by Joanna Shupe
“Allow me to guess,” Maggie drawled. “Simon told you that.”
Julia’s brow creased with concern. “Yes, he did. Is it not true?”
Maggie sat and arranged her skirts, deciding how best to answer. If she were honest, would Julia keep her confidence or repeat everything to Simon? When she hedged, the duchess lowered into a nearby chair.
“Maggie, I must confess something to you. I’m afraid . . .” Julia sounded unusually grave, her blue eyes showing signs of both worry and guilt. “Well, it’s time you knew, anyway.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Julia nodded. “Indeed, it is. And it’s something I should have mentioned ages ago. You see, back during your debut, when the scandal broke . . .” She cleared her throat and folded her hands in her lap. “He wanted to challenge Cranford and I convinced him not to.”
Maggie blinked. “Simon? Simon wanted to challenge Cranford?”
“Yes. He was furious. Convinced that Cranford had dishonored you. Of course, I did not know any of the particulars, else I would have let him issue the challenge. But I was selfish; I was sixteen, had just been married off to a stranger who immediately abandoned me. Simon had been my friend since childhood. At the time, I was petrified he’d either be killed or be forced to leave England as well. So I convinced him to speak with Cranford first, instead of meeting over pistols at dawn.”
A duel. Simon had been willing to defend her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, one of amazement and gratitude. For so long, she’d assumed them all eager to shun her after the scandal, but Simon had cared enough to want to risk his life for her. Thank heavens Julia had talked him out of it. If he’d been killed . . . well, no sense dwelling on the past. Suffice it to say, she was grateful he hadn’t died.
While Maggie struggled with this information, Julia shifted a bit in her seat. “I feel positively wretched over it, Maggie. If Simon had issued the challenge, your entire life would be different. Not only that, but the two of you would have ended up together much sooner.”
“Perhaps . . . or perhaps not,” Maggie allowed. “We shall never know what may have happened. Cranford may very well have killed him.”
From the frown on her pale face, Julia did not appear reassured. So Maggie said, “Honestly, I am glad you stopped him. Challenging Cranford would have been monumentally idiotic.”
“Maggie,” Julia said gravely, “your reputation, your nickname. The cruelty you endured . . . none of that would have happened if I’d let him issue the challenge. You would be happily stowed away at Winchester Towers with four or five babies by now.”
“Lord, I should hope not,” Maggie snorted.
Julia cut her a glance. “Would it have been so terrible?”
Sobering, Maggie thought how best to express her thoughts. Not many women would understand, but perhaps Julia might. “My marriage to Hawkins was not a tragic one, and I had a great deal of freedom to learn and practice my skills. I traveled to Paris. I met Lucien. I gained insight into myself I never would have achieved without the scandal. I do not regret one minute of it. And while I might wish for others to remain unblemished by it, my reputation allows me certain liberties I’d never otherwise possess. I’ve led a life most of the women of our world will never know. It has not been perfect, but at least I can say I truly lived.”
She’d never put it all into words before, but Maggie meant every single one. Tension she’d carried for far too long disappeared off her frame, making her lighter, happier. So what if some of them snickered behind her back? Maggie could be more than the proper Lady Margaret Hawkins; she was also Maggie, the Half-Irish Harlot, as well as Lemarc. Pity the rest of them only had one persona.
“It relieves my mind to hear you say so,” Julia said. “I would not blame you if you told me to go to the devil. I would.”
“No. I’ve grown too fond of you. Besides, you were only concerned with Simon’s welfare, and rightly so.”
“Do you love him?” Julia cocked her perfectly coiffed blond head. “I must say, I’ve never seen him like this over a woman. If you break his heart, I do not want to have to choose sides.”
Love him? She’d thought she loved him once, when she was a girl. Now she tried not to think on it, tried to think of their relationship as fleeting. A passing fancy they would both recover from when it ended—and it would end. There was no choice, considering the people they had both become.
She decided to be honest. “I plan on leaving London once my affairs have been settled here, so do not worry over choosing sides.”
