by Joanna Shupe
He entered as Stillman and Hollister came down the corridor. Simon made his way toward the desk and did not bother to hide his impatience as he threw himself in his chair. “Well, Mr. Hollister. You’ve got me, so let’s hear your pressing news.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest.
Hollister stepped in and bowed. His reserved, serious countenance positively glowed with pride. “I’ve found him, my lord. Or her, as the case may be.”
Simon froze. “Her?” He motioned for the investigator to sit.
“Yes, my lord,” Hollister said, lowering into the chair opposite the desk. “We’ve been following McGinnis’s errand boy. Henrik is his name. Parents moved here three years ago from Prussia, and he began working for McGinnis about a year after she first opened. Mostly he delivers packages, paintings, and the like, around town. Occasionally runs out for supplies. Then we noticed him taking a trip over to an abbey on Knightrider Street. Went in empty-handed but came out with parcels wrapped in brown paper that looked a lot like canvases and engravings.
“So we watched that abbey for a few days as well. Saw a woman going in, carrying some of the same wrapped parcels. Came out, no parcels. My man followed her back to her big house over on Charles Street.”
Simon frowned, thoughts beginning to tumble about in his throbbing brain. Charles Street? No, it couldn’t be. How? Why? Then it all clicked for him, the pieces falling neatly into place, and his breath caught. Good God. The landscape. Why hadn’t he seen it himself? He didn’t even need Hollister to finish, but shock had robbed him of the ability to interrupt.
“We got a name from there and started doing some digging. Turns out, this particular woman and McGinnis knew each other in a small town in Norfolk called Little Walsingham. She was the wife of some fancy nob who kicked off almost two years ago.” Hollister cleared his throat, carried on. “He left her a small amount of money, and we assume the widow gave a portion of this to McGinnis to start the shop. I have a friend at the woman’s bank, and he confirmed monies put in that account by McGinnis over the last two years, presumably for art sold as Lemarc. A nice bit of change, if you ask me.”
“Let me guess,” he bit out, his jaw tight. “Lady Hawkins.”
Hollister blinked. “Well, yes, my lord. Excellent guess. Your lordship may even know—”
Simon’s hand slapped the desk, rattling the inkwell and pen tray. Hollister paled but said nothing as Simon silently fumed. Oh, he’d been so monumentally stupid. This whole time, she’d been making a fool of him. Hot, roiling rage clogged his throat. Lord Winejester. Bloody hell. He wanted to hit something, someone. Anything.
She’d been humiliating him while he’d been mooning over her. Again. Christ, would he never learn?
The velvet box containing the Winchester rubies sat squarely on the corner of his desk, mocking him. No smarter at four and thirty than he had been at three and twenty. His father, a paragon of intelligence and fortitude, would be sorely disappointed in his son. People will depend on you to do the honorable thing.
Simon’s eyes pinned Hollister to his chair. “How certain are you?”
“No doubt whatsoever, my lord. I’ve got proof, if your lordship would care to see.” Hollister gestured to a brown leather case resting on the floor.
Simon needed no proof. Deep down, he knew Hollister’s report to be true. The painting in her drawing room, her knowledge of technique . . . Oh, she must have had quite a laugh over this. It was all he could do to keep his seat, to not go tearing out of the house to demand answers. “No, that will be unnecessary,” he forced himself to say. “Nice work, Hollister. Send me a bill and make sure to include one hundred pounds as a bonus.”
The Runner beamed. “Thank you, my lord. And if your lordship ever requires anything else, just send for me.”
“I will. Thank you, Hollister.”
Simon waited until the investigator left before stomping to the front entry. “Stillman,” he bellowed.
The butler appeared from wherever butlers lurked throughout the day. “Yes, my lord?”
“Phaeton, Stillman. Now.” Spinning on his heel, he marched back to his study. There was one thing he needed to retrieve before he met the famous Lemarc.
Thus far, it had been an extraordinary day.
