by Lynsay Sands
“Yes, yes, you did the right thing,” another voice said. There was no mistaking it, and Maggie opened her eyes again slowly, confusion clouding her mind as hands gently brushed her hair from her brow and a dark face came into focus above her.
“James?” she murmured, positive she was dreaming. Or perhaps having a nightmare, she decided as she became aware of the vicious pounding in her head. She was forced to close her eyes again, for the bright daylight pouring into the room was unbearable.
“Yes. It’s me. Are you all right? How is your head? You appear to have taken an awful knock.”
“I did?” She couldn’t recall. Squinting up at the man, she noted the concern on his face with some surprise, then glanced around as another voice spoke up.
“Yep. Ye sure did, ma’am. Near to knocked yer good sense out all over the road.”
Maggie grunted and wearily closed her eyes. The speaker was not within her present field of vision, and she really didn’t have the energy to sit up and search him out.
“Here you are, my lord.” Maggie started at this third voice, her gaze finding a new figure looming anxiously at Lord Ramsey’s side. A servant, she saw, for he wore a butler’s vestments.
“Thank you, Meeks.” She saw James take a cloth from the man, dip it in a small bowl, and wring it out. He turned toward Maggie. She instinctively closed her eyes as he reached to lay it gently on her forehead.
What had happened? Maggie wondered, her mind taken up with trying to understand her surroundings. Near to knocked yer good sense all over the road, the man had said. Reaching up worriedly, she attempted to feel her forehead, but her hand encountered only the cool, damp cloth, then was grasped in what she was sure was James’s own large, warm hand. It pulled hers gently away. “Just rest for now.”
“Am I bleeding?” she asked, feeling suddenly weak.
“No. But you have a nasty bump.”
“What happened?”
“Do you not remember?”
“No.”
“Oh, well . . .” James hesitated long enough that Maggie squinted over at him with concern, only to find that he wasn’t looking at her; he was exchanging glances with the man out of her sight. Maggie tried to see the room’s other occupant, but the moment she moved her head, a stabbing pain shot through it. Lying still seemed a more intelligent present course of action.
“It seems you fell while crossing the street,” James volunteered.
“I did?”
“Nay,” the other man spoke up then. “She didn’t fall. She was pushed, I think. Right out in front of me carriage. Struck ’er ’ead real good, too, when she ’it the road. Knocked ’er right out. It’s just luck, m’lady, that I was able to stop me ’orses. You were a hair away from being trampled. Still and all, ye knocked yerself something nasty. Nothing was waking ye up, neither. ’Ad you not been clutching this invite ’ere,”—he raised his hand slightly, and by tilting her head just a fraction Maggie was able to spot to her right a crumpled and muddy piece of paper: the remains of the tea invitation she had been reading when she’d been knocked into the road—“Well, if it weren’t for this, I don’t know what I would ’ave done with ye. Couldn’t just leave you there like that. It’s lucky the coal man can read and saw that you was ’eaded ’ere.”
Maggie managed by several small twists of her head to peer at the man speaking, her eyes widening as she recognized him and remembered. “I fell into the road.” She gasped, trying to sit up, only to have another wave of pain convince her to lie still a bit longer.
“Just rest there, Maggie. It is better, I think,” James said.
“Maybe for a moment or so,” she agreed.
“So,” James said, staring at the carriage driver. “Did you happen to see who pushed her?”
“Well . . .” The man’s mouth twisted doubtfully. “It all ’appened right quick.”
“You just said she was pushed. Surely you saw who pushed her?”
“Well, not really. It was the way she stumbled out into the road what made me think she was pushed. Her upper body sort of flew out, dragging her feet behind, and she looked startled and alarmed, like she wasn’t happy to find herself there.”
“Surely you saw something? Think, man,” Lord Ramsey ordered impatiently.
