by Lynsay Sands
“Yes, madame,” the flustered man said, his gaze moving over Maggie’s face as if he were trying to memorize her as she entered. She offered him an apologetic smile, aware that her disguise had been the problem. No one paid much mind to servants. The fact that she had arrived here unmolested proved that.
“Well, what a delightful surprise,” the brothel owner murmured, slipping her arm through Maggie’s to steer her along the hall toward her private drawing room. “I haven’t heard tell of you since you were here to interview the girls.”
“Oh, er, well—”
“Speaking of which,” Aggie interrupted Maggie’s stammering, “I am sorry about that Frances business. The way you spoke about him led me to think that your emotions were not truly engaged, else I would never have let you find out that way. It wasn’t until you disappeared without a word that I considered that you might have cared for him after all, that you’d been hurt by what you saw.”
Maggie started to protest, eager to assure her friend that such hadn’t been the case, but the older woman continued, “I went around to your house the day after—disguised, of course—but your butler said that you were not in. When I had no word from you after that, I assumed you were angry at me.”
The woman fell silent, an uncertain expression on her face as she urged Maggie into one of two chairs by the fire. She took the other for herself.
Once seated, Maggie quickly assured her that she wasn’t angry or hurt. She told Agatha the tale of Lord Ramsey mistaking her for Lady X, kidnapping her, and taking her to the country for reformation then her return to London and her adventures since.
Knowing that the brothel owner could hardly be shocked by anything, Maggie didn’t hold back; she revealed all, sometimes blushing and stammering, but continuing determinedly nonetheless.
Aggie listened enthralled, bursting out into gales of laughter at various points, and rolling her eyes or muttering at others.
When Maggie finally finished, both women fell silent, then Aggie sighed gustily. “So you are in love. I could not be happier for you. I really have to tell Lady X about Lord Ramsey thinking you were her—she will get a giggle out of it.”
“Are you sure?” Maggie asked with alarm.
Dubarry smiled and nodded. “Yes, of course. It is funny, you know. An innocent like you being mistaken for—”
“Nay, not that,” Maggie interrupted. “I meant about the love part. Are you sure I am in love?”
Eyes widening, Agatha sat back and contemplated the question with surprise. “Aren’t you?”
Maggie bit her lip, and Agatha’s expression turned sympathetic. “Is that what is upsetting you? I could tell from your strained expression when I first saw you that something is. . . . I thought perhaps it was that Frances business, but—”
“I have never been in love before,” Maggie broke in. “I am not sure if what I am feeling is love. And if it is, what should I do?”
“Let us deal with one question at a time,” Aggie suggested soothingly. “And that first question would be, Is it love? What were your feelings upon first meeting Lord Ramsey?”
“Fear,” Maggie answered honestly. “He was kidnapping me, after all.”
Madame Dubarry grinned. “From what you said, you got over that fear in a hurry.”
Maggie shrugged. “I learned he was a friend of my brother’s. He explained—”
“And you believed him?” she asked with amusement.
Maggie blinked.
“My dear, I have known you since your brother’s death and been fortunate enough to have your confidence. In all your adventures as G. W. Clark, you were sharp and showed good instincts. You rarely accepted anyone’s word for anything. You had sources willing to tell you all sorts of things going on here or there, but you didn’t just write about any of those rumors and whispers; you investigated and researched each tale to find the truth for yourself.”
“Well, of course I did. That is merely good sense; people lie all the time.”
“And so . . . ? Did you investigate Ramsey’s claim to be a friend of your brother’s? Did you try to verify that he had only your good intentions in mind?”
“No. I tried to escape,” Maggie countered.
“Yes, you did,” Aggie agreed patiently, “but have you yet investigated whether Ramsey was telling the truth?”
Maggie found herself annoyed by the question. She knew what James was all about. “I didn’t have to. Gerald had written about him often. He wrote about both James and Lord Mullin.”
