by Joanna Shupe
She had no trouble spotting the carriage. Though plain and without distinguishing marks, it was the only conveyance with the curtains drawn on such a lovely winter day. She slowed her mare, dismounted, and threw the reins to her groom.
The driver jumped to the ground at her approach. “Morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Biggins. How’s her mood today?”
“Excitable, my lady,” he answered with a smile and opened the door. “But I am used to it.”
A volume of purple silk rustled as Maggie climbed inside.
“Quit complaining, you puppy. You have the easiest job in all of London,” the woman snapped and then gentled her voice. “Come in, my lady. Please, have a seat.”
The lamps in the carriage gave off a warm glow, revealing the delicate face of Pearl Kelly, London’s current reigning courtesan. Swathed in a resplendent violet morning dress and expensive jewelry, Pearl could easily have passed for nobility if one didn’t know her background. Born in the slums of London, she’d used her unparalleled wit and quick mind to make an illustrious name for herself.
She and Maggie had become friends of a sort. When Hawkins died, Maggie had moved back to London a much different woman. No longer a sheltered innocent, she now understood the difficulties women faced in a man’s world—especially those without money or family connections. She’d decided to help other fallen women, even if the label was earned. Women had so few choices in this world, a fact she understood better than most, so should she not try and help those less fortunate?
Through Tilda, Maggie had learned of Pearl’s wretched childhood. As a girl, Pearl had suffered abuse and left home at eleven years of age. No one quite knew what had happened to her between quitting home and finding her first protector. Pearl never said, but one could assume they had not been the happiest of times. After learning of Pearl’s struggle, Maggie had believed the courtesan to be the perfect choice for her plan. She’d approached Pearl with a proposition: If Maggie provided the money, would Pearl see it used to help the London girls and women who traded their bodies for coin?
Pearl had jumped at the opportunity. The courtesan provided knowledge of the brothels and how best to help the girls earning a living there. She was acquainted with the owners, aware of who would be receptive to new ideas, and who would use additional funds in the intended manner. And when they were fleeced by an owner, which had only happened once, Pearl employed a few large men to send a message.
Maggie liked to hope the efforts made a difference. While one could never prevent a girl from making a living on her back, Pearl and Maggie did try to keep them healthy and safe.
“Good afternoon, Pearl. You look stunning, as usual.”
Pearl waved the compliment away, though Maggie knew it pleased her. “I feel tired, my lady. I am considering a young man and he is much more . . . energetic than I’m used to. Though I must say, one learns to appreciate exuberance at my age. It far outweighs experience.”
Maggie chuckled. “Considering Hawkins was nearly thirty years my senior, I understand. In my next life, I hope to be blessed with a young buck.”
Pearl made a disbelieving sound. “Next life? If your ladyship will forgive my impertinence, you are young, beautiful, rich . . . what in heaven’s name are you waiting for?”
Maggie had no idea, to tell the truth. At twenty-eight, she’d had two lovers: her husband and a Frenchman she’d met while studying in Paris. Both experiences had been disasters.
“I can see I have brought up unhappy memories, so my apologies,” Pearl said. “And I did not arrange this meeting to discuss our current amours—though should your ladyship ever seek advice, you only need ask. What I don’t know about men could fit on the head of a pin.”
“Thank you. I may take you up on your offer one of these days.”
“Indeed, I hope so. Talking about men is my very favorite thing to do.” She smirked. “Well, second favorite anyway.”
They both laughed, and then Maggie asked, “So if we aren’t discussing men, what are we discussing?”
Pearl smoothed down the folds of her skirt. “A few matters. The first, my lady, is I have spoken to the owner of The Goose and Gander. She has accepted our terms in exchange for the money.”
“Excellent. I’ll send a bank draft later today.”
“That is most kind of your ladyship.”
“I am happy to do it, as you well know. What else?”
Pearl toyed with her fan. “I have heard rumors that your ladyship is acquainted with the Earl of Winchester. Are they true?”
Maggie blinked. “Yes, I am. That is, our mothers were friends and the two of us were close during my debut. Why?”
“But you’ve seen him? Recently, I mean.”
Yes, unfortunately Maggie had. The answers I require are best discussed in private. His words from the previous evening still rankled. Did Simon truly plan to proposition her? She hadn’t decided whether to admit him to the house if he presented himself today. He deserved to be left waiting on the stoop.
Pearl was staring so Maggie answered, “Indeed, only last evening. Why?”
“Has your ladyship been informed about the proposal he plans to present?”
Maggie shook her head. She never paid attention to political matters. Pearl, however, was better informed than most when it came to Society gossip and politics. She’d once told Maggie that information proved almost as powerful a currency as money.
“The proposal has to do with rape. Forgive me for speaking plainly about an indelicate matter, but—”
“No, please do so. There’s no need to dance around it with me. Pray go on.”
“As you know, the facts can be hard to prove to a magistrate. Many times the woman may cry rape, but the man claims the act to be consensual. Lord Winchester’s law would, in such cases, force the man to provide compensation to the woman. An annual sum. Into perpetuity.”
