The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(40)

“No more,” Cora repeated, shaking her head. “You can’t force me.”

Simon then knew it was the girl’s employer causing the hysterics. Whether Madame Hartley meant to keep the girl wasn’t the issue; the girl believed she’d be forced to endure another man’s advances.

“Madame,” he said gently, “allow me a moment alone with her.”

Madame departed and the room fell into gloomy silence. Since there was no chair, Simon sat on the edge of the bed. Cora’s harsh breathing filled the tiny space, and Simon waited. Cora had to see that he meant no harm.

After a few moments, when she quieted, he said, “I had a nurse. I was six and had a silly infatuation with her. I used to follow her about any chance I could, trailing her like a puppy. Well, one day, I couldn’t find her. Went looking all around and finally discovered her in the stables. A groom had her pinned and was using her roughly. I peeked through the stall and saw how she told him no, how he overpowered her. When I ran for help, they told me not to concern myself, that I would understand when I was a man.”

He frowned, realizing he’d never actually told this story to anyone before. The memory was sharp, and it disturbed him how many details he could recall, from the grunting, her cries, the color of her petticoats. He exhaled and continued, “They sent her away after that, but I’d always wondered what happened to her. I never found out until years later. When I left university, I hired some men to find her. Long disowned by her family, she’d bounced from place to place until she settled in Southwark. Scars on her face, body riddled with pox, her entire future had changed because of what happened in my family’s stables, a future that might very well have been prevented had the right person taken responsibility for his deeds.”

Cora was quiet, her eyes serious but no longer wary. Her grip on the knife had loosened, though she hadn’t let it go.

Simon added softly, “Let me help you. I can see you trained as a housemaid, or in the kitchens if you’d rather. A job where you needn’t worry about your day-to-day safety. And no one will touch you.”

“No one?” she asked softly.

“No one,” he repeated.

“Why would you want t’help the likes of me?”

“Because I can.” He held out his hand. “But before I can help you, I need to get you out of here. May I have the knife, Cora?”

The girl glanced down, surprised, as if she hadn’t even realized she still held it. Carefully, she placed it on the wood floor. Simon stood up and moved closer, lifting his hands so he didn’t frighten her. “I’m going to pick you up to carry you down the stairs. I’ll put you in my carriage and take you to Barrett House. There, my housekeeper will see you’re properly taken care of. I’d like my physician to come and see about setting your arm, perhaps give you something for the pain. Does all that seem acceptable?”

Cora’s swollen eyes filled as she nodded. “I don’t want t’do this no more.”

“I know. I promise you won’t have to.”




When the door closed behind Simon and Madame Hartley, Colton stalked to the sideboard. “I hope she’s got something stronger than sherry in here.”

“No doubt she still keeps your private reserve on hand somewhere. After all, you were her best customer for years.” There was no jealousy in Julia’s tone. It was clear she was teasing her husband.

“Indeed.” He grinned at her. “I cannot argue, though it has been some time.”

“And that does not bother you?” Maggie asked the duchess, curious about her friend’s attitude.

“Not a bit,” Julia said. “We were not married at the time. This was years ago, before Colton left for the Continent. All young men sow their oats before settling down. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“We spent many wonderfully debauched evenings here,” Colton said wistfully, now holding a glass of what looked like whisky. He laughed. “Of course, Winchester’s three-day sojourn here is the stuff of legend, though it happened, let’s see, eight or nine years ago. I wish I could’ve seen it but I’d just left for France. So it must have been . . . May or June, I suppose.”

“Ten years ago, husband. You left for France ten years ago. But who’s counting?” the duchess quipped.

Maggie frowned. Ten years ago. In May or June? That would have been right about the time of her scandal and subsequent marriage to Hawkins. So when Maggie’s life was being irrevocably ruined, he’d been . . . celebrating with a bacchanal orgy to make a Roman envious? For three days? She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath.

“Quint wrote me, though. Told me that Winchester—”

“Nick, darling, do shut up,” Maggie heard Julia say and lifted her lids to find the duchesses’s gaze trained on her face.

Colton gave Maggie a contrite smile. “My apologies, madam. My comments were in poor taste.”

“Everything you do is in poor taste, you devil,” Julia quipped. “Maggie, forgive him. Some days I believe my husband to have been raised by wolves.”

That got Maggie to smile despite the searing pain in her chest. “No apologies necessary. It was a long time ago and, verily, why should I care?” She gestured to Colton’s glass. “Is there any more of that?”