The Harlot Countess

by Joanna Shupe

  “I retrieved some of the Lemarc pieces from Mrs. McGinnis, which I took, along with various art supplies, to his residence. With his wife in the country and the servants dismissed, the place was a tomb. Julia and Lady Sophia helped me. Sophia’s lock-picking skills are impressive, in case you were wondering.”

  Simon glanced heavenward. “I was not wondering, no. I vow, the three of you will be the death of me.”

  He exhaled and crossed to where she stood. A large hand rose to gently cup her cheek, tenderness shining in the blue depths of his eyes. “You’ve given away Lemarc after you worked so hard to achieve success. Cranford will be lauded as one of the great artists of the day.”

  “No.” She stepped back, putting distance between them. “He will be considered a radical. Likely all his work will be confiscated and burned, no matter the subject.”

  “I cannot stand by and watch your work destroyed. How can you bear it?”

  Because I love you more than I need to be Lemarc. She forced a shrug and continued to pack up her new canvases. “You can do nothing, Simon. Leave it be.”

  When she did not respond, he seemed to finally take notice of his surroundings. “Are these new supplies to replace what you lost in the fire?”

  Maggie nodded. She’d had Simon’s staff pick up a small number of things this afternoon while she was at Cranford’s town house, just enough to get her by until she settled somewhere.

  Simon scratched his neck thoughtfully. “Then why are you packing it up, including the supplies and blank canvases?”

  “I cannot stay here.” She had dreaded this part. Steeling herself, she faced him. “I am leaving London. It’s past time, I think.”

  His jaw fell open. “Leaving? Are you . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He drew closer, his skin growing visibly paler as realization dawned. “Tell me you do not mean to leave me as well.”

  Maggie cleared her throat in an attempt to ease the tightness there. “There will always be another Cranford, someone—”

  “No,” he barked. “Absolutely not.”

  “Simon, be reasonable. Someone will try to discover the identity of my sobriquet, whatever I choose to use. The threat will never truly go away.”

  “So do not use a sobriquet. Use your real name—or the Countess of Winchester, if you like.” He crossed his arms over his chest, stern and unhappy. “Do not run from me, Maggie. I’ll not let you go.”

  The Countess of Winchester? He couldn’t possibly mean it. For a man of his position to be married to a sensational artist would bring nothing but embarrassment and shame. Not to mention she’d no longer have the freedom to paint and draw as she pleased . . . would she? No husband would allow raunchy political cartoons and half-naked mermaid chalk drawings.

  “Whereby I must paint bowls of fruit and flowers?”

  His brows lowered, lines etching his forehead. “Is that your concern, that I’ll try to tame you into someone respectable?” When she didn’t answer, he laughed softly. “Darling, if you want to paint nude frescos on the ceiling at St. Paul’s, I’ll go and speak with the archbishop. I could not be prouder of your talent. As long as it’s not of me or our family, I’ll never tell you what you can or cannot do.”

  She nibbled her lip, trying to decide if she believed him. Did he want her badly enough to lie? He admittedly hated to lose, the silver-tongued devil.

  “If you like, I’ll have it written into the marriage contract. ‘The countess is allowed to paint and draw whatever she damn well pleases.’”

  “You will?”

  “Without hesitation, if that’s what it takes.”

  She felt a burst of warm relief until she remembered all the rest of it. “My art is the least of our problems. My reputation—”

  “I do not care a whit what the gossips say. Have your parties at Barrett House. And if you want to leave London, fine. We’ll live at Winchester Towers—or in Paris. It matters not to me as long as we’re together.”

  “But all your work in Parliament—I cannot ask you to give that up.”

  “Maggie, in case you’ve forgotten, I was ready to give it up a few hours ago when I went to see Sidmouth. I promise you, nothing is more important to me than you.”

  The strength of his conviction, unwavering and honest, seeped into her, an overwhelming feeling of happiness and love that brought tears to her eyes. God, she hated to cry. But everything inside her welled up, a joy so profound she could not bear it. Before she knew it, he’d pulled her into his arms.

