by Lynsay Sands
“I—It occurs to me that you must be weary and thirsty after your journey. Perhaps you would be more comfortable if we moved to the salon to await your nephew? We could have tea.”
“That does sound lovely,” Lady Barlow agreed. She turned toward the butler, who was already heading for the door.
“I shall arrange for it at once, my lady,” Webster said.
Lady Barlow nodded, then turned back to Maggie. “Shall we?” she asked.
“Yes, of course.” Pushing her chair back, Maggie stood, pulling her skirt with her away from Lord Ramsey. She didn’t dare glance down at him, but simply started around the desk and across the room as Lady Barlow moved toward the door. The woman paused before opening it and glanced back, looking as if she were going to say something. She spoke then, amusement filling her eyes. “Did you intend to bring that with you?”
Glancing down, Maggie flushed. She still held Lord Ramsey’s hat gripped in her hands. She was also still wearing his cloak clasped about her neck—which was probably the only thing that had saved her from being seen earlier tugging the top of her gown into place. “Nay. I shall just put it there on the desk,” she agreed, turning to do so.
Hurrying back across the room, Maggie started to set the hat on the desk, then reached to undo her cloak, only to pause when she caught sight of Ramsey’s hand waving from beneath the desk. Peeking over her shoulder, she saw that Lady Barlow was waiting patiently beside the door. She knew the woman couldn’t possibly have seen the waving male hand, but Maggie cast her a nervous smile anyway, then turned back toward the desk, “accidentally” knocking the hat as she did. It tumbled off the desk, landing on the floor behind it. Muttering something about being clumsy, Maggie hurried around to retrieve it, and knelt out of sight.
“You mustn’t speak of your work to my aunt,” Lord Ramsey whispered to her. “She has no idea what you do.”
Maggie spared him an annoyed glance for thinking she would be foolish enough to mention any such thing. “Of course I won’t,” she whispered angrily, then snatched up the hat. Holding it up for Lady Barlow to see, she started to straighten. “Here it is. No harm done,” she called. The last word came out as a gasp, for James had grabbed her hand and tugged her back behind the desk.
“And if she asks what you are doing here, simply tell her that I invited you for some rustication—a thank-you for your brother’s sacrifice.”
“That was my intention, my lord.” Maggie seethed, tugging her hand free and raising the hat to set it on the desk. Straightening, she forced one last smile for Lady Barlow and hurried around the desk and across the room to join the other woman. “Shall we?”
She started to urge Lord Ramsey’s aunt toward the door, but Lady Barlow stood firm and gave her a narrow look. For a moment Maggie thought the woman had determined something was afoot, but then she merely gestured to the garment Maggie wore around her shoulders.
Glancing down, Maggie gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, my, the cloak. No, I shan’t need this indoors, shall I? I shall just leave it on the desk with the hat.”
She turned away, but before she could cross the room, Lady Barlow caught her arm. Then she called out calmly in an overly loud voice, “I shall just wait in the salon.”
Maggie glanced at her sharply, alarm coursing through her at Lady Barlow’s crafty expression. Pulling the door open, the woman called out, “Do not be too long, dear.” Then she slammed the door.
Eyes wide, Maggie opened her mouth to say something, anything to warn Lord Ramsey of his aunt’s trick, but Lady Barlow’s hand was suddenly over her mouth. All Maggie could do was watch helplessly as the chair behind the desk screeched its way back across the floor.
“That was a close one,” Ramsey murmured, brushing his suit jacket down as he straightened. Then he turned to look about for Maggie. He froze when he spied her and his aunt by the door. Maggie tried to convey her apologies with her eyes—just in case his aunt’s hand over her mouth was not enough assurance that she had wished to warn him.
There was a bare moment of silence, then Lady Barlow removed her hand from Maggie’s mouth. The woman propped both hands firmly on her hips and her disapproving eyes settled on her nephew. “I am shocked, James! Just shocked! And ashamed. How could you possibly take advantage of an innocent in your care? And she’s the very sister of the man who saved your life then asked, with his dying breath, that you look after her. Is this how you repay his valiant act?”
