The Harlot Countess (11 page)

Cranford hadn’t changed much. Only a year or two older than Simon, the viscount was not a big man but stayed in excellent physical health. Rumor had it he boxed in his spare time. So had Cranford reacquainted himself with Lady Hawkins after her return to London? The viscount hadn’t attended the same party at Maggie’s town house, but that hardly mattered. The two would need to employ discretion as Cranford was married. Though Simon’s jaw clenched, he told himself he didn’t care. Maggie had made herself clear so there was certainly no cause for jealousy.

Still, the idea of Cranford or Markham—or any other man—resting between Maggie’s thighs, sliding into her wetness, making her sigh and scream . . . His hand curled into a fist.

He forced the image away. No matter how many other men were in her life, she and Simon were
not
through. Not by a Scots’ mile. So she could pretend indifference all she liked, but he’d seen her eagerness yesterday afternoon, felt it throughout every part of his body. She had wanted what had happened every bit as much as he had. And he meant to have her again, no matter the amount of time it took to convince her.

Cranford signaled for another glass, capturing Simon’s attention. “You do not mind, do you, Winchester ?” he asked, helping himself to the claret on the table.

Simon waited, watched. He’d learned to let the silence stretch during negotiations; opponents were more apt to trip up that way. And while he’d no inkling of Cranford’s intentions, they most definitely were opponents.

Cranford relaxed, cradled the glass in his palm. “So is it true?”

“And what would that be?” Simon kept his face emotionless.

“About Sir James. Heard he lost a king’s ransom. But I suppose it shouldn’t come as any surprise. Fools and their money, as the saying goes.”

No chance Cranford had stopped to gossip about Sir James. “I cannot see how it is any of your affair, Cranford.”

Cranford gave him a small smile. “Come, Winchester. We’ve never kept secrets from one another, have we? I’ve always shared information when pertinent.”

Remembering the love letters Cranford had shown him those years ago, Simon’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Have you? How giving you are. And I assume you’ve more pertinent information for me this evening?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. I heard of your recent association with Lady Hawkins.” Cranford studied the claret in his glass. “I wonder how it will affect that proposal you’re crafting. Or those votes you’re counting on.”

“I shouldn’t think it’ll affect anything one way or another. The lady is an acquaintance, of which I have many.”

“Indeed, I’ve no doubt. But perhaps Lady Hawkins is more than an acquaintance—if gossip is to be believed, that is.”

“Gossip you are no doubt helping to spread.”

Cranford held up his hands, all innocence. “I am only relaying what I’ve heard. Some members of Lords wonder how it will look, your
acquaintance
with a woman of such outrageous morals. Especially considering the nature of your proposed legislation.”

That set Simon’s teeth on edge. “My opponents would, of course, be eager to embrace any weakness—real or perceived.”

“Oh, these aren’t your opponents making their displeasure known. These are your allies.”

Cranford watched him carefully for a reaction, which Simon perversely withheld. He lifted a shoulder. “They will believe what they must. We’ll see in a few months’ time.”

“We will, shall we not? I merely thought I should warn you before you made a terrible mistake. As I nearly did years ago.”

“Your benevolence never ceases to astound, Cranford.” Simon’s tone was dry.

He laughed. “Indeed, I try. So will you finally cut Sir James off from the Winchester financial teat?”

“Winchester.”

Tearing his gaze away from Cranford, Simon found Quint standing by the table. “Evening, Quint.”

Cranford quickly rose. “Here, Quint, have my seat. I believe I’m done. My thanks for the drink, Winchester.”

He strolled away as Quint sat. “What was he going on about?” Quint asked. “When I came in, you looked as if you were about to leap over the table and strangle him with your bare hands.”

Simon finished his wine, leaned forward to pour another. “Cranford stopped by to warn me that my association with Lady Hawkins might negatively influence my standing in Parliament.”

“I’ve heard those rumbles. Ridiculous, when every single man of the
ton
has a mistress.”

“Except you,” Simon noted.

“I don’t want a mistress. Too much bloody work.”

