by Joanna Shupe
Simon stifled a sigh. Seemed Quint hadn’t lied when he said half the party had heard of his and Maggie’s conversation in the music room. His eyes found the terrace doors once more. What was she about? Neither she nor Don Quixote had returned. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Surely he was overreacting. Likely she’d taken air, become engrossed in conversation. Nevertheless, he would rest easier if he could at least see her.
“Excuse me, Markham. There’s a matter I must attend to outside.”
“Mon chaton, you are even lovelier than you were three years ago.”
Maggie smiled at Jean-Louis, a man every bit as charming and handsome as she recalled. A friend of Lucien’s, Jean-Louis had been her one lover during her marriage. While she wasn’t proud of dishonoring her marriage vows, she’d been starved for any kind of affection during those lonely years. Charles had long since stopped any sort of contact between the two of them, awkward as those encounters had been. As her husband’s health deteriorated, he’d preferred the company of his longtime mistress and Maggie had been glad of it.
Her ineptitude and guilt, however, had proved a recipe for disaster in the brief affair with Jean-Louis. At least they had remained friends. “Your skill with pretty words rivals your abilities with a brush, mon ami. How have you been since I last saw you? Lucien tells me you’ve taken to portraits.”
“I have,” he said. “I find it’s more lucrative and reliable than anything else. I’ve just returned from Spain, where I spent months painting the new queen.”
“And entertaining the pretty Spanish ladies at court, no doubt.”
He smiled, his teeth even and white. “But of course. What sort of Frenchman would I be if I did not demonstrate all my skills in their backward little country?”
She laughed. “How generous you are.”
“Indeed, I try.” His expression sobered as he reached out to grasp her hand. “I regret that our . . .” He paused to search for the right word. “That our acquaintance did not continue. I find you very beautiful, Lady Hawkins. Should you ever need me, all you must do is ask.”
How she wished she felt something more for this sweet and charming man. When they had met, she’d had visions of setting up a studio overlooking the Île de la Cité, where they would paint each day and make love all night. Those hopes had been dashed, however, when it had become clear that something inside her was missing—something only one man had ever coaxed from her, damn him.
Stepping forward, she kissed his cheek. “Of course. And thank you, Jean-Louis. You were a wonderful friend when I desperately needed one.”
“I can be one again. Do not forget it.”
“I shan’t. Now run along or your lovely companion might wonder where you’ve wandered off to. I plan to take a few more minutes of air out here.”
“Alone? Non, I cannot allow it. A pretty woman should not remain out here by herself.”
She waved her hand. “Touching but unnecessary. I’m quite safe here, I assure you. Not to mention, I have no reputation to worry over. Go.” She tilted her chin toward the house. “I’ll follow in a moment.”
Still looking unsure, Jean-Louis returned to the party, and Maggie took a deep, cleansing breath. Entertaining guests while trying to ignore Simon’s penetrating stare had resulted in a persistent throbbing in her temples. Did the man not have a thing to do but watch her all evening? She wished he would return to his hotel, pack, and depart on the first steamer to London.
Didn’t she?
She rubbed her bare arms for warmth. The torches lining the edge of the terrace were more for decoration than heat; still, she found herself drifting toward them. How long did Simon plan to stay in Paris? I want honesty from you, Maggie. The idea made her both want to laugh and cry. No one in their world wanted honesty—the ton was built upon appearances and deceit, for heaven’s sake.
Even if he did want the truth, she’d been playing as someone else for so long she couldn’t begin to remember her former self, the Maggie he’d charmed during her debut. That girl no longer existed. In order to survive, she’d become another person, one who was stronger and more confident. One who kept her own counsel. Simon knew of Lemarc and she’d denied Cranford’s accusations. What more did he want from her?
A boot scraped over stone and she froze. Was someone else here? Another sound grated, this time near the stairs to the gardens. She forced herself to relax. Most likely it was a pair of lovers now returning to the party. She turned her back to give them privacy.
