by Lynsay Sands
She hadn’t gotten far into the park when a sharp cracking sound made her start and glance around. It sounded like a branch snapping—a heavy one.
She paused, a frown sliding over her face as she raised a hand to feel carefully at her hat. In the next moment, her headgear was forgotten and Maggie was squawking in amazement as she was tackled from behind and thrown to the ground. Before she could quite grasp what was happening, Ramsey had thrown himself atop her and was rolling them both under the bushes that lined the path. Finding herself clasped close in his arms, his body pressing intimately down into hers, Maggie had to brace herself against her body’s eager response.
“My lord!” she screeched in mingled embarrassment and anger. She pushed frantically at his chest in a vain effort to remove his bulk.
“I am not trying to attack you, Maggie,” he said with annoyance. Leaning away, he peered back out through the bushes. “Someone took a shot at you.”
“A likely story,” Maggie snapped. “Gerald neglected to mention your penchant for prevarication, my lord. First the tea party. Now someone trying to shoot me. I think not!”
Taking him by surprise, she shoved him away and got quickly to her feet.
“Maggie!”
Margaret plunged back through the bushes, tugging at her skirt when he sat up and caught at her hem. Hearing the tearing material, she cursed impatiently and hurried onward, refusing to look down at the damage. Maggie’s one thought was to escape the man now blundering out of the bushes after her, hissing her name in a voice she was sure people could hear at the other end of the park.
When he grasped her elbow and tried to drag her back to the bushes, she turned on him abruptly, swinging her bag and koshing him on the side of the head. Maggie knew she hadn’t hurt him, but his surprise at the attack made him loosen his hold long enough for her to pull free. Before he could quite regain himself, she flew down the path and joined the throngs making their way on the London streets.
Maggie nearly convinced herself that she had lost him in the crowds as she hurried along, so when she reached her home and hurried inside, then turned to close the door, only to find him blocking her from doing so, she stepped back in surprise. That gave him the opportunity to slip inside. She glowered at him fiercely as he shut the door then moved to the window, shifting the curtains aside to peer out into the street.
Tapping her foot in a furious tempo, she propped her hands on her hips and tried to set him aflame with her eyes. When that didn’t work—he didn’t even turn to appreciate her wrath—she drew herself up and hissed. “You were not invited in, my lord. Pray, remove yourself ere I have to call my servants to help you on your way.”
Turning, James goggled at her briefly in disbelief, then snatched her ruined bird’s-nest hat from her head and shoved it under her nose. The feathers tickled. “There,” he said. “See that? Someone took a shot at you.”
Maggie opened her mouth to say something nasty, then paused, her mouth dropping to her chest. There was a round hole right through the center of her bird that she could have put a finger through.
“Well, finally! Something has left you speechless,” he muttered.
Snapping her mouth closed, Maggie glared at her nemesis. “Did you hire someone to do this? To make me soften toward you? Because if you did, my lord, I can promise you that you will be replacing this hat!”
“What?” He was flabbergasted by the accusation. “Why the devil would I do a thing like that?”
“I do not know, my lord, but why would anyone shoot at me? No one has reason.”
“So you assume that I set it up? To what purpose? To get into your good graces by saving your life? Fat chance, that!” He snorted, then drew himself up to peer down his nose at her. “How could you think such a thing of me?”
Maggie felt herself tensing as everything that had happened rushed over her. She felt herself adrift in emotion, and everything she’d bottled up inside her exploded outward. “How could I think such a thing of you? How could you think what you thought of me?”
James’s indignity seeped away like water off fast-melting ice at her obvious pain and outrage. Regret flashed in his eyes, and she felt herself soften. Then he shifted uncomfortably and tried to explain: “Well, you must admit that what you were wearing that night—” He paused as she flushed, her cheeks burning almost as red as the gown in question. “And then you were at Madame Dubarry’s,” he added.
