by Joanna Shupe
There had been a time he would have done anything to make her happy. Such a foolish, foolish boy he’d been. Anger simmered in his gut at her faithlessness—anger he forced away for its sheer ridiculousness. It had been a decade, after all.
“Lord Winchester, it has been a long time,” he heard her say, her tone cool and quiet.
He bowed stiffly. “Lady Hawkins. How wonderful to see you.” Even to his own ears, it sounded flat.
She didn’t respond and an awkward silence fell. Devil take it, but he had no idea of what to say to her. Both his feet and tongue felt rooted to the floor.
Finally, Quint asked, “Are you purchasing a print?”
She stepped toward the counter, the top of her head barely reaching Simon’s shoulder. “I did, last week. Now it’s been framed and I’ve come to collect it. You?”
“Winchester’s the one buying today,” Quint said.
Lady Hawkins turned, her questioning gaze colliding with his. Hard to miss the intelligence—at once both familiar and mysterious—lurking there. He cleared his throat. “I’m purchasing a collection of bird paintings.”
“Are you?”
“Indeed, my lady,” the shopkeeper confirmed. “All nineteen pictures by Lemarc. His lordship bought every one.”
“Ah. Have you discovered an interest in ornithology, sir?”
The sound of her voice, teasing him in that unique, husky way, prickled over his skin. He didn’t intend the visceral response but found himself helpless to stop it. She’d teased him quite often over the months they’d spent together. She’d made him laugh, more than he’d ever thought possible, and it had not gone unnoticed when it had stopped.
Had she made the late Lord Hawkins laugh? And what of the other men in her past?
“That means birds,” she said, drawing his attention back to the conversation. “I asked if you are interested in birds.”
“More like ladybirds,” Quint muttered, and Lady Hawkins chuckled.
“Yes, I’m aware what ornithology is,” Simon answered. “While I do not claim to be an expert on birds, I find myself suddenly fascinated by them. And you, madam?”
She turned away in order to stare at some bric-a-brac in the glass case. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t know a partridge from a nuthatch, I’m afraid.”
“Have you been to any of the other recent art exhibitions?” Quint asked her.
Other exhibitions? Simon wondered over that. Quint had definitely failed to mention bumping into Lady Hawkins. Odd, since Quint knew the history between her and Simon. Not that Simon cared, of course. He most definitely did not.
“I haven’t had the time,” she was saying. “Did you purchase that painting you were admiring at the Waterfield exhibit?”
“No. I had no interest in buying it,” Quint admitted. “I was trying to deduce how the artist achieved that particular shade of yellow. I’ve not seen one so bright before.”
“It’s produced from a metal called cadmium. I’d only read about the technique before that exhibit.”
“Extraordinary. They must use an acid solution. . . .” Mumbling under his breath, Quint pulled a small notebook and lead pencil from his pocket, then began making furious notes as he strode directly out the door.
“Nice to see some things never change,” Lady Hawkins said. “It appears Lord Quint still becomes utterly absorbed in whatever he’s doing.”
“I had no idea you and Quint were so friendly.”
She searched his face. “Yes, well. Not everyone turned their back on me, I suppose.”
Murmured under her breath, the comment struck Simon as odd. She had made her choices all those years ago, deciding on Davenport, who was now Lord Cranford. That it hadn’t worked out with Cranford had been unfortunate for her, assuredly; her reputation had suffered a heavy blow. But she must have known the potential consequences when she’d risked it all to dally with Cranford. So how was any of what had happened a surprise?
“Would your lordship care for a receipt?”
Startled, Simon turned to Mrs. McGinnis, whose presence he’d completely forgotten. The older woman waited patiently for his answer, but then Lady Hawkins shifted, unintentionally gaining his attention as she drifted off to investigate a painting on the far wall. He shouldn’t want to stay, should take this opportunity to put as much distance as possible between the two of them . . . but he couldn’t do it. He needed to trail after her, talk to her. To what end? he berated himself. To make polite chitchat? God, he was an imbecile. “Yes, I would,” he heard himself tell the shopkeeper.
