by Lynsay Sands
Drawing back, James smiled at her, then pressed a quick kiss to her uninjured cheek. “I should go. I am meeting an agent from your insurer at the town house. He wishes to assess the damage and make arrangements for repairs.”
Maggie opened her mouth to assure him that she could do that, then recalled her damaged face and changed her mind. She had almost forgotten how to accept aid since Gerald’s death. This time she would take the offered help. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” James’s smile widened, then he hugged her briefly and released her to cross the room. He paused when he came abreast of the chest Joan and Nora had carted in. “These are some of my sister’s old gowns,” he explained. “She and Aunt Viv are both pack rats. Neither of them ever throw anything out. See if you can’t find something decent in here to wear, then come below. You can tell me what you wish me to say to the insurer before I leave.”
Maggie nodded and watched him exit the room. Her body was still tingling. She also felt warm and . . . soothed. She had never felt like this before.
Chapter Fourteen
Maggie placed another stitch in the gown she was working on, then set it in her lap so that she could flex her hands and rub soothingly at her neck, which was beginning to crick. The last several days seemed made up of working endlessly at the task of altering James’s sister’s old gowns.
James and Lady Barlow had wanted to bring a dressmaker in to make new clothes for her—both of them offering to bear the expense of such an undertaking—but Maggie’s pride would not allow her to accept such a generous gift. She was already terribly beholden to them, and she found it difficult to even accept these castoffs without some repayment. But neither Lady Barlow nor her nephew would hear of remuneration, so Maggie was forced to accept their generosity. She needed clothes, after all, and she was hoping that at some point she would be able to find a way to repay them.
Though, she supposed, she should be thinking of James’s sister. It was that girl’s old clothes being given away so freely.
Sighing, she picked up her needle and the green gown she was working on and again returned to her efforts. The day after the fire, Lady Barlow had spent a good deal of time helping her pin and sew the gowns so that the bodices fit. Maggie had sent her servants out to purchase clothes to replace their own lost wardrobes, and had appreciated the older woman’s assistance, in their absence, but once the maids had returned and been available to help her, Maggie had convinced the older woman to return to her usual daytime activity of calling on friends.
While her female servants had assisted Maggie in sewing upon returning from their shopping trip, her male servants had gone with James to inspect the damage to the house, to see what—if anything—was salvageable. They had returned with the comforting news that the fire brigade her insurance company ran had arrived in time to ensure that most of the fire damage had been confined to the kitchens and the room above. The rest of the house had merely suffered smoke damage. While most of its furnishings needed reupholstering, and the linens and clothing needed replacing, the house itself was sound and would be quite inhabitable in no time. The work was, thank heavens, covered by the insurance Gerald had always insisted she keep.
Unfortunately, while James almost convinced her with his reassuring smiles, Maggie’s butler, Banks, was a lousy liar. She had seen right through the tale. The way her butler had twisted his hat in his hands and avoided her gaze had made it clear that James was lying through his teeth. And the fact that, even several days later, the servants still returned each night to Lady Barlow’s after spending the days helping to clear the town house seemed to confirm her fear.
At first it had just been the men leaving each morning to help out at the town house, but this morning Maggie had sent the women along, too, keeping only Mary back to help her with the last of her gowns. It had been cowardice that made her do so. With all of her maids sewing, they had been running through the gowns quite quickly, and Maggie had wanted to slow their progress. She was afraid that once she finished with all the alterations, Lady Barlow would insist on Maggie’s accompanying her on social calls, and while Maggie’s face was slowly returning to normal, it was still slightly swollen and an unattractive yellow. She was not vain by nature, but had no wish to be seen as she was.
Besides, she had some thinking to do. If, as she suspected, her brother’s house was more damaged than James was letting on, she doubted if the insurance she’d purchased would cover the repairs. Which had her fretting. She needed money. Desperately. In fact, she had the gloomy feeling that her financial position was more precarious than ever.
Maggie scowled and jabbed her needle into the cloth she held, knowing that she shouldn’t be wasting her time sewing extra garments. She should be out researching another story for the Daily Express.
Fortunately, Hartwick had long ago assured her he would take as many stories as she could write. Up until now, she had only ever supplied one article every two weeks; it wasn’t so easy to keep coming up with fresh ideas, and biweekly articles had been enough to keep them afloat. Now she would have to squeeze out more. The only problem was, with her mind on all the many trials and tribulations in her life, she couldn’t seem to think of anything good to write about.
Frowning, she considered the matter, thinking up and discarding one story line after another. One was too boring, another too similar to an article she’d already done. She was almost relieved when Meeks coughed at the doorway, drawing her attention from her rather hopeless thoughts.
“Yes?” she asked as the man came forward. He held a small silver tray in his hand, bearing a folded piece of paper.
“A letter for you, my lady.”
“For me?” Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she set her sewing aside and took the note. “Thank you.” Nodding, the man turned and wordlessly left the room.
