He pursed his lips. “You don’t want to know the details?”
“I want to know if your sisters are managing. That is not a detail.” She spoke very sternly to him, while he only continued to study her.
“I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I honestly don’t know if they’re all right, if they’ll ever be all right, but they have married, and now it is no longer my right to see to their welfare.”
And this was the real admission. Not the sordid tale itself, but his inability as an older brother to write a decent ending for it. It was a gesture of trust to relay this tale, but probably not in the sense he’d intended it.
“Tell me more about your sisters.”
Their hands were still joined. More to distract him than anything else, Maggie started using her index finger to trace his fingers where they laced with hers. “What is your happiest memory of your sisters?”
Four
How the hell had it come this? Hazlit’s insides were not calm, his skin felt too tight, and he was on the brink of revealing family history about which he’d stayed silent for twelve years.
He’d wanted to make the point that his family had weathered scandal, too. Whatever indiscretion Maggie Windham had committed, it wasn’t going to condemn her in his eyes. Not when his sisters’ safety had been jeopardized while he’d been nowhere to be found.
“As I’ve said, their names are Alexandra and Avis. Avis is the elder and remains near our family seat in Cumbria.”
“I’m told it’s lovely there.”
With her free hand, she poured him more tea, adding the sugar and stirring as if they were discussing whose hem had been torn at last night’s ball.
“Cumbria’s… indescribable, if you’ve never been there. There’s no place like it in the whole of England. The light is so… clear, the fells so rugged. The forest marches right up to the mountains, and it has a kind of beauty that makes a man glad he has eyes to see it and lungs to breathe it. How Alex found the strength to leave and come south…”
She passed him his teacup when the words trickled into silence.
“You are a good brother,” she said, smoothing her fingers over his knuckles, then studying their joined hands while he pretended to sip his tea. “Maybe a short outing to the Strand would make sense. I tend to patronize the same shops, and there are only a few from which I’d purchase a reticule.”
She let his hand go and stood. “I’ll have my town coach brought around—it might rain yet today—and you’ll excuse me while I find a cloak and bonnet.”
She was back in a few minutes, before he’d eaten more than a couple of sandwiches. The cloak and bonnet were nondescript to the point of plainness, and the bag she carried more unremarkable still.
Camouflage. Always a good idea when venturing into the jungle.
And there was no way in hell it was going to rain in the next two hours, but he didn’t fuss about the closed carriage. It meant her companion would have to go with them. He could only hope that would prevent him from yammering on about clear light and marching forests, for God’s sake.
The trip proved to be something of a revelation. Finding a replacement for the missing purse was easy. Maggie Windham did indeed know exactly where she bought what, how much she’d paid for it, which clerk had waited on her, and when the purchase had been made.
The clerks had exchanged a subtle, long-suffering glance when she’d walked in on Hazlit’s arm, the kind of look that signaled the arrival of a customer of exacting standards and meticulous comparisons. All Hazlit had been required to do was stand by, looking harmless and besotted, while Maggie managed the entire store. Watching her in action had been simple and even enjoyable. The difficult part of the outing had been the small talk.
Hazlit knew how to interrogate those of greater, lesser, and middling stations.
He knew how to flirt with women from all walks of life.
He had learned how to flirt with men and was, to his private consternation, fairly good at it.
He knew how to banter with both women and men.
He did not know how to just… talk.
But Maggie Windham did. When they were settled in her coach, she gave the signal for the team to walk on, passed her purchases to the companion, and aimed a perfectly credible smile at Hazlit.
“My brother tells me you’re quite a talented artist, Mr. Hazlit. Have you seen the German exhibition at the British Museum?”
He had, and enjoyed it thoroughly. By the time he realized he was babbling about perspective and melancholy themes, she tacked around to a different subject.
“Those gloves look to be particularly well made. May I inquire as to where you purchased them? I’ve noticed my youngest brother goes through gloves at a great rate.”
“That would be Lord Valentine?”
“The musician in the family, though Her Grace made sure each of us became proficient on at least one instrument. Are you musical?”
He thought of his sister Avis, who had grown so eccentric she’d play her flute along the walking paths and game trails around Blessings. “I’m a fair accompanist, but not solo material. You?”
“I struggled along with the piano for four years then threatened to take up the bagpipes. Her Grace made sure I had two party pieces suitable for social occasions then declared I’d met my obligation at the keyboard.”
“Did you take up the bagpipes anyway?”
“I tried, but they’re quite difficult. My brothers were forever teasing, and I gave up. Every person and beast on Morelands property was likely grateful for my lack of persistence.”
“You didn’t just give up, though, did you?” She’d set the bagpipes aside when she’d made her point. She wouldn’t give up just because something was difficult. Persistence was part of her character—persistence and stoicism.
And something else, too. It took him a moment to puzzle it out.
When she shopped, she shopped. She did not flirt with the clerks, pass the time of day with this or that chance-met acquaintance, or stand around in her finery, waiting to be seen by the beau monde.
Even in a shop full of people who likely knew her on sight, she was alone.