The fellow’s face crinkled, his eyes closing in concentration. “There were three or four people directly behind ’er, but there was one fella . . . sort of criminal-looking, if ye know what I mean. ’E had these mean eyes and a nasty scar on ’is cheek. ’E was big. Strong-looking. And ’e disappeared right quick, too. Didn’t stay to ’elp me carry ’er ’ere, either.”
“Big, strong, mean eyes, and a scar,” James repeated with obvious dissatisfaction.
“Aye. ’E ’ad dark ’air, too. Needed a cut in my opinion.”
“Do you know anyone like that, Maggie?”
“No,” Maggie said, but couldn’t keep the uncertainty from her voice. She had seen a man with a scar somewhere . . . perhaps at one of the gambling hells of which she had been writing the exposé? There were a lot of men with dark hair, though. And scarred faces were not so uncommon. . . .
“A scar on his cheek, you say?” she asked.
“Aye. A big, wide one. Looked like a burn, maybe. It was kind of a square patch a little smaller than me ’and. It covered a good portion of ’is cheek.”
Maggie frowned as a face flashed in her memory: a laughing man, placing a bet, then turning so that she saw just such a puckered scar on his cheek.
“What is it?” James asked sharply, taking in her expression. “Do you know someone like that?”
“No . . . I know no one like that. But I have seen someone fitting that description before, I think.”
“So have I.” When Maggie turned to him questioningly, James added, “The man driving the carriage that nearly ran you down two days ago was rather large and had dark hair and a scar.”
Maggie stiffened. “Surely you are not thinking it was the same man? That either incident was on purpose?” When Lord Ramsey merely frowned, avoiding her eyes, alarm made her sit up despite the pain that stabbed through her brain. “Why would anyone wish to do me harm?”
James hesitated briefly, then met her gaze. “You have exposed a rather dastardly character or two with your artic—” His mouth snapped closed as Maggie’s horrified gaze shot to the curious hack driver. He cleared his throat, then smiled widely at the man.
“We would like to thank you for your assistance in this matter, Mr. Lawrence. It was kind of you to bring Maggie to us. I realize we are taking you away from your business though.”
Gripping the hack driver’s arm, he led him toward the door.
Maggie watched them go and was sure she saw Lord Ramsey hand the man some money as they went. Wondering how she was to find out how much and replace it—she didn’t want to be beholden to James for any reason—she slid her feet to the floor and sat up gingerly.
“Oh, my lady, maybe you should stay lying down for now,” the butler Lord Ramsey had called Meeks exclaimed, catching the damp cloth as it slid from her forehead.
Forcing a smile, she started to shake her head, then breathed in sharply and hesitated. Perhaps the man was right.
“That’s it,” the butler said with relief as she sank back down. She glimpsed him dipping the cloth in the bowl of water, then closed her eyes. She heard him wringing it out and raised a hand self-consciously to her forehead, wincing as she brushed the lump forming there. She had barely removed her hand when the cloth was laid in place.
Opening her eyes, she glanced at Meeks, noting that his gaze had moved down her body with a small frown. Lifting her head the tiniest bit, she followed his eyes the length of her gown. She, too, grimaced in dismay. Her head wasn’t the only thing that had been damaged in the fall; her gown was ripped and covered with filth. It had been her best gown, but was now quite ruined. With the one Frances had ripped off of Maisey, her wardrobe was dwindling at a rather rapid rate.
“My lady
has a tincture for headaches,” the butler announced, drawing Maggie’s attention away from her disrepair. “Would you take some if I got it for you?”
“I . . . Yes, I think I should be very grateful for it,” she murmured. Her head really was throbbing rather fiercely. She could hardly think through the pain.
“I shall be right back, then,” he assured her. She heard a rustle indicating he had left. In the quiet that closed in around her, Maggie could hear the murmur of voices from somewhere outside. She supposed it was Lord Ramsey talking to the coachman, grilling the man on every single detail of what had occurred. Concern drifted through her at the thought. As befuddled as she was, it was not very difficult to put together that he thought the other day’s near-miss was connected to this accident. She personally found it a bit hard to believe. Accidents happened all the time. She, of all people, knew that.
