by Cheryl Bolen
“I must tell you,” she began, “that I exceedingly dislike being a fraud. Don’t you think that Mr. Hollingsworth--and Lady Fiona, too--can be trusted with the truth about my background?”
Edward’s heart sank. So the reason Maggie wished to be alone with him was in order to discuss her newest suitor. He nodded somberly. “I’ve been thinking along the same lines myself. The problem is Fiona. She’s been perfectly comfortable with the relationship between you and me because she believes familial ties make me responsible for you. What would she think if she learned the truth?”
Maggie bit at her lip. “I daresay she would not be happy, and I shouldn’t like to make her unhappy for I’m most fond of her.”
Edward nodded. “I’d rather wait until such a time as the nuptials grow nearer to tell her, but I believe we need to tell her brother the full truth.”
“I had hoped you would say that,” she said.
Damn! Did that mean she and Hollingsworth were at the betrothal stage? That she wished to be completely truthful with the man she intended to marry? Had one of Edward's own family members been killed, Edward could not experience pain greater than what he felt now. His mouth went suddenly dry. His heartbeat hammered. “Has . . . has he offered for you?”
“Actually he has.”
Acute pain lanced through him. It was a moment before he could respond, before he finally managed, “Please accept my felicitations. Hollingsworth’s a good man.”
“Oh, I haven’t agreed to marry him.”
Relief strummed through him.
“Yet,” she added, slashing his hopes. “How could I possibly give my hand to a man who doesn’t know who the hand belongs to? Oh, dear, I’m muddling things. Do I make any sense?” Those deep brown eyes of hers locked with his.
“Yes,” he said. “Before you can consent to marry Hollingsworth you wish to apprise him of your true identity.”
“Exactly! Also, don’t you think he needs to know how dangerous it is to ally himself with me?”
“I’ve been thinking along those lines myself. Except for the allying part. Hollingsworth’s completely trustworthy, and I wouldn’t worry about danger scaring him off. He’s no coward. If you have no objections, I'd like to tell him everything. I’d like for him to go to London, attempt to learn as much as he can, and hopefully let us know when--or if--we can return.”
“I think what you’re suggesting’s an excellent idea.”
He allowed his hand to graze her shoulder. “Then let’s go dine. I’ll speak privately with Hollingsworth after dinner.”
“Oh,” she said, her entire demeanor somber, “there’s one other thing I wished to tell you.”
God give me strength! It was killing him not to draw her into his arms, not to brand her as his own. His brow hitched.
Her lashes lowered and she began to speak in a whisper. “I wished to relieve your mind--knowing how much you wish to marry Lady Fiona.” She paused, still not meeting his gaze. She began to pull at the stitching in her gloves. “If you’ll recall that day at the Spotted Hound and Hare I told you if I found that I was with child I should wish to marry you.” Now her lashes lifted and their eyes met.
He nodded. He could barely breathe. Barely think. Hope swelled within him.
“You will be happy to learn I’ve had my courses,” she said, gazing back to her gloves.
“You’ve just destroyed my last hope,” he muttered, turning on his heel and leaving her behind as he walked along the long stone corridor back to the woman he had pledged to marry.
* * *
Her trembling wouldn’t stop all through dinner. Maggie tried to be agreeable to Mr. Hollingsworth, who voiced concern over her condition. “I daresay I’m just cold,” she said, brushing off his concern.
His blue eyes raked over her bare shoulders and lowered to the tops of her breasts. “Allow me to get your shawl,” he said.
The only shawl she possessed was the blue one Edward had procured for her, and she could not allow herself to see it, to feel it, for in her confused, upset state she would likely fall to pieces. “I’ll be fine,” she said.
Her nerves were so utterly shattered it was a wonder she could attend to half of the conversation. What had Edward meant about his last hope? Was his hope for a child so strong he no longer wished to wed Lady Fiona? Maggie drew in a long, steadying breath. Could he possibly wish she had been with child? Could he possibly . . . She drew in a deep breath. Could he possibly wish to marry her? Then she would peer to the foot of the table and behold Fiona’s graceful countenance and feel wretchedly guilty for wishing to deprive her hostess of the man she loved.
For that is what Maggie wished. Never mind if Edward was a fraud. Never mind that he could even be a traitor. Never mind that he was pledged to a very fine woman who did not deserve his infidelity. It was suddenly clear to Maggie that she did not care about any of those things. The only thing on earth that mattered to her was Edward and how dearly she loved him.
She looked at the roasted duck on her plate and promptly lost her appetite. Across from her Rebecca was speaking to Lord Agar. “Are you quite sure there’s no catalogue of your library?” Rebecca asked.
Lord Agar gave a puzzled frown. “I know there should be one, but I’m sure there’s not. Demmed if I know why.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened. “I’ve just had a splendid idea!”
Lord Agar settled his hand over Rebecca’s. “What is your splendid idea, my dear?”
“I should like to undertake a cataloguing of the contents of your library,” she said, nudging up her spectacles that had a habit of creeping down her pert nose.
