The Harlot Countess (4 page)

But too much had changed between them. Too much to ever go back, to be sure.

He opened his mouth—no doubt with some question or insight she had no desire to hear—so she blurted, “You wished to speak with me?”

His jaw snapped shut. After a moment, he said, “Not here, I think. No, I will come to see you tomorrow.”

“Will you.”

“Yes. The answers I require are best discussed in private.”

Oh, indeed?
Little doubt what the line of questions would be, then. God knew she’d heard them all hundreds of times over the last ten years.

A small knot of disappointment twisted in her chest. She hadn’t expected it, though she should have. Simon was no different from the others. Hadn’t she learned that lesson when he’d ignored her after Mr. Davenport—now Viscount Cranford—spread those filthy lies? She’d loved Simon madly once, and he’d proven unworthy of such a powerful and generous emotion.

Yet hearing him say the words would open a wound she’d worked hard to heal. She needed to find a way to dissuade him. Ignoring him hadn’t done the trick. Neither had refusing him. There was another path to take.

“You assume I will be home to accept callers. Perhaps I have plans—or perhaps I will be occupied with another guest. The evening is far from over, after all.”

The expression on his face changed, hardened, as she’d hoped it would. Satisfaction was short-lived, however, because he returned, “If that is so, perhaps he could see his way to allowing you a few minutes for a friend.”

She almost laughed. “
Friend?
Simon, I have nothing to offer or say to you. The idea of a friendship between us is ludicrous for so many reasons, the least of which is your lauded political career. What will people think, the powerful Earl of Winchester with the Half-Irish—”

“Do not say it,” he snapped, surprising her.

“Do not say what?
Harlot?
” A dry, brittle laugh escaped. “Come, you know what everyone calls me. There’s no getting around it, I’m afraid. And one thing I’ve learned over the years is that it is better to embrace your destiny rather than try and alter it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must change.”

 

 

Maggie threw open her chamber door with more force than she intended. Her sister, Rebecca, glanced up from where she sat on Maggie’s bed, reading. “My heavens. What is the matter?”

Maggie strode to the bell pull and tugged. She’d need Tilda’s help with a new gown. “I stepped in the pool and dampened the hem of my dress.”

“Did you? Oh, I wish I could have seen that.”

Maggie smiled at her sister. This was an old battle—one Becca would never, ever win. “You know my parties are not for respectable Society ladies. Coming below would ruin your reputation, which I might add already suffers from our being related. It’s bad enough you insist on sending your husband.”

Becca lifted her chin. “Someone needs to watch out for you. Marcus will never let anything happen.”

“What, precisely, worries you? That I’ll run low on champagne and fisticuffs will break out?” While Becca’s protectiveness was an open source of amusement, it secretly warmed Maggie’s jaded heart.

“Jest if you must, but I won’t have them hurt you again. Now tell me what actually happened to upset you.”

The disappointed set of Simon’s full lips when she’d uttered the word
harlot
filled her vision. Better to get it over with, as Becca would hear about it soon enough from her husband. “Winchester is here.”

Becca’s mouth formed a perfectly round ring of dismay. “Good heavens. Why, after all this time, would he come tonight?”

Maggie lifted her shoulder. “We ran into one another the other day at McGinnis’s shop.”

“You . . . you did?” Becca gasped. “And you did not tell me?”

A sharp knock sounded before Tilda marched into the room. She tittered when she saw Maggie’s dress. “That’s what you get from swimming in the pool, my lady. Come with me.”

Most ladies would never tolerate rebuke from a servant—but then Maggie was not most ladies. And Tilda definitely was not most servants. Once the wife of a butcher back in Little Walsingham, Tilda had run the shop with iron-fisted efficiency. Her husband had been a spendthrift drunkard, however, and Tilda had ended up with most of the work. The hours long and the job physically demanding, Tilda had been exhausted. So when her husband died, Maggie had asked the childless woman to come and work for her instead.