“Oh, really, my lady, this is not all his fault,” Maggie exclaimed, rushing to defend him. Lord Ramsey was presently squirming with guilt under his aunt’s righteous indignation. Maggie’s attempted defense obviously helped him past his finer feelings. Straightening, he nodded and said, “She’s is right. This isn’t as bad as it appears. She isn’t as innocent as you may think.”
Maggie’s gasp was matched by Lady Barlow’s. Both women gaped at Ramsey in horror at his unchivalrous words. He immediately attempted to soothe them. “I just mean that Maggie—er, Margaret—is not some young child who needs protecting,” he said to his aunt, then started around the desk toward them. “She is a full grown—” He paused uncertainly when his aunt made a strangled sound.
Maggie glanced at the woman with concern, then followed her attention to James’s fawn-colored trousers—mostly fawn-colored trousers, she corrected with mounting horror. Dear God! There was a very distinct handprint on his groin.
Glancing down, himself, James gave a choked gasp and promptly covered the spot with both hands. “I, er . . .” His gaze shot to Maggie, then away. “I spilled the ink,” he excused himself, backing around the desk until it hid that portion of his body from view. Clearing his voice then, he asked, “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Maggie. She is a full . . . er . . . grown, red-blooded woman.”
“Blue-blooded!” Lady Barlow snapped, apparently recovered from her shock. “She is a full grown lady of nobility. She deserves more respect than this. In fact, she deserves a proposal.”
Maggie supposed she shouldn’t have been stunned by those unexpected words, but she was. And James appeared to be, too. He also looked horrified. The man had turned a sickly shade of gray-green she had never seen before, and Maggie felt her heart slip down into the vicinity of her borrowed shoes. She had told herself not be attracted to him. She had known that there could be no future with a man who thought so poorly of her career choice. But that was before their shared passion here in the library. To see him cringe now in such blatant aversion at the very suggestion of marriage to her . . . She felt shame overwhelm her.
“Oh, now . . .” James held up his hands and gave an extremely nervous laugh. “There is no need to, er . . . You cannot expect me to . . .” He paused and turned to the door with relief as another knock sounded. “Yes?”
Lady Barlow’s tug on her arm was the only thing that kept Maggie from being hit by the opening door. The older woman moved to the side, taking Maggie with her, then the butler addressed James from behind the door now hiding them from view.
“Oh, you are back, my lord. There is a man here to see you. He says it is quite urgent.”
“Aye. It is,” another voice interrupted shortly. “Very urgent, and very private.”
“Johnstone!” James was shocked to see the man. And not entirely happy, either, Maggie noted with disinterest. He glanced from the visitor to Margaret and his aunt.
“Aye, m’lord,” the other man said, then addressed Webster. “Ye see, he does know me, and he really needs to hear what I have to say, so ye can be back about yer business. A short, stout man’s back appeared; apparently Johnstone was being forced to slide past the butler to get into the room.
“Very well,” Webster said slowly, not sounding entirely sure of himself.
Sighing in relief as the door closed behind the butler, the other man turned to Lord Ramsey and promptly crossed the room. He obviously didn’t see Maggie and Lady Barlow, and blurted, “We’ve made a terrible mistake, my lord. Just terrible.”
“Johnstone, I
do not think this is the time—” James began, furtively looking to where his aunt and Maggie still stood by the door, but the man didn’t let him finish.
“You will when you hear this. Lady Margaret isn’t Lady X after all!”
“What?” Lord Ramsey’s startled yelp evidently covered the gasps of both women, and Mr. Johnstone didn’t hear them. The man stopped before the desk, nodding his head. “It’s true. She isn’t. Lady X is still at the brothel, working. Lady Margaret wasn’t there to ‘ply the trade.’ She was—”
“You thought I was Lady X?” Maggie shrieked. Her pain of a moment before turned to outrage.
Ramsey’s eyes shot to her and widened, but Maggie started furiously forward, his outraged aunt on her heels. Apparently Johnstone’s announcement had scattered James’s thoughts; he gave her a look as if he didn’t know who she was. Mr. Johnstone, of course, hadn’t known she was there. The man turned to gape at her in horror.
“Oh, now, Margaret,” Lord Ramsey began apologetically.
“You thought I was a prostitute?” Maggie repeated coldly as she stopped before him.
