Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (28 page)

Ben eyed him in the full-length mirror. “She isn’t convinced the union will be necessary.”

Archer blinked once. “You naughty boy, you. Anticipated the vows
and
the proposal, did you?”

“That is none of your concern, but for your information, I had already proposed. Lady Dandridge will have it we were choosing names for our firstborn, though that was hardly the case. Keep your ears open, please, and don’t linger too long with your little lady’s maid. I’d like the Norcross situation wrapped up directly.”

Archer didn’t
even
blink. “You expect our custom to disappear when it becomes known you’re the Earl of Hazelton, don’t you? You can’t get engaged as plain Ben Hazlit, because that miserable, sodding bugger is legally nonexistent. This is famous… just famous.”

Archer stalked out of the dressing room and into Ben’s sitting room, heading directly for the decanter on the sideboard. “You might be ready to retire, Benjamin, but I am not.”

“Then don’t. I expect I’ll be vacating this house, and you’re welcome to the use of it. You’re still my heir; you have the courtesy title to protect your entrée into the proper functions. If I do marry Maggie Windham, I’ll be repairing North for at least an extended trip.”

Archer paused with a tumbler halfway to his mouth. “You’re just
handing
me the business?”

“I have never enjoyed sneaking about, Archer, though I comforted myself we served a useful function from time to time.”

“What about the money?”

“I’ve amply dowered my sisters with some to spare as a nest egg for my own children, though I’m beginning to think distance and coin were not what my sisters needed from me most.”

Archer took a swallow of his drink. “This is disconcerting, but not… unexpected, exactly. I’ve watched you over the past year, getting quieter and quieter, the ladies becoming invisible to you; the pigeons going North more and more frequently. Is this about your sisters?”

“In a way, yes, and in another way, not at all. Do you like children, Archer?”

“What kind of question is that?” Archer turned as he spoke, ostensibly to pour Ben a drink.

“If I fail to produce sons, you’re still the only means of securing the succession.” Ben sidled over to stand beside his cousin, because something about this conversation was rattling Archer, and nothing ever rattled Archer Portmaine.

“You’ll produce sons, you and Lady Maggie, if you haven’t made progress in that direction already.”

“I want children with her, though both of us are getting a late start at it,” Ben said, speaking slowly. “But for her sake, I hope we haven’t gotten a start on it already, not like this.”

Archer passed him a drink. “She’s really reluctant?”

“She’ll say we don’t suit, but I think that’s likely her way of saying I can do better. Either that or she’s trying to protect me from whatever trouble she’s in.”

“In which case…” Archer fell silent for one frowning moment. “Solve her problems, and she’ll fall into your arms?”

“She’s fallen into my arms. Perhaps what I’m hoping is that if I solve her problems, she’ll become my countess.”

Archer looked like he’d say something but downed the rest of his drink instead. Ben waited until Archer was at the door, one hand on the latch.

“Archer?”

He turned slowly, expression guarded.

“Your little lady’s maid? I’ve watched you get quieter and quieter, too, the ladies becoming invisible to you ever since we put Anita Delacourt on a boat for Ireland.”

“What are you saying?”

“Della Martin would be starving in the gutter by now if you hadn’t forged a few characters for her. I’ve always thought it one of your more inspired improvisations.”

Archer turned to face the door, his voice quiet, devoid of insouciance. “She’s passing for French now, and she put up with that pestilential woman and her drunken admirers for three years, just so her employer could grab every jewel that wasn’t nailed down and disappear like a thief in the night.”

“And a year later, you’re still making sure Della is safe. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re smitten.”

“And you’re not?”

He tossed the question over his shoulder then quietly departed, leaving Ben to ponder the answer.

***

“Forgive me my concern for you.”

Westhaven’s tone was grave, as grave as Benjamin’s had been in the carriage just the previous evening.

“You are a duke in training,” Maggie said. “You must fret over your family. Have some lemonade. Anna says you favor it with great quantities of sugar.”

She took a seat at the wrought iron grouping on her terrace, and her brother did likewise. It was a beautiful day, and there were fewer ears to overhear outside the house.

Westhaven crossed his feet at the ankle, leaned back in his chair, and studied Maggie while she tried to busy herself with the tray of refreshments.

Devoted brothers were the most mixed of blessings. Maggie had been up late trying to deal with just this problem: Their Graces might contain damage socially, but it was Maggie’s brothers who would poke and pry in the name of
concern
, and with the best of intentions, provoke a far worse scandal than a precipitous engagement.

Westhaven slowly stirred some sugar into his drink. “My countess is ever devoted to my proper care and feeding.” Even the mention of his wife had Gayle’s normally austere features lightening.

“And how is my nephew?”

He smiled, his entire countenance beaming a sort of quiet joy Maggie found hard to behold. “His little lordship thrives shamelessly. His Grace has finally expressed unstinting approval of something I’ve undertaken.” The smile faded, and Maggie bore the brunt of her brother’s piercing green-eyed stare. “And now that you’ve diverted me from my intended agenda, Mags, you will answer my questions.”

“You are my younger brother, Gayle Windham. I need not put up with your interrogation.”

“But you will, because much of your property is in my hands, and I’m not above threats to gain the truth from you.”

Maggie snorted. “You are incapable of mishandling a business transaction, so your threats are idle. I might answer a few questions out of simple sororal devotion.”

He set his lemonade down while resuming his study of the glass. Beads of condensation trickled down the sides, and a wet ring formed on the tray beneath.

“Do you love him, Maggie?”

As broadsides went, that one would do nicely. “I am fond of him.”

