The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(47)
Simon dragged a hand down his freshly shaven jaw. What could be so bloody important? After all, he’d read an update from Hollister only three days ago. Had he discovered Lemarc’s identity in the meantime? Seemed unlikely. Nevertheless, if he could finish this quickly he could deal with more pressing issues. He stood. “Fine. Show him to the study.”
He entered as Stillman and Hollister came down the corridor. Simon made his way toward the desk and did not bother to hide his impatience as he threw himself in his chair. “Well, Mr. Hollister. You’ve got me, so let’s hear your pressing news.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest.
Hollister stepped in and bowed. His reserved, serious countenance positively glowed with pride. “I’ve found him, my lord. Or her, as the case may be.”
Simon froze. “Her?” He motioned for the investigator to sit.
“Yes, my lord,” Hollister said, lowering into the chair opposite the desk. “We’ve been following McGinnis’s errand boy. Henrik is his name. Parents moved here three years ago from Prussia, and he began working for McGinnis about a year after she first opened. Mostly he delivers packages, paintings, and the like, around town. Occasionally runs out for supplies. Then we noticed him taking a trip over to an abbey on Knightrider Street. Went in empty-handed but came out with parcels wrapped in brown paper that looked a lot like canvases and engravings.
“So we watched that abbey for a few days as well. Saw a woman going in, carrying some of the same wrapped parcels. Came out, no parcels. My man followed her back to her big house over on Charles Street.”
Simon frowned, thoughts beginning to tumble about in his throbbing brain. Charles Street? No, it couldn’t be. How? Why? Then it all clicked for him, the pieces falling neatly into place, and his breath caught. Good God. The landscape. Why hadn’t he seen it himself? He didn’t even need Hollister to finish, but shock had robbed him of the ability to interrupt.
“We got a name from there and started doing some digging. Turns out, this particular woman and McGinnis knew each other in a small town in Norfolk called Little Walsingham. She was the wife of some fancy nob who kicked off almost two years ago.” Hollister cleared his throat, carried on. “He left her a small amount of money, and we assume the widow gave a portion of this to McGinnis to start the shop. I have a friend at the woman’s bank, and he confirmed monies put in that account by McGinnis over the last two years, presumably for art sold as Lemarc. A nice bit of change, if you ask me.”
“Let me guess,” he bit out, his jaw tight. “Lady Hawkins.”
Hollister blinked. “Well, yes, my lord. Excellent guess. Your lordship may even know—”
Simon’s hand slapped the desk, rattling the inkwell and pen tray. Hollister paled but said nothing as Simon silently fumed. Oh, he’d been so monumentally stupid. This whole time, she’d been making a fool of him. Hot, roiling rage clogged his throat. Lord Winejester. Bloody hell. He wanted to hit something, someone. Anything.
She’d been humiliating him while he’d been mooning over her. Again. Christ, would he never learn?
The velvet box containing the Winchester rubies sat squarely on the corner of his desk, mocking him. No smarter at four and thirty than he had been at three and twenty. His father, a paragon of intelligence and fortitude, would be sorely disappointed in his son. People will depend on you to do the honorable thing.
Simon’s eyes pinned Hollister to his chair. “How certain are you?”
“No doubt whatsoever, my lord. I’ve got proof, if your lordship would care to see.” Hollister gestured to a brown leather case resting on the floor.
Simon needed no proof. Deep down, he knew Hollister’s report to be true. The painting in her drawing room, her knowledge of technique . . . Oh, she must have had quite a laugh over this. It was all he could do to keep his seat, to not go tearing out of the house to demand answers. “No, that will be unnecessary,” he forced himself to say. “Nice work, Hollister. Send me a bill and make sure to include one hundred pounds as a bonus.”
The Runner beamed. “Thank you, my lord. And if your lordship ever requires anything else, just send for me.”
“I will. Thank you, Hollister.”
Simon waited until the investigator left before stomping to the front entry. “Stillman,” he bellowed.
The butler appeared from wherever butlers lurked throughout the day. “Yes, my lord?”
“Phaeton, Stillman. Now.” Spinning on his heel, he marched back to his study. There was one thing he needed to retrieve before he met the famous Lemarc.
Thus far, it had been an extraordinary day.
In her studio, Maggie had set to work on the landscapes for Ackermann, grinning like a simpleton all the while. Hard to recall a time when she’d been this productive. She felt relaxed and well rested, even though she’d had very little sleep. Her cheeks grew hot, the reason obvious. Last evening, well, she’d been in bed but most definitely not resting.
Simon had fallen asleep first, his patrician face boyishly handsome in slumber. She had watched him for a long time, content to merely drink him in. Full lips parted softly, his chest rising and falling. Blond lashes brushing the tops of his angled cheekbones. A thin layer of whiskers spreading over his jaw. How intimate, to see and feel those sharp hairs sprout on a man’s face. How wifely.