Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (4 page)

“Nasty, Miss Windham.” Wonderfully nasty.

She gave him a disparaging glance. “Do you think it’s easy being Moreland’s bastard?” She turned her face to the rising moon. “There were two schools of thought among the so-called gentlemen. The first believed my unfortunate origins meant my morals would be as corrupt as my mother’s—His Grace being completely without blame—and I was fair game.”

They would, Hazlit silently conceded. Most men would, that is. They would
hope
she was fair game.

“The second group thought I ought to be grateful for the hand of any cit or baronet’s son who offered for me. Thank God for Papa’s stickling, or I would have had eight offers my first season.”

And now they were on tricky ground indeed.

“Do you still have to fend off these offers, my lady? One hesitates to point out that persistent suitors might be offering from genuine regard.”

“Don’t think to turn up decent on me now, Mr. Hazlit. I am past thirty, on the shelf, and that is where I shall remain. But we wander from the stated reason for our discussion. You will not spy on my family.”

He had a choice. He could offer some vaguely unpleasant rejoinder, because it sat ill with him to ever let anybody have the upper hand, and he enjoyed sparring with her a little too much. He could keep her out here until propriety demanded her return to the ballroom, leaving their discussion unresolved.

Or he could be honest.

“Miss Windham, when I am hired by a party, I do not turn around and gather information on that party without their permission. If I came across something unflattering to the Windham family, I would be honor bound to keep it to myself, lest it reflect poorly on a client.”

“But would you tell Her Grace? His Grace?”

This mattered to her, confirming Hazlit’s suspicion some lucky and discreet fellow had the regular pleasure of seeing all that hair tumbling down Magdalene Windham’s naked back.

“I would not tell them unless I thought the information posed a threat to their physical health or well-being.”

She wasn’t going to push for more. He saw that in the way she worried her full lower lip, in the frown that had little creases forming between her brows.

“Papa had a heart seizure little more than a year ago.”

“Right. Percy Windham, though he reportedly spent two weeks at Melton during hunting season, is on the brink of death.”

“Don’t be callous. He’s Moreland to the world, but to us, he’s our papa.”

“He’s also a tough old boot, Miss Windham. He has years left in him.”

She raised her gaze to his, searching his expression.

He did not peer too closely into those troubled eyes. “We need to take this interesting discussion back inside, though I’ll teach you a trick if you like.”

“I most assuredly do not like.”

“That’s my girl.” He lifted his jacket from around her shoulders and slipped into it. “When we go through the doors, don’t sidle along the wall, looking like you’ve just been stealing kisses in the garden.”

“You are fixated on kisses and gardens.”

“Walk in the door like a royal princess,” he said, buttoning his coat. “And don’t go but a few steps into the room before you stop and engage me in conversation.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“So you are not seen coming or going. You are seen standing idly about, the same as a hundred other guests, perhaps nearer the door to get some air, but certainly not skulking around with something to hide.”

She didn’t look happy, but she nodded.

And shivered.

“Come.” He took her hand, wishing they weren’t wearing gloves so he might at least offer her fingers a little warmth. She followed his instructions to the letter, stopping just six steps inside the French doors and turning a winsome smile at him.

“The waltz was delightful. You really must allow more ladies the pleasure, Mr. Hazlit.”

“Would that more ladies had your grace on the dance floor.”

They batted the conversational shuttlecock back and forth a little more before tacitly agreeing neither wanted to endure the other’s company at supper. The lady swanned off ostensibly to find her brother, and Hazlit was left to pursue the matter of Abigail Norcross’s suspected infidelity.

And as he danced and flirted and chatted up the wallflowers, he wondered what sort of mother would name her by-blow Magdalene. The biblical connotations were not kind. Not kind at all.

***

“What has you in a swivet?” Evie flounced back against the squabs of her sister’s town coach and organized her skirts.

“Nothing.” Maggie glanced out the window at the chilly darkness and to the bright façade of the Winterthur mansion beyond. With every lamp and torch lit, the white marble looked like a ghoulish, openmouthed face, staring at her.

She dropped the curtain and tried to focus her thoughts. “I’m not in a swivet. I still haven’t found my reticule.”

“It will turn up. I saw you dancing tonight, Maggie dearest, and with the delectable Mr. Hazlit.”

“Sometimes, baby sister, your powers of observation border on rudeness.”

“It goes with never getting any attention. Val and I have discussed this, each being a youngest. Tagging along is our lot in life, or it was. Don’t you think Hazlit is handsome?”

“I suppose.”

She should have said yes, for that would have put Evie off the scent. Hazlit was handsome, just not in a typically blond, blue-eyed English way. His looks were wilder than that. More compelling.

“I took my turn dancing with Deene.” Evie sighed and sat back. “I rather pity him having to face all the debutantes, and he’s not a bad dancing partner.”

“Don’t be bruiting that about, or Papa will be talking terms. He’s a marquis, Evie, and a friend of the family. He’d do.”

“He would not do in the least, but he’s a marvelous dancer. Jenny says his conversation is amusing.”

“His flirting, you mean.”

Evie’s dreamy smile dimmed. “Mags, when did you become so ungracious toward all save your family? Or are you going to chastise Valentine for tarrying with his friends tonight?”

“I’m just tired.” She did not say she was increasingly worried about her reticule.

“Dancing will do that.” Evie sat up, and Maggie knew her inquisition wasn’t quite over. “You and Mr. Hazlit make a gorgeous couple.”

“Nothing I do constitutes a gorgeous anything, Eve Windham. You will cease that talk immediately.”

