Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (40 page)

“I saw him at some hell or other. How the man looks so impeccably noble when he’s sporting a doxy on each knee and rouge on his linen defies reason.”

Ben tossed his pen down and considered his cousin. “You were so despondent over your lady’s departure that you took yourself to a series of gaming hells, likely a cockfight or two, and perhaps an opium den for good measure?”

“Libation is in order when a man’s heart is broken.”

He sounded as dejected as a university boy upon finding that his favorite barmaid was not exclusively devoted to him and the magic wonder behind the falls of his breeches.

“Archer, why not read the damned letter? The household might simply have gone off to Bath—God knows everybody else I need to talk to has.”

This penetrated the dejection Archer was so enthusiastically wallowing in. “Still no word from Lady Maggie’s footmen?”

“It’s too soon, and in some ways too late. We still don’t know where Cecily plans to hold this debacle. The person who whispered about it in Deene’s ear has taken off for a curricle race to Brighton, and no one is saying who got the invitations.”

“It ought to be fairly easy to make a list of the likely candidates.” Archer sat up and eyed the bellpull.

“I’ve already made a list, and Deene is doing what he can to track down the most likely possibilities. Take a look.” Ben got up and passed over a sheet of foolscap. “Your ear has been to the ground more than my own lately.”

Archer studied the list. “Ring for some tea, would you?”

“It’s five in the bloody morning, Archer.”

Ben’s cousin glanced up, dejection nowhere in evidence. “Cook has long since been up to start the bread and churn the butter. Domestics thrive on being useful, so ring the damned bellpull. You’ve left out a couple of the obvious choices here, and I saw at least two of these scapegraces in the past few hours.”

He crossed to the desk, appropriated Ben’s chair, and set out a pen, inkwell, and clean sheet of paper.

Ben rang the bellpull.

***

“I can’t drink that.” Bridget pushed the tray away gently, even the scent of her morning chocolate disagreeing with her. “I’m sorry, Adele, but my nerves are honestly overset. Mama says I’m to be given my birthday present tonight.”

Adele’s eyes held all manner of banked emotion. “You comprehend her intentions?”

Bridget nodded and drew her dressing gown more snugly around her. “The caterers are already making a racket in the kitchen. Mama came by last night to see if my rooms were adequate, and she told me—”

Bridget fell silent, wondering how she’d ever been such a fool as to believe her mother loved her.

“She told you to let the man—whoever he is—do whatever he pleases with you, and it won’t be so very painful. She told you to act as if you enjoy it, and he’ll shower you with jewels. She told you to toss your life away so she might have security in her old age because she’s been too greedy to plan for it adequately herself.”

Adele did not speak in French, but no matter. Some truths would be ugly and scary in any language. “Is it so awful, Adele?”

The maid set the tray aside and studied Bridget where she sat on the bed. “It can be wonderful, and all that talk about the first time being painful is for Gothic novels. The first time is usually more disappointing than anything else. Very disappointing and undignified. I laughed—which I do not advise you to do, if you can help it. Perhaps you’ll find a man who takes care with you because he knows it’s your first time.”

This little speech did not reassure in the least. Perhaps the man would take no care with her at all, because sobriety and spoiled young men were only nodding acquaintances. Perhaps he’d hurt and humiliate her and make her do all manner of unnatural and perverted things for his pleasure, things described in those awful books Bridget had been given to read.

“Maybe Maggie is ashamed of me.” Bridget hated the uncertainty in her voice. “Maybe she knows what Cecily is up to and thinks it’s what I want.”

“I made sure the letter you wrote was delivered by a very reliable messenger, one who assured me it would be put into Maggie’s own hand. You must not lose hope.”

Bridget’s gaze went to the dress hanging on her wardrobe. It was white velvet edged with pink lace—a horrible combination given Bridget’s pale complexion—and the colors were the only innocent things about it. “Maybe I’ll run off. You said you’d give me a few pounds.”

