The Harlot Countess

by Joanna Shupe

  “Do you know who that is?” she heard one of the girls whisper behind her a few minutes later, the comment purposely loud enough to reach Maggie’s ears. Maggie stifled a sigh, kept her back turned.

  “Shhh,” another girl said.

  “No, who is it?” the third one asked.

  Maggie resisted the urge to spin and hiss at them like a snake-headed Gorgon. While it would be supremely satisfying, Mrs. McGinnis wouldn’t appreciate Maggie scaring the customers, not to mention a thwarted sale would deprive the owner her livelihood. Maggie did stand her ground, however; under no circumstances would she give the girls the satisfaction of chasing her away. Let them say what they would. She’d heard it all anyway.

  “. . . Irish harlot.”

  A gasp. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I saw her at the Reynolds exhibit a few months ago. Mama wouldn’t even let me look at her.”

  Lest you be turned to stone, Maggie thought.

  “Wait, I have no idea who you’re talking about. Who is she?”

  There was some murmuring and then, “I heard all about her from Lady Mary, who is friends with Lady Cranford.”

  Amelia. Maggie should have known.

  The girl continued in a quieter tone, so Maggie only caught pieces of the conversation. “. . . debut she . . . half the men of the ton. Lady Cranford caught her . . . her betrothed at the time . . . scandal . . . marry Lord Hawkins.”

  Maggie could guess at what she’d missed, and she was surprised that the words still stung after all these years. The twisting of facts, the gross injustice of the lies spread about her. Only the last portion, about the scandal and her subsequent marriage to Charles, happened to be true. She swallowed the lump of resentment in her throat.

  “And you’re certain that’s . . .”

  Maggie could feel the weight of their stares on her back.

  “Most definitely.”

  “Mama told me not to wander off at parties or people might think I am like her.”

  “No one would ever think that, silly. I vow, it’s in the blood. What else could one expect from a piece of filthy Irish—”

  Maggie spun on her heel to face them. The girls shrank back, startled, and Maggie made certain to look each one in the eye. No one spoke, and unsurprisingly the girls did not hold her gaze. Each one turned to the counter, silent as a painting. At that precise moment, Mrs. McGinnis stepped out from the back room of the shop, a canvas in her hands. When she saw Maggie’s face, she raised an eyebrow.

  Maggie shook her head but stepped up to the counter. “Mrs. McGinnis, thank you for your assistance today. I believe I shall return later when your shop isn’t quite so . . . overrun.”

  Concern evident behind her spectacles, Mrs. McGinnis returned, “Very well, my lady. It has been my pleasure. I am always happy to help your ladyship.”

  Chin high, Maggie swept out of the shop. The frigid air slapped her skin, though she hardly felt it with all the anger coursing through her veins. Not about to scurry away like vermin, she stepped over to examine the front window. Mrs. McGinnis was a genius with arranging paintings and engravings to best draw the customer’s eye. The woman hadn’t known much about art in Little Walsingham, but some people had a gift for discerning beauty. Mrs. McGinnis liked what she liked and, as it turned out, customers agreed.

  She sighed. Really, it had been absurd to let those three vipers-in-training get under her skin. Provoking a reaction was precisely what the gossips wished for, and Maggie tried, in a perverse sort of revenge, to never give them the satisfaction. Today’s failure had likely been a result of Simon’s unexpected presence. She’d never thought to run into him here, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps at one of her gatherings or an exhibition—a place where she’d have a bit of warning, some time to prepare herself.

  The Winejester cartoon caught her eye. Right in front, it held a place of prominence in the display. The image made Maggie smile, her first real smile of the day.

  Perhaps it was time for another party.

  Chapter Three

  Simon rapped on the door of a large town house on Charles Street. “We might very well be turned away.”

  The Duke of Colton snorted. “I’ve never been refused entrance at a dissolute party in my life.”

  The revelry from inside reached the front steps, a steady hum of noise. In addition to the voices, notes from a string quartet played. Simon could only wonder what the neighbors thought.