Maggie’s jaw lowered. “A yearly stipend? No woman would want to be tied in such a manner to a man who’d violated her. A yearly reminder of what’s been done, and her attacker knowing where she lives . . . it’s terrible.”
“Precisely, my lady.”
“Why on earth would anyone even assume it to be a good idea?”
“I could not say. But perhaps your ladyship can set his lordship straight?”
The last thing she wanted to do was engage Simon in a political discussion. Perhaps there was another way, however. Many members of Parliament attended her parties, providing any number of opportunities to undermine Winchester’s efforts. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I shall leave it in your ladyship’s capable hands, then. I’ll certainly use whatever influence I have with my meager connections.”
Maggie suspected Pearl’s influence remained considerable, though she currently had no protector. “Excellent. I will do the same.”
“Now, I have one last request. One of our houses, over in Long Acre, has thrived with the embroidery instruction, so much so that a few girls would care to apprentice with a dressmaker. Perhaps your ladyship knows of a modiste who would appreciate a somewhat sullied pair of helping hands.”
“How many girls?”
“Three.”
Maggie bit her bottom lip, thinking. Possibly she could browbeat her own modiste into taking one girl, but she did not spend much on clothing or fripperies. And her social rank, while titled, was not as powerful as that of a lady without a scandalous past. That left her with little leverage. “I fear my position is not powerful enough for such a feat. It would take a lady with tremendous cachet to convince a modiste to take on these girls.”
“I know a lady who qualifies,” Pearl said. “And she happens to be in my debt. I once did her a favor and she was exceedingly grateful.”
“Wonderful. Let’s ask her.”
Pearl shook her head. “I cannot. For many reasons, I must not approach her directly. But your ladyship can....”
Simon presented his card at the door, unsure of his
reception. Would Maggie refuse to see him? She’d been politely cool the previous evening after changing her costume, and there was every possibility she had a guest in the house.
His hand tightened on the crown of his walking stick.
One glance at his card and the servant ushered him inside. He noted she was the same woman who had admitted them the previous evening. Had Maggie no butler, then? He quickly handed over his things and followed to a comfortable sitting room in order to wait.
Aside from her lavish parties, it seemed Lady Hawkins lived responsibly, even frugally. The furnishings exhibited some wear. The rugs were serviceable plain wool rather than fashionable Aubusson carpets. True, an ample amount of coal sat in the grate, giving off a nice amount of heat, but it was a comfortable space without pretension or artifice. It suited her, he thought. Certainly a refreshing change from the extravagance of the other women he’d consorted with over the last few years—though, to be fair, mistresses were not exactly known for pinching a penny.
After a few moments, a small landscape portrait on the far wall caught his eye.
He closed in for a better inspection. A watercolor seaside scene. Quite smartly done, in fact. Waves pounded the beach and a selection of birds littered the sand, perfectly capturing the vibrancy and serenity of the location, as well as the chaos of the ocean. The artist had skill. Odd there was no signature in the corner. It had the look of a Gainsborough or Sandby, to his eye.
Art normally bored him to tears, but this . . . this calmed him. He could stare at it and not grow to hate it day after day. There was something about it, though, something familiar about the image. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Not the location, exactly—
The door opened, startling him.
“Good afternoon.”
And there stood Lady Hawkins, every bit as vibrant and lovely as the painting he’d just been studying. The combination of black hair, luminous green eyes, and porcelain skin made his breath catch—just as it had all those years ago. Only she wasn’t a girl any longer, but a woman with fuller curves. He wished he could have witnessed her transition, he realized.
She dropped a quick curtsy. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”
He bowed. “I have not been waiting long. I’ve been admiring this picture here.” He gestured to the watercolor. “I was attempting to discern the artist, but it’s unsigned. Do you know who painted it?”
She smoothed the folds of her dark blue gown and drew near, her eyes on the painting. “Do you like it?”
The hesitation and attention to her clothing gave him the impression the question unnerved her. His first thought was that someone close to her had painted it. A lover, perhaps? “I do, very much. I’m not an expert when it comes to art, but this is well done.”
Satisfaction curved her generous lips. “Excellent.”
Definitely a lover. A dark, irrational jealousy churned in his stomach. Would he forever be reminded at every turn just how many men had graced her bed? “Shall we sit?” he bit out.
“I painted it.”
“You?” He couldn’t hide his surprise, and a strange look passed over her face before she could hide it.
“Shocking that a woman possesses talent, I know.”
“I meant no such ridiculousness. You’re quite gifted.”
“You are too kind,” she murmured, though there was a tone in her voice that sounded . . . offended?
“Would you care to sit?” he heard himself ask again.
She cocked her head, studied him with an enigmatic expression. “I’d rather stand. I suppose it’s only polite to offer you refreshment. Shall I ring for tea?”
He refused as Maggie drifted away toward the armchair by the fire. Instead of sitting in it, she ran her fingers over the high back, stroking the fabric and regarding him thoughtfully. “Have you come to see if I live up to my name?”
