A Lady in Disguise

by Lynsay Sands

  At the time, James had thought she meant Gerald enjoyed the pleasures offered by the ladies of the brothel—just as he had thought she enjoyed plying the trade. This news cast a different color on things. He could recall that the man was forever writing letters, either to his sister or his man of affairs.

  James had read G. W. Clark’s articles with great interest and amusement before the war, but not during. He’d heard Clark had gone off to fight, too, and had continued writing, basing his articles on his wartime experiences. James had not been able to obtain those articles published while he was away, but he now suspected that if he had, he would have recognized many of the stories.

  Maggie had obviously continued them after Gerald’s death, effectively taking his place. What a clever little minx she was, he decided, his mind going over the scandalous articles of late. “A Night with the Rakehells,” had been one of them. It had caused quite a stir among the men and women of the ton to have so many of their naughty little secrets published. How the devil had she managed that? Obviously she had either paid for the information, or she had disguised herself and infiltrated the clubs. The clever little puss.

  Lord Mullin’s sudden clearing of his throat reminded James that he had been seated, lost in thought, for a goodly portion of time. Gathering himself, he rose abruptly to his feet. Starting around his desk, he said, “I will settle your account in a moment, Johnstone. In the meantime, why don’t you have a drink? You must be thirsty after your journey here. Robert, show him where the port is, please.”

  “Certainly,” Robert answered. “But, James?”

  Irritated with this delay, James paused in the door to glance back. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I was just wondering why your aunt is angry? I realize Margaret is upset at our mistaking her for Lady X, but why did your aunt kick you? Could it be that you were caught red-handed . . . Or should I say black-handed?” he added, his gaze dropping.

  James didn’t bother to look down. He knew Robert was referring to the handprint on his groin and—despite the guilty flush now suffusing his face—he stood a little straighter. “I knocked the inkwell over.”

  “Did you?” Robert asked. For the first time, James realized Robert wasn’t simply annoyed with him over the mistaken identity business; he was furious. Which became clear as the man continued, “I don’t know, it looks like a handprint to me. A woman’s hand. You are the investigator, Johnstone; what do you think?”

  “I noticed Lady Margaret’s hand was ink-covered,” the runner answered quietly.

  “So did I. She does seem to have a tendency to muck her hands up a bit, doesn’t she, James? Oh! What is that I hear?”

  James frowned at his friend’s sarcastic tone. “I don’t know. What is it?”

  “Wedding bells, I should hope.”

  James winced at his friend’s harsh tone, but merely turned away and crossed the hall to the library. It was the second mention of marriage in less than an hour. His aunt and Robert both seemed to think he should marry the girl. Marriage to Maggie.

  He let that thought touch his mind, then quickly pushed it away to be considered later. First things first, he told himself. At the moment, he wasn’t even sure she would speak to him. He suspected it was going to take a lot of swift talking to get her to that stage, and he supposed he had better get to it.

  Straightening, he took a deep breath then opened the door and stepped into the salon. His mouth was already open, ready to spew the first “I’m sorry” as he glanced around the room in search of the two women. It closed just as quickly when he realized that the salon was empty. Both women were gone.

  “Webster!” He called, turning away and starting to the hall. “Webster!”

  Chapter Nine

  Maggie was muttering under her breath. Most of that muttering was about Lord Ramsey, of course. He had thought her a prostitute, for heaven’s sake! And so had Lord Mullin. They had thought her Lady X!

  Well, all right, so she had been wearing a red mask and that horrid see-through red gown on their first meeting. And, okay, so that first acquaintance had taken place in the hallway, outside a boudoir of a brothel. Still, did she look like a prostitute?

  Apparently she did.

  And, she supposed, she had behaved no better than one today, allowing him to take such scandalous liberties with her. It was no wonder he’d been horrified at the idea of marrying her. She’d behaved no better than a tart and who wanted a tart to wife?