Maggie opened the unsealed note and read the letter with growing surprise and relief. It was from Maisey, an answer to the letter she had sent more than a week back about their traded gowns and the possibility of calling it even. The subject had quite slipped her mind, what with everything that had happened since. The delay was clarified at the beginning of the letter; the girl explained that she had been away at a private house party during the whole of this last week.
Maggie grimaced slightly, knowing as she did the girl’s occupation, then read on, relieved to find that the girl thought it more than fair that they call it quits on the gowns. She would keep the money Frances had offered to replace the ripped gown, and Maggie need not worry about replacing the red one.
It was one worry off her mind, but Maggie’s relief knew no bounds when the young woman then mentioned that she had come across a certain club in which G. W. Clark might have some interest—a club in which it was said dastardly things took place. Maggie was to write back at once and let Maisey know if she was interested, then the girl could set up a time when it was convenient for Maggie to attend. The prostitute was even willing to go with her for a fee.
“Meeks,” Maggie called, refolding the letter.
The man must have been waiting outside the door, because he stepped back into the room at once, not looking the least ruffled or surprised.
“It says here that the boy who brought the note would wait for a reply. Is there a—”
“I sent him to the kitchens to wait,” Meeks answered calmly. Seeming to feel it necessary to explain, he added, “I could not leave the little urchin alone in the entry while I delivered the note; he might have pocketed something. And the neighbors would have complained had I left him on the stoop.”
Maggie bit back an amused smile. She didn’t believe his claim for a minute. The man was as soft as a raw egg. No doubt he had ordered the cook to find food and water for the “urchin.” He had a kind heart.
“Yes, of course. I understand,” she murmured, setting her sewing aside so that she could get up. “Do you think it would be all right if I used some of Lady Barlow’s paper and ink to write a response?”
“Of course, my lady. Lady Barlow has said that I am to get you anything you require. If you follow me, I will show you to the library and supply you with all necessities for your correspondence.”
“Thank you.” Ignoring Mary’s curious gaze, Maggie followed the man to the library, working out her answer in her head as she went. This was too perfect. She desperately needed a story, and Maisey, the dear girl, was giving her just that. It was the first stroke of good luck she’d had since that fateful night at Madame Dubarry’s. Perhaps things were starting to look up.
James stepped down from his carriage and walked jauntily up to his aunt’s house, a smile on his face. He had spent the day overseeing work on Maggie’s town house and was pleased with how things were coming. The house had nearly been gutted before the fire brigade from the Union Assurance company—Maggie’s insurance company—had arrived to put it out.
Of course, he hadn’t told her that. The fuss she had raised over accepting a couple of cast-off gowns of his sister’s, and her absolute refusal to allow him or his aunt to assist by purchasing her new gowns to replace the ones she had lost in the fire, had warned him she would be too proud to accept any help in repairing the town house. He had also realized, after a conversation with her insurer, that her coverage would not fund all of the necessary repairs, nor the replacement of her furnishings. So he had lied.
He knew without a doubt that Maggie wasn’t completely fooled by his fabrications, but he was also quite sure that there was nothing she could do about them. He had brought in droves of workers and even her own people to ensure that the repairs and rebuilding were done quickly, and it was moving along nicely. Another day or so and her staff would even be able to move back in. By the time Maggie got to see it, she wouldn’t be able to tell how much damage there had been or how costly it had been to set right. He would lie about the money, and she would not be able to prove otherwise. He was quite satisfied with his handling of the matter.
Reaching the door, James rapped lightly with his cane, then whistled lightly as he waited for it to be opened, enjoying the anticipation building within him. He had visited Maggie and his aunt often since the fire, usually playing cards with both ladies, though on occasion he had played chess alone with Maggie in the library while his aunt entertained friends in the salon. The doors had been left open on these occasions, of course, as was proper and expected.
James enjoyed those visits best. Maggie relaxed more around him when his aunt wasn’t present, her smiles and soft laughter enchanting.
Tonight his aunt was having a small gathering of friends. James had not planned to attend—he’d expected to be meeting with Johnstone for an update on Maggie’s attacker—but he had received a letter from the runner just moments ago and learned the man was rushing out of town tracking a clue and would miss their meeting. James had promptly ordered his carriage and headed for his aunt’s—for Maggie.
He had no doubt she would be easily culled from the herd of females and lured to the library. It had not escaped his notice that despite the fact that her bruises were nearly gone, she was still shy about displaying her face in public. He had every intention of taking advantage of that.
The door was opened by Meeks. The old man’s eyes widened in surprise upon seeing him. “My lord, I thought you had a meeting and were not to be present tonight.”
“My meeting was canceled,” James announced cheerfully. He stepped inside.
“Oh, I am glad you are here, my lord.”
“And I am glad to be here.” James handed over his hat and cane to the man, his gaze straying to the salon door. He could hear the muffled murmur of female voices coming through it. “Is Maggie in there with the rest of the women?”
“Nay, my lord,” Meeks answered grimly.
James paused on his way to the door to turn back questioningly. “Where is she then? Up in her room?”
“Nay, my lord. She is not here.”
“What?” He stared at the butler, uncomprehending. “What do you mean, she is not here? Where is she?”
