to punch anyone so desperately in all his life. James had been a
pustule on Simon’s backside ever since the day he’d married Sybil. A blackmailer. Everlasting hell.
“Want me to send for the authorities, my lord?” Hollister’s man stepped aside and produced a pistol from his coat. He pointed the weapon at Sir James.
Simon scrubbed a hand across his jaw, hating the position he’d been put in. It would be so much easier to turn everything over to the Crown. “No. Not yet, at least.”
“You cannot have me . . . arrested!” Sir James sputtered indignantly. “Think of the scandal. Your mother and sister. Why, it would—”
“Enough! I can do whatever I damn well please, James, including having you sent to the hulks, if I bloody well choose.”
He needed to speak with James alone. As much as he wished otherwise, this was family business and no one should overhear it. He turned to Hollister’s man. “Watch the entrance to the alley.” The man nodded, took a few steps toward the street, and turned his back.
Simon narrowed his eyes on James. “Give me one good reason not to strangle you here and now.”
James pushed away from the brick wall, straightened his clothing. “Sybil would never forgive you. And not even peers are able get away with murder.”
“They can if they’re smart about it. I daresay I’d be lauded as a hero in this case.” Simon crossed his arms to keep from throttling James. “I cannot believe you thought this scheme would work. I should just put a ball in your bloody duplicitous heart.”
“So do it!” the other man shot back, throwing up his hands. “I have nothing left to live for. We’re completely done for. You’ve taken all our money, and I’m forced to depend on the kindness of relatives like a . . . a damned spinster aunt. You—”
“So the answer is to blackmail me? Hell, James, what else could I do? You spend every farthing you get your hands on. You’re determined to drag my sister down with you, and I will not have it. You’ll not bankrupt the estate. Not as long as I am the head of the family.”
“As if we all need a reminder you are the mighty and powerful Earl of Winchester,” James sneered.
Simon’s jaw clenched tightly. Shouldn’t his brother-in-law be begging for forgiveness right now? He took a calming breath. “Who put you up to this? I know this was not your idea.”
“How do you know that? I am more clever than you give me credit for!”
“I give you precisely the credit you deserve, you notorious nincompoop. Now tell me who you have been working with.”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
Simon stalked forward, wrapped a fist around James’s cravat, and shoved him against the rough brick. “Because if you do not, I will cut off your bollocks and feed them to the pigs. Start explaining, James.”
James pressed his lips together, spite glittering in his eyes.
“Fine,” Simon said, calmly. He released his hold—only to plow a fist in James’s belly. The man doubled over, wheezing. Simon straightened his cuffs and waited for him to recover.
“Piss. Off,” James rasped.
Simon wrapped his fingers around James’s throat, yanking the man upright and slamming him into the brick. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”
James said nothing, his gaze openly hostile, so Simon leaned in to snarl, “I shall squeeze your throat until you tell me what I want to know. If you do not tell me, I’ll cut off your supply of air.”
“You would not dare,” James returned, though his gaze darted over Simon’s shoulder nervously, as if looking for assistance.
“Wouldn’t I?” Simon tightened his fist across James’s windpipe and James yelped. “It’s the perfect place to kill you. They shall find your body in this alley and assume you were set upon by a thief or ruffian. No one will ever suspect me.” James began to struggle, but Simon was considerably larger and stronger. His brother-in-law turned a nice shade of red.
“Let me go, you madman!”
“No chance,” Simon bit out. “Not until you tell me who.” To illustrate his point, he pressed even harder.
James’s eyes bulged. “All right! Let me go and I’ll tell you,” he whispered.
“Now, you maggot. Or I’ll strangle you where you stand.”
“Cranford!” James shouted as best he could. “It was Cranford. Now let me go!”
Simon froze, unable to breathe. Cranford? Blackmailing Simon and Maggie? God above, why? He relaxed his grip on James, and James slumped against the wall to suck in air.
“Cranford?” Simon repeated and sorted what he knew of both men. “You and Cranford cooked up this scheme? How in hell did that come about?”
“We’re friends.” James stuck up his chin. “Have been for a long time. In fact, he’s brokered many a deal for me over the past few years. He’s got good ideas and always knows where the solid investments can be made.”
“James, you’ve never made a solid investment in your life. Have you been . . . giving Cranford money?”