“Well, you were in a brothel,” he pointed out reasonably. Maggie stiffened. She narrowed her eyes, then offered James a rather empty smile.
“Oh, of course. Perfect reasoning, my lord. And so were you. Are you a prostitute, too, then?” she asked caustically. Widening her eyes as if in surprise she cried, “But wait! I was in a men’s club last week. Does that make me a man? Oh! And I fell into the river once. Does that make me a fish? And what if I go into the stables, does that make me a horse? Or a stableboy?” She screwed up her mouth with displeasure. It was the only warning she gave before she yanked her skirts up and kicked him in the shin. Hard.
Cursing, Ramsey grabbed for the injured appendage with one hand and began hopping up and down even as he reached out toward her with the other. “I—”
“I do not wish to hear it, my lord. There is nothing to say. This explains everything.” Turning on her heel, she sailed angrily across the library, only to pause abruptly at the door when Webster appeared there. Lord Mullin was at his side. Ignoring the butler, Maggie turned abruptly on Ramsey’s unsuspecting neighbor.
“I suppose you thought I was Lady X, too?”
“Oh, well,” Robert stammered, then fell into silent bewilderment as he realized the meaning behind her question. When Maggie propped her hands on her hips and began to angrily tap one foot, he managed to shake himself out of his stupefied state and ask, “You mean, you aren’t?”
James could have told his friend that would be the wrong answer, but the other man learned soon enough; Maggie tugged up her skirts and kicked him in the shin. As she had done to him, she left Robert cursing and hopping about on one foot, then pushed past an amazed Webster to storm straight across the hall to the salon. She slammed its door behind her with a crack loud enough that James was sure it was heard in every corner of the manor.
He straightened slowly with a wince to stand on both legs again, and glanced at his aunt. She peered from him to the closed door across the hall, then back again, her expression one of gross disapproval.
“Now, Aunt Viv—” he began, determined to redeem himself in her eyes, but instead let out a curse as his relative, too, wrenched up her skirts and kicked him in the shin. Leaving him imitating a stork once more, the woman whooshed across the library to the door. Lord Mullin had learned his lesson by that point, and was quick to limp out of her way. She stormed out of the room.
“Are ye all right, m’lord?” Johnstone asked, moving to James’s side with concern. James rubbed his abused shin in an effort to ease the pain there, then waved the man off. He limped around his desk to drop into his seat.
“Ye might want some ice on that, m’lord. They both gave ye quite a wollop. Shall I fetch yer butler back to find ye some?”
“Back?” James glanced up to see that Webster had apparently decided it behooved him to vacate the scene. Robert, on the other hand, had come up to the desk. He wasn’t looking too pleased.
“No,” James told Johnstone, waving away the suggestion of fetching Webster back with ice. Ignoring his friend’s irritation for a minute, he felt below his kneecap with a wince. Damn; both women had managed to hit the exact same spot! And they hadn’t held back in the kicking, either. He was definitely going to have a bruise from this business. Which reminded him of the matter in question.
He asked the runner, “If she isn’t Lady X, what was she doing at the brothel?”
“She was there to interview Madame Dubarry’s girls for an article,” Johnstone explained. At Ramsey’s sharp glance he added, “She is G. W. Clark.”
“G. W. Clark!”
James gave up on his leg and sank back weakly in his seat. His eyes went to Lord Mullin, who had just spoken, then passed him to settle on the still-open door of the library. His aunt was standing outside the salon, apparently hesitating to intrude on an upset Maggie’s flight. Her delay had allowed her to overhear Johnstone’s announcement, and she was now gaping at them in shock. Realizing James had spotted her, she turned abruptly and entered the salon, banging the door shut behind her.
“Aye.” Johnstone’s voice drew James’s attention back. The Bow Street runner was smiling crookedly. “It took me by surprise, too.”
“Are you sure?” James asked with a frown. “I mean, there is no mistake? You were so sure before that she was Lady X.”
The runner grimaced apologetically. “I know, m’lord, and I apologize for me error. However, all the facts did seem to point that way, if ye’ll recall, and even you believed it. Then, when you found her in that sheer red gown, her full, round breasts visible right through it—”
“I recall, Johnstone,” James interrupted curtly. He also recalled that the man had been taken with the gown and all it revealed. “That did convince me she was Lady X. The mask didn’t hurt, either.”
