Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (13 page)

“My brother Devlin taught all of us girls, though it’s mostly common sense.”

He drew the team to a halt near the Cumberland Gate.

“I really shouldn’t.”

“You really should.” He was tempted to point out that if they were truly courting, this is exactly the way an indulgent man—a smitten man—would carry on in public. “You thrive on the fresh air, you look at those horses like they were made of chocolate, and you really do not care if the breeze disturbs your coiffure. Give it a go, Magdalene Windham.”

“Maggie.” She said it very softly, her eyes glued to the reins. “Nobody calls me Magdalene.”

“Take the reins, Maggie, or we’ll sit here as all of Polite Society passes by.”

She took the reins, not even bothering to put on his gloves. He deftly snatched them back from her lap, taking care to not touch even her skirts as he did. “Do The Ring,” he said. “It’s the expected thing and early enough we should be able to maneuver.”

She nodded, which suggested she knew her way around the park. Had her brothers seen to that, as well, or had the knowledge come from her years on the marriage market? He pondered that mystery while his fool horses preened and trotted along as if they’d been longing for a lady’s hands on the reins.

“You don’t find it awkward?” she asked. “Being driven by a lady?”

They were in public. Best she get used to their roles. He gave her a heavy-lidded smile. “My lady, no hour spent in your company could ever be awkward.”

She grinned at him, a great big devilish smile that reached her wonderful green eyes and had two rows of gleaming white teeth in evidence.

“You are a rascal, Mr. Hazlit. A thoroughgoing rascal. You’ll never get the reins back if you don’t stifle that nonsense.”

Seeing her smile—at him, at the horses, at the day—Hazlit realized how closely confined she’d kept herself with him thus far. Her smiles had been merely pretty, her courtesy ruthlessly correct, her conversation guarded—except for that kiss, of course.

The kiss he’d nipped in the bud because he wasn’t a complete fool.

“Is that your mother over there?”

“My moth—?” The smile winked out, replaced by anxiety and… fear? That disappeared from her eyes, too, so quickly Hazlit wasn’t sure he’d seen it. “Oh, you mean Her Grace. Gracious. I’d prefer a strategic retreat.”

“Do as you please, my lady.”

Except she couldn’t, because traffic moved only at a crawl, and there were but a few turnings. Hazlit prepared to smile and do the pretty for Her Grace, but a man on a bay horse rode forward the few steps necessary to obscure the occupants of the duchess’s carriage from sight.

“Deene is making his bow,” Hazlit said, though he had to crane his neck to see around the matched footmen on the back of Lady Dandridge’s landau. “I think you’ve been spared.”

“Only for the present. Somebody will say something to Her Grace. Papa will be asking your intentions next.” She kept her eyes front, so he had to peek around her bonnet brim to see the downcast expression on her face.

“Must you sound so despondent?” He’d tried to make it a joke, but she only turned her head to look at him with eyes that held a world of unhappiness.

“Miss Windham.” Deene tipped his hat from astride his horse. “A rare pleasure to see you out and about. Hazlit.”

“Deene. I thought you’d avoid this scene.”

“Normally I do.” He flashed a grin at Miss Windham. “No reflection on present company. I rose too late today to ride this morning, so I’m letting Beast stretch his legs now.”

“What sort of name is that for such a handsome fellow?” Miss Windham switched the ribbons to her right hand and reached out with the left toward the horse. “You’ll hurt his feelings.” The gelding delicately sniffed at her fingers and then turned its head as if to regard his rider reproachfully.

“He answers to it,” Deene said, petting his horse. “Better him than me, right?”

The smile he aimed at Hazlit’s companion was dazzling.

“We’d best be off if we’re not to hold up traffic,” Hazlit said.

Deene—damn his arrogance—nudged his horse forward as Miss Windham signaled the team to walk on.

“If you enjoy driving, my lady, I’ve a pair of bays you might like to try.”