“You are fond of your old footmen, fond of my horse, fond of chocolates. One doesn’t marry out of fondness, not after turning away more suitors than I can count. If Hazlit is in any way coercing you, Mags, I’ll meet him, and that will be an end to it.”

Strategy being everything, she did not roll her eyes or stand up and start stomping about. “And what would Anna think of your gallantry when it got you injured or killed?”

“What would Anna think of my gallantry if it was so paltry as to get my wealthy sister leg-shackled to an unworthy, deceptive—?”

She held up a hand. “I know about the title, and I don’t think Benjamin will be doing much more skulking about if we marry.”

“Did
he
tell you about the title, or did His Grace let it slip?”

“He told me, and well before we became engaged. I thought you liked Benjamin.”

“I like him, but liking and trust are two very different things where a sister’s happiness is concerned.” He picked up his drink then set it down untasted. “You worry me, Mags, so self-contained and quiet. Hazlit—Hazelton—would not have been my choice for you.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a man who dwells in the shadows and appears to like it there. You have enough shadows of your own.”

“Maybe he sees me as I really am because shadows don’t deter him.” It was an inadvertent approximation of truth and had her brother frowning at her for a long moment.

“So you do care for him.” Not a question. “Then why do I still feel as if this union is not well advised?”

Damn him—damn all prying, well-meaning brothers.

She took a dilatory sip of her lemonade. “If it’s any comfort to you, I am fairly certain the engagement is temporary. Almost certain.”

“Oh, Mags…” His expression turned to rueful humor. “Not you, too.”

“Me, too?”

“Anna and I… You can consult the calendar. I’m sure everybody else has. His Grace found great glee in telling me Bart had come early, as if Anna and I were following in some great Moreland family tradition.”

“I got the same bit of history from Her Grace. They mean well.”

“I mean well, too.” He rose, but bent and placed a kiss on Maggie’s crown before she could get to her feet. She reached up and circled his wrist with her fingers where his hand rested on her shoulder. He was a good brother—they were all good brothers—and the urge to confide in him was nigh overwhelming.

“It will work out,” he said quietly. “And if it doesn’t, I can have you on your way to the Continent with an hour’s notice. Or Ireland or Scotland. You’ll not forget that?”

“Shame on you.”

“Yes, on me, but never on you, Mags. Never on you.” Then he was gone, disappearing through the garden’s back gate.

Maggie managed to wait until she heard the clip-clop of his horse’s hooves fading down the cobbled alley before she started to cry.

***

“Get the damned ring on her finger before another sun has set.” His Grace lowered his voice, even though he and Benjamin were in a private dining room at His Grace’s club. “All the tabbies will be looking for it, and you can get a big, flashy piece without spending a great deal. Has to do with the quality of the gem.”

“We’ll be selecting a ring tomorrow.”
Now
they would be. A ring wasn’t a detail, but Ben had overlooked the need for one. He took another sip of excellent wine and contemplated the oversight.

“If you want my advice, don’t spend a great deal. Made that mistake when I was a young husband. Wanted to shower my duchess with jewels, but she loses ’em. Damnedest thing.”

“Esther Windham doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman to misplace anything of value.”

His Grace stopped ingesting rare beefsteak long enough to spear Ben with a look reflecting both exasperation and affection. “She isn’t that sort of woman at all, which makes it all the more befuddling. I have since concluded she took to ‘losing’ her jewelry to discourage me from spending so much. When you think the ladies are empty-headed henwits, that’s when they’re being brilliant. Mark me on this, Hazelton. I have daughters, daughters-in-law, granddaughters, and one duchess. I have made a study of the fairer sex out of sheer self-preservation, as any wise man will.”

His Grace prattled on, charming and blustering by turns, showing a side of himself Benjamin hadn’t seen previously.

Percy Windham was a duke, and he wore that role like a second skin. He’d wine and dine, bully and bluster, and otherwise pursue his machinations in the Lords with all the enthusiasm of a hound on a hot scent. Beneath the title, however, lurked a man devoted—in his own way—to
family
. His affection for his duchess was legendary, and while he’d pressured his sons to marry, no suitor had thus far been good enough for his daughters, save Ben’s own half brother, Wilhelm Charpentier. Ben knew his half brother well enough to be able to vouch for both his title and his considerable wealth.

A daunting thought.

“Have some more wine, my boy. Her Grace counsels me to moderation in all things, and I disregard her wisdom under my own roof at my peril.”

Ben obligingly drained his glass and let His Grace refill it. “Have you any advice for me as Lady Maggie’s prospective husband?”

The older man’s expression sobered, becoming almost wistful. “There’s a challenge—advice to a prospective husband when it’s your daughter he’s taking to wife. I had almost reconciled myself that spinsterhood was what Maggie sought, though it set a wretched example for the other girls. It seems I do not know my daughter as well as I thought I did.”

He set his glass down and narrowed ducal blue eyes on Ben. “You break her heart, and you’ll have to deal with me and her three brothers, and if you survive that, Her Grace will ensure your social ruin unto the nineteenth generation. I remind you, all of my boys are crack shots and more than competent with a sword.”

“It is not my intention to break her heart.”

“Oh, it’s never our intention.” His Grace’s brows drew down in thought, and he was once again the affable paterfamilias. “Maggie is different. I hope that’s from being the oldest daughter, but her unfortunate origins are too obvious a factor to be dismissed. She’s in want of… dreams, I think. My other girls have dreams. Sophie dreamed of her own family, Jenny loves to paint, Louisa has her literary scribbling, and Evie must racket about the property as her brothers used to, but Maggie has never been a dreamer. Not about her first pony nor her first waltz nor her first… beau.”

Nor
her
first
lover.
The words hung unspoken in the air while the fire crackled and hissed and a log fell amid a shower of sparks.