  She flushed with a combination of shame and remembered passion as she recalled those heated moments in the library. His caresses had been liquid fire on her skin, and his kisses . . . Maggie could almost feel his lips moving over her breasts now, closing over her nipples, brushing up her thighs, nibbling at—

  “You have gone quite flushed. Are you overly warm?”

  The question was as effective as a pail of icy water being poured over her head. Maggie sat upright at once. Her expression stiffened, her eyes shooting to the plump, elderly woman seated across from her. Lady Barlow. Lord Ramsey’s aunt.

  Maggie had sailed out of the library, into the salon, and straight through, using the glass doors that led out onto the terrace overlooking the gardens to exit the room and the house itself. She had hurried for the stables, then—with every intention of stealing a damn horse if she must—to make her escape from Ramsey. Her only thought had been to quickly get as far away as she could from the site of this humiliation.

  She had been so furious and caught up in her scattered thoughts that she hadn’t realized that Lady Barlow—noting her absence from the salon and espying her furious flight for the stables—was hurrying after her. The older woman had caught up halfway between the house and Maggie’s destination. When the woman had grabbed her arm, drawing her to a halt and asking anxiously where she was going, Maggie had not even hesitated to admit her intention.

  Lady Barlow had hesitated, her gaze moving between Maggie and the house; then her expression had firmed. She’d turned Maggie around, urging her back the way they had come. But instead of marching her back into the salon, she had urged her past the glass doors and around the building to a carriage parked in the drive of Ramsey mansion. The carriage they were sitting in now.

  Lady Barlow’s footmen had been in the process of unloading several large, ungainly chests from the top of her vehicle, but the woman had ordered them replaced, announcing that she would not be staying after all. They would return to London at once.

  The panting, sweating men had goggled briefly between their mistress and the half dozen trunks they had just managed to heft down, then had grumbled as they set to replacing them. Satisfied, Lady Barlow had urged Maggie into the coach. The two had waited silently while the vehicle shook and rolled slightly as all the chests were returned to the top and strapped down. Neither relaxed until everything had been put back in place and the carriage set out, rolling away from Ramsey. They had ridden in silence until now.

  “Thank you, no. I am quite comfortable, my lady.” Maggie managed a smile for the old woman across from her. Lady Barlow looked like an aunt, she decided. One of those soft, round, sweet-faced older ladies who would spoil her nieces and nephews, children, and grandchildren equally. She was probably kind to everyone, Maggie thought and felt dismay rumble through her as she realized the woman had heard everything. Lady Barlow knew that James had mistaken Maggie for a prostitute, and not just any prostitute, but the infamous Lady X. It was anyone’s guess what the older woman thought of this whole debacle.

  Lord Ramsey’s aunt cleared her throat. “Are you really G. W. Clark?”

  Maggie gave a start. “What? How . . . did you know?”

  “I overheard that Mr. Johnstone person tell my nephew so, just before I entered the salon and found you gone.”

  “I see.” Maggie shrugged. She supposed Lady Barlow’s knowing was no worse than James’s knowing. “Yes. I am G. W. Clark.”

  “Oh,” the older woman said happily, her face brightening. “I have read every one o
f your articles. They are marvelous. So interesting and entertaining and—” She shook her head. “I can hardly fathom that you are a woman.”

  Maggie’s mouth quirked, though she told herself she wasn’t offended by the comment. No doubt most people would be shocked to learn that the intrepid G. W. Clark was a woman. No one would expect the reporter who wrote exposés on several of the most popular men’s clubs, gambling hells, and brothels to be a female.

  “How do you get your information, my dear? My goodness, those articles on the experiences of war . . . Well, they were so detailed. So realistic. One would almost believe you had actually been there, in the midst of the madness and the fighting, smelling the stench of charred and rotting flesh, hearing the screams of the injured and the moans of the dying.”

  “Yes, well, my brother wrote those. He was the original G. W. Clark. I have only taken over since his death.”

  “Ah.” Lady Barlow nodded. “You are quite good. I did not even notice a difference in the writing.”