  “I love you, you maddening, exquisite woman. Whatever I must do to keep you happy, I’ll do it. Gladly.” He buried his nose in her hair, inhaled. “Just never leave me.”

  His warmth surrounded her, the security and acceptance she’d searched for her whole life in this one embrace. She knew then she could never give it up, never give him up. She sagged into him, melted into his tall frame. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and she felt him relax.

  “I’ll make you a terrible wife.”

  “You won’t. You’ll be exasperating, kind, loving, and strong. The one thing you’ll never be is boring, which is more than fine with me. Does this mean you agree to marry me?”

  She almost said yes, but there were a few things still to work out first. Leaning back, she attempted to appear serious. “Will you build me a studio on the top floor, as I had in my old house?”

  “Yes. All that’s there now is the nursery, which we can move to another floor. What else?”

  “Will you allow me to paint your portrait?” She knew the ideal pose—one from the night where he’d pleasured himself—and her cheeks turned hot.

  He narrowed his eyes suspiciously as his lips curved. “Is this a salacious sort of portrait, you minx?”

  “If I am going to paint you, then it must be how I see you.”

  He chuckled and glanced heavenward as if she tried his patience. “You may only paint me fully clothed, Maggie.”

  “Why? It would only be for me, I promise. No one else would ever see it.”

  “You never know what will happen to such a picture. It could end up in the wrong hands. Besides, you may see a more realistic and intimate version of me in our chambers any time you fancy.”

  She tried to display the proper amount of disappointment. “You are already breaking your promise to keep me happy and we’ve not even married yet.”

  He clasped her hand and began tugging her toward the door. “Come to my chambers and I’ll show you just how happy I can make you. Twice, if you ask nicely.”

  “Simon,” she laughed. “There is still light outside.”

  He threw open the latch. “You are not the only one who can be scandalous, my lady.”

  Don’t miss the first book in the Wicked Deceptions

  series, The Courtesan Duchess, available now!

  And keep reading for a special sneak peek at

  The Lady Hellion, coming in June 2015 . . .

  Lady Sophia Barnes doesn’t take no for an answer. Especially when she’s roaming London’s seedy underground . . . dressed as a man.

  A rabble-rouser for justice, Sophie’s latest mission is to fight for the rights of the poor, the wretched—and the employees at Madame Hartley’s brothel. She’s not concerned about the criminals who will cross her path, for Sophie has mastered the art of deception—including the art of wearing trousers. Now her fate is in her own hands, along with a loaded gun. All she needs is instruction on how to shoot it. But only one person can help her: Lord Quint, the man who broke her heart years ago. The man she won’t let destroy her again....

  The last thing Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint needs is an intrusion on his privacy, especially from the beautiful, exasperating woman he’s never stopped wanting. A woman with a perilously absurd request, no less! For Damien is fighting a battle of his own, one he wishes to keep hidden—along with his feelings for Lady Sophia. Yet that fight is as hopeless as stopping her outlandish plan. Soon, all Quint knows for certain is that he will die trying to prote
ct her....

  Chapter One

  February 1820

  Padding the crotch of one’s trousers required a surprising amount of skill. Too big of a bulge drew attention. Too small and you risked the thing slipping down your leg.

  Fortunately, Lady Sophia Barnes had enough experience to achieve the perfect balance. No one looking at her now would believe her a lady of twenty-seven, the daughter of a wealthy and powerful marquess—not dressed as she was, in gentleman’s finery from head to toe.

  Just as no one would believe her spare time was spent investigating matters for a class of women most Londoners did not even want to think about.

  The evening, though chilly and unpleasant, had been moderately productive. As Sophie approached the hackney, the driver jumped down to open the door. Her maid, Alice, sat inside, huddled under blankets. Alice waited until the door closed before she spoke. “Well, my lady?”

