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

There, in the back of the ballroom. Her eyes locked with the brilliant blue gaze she knew so well, a gaze that had sparkled down at her for more nights than she could count. His eyes were not sparkling now, however; they were flat, completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. A flush slowly spread over his cheeks, almost as if he was . . . angry or perhaps embarrassed—which made no sense at all.

She clasped her gloved hands together tightly, silently imploring him to rescue her. Yet he made no move to come closer. Holding her gaze, he raised his champagne glass and drained it.

Hope bloomed when Simon shifted—only to be quashed when she realized what had happened. He’d presented her with his back.

Simon had turned away.

No one stirred. No one spoke. It seemed as if they were all waiting to see what she would do. Hysteria bubbled up in Maggie’s chest, a portentous weight crushing her lungs.

Dear God. What was to become of her?





Chapter Two


December 1819

London



A man’s past could easily be forgotten—unless it hung in a shop window on the busiest stretch of St. James, of course.

Simon Barrett, the eighth Earl of Winchester, stood frozen in the cold winter air, staring at yet another shining reminder of his illustrious, drunken youth. Despite the frigid temperature, an uncomfortable heat crawled up his neck. Hell, he hadn’t blushed since boyhood.

Still, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the drawing in the print shop window, a depiction of a man too soused to stand while a lady nearby was robbed of her jewels. There could be no doubt of the man’s identity. As if the tall frame, blond hair, and bright blue eyes weren’t enough, the artist had provided the character with a name: Lord Winejester.

Bloody hell.

“I’d almost forgotten that side of you, the rogue from our youth.”

Simon glanced at his good friend Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint. “Rather the artist’s point, I believe.”

Simon wondered again why this artist, Lemarc, had fixated on him. Was one of his opponents accountable for the cartoons? One did not rise to the upper ranks of Parliament without stepping on some toes.

“What number is this? I daresay it’s the fourth or fifth caricature of you in the last year. Lord Winejester is becoming quite popular. Mayhap you’ll get a commemorative spoon or plate, like Rowlandson’s Dr. Syntax,” Quint said, referring to the artist’s popular fictitious character.

“Oh, to dream,” Simon drawled.

Quint chuckled and nudged Simon’s shoulder. “Come now. You have laughed off the others. Why so grim now?”

Not entirely true. Simon may have laughed publicly, but privately these cartoons worried him. He’d worked too hard building his reputation to allow it to be tarnished. His influence and prestige amongst his peers would suffer if he continued to be portrayed as a buffoon. Mayhap it was time to suggest a certain artist apply his skills elsewhere.

And if said suggestion was perceived as a threat, well then, so be it.

“Shall we go inside?”

A bell tinkled over the door as Simon entered, Quint on his heels. A spacious room, the shop had rows of windows set high, right up to the ceiling, allowing light to bounce off every available surface, even on a gray winter day such as this. Framed art crowded the walls—landscapes, portraits, fashion plates, and life scenes in all different shapes and sizes—while racks of unframed canvases rested in the far corner. Simon strode to the long counter along the back wall, where an older woman stood patiently waiting. From behind small, rounded spectacles, her eyes widened and darted to the front window before settling back on his face. Well, at least I won’t need to introduce myself.

She dropped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lords.”

Simon removed his hat and placed it on the counter. “Good afternoon. I should like to speak with the owner.”

“I am Mrs. McGinnis, the owner. Would your lordship be interested in purchasing a print?”

“Not today. I am more interested in information.” He gestured to the front window. “Can you tell me how I might find the artist Lemarc? I find his work . . . interesting.” Quint snickered, but Simon ignored him.

“I am afraid the artist wishes to remain anonymous, my lord.”

This unsurprising response didn’t deter him in the least. Over the past few weeks, he’d made some casual inquiries regarding the artist and learned Lemarc was a sobriquet. “What if I offer to pay you for the information? Say, ten pounds.”

Her lips twitched and he got the distinct impression Mrs. McGinnis held back a smile. “My lord, I’ve had an offer as high as fifty pounds.”

“What about one hundred pounds?”

“I must apologize, my lord, but my loyalties remain with the artist. It would not be proper for me to disregard his wishes.”

Inwardly, he cursed the woman’s stubbornness, though one had to admire her devotion to Lemarc. “I’d like to purchase his cartoon in the window, then.”

Mrs. McGinnis shook her head. “I must apologize again to your lordship. That particular drawing is not for sale.”

His jaw nearly dropped. “Not for sale? No matter the offer?”

“No matter what your lordship offers. The artist would prefer to keep the piece in his own private collection.”