  “Your illustrious reputation notwithstanding,” the Duchess of Colton noted dryly, “we also received an invitation. So I would say there’s very little chance we’ll be refused.”

  “An invite?” Simon glanced at her. “You never mentioned that.”

  Julia shrugged. “We receive invitations to almost everything, Simon, no matter the event. As do you, I’m certain. Of course, I never had reason to attend one of Lady Hawkins’s parties before.”

  “As if I’d let you come without me,” Colt told her.

  “As if you could stop me,” she shot back. “Besides, tonight we’re here for Simon.”

  Simon stifled a groan. He hadn’t wanted company for this errand, but Julia had been insistent after learning his plans. The entire outing might very well be a waste of time if Maggie refused to speak to him. He’d sent her four notes over the past week, asking for an audience, and she’d refused him each time. Therefore, when news of her party reached his ears, he’d decided to approach her here. She couldn’t very well avoid him then.

  All he needed was to ask a favor of her, though even he had trouble accepting such a paper-thin excuse. The desire to see her again, to talk to her, had been an uncomfortable itch under his skin since their meeting at McGinnis’s Print Shop. Curiosity, he told himself, nothing more. He’d satisfy that particular need tonight and then be done with her. Of course, there was a slim chance she could help him after all, which would be an additional boon to this venture.

  The wood door swung open to reveal an older, plump woman. She gave them a quick appraisal and held the door to allow them in. After accepting their personal effects, she led them up the marble staircase. Simon followed, keeping pace. The interior was far from ostentatious, but well appointed, he noticed. Tasteful art on the walls. Plush carpets. Gold accents. Nothing the least offensive. He hadn’t known what to expect, but he’d hoped for clues on how to reconcile the girl he’d once known with the woman she was now. And while he hadn’t imagined her lodgings a brothel, perfectly bland decor didn’t suit her either.

  “My mistress don’t stand on ceremony,” the housekeeper said over her shoulder. “She don’t like her guests announced. Party’s under way through here.”

  She threw wide two double doors, and Simon crossed into the ballroom—then stopped.

  It was like nothing he’d ever seen. The room had been transformed into a lush haven of nautical life and greenery. Garlands of flowers looped with golden rope hung along the ceiling and the columns, while fat wooden casks were grouped in the corners, some with empty flutes on them. Hemp netting covered one wall, with replicas of various sea creatures tied into the webbing. The dance floor, however, took up most of the space and she’d decorated it appropriately. Intricate chalk drawings of naked mermaids and lusty sailors swirled in brilliant hues on the floor in a blatantly risqué depiction.

  A few guests talked and sipped champagne at the edges of the room, but most were gathered near the back. Simon couldn’t tell what they were looking at.

  “I’m impressed,” Colt murmured. “I recall a party like this during Carnevale di Venezia one year. We all ended up in the lagoon in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “Couldn’t be worse than the time we were caught in the fountain at Cambridge,” Simon noted.

  “What wastrels we were,” Colt said fondly before strolling away, Julia on his arm, toward a table stacked with glasses of champagne.

  When Maggie’s mourning had ended eight months ago, stories of the unconventional parties at the Hawkins town house had
begun circulating. They were infrequent and small, yet quite popular with the male half of the nobility. Hell, White’s fairly tittered the day after one of her events. The respectable Society matrons and unmarried ladies never attended, of course, but that still left the faster set of widows and wives.

  Listening to the men recount the previous evening’s debauchery at Maggie’s home never failed to set Simon’s teeth on edge. Was the woman so determined to turn herself into a spectacle? She’d quickly and quietly married Hawkins—no surprise there considering the scandal—and all but disappeared until his death, upon which the she-devil had wasted no time in returning to London and causing a stir.

  Simon noted the faces of the men nearby, recognized nearly all of them. These were men he drank and gambled with. Men he debated in Lords. Which one was her lover? He tossed back the glass of champagne, reached for another. Perhaps coming tonight was an enormous mistake.

  “What do you suppose is happening back there?” Colt asked, gesturing to the crowd in the corner.