  Sophie knocked on the roof to signal the driver. Then she pulled a folded paper out of the pocket of her greatcoat. “No trace of Natalia, but I did find this.” Beth, the girl who’d hired Sophie, was worried that ill had befallen her friend. Though Beth had now found herself a protector, Natalia still worked in a tavern near the docks, where extra coins meant taking a customer up the stairs. The two girls corresponded every week without fail, and Natalia hadn’t sent word for almost a month.

  Tonight, Sophie had gained access to Natalia’s room and searched it. The only letter she found was in Russian.

  Sophie stretched her unencumbered legs out in the small space as the carriage rumbled forth into the night. Breeches really were a spectacular invention. “I wish I knew what it said. Beth only speaks English.”

  “We’d need to find someone who can speak Russian, my lady.”

  A name came to mind. A name she tried not to think of more than five—or ten—times a day. She often failed even at that. “I do know someone who speaks Russian. Lord Quint. He gave a short lecture during a gathering at the Russian Embassy three years ago.” Sophie had attended, standing in the rear of the room. She hadn’t understood a word, but oh, he’d been glorious. Speaking on some recent scientific discovery, he’d commanded the attention of everyone present, even making the dour-faced Russians laugh at several points.

  Alice clucked her tongue. “La, his lordship won’t be speaking it for long, that’s for certain.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  Her sharp tone caught Alice’s attention. “I thought your ladyship knew. He’s near death’s door, that one. I saw one of his lordship’s kitchen maids three—no, maybe four days ago. Fever’s set in. His lordship won’t let any of the staff tend to him and won’t allow a physician in.”

  Sophie’s stomach plummeted through the carriage floor and onto the dirty Southwark streets. No doubt Alice told the truth. The maid’s network of servants would put any foreign spy service to shame. Quint . . . near death’s door. Oh, God. She knew a bullet had grazed him that night at Maggie’s house, right before the fire had swept in. But she assumed he’d recovered. Everyone had said the injury wasn’t serious. Damn, if only she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own life—

  Her fist banged the roof. The driver opened the small partition and Sophie barked in her low register, “Stop at the southwest corner of Berkeley Square instead.” Quint lived just down the square from her father’s town house so she would get out and let Alice continue on.

  “What are you going to do, my lady?”

  Was it not obvious? “I’m going to save him.”

  Alice gasped. “You cannot very well show up at his front door”—her hand waved at Sophie’s attire—“dressed like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll not let a stranger inside to see him, even one dressed as a gent. And besides—”

  “Do not even start lecturing me on propriety. We bid farewell to that ship eons ago, Alice. Not to worry, I’ll manage a way into his house.”

  By the time she arrived at the servants’ door of Quint’s town house, Sophie had conjured a plausible story. A bleary-eyed older woman in a nightcap opened the door, a frown on her wrinkled face. “Yes?”

  “I am here”—Sophie deepened her voice—“at the behest of His Grace the Duke of Colton to attend to his lordship, Viscount Quint.”

  The woman held up her light, looked Sophie up and down. “You’re a surgeon?”

  “A valet, though I do have extensive medical knowledge.”

  “From a duke, you say?”

  Sophie lifted her chin. “Indeed. And I do not think His Grace would appreciate you leaving me on the stoop to freeze.”

  The woman stood aside to allow Sophie entrance. They went into the kitchens, where Sophie removed her hat and greatcoat. “Where may I find his lordship ?”

  “His chambers. Won’t let anyone in, not even a doctor. Most the staff’s already left. Figure we’ll all be out on the street in a day or two.”

  Without another word, the woman turned and shuffled to the corridor. Must be his cook, Sophie thought, and followed. “Stairs,” the woman mumbled, handed Sophie her lamp, and continued on.

  A few wrong turns, but Sophie finally found the master apartments. Inside, the air was cold and stale, the fire left untended. Moonlight trickled in from the windows, enough to allow her to see a large shape, motionless, under the coverlet. Quint. Please, God, let him be alive.

  She rushed over, and then nearly gasped. Dear heavens. His condition was worse than she’d feared. His skin was flushed, his lips cracked and swollen. His eyes were closed, blue-black smudges underneath them. Unable to breathe for the fear, she reached out to feel the side of his throat not covered with a bandage. Though his skin burned to the touch, she exhaled in relief. A pulse. Weak, but there.