“Lady Hawkins,” a strange, deep voice said seconds later. “How utterly delectable you look this evening.”
Her breath caught. That voice. It was distorted slightly, but a memory nagged at the back of her mind. Maggie spun to find a man in a heavy greatcoat wearing a Black Plague mask. The elongated beak protruded from the face, the dark, soulless eyes staring at her from across the short distance.
“Who are you?” she asked, ignoring the talons of discomfort sliding down her spine.
“You do not recognize me? I am crushed.”
Heart hammering, she focused her artist’s eye on the details. He was English, she could tell both from the accent and his clothing. Slightly shorter than Simon and in good physical condition. Well dressed. She hadn’t noticed this particular costume earlier, and she was fairly certain she would have remembered it. “I am afraid I do not. Will you reveal yourself?”
“In good time, my dear, all in good time. You are a hard lady to find alone.”
The idea that he’d been waiting to catch her alone did not bode well. Her location, so removed from the house and the protection of the crowd, now slapped of overconfidence and hubris on her part. Still, she would not cower. “If you mean to do me harm, sir, you shall have the devil of a fight on your hands.”
“Oh, I like a good fight, Lady Hawkins. Nothing gets a man’s blood pumping faster, believe me.”
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “What is your purpose here? To frighten me?”
“Are you frightened? And here I had thought nothing would scare the great Lemarc.”
All the air whooshed out of her lungs. How . . . ? Had Simon told someone? No, she knew he hadn’t; he wouldn’t want it known he’d been mocked so publicly by a woman. A man’s pride could only take so much. She forced down the panic and straightened. “You are wasting my time with your nonsense. Either reveal yourself and your purpose, or be gone.”
“And if your hands were not shaking, I might believe you.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “That is from cold. I do not fear cowards who hide behind masks and lurk about in the shadows.”
“Yes, you prefer men such as Winchester. The next great politician, they say. Could even rival Fox, perhaps.” The sneer in his voice was evident despite the grotesque mask.
“I’ve grown weary of this conversation. Excuse me.” She started for the door, more than eager to put an end to this bizarre exchange.
“I suppose with your reputation, you’ve likely heard it all by now. He will use you, you know.”
Maggie stopped, spun around. “What?” she asked before she thought better of it.
“Winchester. He won’t live up to his promises, whatever they are. The consummate liar, he’ll take what he wants and move on.”
“How do you—”
The terrace door opened and Simon appeared. His glance volleyed between Maggie and the man in the death mask, and then he strode forward. “Lady Hawkins, may I be of assistance?”
Before the sentence had finished, her mystery companion bowed with a flourish and hastened toward the house. Simon stepped aside to allow access to the terrace door and approached her. “Maggie,” he said, a deep crease between his brows. “Your lips are blue. Why are you out here? Who was that man?” He slid his hands up and down her arms, the motion nearly painful on her frozen skin.
She shook her head. “I do not know. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Wouldn’t tell you? That’s utter nonsense.
Did you recognize him as one of your guests?”
“No.”
Simon stared at the door through which the man had disappeared, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Come inside and get warmed up. Then you must tell me what he said to put such an unhappy look on your face.”
Chapter Fifteen
Maggie accepted a healthy glass of brandy from Lucien. They had the library to themselves—after she encouraged an enthusiastic Hera and Dionysus to scale Mount Olympus elsewhere. “Thank you.” She lifted the brandy to her lips and took an unladylike swallow.
“What was Jean-Louis thinking, to keep you outside so long? Mon Dieu, but you are frozen.”
“Jean-Louis did not keep me outside. Truthfully, he insisted I come inside, but I wanted a moment to myself. There was another man. He came up from the gardens.”
Lucien pushed his unruly mass of hair back from his face and dropped into a chair. “From the gardens? Who was it?”