Only you, Maggie. Only you could get yourself into such a fix.
A soft footfall warned her that she was no longer alone, and Maggie opened her eyes. Espying Meeks moving to her side with a bottle and spoon, she removed the cloth from her head and eased into a sitting position. The butler opened his bottle and poured a quantity of its contents into the spoon. When he moved it toward her lips, Maggie automatically opened her mouth, feeling like a child. A second spoonful of Lady Barlow’s tincture followed, and Maggie took that as well, then offered a slightly embarrassed, if grateful, smile to the man. “Thank you,” she said as he recapped the lid.
“You are more than welcome, my lady. Shall I freshen that cloth for you?” he asked, setting the tincture aside.
Maggie hesitated, then shook her head. “Thank you, no. I think it has done all it can.”
For a moment she thought he would insist, but then he nodded and held out his hand. When Maggie handed over the cloth, he set it down beside the bowl, then looked toward the door. She suspected he didn’t wish to leave her unattended, and was touched by his concern. It was surprising that Lady Barlow herself hadn’t yet come to check on her, but Maggie supposed she was busy with the guests of her tea party.
She peered down at her ruined gown and sighed inwardly. A cup of tea would be heavenly now, something sweet to settle her nerves. She seemed to be all a-tremble after her calamity, and knew that chamomile with extra honey would help. However, she could hardly join Lady Barlow and the other guests looking the way she did at the moment.
“You said that you saw that man before. It wouldn’t happen to have been at Drummond’s gaming hell, would it?” Lord Ramsey’s voice rang out.
Maggie turned her attention away from her ruined gown to watch as the man returned to the room, his expression grim.
“I am not sure,” she admitted slowly. “It was at one of the gaming hells, I think.”
He nodded, as if he had expected that answer, and she saw he was putting two and two together. From the look on his face, he was coming up with his own version of four. James certainly seemed to like to think the worst of her. First she was a prostitute, and now she was the sort to engender murder in the heart of some nasty scarred man.
Maggie scowled at him. Meeks’s tincture was taking effect already, the ache in her head slowly receding, but unfortunately her irritation with the know-it-all before her was rising. What the devil was Lord Ramsey doing here, anyway? This was supposed to be a ladies’ tea. And he was definitely no lady—the proof of which had been pressed against her quite intimately in his library in the country.
Grimacing at her thoughts, she turned abruptly to the butler. “Could you ask Lady Barlow to join us for a moment?”
Meeks turned a blank expression to her. “Lady Barlow?” he echoed.
“Aye. I should like to offer my apologies for having to miss her tea party before I leave.”
“Tea party?” the man murmured, obviously at a loss.
“It is all right, Meeks. You may get back to your duties,” Lord Ramsey butted in.
Maggie turned from the confused man to James, but waited until the servant had left before speaking again. “Lord Ramsey,” she said shortly. “Where is your aunt?”
Chapter Eleven
“Lord Ramsey.”
James didn’t answer at once, but glanced a bit wildly around the room, wondering how he was going to get himself out of this one. It had seemed such a good idea to trick her into coming here with that fake invitation to a ladies tea. Unfortunately, he hadn’t considered that Maggie would be no more pleased by his deception than she’d been with any of his past exploits involving her. Now that he had her here, what the devil was he to do with her? His intention had been to apologize for his past transgressions, but James somehow didn’t think she would be any more willing to listen to him now than she’d been in the past.
“I understood I had been invited to a ladies tea,” Margaret said, drawing his gaze reluctantly back to her face. Yes. She was angry.
“Aye, well . . .” Feeling the hot flush of guilt creep up over his face, he grimaced, then confessed: “My aunt is not here. This is her bridge day. I took advantage of that to—”
“There is no tea party,” she interrupted. It wasn’t a question, but he answered it as if it were.