“Ah. So you knew of him before the two of you met?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“So what did you know? What did Gerald say?”
Maggie smiled. “Oh, various things. He mentioned that James liked to read and was teased by the others for always having his nose in a book. He said James was clever and honorable, and he told how, when they marched through decimated villages, James was always giving away his food to starving peasants.”
“So you liked and respected Lord Ramsey from those tales even before you met the man?”
“Yes, I suppose I did,” Maggie admitted.
“And then he kidnapped you and you were irritated with him”—the brothel owner grinned—“but you said you quite enjoyed the conversations and verbal battles the two of you shared.”
“Yes.”
“And when he kissed you? That first time?”
Maggie squirmed in her seat, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I . . . He made me feel . . . Honestly, Aggie, I do not know if I could tell you my name if you asked right after one of his kisses,” she admitted in a rush. “I am quite overwhelmed by passion just from his touch . . . or a light brush of his lips on mine.”
“I see. And, liking and respecting him as you do, and as glorious as you find his physical attentions to be, why are you unhappy about marrying him?”
Maggie was silent for a moment, then admitted reluctantly, “I do not want him to marry me simply for honor’s sake and later regret it. I do not want him to be unhappy.”
“That is love, dear,” Aggie said gently. “You are more concerned with his happiness than your own.”
Maggie digested her friend’s words briefly, then made a face. “I am not so altruistic, Agatha. I mean, I do care about his happiness, but it would also be a misery loving and being married to a man who did not love you back.”
“What makes you think that he doesn’t? It would appear to me he does.” Madame Dubarry seemed slightly exasperated.
Maggie’s eyes widened. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, my dear, unless the man is a complete idiot, he does seem to have taken an awful risk making love to you in his aunt’s library. With a half a dozen guests in the next room, he was rather asking to be caught, wasn’t he? And once caught, it was assured that there would be a wedding. . . .”
Rather than feeling pleased, Maggie felt disappointment drop over her. “Yes, but that was my fault. I seduced him.”
Agatha burst into raucous laughter; then, seeing Maggie’s injured expression, reached out to pat her hand. “I am sorry, my dear. I shouldn’t laugh, but kissing the man hardly equates to seducing him.”
“But—”
“Nay. Listen to me. I have a great deal of experience in these matters,” the woman insisted. “The second time, in Lady Barlow’s library . . . Well, perhaps that was seducing him. But a mere kiss isn’t a seduction. Lord Ramsey knew exactly what he was doing that first time, I think. And it is very possible he was partially hoping to get caught.”
“Hoping to get caught?” Maggie cried in disbelief. “But, why?”
“Perhaps he hoped for exactly what happened, that the two of you would be forced to marry.” When Maggie looked doubtful, she asked, “What would you have said had he proposed?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Well, because I wouldn’t want him to marry me simply to fulfill a promise to my brother.”
“Of course not, and no
intelligent man would expect you to. You see?”
“No.”
“This way, you could not say no,” Agatha pointed out. “And he was not forced to delve into anything as messy as his own emotions . . . or declarations of feeling that might not be reciprocated.”
“You are saying”—Maggie tried to understand—“That you think he loves me but is unready to confess.”
“I am saying that he is a man. He probably doesn’t even know he is in love. By forcing a marriage this way, he delays having to discover it. Men often think that love will weaken them, that somehow the woman they care for has some power over them.”
“But I don’t,” Maggie said.
Agatha smiled mysteriously. “No? And yet just last night, your touch made him entirely forget that his sister had arrived, that he had come to fetch you back to meet her!” The woman seemed amused by Maggie’s blush. “You have a good deal of power with Lord Ramsey. But then, so does he with you.”
“But if he loves me . . . I mean, my love makes me wary of marrying James. It makes me worry that this is all a mistake. I hesitate only because I wish him happiness. Why is it not affecting him in the same way? He seems quite content to marry me.”
