Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (14 page)

“At the same time, and they didn’t come in the front door. They were admitted to the kitchen by way of the mews after dark.”

“The kitchen door, after dark. You’re right; I don’t like it.” Hazlit took a sip of his drink and let the warmth course through his gut. “They weren’t just her footmen returning from their evening pint?”

“These were big men, they moved with the well-greased joints of youth, and it’s odd…” He fell maddeningly silent.

“I’d beat you, Archer, but I think you’d enjoy it.”

“I might.” And the bastard smirked while he pretended to consider the notion. “The strange thing was I felt like I was seeing the same man in duplicate. They didn’t move nearly alike, Benjamin, they moved
exactly
the same, as if they’d been trained that way.”

“The only place I know where a man might train his walk like that is on the stage.” Two men? Two big young men? Calling at Maggie’s kitchen door? No, he did not like this one bit, but he wouldn’t give Archer the satisfaction of being obvious about it.

“They might need that type of training for our line of work,” Archer said.

“Bugger that.”

Except it made sense. If Maggie were hiding secrets—and she was—then two big fellows skulking about her mews was almost to be expected. “You didn’t see their faces?”

“Not enough light. The clothes looked well made but unpretentious. Not a laborer’s clothes, perhaps the clothes of men with a skilled trade—a tutor, a jeweler, a secretary, that sort of thing.”

“They weren’t calling on one of the other servants? There’s no law saying domestics can’t socialize when their duties are done, at least not in Maggie’s household.”

“I don’t know. You might consider asking the lady if she’s aware these fellows are coming around, and if she knows, what their business is.”

He might, if he wanted to admit to her he’d been spying. Which he did not.

“How long did they stay?”

“About an hour. They weren’t dropping something off, and they didn’t appear to be carrying anything with them when they left. I followed them to a tavern between Soho and St. James, but they slipped out while I was… distracted.”

Flirting, or worse.

“You will die of a dread disease, Archer. Whom shall I rely on then? Hmm?”

“Whom shall you threaten to beat, you mean?” Archer thrived on the occasional compliment, and he was smiling that sweet, shy smile so few ever saw.

“You didn’t see anything else but two curiously similar men of some height and middling sartorial status being admitted to the kitchen door?”

“I saw the little maid—the tweeny—smile at them as they arrived, but then the door was pulled shut. They keep their curtains down after dark, so I couldn’t see anything else.”

“Well, there you have it: a pair of swains calling on their lady. Even a tweeny is entitled to be courted.” Except Maggie had told him the tweeny was enamored of the head footman.

“By two sizable swains at once? After dark? That’s not any kind of courting a decent girl should know about.”

“Finish your drink, Archer, and then I shall beat you stoutly—at cribbage.”

***

The longer the reticule and its contents stayed missing, the worse Maggie felt about turning to Mr. Hazlit to remedy the situation.

Driving in the park had proven she’d have to at least scotch his idea of courting her. One look from Lady Dandridge, and Maggie’s courage had deserted her entirely. One of the biggest gossips in Mayfair, and Maggie had to fret about what the woman knew and to whom she’d tell it.

“Mr. Hazlit to see you, mum.” Millie fairly danced with the excitement of announcing the man.

“I’ll see him in the front… I’ll see him in my sitting room.”

On a sunny day like this, it could be remarked that the curtains in her front sitting room were drawn closed—particularly after having driven out with Mr. Hazlit just the day before. Society was that noticing, and Her Grace had seen to it Maggie was that careful.

“I’ll escort you up.” Hazlit himself stood in the doorway to her office, looking damnably handsome in his riding attire and aiming a genial smile at Millie. “Some refreshments wouldn’t go amiss either.”

Millie withdrew, and Hazlit’s smile dimmed as he focused dark eyes on Maggie.

“You do not look particularly well rested, my dear.” He extended a hand down to her where she sat at her desk. “Perhaps dreams of me kept you tossing all night?”

“Or perhaps some bad fish had the same effect.” She batted her eyes at him for good measure, not at all pleased when another smile lit his countenance.

“Touché.” The idiot man bent and kissed her hand, but he made such a drama out of it. They were both bare-handed, so he not only drew her hand up in his, he used his free hand to brush his fingers slowly over her knuckles and fingers first, pressed his lips firmly to the back of her hand, then held the place he’d kissed against his forehead.

She wanted to snatch her hand back—and she wanted to know how he’d react if she winnowed her fingers through his hair to work out the faint crease left by his hat.

When he straightened, there was just enough challenge in his eyes that she did not satisfy her curiosity.

“This is an interesting room.” He let go of her hand as he glanced around.

“It’s a mundane room.” Maggie’s gaze trailed after his: Four white walls, two of them sporting shelves lined with books and pamphlets and treatises, two windows for natural light and fresh air, a desk, a fireplace. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

“Who’s this?” Hazlit peered at a portrait of a man in regimentals—tall, blond, with mischievous green eyes. “He has the look of a Windham.”

“That is—was—my brother Bartholomew.”

He said nothing but studied the picture a little longer before moving on to the frame beside it. “And this?”

“My late brother Victor.” Seated. He’d been consumptive even when he’d sat for the painting. “Shall we go upstairs?”

Hazlit frowned at her, then went about peeking and prying again: pillowcases embroidered by her sisters; a framed manuscript of a little waltz Valentine had written for her when she’d made her come out; the tea service Her Grace had given Maggie as a house-warming present; a shamelessly flattering sketch Victor had done of her as a young girl; Papa’s old hunting whip, coiled and hung on the corner of Bart’s portrait.