“Leaving?” Julia’s face clouded with confusion. “But I assumed.... Does he know?”
Maggie shook her head. “No. I’ve told no one.”
“Why?”
Was it not obvious? Her tongue thick and uncooperative, Maggie gestured to the room. “Because of Lemarc. Because of the Half-Irish Harlot. Because of everything I am.” Or rather, everything she was not. She gave a dry laugh. “Can you see me, a political hostess? It’s laughable.”
“Yes. I can,” Julia snapped, straightening her shoulders. “Are you telling me you think you are not good enough to stand as Simon’s wife? That you are unworthy ?” She shot to her feet and began moving angrily about the room. “Has he in any way intimated—”
“No !” Maggie rushed out. “Absolutely not. He said he wants to marry me, though I expect him to change his mind once he’s had time to consider the unfortunate ramifications of such a rash action.”
“Rash? The two of you have waited nearly ten years for one another. How is that rash, exactly?”
Tilda entered with tea, and both women waited patiently for the servant to depart. Maggie busied herself with pouring while Julia resumed her seat. The duchess had clearly romanticized Simon and Maggie’s relationship. Maggie, on the other hand, hadn’t romanticized anything in quite a long time; she’d learned to be practical out of necessity, even when doing so proved difficult.
“You should know,” Julia said, accepting her cup and saucer, “that while the Winchester men have all been brilliant statesmen, there’s not a one without a scandal in his past. And while Simon may seem respectable now—”
“Men are forgiven their scandals,” Maggie gently reminded. “You know that. It’s much different for women. And he will come to resent me for it.”
“Do not underestimate yourself or Simon. And I would throw Colton’s considerable weight behind the two of you as well. We would be a formidable force, all of us together.”
Not when the world discovers Lemarc’s true identity, Maggie thought. That piece of news went way beyond an average scandal. If the blackmailer had his way, Lemarc would be unmasked and sent to prison for a long time. And even if this particular threat passed, there would forever be another one, someone else trying to ruin Lemarc. How could she allow Simon—as well as her friends—to be embroiled in her dramas time and time again? Better to leave while she still could.
Nevertheless, she did not want to argue with the duchess. “Let us speak of more interesting topics. You’ve never told me about meeting Colton in Venice. Tell me how you were able to get the Depraved Duke to fall in love with you.”
Chapter Twenty
“No sign of him, my lord,” Hollister said, striding into Simon’s study after being announced.
Simon grit his teeth in frustration as Colton said, “It’s as we expected. He’s gone into hiding.”
“Probably watched us chasing the delivery boy this afternoon and realized Sir James would be caught,” Quint noted.
They had split up after dealing with Sir James in order to find Cranford. Hollister and Colton had taken the more disreputable locations Cranford had been known to frequent, while Quint and Simon had searched the clubs and West End haunts. It was after midnight, however, and failure hung over them like a dark cloud.
“Unless he’s still in Paris,” Colton said. “There’s no way to know for sure. I’ve been hunting him for weeks. If he were in London, I would have smelled a whiff o
f him by now.”
“Not necessarily,” Quint said, lowering his cup and saucer to the table. “He could be languishing in an opium den for all we know.”
“And still managing to pull Sir James’s strings? No, I do not believe so.” Simon stood up to stretch his legs, his mind turning over to find a solution. “What do we do now?” he asked no one in particular.
The room remained silent until Quint said, “Tell me again what Cranford said to Maggie in Paris?”
Simon rubbed his temples and tried to remember all Maggie had told him. It had taken some persuasion to get the full story from her several days after the fact. “She asked him to reveal himself and he refused, telling her he would do so in good time. He admitted he knew her to be Lemarc, and also told her that I would use her.”
“I stand by my hypothesis that this is personal about you, Winchester,” Quint said. “And those remarks only confirm it. What does Cranford have against you?”
Simon shrugged. He never had understood it himself.
“Nothing from school or university that I recall,” Colton said. “Cranford was a few years older than us and I hardly remember him.”
“That day, at Brooks’s, you looked ready to throttle Cranford,” Quint said to Simon. “What did he say to make you so angry?”
