Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (39 page)

The ache in Maggie’s chest was threatening to choke her, and still Her Grace was not finished. “You must allow your earl to deal with Cecily, Maggie. He needs to, and he was right to bring this to His Grace. Men such as ours need to protect the women they love, and we need to allow them this.”

“But Cecily cannot be trusted,” Maggie said, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. “They don’t know her as we do, and they won’t be alert to her underhanded ways.”

“Your mother has met her match in Hazelton,” Her Grace said, and she sounded very, very certain. “He will outwit her; see if he doesn’t.”

Maggie closed her eyes and barely managed a whisper. “She gave birth to me, but she is not my mother.
That
awful, scheming, selfish, unnatural woman is not my mother.
”

Maggie stood there amid the crimson tulips, tears coursing down her face, until she felt strong, slender arms encircle her and a graceful hand stroke over her hair.

“Of course not, my dear,” the duchess said, her tone fierce and proud. “
I
am your mother, His Grace is your papa, and you are
our
daughter.”

Ben stood at the parlor window, glancing neither to the right nor to the left of him lest he see three grown men looking as worried as he felt.

Westhaven found the courage to speak first. “Either we’ve all developed a fascination with red tulips, or somebody had better go out there and fetch the ladies in. They’ve neither of them likely thought to bring a handkerchief.”

Deene screwed up his mouth. “Declarations of love—that’s what red tulips stand for.”

His Grace cracked a small smile. “You young fellows. Quaking in your boots over a few female sentimentalities. Believe I’ll go make some declarations of my own.”

He set down his empty glass and left the room.

“Marriage,” said Westhaven, “calls for a particular variety of courage. I’m thinking His Grace’s experience in the cavalry is likely serving him well right now.”

“Come away.” Ben took each man by the arm, but neither of them moved. “Let him make his charge in private. I have some ideas for you both to consider, and if you’re with me, His Grace will fall in line that much more easily.”

Westhaven smiled, looking very like his father. “Don’t bet on it. Windhams can be contrary for the sheer hell of it.”

This was a joke or a warning. Ben wasn’t sure which. “The Portmaine family motto is ‘We thrive on impossible challenges.’”

Deene arched a blond eyebrow. “You just manufactured that for present purposes. You’re from the North, and your family motto is probably something like ‘Thank God for friendly sheep.’”

Which almost had Ben smiling, despite the impossible circumstances. “Westhaven, can you procure something more substantial than tea cakes? Maggie needs to keep up her strength; and Deene, if you want to call me out when you hear my proposition, please recall it’s the honor of a lady—or several ladies—we’re attempting to uphold.”

Deene’s lips quirked. “This grows intriguing. Shall we sit?”

Westhaven sent one more glance out the window to where His Grace was strolling amid the tulips, hand in hand with his duchess, one arm around his daughter’s shoulders. Maggie looked sweet and shy and about eleven years old.

“Come away.” Deene hooked Ben’s arm with his own. “You can ogle her to your heart’s content for your entire remaining life, but there’s the small matter of a damsel in distress to impress her with first.”

Westhaven appropriated Ben’s other arm, and they led him to the sofa, each taking a chair opposite.

“Now,” said Westhaven. “What are we dealing with?”

***

To Maggie, the day had grown luminously beautiful. The ducal gardens, scene of some of her happiest childhood memories, were an appropriate setting for the enormous relief singing through her veins.

“You were ever a curious child,” His Grace was saying. “Drove your brothers nigh to distraction with it and goaded them to excel in their studies. Your mother was the one who pointed this out to me.”

Her
mother.
Hand-in-hand with His Grace, the duchess was looking radiantly lovely despite having dried her tears—and Maggie’s—just moments before.

“They goaded me,” Maggie said. “I could not have a pack of boys shorter than me strutting about reciting Latin all wrong.”

“Of course not.” His Grace kissed her temple, a gesture Maggie could not recall him offering to her since she’d been a little girl. “You are a Windham. If Westhaven becomes half the duke his mama expects him to be, it will be in large part because his sisters trained him up for it.” He turned to his wife but kept his arm around Maggie. “My love, your gardens grow more beautiful each year, but do you suppose we should allow those young fellows to hatch up their plots without some supervision from their elders?”

Her Grace peeked over at Maggie. “Your father is concerned for his share of the crème cakes, never doubt it. But let’s go in. Maggie’s earl will worry if we keep her out here too long.”

Her parents brought her back to the house at a leisurely pace, while Maggie reflected that it wasn’t just relief filling her soul, making the world a lovely, safe place for the first time in ages. Relief was there, oceans of it, along with some regret, some worry for her half sister—she could know that now, know that Bridget was not a Windham—and not a little sorrow for years wasted in loneliness.

But what filled her heart, crowding in on the joy, the gratitude, and the relief, was recognition of a love from Their Graces so vast, so magnanimous, it filled up her entire being and illuminated her entire soul.

***

“Deene is ideally situated to manage this.” Ben sat back and did not glance at Maggie. She was seated beside him, her hand locked in his, and while he could feel tension in her, he could also feel her trust.

“I suppose I am.” Deene sounded aristocratically diffident, though Ben detected a gleam in the man’s blue eyes. “I have an acknowledged fondness for red-haired ladies, begging the pardon of present company for such an admission. I am unwed, newly titled, and known to be self-indulgent in certain regards.”

“In most regards,” Westhaven corrected him. “Which will serve nicely. When is this gathering to be held?”

“Tomorrow night.” Ben said. “What we don’t know is where, because Deene was not given an invitation.”

His Grace shot a glance at Her Grace. “I have an idea, not regarding the location of this disgraceful event but regarding bait that might simplify its conclusion.”

