The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(39)

“Indeed,” Colton drawled with a sneer. “This I cannot wait to hear.”

“Madame, pray tell my husband and Lord Winchester what you told us earlier.”

Madame Hartley gave the men the details, keeping to the facts. As the abbess spoke, Maggie watched the play of emotions over Simon’s face. From fury to curiosity, to outright horror, then back to fury—thankfully not directed at her this time.

The duke’s anger shifted elsewhere as well. He ran a hand through his hair. “Christ. Who did it? Who was the blackguard responsible?”

Madame shook her head. “I would rather not say, Your Grace.”

“Yes, I know. But I’d rather you did say, and we both know I always get what I want. You will tell me before I leave.”

“I should like to see the girl,” Simon said quietly, the first words he’d uttered since entering.

Madame’s brows lowered. “With all due respect, my lord, I am not so certain that is wise. She is . . . not in her right mind. I am worried the presence of a man, even your lordship, will upset her further.”

“Madame, you know me. I daresay this isn’t the first case I’ve seen, nor will it be the last. If she needs help, I’ll gladly give it, but you must allow me the chance to get her out of here. I will be gentle, I swear.”

His statement confused Maggie, but she had to stick to the matter at hand before she lost her chance. “I should like to come as well,” she put in.

Simon’s head swiveled and blue ice pinned her to the spot. “Over my dead body.”

Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but Julia cut her off. “It’s best he goes alone, Maggie. Simon will take care not to frighten her. Truly, I wouldn’t have sent for him if I thought he could not help.”

So Simon’s presence here had been Julia’s true goal. Not the duke’s. What didn’t Maggie know about Simon? How could he be the best person to deal with a frightened, broken prostitute?

Madame Hartley nodded. “Very well. Even though you know the way, I’ll show you up.”

Even though you know the way.

There was no good earthly reason why that statement should upset Maggie, but the words were a barb sliding up under her rib cage. Of course he’d spent time here. Any lord with a few quid in his pocket likely would. She thought about the scene she’d witnessed earlier. What type of girl would Simon choose?

Before she could ponder it further, Simon straightened and trailed Madame Hartley to the door. “Stay here,” he turned to say, looking directly at Maggie.

Why did he feel the need to order her about? She clenched her jaw, but gave him a brief nod and watched his broad back disappear into the hall.





Simon forced his anger down as he trailed Madame Hartley up the back stairs to the second floor. He couldn’t think on how reckless, idiotic, cork-brained—

Did the woman care absolutely nothing whatsoever for her reputation?

A brothel. Her social standing already teetered on the edge of respectability. How could she—?

He stopped those thoughts, took a breath. He needed to remain calm for the task at hand. Maggie had him knotted up. No female had ever been able to accomplish it, not to the degree and with the expediency to which she succeeded.

They went up another set of stairs, to where the girls roomed. This was a part of the house he’d never explored, and he wished he needn’t do so now. Colton would find the man responsible, Simon had no doubt. And while the duke carried out the retribution, Simon would see the girl well taken care of. Perhaps not totally healed, but better off, anyway.

At the far end of the corridor, they stopped. “This is Cora’s room, my lord. I’ll accompany you.” Madame Hartley gave a brisk knock. “Cora, it’s Madame. I’m coming in.” She withdrew a set of keys from a pocket sewn into her skirts and unlocked the door.

The room was pitch dark. Using the light from the hall, Simon could see the outline of a tiny bed and dresser. A small shape darted to the corner. Good God. It was the girl.

Madame opened the door wider, allowing more light in. The sight nearly knocked him to his knees. Her face grotesquely swollen, Cora huddled there, pressed tight against the wall with a large knife in her good hand. The broken arm had been wrapped in a strip of linen, close to her chest to hold it still. She had on a shift that barely covered her, and he could see glimpses of cuts and bruises on her pale flesh.

But it was her eyes that worried him most. Glassy and bright, they darted wildly, reminding him of a feral creature that had been unwittingly trapped.

“Stay back,” she breathed. “I won’t do it no more.”

“Cora, we’re here to help you,” Madame said gently. “This is—” She glanced helplessly at Simon, the question in her gaze clear. How should she introduce him?

To be sure, his speech pattern and manner of dress would proclaim him quality, but better to ease into it gently. No telling who did this to her. It could be any number of titled men. He didn’t want the word “earl” to upset her further.

Simon stepped forward, bent on his haunches. “I am a friend. I’m here to help you. But I cannot do so if you’re intent on keeping—”

Cora began keening—a low wail that sent shivers down Simon’s spine—and for an instant he assumed he’d frightened her. He straightened, stepped back, only to notice that the girl’s stare remained focused on Madame. Could it be the abbess frightening her?