“Yes, but the very best kind of work,” Simon retorted. Which reminded him, he’d need to find a new mistress now that he and Adrianna had parted ways. He’d ended their association on the night he’d learned she was entertaining other men without his knowledge. Shame he couldn’t have the one woman he truly wanted in his bed. “And Lady Hawkins is not my mistress. Nor my anything, for that matter.”

“Not for a lack of effort on your part, I’ve no doubt.”

Simon drummed his fingers on the table. No arguing that point. He’d be between Maggie’s thighs nightly, if she allowed it. Perhaps in time . . .

Simon came to his feet. “Play hazard with me,” he told Quint.

Quint shook his head. “You never win. You cannot properly calculate the odds.”

Simon clapped his friend on the shoulder. “That is what I have you for. Come along, I need the distraction.”

“Winchester!”

Glancing up, Simon saw Colton, still in his greatcoat, stalking across the room, his face thunderous. The duke reached their table and said, “Grab your things. We need to get to Covent Garden before all hell breaks loose.”

Chapter Ten

After Julia dashed off her mysterious note, Maggie asked, “May I see her?”

“I do not think it wise, my lady. While I can likely get you up there without being seen, I cannot guarantee your ladyship’s anonymity on the second floor. The evenings are no time for a lady to be strolling about in a place such as this.”

“We have our dominoes,” Julia suggested. She pointed to the cloaks and masks she and Maggie had adorned before coming inside.

“A fine suggestion, Your Grace, but the disguise would not be enough to conceal your identity. And I daresay His Grace would have a word or two to say should you be discovered. Likely he’d have me shut down.”

“I would never allow that,” Julia insisted. “Colton may be hotheaded, but he is quick to see reason once I strap him down and beat him about the head with it.”

Maggie wished she shared Julia’s confidence. But she knew better. And exchanging a quick, rueful glance with Madame, it seemed the abbess knew it, too. Men could do whatever they wanted in this world, and women were supposed to keep quiet.

“Have you packed her things?” Maggie asked.

“What little I could, yes.”

“How long has she worked for you?”

“A little over three years, my lady. Never had a speck of trouble with her. The rules here are quite strict and my girls are treated well. I have a reputation to uphold and I shouldn’t like for this to get out. I know that sounds callous—”

“Not at all,” Maggie assured Madame. “You have done the right thing, sending for Pearl. Between the three of us, we can squirrel her off somewhere, get her body healed. Perhaps find her a job in a household.”

Madame nodded. “I am forever in your ladyship’s debt. Your Grace’s as well.”

A soft knock sounded, interrupting. Madame strode to the door, a whisper of elegant silk. Pulling it open, she listened at the crack, then mumbled a few words.

“Your Grace, my lady, please excuse me a moment. There is a matter I must see to.” She curtsied. “Please make yourselves comfortable. There is sherry in the cabinet against the wall.”

With the unwelcome image of a girl battered and bruised stuck in her brain, Maggie walked to the cabinet for the promise of a drink. “Would you care for a sherry?” she asked Julia.

“No, thank you.”

Maggie heard the slide of metal and turned to see the duchess at the peephole. “Nothing lascivious whatsoever out there. Just a few overstuffed dandies.” Julia sighed and stepped away from the wall.

They chatted of unimportant gossip for several long minutes, waiting for Madame Hartley to return. Then Julia said, “You surprise me, Maggie.”

Maggie sipped her sherry. “Me? Whyever would I surprise you?”

“You must admit, what you and Pearl are doing, it is an unusual cause for a lady.”

Maggie didn’t like the shrewd, knowing gaze the duchess gave her. She tried to make light of it. “Shouldn’t we all strive to assist those less fortunate?”

“Yes, but one could do so in much more . . . acceptable ways. Most ladies hold benefits or serve on the board of various charities. Go knocking on doors to solicit funds for their causes. You, on the other hand, are in the thick of it. Rescuing these women, making sure they are not unfairly taken advantage of. It makes me wonder if this cause isn’t”—she waved her hand, searching for the right word—“personal to you.”

Maggie sipped her sherry. She hadn’t many female friends, had purposely not cultivated those relationships. Women were too intuitive. Whereas men saw what they wanted, the raucous parties and free champagne, women noticed more, which led to questions one would rather not answer.