Maggie shrugged. “I do not know. He wore a mask and would not give me his name. He’d been waiting to find me alone, he said.”
“I begin to see why your earl left you with me and dashed off into the crowd. This man, did he hurt you?”
“No. He merely wanted to frighten me, I think.” She took another swallow of brandy. “He knew of Lemarc, Lucien.”
Her friend’s eyes rounded. “Knew that you and Lemarc are one and the same?” When she nodded, he asked, “Comment?”
“I do not know how. Only a small number of people are aware of Lemarc’s real identity and they are all trustworthy. I would never suspect you or Rebecca. Or Mrs. McGinnis.”
“What about your earl? You said he knew. What would he do with such information?”
“Stop calling him ‘my’ earl,” she snapped, then softened her tone. “And it’s not Winchester. Lemarc as a woman makes him appear an even bigger fool, which he would want to avoid with his proposal going to vote this spring.”
“You cannot be sure, ma chère. Perhaps he—”
“No, he would not.”
Lucien’s face gentled while his eyes remained sharp. She remembered the look well, the master softening a blow for the pupil. He never liked to hurt her feelings. “Maggie, do not let your tendre for him blind you to the most obvious of things. For two years, you have maintained the secret. But in a few short months your earl reappears and learns you are Lemarc, and now someone else knows as well. This appears more than coincidence, non?”
The door swung open, sounds from the party spilling inside. Simon strode into the room, his handsome face pulled into a deep frown as he stalked to the sideboard. Maggie allowed herself a moment to appreciate the sight of his lithe body in the Roman costume. Henri was right; Simon did have very fine legs.
Were her feelings for Simon preventing her from seeing the truth, that he’d spilled her secret to another? Perhaps he had confided in Quint, who had in turn told someone else. If that were the case, half of London could know her identity by now. The pain behind her temples increased twofold, and she began to massage the area with her fingers.
He’ll take what he wants and then move on.
What had the stranger meant by such a statement? “He’s gone,” Simon announced. “Jumped into a waiting cabriolet and disappeared. The staff only took note of his exit, not his entrance.” He turned, a glass of claret in his hand. “Will you tell me what he said to upset you?”
Maggie had no intention of telling him the truth. The only person she fully trusted was Lucien, and even he had not learned all of it. Some details were best not shared. She lifted a shoulder. “Nothing of consequence. I suspect he was returning from a tryst in the gardens and stopped merely to be polite.”
Simon swallowed the rich, dark wine, all the while leaning against the sideboard and watching her over the rim of his glass. “You are lying,” he finally said. “Did he proposition you? Is that what you are hiding?”
A choking noise of disbelief came from Lucien’s direction, but Maggie kept focused on Simon. “Why must you continue to believe the worst of me?”
His brows drew together. “It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the situation. If a man finds a beautiful woman alone on a terrace, it’s hardly unheard of to deliver a proposition.”
“The voice of experience, no doubt,” she snapped.
Lucien came to his feet. “I believe it is time for me to excuse myself and return to the party.”
“Lucien, wait,” she told her friend. “My head is pounding. If I decide to retire, will you see to the guests?”
“Of course, ma chère.” He sketched a bow and whirled toward the door.
When they were alone, Maggie sighed. Too many emotions warred inside her, and she was exhausted. Her head throbbed, as if a carver were chiseling away at the hard planes of her skull, a sure indication she needed rest. She rose. “You have wasted your time in coming to Paris, Simon. I am weary of our battle and it’s plain it cannot be resolved.”
He straightened and set down his wine. “That is nonsense. The only battle is your refusal to be honest with me or to trust me. Like not telling me you were undermining my proposal behind my back.”
The surprise must have shown on her face because he said, “Yes, madam. I have learned of your efforts to woo Markham.”
“I did not woo him, Simon. I merely expressed my concerns about your proposal and pointed out its flaws.”
“And why would you not discuss these concerns with me?”
“I told you I did not care for it.”