Their host seemed utterly perplexed. “But you cannot be serious! That would take months to accomplish--not to mention that it’s an effort that should be conducted by an employee, not by one’s guest.”
“I think you should allow me to,” Rebecca said matter-of-factly. “The first reason being that I should adore the task, the second, it would be an agreeable way for me to repay you for your kind hospitality.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Lord Agar stammered. “What you’re proposing is a great deal of work.”
“Work I should love,” Rebecca insisted.
“But I’m not in a position to pay you--”
“You’ve paid me handsomely by allowing me to live here, by allowing me complete rein of your wonderful library.”
“Papa,” Fiona said, “I think Miss Peabody’s proposal has merit, and if she doesn’t mind, then you shouldn't.”
Lord Agar gave Rebecca a sheepish look. “You truly don’t mind?”
“Truly.”
“Then I would be honored if you’d catalogue our books.”
Maggie gave her sister a stern look. “But we can’t simply move in with these kind people.” In truth, she did not know how much longer she could stay here, how much longer she could bear to see Edward with Fiona.
“I don’t mean to restrict you,” Rebecca said to Maggie. “You’re free to leave when you need to. I’m not a child you have to hover over any longer.”
It suddenly dawned on Maggie that it was best to leave Rebecca at Windmere Abbey when she did decide to leave. To keep Rebecca with her would only jeopardize her sister. “No, you’re no longer a child,” Maggie conceded.
After dinner the ladies and Lord Agar repaired to the saloon where they played at the pianoforte and sang. The younger gentlemen were absent due to Edward’s desire to see Mr. Hollingsworth’s new saber. Only Maggie knew Edward was taking this opportunity to apprise Mr. Hollingsworth of her true identity. She wondered if either man would mention Mr. Hollingsworth’s proposal of marriage.
* * *
“I don’t know why you’re so bent on seeing my new saber,” Randolph complained as the two men walked along the long corridor of the east wing. “It bloody well looks like any saber you’ve ever seen before.”
“My dear man, has it not occurred to you that I wish to speak privately with you?”
Ran
dolph stopped. “It’s about the business in London, is it not?” He turned to face Edward.
Edward nodded. “I believe the countess told you she could not consent to be your wife until you knew her full identity.”
“What business is it of yours what the woman I love told me in private! And I don’t like your knowing the details of our intimate conversations--even if you are one of my oldest friends.” His blue eyes began to glitter. “And what do you mean her true identity? Are you trying to tell me she’s not a countess?”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.”
“But. . . she was married to your uncle?”
Edward shook his head. “She was married. Not to my uncle. Did you ever know a chap called Lawrence Henshaw?”
A smile broke out on his face. “Of course. He was the jolliest of fellows. In fact, the drunkest I ever got---” He stopped. “You can’t be inferring Henshaw was her husband? He wasn’t at all the type to settle down.”
“Come,” Edward said, “we need to have a drink and talk.”
A moment later, brandy snifters in hand, they sat in fireside chairs facing each other in front of the former library’s fireplace. No longer used to store books, the shelves here now displayed various sporting trophies and stuffed game that Lord Agar and his sons had caught.
“Well?” Randolph asked.
“She thought she was a countess. Turns out Henshaw was utterly devious. He fled England just ahead of the hangman’s noose--”
“Did he not work with you at the Foreign Office?”
“He did.” Edward’s voice dropped. “He betrayed England to the French.”
“Bloody bastard!”
“He went to America, claiming to be Lord Warwick, and won Maggie’s hand.”
“See here, I don’t like you calling her by her Christian name! She’s not betrothed to you!”
Edward gave a bitter laugh. “She’s not betrothed to you, either.”
Randolph grimaced. “She really married Henshaw?”
Edward nodded. “He’s dead now.”
“Is that so? Foul play?”
“I wondered the same thing, but apparently he died after a fall. To keep the story as short as possible, Maggie--for lack of another name I can call her--brought her sister to England, showing up at Warwick House, thinking it was hers.”
“Why did you not boot her out?”
“I tried.” He shrugged. “She cried. Then later Lord Carrington ordered me to allow her to stay. He thought she must have valuable information--likely a document--that was in her husband’s possession.”
“Did she?”
Edward shook his head. “But her second night in London--after I had told three men at the Foreign Office of her arrival--her rooms were searched and all Henshaw’s things stolen.”
“Good lord, what if she’d been there?”
“Thank God she wasn’t.”
“Who were the three men?”
“Carrington, Harry Lyle and a fellow named Charles Kingsbury.”
“Don’t know the Kingsbury chap.” He pondered what Edward said for a moment. “One of those men was responsible for breaking into the lady’s rooms.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“What did they get of Henshaw’s?”
“A map of Hertfordshire with no markings on it. A volume of Tom Jones with no markings other than a name of someone other than Henshaw. A brief letter from a man in Greenwich named Andrew Bibble. Diamond spurs and a ring.”
“What did the letter say?”
“Something about being forced to go into mourning for their mutual acquaintance.”