In her studio, Maggie had set to work on the landscapes for Ackermann, grinning like a simpleton all the while. Hard to recall a time when she’d been this productive. She felt relaxed and well rested, even though she’d had very little sleep. Her cheeks grew hot, the reason obvious. Last evening, well, she’d been in bed but most definitely not resting.
Simon had fallen asleep first, his patrician face boyishly handsome in slumber. She had watched him for a long time, content to merely drink him in. Full lips parted softly, his chest rising and falling. Blond lashes brushing the tops of his angled cheekbones. A thin layer of whiskers spreading over his jaw. How intimate, to see and feel those sharp hairs sprout on a man’s face. How wifely.
With her entire being, she had longed to stay in the warm cocoon of his bed, their bare legs brushing one another in relaxed, postcoital doze. But it wasn’t real. The contentment was an illusion. He knew nothing about her, not really. In fact, he continued to believe all the untrue, hurtful things said about her. And no matter how tender, how loving he’d been last night, the pain of what had happened during her debut could not be undone.
So she forced herself out of his embrace, to rise and return home. Better that way. Safer. She could not allow herself to feel tenderness or affection for him, not now. Not ever.
Too late, a voice inside her whispered. With her heart a shade too full of feelings this morning, she feared it was true.
Determined to forget, she turned back to her work, the one true solace from the melee of her life. No matter what chaotic mess tumbled down around her, there would always be the art. Her way of bringing joy and beauty into such a harsh, violent, and oftentimes cruel world.
The morning light had just begun to shift overhead when a knock interrupted.
“Yes?” She stretched her fingers to relieve the stiffness.
Tilda appeared. “Milady, that earl is back again, asking to see you.”
“Now?” Oh, dear. She had not expected him so soon. Had he come to update her on Cora? Or did he want to discuss last night? A strong sense of foreboding settled at the top of her spine. “Please show him in, Tilda. I’ll be down directly.”
The maid nodded and withdrew. Maggie spent a few minutes making herself presentable. Washed her hands. Removed her apron and hung it up. Smoothed her hair and pinched her cheeks. Then she found a pair of pristine white gloves from a table drawer and slid them on to hide the stains on her fingers. This routine calmed her, as it was something to focus on rather than the nervousness churning in her belly. She had no regrets about last night, far from it, but she did not wish to see him so soon.
In the sitting room, she found him at the window, his arms clasped behind his back. The very sight of sandy hair and those broad shoulders caused her heart to stutter. “Good morning.”
He spun and it immediately became apparent that something was terribly wrong. His bright, crystal blue gaze normally danced, either with mischief or intelligence. Today it was dull. He looked . . . lost. Angry.
She frowned and came forward. “Are you ill? You—”
“I should have known.” He stomped over to the wall and pointed at a frame. “This painting here, the landscape. I should have seen it then. I should have recognized your handiwork.”
She blinked. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, the painting?” She thought he’d come to talk about last night. Instead he wanted to discuss . . . her artwork?
He crooked a finger at her, beckoning. Dread settled in her chest, but she forced her feet to move to the wall. Her heartbeat seemed loud in her ears as she stepped closer.
“Here.” A long, elegant finger jabbed at a tiny bird wading in a tiny pool by the sea. “A plover with winter feathering.”
; “Yes. That’s correct. I saw them quite often in Little Walsingham.”
“Obviously.” Simon stalked to a side table. He snatched a small painting and held it up for her. An exact match of that tiny plover. Oh, no. The bird paintings . . . she’d used the same pencil sketch for both . . .
The pieces fell into place. The air left her lungs in a rush while darkness filled the edges of her vision. She put a hand up to the wall, steadying herself. Heavens, was she going to faint?
“What an honor to finally meet you, Lemarc.”
Chapter Twelve
The derision in his voice was not lost on her. “How . . .” she asked, the sound surprisingly strong considering how weak she now felt. “How did you find out?”
“I hired a Runner. He followed McGinnis’s errand boy.”
“The abbey.” She closed her eyes. Damn. And here she thought she’d been so clever.