“You sound just like Mama in a taking with one of the boys,” Evie said, smiling widely. “You should have seen yourself, Mags. Your eyes sparkled when he held you in his arms.”

“Evie!” Though Maggie had to smile. In some ways, Evie was still their baby girl, allowed to hold on to the innocence of childhood well past her come out.

“They did. Mama had already gone on to Almack’s with the others, but Val and I saw you.”

“I wanted to assure myself the man wasn’t up to his spying. Not on us, anyway.”

“Mags, he wouldn’t be spying at a ball.”

“Yes, Evie, he would.”

And that was something else she’d be talking to Helene Anders about in the morning.

***

Hazlit slowed his pace as he made his way home, forcing himself to calm down. He’d made a few more passes among the Winterthurs’ guests, had gleaned what information he could, then taken himself off before the dancing had resumed after supper.

Spying, indeed. Spying was for sneaks and voyeurs, not for belted earls.

The hypocrisy of that—his holding a title but hiding it—slowed his steps even further. He didn’t hide his title, exactly, he just didn’t trade on it.

He was still trying to sort out his temper when he took a snifter of brandy up to his chambers. He managed without his valet, undressing himself down to his skin, hanging his evening attire on the wardrobe door, then finding his favorite silk dressing gown. The evening was chilly, but his chambers were warm in anticipation of his arrival.

Out of habit, he took his drink to the desk near the blazing hearth in his private sitting room.

What had he seen?

He began to record the evening’s harvest of information and concluded he could narrow down the possible paramours for Lady Abigail Norcross to two. Lord Norcross had assured Hazlit he wasn’t going to use the information to bring adultery grounds against his wife in a divorcement proceeding.

But he was going to threaten, Hazlit knew. He was going to stomp about, bellow, and strut, when the man himself was no scion of fidelity.

But women could not sue for adultery, as a man’s seed was his to spend where he pleased. A wife’s womb belonged to her spouse, though, just like the rest of her. Norcross had his heir and two spares; all he wanted was the freedom to live apart from his wife on some sort of terms. The lady was loathe to give up her place at his side but equally given to finding her consolation outside the marriage bed.

It shouldn’t matter, of course, since her by-blows were unlikely to inherit, but to Lord Norcross, it did.

The dismal topic brought him back to the matter of Miss Magdalene Windham, a ducal by-blow raised with Moreland’s legitimate brood.

Without conscious volition, Hazlit began to sketch her. She had magnificent eyes to go with that hair, and a rather strong nose. The nose suited her, as did the defined jaw and chin. As his pen moved over the paper, he watched the image taking form on the page.

Magdalene Windham was beautiful.

Not in the pale, mousey English mold, but in an earthier, more dramatic way. Her brows and lashes were darker than her hair, and having held her in his arms he could attest to a few freckles across her nose and on her shoulders. Just a few.

They made a man want to kiss…

He tossed the pen down, for he’d drawn the woman not in her ballroom attire but as he’d seen her previously, with her hair tumbling down, her eyes alit with mischief as she prepared to stab him with his lapel pin.

A soft tap on the door interrupted his musings.

“Come in.”

“Make way,” his visitor said. “It’s bloody bleeding cold out for being almost spring, and a man could use a medicinal tot.”

“Here.” Hazlit passed his untouched drink to his guest. “Shall I ring for food?”

“Please.” Archer Portmaine lowered his long bones to the settee facing the fire. “Busy night.”

“A fruitful night?” Hazlit gave three tugs on the bellpull in short succession, the signal for a late tray.

“Don’t know.” Portmaine ran a hand through blond curls, no doubt knowing he was as attractive disheveled as he was dressed to the nines. It was one of the reasons Hazlit was in business with his handsome cousin.

“Lady Abby’s coach departed at the close of the dinner hour,” Portmaine said. “With her in it. She traveled precisely four blocks before her conveyance stopped and she climbed into Hamway’s vehicle. Scurried into it, more like.”

“Did you positively identify her?”

“Yes, as she got in at the Winterthurs’. The footmen carried torches so the ladies could watch their step getting into the carriages.”

“And Hamway was stupid enough to leave his crest exposed?” Hazlit frowned, because answers this easy were suspect on general principle.

“Later in the evening there was cloud cover over the moon, Benjamin.” Portmaine leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“Then how did you determine it was his?”

“I was riding back with the footman on the boot,” he said, “pretending I’d gotten off Lady Norcross’s vehicle. I saw the crest for myself by the occasional street lamp.”

“Did anybody see your face?”

Portmaine lifted his head and opened his eyes to glare at Hazlit. “I know my job, and you haven’t doubted me like this for at least the past two years. I was in disguise, per procedure.”

Hazlit frowned, because Archer Portmaine was as good at his job as he was good-looking. The man’s instincts were infallible and tonight’s job completely routine.

“Last week, she got into Lord Doolish’s conveyance in the same manner,” Hazlit said.

Portmaine blew out a breath. “You want me to swive her? She apparently likes variety, and she’s a pretty little thing. Not her fault if her husband is smitten elsewhere.”

Hazlit turned a stern eye on his associate. “There are lines we do not cross, Archer.”

“You have lost all sense of fun.” Portmaine took a sip of his drink. “It’s fortunate you still serve decent brandy, or I’d despair of you entirely.”

“You will not get under the lady’s skirts now, and you will not offer her consolation when her husband banishes her to their country house.”

“Speaking of skirts.” Portmaine’s eyes began to dance. “I saw you turning down the room with Maggie Windham. Excellent choice, old man. How’d you get her to stand up with you?”

“She was inveigled onto the dance floor by a friend. How is it you know her?”
Much
less
know
her
as
Maggie?