  “No idea, but I’d like to find our hostess.” Second champagne in hand, he started toward the swarm of bodies on the far side of the room but was soon waylaid by a few young Whigs. It took upward of twenty minutes to break off from the conversation, which covered the unrest after Peterloo to speculation whether the Regent would successfully bring divorce proceedings against the Princess of Wales.

  Simon spotted Julia and Colton in the crowd and came alongside to see what had everyone so enraptured. In a small pool of water, three young ladies were dressed as mermaids and perched on rocks. Each wore a long, colored wig to match the bright hue of her tail—either blue, red, or yellow—and strings of pearls around her neck. Transparent material with a silver shimmer clung to their arms, shoulders, and bellies, with only a scrap of material across the breasts. Simon’s first thought was that they must have been freezing.

  He leaned down to ask, “What’s this?”

  “A performance of some kind, I’m told,” Julia whispered. “We are waiting for it to begin.”

  A raven-haired woman in a blue feather mask stepped forward and clapped her hands for attention. A jolt of unexpected awareness washed through Simon, tightening in his groin. He would recognize her anywhere. Layers of gauzy blue silk comprised her dress, the skirt falling to the floor in waves. The fabric stretched across her small breasts to push the plump mounds up. More enticing was the dazzling smile she wore, the radiance she exuded merely by breathing.

  Not that he would ever allow himself down that path again, but one couldn’t help but notice.

  At Maggie’s command, the orchestra struck up a jaunty tune. Three men dressed in rough sailor clothing appeared and began to sing a popular sea tale. The words had been slightly altered to make them more ribald, commenting on the mermaids’ breasts and loose morals.

  The guests roared their approval as the song reached a conclusion, with the sailors expiring when the mermaids rejected them. Everyone clapped enthusiastically while the actors bowed—as much as one could bow while encased in a fabric tail. Once the adulation died down, one of the sailors rushed over to Lady Hawkins, then lifted her up and shuffled to the pool. Laughing, she clutched his shoulders as he pretended to drop her into the water. Everyone in the room gasped—save Simon, who was too busy gritting his teeth.

  The sailor finally set her down on the ground, and she kicked off her slippers and stepped into the shallow pool. The crowd began hooting and cheering as she performed a few dramatic dance steps, a playful, masked water nymph showing off for the crowd. The idiocy of attending tonight hit Simon with all the subtlety of a wooden mallet. Why the hell was he here?

  “I like her,” Julia murmured at his side.

  “You would.”

  “You liked her once as well,” she continued, her eyes fixed on Maggie. “Or need I remind you?”

  No. He could remember only too clearly. But those days had long passed. “I forget the two of you never met. She debuted the year you married Colton.”

  Maggie climbed onto a rock recently vacated by a mermaid and bowed. The room broke out into riotous applause. Simon clapped as well, though he’d shown more enthusiasm during a political opponent’s speech.

  No one seemed to notice, however. Maggie held the room enthralled, so damn beautiful no one dared look away. Holding her hands up for quiet, she called, “You are too kind. My thanks to our mermaids and sailors. Now we dance!”

  The crowd dispersed, with most headed toward the champagne while the orchestra struck up a waltz. A few guests circled around Maggie, but Simon stayed close. Colton fetched fresh glasses of champagne and chatted with his wife while Simon waited.

  After what seemed an eternity, Simon saw his opening. The group around Maggie thinned so he moved in to hover at her elbow. She glanced up, the green gaze sharpening behind the mask, and he saw her shoulders stiffen. Blue peacock feathers twitched and bounced as she turned to excuse herself. When her companions departed, she said, “Lord Winchester. This is a surprise.”

  “Good evening, Lady Hawkins.” He quickly made the introductions and, despite her apparent displeasure at Simon’s presence, Maggie fussed over the legendary Duke and Duchess of Colton.

  “I am so pleased you both came,” Maggie said with an elegant curtsy. “I’ve longed to meet you both for ages.”

