The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(18)
“You appear”—he gestured to his face and neck—“flushed. Is it overly warm in here? I should hate to think you’re coming down with a fever of some kind.”
Unbelievable, his impertinence. “A gentleman would not comment on the color of a lady’s skin.”
“Shall I open a window, Maggie? Fetch a cool cloth? I shouldn’t want you to—”
“All I need,” she bit out, “is for you to leave.”
He smiled, bowed. “As you wish, my lady.”
So the attraction was reciprocated. Interesting.
Simon knew the signs of a woman’s desire—high color, heavy lids, rapid breathing, tight, beaded nipples poking through cloth—and Maggie had exhibited those and more. His own body’s reaction to her lust had almost knocked him to his knees. Christ, he’d wanted to take her right then on the small sofa. Rutted like an animal in heat until he lost himself in her.
But he had been duped before. What a clever actress she’d been ten years ago, with her coy smiles and lingering glances. He hadn’t questioned her feelings until he’d seen the irrefutable proof of her perfidy. So he would not allow her to humiliate him once more—or have her questionable standing damage his reputation in Parliament. Hard to argue for preserving morals for future generations when linked to the most scandalous woman in Society. As an earl, his father had said, people will depend on you to do the honorable thing. Without a doubt, the honorable thing would be to keep his distance from Lady Hawkins.
Therefore, as he returned to his study at Barrett House, he put the idea of tumbling Maggie firmly out of his mind. There were other matters to attend to today.
First there were meetings with members of Liverpool’s circle to outline Simon’s upcoming proposal, a law that would force men convicted of rape to pay financial restitution to their victims. Then he sat with his secretary to deal with correspondence before his solicitor arrived to review a contract for a parcel of land in Scotland. By the time late afternoon crept over the city, he was starving.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Timmons, arrived with the footman bearing provisions. “My lord,” she said, “a Mr. Hollister is here to see you. But before you begin your meeting, may I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course, Mrs. Timmons. Thank you, Michael,” he told the footman, dismissing him.
“My lord, a girl presented herself at the back door last night, a cousin to one of our lower housemaids. I’ve taken her on, which means I must place one of our older girls in another residence. I sent a note to the viscount’s housekeeper, but I believe she’s new and not yet acquainted with our staffing arrangement.”
Simon sighed. “I’ll speak to Quint. His housekeepers do not last, as you well know.”
“Thank you, my lord. That would be most helpful. The duchess’s housekeeper, however, was only too glad to take Annie. I’ve got the girl packing her things now. Shall I give her the usual reference and severance ?”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Timmons. And thank you for your diligence.”
“It is my pleasure, my lord. It’s a sorry thing, to see a twelve-year-old girl with bruises all over her face and body.”
“The girl from last night?” Mrs. Timmons nodded, so Simon said, “Tell the staff to give her some time to heal before putting her to work, then.”
“I will, my lord.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Timmons. Show Hollister back, if you please.”
She returned a few minutes later, a beefy, unremarkable man behind her. The man entered and gave a polite bow. “My lord. It is an honor.”
Simon’s approach to finding Lemarc had many facets. Quint would study the bird paintings to narrow down a possible location, and Maggie could examine the works for any clues in the artist’s technique. But the most likely method to elicit results would come through an investigator.
Hollister came highly recommended. He’d toiled for Bow Street for years, more recently taking on discreet work for members of Society. On looks alone, he seemed well suited for it; one could imagine the man blending in anywhere.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Hollister. If you’ll have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs opposite the desk.
Hollister, limping ever so slightly, came forward and lowered into a chair.
“I’ll get to the point,” Simon started. “I need you to find someone. Have you heard of the artist Lemarc?”
Maggie arrived fashionably late.
The stone monstrosity that passed for the Duke of Colton’s residence loomed like a setting in a gloomy Gothic novel. The lamps and torches blazed in the darkness to illuminate the pointed arches and flying buttresses. Good heavens, were those gargoyles? She often sketched buildings and churches, and her fingers itched for her charcoals as she waited on the stoop.
Hard to believe she’d been invited tonight. It’d been quite some time since she’d been asked to a dinner party of this caliber. Of course, she had reached out to the Duchess of Colton first, to request an audience, when the duchess replied with a dinner invitation.
One could only hope for an intimate gathering or, at the very least, that the guests had been warned of her attendance. Perhaps then the whispering and snickering would be kept to a minimum.
The door swung open and she was shown in. At first glance, the inside of the structure was nothing like the outside. Warm and comfortable, the home had fresh flowers and plenty of bright candlelight. As Maggie climbed the stairs, she noted a Greuze painting on the wall. Impressive. The duke and his duchess had excellent taste.