Agatha waved the question away. “Oh, well, don’t worry about that, my dear. No woman on earth will ever truly understand the way a man thinks. They simply react differently than we do.” When Maggie didn’t appear satisfied with that last answer, the woman sighed. “All right. If you wish my explanation on the matter, it is all a matter of confidence.”
“Confidence?” Maggie echoed uncertainly.
“Aye. A woman may love, but if she fears the one she loves does not reciprocate her feelings—that perhaps she does not even deserve the gift of his love—she will let him go to another. Men, on the other hand, have more confidence. Should a man fall in love and fear the feeling is not reciprocated, he will tend to believe that he can make the woman love him . . . in time. So men hold on tighter. It all has to do with confidence. Have you never noticed that a man will think himself a catch no matter how little he has in the way of looks or wealth? And yet the loveliest woman often believes herself unattractive?”
When Maggie did not appear impressed by her argument, Agatha shook her head. “Never mind. Just trust me on the fact that Lord Ramsey has not reached his advanced age and remained single by giving in to impulse every time he was attracted to some young innocent. He has a reputation for being terribly proper . . . honorable and disciplined. And yet he gave in to you. And he sounds more than happy to marry you, Maggie. I believe he loves you. In time he will tell you so.”
Maggie relaxed in her seat with a sigh. She wasn’t sure she understood or even agreed with Agatha’s opinions on love in general, or Ramsey in particular, but she did feel some of her misgivings replaced by hope. She let the conversation move on to other topics.
The two women enjoyed a companionable visit, but soon Maggie decided she had best return to Lady Barlow’s. They were walking toward the front door when she suddenly thought of Maisey and what had happened the other night at the men’s club. Pausing, she asked Madame Dubarry if the girl was around.
Agatha looked surprised by the question, but answered readily enough, “Aye. She is probably up in her room.”
Maggie nodded, considering asking if the girl could be called down, then changed her mind. “Do you imagine it would be all right if I went up for a moment to speak with her?”
The madam’s gaze narrowed on her considering; then she shrugged. “If you like. Though I could call her down here to talk if you wish.”
Maggie shook her head; she didn’t wish to speak to the younger girl in front of Agatha. “Nay. Thank you, but I will just go up to her room.”
Nodding, Agatha turned them back toward the stairs. “I shall walk you up.”
Much to her relief, Agatha did not stay when Maisey answered her knock, but left them alone to talk and moved up the hall.
“Could I come inside?” Maggie asked, smiling at the girl.
Shrugging, Maisey stepped aside to allow her entrance. “Ye can if’n ye like, miss, but I don’t know what for. I thought we settled about the gowns.”
“This isn’t regarding the gowns,” Maggie explained as she entered the room. The other woman closed the door behind her. “I wanted to explain about the other night.”
Maisey looked at her blankly. “The other night?”
“At the club,” Maggie prompted, frowning when the girl continued to look confused. “I just wanted to explain why I left without leaving word for you.”
“Why ye left?”
Maggie hesitated. The girl truly didn’t seem to know what she was talking about! “Why I left the club after you locked me in that room,” she added.
Maisey shook her head. “I don’t know what ye’re talking about. I haven’t seen ye since the night ye left through the window.”
“What?” Maggie gasped, feeling the air knocked out of her. It was her turn to be left feeling bewildered. “But, you sent me a letter. About the gowns and calling it even.”
“Yeah.” Maisey nodded slowly, and Maggie felt some relief stretching through her. “Then you mentioned the men’s club, offered to meet me. . . .” Maggie trailed off. The girl was shaking her head.
“I didn’t say nothin’ about no club.”
“Yes, you did,” Maggie insisted. “And then we met at the club, and you—”
“Ye’re daft is what ye are,” Maisey interrupted impatiently. “I didn’t mention no club and didn’t meet you at one.”
“But—”
“I think it’s time you left,” Maisey decided abruptly, eyeing her as if she were mad.
Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but seeing the determined glint in the other woman’s eyes, she decided that perhaps leaving was for the best. Maisey was apparently set upon lying, and the only reason she could think of for it was that the girl feared getting in trouble. Which would happen only if she were working with the man who had attacked her. That thought made Maggie remember that the man had unlocked the door. She’d heard him unlock it. Where else could he have gotten the key but from Maisey?
Eyes narrowing on the girl, Maggie decided she would give this information to James to pass on to Mr. Johnstone. He would get to the bottom of the matter. Deciding that the smartest move at that point was to leave, Maggie exited the room without further argument.
There was no sign of Agatha in the hall. Maggie didn’t wish to leave without at least saying good-bye, but she had a sudden panicky desire to get back to Lady Barlow’s. She was beginning to feel decidedly uneasy.
Hurrying to the stairs, she ran down them and straight for the front door, giving a start when Madame Dubarry’s butler appeared to open it for her.
Mumbling her thanks, Maggie slid outside and hurried along the walkway, her feet moving faster with each step. She was in a frenzy to reach the Barlow town house and James. In her rush, Maggie didn’t notice the carriage that kept pace with her or the footsteps echoing her own until it was too late. She was crossing the first intersecting street when a carriage turned abruptly before her, the door swung open, and she was grabbed from behind and bundled inside.
At first Maggie was too stunned to resist, but then she heard a shout and the pounding of someone running toward her. She began to struggle. The moment she did, something slammed into her head. She sank into unconsciousness.
James found himself hurrying as he leapt out of his carriage and made his way up the walk to his aunt’s front door, and grimaced at his own eagerness. He had been distracted and a tad short-tempered for the last hour as he approved the repairs being done at Maggie’s town house. If he were honest with himself, James would admit that he had been short-tempered ever since the night he and Maggie had been caught in the library. The first time.
Sighing, he paused and rapped on his aunt’s door with his cane. There were several reasons for his moodiness. For one thing, he was a little less than pleased with Maggi
e’s lack of enthusiasm for their upcoming nuptials. It was doing his ego little good. But he had adjusted to that, assuring himself it was caused by her fear of losing the autonomy she had enjoyed since her brother’s death. She would relax and settle down with the idea once she realized that he didn’t intend to smother her independent nature. He had no intention of doing that; her spirit was one of the things he admired most about her.
James had insisted that she give up writing for the Express, of course, but that had been out of necessity. Those damned articles were putting her life at risk, and while he had every hope that they would catch the scar-faced man presently trying to kill her, it was doubtful the fellow was the only one out there who would wish G. W. Clark ill. No, her articles were proving far too dangerous, and he was quite sure that her pride would have insisted she keep it up until the wedding had he not insisted straight off that she resign. Yet only pride would have kept her at it, he was sure. She had admitted, herself, that she didn’t care for everything she had to do to get information for those articles. And, he rationalized, it was not as if she had a grand passion for the position. She had only been G. W. Clark for a couple months, and had only taken the position up to make extra money after Gerald’s death.
Another reason for James’s moodiness stemmed from his avoidance of Maggie in what he considered to be a terribly gallant effort to not toss up her skirt at every turn. James loved and respected his Aunt Viv dearly. She had raised him. He was now trying to behave as the gentlemen she’d raised him to be. But he could not do so with Maggie behaving as she had in their last encounter in the library. She easily brought an end to his good behavior with very little effort. So quickly he found his good intentions falling by the wayside. Even now, he couldn’t wait to see her again, couldn’t wait to be inside her again. To kiss her soft lips, lick her sweet skin, touch her round breasts and . . .
Feeling his body respond to his imaginings, James drew in his wayward thoughts. His concentration was most definitely shot. He had spent every moment since their last scandalous encounter either reliving those passionate moments, or imagining what he wanted to do to her next time. Which had made attending to the repairs of her town house and resolving what to do with her staff rather more difficult than it should have been.