She hadn’t regretted it. Tilda was a gift from heaven. She oversaw everything, leaving Maggie to do what she loved best: her art.

Maggie followed Tilda into the dressing room, leaving the door ajar to continue her conversation with Becca. “It was hardly worth mentioning. We made polite chitchat for a few moments as he purchased some paintings.”

“Purchased paintings! Which ones? Not one of—”

“He bought a handful of Lemarc’s nature paintings,” Maggie cut off her sister. Tilda likely knew of Maggie’s sobriquet, but one never knew who else could be listening. While Tilda could be trusted, many other staff members could not.

The gown slid off her shoulders. “Here, step out,” Tilda ordered.

The petticoat came next. Then Maggie drew her wet stockings off. “The only reason he attended this evening was because he wishes to speak with me and I refused to answer his notes.”

Maggie heard Becca’s squeak of outrage from the next room. “And what does he wish to discuss after all this time? The gall of that man. I hope you told him to go to the devil!”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. “In more polite terms, yes. That is very nearly what I told him.”

“You know I do not care for political matters, but Winchester has made quite a name for himself in Parliament. Not that I would ever lower myself to give him any notice—not after what he did to you. And everyone knows he has a mistress over on Curzon Street.”

Maggie frowned. Of course he did. She purposely avoided any conversation where Winchester’s private life was discussed, but a mistress was de rigueur for male peers and politicos. Of course proper wives and ladies were supposed to sit home and drink tea . . . alone. And how, exactly, was that not a recipe for a woman to go stark-raving mad?

The restrictions placed on women in Society were unfair and infuriating. Thank God for the outlet Lemarc afforded her to point out such injustices. It was the only reason for these fêtes: they were a means of gaining access to the
ton
. Most of her invitations had dried up ages ago. Not even marriage had made her respectable, forgiven for all of her supposed transgressions, so she used lavish events to bring the
ton
to her instead. After all, the two things Society adored were scandals and champagne; Maggie had already given them the first and kept supplying the second. Little wonder her parties had become fashionable with a certain set.

And the evenings had proven quite fruitful, if the popularity of Lemarc’s cartoons were anything to go by. Each event produced at least one delicious
on-dit
, sometimes more. In fact, Maggie’s fingers itched to get her paper and pencils, the idea for a new cartoon already swirling in her mind.

“Did you hear me, Maggie?”

“Yes, I heard you,” she called as Tilda reappeared with stockings and a clean petticoat. Once they were on, Tilda helped Maggie into a fresh gown. This one wasn’t quite as lovely as the ruined costume, but the green silk would flatter her eyes.

With arms in the sleeves, Maggie held it as Tilda fastened up the back.

“There. Now, no more swimming, my lady.”

“I shall try, Tilda, but I make no promises.” Maggie strode back into her bedchamber. “Becca, I must return to the ballroom.”

“I do not like it,” her sister said, a heavy frown transforming her pretty face.

“What, the dress?”

“You know that is not what I am talking about.” Becca crossed her arms. “I do not like that he is here, upsetting you. Will you be able to ignore him?”

Maggie smiled at her overprotective yet sweet younger sister. Becca had always been Maggie’s biggest champion, even when the rest of the world had thought the worst. “Of course. After all, I’ve ignored his existence for ten years. How hard could a few more hours be?”

Chapter Four

“Better not have too many, Winejester!”

Three young men dissolved into laughter, and Simon forced a smile and raised his glass toward them. He recognized each one, the fools. “Appreciate the warning, Pryce.”

Colton made a noise. “The reason you should humor those walking cocks is unfathomable to me. It’s as if your bollocks have shriveled up and fallen off since you started up in Parliament.”

“Pryce’s father is the Earl of Stratham, one of my biggest allies. Pulverizing his son for a drunken jest is not how the game is played, Colt.”