But the duchess had come along tonight. Pearl had suggested it, knowing the resources at Julia’s disposal as well as her social standing, and Julia hadn’t even blinked before jumping in Maggie’s carriage. And while Maggie did not want to bare her soul, she owed her new friend an honest response.

“It’s none of my business, of course—”

“It is personal to me,” Maggie answered. “I know what it is like to suffer at the hands of cruelty. To reap consequences one never imagined nor deserved. You weren’t there during my debut, but if it weren’t for Hawkins, I very well could be earning my living on my back. Perhaps not in a place such as this, but kept all the same. So I feel a great sympathy toward the women with little choice but to sell themselves.”

“Oh, Maggie. My sincere apologies for bringing up unpleasant memories.” Julia’s quiet tone was heartfelt. “I was led to believe that Cranford . . . that you and he . . .”

Maggie’s hands curled into fists. “No. Most assuredly not. He was to marry my friend, Amelia. Said he wanted to ask me questions about her. I didn’t know any different. Why wouldn’t I believe him? He had seemed nice enough, quick with a smile and a joke. We’d even danced a few times. But he didn’t wish to ask questions about his betrothed. He presumed—” She took a very unladylike gulp of sherry. “He presumed I would be amenable to his advances.”

“But you were not.” Julia stated it as fact, not a question.

“Indeed not. Fought him off, in fact. I got away but became disheveled in the process. And when your dress is torn and the gentleman in question is grinning from ear to ear, no one believes you did not ask for it.” She lifted a shoulder. “And the damage is done. The Half-Irish Harlot was born.”

“Oh, dear,” Julia whispered, a deep frown on her face. “Had he never even asked, the nitwit?” she mumbled.

Maggie returned to the cabinet, intent on a second sherry. She didn’t normally imbibe heavily, but why not? This was a week for firsts, it turned out. “Who never asked? Cranford?”

When the latch on the door sounded, Maggie spun, expecting to see Madame Hartley.

A furious Duke of Colton appeared instead. Followed by—

Behind stood an equally furious Earl of Winchester. Maggie refused to shrink under his frosty blue stare. He was not her husband or her father. She answered to no one, not even the man who’d given her more pleasure in one afternoon than she’d had in a lifetime. She squared her shoulders as the duke stalked directly toward Julia.

“I ought to paddle your backside, madam,” Colton snarled at his wife.

Julia snorted. “As if that would be any kind of punishment. And calm yourself, Colton. No one has seen us and we haven’t left this tiny room. Do not make me regret sending for you.”

Simon came in to lean against the wall, his large frame making the small room even more suffocating. He folded his arms over his chest, crossed his booted feet at the ankles. While he may appear relaxed to someone unacquainted with him, Maggie knew better. The set of his jaw, the brisk, efficient movements, the light jumping in the depths of his gaze . . . He was livid.

Madame Hartley breezed in behind the men, shutting the door. “Your Grace, my lord, may I offer either of you a glass of port or claret?”

“By all means, and why not play a hand of whist or two while we’re at it,” Colton nearly shouted. “Have you all lost your minds?” He grabbed Julia’s wrist. “Come. We are leaving.”

“Wait,” the duchess cried, neatly breaking free of her husband’s grasp. “You haven’t learned why I needed you and Simon to rush here.”

Surprised, Maggie’s eyes flew to Simon, whose own steely blues were locked on her face. She couldn’t look away. Her skin prickled, a warmth slowly spreading out through her veins, as she remembered yesterday afternoon. She forced it back, buried it deep where she kept all the memories better not revisited.

“Indeed,” Colton drawled with a sneer. “This I cannot wait to hear.”

“Madame, pray tell my husband and Lord Winchester what you told us earlier.”

Madame Hartley gave the men the details, keeping to the facts. As the abbess spoke, Maggie watched the play of emotions over Simon’s face. From fury to curiosity, to outright horror, then back to fury—thankfully not directed at her this time.

The duke’s anger shifted elsewhere as well. He ran a hand through his hair. “Christ. Who did it? Who was the blackguard responsible?”

Madame shook her head. “I would rather not say, Your Grace.”

