Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (9 page)

“I am prudent. My family values this in me; it has been a relief to them.”

“They’ve said as much?”

“Her Grace has.” She glanced out the window. “We’ll be back to my house soon. Shall I have the coachman drop you off at your own address?”

“We still have much to discuss.”

“And yet we’ve been in constant conversation.”

Unfortunate word choice.

“I can call on you tomorrow.” But God in heaven, where had that brilliant notion come from? He seldom called on women, and it would be remarked by all and sundry if he started with Maggie Windham.

“I don’t generally have callers outside my family.”

“None?”

“Helene, a few other women, but not… not gentlemen, and certainly not handsome single gentlemen with polished address.”

She
thought
he
was
handsome?

“Make an exception for me. We were seen waltzing; a follow-up social call wouldn’t be that unusual. I could meet you riding in the park, if you’d rather, but there’s less privacy.”

“I do not keep a riding horse.”

“Then I will call upon you at two of the clock. I will expect you to be a little more forthcoming than you were this evening.”

“I will try. You never answered my question: Shall I have John drop you at your home?”

“God, no. You might think he’d keep such a thing to himself, but I’ve yet to meet the coachman who didn’t enjoy his pints at the local watering hole, and that’s a situation rife with opportunity for hanging a lady’s laundry in the street, so to speak. He’ll slow on the turn into the alley, and I’ll be off.”

“Like a thief in the night.”

“Like a gentleman in the night.”

He tucked into his pocket the lock of hair he’d surreptitiously cut with her knife, and as soon as the coach slowed, darted out the door without another word.

***

“You think my wits have gone begging,” Maggie said. She didn’t blame Alice for a look of exasperation, not in the least. “I just haven’t had a caller outside family in ages, and I’m… nervous.”

Standing in her corset and stockings, Maggie was undecided.

“Anything in your wardrobe will be above reproach, mum. You’ll feel most confident in something you like wearing.”

“Good advice. The bronze silk and the cream gloves.”

“You’re stepping out with your caller?”

“I’m not.” Maggie took the dress from Alice and pulled it over her head. “But there’s no need for informality.”

“A coronet, then?”

“A tidy coronet, one braid, no jewelry.” As plain and severe a toilet as she could politely manage for a morning call. Hazlit was coming to talk business, and yet Maggie’s insides were jumping around as if she were seventeen and permitted to dine at table for one of Her Grace’s formal dinners.

There was no need for this.
None.

She sat at the vanity and passed a brush back to Alice, who went to work on the thankless task of brushing out Maggie’s hair.

“Did you catch your hair on something last night?”

“I did not. Why?”

Alice dangled a coppery skein over Maggie’s shoulder. “You must have snagged it. This length is a good three inches shorter.”

“I doubt that. The whole business is in need of a good trim, and it’s probably just getting uneven.”

“Yes, mum.”

Alice fell silent, her fingers deftly pinning a fat braid into a circle that coiled one and a half times around Maggie’s head. Alice loaded the thing with what felt like several dozen pins, then handed Maggie cream knit gloves.

“Will I do?”

Alice’s homely face creased into a smile. “Aye, mum. You’ll do. Whoever he is, he’s in for a treat.”

“How did you know it’s a man?”

“Because I’ve not seen you this flummoxed since your first season,” Alice said, hanging a discarded gown back in the wardrobe. “About time, if you ask me.”

“Alice…”

“I know.” Alice waved a hand and picked up the second dress and the third. “I’m not to be braying your business about should His Grace’s footmen get to visiting in the kitchen, or Her Grace’s lady’s maid, or your sisters or brothers. Your business is yours and yours alone.”

“You don’t agree?”

Alice had been Maggie’s maid since Maggie had turned sixteen—roughly half Maggie’s lifetime. She was permitted a certain familiarity, in part because she never took advantage of the privilege.

“I’m thinking a woman with as much decent family as you have, mum, shouldn’t be trying so awfully hard to keep her distance from them.”

Alice might have said more, might have let Maggie have a rare piece of blunt Irish common sense, but the tweeny rapped on the bedroom doorjamb.

“Beg pardon, mum, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” She passed over a silver tray, upon which lay one calling card.

Cream linen, green ink, and all it said was: “The Hon. Benjamin Hazlit.”

Honorable? Was he in line for a title, or did he truly have one? Maggie decided to put the question to her papa, who knew as much about the business of the Lords as Her Grace knew about the order of precedence. This would involve a trip to the ducal mansion, but needs must.

“Put him in the family parlor, Millie, and get the teakettle going. Sandwiches and cakes both on the tray.”

“Yes, mum.” Millie bobbed away toward the servants’ stairs, leaving Maggie feeling an odd giddiness.

“Let him wait five minutes,” Alice said from the depths of the wardrobe. “You’re worth that much of his time.”

“But the sooner I greet him, the sooner he’ll be gone.” Maggie squared her shoulders and prepared to meet her caller. Her first gentleman caller in fourteen years, and all he’d want to talk about was her very sorry personal business.

***

“You’re studying my garden,” Miss Windham said. “It isn’t very far along yet, but the Holland bulbs are making a good effort.”

“I grew up in the North,” Hazlit replied. “We appreciate any gestures in the direction of spring, from any quarter. Good day, Miss Windham, a pleasure to see you.”

He bowed very correctly over her hand, and she curtsied with equal punctilio.

“Where shall I put…?” A little maid stopped in the doorway, all but hidden behind a large bouquet of bright red carnations.

Alas
for
my
heart.
Hazlit knew the sentiment associated with red carnations and had had them delivered anyway. He certainly wasn’t going to send the woman roses, for God’s sake. Carnations were durable, and they had a fresh, spicy scent that put Hazlit in mind of his hostess. She didn’t strike him as the type of lady to waste time decoding bouquets in any case.