And God bless the woman, she looked faintly exasperated as she eyed the ribbons. “Mr. Hazlit is indulging me in a rare whim, my lord, but thank you for the offer.”

“Perhaps another day.” Deene bowed again—how did it
not
look ridiculous when he bowed from the saddle?—and took his aggravating, friendly self off.

“May we go home now?” The sparkle had left her eyes; the roses in her cheeks had faded. The woman looked positively mulish.

“You have the reins. We go where you please.”

She turned the horses off the main path, leaving Hazlit to wonder what exactly had blighted their outing. Had it been Deene’s flirting? The sight of Her Grace? Or worse, something he himself had said or done?

***

There was no explaining why, after three decades of raising children, arguing, loving, and arguing some more, His Grace, Percival St. Stephens Tiberius Joachim Windham, should be more dear to his wife than ever. He accepted it as a gift he could only continually try to earn and kissed his duchess on the cheek.

“Damned idiots grow more thickheaded by the day, Esther.” He linked his arms around her waist and sighed into her wheat-gold hair. “Prinny must build his fancies while the common soldier starves. I’m tempted to claim senility and hare off to Morelands permanently.”

“I take it your meetings were trying?” She started rubbing the back of his neck, and like an old dog who’s found his rug before the warm hearth, he felt all the tension and worry of the day draining out of him.

“They’re always trying. If the House of Lords doesn’t start yielding gracefully on the small issues, we’re going to be facing the mob. Mark me on this, Esther.”

“Come.” She led him by the hand to his favorite chair. “Tell me who’s giving you the most trouble, and I’ll invite his ladies to tea.”

While he prattled on about this and that vote, she tugged off his boots and brought him a glass of wine, then sat embroidering while he parsed each comment made and proposal put forth at his meetings.

“Have you discussed any of this with Westhaven?” she asked an hour later.

It took him a moment to consider the question, because in the candlelight, his wife’s profile appeared the same to him then as it had thirty-odd years ago: serene, graceful… peaceful. Thank God he’d had the sense to marry Esther and not one of the other lovelies who’d turned his fool head.

“He’s preoccupied with his offspring,” His Grace said, peering at his empty wine glass. “And that’s as it should be.”

“He could use a distraction,” Her Grace countered, putting her hoop aside. “And Anna will have a little more room to breathe if her husband is occasionally called to your side for political reasons. He has your knack for building consensus, but he’ll need your network of spies and cronies if he’s to step into your shoes.”

He got up and poured himself another half glass of libation. A year ago—just after his heart seizure—his wife would have frowned at it. Two years ago, he would have gone through half the bottle by now.

“Where did you learn to manage me, my love?” He held the glass to her lips while she took a ladylike sip, then subsided into his chair. “You’re telling me I have to be ready to hand the political reins to Gayle, but you’re doing it in such a way that I’m flattered and even motivated to author my own retirement.”

She looked down and to the right, her lips thinning slightly. It was her How-Do-I-Put-This? look, so he waited.

“I want your opinion on something.” She raised her gaze to his—such lovely green eyes his bride had.

He saluted with his drink. “Ask, beloved. You know I can deny you nothing.”

“What is your honest assessment of Lucas Denning?”

Ah. Matchmaking again. There was a common misperception among the Windham family members that His Grace was obsessed with building his dynasty and that all manner of mischief had been perpetrated by him to propel his sons to the altar.

He was, and it had, but the rest of the story was that Her Grace was equally if not more invested in the same outcomes. She’d befriended Anna when the woman was only Gayle’s housekeeper; she’d made rather pointed remarks to St. Just when he was befuddled over his antecedents; she’d fretted endlessly over Valentine, who’d chosen to spend the previous winter with St. Just—on the Yorkshire dales!—though Valentine had also recently succumbed to the lure of matrimony.

Esther Windham was a force to be reckoned with, and Deene had gotten into her matchmaking gun sights. The man was doomed.