Maggie had heard enough. Turning abruptly away, she stomped into the parlor and directly to the bottles of liquor in the sideboard. She poured a generous quantity into a glass, downed it, then poured herself another full measure.
“May I have a glass as well?” James asked, joining her at the counter.
“Get your own,” she barked testily, then relented. Pouring him a glass, she pushed it toward him along the counter, then turned and walked over to one of the two overstuffed chairs by the fire. Dropping into it with relief, she stared bleakly down into the dark liquid in her glass for a moment. Then she glanced up into his wary face. “Why are you here? Why did you lie in wait at your aunt’s? I presume you set this all up to see me?”
“Yes,” he admitted slowly. Moving to sink onto the chair opposite her, he considered his own glass briefly, then admitted, “I wish to apologize—”
“Apology accepted,” she interrupted. “You may leave now.”
James’s jaw dropped. He was not at all used to being dismissed. It didn’t appear that he liked it much. “Your brother—” he began determinedly.
She interrupted again. “My brother is dead,” she reminded him. Then, bluntly, she went on: “I release you from any promises or vows he elicited from you on his deathbed. You may go.”
“I do not wish to go.”
They both blinked at those blurted words. James looked both sheepish and horrified at the depth of emotion that had sounded in them. Maggie found herself feeling simply stunned. Swallowing nervously, she tore her gaze from his. “I think you had better—” she began.
“Please don’t ask me to leave again.” His voice was soft and weary and, despite herself, Maggie felt her anger begin to ease. She gave the barest of nods, but he saw it and relaxed in the chair as he confessed, “I quite enjoyed your company in the country.”
She felt herself tensing again. “You mean, when you thought I was Lady X? When you thought I was a prostitute available to the highest bidder?”
“Despite thinking you a prostitute available to the highest bidder,” he began carefully. “Yes. I enjoyed your company immensely, and that confused me. I felt it in my duty to reform you, but was also attracted to you physically,” he admitted with a self-deprecating twist of his lips. “I found my honorable side constantly struggling against baser instincts. And then, as I came to know you, I found I actually liked you.” He shrugged helplessly.
Maggie stared at him in wonder. She had known he was attracted to her. The little incident in the library had made that clear. She had never dared hope, however, that he might actually like her, too. Somehow, that seemed more important. Not that the other wasn’t, but Lord Ramsey was the first man who had ever done more than kiss her. He was also the only one who’d ever inspired a desire in her to do more. . . .
Pastor Frances had never gone beyond a few sloppy swipes of his lips on hers, which had been just fine. She’d been more attracted to the idea of a solid, good man than by any overwhelming desire. No, that emotion was something she’d experienced with James alone.
“Is there anyone who may wish to do you harm?” she heard him ask.
Maggie stared blankly, confused by the sudden change in subject. Still, she tried to answer his question. As Frances had been the last thought to pop into her head before James had asked his question, Frances was the first person to pop into her head in answer to it.
She frowned as she thought of the other man, then winced as her furrowing brow caused pain to shoot from the bruise on her forehead. She forced herself to let the skin there smooth ou
t again so that she could think.
The pastor had been someone she’d wanted to avoid as much as Lord Ramsey since returning, but, as he was the head of her church and Sunday was creeping closer, she had decided that it would do little good to continue avoiding him. Yesterday she’d invited him to dinner.
As expected, he’d proposed.
She, of course, had refused. What else could she do after witnessing that little scenario with Maisey? Frances hadn’t accepted her refusal as gracefully as she’d hoped, and had pressed his suit. She had remained apologetic, yet firm. He’d appeared confused as she explained she did not harbor “wifely feelings” for him; then he had become cold. He’d even, before he left, pointed out that she was well beyond the age of youth and beauty, and that she was not likely to get a better offer. He’d even said she would regret her decision.