“What?” he blurted. She couldn’t mean—
“We’re both aware of what everyone calls me, Simon. I’ve heard the word nearly every place I have turned for ten years. One would not think the residents of Little Walsingham to be so current on gossip, but”—she shrugged—“there it is. So have you decided to find out if I have earned the title?”
A vivid image flashed through his mind—one of Maggie on her back, skirts hiked up to her waist, legs spread invitingly—and lust swept through his groin. He had to force the arousing picture from his mind. “You believe I’ve come to try and fuck you.” He was deliberately crude.
She didn’t flinch. “Yes, I do. Why else would you visit? Or perhaps you wanted to see if I decorated my house with nude frescos. Or if I keep young men tethered in my chambers to have my wicked way with them whenever I want. You would not be the first to ask if the rumors were true.”
Astonishment rocked him back on his heels. Hard to say which he found more distasteful: that she’d said it, or that she thought so little of him in the first place. “And yet you seem determined to feed those rumors. With extravagant parties and dancing in pools, is it any wonder they talk about you?”
“If I give them something to talk about, at least they cannot fabricate stories out of sheer boredom. But really, this is all beside the point. Perhaps you should arrive at the purpose for your visit.”
Hostility and bitterness did not suit her. If anyone had cause for those emotions, it was Simon. “What has happened to you? What has given you cause for such venom?”
“Life happened to me, Simon. Everything you likely hoped for and worse.”
“Me? Hoped for?” He blinked. “I never wished you harm.”
“Did you not?” she asked, calmly.
“Maggie, you are not making sense. It’s as if you are blaming me for the affair with Cranford. And the others.”
“Others?” She gave a dry chuckle. “Of course. The others. How could I possibly forget them? Men, women, livestock . . . with so many, it has been difficult to keep them all straight.”
Simon clenched his jaw. She’d damn near broken his heart and that was cause for jests? “Do you think to make light of it?”
“The truth is rarely as humorous as fiction,” she answered, standing taller.
This conversation had gotten away from him. He rubbed at the tension settling at the nape of his neck.
“I think it best if you go.” She lifted the hem of her skirt and moved toward the bell pull behind him.
Surprising even himself, Simon’s hand darted out to catch her wrist. “Wait.” He glanced down at her small, gloved hand. For an insane moment, he wanted to feel the softness of her bare skin, to have her delicate fingers touch and stroke him in return. Once, she’d removed her gloves to trace the edges of a painting at an exhibit all those years ago and it had nearly driven his twenty-three-year-old body mad with desire.
Now why had that insignificant memory resurfaced ?
He dropped her arm. “Wait. I need your help.”
She took a step back and one black eyebrow shot up. “I am fairly certain you have a mistress for that.”
Annoyance rippled through him. Why did she assume everything had to do with fornication? “As it happens,” he ground out, “this is an entirely innocent request.”
She put more distance between them but did not reach for the bell pull. He folded his arms across his chest to keep from touching her again and got to his purpose. “Do you recall the cartoon in the print shop window, the Winejester fellow?”
“Yes,” she said after a beat.
“They were all drawn by the same artist, this Lemarc. I would like you to assist me in finding him.”
Chapter Five
A very good thing they were not sharing tea because Maggie surely would have choked. As it was, she could hardly breathe. Did he say . . . find Lemarc?
Good heavens.
He awaited her response, those cerulean eyes trained on her, when all she wanted to do was laugh at the absurdity of it all. Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .
Through sheer perseverance
, she hid her shock behind a mask of cool indifference. “You wish to find Lemarc? Whatever for?”
Simon shifted on his feet. “I find these Winejester drawings to be bothersome. For a number of reasons, I should like to see them stop.”
“And you believe you can convince Lemarc to stop producing them?”
“Yes.”
The arrogance in that one word astounded her. Did Simon think Lemarc would bow to an earl’s whims merely because of his station? It was well known that artists were temperamental creatures, herself included. The idea that he could dictate to Lemarc what she could and could not draw was ludicrous. And irritating.
“Why should he cease to draw such a popular character? Winejester is one of the reasons Lemarc has been discussed so often over the last year.”
“I plan to convince him.”
She swallowed a snort. God save her from male vanity. “I do not doubt it, but no one knows the identity of Lemarc. It’s a well-guarded secret. What makes you believe I would be able to help find him?”
He lifted a broad shoulder. “A suspicion, really. Your knowledge of art and techniques may lead to a discovery. I have a number of Lemarc’s paintings at my disposal. Perhaps you could look at them and see if something strikes a chord. A tidbit you’ve heard at a lecture or seen at an exhibit. It’s likely a waste of your time, but I would be grateful for your assistance.”
Waste of time, indeed. No one could unearth Lemarc by merely looking at some bird paintings, especially not that particular series. They had been painted four or five years ago near the shore and contained only birds and water—no people or buildings. If there were distinguishing marks in her paintings, she would’ve been found out long before now.
And truly, helping him was the very last thing she wanted to do. It was bad enough he had attended her party and cornered her there. “I am afraid I cannot.”