Simon had mostly forgotten that conversation. “He warned me away from Maggie—veiled as friendly concern, of course—and poked fun at Sir James.” At the sideboard, he poured a fresh glass of claret.
“What doesn’t fit is the attack on the girl at Madame Hartley’s,” Quint said. “Cranford is a thief and a liar. A swindler. He doesn’t strike me as a murderer.”
“He did attack Maggie during her debut,” Simon pointed out. “Made advances and got rough when she rebuffed him.”
“I want to talk to Maggie,” Quint said, coming to his feet. “Perhaps she can recall something more about what Cranford said on the balcony.”
Though the hour was late, Maggie found herself strangely awake when the duchess departed. The guard remained at the front door, and the idea that she was a prisoner in her own home made her edgy and restless. She decided to return to her studio.
After dismissing Tilda, she climbed the stairs to her haven, a lantern in hand to light her way. The studio dark, she took a moment to light several lamps around the room. When she finished, a shadow in the corner caught her eye. Maggie turned and strained to see if something lurked there.
Just as she took a step closer to investigate, a form emerged from the blackness. She froze in horror as the light slowly revealed Lord Cranford’s face.
His expression was chilling, with dark eyes glittering in her direction. Maggie bit back a gasp. “Wh-what are you doing here?” she choked while edging away.
“Am I not invited? I thought this was one of your infamous parties.”
“You are never invited here for any reason.” She flicked a glance toward the only door. Unfortunately he stood closer to it.
“Thinking of running?” He shook his head. “You’ll never make it in time. Though I would enjoy subduing you.”
A shiver flew down her spine. She thought of Cora, the girl from Madame Hartley’s that had nearly been killed. Was Cranford capable of such brutality? He had been rough that night in the Lockheed gardens, but he hadn’t hit or injured her. Still, the possibility of violence kept her from lunging for the door.
She raised her chin. “Perhaps I’ll scream. The entire house will come to my aid.”
His arm shifted, materializing from behind his back. A small pistol now pointed at her. “You may try, but I cannot believe it worth your life. Especially since you shall want to hear what I have to say. Do have a seat, Maggie.”
Maggie slowly lowered onto a small wooden stool, casting subtle glances for a weapon in the vicinity. Her studio was tidy, however, and nothing lay within reach but a lead pencil. When Cranford shifted to lock the door, she snatched the pencil and concealed it in her skirts before he spun around.
He moved toward her, his black trousers and ruby-red topcoat a strangely civilized contrast to the sneer he sported. She vowed silently to remain calm, not to allow him to frighten her. Drawing in deep breaths, she kept her gaze trained on his face. “You do not want to do this,” she told him. “It’s a mistake.”
He stopped a few feet away, his right eye twitching slightly. “Do you toss your skirts up whenever he crooks his spoiled, privileged finger? Spread your legs and let him plow you to his heart’s content, like a whore would? Is that what you are for him?”
God, he was talking about Simon. She forced down the revulsion at Cranford’s crude words. “So this is about Winchester?”
“Why him? I’ve never understood it. You rebuffed me and yet jumped into his bed at the first opportunity.”
“You were betrothed to my friend!” Not to mention it had always been Simon for her, since the first time his brilliant blue eyes shined down at her.
“He cannot have everything! Why should they have it all?” Nostrils flared, he took a few deep breaths as if he were struggling to get back under control.
They? “Winchester’s family, you mean?”
“He and every other privileged, spoiled man with a title. They do nothing but roll around in money they did not earn. Wagers, gaming hells, boxing matches . . . they throw it away like crumbs.”
“But you are a viscount. You have—”
“Debt. I have a crumbling estate not worth the paper it’s printed on. I’ve had to scrape and suffer, marry a woman I detested just for her dowry. But I will get mine.” He gestured to her with the pistol. “That, my dear, is where you come in.”
Mind reeling, she clenched her hands tightly in order to stay focused. “What do you mean to do?”
