The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(50)
She could not—would not—explain the true reasons for that. Would not tell him of her broken heart and foolish hopes for their future together, hopes so wrongfully shattered. It sounded terribly . . . dramatic. Hell hath no fury and all that nonsense. She preferred to store up her drama for when it could do the most good.
“Was it because of my upcoming proposal? Was this some sort of effort to discredit me publicly?”
Surprise, followed by relief, swept through her. Heavens, why hadn’t she thought of it? Yes, let him think her cartoons were political rather than personal. She latched on to the explanation. “I do not care for your proposal. It will hurt the very women you are trying to protect.”
“That is no reason to turn me into London’s biggest folly, Maggie.”
“Perhaps, but you should thank me. The popularity of the cartoons ensures everyone will remember the name Winchester for years to come.”
His eyes rounded. “Yes, but for all the wrong reasons. You’ve taken a venerable family name and turned it into a something synonymous with drunken irresponsibility. How, precisely, is that a situation that elicits my gratitude?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps in time you shall feel differently.”
“Doubtful. And I cannot help but notice you are surprisingly calm in all this. I should think you would be more concerned, considering I now know your secret. What will the world say, I wonder, when they learn the identity of Lemarc?”
When, he said, not if. Her stomach knotted painfully, but she refused to show it. “Is that what you plan to do? Unmask Lemarc? I doubt anyone would care, and it won’t exactly help your standing in Parliament to be linked with such a scandalous artist.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, the fine wool of his frock coat pulling over wide shoulders and finely honed biceps. She could remember tracing the muscles last evening, committing his well-proportioned torso to memory so that she might sketch it later. The now-bittersweet memory made her chest ache.
He said, “I believe they’ll be too occupied discussing how Lemarc is truly a woman—and a lady at that! Are you prepared for what that will do to your reputation? Your future?”
“Do not tell me you are concerned with my reputation,” she scoffed.
His lips compressed into a thin line, and he shifted toward the wall, giving her his profile. He did not speak for a long moment. Finally, he said quietly, “I have always been concerned with your reputation. And if I had known—or even suspected—what Cranford had done, I would have stepped in. Prevented you from marrying Hawkins. Challenged Cranford. I would have—”
He broke off, so she finished, “Rescued me?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “It’s too late, Simon. We cannot change what happened. It’s done. And I gained something quite powerful at the end. It took years, but I’ve achieved my freedom. I won’t give it up. Not for you, not for anyone.”
“Yes, you’ve made it clear how you feel about my involvement, both then and now.”
The steady tick of the mantel clock echoed in the ensuing silence. Simon’s gaze remained fixed on the wall, away from her. Maggie had no idea what to say. Part of her wanted to confess how much she’d needed him all those years ago, but what good would that do either of them now? He was angry with her for a number of reasons, and perhaps that was for the best.
“What will you do, now that you know about Lemarc?” she asked him.
“Is that your only concern, that I will reveal your secret?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“Once I decide, I’ll be certain to let you know.” With his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might crack, he quit the room.
The Black Queen was shabby, much shabbier than the last three locations they’d visited tonight. Simon stopped inside the main room of the gaming hell and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Smoke hung heavily in the air, making it both difficult to breathe and harder to see. But perhaps that was a blessing, considering the type of patrons who frequented these places.
Men were scattered at the tables, desperation clinging to them like cloying perfume, while the working girls strolled about waiting for a fare. This was not the sort of semi-respectable establishment that catered to wealthy aristocrats; no, in this place, one risked getting a knife under the ribs over the wrong turn of the dice. And it was precisely the sort of hovel in which Simon expected to find Cranford. Of course, he’d said that about each of the dozen places they had searched over the last two nights.
Colton had been on Cranford’s trail since the night they’d rescued Cora from Madame Hartley’s, as the abbess strongly suspected Cranford of the violence. The Duke of Colton was not known for his subtlety, however, and Cranford had likely learned of the search before it had even begun. The viscount had all but disappeared. Knowing Cranford’s penchant for gambling, however, Simon believed the seedier hells were a good place to start looking.
“Well, where should we begin?” Colton asked, coming up alongside.
“Why don’t I find the owner this time? You can search the crowd.”
“You certain? Fitz says this one’s run by O’Shea and it’s his favorite haunt.”
“Yes. I’ll return in a few moments.”
Before he could walk away, a hand caught his shoulder. “Winchester,” Colton said. “You’ve been at it for, what, nearly thirty hours without sleep? I know you want to find him but—”