Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (6 page)

“You expect me to believe a duke’s daughter with no less than three strapping brothers extant requires my assistance?”

“I am a duke’s daughter, but having titled antecedents doesn’t smooth every bend in the road of life, does it, Mr. Hazlit?”

She let a little silence of her own build, and Hazlit nearly saluted with his teacup.

She was good. By God, she was good.

“I am not enthusiastic about working for a female. Nothing personal.”

She didn’t even flinch at his brusque tone but took a delicate sip of fine Darjeeling. “Her Grace has mentioned that you will work for a lady.”

“Exceptions, all. I assume you’ve conferred with her regarding retention of my services?”

“I have not, but I know you are a demanding employee.” She grimaced a little at her tea.

“How would you know such a thing?” For it was the truth.

“You will determine the time and place of all meetings. You will not render any reports in writing but will convey them only orally. You demand compensation at the outset in cash and return unused monies in cash only. You’re rather like a barrister in that you don’t solicit business, but one accounts oneself lucky to have your services.”

“I don’t believe the analogy flatters me.”

“Nor was it intended to.”

He might have missed it, because she bent her head to sip her tea. His living depended on noticing the small clues, though, so he saw the first tiny temptation to turn her lips up into a smile. She hid it almost fast enough.

Miss Windham, Miss Windham… She was here in broad daylight but without a companion to ensure the proprieties. He still didn’t know what her game was and really did not have time for games in any case.

“Very well.” He was gentleman enough to wait until she set down her teacup. “If you’re prepared to pay the shot.” He named an exorbitant sum and waited to see how she’d regroup without sacrificing her considerable dignity.

“You’d prefer it in cash?”

“I will accept it only in cash.” He felt a twinge of pity for her. A very small twinge.

“I’ll have the sum delivered to you before the sun sets. More tea?”

“Please.” He frowned at her practical, pretty hands while she poured tea he didn’t particularly want. Of course, the money would never materialize, and that would be that. While he reasoned himself to this conclusion, she executed the tea ceremony like the daughter of a duke.

No, he corrected himself, like the daughter of a duchess.

“Cakes, Mr. Hazlit?”

“Thank you. My breakfast is becoming a distant memory.”

She passed him a plate with two cakes, their hands brushing as she did.

By accident? By design? He was becoming unwittingly curious as to Miss Windham and her stratagems. “You’re not having a sweet?”

“One must refrain occasionally for the sake of fitting into one’s gowns.”

He flicked an eye over her, though did not permit himself to linger at the obvious locations. “Your sacrifice is duly appreciated; but tell me of your circumstances, Miss Windham, and how I might be of service.”

She stirred her tea, a slow dragging of the spoon around the bottom of the teacup. A tell, he suspected. A small, personal flag denoting nervousness or impending mendacity.

“I’ve lost something precious.”

“Jewelry? That’s easy enough, as it usually turns up somewhere around Ludgate, kept out of sight for all but particular customers. Was it something that could have been easily broken down and fenced?”

“Why would anyone put a fence around jewels?” She frowned, those little creases appearing between her brows.

“Let me acquaint you with a bit of terminology, Miss Windham. When a thief steals something distinctive, something of value, he can hardly stand on a street corner and wave it about, inviting bids.”

“Or she cannot.”

“Just so. If the goods are to be liquidated profitably, they are usually transferred to a merchant who traffics in such items, for example, the jewelers over by the City. The thief is given some coin for his wares but nothing like what the thing would be worth if sold openly. The jeweler can recover a great deal for it, though, since he’s selling to legitimate customers. The jeweler is the fence.”

“And if somebody asks, the jeweler will say it was sold to him as part of some Northumbrian dowager’s estate?” The frown smoothed, but her mouth was disapproving.

“You understand the criminal mind.”

“I understand not getting caught.”

“Have you been caught, then?” He kept his gaze on her face. “Is the missing object a lover’s token you shouldn’t have?”

“Gracious!” She sat back, looking dismayed but not insulted. “Investigating must call for a vivid imagination, Mr. Hazlit.”

“Hardly. Human nature seems to draw most people into the same predictable peccadilloes over and over. So which misstep have you taken? Do you need to locate the child’s father? Pay off his wife to keep her mouth shut? Those aren’t strictly investigatory matters, but I can see where the need for discretion… What?”

“I should slap you.” The words weren’t offered with any particular animosity, more a tired acceptance. “You are a man, though, and allowances must be made.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“And well you should.” She sipped her tea then tipped her head back to regard him. “Despite the foul implications of your questions, Mr. Hazlit—questions I doubt you would have put to any of my sisters—I still need your help, and I still intend to retain you. I have committed no indiscretion; I have no ill-conceived child on the way; I need not go for a tour of the Continent to eschew my dependence on laudanum.”

“So your problem is not that serious,” he said, relieved for her to find it so, and irritated with himself—for no particular reason.

“It is only serious to me. I will meet with you to discuss the details when your retainer has been delivered.”

“I’ll speak to you tonight at the Livien soiree.”

Distaste flitted through her eyes, but he steeled himself against it. She started this little game; let her cry forfeit if she couldn’t keep up with his rules.

“Until tonight then.”

She took her leave, going right out the front door for all the world to see, and he had to wonder again what exactly Miss Maggie Windham was about.

***

“So what’s your brother up to?” The Duke of Moreland kept his voice down even in his private study, lest his duchess catch him interrogating one sibling about the other. Bad parental form, she claimed, but the children outright told her things they’d never confide in their dear old papa.

Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven, shot his father an amused look from his place in the opposite armchair.