“He’s struggling a bit,” His Grace said. A neutral answer that applied to most men between toddlerhood and senescence. “Why?”

“Struggling in what sense?” She had her embroidery back in her lap, a tactic to shield her expression from her husband’s eyes, of course.

“A title always befalls a man under a cloak of grief and loss. Deene and his papa did not get on well, though I can hardly blame the boy. The old marquis was a brute, despite having wonderful kennels. I think Deene will come right in time—if he finds the right marchioness.”

“Do you think he and Evie would suit?”

“Evie?” Their baby, their little girl… the one they’d almost lost track of after Bart and St. Just had joined up? “Might inspire her remaining sisters to get serious about matrimony if she lets the man court her. Sophie can’t be the only one to set a good example.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.” She set the blasted hoop aside and turned a frown on her husband. “They strike sparks off each other, but not in a good way. I may be overreacting, but a mother worries.”

He patted her hand. “A good mother worries.” A mother who’d buried two grown sons was entitled to be slightly mad with worry, come to that.

“But you think he’d do?”

Back to this?

“I have no cause to reject the man, Esther, if that’s what you’re asking. When he votes, he does so responsibly. He doesn’t always toe the party line, but he has sound reasons for breaking ranks, and I’ve been known to switch allegiance myself sometimes. Keeps the idiots on their toes when a man votes his conscience.” He took a sip of his drink while he watched his wife for a reaction.

“I suppose it’s up to Evie, then, but you’ll make a few inquiries?”

He was being dispatched to send out the scouts, then. Gads… to see his sons married was one thing—their wives were capital additions to the family, and grandchildren were better yet. He’d reconciled himself to seeing Sophie wed to Sindal, whose estate was just a few miles from Morelands—but his baby girl?

Too precious to cast into the arms of any handsome, randy marquis who came along.

“I’ll put Hazlit on it. We’ll soon know what side of the bed Deene sleeps on and which soap he prefers at his bath. May I offer you the last sip?” He passed her his glass.

“My thanks. I spotted Mr. Hazlit today in the park. Maggie was driving his bays and looking quite smart. I suppose it’s time we went down to dinner.” She set the glass aside and allowed him to assist her to her feet. “I had a letter from Rose today, too. She specifically asked me if you were available for a visit sometime this summer.”

“Rose asked after her old grandpapa? Imagine that!”

He led his duchess into dinner, made all the appropriate noises to his wife and daughters, and presided over a jovial, pleasant family meal as he had countless times before.

Even as he wondered why, exactly, Esther had felt it necessary to use all that flummery about Evie and young Deene to obscure the rather startling news that their dear Maggie had actually driven out with an Eligible.

***

Archer passed Hazlit a drink and then poured one for himself. “You won’t like it.”

“I won’t like the whiskey?” Hazlit took a whiff of his drink, catching the same subtle, smoky scent it usually bore. The scent of relaxation and comfort. “What are you going on about, Archer?”

“You won’t like my report.”

The day had been long and busy—so busy Hazlit hadn’t had time to speak privately with Archer, much less consider recent developments in the Windham situation. He took a seat on the library’s sofa and pulled off his boots.

“I particularly won’t like your report if I have to wait what remains of the night to hear it.”

Archer took the comfortable chair at a right angle to the sofa and propped his stocking feet on the table. “Abby Norcross has gone to ground. Either she knows we’re trailing her, or she’s having her menses.”

“You aren’t on terms with the chambermaid yet?” And for the first time in ages, it occurred to Hazlit to wonder why a man would remain in a line of business where such information had to be gathered. It was distasteful, to pry into a lady’s situation to that degree.

“I’m on terms, but I’ve been a trifle busy. Your Miss Windham had a pair of gentlemen callers.”

“A pair? At the same time?” When men called on a pretty woman in pairs, they could either check each other’s worst impulses or goad one another into folly.