Adele heaved a sigh and started laying out clothes for daytime wear, but even those had become scandalously low cut in recent weeks. “You will not run off. Your mama would find you and snatch you back, and what’s awaiting an innocent girl on the streets of London makes the attentions of one wealthy protector seem entirely bearable. You don’t believe me, but I know of what I speak.”

Bridget did not give in to the urge to cry. She got off the bed, poured herself a cup of chocolate, and then tossed the chocolate directly onto the bodice of the indecent white dress.

***

“What if Cecily wants to read the entire document?” Archer was down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his cuffs rolled back, and his blond hair slightly disheveled. Ben suspected, by comparison, his own appearance was disgraceful.

“Deene will have to prevent that, else the old harridan will see that she’s transferring guardianship of the girl.”

Archer frowned and crossed his arms where he once again lounged at Ben’s desk. “Is that what you want?”

“It’s what Maggie wants, though she didn’t say as much.”

“Hadn’t you better be calling upon your intended?” Archer covered a yawn with one hand.

Ben glanced at the clock and winced. “I don’t want to go to her empty-handed. We still don’t have an address, and the morning’s half-gone.” And Deene hadn’t had any better luck, nor had the various spies and informants Ben had sent out throughout the night.

Archer stood and folded his evening coat over his arm. “I’m for bed, and I suggest you send a note around to Lady Maggie, telling her to expect you after you’ve gotten some sleep, shaved, and bathed.” He shook out his wrinkled coat and frowned.

“Your letter of emancipation,” Ben said, hearing the sound of paper rustling in a pocket of Archer’s coat. “You never did read it.”

“Here.” Archer extracted a folded missive from the depth of the coat. “You read it.”

This was more schoolboy dramatics, but Ben was too tired and too frustrated to tease his cousin. He accepted the letter, drew it under his nose, then unfolded it.

Fatigue was making his brain foggy, because he’d swear the exact scent of the letter was familiar to him.

“It’s in French.”

“It’s a love letter; of course it’s in French.” Archer turned to face the window. “It’s only one page, though. A woman needs more than one page to make love to a man. A paragraph will do for his congé.”

Ben rolled his eyes and translated as he read. “My dearest friend, I am desolated to disappoint you, but if you’re reading this, then the household has moved to our next address, not two blocks over. I will leave my window open of a night and hope your ardor is sufficient to find me again soon. Yours, etc… and the postscript says something about longing for the thrust of your fierce—”

“Bugger off, Benjamin. Does she give an address?”

Ben made a pretense of sniffing the letter again just for the pleasure of aggravating a man besotted, but Archer snatched the paper from his hand.

“I know where this is,” Archer said. “Laugh all you want, but she hasn’t thrown me over after all. Gloat if you will, envy me the dimensions of my fierce blade, cackle with glee, but never—” He fell silent and stared at Ben. “You have that look on your face, the one you get when you’re cracking a case without any evidence obvious to the mortal eye.”

“Give me that letter.”

Archer passed it over, and Ben held it again under his nose. “For whom did you say Della works now?”

“I’m not sure I have said, but she’s an awful old harridan. Della refers to her as Madam, but I think the name is Irish. O’Doule, or O’Dea. I suppose back in the day—I say, Benjamin!”

Benjamin kissed him on the forehead out of sheer gratitude and passed him back the letter. “That letter bears the exact scent of the letter sent from Bridget to Maggie, and Maggie has told me the girl’s maid, one Adele, is fluent in French. Send word to Deene and Their Graces. We have the location, and when you again impale the fair Adele on your fierce blade, be sure and tell her she could be the mother of the next Earl of Hazelton. She might consider your suit despite the dimensions of your blade.”

“But—?” Archer stared at the letter. “This is the address, isn’t it? You sniffed it out. The harridan is Lady Maggie’s mother.”