“Bait?” Ben liked the sound of that—Moreland was known for the devious turn of his mind, though in a duke this was more euphemistically described as “wiliness.”

“Percival, are you sure?” Her Grace apparently enjoyed the ability to deduce her husband’s thoughts, which spoke volumes about the wiliness of a certain duchess.

“I’m quite certain, my love. Give me a moment.” His Grace left the room, only to return a moment later sporting several elaborately carved boxes, each about a foot square and several inches high. “The Moreland jewels.” He opened the top box to reveal an emerald and gold parure—tiara, necklace, earbobs, bracelets, and rings—sparkling on a bed of dark brown velvet. “Or the appearance of the Moreland jewels.”

Maggie peered into the box. “Are they real?”

Ben eyed the gems, his respect for the duke growing as he did. “My guess is they are not. When Her Grace showed a penchant for losing jewelry, His Grace had this set very discreetly made for her to wear in public. It’s paste, the lot of it.”

Westhaven took the box from his father’s hands. “It’s a very good imitation.”

“And”—His Grace wiggled white eyebrows—“we’ve plenty of it. Enough to dazzle one greedy woman right into giving up the innocent girl she seeks to ruin.”

“I still have some questions about the document,” Deene said. “Westhaven, are you certain it will be binding?”

“Absolutely certain. A woman’s illegitimate children are entirely in her custody, and their father has no legal obligation to support them or any claim upon them. Cecily’s signature will be binding, but we’re best advised to see it properly witnessed, which means adult males, sane and sober and willing to testify that they saw her sign it of her own free will. And if I’m to have this thing ready in several copies by tomorrow evening, I’d best be on my way.”

“I’ll take my leave, as well.” Deene rose, bowing to the ladies. “I’ll spend the evening trying to determine the location of the party I’m supposed to join without benefit of an invitation, and bruiting about my salacious interest in the young lady.”

Which would be no challenge for a man of Deene’s reputation. Ben didn’t make this observation aloud, but a hint of a smile in Maggie’s eyes suggested she could deduce what he was thinking.

“Then I’ll take Lady Maggie home,” Ben said. “I’ve some inquiries of my own to make.”

When he got his fiancée settled into her coach, Ben tucked an arm around her, and she snuggled docilely against his side.

“You’re suspiciously quiet, Maggie Windham.”

She remained so until the horses had moved from the walk to the trot. “I’m trying to find the flaw in your plan.”

“I’ll tell you the flaw.” He laced their fingers, threw caution to the wind, and decided to be completely honest. “The flaw in the plan is that we’re having to rely on others to execute it. Had your mother not seen us driving in the park, I could pose as one of those randy beggars considering your half sister’s charms, but as it is, Cecily would find it too much of a coincidence—not to mention the outside of too much—for your devoted fiancé to be procuring your half sibling.”

“Yes.” Maggie kissed his cheek, a surprisingly comforting gesture. “
We
are having to rely on others. This must be bothering you as much as it bothers me.”

“Maybe it’s good for us. Their Graces and Westhaven seemed to think Deene could be trusted.”

“He can. I don’t think he’s the flaw in your plan.”

He kissed her temple, which also imparted some comfort. “When you’ve concluded where I’ve gone wrong, you’ll please inform me?”

“Maybe I’m just worried.”

“Your mother is a formidable opponent. Did you know His Grace suspected the duchess was doing something sly with her everyday jewelry?”

“Supporting one of Sophie’s charities, perhaps?”

“Possibly. Cecily had tried approaching His Grace, and he’d threatened her with jail. When she slunk away, it didn’t occur to him she’d approach his womenfolk.”

Maggie sighed and cuddled closer. “Papa will torment himself over this.”

“He’s likely been tormenting himself since the day he succumbed to your mother’s charms.”

“He said not.” She sounded sleepy, which was probably to be expected, given her situation. “Papa said the blessing that resulted from his misstep was far greater than any passing burden it might have caused, and he assured me Her Grace felt the same way.”

It humbled him to be allowed this glimpse into the man and woman behind the ducal titles—the family. It made a quiet little earldom in the North seem trifling in comparison, not much of a challenge at all, provided he chose the right countess.

“Are you content, Maggie, that we’ll foil your mother’s schemes and rescue Bridget?”

She stirred a little against him, her weight and warmth feeling so exquisitely
right
, Ben almost signaled the driver to slow the horses.

“I am not content, but I am hopeful—for the first time in years, Benjamin, I am hopeful. Though she gave birth to me, Cecily is
not
my mother, and I’m not sure she ever deserved to be called such, regardless of any relationship she once had to me.”

He smiled against her hair, kissed her temple, and held her close. This, then, was what accounted for Maggie’s sense of peace, her ability to trust and her ability to finally, and at long last,
hope
. God willing, it would also contribute to her ability to thrive as his countess and as the mother of their children.

***

A shift in the air had Ben looking up from his desk to see Archer standing in the door to the sitting room. Ben set his list aside and posed the obvious question: “I take it your lady did not accept your suit?”

“How can you tell?” Archer slouched into the room and threw himself onto the sofa.

“Your posture, the lack of a gleeful gleam in your eye, the fact that your cravat has the exact same creases and seams it sported when you left here at sunset. Was she at least kind about it?”

Though Ben hardly had time for Archer’s petty dramas. He’d still not determined exactly where Cecily was holding her soiree, and dawn would soon be upon them.

“I never had the chance to plight the lady my troth. The house is empty; the horses are gone; the place actually echoes. She left me a letter, but I haven’t read it yet. I didn’t want to be seen crying in public.”

“Feel free to cry here—I can use the entertainment. I don’t suppose you crossed paths with Deene tonight?”