The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(5)

His shoulders stiffened, an instinctual reaction to the character name. Of course she had seen the cartoon in the window. Resisting the urge to stalk to the front and rip it down, he gritted out, “I am afraid they exaggerate.”

“Yes, but that is what the ton does so well.”

He couldn’t very well argue with that.

“I thought you would have attended one of my parties by now,” she continued.

“I do not recall being invited,” he countered.

“Hmm. Is that what keeps you away? An invitation?”

She was laughing at him, he realized. Mocking him. But something else . . . Her rigid shoulders and the flat line of her mouth suggested anger. Simon turned that knowledge around in his mind and tried to make sense of it.

“Pardon me, but here is a receipt, my lord,” Mrs. McGinnis called from over by the counter.

Maggie moved to the other side of the store, dismissing him, and Simon had no choice but to retrieve the receipt from the shopkeeper. He tucked the small piece of paper in his pocket.

“Good afternoon, Lady Hawkins,” he said to Maggie’s back.

She didn’t turn, merely waved her hand. “And good afternoon to you, Lord Winchester.”

Once outside, he found Quint still scribbling away. While Simon waited for his friend, he couldn’t resist turning toward the shop, telling himself it was to study the embarrassing drawing once more . . . yet found his eyes drawn to Lady Hawkins instead.

“You saw her and did not tell me,” he mentioned as casually as possible.

Quint’s head snapped up. “I didn’t think you would care either way.”

“I don’t. I was merely surprised.”

“Indeed,” Quint drawled, then returned his attention to his notebook. “And people say I am a terrible liar.”




“May I stop smiling?” Maggie felt foolish, with a fake grin nearly sewn on as she stood at the counter.

“Not yet, my lady. The gentlemen are still in front of the window, looking at the shop.”

“Any suggestions? I feel like a half-wit standing here and gawking at you.”

“Why don’t you stroll about, and I’ll go in the back as if I’m retrieving your frame.” Mrs. McGinnis gave her an apologetic glance before escaping into the depths of the store. Taking the woman’s advice, Maggie strolled to the stack of prints resting against the wall and tried to calmly flip through them, though her heart raced faster than a sparrow’s wings. Simon had actually been here, staring at the cartoon. What had he experienced when he looked at it? Humiliation? Anger?

Satisfaction roared through her.

He didn’t know, of course. How could he possibly realize who was responsible for the caricatures of Lord Winejester? Only three people knew of her hidden talents: her sister, her mentor, Lucien, and Mrs. McGinnis. None would ever reveal her secret.

Heavens, when Simon had turned that intimate, boyish smile on her she’d felt the warmth all the way down to her toes. He must have every woman in London falling at his feet, just as she had done once.

Never again.

Yes, she’d been foolish enough to trust him. Love him, even. But she was no longer foolish or na?ve. She was smarter now. Stronger. An entirely different person.

Worse than the flirting had been Simon’s effort to engage her in friendly conversation, as if he hadn’t a thing to apologize for. As if he hadn’t turned his back on her at the precise moment she’d needed him most.

Out of all that had happened since the scandal, Simon’s betrayal had hurt the most. Which was why she took such delight in his very public humiliation at her hand. She knew of his reputation now—a respected and powerful young leader in Parliament. Never on the losing side. Reputed to be fair and intelligent, the rakehell ways of his youth long forgotten.

Maggie had not forgotten. How could she, when the whispers of her downfall followed her wherever she went?

The Half-Irish Harlot.

The name used to upset her, especially when the ladies did not bother lowering their voices before saying it. But over the years she’d learned to embrace the name, to use it to her advantage. If one is a fallen woman, one learns to pick herself up or stay down—and Maggie had no intention of letting the ton crush her. No, it would be quite the other way around.

Well, perhaps not crush—but definitely suffer. Fortunately Lemarc’s popularity gave her the forum to expose the hypocrisy and ridiculousness that comprised London Society. Lucien, her friend, frequently said artists should use art to expunge any pain and suffering, and she’d held on to her anger for far too long.

“They’ve left, my lady.” Mrs. McGinnis returned, a brown parcel in her hands.

“Thank heavens.” Nearly collapsing with relief, Maggie placed a hand over heart. “I nearly expired when I came in and found him here. What did he want?”

“The cartoon, of course. Tried to bribe me in order to get Lemarc’s real name. When that failed, his lordship offered to buy the picture, whatever the cost.”

“Whatever the cost? Well, I’m sorry to have prevented a sale. Just think of all the money you would make if we could reveal Lemarc’s identity.”

Mrs. McGinnis shook her head. “If we did, I’d certainly lose in the long run, my lady. It’s the mystery that brings ’em in the door, if you don’t mind my saying so, and your ladyship’s talent has them buying up everything as quick as you draw it. Those bird watercolors were the last I had.” She reached out and patted Maggie’s hand. “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for your ladyship. Indeed, no one could offer me enough money to give up our secret.”