Mrs. McGinnis hurried to the back of the store, and Simon strolled to Lady Hawkins’s side. “You seem to know a bit about art.”
“A bit. I’ve studied here and there over the last few years.” She shrugged and then gave him a bold appraisal, the pale green flicker raking him from head to toe. “You seem well. Not that I would have expected otherwise.”
Something in her tone had him frowning. “Meaning?”
“Meaning it has been a long time and you appear more . . . I don’t know, more earlish than I recollect.”
“Earlish?” Despite himself, he chuckled. “I am the earl, Lady Hawkins. I was also the earl back when—”
He couldn’t finish it, the words sticking in his throat. Had she known? Had she any notion of what he’d felt for her? Hell, there was a time when just a glimpse of the curve of her neck would give him fits.
He had dreamt of seducing her but intended to wait until they could be married. The more fool he, believing she felt the same.
“How is your mother? I have such fond memories of her,” Lady Hawkins asked.
Simon shifted on his feet, restlessness nearly overcoming him. He wanted both to bolt and never move in equal measure. “She is quite well, thank you. And yours?”
“Her health is rather poor, I regret to say. But we’re managing.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie.” The familiar name slipped out before he could take it back.
She swallowed, but her expression gave nothing away, her gaze still trained on the paintings. “No apologies necessary, Simon,” she said, returning the familiarity. “One thing I’ve learned about myself in all these years is that I’m very good at managing.”
“Yes, that’s what I hear.”
Her head swung to face him. “Do you?”
“You are all anyone talks about.”
Her brow lifted. “And here all I find is constant commentary on your feats in Parliament, Lord Winejester.”
His shoulders stiffened, an instinctual reaction to the character name. Of course she had seen the cartoon in the window. Resisting the urge to stalk to the front and rip it down, he gritted out, “I am afraid they exaggerate.”
“Yes, but that is what the ton does so well.”
He couldn’t very well argue with that.
“I thought you would have attended one of my parties by now,” she continued.
“I do not recall being invited,” he countered.
“Hmm. Is that what keeps you away? An invitation?”
She was laughing at him, he realized. Mocking him. But something else . . . Her rigid shoulders and the flat line of her mouth suggested anger. Simon turned that knowledge around in his mind and tried to make sense of it.
“Pardon me, but here is a receipt, my lord,” Mrs. McGinnis called from over by the counter.
Maggie moved to the other side of the store, dismissing him, and Simon had no choice but to retrieve the receipt from the shopkeeper. He tucked the small piece of paper in his pocket.
“Good afternoon, Lady Hawkins,” he said to Maggie’s back.
She didn’t turn, merely waved her hand. “And good afternoon to you, Lord Winchester.”
Once outside, he found Quint still scribbling away. While Simon waited for his friend, he couldn’t resist turning toward the shop, telling himself it was to study the embarrassing drawing once more . . . yet found his eyes drawn to Lady Hawkins instead.
“You saw her and did not tel
l me,” he mentioned as casually as possible.
Quint’s head snapped up. “I didn’t think you would care either way.”
“I don’t. I was merely surprised.”
“Indeed,” Quint drawled, then returned his attention to his notebook. “And people say I am a terrible liar.”
“May I stop smiling?” Maggie felt foolish, with a fake grin nearly sewn on as she stood at the counter.
“Not yet, my lady. The gentlemen are still in front of the window, looking at the shop.”
“Any suggestions? I feel like a half-wit standing here and gawking at you.”
“Why don’t you stroll about, and I’ll go in the back as if I’m retrieving your frame.” Mrs. McGinnis gave her an apologetic glance before escaping into the depths of the store. Taking the woman’s advice, Maggie strolled to the stack of prints resting against the wall and tried to calmly flip through them, though her heart raced faster than a sparrow’s wings. Simon had actually been here, staring at the cartoon. What had he experienced when he looked at it? Humiliation? Anger?
Satisfaction roared through her.