“Yes, I know. But I’d rather you
did
say, and we both know I always get what I want. You will tell me before I leave.”

“I should like to see the girl,” Simon said quietly, the first words he’d uttered since entering.

Madame’s brows lowered. “With all due respect, my lord, I am not so certain that is wise. She is . . . not in her right mind. I am worried the presence of a man, even your lordship, will upset her further.”

“Madame, you know me. I daresay this isn’t the first case I’ve seen, nor will it be the last. If she needs help, I’ll gladly give it, but you must allow me the chance to get her out of here. I will be gentle, I swear.”

His statement confused Maggie, but she had to stick to the matter at hand before she lost her chance. “I should like to come as well,” she put in.

Simon’s head swiveled and blue ice pinned her to the spot. “Over my dead body.”

Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but Julia cut her off. “It’s best he goes alone, Maggie. Simon will take care not to frighten her. Truly, I wouldn’t have sent for him if I thought he could not help.”

So Simon’s presence here had been Julia’s true goal. Not the duke’s. What didn’t Maggie know about Simon? How could he be the best person to deal with a frightened, broken prostitute?

Madame Hartley nodded. “Very well. Even though you know the way, I’ll show you up.”

There was no good earthly reason why that statement should upset Maggie, but the words were a barb sliding up under her rib cage. Of course he’d spent time here. Any lord with a few quid in his pocket likely would. She thought about the scene she’d witnessed earlier. What type of girl would Simon choose?

Before she could ponder it further, Simon straightened and trailed Madame Hartley to the door. “Stay here,” he turned to say, looking directly at Maggie.

Why did he feel the need to order her about? She clenched her jaw, but gave him a brief nod and watched his broad back disappear into the hall.

Simon forced his anger down as he trailed Madame Hartley up the back stairs to the second floor. He couldn’t think on how reckless, idiotic, cork-brained—

Did the woman care absolutely
nothing
whatsoever for her reputation?

A brothel. Her social standing already teetered on the edge of respectability. How could she—?

He stopped those thoughts, took a breath. He needed to remain calm for the task at hand. Maggie had him knotted up. No female had ever been able to accomplish it, not to the degree and with the expediency to which she succeeded.

They went up another set of stairs, to where the girls roomed. This was a part of the house he’d never explored, and he wished he needn’t do so now. Colton would find the man responsible, Simon had no doubt. And while the duke carried out the retribution, Simon would see the girl well taken care of. Perhaps not totally healed, but better off, anyway.

At the far end of the corridor, they stopped. “This is Cora’s room, my lord. I’ll accompany you.” Madame Hartley gave a brisk knock. “Cora, it’s Madame. I’m coming in.” She withdrew a set of keys from a pocket sewn into her skirts and unlocked the door.

The room was pitch dark. Using the light from the hall, Simon could see the outline of a tiny bed and dresser. A small shape darted to the corner.
Good God.
It was the girl.

Madame opened the door wider, allowing more light in. The sight nearly knocked him to his knees. Her face grotesquely swollen, Cora huddled there, pressed tight against the wall with a large knife in her good hand. The broken arm had been wrapped in a strip of linen, close to her chest to hold it still. She had on a shift that barely covered her, and he could see glimpses of cuts and bruises on her pale flesh.

But it was her eyes that worried him most. Glassy and bright, they darted wildly, reminding him of a feral creature that had been unwittingly trapped.

“Stay back,” she breathed. “I won’t do it no more.”

“Cora, we’re here to help you,” Madame said gently. “This is—” She glanced helplessly at Simon, the question in her gaze clear. How should she introduce him?

To be sure, his speech pattern and manner of dress would proclaim him quality, but better to ease into it gently. No telling who did this to her. It could be any number of titled men. He didn’t want the word “earl” to upset her further.

Simon stepped forward, bent on his haunches. “I am a friend. I’m here to help you. But I cannot do so if you’re intent on keeping—”

Cora began keening—a low wail that sent shivers down Simon’s spine—and for an instant he assumed he’d frightened her. He straightened, stepped back, only to notice that the girl’s stare remained focused on Madame. Could it be the abbess frightening her?