“Yes, the abbey. Really, Maggie, one would think you’d take more care. But then, you’ve never really tried to hide behind respectability, have you?” His jaw taut and shoulders rigid, he seemed to vibrate with raw fury. “I cannot believe you fooled me again. How you must have laughed at me all these weeks. Winejester. Christ!” He tossed the painting down on the table, where it landed with a smack. “I asked for your help in finding yourself!”
She flinched but did not shrink under the force of his anger. There was no time for hurt feelings or to acknowledge the fist-sized ball of regret lodged in her chest. No, this had to be managed. Simon was in a position, both politically and socially, to inflict damage on her—either as Lady Hawkins or Lemarc. Not that she cared about the personal side of things—she’d given up hope on that front many years ago. But she refused to see her livelihood threatened or, God forbid, eliminated.
“What will you do?” she asked him calmly.
His brow furrowed as he rocked back on his heels. “What will I do? Is that all you can think to say? You offer no apologies, nor even any explanations.” He made a dry, brittle sound, a bit like a hollow chuckle. “Of course. Why would you explain yourself? You never do.”
“Believe what you will. Everyone always does. No one is ever interested in the facts. But I must know what you plan—”
“I am, Maggie. I am quite interested in the facts. I should very much like to learn why you have proceeded to turn me into the village nincompoop. Was it not enough to make a fool of me ten years ago? You had to come back and do it once more for equal measure?”
A fool . . . ten years ago? Her jaw fell open. “Whatever are you talking about? Ten years ago you turned your back on me when the scandal broke. How, precisely, is that making a fool of you?”
“Oh, please. Cranford told me, Maggie. About him and the others.”
The words were a punch to the gut. Not a surprise, really, but hearing them said aloud hurt more than she’d ever imagined. Mostly because it was Simon, the one person who really should have known better. Not merely because of their friendship during her debut, but last night she’d given him a piece of herself, opened up to him in ways she hadn’t with another living person. And here, mere hours later, he still thought the worst of her. What would it take to win him over? How in Hades would she ever make him believe her?
The answer was evident: He would never believe her. He was like the rest of them, the grasping, malicious so-called gentlemen and ladies who liked nothing more than a good, salacious story at someone else’s expense.
A prickling started behind her eyes and Maggie clenched her fists. No tears. Not for him. Not for any of them.
She hardened her heart, putting up a wall of icy resolve while straightening her shoulders. The same protection she adopted every time a lady gave her the cut direct on the street. Each time a rogue propositioned her at one of her parties. When the invitations to the biggest Society events never arrived at her address. Her Irish stubbornness, her father would have said. And for once, she was glad of it. They would not win. She would have the last laugh, pointing out their ridiculousness while pocketing their coin. Her success and independence had been hard fought, and she would not give it up.
Simon continued to glare at her, his body poised for a fight with his rigid jaw and aggressive posture. He plainly wanted her angry. Not surprising, since it was what they all longed to do: insult the Half-Irish Harlot enough that she buckled under the strain and carried on like a common doxy shouting down a customer on the streets of Covent Garden. Not damned likely.
So she withheld her anger, buried it deep inside, and regarded him evenly. Part of her considered maintaining her silence. After all, she’d learned years ago of the futility of trying to change a person’s mind once set. And it wasn’t as if the facts would change anything. Only Becca knew the truth, her sister being the one person Maggie had confided in.
But she wanted to say it, needed to say the truth, if only to watch Simon’s face when it sunk in.
She lifted an eyebrow, doing her best impersonation of a haughty dowager duchess. “I do not know what you were told or what letters you speak of. Ten years ago, I never involved myself with another man.”
“I have seen your letters to Cranford with my own eyes. I’ve seen the proof.”
Lord Cranford had letters . . . from her? The idea was preposterous. She’d never written the man a word, let alone an entire letter. “I never wrote letters to a man, most certainly not Lord Cranford. I do not know what you were shown, but they were not from me. I was a virgin when I married Hawkins.”