He didn’t know, of course. How could he possibly realize who was responsible for the caricatures of Lord Winejester? Only three people knew of her hidden talents: her sister, her mentor, Lucien, and Mrs. McGinnis. None would ever reveal her secret.
Heavens, when Simon had turned that intimate, boyish smile on her she’d felt the warmth all the way down to her toes. He must have every woman in London falling at his feet, just as she had done once.
Never again.
Yes, she’d been foolish enough to trust him. Love him, even. But she was no longer foolish or naïve. She was smarter now. Stronger. An entirely different person.
Worse than the flirting had been Simon’s effort to engage her in friendly conversation, as if he hadn’t a thing to apologize for. As if he hadn’t turned his back on her at the precise moment she’d needed him most.
Out of all that had happened since the scandal, Simon’s betrayal had hurt the most. Which was why she took such delight in his very public humiliation at her hand. She knew of his reputation now—a respected and powerful young leader in Parliament. Never on the losing side. Reputed to be fair and intelligent, the rakehell ways of his youth long forgotten.
Maggie had not forgotten. How could she, when the whispers of her downfall followed her wherever she went?
The Half-Irish Harlot.
The name used to upset her, especially when the ladies did not bother lowering their voices before saying it. But over the years she’d learned to embrace the name, to use it to her advantage. If one is a fallen woman, one learns to pick herself up or stay down—and Maggie had no intention of letting the ton crush her. No, it would be quite the other way around.
Well, perhaps not crush—but definitely suffer. Fortunately Lemarc’s popularity gave her the forum to expose the hypocrisy and ridiculousness that comprised London Society. Lucien, her friend, frequently said artists should use art to expunge any pain and suffering, and she’d held on to her anger for far too long.
“They’ve left, my lady.” Mrs. McGinnis returned, a brown parcel in her hands.
“Thank heavens.” Nearly collapsing with relief, Maggie placed a hand over heart. “I nearly expired when I came in and found him here. What did he want?”
“The cartoon, of course. Tried to bribe me in order to get Lemarc’s real name. When that failed, his lordship offered to buy the picture, whatever the cost.”
“Whatever the cost? Well, I’m sorry to have prevented a sale. Just think of all the money you would make if we could reveal Lemarc’s identity.”
Mrs. McGinnis shook her head. “If we did, I’d certainly lose in the long run, my lady. It’s the mystery that brings ’em in the door, if you don’t mind my saying so, and your ladyship’s talent has them buying up everything as quick as you draw it. Those bird watercolors were the last I had.” She reached out and patted Maggie’s hand. “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for your ladyship. Indeed, no one could offer me enough money to give up our secret.”
Maggie squeezed the other woman’s fingers. “Thank you. Your loyalty means everything to me.”
“It’s me who’ll be giving thanks. If not for your ladyship, I’d still be in Little Walsingham, suffering beatings from that devil I married. I owe everything to you for giving me a bit of money and artwork to set up my shop. And I shan’t be forgetting it.”
“We saved each other, then. Without your friendship, I wouldn’t have survived.” The other women in the village had only wanted to gawk at the scandalous woman who’d married their old, wealthy baron. Friends had not come easily.
Mrs. McGinnis chuckled and pulled back to wipe her eyes. “Aren’t we a pair, then? Well, those days are behind us now. And look at you—the talk of London!”
Simon’s words came back to her. You are all anyone talks about these days. She wondered what stories he’d heard. No doubt whatever he’d been told only confirmed the intelligence of his actions ten years ago. “Well, I’m proud of the work all the same. Speaking of work, why did Lord Winchester buy the birds, do you suppose?”
The shopkeeper shrugged. “Could not say, my lady. His lordship’s friend, Lord Quint, talked him into it. They retreated to the corner for a private conversation. After that, Lord Winchester agreed to buy the pictures without even seeing them, and the lot’s being shipped to Lord Quint’s address.”