“Exactly why I never took up my seat in Lords. Too many favors and slaps on the back. No one saying what they truly mean. I don’t know how you tolerate it.”

Simon sighed. Colton knew him better than anyone, but not even his childhood friend would understand. Colton’s father had been a cold-hearted bastard, not particularly well liked in either Parliament or Society. But Simon could perceive his family’s legacy everywhere he turned. Some men came from a long line of butchers or blacksmiths; the Barrett men were statesmen, helping to shape the policy and future of the realm since Henry the Sixth. The fifth Earl of Winchester had once served as Lord President of the Council. And Fox himself had taken counsel with Simon’s father on occasion.

His father had died at forty-five. Rare heart condition, they’d said. Simon had no idea if his own health would follow a similar path—if he were going to keel over and expire, dear God, let it be a surprise—but he did intend to do something worthwhile in the time he had left.

So six years ago, he had taken up his seat in Lords. Turned out he had the family knack for politics as well, and he’d quickly gained a reputation for backing the winning side. He enjoyed the competitiveness of Parliament. The thrill of success. The challenge of exploiting an opponent’s weakness to get what he wanted.

“I rather like the Winejester cartoons,” Colton continued. “At least I’ll always have those to remember our drunken escapades.”

Simon turned sharply. “Have you purchased one?”

Colton’s lips twitched. “I’ve tried. Twice. Curst shopkeeper won’t sell it to me.”

“Well, I wish they would stop. Certainly there are more interesting subjects to skewer.”

“Doubtful.” Colton followed Simon’s gaze to the circle of men on the other side of the room. They both knew who stood in the center of that pack of jackals. “Do you plan to stare at her all night, my friend? You’re glowering like an elderly chaperone, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.”

Simon took a healthy swallow of champagne, wished for something stronger. “I’m trying to reconcile the somewhat shy and sweet girl I knew with this confident and brazen . . .”

“One can change,” Colton murmured. “Or perhaps you never really knew her at all—you only assume you did.”

Yes, she had certainly duped him. How many men had she taken to her bed before Cranford had revealed her true nature? And to think, he’d even asked his mother for the Winchester rubies as a betrothal gift.

Watching her flirt and entertain her circle of admirers put him in a foul mood. Which must have shown on his face because Colton asked, “Wondering whom she may choose tonight?”

“The fortunate sod,” Simon growled.

“Who says she’ll take only one? There were plenty of nights where I—”

“God, don’t say it. You know how much I loathe it when you attempt to be insightful.” Simon threw back the rest of his bubbly. “I’m off. Give Julia my excuses and I’ll see you on the morrow, if you’re about.”

“Allow me to guess,” Colton drawled. “Curzon Street.”

No need to answer. Colton was right and they both knew it. He shoved his empty glass into his friend’s hand and headed for the door.

Outside, Simon set a brisk pace for the small house where his current mistress, Adrianna, resided. Curzon Street was not far, so he told his coachman he’d rather walk. If nothing else, he needed the cold air to clear his head. The sight of Maggie surrounded by her throngs of admirers gave him a pounding ache precisely behind the eyes.

He knew what those men saw because he’d seen it once, too. Maggie could hold the attention of a room merely by lifting a dainty finger. Heart-stoppingly beautiful, her unique looks and confidence could bring a man to his knees. It had taken him years to forget her.

So Adrianna was precisely what he needed at the end of this evening. A soft, warm, and willing body to take his mind off everything else. He’d first met Adrianna at Drury Lane, where she’d upstaged Kean in a production of
Brutus.
It had taken some doing to get her away from her former protector, but Simon had charmed her until she relented—charmed as well as promised better lodgings and more money.

They got on well and she was an enthusiastic and adventurous lover. He hadn’t planned to see her this evening so he had no clue whether she was in. Approaching the tiny brick house, he noticed the lamps were on. That boded well. He took the front steps quickly, rapped on the door.