  She set her light on the table beside him. “Oh, Damien,” she whispered, unable to resist gently smoothing the damp hair off his fevered brow. “This is what you get for eschewing a valet, you stupid man.”

  A strangled, pained sound came out of his throat when she checked the wound. Now red and ugly, the hole oozed when she gently poked it. He made another noise and weakly tried to shift away. At least he’d shown signs of life. Striding to the bell pull, she began a mental list of all the items she required.

  Had she arrived in time, or was it too late? Ignoring the worry in her gut, she vowed not to fail. He would not die.

  “Hear that, Quint?” she said loudly. “You. Will. Not. Die.”

  After ten minutes and many tugs on the bell, a weary, rumpled footman finally arrived. He’d clearly been asleep, but she felt absolutely no sympathy for the servants. They’d abandoned their master, which, whether he’d asked for it or not, was unacceptable as far as she was concerned. And Quint deserved better.

  “Rouse every servant. Tell the cook to boil hot water. I need fresh bed linens and clean towels. Bring every medical supply in the house. And send for a physician.”

  “But—”

  “No arguments. Your master is near death and I mean to save him, so do what I say. Now, go!”

  Chapter Two

  April 1820

  “You have a visitor, my lord.”

  Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint, did not bother looking up at his new butler, his attention instead focused on the rows of letters in front of him. He had to get this idea down. Now—before it was too late. “Pass on the usual response, Turner.”

  The butler cleared his throat. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but my name is Taylor.”

  Quint grimaced. He could hardly be faulted for forgetting the lad’s name, could he? Taylor had only been on the job for a few days. Or was this further proof of Quint’s worst fear becoming a reality?

  Nearly three months since the shooting. Three months and he was no better. Oh, the wound had closed, the fever abated, yet everything else that followed had only worsened.

  He exhaled and dipped his pen in the ink pot. The invocation he’d adopted these past weeks went through his head: Remain occupied. Engage
your mind while you can. Prepare for the worst. He looked back down at his cipher. “Apologies, Taylor. No visitors. Ever. Until further notice, I am not receiving callers.”

  “She said your lordship might say no, and if so, I was to tell you her name—the Lady Sophia Barnes. I was also to mention she planned on coming in whether your lordship allowed it or not.”

  Quint felt himself frown. Sophie, here? Why? Displeasure was quickly replaced by an uncomfortable weight on his chest. He could not face anyone, most especially her. “No. Definitely not. Tell her—”

  Before he finished his sentence, Sophie charged into the room. Smothering a curse, Quint threw down his pen, came to his feet, and snatched his topcoat off the chair back. He pulled on the garment as he bowed. “Lady Sophia.”

  He’d known her for years—five and three-quarters, to be precise—and each time he saw her he experienced a jolt of heady awareness. There’d never been a more remarkably remarkable woman. She had short, honey-brown hair that gleamed with hints of gold in the lamplight. Tall for a female, she had long, lean limbs that moved with purpose, with confidence. Her nose and upper cheeks were dusted with freckles that shifted when she laughed—which was often. People fell under the spell of that laugh, himself included.

  “Lord Quint, thank you for seeing me.” Holding her bonnet, she bobbed a curtsy in an attempt to give the impression of a proper young lady. No one who knew this particular daughter of a marquess would ever believe it, however. She and Julia Seaton, the Duchess of Colton, were close friends, and the two of them had landed in one absurd scrape after another over the years. Last he’d heard, the two had required rescuing from a gaming hell after a brawl erupted.

  “As if I’d had a choice,” he said dryly.

  She laughed, not offended in the least, and Quint noticed Taylor, mouth agape, hovering near the threshold, eyes trained on Sophie. Good God. Not that Quint hadn’t experienced the same reaction in Sophie’s presence a time or two. “That’ll be all, Taylor. Leave the door ajar, will you?”