Frowning, he placed his hands on his hips. The motion showed off the ripple of muscle along his bare forearms and biceps. Oh, God. Even with a headache she still noticed things she should not. Annoying how very aware of him she was at that moment.
“This is a perfect example, Maggie,” he continued. “You are determined to thwart me and hold me at arm’s length. If you would only trust me—”
“Trust you?” she scoffed, her voice sharp. “Why the devil would I ever do something so foolish? No, you broke my heart once. I shall not give you the chance to do it again.”
The aristocratic planes of his face slackened, and Maggie could have bitten her tongue. Curse her Irish temper. She’d never meant for him to be privy to that information. Damn it all.
He appeared speechless—a blessing since the condition would give her time to retreat before he could gather his thoughts. “I am unwell. Forgive me, but I must retire. Please go back to London, Simon. There’s nothing more to be said here.”
Ablaze with lamplight, the Salle Feydeau towered over the street. The imposing brick and stone theater had large figures carved into the façade reminiscent of an Egyptian temple. Patrons dodged the assemblage of carriages, horses, and servants as they hurried to the entrance, indicated by the words Opéra-Comique stretched over a series of open doors.
Lucien hadn’t wanted to risk a late arrival. When traffic had slowed, he’d insisted they leave the carriage a few blocks away and walk instead. Maggie held the hem of her opera cloak out of the Parisian dirt, though there was no hope for her ruined slippers.
She could not blame Lucien for his anxiousness, not tonight. Henri had the lead role in this production, and Lucien did not want to miss the opening performance.
Once inside, the two of them were shown to an upper box with an excellent view of the stage. As Lucien chatted with the usher, Maggie stepped down to the front and gazed over the rail. With gilded surfaces, red velvet curtains, and marble accents, the theater was the most beautiful building she’d ever seen. Wooden puppets on strings danced on the stage, but the crowd largely ignored this small performance. Instead, a sea of black topcoats and tall ostrich feathers rippled throughout the boxes as the crowd talked amongst themselves.
“Shall we sit?” Lucien asked behind her.
Maggie nodded. “Does Henri always procure you a box?”
“He insists for opening night, though I’d much rather be down there.” He gestured to the floor. “He says it
relaxes him to find me whenever he becomes nervous.” Because the true nature of their relationship must be kept secret, Lucien posed as Henri’s theatrical instructor in public. Maggie suspected the tedium of maintaining the ruse had been one of the reasons the two had moved to Montmartre.
“How lovely you two are to one another.”
“Not always,” he admitted, the side of his mouth lifting slightly. “We are both artists, so we tend to be stubborn.” He knocked his head with his fist. “As you know only too well, since you are of the same temperament.”
She chuckled. “True. But if we were not stubborn, we might listen to our critics and never paint again.”
“Or perhaps we would acknowledge our mistakes in hopes of never repeating them, n’est-ce pas?” He gave her a pointed stare that left little doubt to his meaning.
“You are wasting your breath. Save it for Henri’s ovation.” She lifted her opera glasses and began searching the crowd.
“You must admit, it is très intéressant. I would never have expected your earl to try and court you. First with flowers, then the paint. What did he send today?”
Maggie shifted in her seat. While she hadn’t seen Simon since the masquerade three nights ago, gifts had been delivered in his name every morning. First, an enormous bouquet of white roses arrived. The fragrance, Simon wrote, smelled like her skin. Next came green pigment, a shade she happened to know not many colormen carried. He claimed the color was the same as her eyes in the throes of passion and asked that she think of him between her thighs whenever she used it.
Today’s offering had been bawdier. A bronze statue of Priapus, the Greek god of male genitalia, with his huge erect phallus, had both shocked and amused her. Heat suffused her face when she recalled the note.
My lady,
Your hands have precisely the same effect on my person. Should you want to watch once more, I am most happy to oblige.
Yours faithfully,
Simon