by Lynsay Sands
Such being the case, she had been forced to find a way to support the large staff. The answer had come by chance. While sorting through her brother’s papers, Maggie had come across the knowledge that her brother had led a double life. He’d been Lord Gerald Wentworth, Duke of Clarendon, and also G. W. Clark—the adventurist writer who wrote columns for the Daily Express. He’d provided articles about the seedier side of London life: rumors, truths, stories of gaming hells, fortunes won and lost, affairs, everything. From Gerald’s papers Maggie had learned he had met with Mr. Hartwick—the editor of the Express—only once, and then he’d been in disguise to protect his identity. Members of the nobility did not do anything so crass as to work.
She had also learned that he wrote the articles and dispatched them via Banks, his butler. Which was when Maggie’d had her brilliant idea: she would become G. W. Clark. She could do it—and she had for the last three months. She had gone to great lengths to continue her brother’s column, going so far as to dress up as a young buck and travel to the seedier sections of London with Banks in tow to protect her—for all the good the elderly butler was.
All that was how she had ended up standing here on the ledge outside the third-floor window of Madame Dubarry’s. The woman had apparently been a great friend of her brother’s, at least according to his notes. Certainly Madame Dubarry had been privy to the fact that her brother was G. W. Clark, for when the column had started up again three weeks after his death, she had paid a visit to Maggie.
With a sense of adventure equal to Maggie’s and her brother’s, Madame Dubarry had arrived on the Wentworth doorstep dressed as a poor fruitseller. On being shown in to see Maggie, the madame had announced her true identity, revealed that Gerald had been G. W. Clark, and complained that some “dastardly devil” had stolen his name. Maggie had been forced to confess herself the culprit. By the end of a pot of tea, she and Dubarry had struck up an unlikely friendship. They had been in cahoots ever since—although the woman had only recently given in to the interviews of her employees.
Amazing, Maggie thought. For the first time, she considered that perhaps Agatha Dubarry had been right when she had suggested Maggie come dressed as a man to this night’s activities. Maggie had shrugged away the suggestion, thinking that the madam’s girls might be more forthcoming with information while talking to another of their gender. It had worked, too. She had been introduced as the sister of G. W. Clark, sent to interview them, and the girls had responded very easily. And no one had known her true identity, not until Agatha had slipped up in Maisey’s room. Maggie found she wasn’t too concerned about Maisey, though. She had no doubt that Madame Dubarry could keep the girl quiet. Her real problem would be if some member of the ton saw her; then she would be recognized and ruined for sure. There was no way Agatha Dubarry could keep all of London quiet.
Yes, now would indeed be a beneficial time to be disguised as a man. And, she thought as she glanced down nervously past her long skirts, such a disguise would also have made climbing about on ledges more seemly.
“Lord Ramsey, we’ll have to sneak her down the back stairs and smuggle her through the kitchen.”
James nodded at Johnstone’s suggestion. After he’d made a brief but thorough examination of the brothel, it indeed seemed the best bet to get the girl out. “Go have my driver move the carriage to the alley,” he instructed, his eyes on the clock in the hall. “Hastings’s time is up. I’ll go see if he has left yet.”
Nodding, Johnstone hurried away toward the front door, and James started upstairs. He was at the top of the steps before he realized that the runner hadn’t told him in which room Lady X was supposed to be. He was about to return downstairs to ask Madame Dubarry when he changed his mind. He would recognize Hastings. Everyone knew of Hastings, if not in person, then by reputation. He was second only to the crown in power. Whichever room Hastings exited, James would enter.
He had just come to that conclusion when the thud of a door made him turn back around on the landing. A glance up the hall showed Hastings strolling jauntily toward him, whistling under his breath as he straightened his cravat. James almost cursed aloud. He had been too slow; he couldn’t be sure from which room the man had come. There were several possibilities.
He would try them all, he decided resolutely. Giving Hastings a curt nod, he moved purposely past him to set about his work.
The thud of a closing door tore Maggie from her thoughts, and she glanced through the window into the empty room to which she had inched. If her thoughts had distracted her so long that this room was now occupied, too, she thought she might very well throw up. She did not think she had the stamina or nerve to traverse the length of the ledge again. It was with some relief that she saw that the room appeared empty. Letting her breath out, she reached down, opened the window, and silently slipped inside.
Now that they were on solid ground, her legs were more than just a bit rubbery. Ordering them to stand firm, Maggie strode quickly across the room, pausing at the door to take a breath and listen for sounds in the hallway. When she heard only silence, she eased the door open. About to step out of the room, Maggie recalled the mask Maisey had given her—she had shoved it into her pocket in her rush to finish dressing and escape. It would be better to wear the thing. So thinking, she turned back into the room and started to lift the flimsy red silk mask to her face. Her eyes fell on a bed and a woman gaping at her from the shadows within. The two females gaped at each other briefly; then the sound of footsteps in the hall reminded Maggie that she had to get out of here. She quickly finished raising the mask to her face, tied the strings of it in place, then slipped from the room without a murmur of apology.
She had just finished pulling the door closed when a hand slid around her from behind, covering her mouth and smothering her startled cry. She was lifted bodily, bundled in her cape, and carted swiftly down the hall.
About the Author
Lynsay Sands is the nationally bestselling author of the Argeneau/Rogue Hunter vampire series, as well as numerous historicals and anthologies. She’s been writing since grade school and considers herself incredibly lucky to be able to make a career out of it. Her hope is that readers can get away from their everyday stress through her stories, and if there are occasional uncontrollable fits of laughter, that’s just a big bonus. Please visit her on the web at www.lynsaysands.net.
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By Lynsay Sands
The Trouble With Vampires
Vampires Like It Hot
Twice Bitten
Immortally Yours
Immortal Unchained
Immortal Nights
Runaway Vampire
About a Vampire
The Immortal Who Loved Me
Vampire Most Wanted
One Lucky Vampire
Immortal Ever After
The Lady Is a Vamp
Under a Vampire Moon
The Reluctant Vampire
Hungry For You
Born to Bite
The Renegade Hunter
The Immortal Hunter
The Rogue Hunter
Vampire, Interrupted
Vampires Are Forever
The Accidental Vampire
Bite Me if You Can
A Bite to Remember
Tall, Dark & Hungry
Single White Vampire
Love Bites
A Quick Bite
The Wrong Highlander
The Highlander’s Promise
Surrender to the Highlander
Falling for the Highlander
The Highlander Takes a Bride
To Marry a Scottish Laird
An English Bride in Scotland
The Husband Hunt
The Heiress
The Countess
The Hellion and the Highlander
Taming the Highland Bride
Devi
l of the Highlands
The Loving Daylights
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from A Lady in Disguise (previously published as The Reluctant Reformer) copyright © 2002 by Lynsay Sands.
the trouble with vampires. Copyright © 2019 by Lynsay Sands. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition MAY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-285518-3
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-285517-6
Cover design by Nadine Badalaty
Cover illustration/photographs by Tony Mauro
Cover photographs © Howard Sandler/Dreamstime.com (house); © Spiroview Inc./Dreamstime (driveway)
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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