  “I try to stay as close to my brother’s style as I can,” Maggie explained. “I did not wish anyone to be aware of the fact that any sort of change had taken place, so I studied his work carefully before I attempted to draft my first article. I even had to write and rewrite it several times before it was quite perfect. Actually, maintaining his voice is the hardest part; gathering the information is a breeze in comparison.”

  “Really?” Lord Ramsey’s aunt asked with fascination, then beamed. “I must say, I quite enjoy the articles. Everyone does. They are quite the talk of the ton.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie said with real pleasure. This was the first time she had received comment on her work. It was one of the problems with writing incognito: one did not receive praise for one’s endeavors. Oh certainly one heard others’ thoughts in a secondhand sort of manner, when one came across the topic at teas or such, but . . .

  “Good Lord!”

  Maggie focused on the woman across from her in concern. The matron’s eyes had widened in a sort of horror. “Is there something wrong, my lady?”

  “No. Yes. I just realized . . . That article, my dear, on what men get up to in the lesser gambling establishments, exposing the tricks and traps Drummond was using to rob them blind? It was published after your brother’s death, but surely you did not—”

  “Yes,” Maggie interrupted with a sigh. “I did visit Drummond’s establishment a time or two.”

  “But . . . how?”

  “I disguised myself as a servant and slipped inside.”

  “They have female servants in those . . . places?”

  “Certainly,” Maggie informed her promptly. Then, beginning to feel a bit uncertain, she added, “Well, the two I went to did, at any rate.” It had never occurred to her that they might not, and things had gone without a hitch—other than an unpleasant moment or two where clients had been overly friendly to the servant they thought her. She’d had to be quick to avoid the gropings and such, but she had handled it well enough. Her surprise at the rudeness of men in such places had quickly faded.

  “So . . . how did my nephew come to the mistaken conclusion that you are the infamous Lady X?”

  “You know her?” Maggie asked.

  “Of her, yes. Everyone in London has heard the whispers.” The woman tilted her head. “Is that what your next article is about? Exposing Lady X?”

  “No!”

  “Whyever not, my dear? All of London is a-twitter about that woman. Exposing her would be quite a coup.”

  Maggie frowned at the suggestion. “I do not like to go after individuals. I do not wish to harm anyone.”

  Lady Barlow’s eyebrows shot up. “But, my dear, what was that article on Drummond, if not an attack on an individual?”

  “Yes,” Maggie agreed. “But that was because he was ruining the unsuspecting. He served them alcohol with laudanum, then robbed them blind with his crooked tables. He had to be stopped. Men were losing whole fortunes. But Lady X . . . well, she is hurting no one except perhaps herself. Besides, having to make a living in a less-than-approved fashion myself, I cannot look down on how she does it. Nay.” She shook her head firmly. “Even did I know her identity, it would be safe in my keeping.”

  “Oh.” Lady Barlow looked terribly disappointed. She had apparently rather hoped for such an article. She got over it quickly, though, and sat up a little straighter, a determined expression entering her eyes. “So tell me then, if you are not investigating Lady X, how did my foolish nephew come to the mistaken conclusion that you were she?”

  “Oh.” Maggie flushed. “Well, while I was not investigating Lady X, I was investigating brothels in general—and Madame Dubarry’s ladies in particular. I thought it would be interesting to find out what men sought there and how the girls themselves feel about it.”

  Amusement curved the older woman’s face. “Well, my dear, what the men seek there is really rather obvious, is it not? My, you are naive, aren’t you?” she added when Maggie became flustered. “Five minutes in your company should have been more than enough to disabuse my nephew of his foolishness. Unless . . .” Her eyes widened incredulously. “Never tell me that you dressed as a servant and went to Dubarry’s.”

  “Nay,” Maggie assured the matron quickly. “Actually, I wore a black gown and thick black veil to interview the, er, ladies. But I fear there was some small difficulty getting out.” Then Maggie reluctantly explained about Maisey hiding her in the cupboard and her own attempt to escape, only to be forced to hide by Frances’s arrival, then Maisey’s extortion of her dress.