“On the sideboard, Millie.” Miss Windham’s lips turned up in a smile more sweet than any Hazlit had seen on her. “My youngest brother is temporarily returned to Town,” she said, taking the card from the bouquet. “Of all my siblings, Valentine is the one most likely to make the gallant gesture…”

She fell silent while she read the card, her smile shifting to something heart-wrenchingly tentative. “This wasn’t necessary, Mr. Hazlit.”

Regards, Hazlit.
Not exactly poetry, but proof he’d upstaged at least her doting brother.

“Perhaps not necessary, but a man can hope his small tokens are appreciated.” He glanced pointedly at the maid while he delivered that flummery, because the girl was lingering over the flowers unnecessarily.

“That will be all, Millie. Shall we be seated, Mr. Hazlit?”

Maggie Windham was smart enough to allow him to steer the conversation. While she poured tea and fed him a surprisingly generous cold meal, Hazlit kept the conversation social and inane. If he hadn’t been watching her closely, he’d have missed the signs of her growing impatience.

But he was watching her closely, delighting in it, in fact. He saw her steal repeated glances at the flowers, her expression betraying muted strains of longing and bewilderment. He saw her gaze flicker over the chocolates every time he paused to take a bite of his food. He saw her stirring her tea with her spoon, tapping it against the bottom of the cup—plink, plink, plink—as he went on about the weather and the seasonings on the chicken and the previous evening’s music.

She was good, never dropping a conversational stitch, never letting the polite interest slip from her eyes.

He was good, too, babbling away, stuffing his maw, and all the while not allowing his attention to linger on the long, graceful line of her throat or the way the sun glossed her hair with brilliant gold highlights.

That hair, spread over a pillow…

“May I offer you another sandwich, Mr. Hazlit?” She lifted the caddy toward him, which meant her décolletage was inclined toward him, as well.

“No, thank you. I’ve quite disgraced myself. My sisters admonish me regularly about the hazards of neglecting my nutrition. Perhaps if my kitchen were as skilled as yours, I might heed their guidance with more alacrity.”

“If you’re no longer hungry, shall we take a turn in the garden?” She rose as she spoke, her tone pleasantly causal, though Hazlit acceded her point: It was time to be getting on with business.

“I can walk off the last of those tea cakes.” He winged his arm at her. She did not lead him into the corridor, which would have necessitated a trip through her house. She instead took him out a pair of French doors leading directly to her back terrace.

“A pretty afternoon,” he said as they moved away from the house. “I’m afraid we’re to have a rather unpretty discussion.”

“You’re going to castigate me again for my coiffure last night.” Her tone was mild, teasing almost, and they were still within earshot of the house. His respect for her—a man could respect even his enemies—rose a notch.

“It was daring.” He chose the word so as not to offend. Offended women were tedious and endlessly befuddling. “But quite attractive.”

“Don’t flatter me, Mr. Hazlit. You compared me to a streetwalker.”

She spoke very quietly, her expression utterly serene, and he felt… guilty. Guilty for being male and judgmental, and even a little guilty for finding her attractive. The notion was so foreign it took him half the length of the garden to identify it.

“You must be desperate to find this reticule.”

“Was your insult a test of my resolve?” She ran her hand up a sprig of lavender a long way from blossoming. “I’m to tolerate your opinion of me, your casual vituperation, in order to see my belongings restored to me?”

“I apologize for calling you a… dollymop.” He meant the apologetic words, he just did not enjoy saying them, particularly when they effected not one iota of softening in her serene expression.

“Shall we sit, Mr. Hazlit? We’re far enough from the house.”

They were. Her back gardens, like those in most of the better neighborhoods’, were quite deep and surrounded by walls high enough to ensure privacy. The breeze was blowing toward the mews. If they kept their voices down, they could speak freely.

He led her to a bench in the shade, waiting while she took a seat.

“You can’t loom over me if we’re to have a proper conversation,” she said. “I accept your apology, though I need some assurances, as well.”

He took his place beside her, feeling himself brace inside. He’d apologized; it was time to get on to business. “What assurances?”

“You will treat me with the respect due the adopted daughter of a duke and duchess, or no matter how badly I need to find my reticule, I’ll seek the assistance of another. If I must, I will, Mr. Hazlit. I’ll do so without mention of your disappointing behavior, but I’ll do it.”

She’d broken off a bit of lavender as they’d strolled along. She was crushing it in her fingers as she spoke, the scent as pungent as her words.

Lavender, for distrust.

“I will treat you with every courtesy due any lady,” he said, watching her fingers destroy the little green sprig.

“Not good enough.” She continued to torment the remains of the plant. “Courtesy can be a weapon, Mr. Hazlit. Her Grace taught me this before I was out of the schoolroom. She taught me how to wield it and how to defend myself against it.”

What was he supposed to say to that?

“We will not have this discussion again.” She let her hands settle in her lap. “Their Graces bought me, you know. They’d acquired my brother Devlin the year before, and my mother, inspired by this development, threatened to publish all manner of lurid memoirs regarding His Grace.”

Acquired
her brother? As if he were a promising yearling colt or an attractive patch of ground?

“You are going to burden me with the details of your family past, I take it?”

“You are the man who glories in details.” Without the least rude inflection, she made it sound like a failing. “My point is that my mother sold me. She could just as easily have sold me to a brothel. It’s done all the time. Unlike your sisters, Mr. Hazlit, I do not take for granted the propriety with which I was raised. You may ignore it if you please; I will not.”