“Only when the opportunity arises. Can’t get in every time, you see. And it ain’t his fault when the business fails. He’s a solid chap.”
Everlasting hell. Cranford had been bilking James out of money for years, it seemed. No, make that Winchester money. “No, he’s not. Cranford is a liar, a rapist, and possibly a murderer. Now we know he’s a swindler and a blackmailer, too. Jesus, James.” Simon pinched the bridge of his nose.
“A . . . rapist? A murderer? No, that can’t be right.”
“Tell me how you were to contact him after today’s payment.”
James shook his head. “I wasn’t. Said he would contact me when he got back from Paris.”
“Cranford was in Paris?” Simon’s stomach clenched as the pieces began to fall into place. The man on Maggie’s balcony. The carriage accident. The fact that the blackmailer knew how to contact them. He put a hand to the wall to steady himself. “So did you send the note to Mrs. McGinnis, asking for the money?”
“Cranford told me what to say.” He scratched his head. “Now that I think on it, seems unlikely he’s still in France. How would he know you both were here otherwise?”
Simon pondered James’s surprisingly astute question. “Is the man in that room there the one who has been forging Lemarcs?”
“Yes. I found him. Good, isn’t he?”
Simon’s lip curled and he quashed the urge to strangle James once more. “Not a fact you should be proud of at this moment, James.”
James instantly sobered. “So what do you plan to do, now that you know?”
Simon considered his options. He mostly wanted to finish what he’d started in this alley, but killing James would prove difficult to explain to the family. What he needed was to get rid of James for good without committing murder. “Fortunate for you that I maintain a house in Edinburgh. I see a lifetime of Scotland in your future, James.”
Maggie stalked the floors of her studio, furious at being forced to remain home. The afternoon light had already started to fade. Surely the money had been turned over to the blackmailer by now, and she knew Simon and Mr. Hollister planned to follow whoever retrieved the parcel. Had they found the blackmailer? What was happening? She wanted to pull her hair out from the frustration.
She should be there. And she would be there, if it weren’t for Simon’s heavy-handedness.
He’d actually posted a man at her door to ensure she could not leave. Trapping her, as if she were a prisoner. The gall of that man . . .
He had no right to be making decisions for her or solving problems on her behalf. Nothing had changed between them since Paris. The threat of sedition still loomed, not to mention a madman was running amok in an attempt to ruin her life. Did Simon not realize the risk to his reputation if her identity was discovered ? Or what about his political standing when his name became linked to hers?
Even if I must give up my seat in Lords.
That he would be willing to walk away from his family legacy both humbled and terrified her. She would not allow him to do it, of course, would never force him to c
hoose. Though he’d brushed away her concerns, Maggie knew what would happen if they married. Eventually he would come to resent the ramifications of their association. Resent her.
Her chest constricted, making it painful to draw breath. The temptation to throw it all away, to run to Simon and ignore the consequences nearly overwhelmed her . . . but she resisted it. She knew what it was like to have Society turn its back on you, how ugly one’s life could become when it was no longer in your control. Simon had been worshipped from the cradle, the golden heir to one of the wealthiest families in England. He had no idea of what awaited him should she give in.
So she would be the reasonable one. She would learn how to survive without him. She had no choice, really, because as soon as the blackmailer was dealt with Maggie planned to leave England for good.
“The Duchess of Colton to see you, milady,” Tilda said at the door.
Maggie’s chest fluttered as hope rose within her. She had not seen Julia since returning from Paris. Had the duchess brought news of the blackmailer? Maggie dashed past her servant and into the corridor. “No need to bring her up, Tilda. I shall go down!” she tossed over her shoulder.
She raced down two sets of stairs until she reached the front sitting room where Tilda always placed waiting guests. The duchess was examining a painting on the wall when Maggie entered. “Julia,” Maggie panted. “Have you any news?”
Julia turned and shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I was hoping you might have learned something. The wait, at home by myself, was interminable.”
Maggie sagged and tried to catch her breath. “Well, at least we may wait together, then.” She crossed and rang for tea.
“You are very talented.” Julia once again stared at the landscape, the one with the plover Simon had used to identify Maggie as Lemarc. “And Winejester was a stroke of genius.”
“Thank you, though part of me wishes I’d never thought of the name. None of this mess would have transpired in such a case.”
“You cannot mean that,” Julia exclaimed. “I was told you and Simon worked out your differences in Paris.”
