The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(52)

After what felt like several minutes, but was likely seconds, Simon dragged air into his lungs. He did his best to appear unaffected though flames were roasting him from the inside out.

O’Shea grinned, showing of a mouth full of crooked, yellowed teeth. “My own personal stock. Cooked up by my brother in Dublin.”

“To try and kill you, one may only assume.”

O’Shea laughed, a deep and booming sound. “I’ll be sure and tell ’im you said so. Now, your Lord Cranford. I also have an interest in findin’ him.” He reached forward and refilled both glasses, which caused Simon’s stomach to roil in protest. “He owes me a good deal of money, and I keep an eye on men who owe me that deep.”

“And?” Simon prompted when O’Shea fell silent.

“Finish your drink and I’ll tell you a bit more.”

A game. O’Shea was turning this into a game to see how badly Simon wanted the information. Annoyed, Simon picked up the glass, determined to get answers no matter the cost. O’Shea lifted his own drink and toasted, “Sláinte.”




The next morning, Simon stepped down the corridor toward Colton’s breakfast room, his movements careful and deliberate. Anything not to jostle his head more than necessary. A blunt hammer would be doing less damage than the current pounding inside his skull. At the very least, he prayed he did not cast up his accounts on the marble floor.

A footman, blessedly averting his eyes from the undignified sight of an earl suffering a hangover, opened the door. Simon found Julia alone, behind a small table, china cup in her hand. “Good morning, Simon. Pray sit down. Would you care for food?”

Simon’s stomach flipped. “No, thank you,” he managed, then crossed the room and lowered into a chair. “I appreciate the bed last evening. Though I’m not sure why Colton did not drop me at home.”

“He was worried about you, you dolt. You couldn’t even stand. Now I’m worried about you, as well. We’re all worried about you. And I mean to find out what is going on.”

Simon dragged a hand down his face. “I do not have time for a chat, Jules. I must get home and change. I slept in these clothes. I haven’t done that since university.”

“Rumpled appearance aside, I think you can spare me a few minutes. And I don’t believe this has anything to do with your appearance. No, I believe this has more to do with your search for Cranford. I can see your surprise. Did you think me unaware of what you and Colton have been up to?”

“Yes,” he admitted, too ill to lie. “What did he tell you?”

“He told me all of it, including the information you nearly drowned yourself in rotgut to learn last night.”

Simon stiffened, searched his muddled brain. What had O’Shea said? That Cranford owed him a large amount of money. And Cranford kept a house his wife did not know about. The house was in . . . Holborn? Bloomsbury? Dammit, he couldn’t remember. “How did Colton find it out?”

“O’Shea told him. And Colton and Fitzpatrick have already checked the location of Cranford’s apartments. Cranford is no longer there. Cleared out weeks ago. But you needn’t worry; they will continue to turn the city up and over until they find him. There’s nothing more to be done. I wish to discuss what you plan to do about Maggie.”

He tensed. “About Maggie?”

“Do not play dense. Were you aware she’s run off to Paris?”

No, he hadn’t known. He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. Why would she go to Paris? He recalled their last conversation and winced. In his hurt and anger, he’d allowed her to believe, erroneously of course, that he might reveal her as Lemarc. Had she believed him? The idea made him feel worse. “When Cranford has been dealt with, I will find Maggie.” And apologize.

“Simon, you and I have never kept secrets from one another.”

He lifted an eyebrow, causing her to chuckle. “Fine. We usually do not keep secrets from one another. Happy?”

“Mildly. And your point?”

“I want to know what’s happened with Maggie. What caused her to run off for Paris and for you to kill yourself in a search for Cranford?”

He knew that particular determined glint in her eye. Julia would not relent, and perhaps it might do Simon some good to tell someone. “I’m assuming Colton told you of Maggie’s scandal, that Cranford lied, showing me false letters to make me believe the affaire consensual.”

“Yes. Maggie told me some of that tale as well. At least her side of it.”

Simon’s jaw dropped. “Maggie told you? When? Why did you not tell me?”

Julia looked down her nose at him—impressive since he towered over her, even sitting. “At Madame Hartley’s. And I would not betray her confidence in such a manner. If she wanted you to know, she would have told you.”

“Did she also tell you that she is Lemarc? That she is responsible for the Winejester cartoons?”

Julia blinked. She opened her mouth, closed it. “No. She did not. I . . . I never would have guessed. Not in a hundred years.”

Simon snorted. “Nor would have I. But there you have it.”

“When did she tell you?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t. I hired a Runner. He discovered it.”