Simon blinked, and she could see the doubt creeping into his piercing blue gaze. “I don’t understand. You were caught with Cranford, alone. Disheveled. He told everyone . . .”
“That, thanks to my half-Irish blood, I would lift my skirts for anything in breeches?” she finished.
A muscle twitched in Simon’s jaw, but he nodded.
“And everyone in London believed him, including you.” She strode to the window. Down on the street, two young girls walked arm in arm toward the park, their maids trailing a respectable distance behind. The two girls laughed, enjoying a carefree day in their sheltered existence, and Maggie felt a stab of envy. What must it feel like, to have your whole life ahead of you, untarnished by hate and judgment?
“Are you saying Cranford lied? Why the devil would he do that?”
Maggie kept her gaze on the cold, gray London morning. “I could not say. I rebuffed his advances, quite vigorously I might add, and I can only assume I injured his male pride.”
“Wait, Cranford . . . made this all up? To gain what, your ruination? It makes no sense. And what sort of advances of Cranford’s caused you to be found in the state you were?”
She turned away from the street and regarded him. He watched her intently, a frown pulling at his handsome face. “Really, Simon, I’m quite certain you can imagine.”
He stiffened, his nostrils flaring. “Goddamn it. Why, Maggie? Why did you not tell anyone?”
“No one would have believed me. Even my own mother did not. You know how it looks when that sort of situation arises. Everyone accepts the word of a gentleman.”
“I would have believed you, Maggie. Me. I would have listened and tried to help you. You should have come to me with the truth.”
Didn’t he see? It should have been unnecessary. That was the point. He should have believed her incapable of such terrible duplicity. Simon had been the one bright spot in her Season, when she’d been surrounded by whispers and mocking smiles. She hadn’t fit in, her dark, Irish looks far from the superior pale English girls; but next to Simon, her less-than-impeccable pedigree hadn’t mattered. One grin from him had made the rest of it endurable. She’d been a silly young thing with a crush on the most handsome man in the ton, and the feeling had appeared mutual. Yes, Cranford had lied; however, Simon had never even given her a chance to explain.
“I see,” he said, his voice flat. He almost sounded hurt. “So Cranford ruins you, you do not trust me enough to confess the truth, and prefer to marry Hawkins ins
tead. So tell me how I am the one turned into a drunken wastrel in your cartoons? What in God’s name did I do to deserve it?”
She could not—would not—explain the true reasons for that. Would not tell him of her broken heart and foolish hopes for their future together, hopes so wrongfully shattered. It sounded terribly . . . dramatic. Hell hath no fury and all that nonsense. She preferred to store up her drama for when it could do the most good.
“Was it because of my upcoming proposal? Was this some sort of effort to discredit me publicly?”
Surprise, followed by relief, swept through her. Heavens, why hadn’t she thought of it? Yes, let him think her cartoons were political rather than personal. She latched on to the explanation. “I do not care for your proposal. It will hurt the very women you are trying to protect.”
“That is no reason to turn me into London’s biggest folly, Maggie.”
“Perhaps, but you should thank me. The popularity of the cartoons ensures everyone will remember the name Winchester for years to come.”
His eyes rounded. “Yes, but for all the wrong reasons. You’ve taken a venerable family name and turned it into a something synonymous with drunken irresponsibility. How, precisely, is that a situation that elicits my gratitude?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps in time you shall feel differently.”
“Doubtful. And I cannot help but notice you are surprisingly calm in all this. I should think you would be more concerned, considering I now know your secret. What will the world say, I wonder, when they learn the identity of Lemarc?”
When, he said, not if. Her stomach knotted painfully, but she refused to show it. “Is that what you plan to do? Unmask Lemarc? I doubt anyone would care, and it won’t exactly help your standing in Parliament to be linked with such a scandalous artist.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, the fine wool of his frock coat pulling over wide shoulders and finely honed biceps. She could remember tracing the muscles last evening, committing his well-proportioned torso to memory so that she might sketch it later. The now-bittersweet memory made her chest ache.