“As far as I know, Dev’s rusticating in Yorkshire, and Val will soon again be enjoying connubial bliss with Ellen in Oxfordshire.”

The duke sat back, smiling broadly. “St. Just is making a go of his earldom, we can say that for him, and he married a good breeder, too. No complaints from this quarter, but I speak of young Mozart. He’s departed from his wife’s side and is larking about with Fairly here in Town, or with Fairly’s piano.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“He never sits still long enough unless his handsome arse is planted on a piano bench.” His Grace’s gaze traveled over the paneled ceiling twelve feet above their heads. And this was one of the mansion’s cozier rooms.

Westhaven shifted in his chair, crossing his legs with a casual elegance His Grace could only envy. “Last I heard, Val was helping rehearse the Philharmonic Society ensemble and scribbling away on some new composition.”

“He’s always scribbling away on something these days. I think it agrees with him. How is our Anna?”

“She sends you her regards, and I’ve sneaked a box of crème cakes to the kitchen for your personal delectation.”

“Any of ’em chocolate?”

“At least half. I took all the chocolate ones headed for Maggie and switched them to your box.”

“Miss Maggie does enjoy her sweets. Did you know she danced with Ben Hazlit?”

“Keep your ducal paws off, Your Grace,” Westhaven said, his tone deceptively mild for the implied rebuke. “Val said it was merely a polite waltz, and they declined to share supper with each other.”

“Val said. Do you think he’d hint his sister finally took an interest in a decent man? Thick as thieves, you lot.”

“So why are you asking me?”

“Because, dear fellow, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, your unmarried sisters will be your cross to bear.”

Westhaven rolled his eyes. “Not the threat-of-death speech. You’ve never felt better, and you know it.”

“Mark me, my boy, a woman left unmarried gets up to tricks. Think of Sophie’s little Christmas revel all on her own—or almost on her own but for Sindal’s dubious company. Think of your sister Evie and that ghastly footman. Disaster was at hand, and if fate hadn’t intervened…”

“Evie would be married to a handsome footman. Maggie isn’t Evie, and Hazlit isn’t a footman.” And the very calm with which his son spoke was a source of pride to His Grace. The boy—the man—was going to make a splendid duke.

“Hazlit is not a commoner, either,” the duke said, quietly.

“He told me as much in the course of our dealings. But if I were you, Your Grace, I would not try to push Hazlit on Maggie. She’ll balk and head for the barn at a dead gallop, and Her Grace will scold you and hide your stash of cakes.” Westhaven rose and went to the sideboard, pouring himself half a glass of… lemonade.

Perhaps the Windham heir was not quite so ducal yet.

“Good heavens, as bad as all that? Has Maggie said something to you?”

“No, she has not.” Westhaven eyed the crystal goblet in his hand. “Not that I’d violate her confidences when you’ve yet to ask her yourself.”

“Such a stickler I’ve raised.” But the duke let a little pride infuse his words, for Westhaven was a stickler in the best sense. A detail man who was fast putting the duchy back on sound financial footing.

“Tell Her Grace I’m sorry I missed her.” Westhaven drained his glass and set it aside. “And do not let me hear of you meddling in Maggie’s affairs, or Hazlit’s. And a word of advice?”

“I’m not too arrogant to turn aside a prudent man’s advice.” Provided the man was his own son.

“Keep an eye on Her Grace,” Westhaven said. “She was asking Anna about Maggie’s waltz and waited until I was out of earshot to do it.”

“My, my, my…” The duke rose, as well, glad once again no twinge of pain flared in his chest as he did. “You will give Anna my compliments and tell her to keep her ears open.”

Westhaven smiled, shook his head, and gave his father a parting hug. The duke saw him out and then made a dash for the kitchen as quickly as stealth and dignity would allow.

***

Maggie had grown up with five brothers, and she wasn’t bothered by a display of male pique. In their frequent tempers, her brothers bellowed and stomped and regularly fell into noisy horseplay that sometimes resulted in broken furniture and those despairing looks from Her Grace.

Her father held one of the most powerful titles short of royalty and wasn’t above shouting indoors to get his way or to express his displeasure with the state of his world.

But it was mostly noise, mostly bluster and show. Sound and furying, as Her Grace put it. Nobody was ever going to get hurt in the tantrums and tussles Maggie had seen.

The look in Benjamin Hazlit’s eyes communicated lethal intent without a word.

“You want me to find your
reticule
?”

His voice was calm, perfectly civil in fact, as befitted a gentleman on the shadowed terrace outside a genteel soiree, but still Maggie’s arms broke out in goose bumps.

“I do. It holds great personal significance for me.”

“And about a week’s worth of pin money. Come.”

He tugged her by the wrist down a dimly lit garden path. The moon was up, creating some light even on the unlit trails.

“This is not well advised, Mr. Hazlit.” She dragged her feet but didn’t plant them for fear he’d pull her over onto her face.

“Having this discussion where we could be overheard is less well advised,” he said over his shoulder. “There. That bench.” He dropped her wrist and waited for her to take a seat. That little civility only made his banked temper more unnerving.

“It’s a perfectly reasonable request,” she said. “You’re an investigator; something of value has gone missing. Investigate.”

“For your information, Miss Windham, I find missing people.” He dropped down beside her without asking permission. “I find daughters gone haring off to their social ruin; I find embezzlers and arsonists. I track the criminals Bow Street can’t touch because of rank and privilege. I do not go chasing after missing hairpins for bored women who have nothing better to do than aggravate a man at his labors.”

She was silent, absorbing an aspect of his situation she hadn’t appreciated before.

“Cat got your tongue, Miss Windham?”

“This is not a trivial matter to me.”