“Well, no. At least, not one others will be coming to attend . . . but I had to talk to you, and since you are never at home when I call . . .” He paused to glare at her—he was not at all used to anyone not being in to him—and could still hardly fathom that she had chosen to disregard his attempts at communication. She should be grateful that he had taken the trouble. Apparently she didn’t see it that way, however. Even as he stood there, she was making impatient noises and getting to her feet. His eyes widened in alarm, and he rushed forward as she wavered unsteadily.
“You should not be up. You should be resting,” he said firmly. She impatiently shook away the hand he used to try to steady her.
“I should not be here. And I am fine—that tincture has done wonders for me.” She snatched up her crumpled and slightly muddy hat from where it lay on the floor beside the settee, and James admitted reluctantly to himself that it was true. His aunt’s remedy had apparently been efficacious; Maggie was no longer pale or frail-looking. In fact, she had quite a bit of color about her right now, though he suspected some of it was due to temper. In fact, as he watched he became more certain that her quick recovery was due entirely to her building ire.
“I am leaving.”
James watched helplessly as she arranged her hat so that it would not irritate her head wound, but when she started toward the door, he was moved to action. Rushing forward, he pushed it closed and then positioned himself firmly in front of it, arms crossed over his chest. “You can’t. Not until we talk.”
“I have no interest in speaking with you, my lord,” she said stiffly, trying to grab at the doorknob. James immediately shifted to cover it, and she glared at him impatiently. “Pray, stand aside.”
He did not mistake the order as the request it was couched as, but James shook his head. “Not until you have heard me out.”
“I see.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Then you are holding me against my will? Again?”
“No, of course not. But—”
“Then please stand aside,” she repeated pleasantly.
He glared at her in frustration, then stepped out of the way. She immediately moved to open the door. Desperate to make her listen, James blurted, “I will tell everyone that you are G. W. Clark if you do not at least give me a moment of your time.” That threat made Maggie pause, so he pressed his advantage: “And I believe that my past behavior proves that I am the sort to do anything I must to get what I want.”
Turning from the now open door, she sniffed and peered at him with distaste. “All your past behavior has proven is that you are a fool, my lord. I have no intention of talking to you.”
She turned to flee, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm, demanding, “Do you not fear my revealing your secret?”
“Ha! Hardly, my lord! You are too much of a gentlem
an to do such a thing.”
James felt a spontaneous smile burst out on his face. Despite his shabby treatment of her, Maggie still thought him a gentleman. It gave him hope that with a little time and the right words he could repair things between them.
Apparently reading the renewed confidence on his face, Maggie muttered in vexation and whirled away to storm out into the hall. James followed on her heels. “Maggie, if you would just allow me a word with you . . .”
She paused at the front door and turned, a tight expression on her face. “And what exactly would you wish to say, my lord? That you are sorry that I am not Lady X?”
“Yes!” He started to smile, then saw her eyes narrow and—recognizing that he had said precisely the wrong thing—quickly shook his head. “I mean, nay! I—”
Maggie didn’t listen to what he had to say. She’d heard enough of Lord Ramsey’s nonsense. It had been humiliating enough to have the man take advantage of her while thinking she was a prostitute, and to know that she still recalled the way his arms encircled her, the way his lips pleasured her . . . Now, to listen to the man’s attempts at explaining himself was unbearable.
Dragging the door open, she hurried out and down the front steps. She had walked here and would walk home if necessary, though she would have preferred hiring a hack. Anger was carrying her forward, but Maggie knew she couldn’t count on it to get her all the way home—especially not after her injury. Unfortunately, there didn’t appear to be any hacks about just then. She considered sending for one, but the sight of Lord Ramsey rushing down the steps after her changed Maggie’s mind. She turned and started walking. It wasn’t so far to home, really; if she cut through the park, she could be there in a trice.
Bolting across the street, she started along the tree-lined pathways, doing her best to ignore the curious stares of people gaping at her muddy and torn gown. Lord Ramsey’s chasing after her like one of Lady Barlow’s “dogs after a pussy” was not helping her to be inconspicuous, either, she suspected.