  Lady Barlow was laughing so hard by the time Maggie finished, there were tears in her eyes. “Oh dear. Well, I suppose James can be forgiven his initial mistake. Still, it should not have taken him long to sort it out once to Ramsey. And I must say, my dear, you took a horrible risk with your reputation.”

  “Yes,” Maggie agreed. “I am always taking horrible risks with my reputation for these articles. However, I . . .”

  Lady Barlow seemed to guess her dilemma. “Surely your brother left you well settled?”

  Maggie grimaced. “He willed me his town house in London and enough money that, combined with what my mother bequeathed me on her death, if invested carefully, I could live the rest of my life quite comfortably. Frugally, but comfortably. Unfortunately, it is not enough to keep all the staff, and when it comes to deciding who to let go, I simply cannot do it.”

  “Ah, yes, that can be difficult.” Lady Barlow nodded sympathetically. “In the end, that sort of decision comes down to necessity.”

  “I rather thought so, too,” Maggie admitted. “So I cannot get rid of any of them.”

  The older lady blinked. “How so, dear?”

  “Well, Banks—he is the butler and man of affairs, and he has served our family forever. He is too old to find work elsewhere, yet too young to retire. His job is very necessary to him, so I cannot release him. And Cook, well, she has children to support. She is a widow, you see, so I cannot put her out. The housekeeper is alone as well. Her job is very necessary to her well-being. Then there is Mary, my maid, and . . . Why, we grew up together! She is planning on marrying John, the stable lad. Well, I suppose he is too old now to call a lad, but they depend upon the wages, and as they plan to marry, I could not possibly put either of them out. And of course there are Mary’s sisters, Joan and Nora. They are housemaids. I could hardly keep Mary but throw her sisters out! The three were orphaned around the same time as I was and must rely upon me now. Their little brother, Charles, works in the stables with John, and I can hardly release him and split up the family, you see? So it is all a matter of necessity. They all need their jobs. And it falls on me to be sure they each have one.”

  Lady Barlow stared, aghast, through her explanation, then blurted, “But, my dear, if you cannot afford them—”

  “That isn’t their fault, and they are all excellent workers,” Maggie announced firmly.

  “Well, yes . . . But you could give th
em a good reference. Perhaps help them find alternate positions.”

  “Oh, I could not do that,” Maggie exclaimed with horror. “It would be like splitting up a family. These servants were all originally at our country estate. When our parents died, Gerald purchased the town house and decided to spend most of his time there. He handpicked the staff he would take with him. I grew up with all these people. Why, Banks was our butler in the country. He used to trip over my toys when I was a tot. And Cook used to sneak me sweets. And . . . Well, I grew up with Mary. They are family.”

  “I see,” Lady Barlow murmured. Her forehead crinkled in agitation.

  “Yes. I must keep them all together. And writing for the Express has allowed me to do that. It is the only way,” Maggie said with certainty.

  Lord Ramsey’s aunt eyed her consideringly, then asked in a gentle voice, “Your brother was the last of your family, my dear, wasn’t he?”

  “Aye. Other than my cousin.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Victor. He inherited Gerald’s title and Clarendon, the country estate, since it was the seat of the title,” Maggie explained.

  “Ah.” Lady Barlow nodded, then asked delicately, “Could he not assist you? Perhaps he could take some of the servants back to the estate.”

  “Hmmm. I have thought of that. And he might be able to help. If they ever find him.”

  “Find him? Is he lost?”

  “He went to America to make his fortune. The solicitor has men out looking for him, but it takes a while, you understand.”

  “Ahhh,” Lady Barlow mused. Then she asked curiously, “If he isn’t found, or isn’t interested, or is found to be dead, would you inherit?”

  “I am not sure. The title has always gone to the next male.”

  “Yes, but that is rather antiquated, my dear. After all, Elizabeth ruled the English throne for fifty years some two hundred years ago.”