“You have a dog?” He was frowning at Blake’s old bed by the hearth.

“When I moved here, my brother Gayle got me a great shaggy mastiff—an older fellow who needed a quiet household for his dotage. They don’t typically live very long.”

She rose and headed for the door, wanting to drag the man bodily from the room. “I do hope you aren’t going to ask me to go driving again?”

“I wasn’t going to.” And thank the Gods, he fell in step beside her. “We’re going shopping instead.”

She
adored
shopping. “I’m afraid that won’t suit.”

“Then we won’t go shopping.” He waited while she preceded him into her personal sitting room. “We’ll instead go on a little sortie to the shops so you can show me where you got the missing reticule and perhaps find one to match it exactly.”

He again waited until Maggie took a seat. She chose a rocker by the hearth, a good, safe distance from anywhere he might light.

“I can sketch the thing for you,” she said. “You are welcome to take a seat, Mr. Hazlit. Looming over a lady is hardly polite.”

He prowled over to the window. “You chose this house for privacy, didn’t you? The trees and the fencing and your corner location mean your neighbors can’t pry even visually.”

“My brother Gayle chose it for me, but yes, I told him what I was looking for.”

He turned his back to the window and perched his hips on the sill. Her brothers were tall enough to do that, too. “You’re close to Westhaven?”

Peeking and prying again, damn the man. “I love my family, Mr. Hazlit, and yes, I would say I am close to all my siblings.”

“No particular favorites?”

When
would
the
perishing
damned
tray
arrive?

“I was close to Bart—there was only a few months’ difference in our ages—and Victor was my escort of choice because Valentine had his hands full with the rest of my sisters. Why do you ask?”

He flashed her a saccharine smile. “A man interested in a lady wants to know her every confidence. Would you like to know a few of mine?”

“Have you any worth knowing?” The boredom she was able to inject into the question was supremely satisfying. She more than suspected he was better connected than he let on—perhaps in line for a title. He was an honorable, after all.

“Everybody has secrets, Miss Windham, or am I still to call you Maggie?”

When had he moved? He was perched on the arm of the sofa, not a polite posture at all, and one that put him in proximity to her.

“If you’re supposedly courting me, Mr. Hazlit, then you will want to impress me with your manners, not slip into informalities at every turn.”

“If I’m courting you, Maggie dear, I will want to appropriate every liberty you don’t vociferously object to.”

He’d dropped his voice, and now he was letting his gaze tour her person in a manner Maggie could only describe as proprietary. A tap on the almost-closed door—she didn’t recall leaving it like that—suggested Millie was at long last appearing with the tray.

“Allow me.” Hazlit crossed the room in three strides and held the door for the tweeny, then took the tray from her. “Our thanks.”

Our
thanks?

“I think you need a wife, in truth, Mr. Hazlit, so convincingly do you take on your role of doting swain.”

“Perhaps I do.” He set the tray on the table, though Maggie saw something unhappy pass briefly through his eyes. “Shall I pour?” he asked.

There was something significant about his offer, something far less innocent than three prosaic words suggested. Maggie couldn’t put her finger on it. “Suit yourself.”

Without her instructing him, he fixed her tea exactly as she liked it: plenty of cream, a dash of sugar. He chose a sandwich for her of thick yellow cheese and butter and put that on her plate beside a few ripe strawberries.

“How did you know what I’d choose?” For he’d gotten it exactly right.

“Lucky guess. You don’t trust me, do you?”

“I trust you to find my reticule.”

He munched on a sandwich of roasted beef and cheese, consuming the thing in about two bites. “You want me to find your reticule; you don’t trust me, though. We’re going to have to work on that.”

She wrinkled her nose over her tea cup. “I want you to find a lost object, not plight me your troth.”

Without an invitation from her, he reached for another sandwich, just as if he were family. “It isn’t lost, Maggie Windham. Someone has purloined something of value to you. I don’t need to know what exactly has been taken, but it would certainly help.”

She bought time by sipping her tea. “Why do you think it was stolen?”

He sighed and sat back, setting his cup and saucer down on the tray very gently. “You live alone, except for a paid companion and your staff, but your papa and your brothers have probably inspected every member of your staff right down to the back teeth, and all with Her Grace’s prompting. You aren’t a forgetful woman; your staff is loyal to you. When was the last time you really lost something, Maggie?”

She’d lost two brothers, the two people on earth she’d considered her closest friends…

“If I admit the thing is stolen, you’ll interrogate me all over again.”

He studied her for a long, frowning moment. “I don’t kiss and tell, not ever. In my line of work such a failing would be fatal, not to mention dishonorable. Don’t view me as a pair of human ears. Consider me like a mechanical toy: wind me up with enough accurate information, and I’ll find your reticule—and whatever’s inside it. I won’t pass judgment on you, regardless of your peccadilloes.”

“You say that.” She rose and went to the window, putting as much distance between them as possible without leaving the room, the house, the city.

She was tempted, tempted terribly to confide in him. He had a brusque competence about him suggesting he could carry it off—listening to any sordid tale without appearing to pass judgment. He’d probably done it countless times in countless mansions all over Mayfair.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” he said, getting up and approaching her. His eyes were absolutely serious—absolutely trustworthy? He took her hand and led her to the sofa, then tugged her down to sit beside him. They’d been this close sitting in his curricle, but it felt different indoors and behind an almost-closed door.

“This is not a happy story,” he said, lacing their fingers. Maggie permitted the contact rather than make an issue of it. He meant nothing by the touch—by any of his touches—but it was still human contact.

She told herself she was permitting it, not reveling in it.