It was a quality he recognized. His sisters had both acquired it, though as girls, they’d been friendly, garrulous, and amiable. They’d been innocent, oblivious to the worst sorrows that could befall a young woman.
In some indefinable sense, Maggie Windham had lost her innocence, and this left him… hurting for her.
Which was foolish. It didn’t do to get emotionally involved with clients, even clients who occasionally required kissing. Protectiveness was one thing—he was a gentleman and she was a female in difficulties—but this other nonsense, this talking and fretting and pondering… it could not be considered in the line of duty. Simply could not.
When the coach brought them back to her house, he bowed to her in the mews—without taking her hand—and swung up on his gelding.
There would be no more kissing her hand.
No more bringing up old family troubles.
And for God’s sake, no more talking.
***
“Lady Maggie to see you, my lord.”
Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven and heir to the Moreland duchy, glanced up at his butler. “My sister is here?”
Sterling nodded. “I put her in the family parlor, and the tea tray is on the way.”
“I take it my wife is not yet returned from shopping?”
“It’s early yet, my lord.” Sterling’s long face gave away nothing, not humor, not impatience. If anything, there was a faint light of commiseration in the butler’s eyes. The right wife was a wonderful addition to any man’s life—and Anna was very definitely the right wife—but she was also a source of worry, particularly when she went haring off about Town for hours on end with only staff to attend her.
“Greetings, Brother.” Maggie swept into his library, surveying him from head to toe as he rose from his desk. “Westhaven
, you need to see the sun occasionally, and your wife has better things to do than drag you out of your cave. Sterling, we will take our tray on the back terrace. Darjeeling will do, and some heartier fare for his lordship.”
She kissed Westhaven’s cheek before he could get out a word in reply.
“The terrace it is, then. You’re looking well, Maggie.”
“I do not spend most of each day planted behind a desk, muttering curses and incantations at my profligate sisters and the merchants who continue to indulge them.” She grinned at him abruptly, the change in expression having the power to mentally knock him off his pins, though they were merely fraternal pins. “But then, you enjoy muttering and conjuring among the finances. How is dear Anna?”
He let the answer to that question wait until they were outside the house, as platitudes did not serve when Maggie came calling. She looked… quietly magnificent, as always. She dressed to hide her assets—a figure even a brother would have to be dead and buried not to acknowledge as feminine, perfect skin, luminous green eyes, and that hair…
“Anna is well, though motherhood is an adjustment.”
He held his sister’s chair for her at a wrought iron grouping in the dappled shade. The Holland bulbs were in riot, largely thanks to Anna’s efforts, and Maggie had ever been one to appreciate the out-of-doors.
“Fatherhood is an adjustment, too,” she said, studying him as she drew off her gloves. “One can but offer prayers regarding some things. I keep you both in mine.”
She fell silent as two footmen appeared, one with the tea tray, one with a second tray bearing sandwiches, sliced fruit, and several pieces of marzipan. Maggie set about pouring for them both.
“Have you been approached about Jamison’s canal venture?” She passed him his tea and poured her own.
“I have. It looks quite promising and well capitalized.” He sipped his tea. Anna herself could not have prepared it more to his liking.
“Don’t be fooled. He’s pockets to let, despite that flashy pair of grays and all his lounging about on Brook Street. He went to Worth Kettering in hopes the man could turn his situation around, and Kettering said he was not in a position to take on new business. Jamison has markers out all over Town. Kettering does not suffer fools.”
“Maggie, you scare me.” Kettering was also legendarily discreet as solicitors and men of business went. “How can you possibly know these things?”
“Men talk to women and around women as if all women were deaf and simple. We’re not; though it wasn’t a lapse of discretion on Kettering’s part we have to thank for this tidbit, merely Jamison’s own whining. Have something to eat. Worrying about your wife requires sustenance.” She passed him a plate with two sandwiches stacked on it and a couple of pieces of marzipan arranged on one side.
“So I’ll steer a course around Jamison. Any other warnings to impart?”
Her lips quirked, as if she hadn’t considered it a warning at all. She wouldn’t. Maggie had more financial sense than the rest of family put together and was partly responsible for the “luck” Westhaven had had repairing the Windham finances.
“I’ve heard Prinny has taken a liking to peaches.”
“Peaches?”
“They’re from China, though the Americans are growing them quite successfully. I’ll have some sent over. I intend to find somebody who’s importing peach trees and buy an interest. They can tolerate a fairly cold winter but need a mild growing season. Eat your candy. It sweetens your mood.”
Knowing Maggie, she’d read everything there was to read about peaches, met with anybody who’d ever seen a peach orchard, sent spies out to learn who was interested in starting peach orchards in the South of England, and started experimenting with peach recipes in her own kitchen.
Westhaven chewed a piece of marzipan. “You look a little tired, Mags.”
“Changing seasons makes me restless.”
“Go out to Morelands and get in a few good gallops, or even to Willow Bend. You know you’re welcome any time.”
“And who would listen to Her Grace fret over His Grace and our younger sisters?”