She considered now just how far he would go to ensure that she did regret it, then shook her head. No. Pastor Frances was not the sort to do her injury just because she refused to marry him. It would be silly and even egotistical to believe such might be the case. Still, she would be uncomfortable around the man until he found someone else to favor with his attentions. Which was terribly sad and unpleasant, but not deadly.
“No,” she said at last, then shook her head. “I know of no one who would wish to harm me.”
“The irate subject of one of your articles, perhaps?”
Maggie started shaking her head before he finished the question. “I thought of that, but no one knows who G. W. Clark is. Well, except you and your aunt, and Madame Dubarry.”
“What of the women you interviewed?”
“I wore a very heavy veil during the interviews.”
“What of the girl who gave you her mask?”
“Maisey?” Maggie opened her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and amusement. “No. Maisey saw my face briefly, but”—she shook her head—“She is not the sort to be rushing about shooting at me. Besides, why would she? I did not even mention her name in the article. I didn’t mention any names at all.” She shook her head again. “No. There is no reason for anyone to wish me harm.” When he frowned at her words, she shrugged. “Mayhap it was a stray bullet, James. Or a random act. I really do not feel I am under any threat. It is more likely that someone was aiming at you and missed.”
“Me?” He looked insulted at the thought, and Maggie nearly laughed. Good. Now he knew what it felt like to be maligned.
“Well,” she said mockingly. “Of course you are right, my lord. Why would anyone want you dead? After all, you are such a pleasant sort.”
The man started to be offended, then he noticed the twinkle in her eye and seemed to realize she was teasing. He relaxed with a wry smile. They were both still for a moment; then he pursed his lips in thought. “I might be more willing to accept that it was an accident or some such thing if it weren’t for the accident today—and for the other the last time we met. Those make me worry that bullet was aimed at you.”
Maggie made a face. “On the other hand, one might consider the fact that all these things only ever occurred with you around. . . .” She paused at his dismayed expression, then rolled her eyes. With a sigh she said what she should have said before. “I must apologize for not thanking you for that, James. You may very well have saved my life that day.”
He waved away her words, though he was obviously pleased by them. “The point is, if this were just a random shot, it would be one thing. But—”
“Oh, now you cannot truly imagine that wagon driver was deliberately attempting to run me down?” Maggie protested.
“Well, I had not considered the possibility at the time . . . but now that a similar-looking man pushed you out in front of another carriage, and someone is shooting at you—”
“We do not know it is the same man,” Maggie protested. “You said the driver of the wagon was dark. Did you see a scar?” When James hesitated, obviously reluctant to admit that he had not, she added, “Besides, it was one stray shot in the park. Why did they not fire again if they were truly trying to kill me? I leaped back up and charged out of those bushes, making a perfect target of myself . . . yet a second shot never came.”
He conceded that fact with a nod as he got to his feet. “I can see that I am wasting my time trying to convince you that you are in danger. At least promise me that you will take care in future?”
“I promise,” she murmured, rising as well but feeling a trifle awkward. She wasn’t sure where they stood anymore. Her animosity appeared to be gone, but where did that leave them? After what they’d done, what could they be? Friends? Acquaintances?
“I would also appreciate it if . . . I mean, now that we have reached something of a . . . Please stop refusing my aunt’s invitations,” he blurted at last. “She quite likes you and is holding me wholly responsible for your snubs.”
Maggie nearly grinned, but caught the expression back and instead solemnly nodded. “I liked her as well. I would be pleased to accept any future invitations.”
Sighing at Maggie’s words, James exited the salon, aware that she was following as he moved to the front door. Opening it, he paused to glance back. “And do try to be careful. Make sure that the servants lock the doors at night, and take a carriage whenever possible.”
“Aye, my lord,” she murmured.
James frowned at her easy agreement, suspecting that it was given only to soothe him, but there was little he could do to make her listen without alienating her again. Nodding, he turned away and left the town house, his mind already working on ways for him to tend the matter as he pulled the door closed behind him.