“She might have been once,” Ben said, yanking on the bellpull. “No longer. Get some rest, Archer, you’re going with Deene tonight, and I’m off to see my intended.”

***

“Would you like more tea, Miss Maggie?” Mrs. Danforth encroached two steps into Maggie’s office then stopped and frowned at the tidy stacks of correspondence on Maggie’s desk.

“No, thank you.”

The housekeeper looked like she might be working up to a lecture, so Maggie returned to perusing a column of figures. Tea and scones for breakfast had not sat at all well, which Maggie took as a sign of how nervous she was, how scared for Bridget. The column of figures continued to make no sense whatsoever, when Maggie heard voices in the hallway—Mrs. Danforth and…
Benjamin
.

And then he was there, crossing the little room in two strides, wrapping his arms around Maggie where she stood shakily on her feet.

“You got my note?”

She nodded against his shoulder, reveling in the solid warmth and strength of him.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, but I hadn’t changed and Archer needed to locate Deene, and I had notes to send…”

She kissed him, lest he start reporting how long it had taken to heat up his water for shaving. The scent of him was marvelous, all spice and soap, and he gave off an electric energy that caused Maggie’s nervousness to coalesce into something much closer to determination.

“I’ve thought of the flaw in your plan.”

At her words, he drew back, expression hooded. “We have the location, my dear. Deene will be accompanied by Archer, who will make sure to witness Cecily’s signature, and the jewels have already been secreted in Deene’s coach. We also have an ally inside the household, for it seems Archer has been wooing none other than Bridget’s personal maid.”

“Then tell Deene to speak French to Bridget, for Cecily has no French, though the maid understands it well. But this will not fix the flaw in the plan.”

He dropped his arms, went to the door, and bellowed for a damned tray, then took Maggie by the hand and led her to a little settee under the windows. “What is this flaw? From what I can see, unless Cecily reads the documents very carefully first—which Deene will be too arrogant to permit—Bridget should soon be safely free of Cecily’s clutches.”

“Oh, dear. Such a lot that might go wrong.”

“You’re not to worry.” He glowered at her as he issued this command, though his grip on her hand remained warm and gentle. “You are to leave the worrying to me, and you are to eat something. Mrs. Danforth reports that you are neglecting your tucker, and this is no time to turn up missish.”

“Mrs. Danforth had best recall who pays her wages.”

The dog rose from his bed and put his head on Maggie’s knee.

“You’re alarming that good beast,” Benjamin scolded. “And he’s done nothing to deserve such poor treatment. What is this supposed flaw in an otherwise reasonably sound plan?”

“Benjamin, they’ll see her.”

“Who will see—?” His thumb paused in the act of brushing over Maggie’s knuckles. “Bloody, perishing hell. You’re right. Cecily is assembling men to inspect Bridget. They aren’t very likely to content themselves with tea and crumpets when it’s Bridget they’ve come to ogle.”

“And if they
see
her, she’s ruined.”

He rose and went to the door, accepting a tray from Mrs. Danforth and then closing the door with his hip. “Perhaps not. Perhaps Their Graces can scotch that talk when it arises.”

“Twelve spoiled, wealthy young men with titles and fortunes to waste, Benjamin? His Grace might be able to persuade one or two into silence, but twelve?” Maggie huffed out a sigh. “I wish I could endure this in Bridget’s place. Half the titled families of the realm have been holding their breath for years, just waiting for me to revert to my maternal antecedents.”

“You are overset.” He placed the tray on the low table before them and resumed his place beside her, his expression one of resolute determination.

He passed her a cup of tea, from which she ventured one sip, while a peculiar, distracted expression came over Benjamin’s face. A little patient silence stretched until he blinked and aimed a frown at her.

“You will eat something, Maggie Windham. If I have to feed it to you in small bites, you will eat.”

The idea of him feeding her with his own hands… It had inordinate appeal, and now that he was here, Maggie’s dyspepsia seemed to be abating.