  “Likewise,” Julia returned. “The performance was inspiring, and I adore your costume. Are you Amphitrite?”

  “No. I am the humble Naiad Daphne.”

  “Ah, but she gives Apollo a merry chase,” Colton noted. “A formidable woman if there ever was one.”

  “All women are formidable, Your Grace—or haven’t you realized yet?”

  “He is well aware of that fact. I taught him never to underestimate a woman.” Julia raised her brows at Colton as if daring him to contradict her.

  “Quite true, Duchess,” the duke responded with a smirk.

  “Who designed your chalk drawings?” Julia motioned toward the dance floor. “They are simply breathtaking.”

  “Thank you. They were done by an artist of my acquaintance.”

  The group turned to study the drawings now being trampled underfoot by the dancers. “Magnificent,” Julia said. “It’s almost a pity to ruin them.”

  Simon shot Colton a look over Julia’s head. Knowing each other since boyhood meant no words were necessary, and Colton instantly offered his arm to his wife. “Well, lovely or not, shall we dance?”

  Maggie’s lips curved when the duke and duchess departed. “That was nicely orchestrated, Lord Winchester. Dukes at your command. Parliament at your feet. I am anxious for your next triumph. Shall I call back the crowd?”

  “Not very subtle of me, but I did wish to speak with you. If you had not refused to see me this week . . .”

  “Yes, I have no doubt this is the last place you wish to find yourself this evening.”

  Absolutely correct, though he would never admit it. “You would be wrong. I’ve been quite entertained, in fact.”

  “Then I shall consider tonight a success.”

  “From what I’m told, all your parties are successful. Is it true you once had actual tigers?”

  Her green irises sparkled like emeralds. “A bit of an exaggeration. One tiger and he was quite tame. Most of the guests were disappointed, I think.”

  The uniqueness of her beauty struck him, as it always had. Pitch-colored, glossy hair. Creamy skin without a blemish or mark. Full, pink lips. There was no woman on earth like Maggie. He’d known it the first time he clapped eyes on her—as had any number of other men, if the rumors of her numerous affaires were true. “The duchess was correct. You are quite beautiful this evening.” His tone was sharper than it ought to be when paying a compliment, and he nearly winced.

  Her look turned measuring. “Thank you, though I might catch my death if I do not change out of my wet clothes.” She picked up the skirts of her dress, showed him the soaked fabric. Instantly, he was transfixed by the vision o
f her shapely leg covered in damp, transparent silk. His blood began to simmer. He wanted to feel her, to hold her . . . to run his tongue over the smooth knob of her ankle. A monumental mistake, if he allowed it, though desire was hardly ever logical.

  Nevertheless, what came out of his mouth surprised even him. “Reminds me of the time I taught you to ice skate. Do you recall, at the Serpentine? The hem of your dress became damp and you nearly froze.”

  She blinked up at him. “I haven’t thought of that outing in quite some time. That was a . . . nice day.”

  “Yes, it was.” The urge to touch her worsened, a strange ache at the fond memories. “Will you dance with me?”

  “Oh, I never dance.”

  “Why not? You like to dance. At least, you did.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Dancing bores me to tears. Besides, it’s the sort of thing done at respectable parties.”

  “Oh, the horror,” Simon drawled.

  Her lips thinned. “Mock if you must, but I am no longer the girl you once knew—and I have no desire to become her ever again.”

  The moment stretched and Maggie realized with humiliating alacrity she’d said far more than she’d intended. Simon’s eighth-generation, noble brow furrowed as he considered her words. Blast. Well, too late to take it back now. Unfortunately, she had her father’s temper as well as his creativity, and Simon had angered her over dancing, of all things. Honestly, who cared if she danced or not?

  She had revealed too much. Blame his handsomeness, the distraction of looks so blond and aristocratic they could be sculpted out of fine Roman marble. His tall frame, elegantly turned out in a dark blue coat and matching breeches, drew every feminine eye in the room. And the way her pulse sped up at the sight irritated Maggie beyond measure, as she should be the one woman to know better.