“My mistake was in trusting Sir James. The man is a buffoon. But you, however . . .” His mouth curved. “I should have used you right from the start. He’ll do anything you ask, won’t he?”
Sir James? What was he talking about? She gripped the pencil, praying it would be enough when the time came. “Not any longer. We are no longer . . . close.”
He gave her a peevish look. “Please. Do not waste my time with lies. I’ve seen him with you, seen the way he watches you. God, you should have seen his face when I showed him those letters all those years ago! He truly believed you’d written them. I nearly pissed myself with joy.”
“I thought this was about money,” she blurted. “Or do you derive pleasure from ruining the lives of others?”
“Everything is about money—in this case the money I’ve worked damn hard to get. I’ve been forced to cozy up to Sir James for years just to bilk the Winchester estate of thousands of pounds.” He grinned. “Ruining lives is merely an additional benefit.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “As you ruined Cora’s?”
He blinked, confusion lining his forehead. “Cora?”
“The girl from Madame Hartley’s.”
“I know of no one named Cora,” he said, taken aback, and Maggie believed him. “I’ve never cheated one of Hartley’s girls.”
So another man was responsible for the attack on Cora. Madame Hartley had been wrong. Maggie filed that away for later. “I will not help you steal money from Winchester.”
“Oh, you will, madam. Or I will expose you as Lemarc to everyone in London.”
Maggie froze as the pieces fell into place. Cranford was the blackmailer. God, would she never be rid of this man? “How did you learn I was Lemarc?”
“Followed you. And everyone else will find out if you do not help me.”
“You wouldn’t dare. It’s your only hold over me.”
“Wrong,” he said with a sneer. “If you do not help me, I’ll ruin you. Again. So before you say no, think of your sister’s reputation. Think of your livelihood. Think of Winchester’s family and his brilliant political career,” he finished with a high drama Henri would envy.
She would never steal from Simon or abuse his trust in such a devio
us manner—even if it meant ruination once more. Besides, her sister had been the one to encourage Maggie to reveal herself as Lemarc; the likelihood of scandal had not concerned Becca in the least. And since Maggie and Simon were finished, any disgrace she endured would not affect him.
“Go ahead and do it, then. I’ll not help you.” She rose, still hiding the pencil in her skirts. “You’re a coward and a thief, Cranford, and everyone in London will soon know it.”
His face slackened, as if he couldn’t believe she had refused. The hand holding the pistol wobbled. “You would not dare. You shall be imprisoned for those drawings.”
She no longer cared. Without Simon, nothing else mattered. “I might, yes. At the very least, I hope they allow me a pencil.”
He blinked and his gaze slid away as he tried to regroup. Sensing this was her moment, she lunged forward, pencil raised, and aimed for his shoulder or neck—any vulnerability at which she could strike to aid in her escape.
Her skirts rustled, betraying her movements, and his head snapped up in time to see her coming. He hadn’t a chance to aim the pistol at her, however, and the force of her body knocked it from his hands, the weapon clattering to the floor. Her pencil hit the flesh of his shoulder and he yelped, shoving her hard with both hands to send her careening back into the wooden table. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and she watched, helpless, as Cranford lifted a nearby burning lamp and hurled it into a stack of paintings and empty canvases.
“No!” she cried. With horror, she saw the lamp crash open, kerosene spilling, and the reaction was instantaneous. Flames erupted and engulfed the canvases, burning them at an alarming rate. Her heart raced. Fire was every painter’s biggest fear, considering the mineral spirits and oil of turpentine so necessary in every studio.
Movement caught her eye. She turned to find that Cranford had retrieved his pistol and was leveling it at her once more. The flames leapt higher and the acrid smoke from the burning oily rags seared her eyes. Cranford pulled the trigger, but the pistol misfired, and the heat pushed him back. He turned to the door and she knew she had mere moments before the cleaning fluids succumbed to the blaze and all was lost. The resulting explosion was sure to level the room and leave her no hope for escape. Maggie sprinted for the door, but Cranford was faster. He slipped into the corridor, and slammed the door shut before Maggie could reach it.