“Aye. And she didn’t even have any bloomers on. Her lower half was—”
“Johnstone!” James snapped, killing the gleam in the other man’s eye. He then turned his wrath on a chuckling Robert, not appreciating his friend’s amusement at all. Once the other man managed to curb his laughter, James turned back to the runner. “All of that being the case, how can you be so sure she is not Lady X now?”
The man shifted uncomfortably, then straightened his shoulders and reported, “Ah, well . . . the afternoon after you left for here with her, there was quite a titter about Lady X. It seems she had a rather nasty little tantrum and refused to see any more customers after Lord Hastings. I thought it was a cover for the fact that she was missing, thinking Lady Margaret was Lady X as I did. But then the news got out that Dubarry was able to soothe her by offering more money. X was back in business by that night.
“Well, I thought sure that news was wrong—since you were supposed to have her. So, I went to Dubarry’s to see what was what.” The runner grimaced. “The old broad wasn’t pleased to see me, as you can imagine. It seems your not showing up for your allotted half hour was part of the reason for Lady X’s snit. But I handed her some cash—it’s in this bill here. . . .” He paused to retrieve a piece of paper and hand it to James, then quickly continued as James scowled at the amount in question. “Anyway, I greased old Dubarry’s palm, and she let me talk to a couple of the girls. There was one named Maisey. I suspected she had some information I might use, and I took her up for a roundabout and learned from her that G. W. Clark had interviewed her and the other girls the night before.
“She was rather proud of the fact, really, eager to announce that G. W. Clark was a lady of the nobility. She said that a visit by the lady in question’s betrothed made her sneak out the window in disguise, and that they had switched clothes. She showed me the gown Lady Margaret traded her, and I recognized it as the one Lady Margaret had been wearing when she entered the brothel. When I asked her what the lady had obtained of hers, she said one of her best sheer red nighties—and a red mask. Had anyone seen the lady, Maisey sai
d, they would have been sure she was Lady X. She thought it a grand joke.”
“You learned this last night?” James asked sharply. “Why didn’t you ride out here at once with the news?”
“Well, after the last debacle, I wanted to be right certain, didn’t I?” Johnstone shifted uncomfortably. “So, after I finished with Maisey I hung about hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss X, herself. I stood in the shadows of the hall forever. It wasn’t until her last client left that I caught a glimpse of her. She was wearing a red mask, but it weren’t plain like that one Lady Wentworth had on. It had fancy feathers and whatnot all over it.” He paused to shake his head dolefully.
“I should have realized that someone as successful as Lady X would have more expensive duds. I’m usually good with such details.” He heaved a breath at missing what he considered to be a telling detail, then continued, “At any rate, with the mask and all, I couldn’t see her features—but I could see that she was definitely shorter than Lady Wentworth. She is also a lot . . . fuller.” He gestured to his chest area. “Up top. Cannonballs, m’lord—in comparison to Lady Wentworth’s apples, if ye know what I mean.”
James scowled. He didn’t care for the lady’s chest being referred to as apples. Especially not when he’d had a taste of them.
“Apples with cinnamon, hmm?” Lord Mullin murmured with obvious amusement. It drew James’s irritation away from the runner. He glared at his friend, greatly regretting the way he had ranted on about Maggie’s nipples the night before. Dear Lord, he had been describing her in great detail, and she was a lady. Oh, hell!
Closing his eyes, he rubbed his forehead, frustration overwhelming him. This was the last thing he’d expected. It was bad enough when he’d thought he had promised to look after a lady of ill-repute, but now to have kidnapped, then ravished her, as he very nearly had, only to learn she wasn’t a lady of ill repute at all . . . Why, it was scandalous! He had acted horribly. Gentlemen did not behave so.
“G. W. Clark,” he muttered, his mind running over the conversations he’d had with Maggie earlier. Lady Margaret, he corrected himself sternly. She had said she’d met Lady Dubarry through her brother indirectly, that he himself had quite enjoyed the way she was now making her living.
