The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(15)

“Now, I have one last request. One of our houses, over in Long Acre, has thrived with the embroidery instruction, so much so that a few girls would care to apprentice with a dressmaker. Perhaps your ladyship knows of a modiste who would appreciate a somewhat sullied pair of helping hands.”

“How many girls?”

“Three.”

Maggie bit her bottom lip, thinking. Possibly she could browbeat her own modiste into taking one girl, but she did not spend much on clothing or fripperies. And her social rank, while titled, was not as powerful as that of a lady without a scandalous past. That left her with little leverage. “I fear my position is not powerful enough for such a feat. It would take a lady with tremendous cachet to convince a modiste to take on these girls.”

“I know a lady who qualifies,” Pearl said. “And she happens to be in my debt. I once did her a favor and she was exceedingly grateful.”

“Wonderful. Let’s ask her.”

Pearl shook her head. “I cannot. For many reasons, I must not approach her directly. But your ladyship can....”





Simon presented his card at the door, unsure of his reception. Would Maggie refuse to see him? She’d been politely cool the previous evening after changing her costume, and there was every possibility she had a guest in the house.

His hand tightened on the crown of his walking stick.

One glance at his card and the servant ushered him inside. He noted she was the same woman who had admitted them the previous evening. Had Maggie no butler, then? He quickly handed over his things and followed to a comfortable sitting room in order to wait.

Aside from her lavish parties, it seemed Lady Hawkins lived responsibly, even frugally. The furnishings exhibited some wear. The rugs were serviceable plain wool rather than fashionable Aubusson carpets. True, an ample amount of coal sat in the grate, giving off a nice amount of heat, but it was a comfortable space without pretension or artifice. It suited her, he thought. Certainly a refreshing change from the extravagance of the other women he’d consorted with over the last few years—though, to be fair, mistresses were not exactly known for pinching a penny.

After a few moments, a small landscape portrait on the far wall caught his eye.

He closed in for a better inspection. A watercolor seaside scene. Quite smartly done, in fact. Waves pounded the beach and a selection of birds littered the sand, perfectly capturing the vibrancy and serenity of the location, as well as the chaos of the ocean. The artist had skill. Odd there was no signature in the corner. It had the look of a Gainsborough or Sandby, to his eye.

Art normally bored him to tears, but this . . . this calmed him. He could stare at it and not grow to hate it day after day. There was something about it, though, something familiar about the image. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Not the location, exactly—

The door opened, startling him.

“Good afternoon.”

And there stood Lady Hawkins, every bit as vibrant and lovely as the painting he’d just been studying. The combination of black hair, luminous green eyes, and porcelain skin made his breath catch—just as it had all those years ago. Only she wasn’t a girl any longer, but a woman with fuller curves. He wished he could have witnessed her transition, he realized.

She dropped a quick curtsy. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

He bowed. “I have not been waiting long. I’ve been admiring this picture here.” He gestured to the watercolor. “I was attempting to discern the artist, but it’s unsigned. Do you know who painted it?”

She smoothed the folds of her dark blue gown and drew near, her eyes on the painting. “Do you like it?”

The hesitation and attention to her clothing gave him the impression the question unnerved her. His first thought was that someone close to her had painted it. A lover, perhaps? “I do, very much. I’m not an expert when it comes to art, but this is well done.”

Satisfaction curved her generous lips. “Excellent.”

Definitely a lover. A dark, irrational jealousy churned in his stomach. Would he forever be reminded at every turn just how many men had graced her bed? “Shall we sit?” he bit out.

“I painted it.”

“You?” He couldn’t hide his surprise, and a strange look passed over her face before she could hide it.

“Shocking that a woman possesses talent, I know.”

“I meant no such ridiculousness. You’re quite gifted.”

“You are too kind,” she murmured, though there was a tone in her voice that sounded . . . offended?

“Would you care to sit?” he heard himself ask again.

She cocked her head, studied him with an enigmatic expression. “I’d rather stand. I suppose it’s only polite to offer you refreshment. Shall I ring for tea?”

He refused as Maggie drifted away toward the armchair by the fire. Instead of sitting in it, she ran her fingers over the high back, stroking the fabric and regarding him thoughtfully. “Have you come to see if I live up to my name?”

“What?” he blurted. She couldn’t mean—

“We’re both aware of what everyone calls me, Simon. I’ve heard the word nearly every place I have turned for ten years. One would not think the residents of Little Walsingham to be so current on gossip, but”—she shrugged—“there it is. So have you decided to find out if I have earned the title?”