“That’s all?”
“No, there’s more.” Edward paused, drawing in a long breath. "The night after the theft at Maggie's chambers, Andrew Bibble was killed, his home in Greenwich ransacked.”
“Good lord!” Randolph’s brows lowered. “Surely. . . these murderers aren’t the same ones who tried to abduct . . . Maggie?"
Edward nodded gravely. “Apparently they did not find what they were looking for in Greenwich.”
“So they still think she’s got an important document?”
“Apparently.”
“She doesn’t, does she?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing. She swears she doesn’t, and I believe her. That’s not to say there’s not something right under her nose that she doesn’t recognize.”
Randolph took a long drink. “So it’s likely that one of those three men at the Foreign Office killed that bloke in Greenwich and could try to kill Maggie?”
“Most likely.” Edward explained about the abduction attempt the night they went to the theatre and concluded by informing Randolph that the mole had identified Maggie to one of the henchman as wearing a white dress with silver.
“So that narrows it down to Carrington and Lyle,” Randolph surmised.
“I was so upset that night I decided to come here straight away. I knew I could not go to one of my own properties for they’d be sure to find us immediately.”
“By now they’ve had time to check on your holdings.” Randolph's face tensed. “By God, they’ll think to come here next!”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I wish to God now I’d shipped her back to America.”
Randolph nodded. “She was safe there.”
“So you can see I need you to go to London. You’re great friends with Lyle. See what you can learn. I’ll need you to secretly communicate with me.”
“I’ll leave first thing in the morning," Randolph said, "but I don’t like Maggie staying here much longer. Carrington and Lyle both know about you and Fiona. They’re bound to start snooping here.”
“Perhaps we should leave with you.”
“I don’t want her in London,” Randolph snapped.
“No, but we could stay outside of London. Doesn’t your father have a farm in Hertfordshire?”
Randolph frowned. “Actually, he’s in the process of selling it off to pay some debts, but it’s still his for a few more weeks.”
“We’ll stay there then.”
Chapter 25
It was a misty, gray dawn the following morning when Lady Fiona and Miss Peabody gathered around them as the Agar carriage pulled up in front of Windmere Abbey. Maggie’s countenance was maudlin as she tearfully parted with her sister. “If something should happen to me,” Maggie said as she captured Miss Peabody in a hug, “you’re to have my jewels.”
It was a good thing the younger sister had left off her spectacles for she began to bawl and kept having to jam her fists into her eye sockets to stench the flow of tears.
Edward desperately wished to cheer up the child. “I vow to you, Miss Peabody, as long as I draw breath your sister will be unharmed.”
It was too much to hope that the sisters’ melancholy would not extend to Fiona. She rushed to Edward and drew his hands into hers, great tears pooling in those pale blue eyes. “Dearest, you will take care of yourself?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” he asked, striving for levity.
Randolph Hollingsworth mumbled his farewell to his sister, pecked her on the cheek, and said, “We can be reached at Broadmeadows, but don’t share that information with anyone.” Then Randolph assisted Maggie into the carriage. Fiona’s hands clutched Edward’s tighter. “Could you spare me a private word?” she asked.
In a dismissive air, he kissed her hand. “I can deny you nothing.”
He followed as she stepped away from the carriage a half dozen strides. Then with her face painfully solemn, she looked up at him and whispered. “I will ask you a single question and wish for an honest answer.”
Nervous, he nodded. Did she wish to move up the wedding, to marry before she was out of mourning? His chest tightened.
“Are you in love with the countess?”
Her question stunned him. Had he not treated Fiona with as much courtesy and respect as he ever had? He had never once since arriving at Windmere Abbey paid any particular atten
tion to Maggie. He thought he’d done a stoic job of denying his strong attraction to the dark haired beauty.
But his performance obviously had not been convincing enough.
He felt sick inside. “Nothing has happened that would make me not honor my pledge to you,” he said.
“That is not what I asked,” she said sternly. “Do you love her?”
“If I did it would not change my intentions toward you.”
“Tell me what’s in your heart, Edward,” she said softly. “Are you in love with the countess?”
“Yes, dammit!”
To all outward appearances, she was cool and calm. Until her voice quivered when she responded. “Go with God, Edward. I must think on the matter.” Then she turned her back on him and began to mount the steps to the house.
Why hadn’t she released him? Did she still wish to wed him even though he did not love her? His thoughts drifted to so many of his acquaintance who had married for family and money and for anything but love--and, remarkably, once their lives were entwined most of them had grown to love one another. Is that what Fiona was hoping for?
He watched her move gracefully through the mist and enter the house. Was this how they would part, with him not knowing what his future held? He fought the urge to run after her. She would, of course, need time to consider her reaction to his declaration.
A soft rain began to fall, and he strode to the carriage, taking one last look up at the clouds before he joined Maggie and Hollingsworth inside.
Maggie, sitting beside Randolph, had made a remarkable recovery. “What, oh purveyor of clouds, do you forecast for today’s weather?” she asked Edward, a smile lifting her face.