Maggie frowned. Bought them without looking at them? Sending them on to Lord Quint? The whole business struck her as odd, plus she hated not knowing why someone did something. An annoying quality but one that made her a keen observer of human nature, which in turn produced sharper and more provocative drawings. Her sister had told her time and time again to let things be, despite her stubbornness to reason things out. But Maggie simply couldn’t.
“Care to tell me what the earl did to your ladyship to be featured in so many of Lemarc’s drawings?”
Maggie waved her hand. “He hasn’t been in that many. Prinny’s been in far more, and I’ve never even met the Regent.”
“You cannot fool me. I know your ladyship only too well. You’ve made a mockery of Lord Winchester, and there’s a good reason why.”
Oh, yes. She had a good reason.
Mrs. McGinnis studied her carefully, so Maggie said, “I remember him from my debut, and those are days I’d much rather forget. I trust you are charging him a handsome sum for the watercolors.”
“I will, indeed. Your ladyship will earn a small fortune off the Earl of Winchester. Now, to what do I owe the honor of this visit today?”
“I wanted to let you know I finished the architectural drawings as well as a new cartoon for the window. We’ll use the usual delivery procedure. How’s the day after next?”
“Excellent!” The shopkeeper clapped her hands. “The tourists will love the architectural prints. There is another matter we should discuss as well. I’ve received a letter from Ackermann. He’s compiling a travel book on Scotland and Wales and wishes to hire your ladyship—er, Lemarc—for the illustrations.”
Rudolph Ackermann, owner of The Repository of the Arts, produced highly successful books on travel, architecture, and gardening. Mrs. McGinnis had been showing him Maggie’s work for months now, begging him to allow Lemarc to illustrate an upcoming book. The work would be tedious, but it would pay well and provide excellent exposure. More importantly, Ackermann’s approval would go a long way; the man never worked with fly-by-night or avant-garde artists. This would put her work alongside notable current artists such as Rowlandson and Gillray.
“He requires almost one hundred aquatints,” Mrs. McGinnis continued into Maggie’s stunned silence. “Shall I tell him yes?”
“Yes! By all means, what wonderful news,” she blurted and reached forward to squeeze Mrs. McGinnis’s hands. “Thank you for working so hard on my behalf.”
“The arrangement will do us both good, my lady. Between Ackermann’s job a
nd your friend from Paris, we’ll soon have all of London buzzing. Perhaps by summer, we’ll be able to afford a larger shop over on the Strand.”
“Oh, excellent. You’ve heard from Lucien.”
Lucien Barreau was one of Maggie’s dearest friends. She met him while studying in Paris a few years before Hawkins passed on. He’d served as her mentor, teaching her about the business of being an artist as well as helping her hone her craft. His talent was limitless, but he refused to show his work in Paris, the fear of rejection keeping him from acclaim. After a long battle, however, Maggie had finally convinced him to sell his work in London with Mrs. McGinnis.
“Indeed. He wrote earlier in the week, saying he’s got upwards of two hundred etchings to send us. The sample he sent, it was remarkable. Would your ladyship care to see it?”
“No need. I know his work well. The public will lap up his elegant style of drawing like sweet cream.”
“I certainly hope so. Shall the new cartoon go up immediately, or did your ladyship want to keep this one up a bit longer?”
“Keep this one up another week. No use giving Lord Winchester the impression his visit swayed you into taking it down. No, let him stew a few more days.”
The bell above the door tinkled as three young ladies entered the shop. They were young, apple-cheeked English blossoms, dressed in clothing that bespoke wealth, their maids dutifully waiting outside. Clutching each other’s arms, the girls laughed and smiled gaily. Maggie felt a hundred years old merely observing them. Had she ever been so carefree, even before the scandal?
“Pardon me, my lady,” Mrs. McGinnis said before hurrying over to assist the newcomers.
Maggie wandered to study a group of paintings on the near wall. She encouraged Mrs. McGinnis to stock all the au courant artists; after all, Lemarc alone could not sustain the shop. In addition to garnering sales, this practice offered Maggie a chance to measure up the competition. These were a series of new pretty Irish landscapes by Mulready. Quite nice, actually.