The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(3)

Damnation. Simon drummed his fingers on the counter, his mind spinning. He couldn’t even buy the cartoons to get rid of them.

Quint leaned forward. “Are there any other Lemarc pieces for sale?”

“Why, yes, my lord,” the shopkeeper quickly answered. “I have a collection of bird paintings done in watercolors by that particular artist, if your lordships would be interested to see them.”

“He’ll buy all of them.” Quint pushed a thumb in Simon’s direction. “Whatever you have.”

“Birds?” Simon gave Quint a hard glare. “Birds, Quint?”

“Buy them, Winchester. Trust me.”

Simon turned back to the shopkeeper. “How many?”

“Almost twenty, my lord. They’re quite nice, all done within the last few years. Would your lordships care to see them?”

Quint answered, “No, that won’t be—”

Simon gripped his friend’s shoulder and began towing him toward the front door. “Excuse us a moment, won’t you, Mrs. McGinnis?”

“Of course. Take all the time your lordship requires. I’ll just be in the back.” She disappeared into the recesses of the shop, leaving the two men alone.

Simon frowned at Quint. “Why the deuce am I purchasing almost twenty bird paintings? I loathe birds.”

“Because some are regional, you oaf,” Quint whispered. “We might be able to find a common thread in the types of birds drawn and narrow down a county where Lemarc resides. At least that will give you a location in which to begin your search.”

Simon blinked. “Quint, that’s . . .”

“I know. Now buy the blasted pictures so we can get to the club. I’m starving.”

He’d momentarily forgotten Quint’s love of puzzles. “Fine. Consider this your project, then. Give me one of your cards.” Quint produced a card, and Simon called for Mrs. McGinnis. “I’ll take all the bird paintings,” he told the shopkeeper when she returned, withdrawing a card from his breast pocket. “Send the bill to me, but deliver the pictures to this address.” He handed over Quint’s card.

“With pleasure, my lord. Would your lordship care to have them framed?”

Might as well, he thought. He’d find somewhere to use them. Shooting practice, perhaps. “Indeed. I bow to your expertise, Mrs. McGinnis. Choose whatever frames you deem appropriate. How long before they’re ready?”

“I’ll get my boy on it straightaway. I should have them to your lordship day after tomorrow.”

At that moment the bell over the door clanged, and he turned to see a small figure burst into the shop. A lady, by the look of her fashionable bonnet and black pelisse. She seemed to freeze upon seeing them but then inclined her head. There was something oddly familiar—

“Lord Quint,” he heard her say.

Quint bowed. “Lady Hawkins. How nice to see you again.”

The room suddenly lost all its air. Or perhaps Simon’s lungs refused to cooperate because a burn had sparked in his chest, a pressing heat as if the ceiling had collapsed on him. God’s teeth, he hadn’t expected to see her here. To see her anywhere, really. Ten years. It had been ten years since they’d last faced one another. He’d heard all about her, of course. From all accounts, the woman thrived on spectacle and notoriety—which struck him as odd, considering he remembered her as thoughtful and, well, shy.

But he’d never really known her at all, had he? The scandal when she was still Lady Margaret, along with the behavior she’d exhibited since the end of her mourning period, had certainly proven that.

Shock rendered him frozen, and the only thing he could do was stare. The years had certainly been kind to Lady Hawkins, if her appearance was any indication. Wisps of black hair fell out of her bonnet, her delicate features fairly glowing from the cold. She had creamy skin without a hint of imperfection, and green eyes that whispered of the Irish meadows of her ancestors. As he watched, her generous mouth twisted into a small smile. He remembered the simple beauty of that smile, the lengths he’d gone to in order to see it.

There had been a time he would have done anything to make her happy. Such a foolish, foolish boy he’d been. Anger simmered in his gut at her faithlessness—anger he forced away for its sheer ridiculousness. It had been a decade, after all.

“Lord Winchester, it has been a long time,” he heard her say, her tone cool and quiet.

He bowed stiffly. “Lady Hawkins. How wonderful to see you.” Even to his own ears, it sounded flat.

She didn’t respond and an awkward silence fell. Devil take it, but he had no idea of what to say to her. Both his feet and tongue felt rooted to the floor.

Finally, Quint asked, “Are you purchasing a print?”

She stepped toward the counter, the top of her head barely reaching Simon’s shoulder. “I did, last week. Now it’s been framed and I’ve come to collect it. You?”

“Winchester’s the one buying today,” Quint said.

Lady Hawkins turned, her questioning gaze colliding with his. Hard to miss the intelligence—at once both familiar and mysterious—lurking there. He cleared his throat. “I’m purchasing a collection of bird paintings.”

“Are you?”

“Indeed, my lady,” the shopkeeper confirmed. “All nineteen pictures by Lemarc. His lordship bought every one.”