The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(21)

“Oh, there’s often more to a story than what gossip carries. Look at Colton, the way the ton branded him a rapscallion and a murderer before the truth came out.”

“Colton is a rapscallion,” Simon pointed out.

Julia grinned. “Yes, but he’s my rapscallion now. And anyway, I am not so sure Lady Hawkins meant to break your heart.”

Simon picked up his wine and threw it back. He signaled to the footman for more. “Men don’t get broken hearts, Julia. Those are for young girls and poets with nothing but time on their hands.”

Julia drummed her fingers on the table. “Is that so?”

“Quite. I figure she did me a favor.”

“By all means, then, have another glass of gratitude before the end of dinner.”




There were six women in attendance, so maneuvering a seat next to the duchess proved challenging. Yet Maggie managed it neatly. The ladies had all settled in the drawing room, having left the gentlemen in the dining room, and the duchess now began pouring tea.

Maggie accepted her cup and added two lumps of sugar. She relaxed and took a grateful sip. Dinner had been excruciating. Not only had she juggled Markham’s attentions, but Simon spent the evening either scowling at her or pretending she didn’t exist. Hard to say which bothered her more.

Truth be told, the ease with which Simon interacted with the duchess made Maggie envious. Clearly the two were close friends. Maggie had once enjoyed that same familiarity with him. They had shared jokes and laughed together, and he’d been the first person she’d sought out upon entering a room. Of course, she’d stupidly assumed his attention meant something, that it showed a depth of feeling on his part. She’d been wrong; he’d snubbed her just as the rest had.

“I see you like your tea sweet,” the duchess remarked as she sat back. “I do as well, though I can’t resist a bit of cream.”

“I have a terrible sweet tooth,” Maggie admitted. “I’ve been known to have a slice of cake for breakfast.”

The duchess’s brows shot up. “How deliciously decadent. You are a woman after my own heart.”

“I hope so.” Maggie leaned closer, lowered her voice. “Perhaps you’ll be amenable to providing help to a friend of mine.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Pearl Kelly.” The duchess’s eyes widened, so Maggie continued. “She and I have embarked upon an endeavor, and we’ve encountered a strange request.” Maggie proceeded to fill the duchess in on the three girls who wanted to apprentice with a modiste.

“It is a challenge,” the duchess admitted. “But I do love a challenge. And because of the baby, I’ve ordered three new complete wardrobes in two years. My dressmakers are ready to nominate me for sainthood. Tell me, what do you and Pearl hope to accomplish?”

“For the most part, we offer the owners additional funds for better care. For disease and other delicate . . . problems. We also try to help the girls learn, whether it’s reading, writing, sewing, or an instrument.”

“A worthwhile cause. Indeed, I am a bit jealous she did not ask me to help.”

“It was I who approached her originally. However, if you and I had known one another, I would have asked for your involvement.”

“Well, you shall be hard-pressed to keep me out of it now. I’ll pay some visits tomorrow and let you know. Have you told Simon of this work?”

Maggie frowned. “No. Why would I?”

Julia’s lips twisted as if she stifled a smile. “No reason. Amazing how little we know of one another, is it not?”

Maggie shrugged. “Often what we show the world is not our true selves.”

“Indeed.” The duchess’s gaze was far too calculating for Maggie’s comfort. Another guest secured Julia’s attention, so Maggie took the opportunity to excuse herself. She needed a moment alone, or perhaps some fresh air.

The long corridor outside the drawing room resembled a maze, with doors every which way. Picking a direction, she searched for a footman. Perhaps he could draw her a detailed map on how to find the terrace.

From the shadow of an alcove, a figure stepped into her path. “Lady Hawkins.”

Simon. She started, pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared the life out of me. What are you doing out here?”

He folded his arms, the fine wool of his coat pulling taut across his broad shoulders. “I could ask you the same question—only I suspect the answer. Where did you have it planned?”

“Simon, I think you had better return to the dining room—”

“The music room? The conservatory?” he continued, steady steps bringing him closer. “I happen to know there are hundreds of little spots all over this house where one—or perhaps two—could hide for an extended period of time.”

She tried to make sense of his words over the thundering of her heart. Was he insinuating . . . ? Oh, for heaven’s sake. Did he always assume the worst of her? Feet planted, she stopped moving and lifted her chin. “Are you under the impression I’m engaging in some sort of a tryst? In the middle of a dinner party?” It was so absurd, she could hardly speak it.

His smirk confirmed it. “Convenient you and Markham both excused yourselves within moments of one another, wouldn’t you say? Let me give you a piece of advice for next time: It draws less attention if you sneak away once the gentlemen join the—”