Adrianna’s maid, Lucy, answered. She confirmed Adrianna was in, took his things, and asked him to wait in the small sitting room in the front. Odd, since he normally would venture directly to Adrianna’s bedchamber. Instead of trying to understand the workings of his mistress’s mind, Simon used the opportunity alone to get a strong drink. He splashed a liberal amount of his favorite scotch whisky into a tumbler. Imported from an illegal distillery in one of the Inner Hebrides, the whisky did not come cheap.
But it’s worth every shilling,
he thought, taking a swallow as he settled on the small sofa to wait.

Why did Maggie not dance any longer? She had loved to dance all those years ago. He knew because he had partnered with her at least once during every party. And each time he’d arrived to claim their set, her eyes had sparkled, a secret joke between the two of them—

The latch sounded and Adrianna burst through the door. Her long, brown hair swirled down her back, a black silk dressing gown covering her petite, but generously endowed, body. By the way her breasts bounced and swayed, it was clear she was naked under the thin fabric. Excellent. That would certainly expedite matters.

“Darling! I had no idea you planned to come tonight.” She crossed to the sofa and sat down, leaning over to kiss him. “Is something amiss? You know how I worry when you stray off your routine.”

He frowned. Was he so regimented, then? So predictable and boring? “Everything is fine. I was out nearby and thought I would see if you were home. Were you going out?”

“I have a late supper with friends, but I’m more than happy to cancel my plans.”

“No, it’s unfair of me to come unexpected. I was just in a mood.”

She lifted her brows and gave him a sultry smile. “Is that so? What kind of
mood ?
The kind of mood where I get on top and—”

He laughed. “You are incorrigible, you saucy wench. I’m only staying for the drink.” He finished the whisky and leaned forward to place the glass on the table. “I’ll see you this week. Tuesday, as always.”

Adrianna threw a leg over his waist, lifting her dressing gown to sit astride him. “Maybe I better give you a reason to come back, then.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her mouth on his, kissing him deep and hard. The soft, enticing weight of her heavy breasts rested on his chest. He felt his body begin to respond, so he gently put some distance between them.

“Tuesday,” he told her. “We’ll finish this on Tuesday.”

“I can hardly wait,” she said, grinding down on his growing erection. “Why don’t I suck you now? You know how much you love my mouth. I’m certain it won’t take long.”

He considered it. Adrianna was incredibly skilled. But every time he closed his eyes he saw midnight hair and flashing green eyes. Imagined it was Maggie on her knees, taking his cock between her luscious—

“I see you like that idea,” Adrianna purred, her clever fingers working their way to the buttons on his breeches.

He grabbed her hand. “Not tonight. Not if you’re on your way out.” And definitely not when all he could think about was Maggie.

What in God’s name was wrong with him? He’d never been distracted by thoughts of another woman while enjoying Adrianna’s charms. Ever. However, Maggie kept invading his brain, even at the most inopportune moments. He did not want Adrianna; he wanted another woman. Craved her with every molecule in his body.

No doubt there were other men in London likely experiencing the very same reaction.

“Fine.” Adrianna pouted, regaining his attention. “I’ll see you on Tuesday, then.” She kissed him once and then stood up. Not that he’d expected her to argue, but her easy acceptance had him frowning. Was she so eager for him to leave? When he’d first set her up in this small house, they had enjoyed many evenings together, but over the last six months he’d settled into a pattern of twice weekly visits. He hadn’t given a thought about what she did on those other five nights.

Smoothing down her dressing gown, she added, “I best get to it. It will take some time to finish dressing.”

A rap on the front door sounded. Simon heard Lucy, the maid, hurry down the hall. A single male voice drifted through the walls. Adrianna’s eyes darted to his face and Simon registered the guilt there.

“You’re not going out, are you?”

Her fingers twined in the loops of her dressing gown, and she swallowed. “No,” she said, quietly.

He sighed. “Hell.”