Her Grace spared some concern for her husband and daughters, true, but she fretted over Maggie ceaselessly. Despaired of her, which Westhaven had occasion to hear about often.
“You love the countryside.” He passed her a piece of marzipan. “I can’t imagine being in Town during the social whirl has any appeal, so why not go?”
She studied her tea, giving away nothing. She was his older sister, always there, always Maggie, but there were depths to her. Anna fretted over Maggie. Devlin, battle-hardened, weary soldier, fretted over Maggie.
But that’s all they did—fret. With Maggie, there was nothing really to do. The common understanding was likely that Maggie was supported through the ducal finances, but nothing could be further from the truth. With her brothers’ help, she’d begun investing upon attaining her majority. By the time she’d turned thirty, she’d been plenty wealthy enough to set up her own grand establishment, and yet she’d chosen a little place on a quiet back street.
“Does Kettering take advice from you, Sister?”
She glanced up from her teacup, her lips turning up in that unexpected, impish smile. “He’s a very amiable gentleman, also easy on the eye. We converse occasionally.”
“He’s also quite eligible, Maggie.”
“He’s a gadfly. Hasn’t the bottom for marriage, though he might acquire it in the company of the right lady. More tea?”
He let her pour him more tea—it truly was a lovely morning to be truant from ledgers and correspondence—and waited to see what topic she’d broach next. He had no doubt his sister loved him, but she wasn’t the type to go calling because she’d run out of pin money to shop with.
“I went driving with Mr. Hazlit recently. Lovely team of bays.”
This was news. “Benjamin Hazlit?” He kept his tone noncommittal with effort.
“The very one. There are rumors about him.”
It was a question, but Westhaven was damned if he could parse it out clearly. “What sort of rumors?”
“That he has a title; that he’s quite wealthy; that he has Hebrew or gypsy antecedents.”
“Would you care if any of that were true?”
She set her teacup on its saucer with more force than a lady ought to show on a polite call. “Gracious, Brother. How shallow do you think I am?”
“Not shallow at all, but you are human. What do you want to know?” It seemed kinder to brace her directly than watch her beating around the bush.
“Do you trust him?”
“Yes. Without exception.” He watched as she absorbed the immediacy of his answer.
“Is he a friend?”
A trickier question. “If he had friends, I’d be pleased to be counted among them, but neither he nor I are of a social bent.”
She rose, her expression impatient. “Do you like him?”
“I like him.” Westhaven rose, as well, falling in step beside her. “I suspect he does have a title, or he’s in expectation of one, though I know not if it’s a nominal barony or a fat marquessate. You might ask His Grace. I suspect Iberian bloodlines myself. And as to wealth, I’ve wondered.”
“What have you wondered?” She bent to sniff a daffodil and came up with pollen on her nose. It was incongruous, the little yellow smudge and her serious green eyes. He passed her his handkerchief and touched the tip of his nose.
She wouldn’t want him wiping her face. Probably clock him soundly if he tried.
While Maggie dabbed at the tip of her nose, Westhaven eyed the flowers and chose his words carefully. “I have wondered why, if the man is wealthy, does he take on for coin the missing daughters and misbehaviors of Polite Society? It’s a burdensome business, hearing confessions, carrying secrets, and knowing he’ll have to deal socially with the same people whose dirty linen he has laundered.”
Maggie passed him back his handkerchief. “Unless he likes it.
Unless he enjoys knowing everybody’s secrets. There are people like that, and some of them are wealthy as a result.”
“Hazlit is not of that ilk. Their Graces would not have turned to him if his trustworthiness had been at all in doubt.”
This seemed to mollify his sister, but it did not mollify Westhaven. Maggie was in a taking about something, something that might involve Hazlit or might not. It might involve pig farms or peaches, and Maggie in a taking was not something he wanted to contemplate at length.
“If you needed something, Mags, would you tell me?”
“No. Everybody in this family tells you when they need something, when Anna ought to be your chief concern. Would you tell me if you needed something?”
He slipped his arm through hers and kissed her cheek. “Yes. It’s part of loving someone. You lean on them occasionally, and they on you. Devlin has abandoned us for the North and the arms of his countess, Valentine is more often than not spinning tunes out in Oxfordshire and admiring his new wife, while Sophie rusticates in matrimonial bliss with her baron in Kent. We who guard the treasury must stick together.”
She sighed as he drew in her flowery Maggie-scent. “Marriage does agree with you, Gayle. It agrees with you enormously.”
“I do recommend it with the right partner. Their Graces would, as well.”
She turned her head to peer at him, her mouth flat. “Hazlit is not marriage material. You will not suffer that rumor to be bruited about, please.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He escorted her back to the table at a leisurely pace. His world had changed radically when he’d married Anna, and it was changing even more radically with the birth of their first child. “You are dear to me, you know.”
She dropped his arm and reached for her gloves, merely nodding as if he hadn’t offered a sentiment of profound truth.
“What I meant to say, Mags, is I love you. I miss you when you don’t come calling, and yet I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself on your doorstep, either. Thank you for warning me off the Jamison project—I’d have taken the bait if you hadn’t come along.”
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