The servant hesitated briefly; then his mouth firmed with unhappiness. “She received a letter today, my lord. From someone named Maisey.”
James’s eyes widened in horror, and he snatched his hat and cane back. “Dear Lord, she has gone back to Dubarry’s.”
“Nay,” Meeks said quickly, following him to the door. When James turned on him, the man seemed to struggle with his conscience, then admitted, “The letter was not sealed. A street urchin brought it. I dropped the note, it fell open, and I just happened to see—”
“You read it,” James snapped, unwilling to waste time on the man’s excuses. “What did it say?”
Meeks colored slightly, but he straightened and said with dignity, “This Maisey person claimed to know of a club she thought G. W. Clark might be interested in. A men’s club.”
“Which one?” James prompted.
“The letter did not say. It simply mentioned a club with dastardly goings-on and requested that her ladyship reply as to whether she was interested in the club and when might be a convenient time to investigate it.”
“And what was Maggie’s answer?” James asked impatiently.
Meeks drew himself up indignantly. “I would not stoop to reading her ladyship’s letters.”
James frowned. No, he would not expect the man to be so impertinent as to open a sealed letter as Maggie’s response clearly would have been.
“But,” the butler went on. “A second missive to Lady Margaret also went unsealed. It simply said seven o’clock tonight, and an address. There was a mask with the letter.”
“A mask?” James asked suspiciously. What was Maggie up to? “What kind of mask?”
“It was quite distinctive. A teal-and-gold feathered affair.”
James digested that, then glanced up sharply. “Do you recall the address in the letter?”
“Of course.”
“Good man,” he said with relief.
Maggie leaned against the wall of the building, doing her best to look inconspicuous as she watched carriage after carriage stop and disgorge masked individuals and couples in front of the address across the street. The house looked completely normal, no different from any of the other town houses in this district, but if what Maisey hinted at was true, there was more going on than just a masked ball.
Shifting impatiently, she glanced nervously up the street, her eyes searching for any sign of Maisey. The problem was, Maggie wasn’t sure for what she was supposed to be looking. Maisey was about Maggie’s height, with dirty-blond hair, but if the girl came masked like the others, Maggie wasn’t certain she would be able to spot her.
Worse, there was a good possibility that Maisey would not recognize her, either, despite the mask the other girl had sent to make the task easier. The young prostitute would be looking for that mask on a woman, and Maggie was not dressed as a female. She had decided at the last minute to go dressed as a man, an idea that had come to her while she searched the attic for shoes to match the gown she’d intended to wear.
Maggie had worn nothing but slippers around Lady Barlow’s town house since the fire. She could hardly wear those out of the house, however, and Jean and Nora had mentioned while helping her sift through the chest of Sophie’s gowns—retrieved under Lady Barlow’s direction—that the attic was stuffed full of all sorts of things, including masks, fans, shoes, and the like. Searching through that treasure trove of stored items, Maggie had come upon a chest filled with male clothing.
The style and size of the boxed garments had convinced her that they were no doubt castoffs from James’s youth, and the idea had struck like lightning that she should attend the men’s club as a male. She’d had no problem finding appropriate garb in the chest for an evening at a men’s club, not to mention a pair of old dress boots that fit nicely, and so her mind had been made up. She tied her hair at her nape, slid it down the back of her shirt, and donned the mask and a top hat. Fortunately, the mask was rather
neutral in style, so it was not unlikely for a man to wear. It also boasted enough feathers and other trinkets to hide the fact that Maggie’s hair was long and tied back.
Grimacing, she shifted her legs, glancing around to be sure no one was looking her way, then she gave the back of her breeches a brief tug. This was not the first time that Maggie had camouflaged herself in male dress, but it was not a disguise she often chose when she could avoid it. Binding her breasts was a rather painful procedure, and besides, she wasn’t all that comfortable in these tight-fitting breeches. While James had been the same size in his youth, at least length-wise in the legs, he hadn’t apparently had any hips. Maggie found the breeches far too snug for comfort across her bottom, especially when compared to the freedom of billowing bloomers and skirts. She found herself plagued by the constant and horrendous urge to tug at the behind of the trousers to draw them away from her skin.
It had not occurred to her while she had donned this brilliant disguise that she was just making matters more difficult, that Maisey would never think to look for a male. All she had been concerned with was that should the scarred man see her slipping away through the garden gate at the back of Lady Barlow’s home, he would not recognize her—leaving her safe from that concern for a bit as she investigated this club where dastardly events took place.
Now she realized it had been an incredibly stupid idea. Maisey had sent the mask to aid in identifying Maggie, and she would hardly be looking for it on a man. She might very well not notice Maggie at all tonight.
Heaving out an impatient breath, she peered up the street, trying to work out how much time had passed since she had left Lady Barlow’s. She had made her exit an hour before the appointed time, walking several blocks before feeling it was safe enough to hail a hack. She had planned to be here early. Maggie was always early for appointments. But it surely must be nearly seven o’clock by now. Where was Maisey?