He would hire Johnstone again to look out for her. The runner could also investigate whether the three incidents were linked attempts on Maggie’s life or mere accidents. She wouldn’t like it if she found out, but he had made a promise to her brother, to look after her. Which was the only interest he had in the girl, he told himself as he started toward the park. Margaret Wentworth was a respectable young woman, and what he’d done to—with—her was reprehensible. From now on he would treat her only with the respect that was her due.
He just had to push away his memories of her naked flesh, and the rest would be tea and crumpets.
Chapter Twelve
Maggie cursed as her hair slid from where she had secured it atop her head and tumbled around her shoulders. Again. Heaving out her breath in irritation, she glared into the oval dressing table mirror she sat before.
“I should have asked Mary to fix my hair before she left,” she admitted to the room. There was no one around to comment, no one at all; the entire house was empty. Which meant there was also no one to help her with this task, either. Worse yet, she had no one to blame but herself, she admitted in aggravation, making a face at her reflection in the mirror.
One of the fairs had come today. It was a much smaller fete than St. Bartholomew’s, which was held in August, but it was one of the first of the season, so had caused a great deal of excitement among her staff. Their excitement had infected Maggie, too, and in a moment of largesse she had decided that every one of them should take the afternoon off.
At the time, she’d believed she wouldn’t need them. As she was attending a ball this evening with James and his aunt, there was no need to make her meal, or clean up after her, and really there was little enough for the servants to do when she was around. With her plans to be out tonight, it had seemed silly to keep the servants in. She had convinced them all, against their somewhat meager protests, to take the afternoon off and enjoy the fair. Even Banks had gone, agreeing in his gruff old voice to Maggie’s suggestion that an older, wiser influence might be for the best.
Of course, when she had given them all the day off, she had forgotten she would need assistance getting ready for the ball. Her maid Mary had brought it up and offered, with a pained smile, to stay behind and assist, but Maggie had not had the heart to keep her; it was hardly fair for everyone else to go while Mary alone had to stay behind
and miss the fun. No, Maggie had refused to allow her to stay—despite her concerns about being able to do herself up properly.
It couldn’t be that hard, surely? she’d thought. She could prepare herself. She was a perfectly intelligent young woman. She had managed to dress herself, though it hadn’t been as easy as she’d expected, what with all the buttons in the back and such. Still, with some ingenuity and twisting and turning, she had mastered the situation.
Her hair was another matter entirely. Mary had always been swift and assured at the business, managing to perform miracles in moments with the unmanageable tresses. They seemed determined to defy Maggie’s attempts. She was not feeling terribly intelligent or clever at the moment. In fact, she was feeling rather panicky and incompetent. The hour was growing late. James and his aunt would arrive any moment.
She felt herself blush. James and his aunt. She had seen quite a bit of the pair since the day of her injury. Lady Barlow had invited her to tea several times in the week since, and Maggie had accepted each invitation. James had been in attendance for all of them. He had behaved beautifully during each visit, a perfect gentleman. Nor had he brought up any nonsense about someone trying to kill her again, thank goodness. In fact, he had not tried to kiss her or do anything untoward—not even looking as if he had wanted to.
Maggie found herself looking rather purse-lipped at that thought, and she forced the lines out of her face. Surely she wasn’t disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her or anything else, was she? He was treating her like the lady she was, and that was only appropriate.
She wasn’t fooling herself. Now that her fury at him had been resolved, she found herself recalling those decadent moments in his office. She had even relived them in a dream or two since, awakening as shaken and aroused as when it first happened.
Maggie’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door closing below, and she glanced abruptly toward the entrance to her room. Relief coursed through her. She hadn’t expected the servants to return so early, but she was relieved that they had. Perhaps she could prevail upon Mary to help with her hair. She simply could not attend the Willans’ ball with Lady Barlow and James if she did not look her best. She wouldn’t want to embarrass them. They were taking her as their guest, after all.