 

 

The sun peered out from behind a large cloud just as Maggie entered the park. She’d offered many times to host these meetings at her own house, but her companion staunchly refused. As if Maggie gave a whit for propriety. Besides, did anyone truly care with whom the Harlot associated with these days?

She had no trouble spotting the carriage. Though plain and without distinguishing marks, it was the only conveyance with the curtains drawn on such a lovely winter day. She slowed her mare, dismounted, and threw the reins to her groom.

The driver jumped to the ground at her approach. “Morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Biggins. How’s her mood today?”

“Excitable, my lady,” he answered with a smile and opened the door. “But I am used to it.”

A volume of purple silk rustled as Maggie climbed inside.

“Quit complaining, you puppy. You have the easiest job in all of London,” the woman snapped and then gentled her voice. “Come in, my lady. Please, have a seat.”

The lamps in the carriage gave off a warm glow, revealing the delicate face of Pearl Kelly, London’s current reigning courtesan. Swathed in a resplendent violet morning dress and expensive jewelry, Pearl could easily have passed for nobility if one didn’t know her background. Born in the slums of London, she’d used her unparalleled wit and quick mind to make an illustrious name for herself.

She and Maggie had become friends of a sort. When Hawkins died, Maggie had moved back to London a much different woman. No longer a sheltered innocent, she now understood the difficulties women faced in a man’s world—especially those without money or family connections. She’d decided to help other fallen women, even if the label was earned. Women had so few choices in this world, a fact she understood better than most, so should she not try and help those less fortunate?

Through Tilda, Maggie had learned of Pearl’s wretched childhood. As a girl, Pearl had suffered abuse and left home at eleven years of age. No one quite knew what had happened to her between quitting home and finding her first protector. Pearl never said, but one could assume they had not been the happiest of times. After learning of Pearl’s struggle, Maggie had believed the courtesan to be the perfect choice for her plan. She’d approached Pearl with a proposition: If Maggie provided the money, would Pearl see it used to help the London girls and women who traded their bodies for coin?

Pearl had jumped at the opportunity. The courtesan provided knowledge of the brothels and how best to help the girls earning a living there. She was acquainted with the owners, aware of who would be receptive to new ideas, and who would use additional funds in the intended manner. And when they were fleeced by an owner, which had only happened once, Pearl employed a few large men to send a message.

Maggie liked to hope the efforts made a difference. While one could never prevent a girl from making a living on her back, Pearl and Maggie did try to keep them healthy and safe.

“Good afternoon, Pearl. You look stunning, as usual.”

Pearl waved the compliment away, though Maggie knew it pleased her. “I feel tired, my lady. I am considering a young man and he is much more . . . energetic than I’m used to. Though I must say, one learns to appreciate exuberance at my age. It far outweighs experience.”

Maggie chuckled. “Considering Hawkins was nearly thirty years my senior, I understand. In my next life, I hope to be blessed with a young buck.”

Pearl made a disbelieving sound. “Next life? If your ladyship will forgive my impertinence, you are young, beautiful, rich . . . what in heaven’s name are you waiting for?”

Maggie had no idea, to tell the truth. At twenty-eight, she’d had two lovers: her husband and a Frenchman she’d met while studying in Paris. Both experiences had been disasters.

“I can see I have brought up unhappy memories, so my apologies,” Pearl said. “And I did not arrange this meeting to discuss our current amours—though should your ladyship ever seek advice, you only need ask. What I don’t know about men could fit on the head of a pin.”

“Thank you. I may take you up on your offer one of these days.”

“Indeed, I hope so. Talking about men is my very favorite thing to do.” She smirked. “Well, second favorite anyway.”

They both laughed, and then Maggie asked, “So if we aren’t discussing men, what are we discussing?”

Pearl smoothed down the folds of her skirt. “A few matters. The first, my lady, is I have spoken to the owner of The Goose and Gander. She has accepted our terms in exchange for the money.”