The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(53)

“Heavens. She is . . . well, the work is impressive. The chalk drawings must have been hers. She’s a genius.”

Yes, a clever, beautiful, infuriating genius.

“And allow me to guess,” Julia continued. “You were furious and she was unapologetic.”

“At the start. But there’s more.” Simon recounted the entire tale for Julia, starting with how Maggie hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth during the scandal, the creation of Lemarc to discredit him politically, and finishing with his threat of revealing her identity.

“Oh, Simon.” Her blue eyes filled with pity. “Do you not see it? Are you so blind that it has not even occurred to you?”

“See what?”

“Do you not remember doing anything as a small boy to gain a girl’s attention? Tugging on her hair or putting a worm in her half-boot?” He must have stared at her blankly, because Julia said, “Well, very likely you never needed to. The point is she wanted you to notice her.”

“By making me out to be a ninny? Come on, Jules.”

“Clearly you broke her heart. All the more reason to choose you as her target. You should be flattered.”

It was close to what Maggie had admitted the day he had confronted her. She hadn’t said anything about a broken heart, of course, but implied he should be grateful for his immortalization in cartoon form. He rubbed his jaw, let the idea sink in.

“And let’s not forget those cartoons have increased your popularity tenfold. Winejester has not hurt your reputation—quite the opposite. The character has solidified you as one of the premier political men of the age. She’s done you a great service.”

“Hardly feels as such.”

“Because of your pride. And your feelings for her.”

“She should have trusted me,” he admitted. “During the scandal. If she’d come to me then, I—” He couldn’t finish it. But he did not need to; if one person knew what he was feeling, it was Julia.

“I know,” Julia said, kindly. “And it’s clear I should not have prevented you from issuing a challenge to Cranford. I will need to beg her forgiveness for my role in all this. . . .” She paused to heave a sigh. “What happened during her debut, it gives me shivers. She was so young. I understand you believed Cranford and his false letters, but you ought to have sought her out, Simon. You should have at least given her a chance to be heard.”

“Are you saying I deserved Winejester?”

“No. Yes.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t know. But I’m saying she obviously cares about you. And it’s clear you love her. So whatever are you going to do about it?”

Love. Did he love Maggie? How could one love a woman he neither understood nor even knew? “I need coffee.” He got up, went to the sideboard, and helped himself to a cup. After a healthy swallow, he decided not to quibble over the word. What he felt for Maggie was a tangle of emotions too strong to name. And he had no idea how she felt about him. He resumed his seat. “I cannot face her until I’ve dealt with Cranford.”

Julia’s brows drew together. “Are you prepared to walk away from her a second time?”

“No,” he answered sharply, surprising them both. “I just need . . .”

“Time? I’m afraid you don’t have it. She’s on her way to Paris right now with no plans to return to London. I’m told she gave orders to close up the town house. Who knows how long she’ll stay in France or where else she’ll go. Can you afford to let her slip away? Because the longer she thinks you’ve let her go, the more hurt she’ll be when you finally find her.”

He had to explain it plainly, so she would understand. “I need to make Cranford suffer, Jules.”

She huffed, a sign he recognized as extreme annoyance. “You’re making this about you and your need for revenge, Simon. This isn’t about you. It’s about Maggie, and, from what little I can tell, it seems she has made peace with her past. It’s remarkable what she’s accomplished. You were singled out in those cartoons because you hurt her. Terribly. And now you’ve hurt her all over again.”

He finally saw it. As if a ray of sunlight had burst through the dark sky, he knew Julia was right. Maggie should be his focus. What mattered was finding her and putting the past to rest. Because the thought of losing her forever had a fist-sized ball of panic welling up in his chest.

“Go to her, Simon. She’s hurting and you are the only one who can make it stop.”





Chapter Thirteen


Not long after, in Paris



“Ma chère, relax. You are making me nervous.”

Maggie glanced across the small table at her mentor and good friend Lucien Barreau. With his artfully tousled brown hair and delicate features, she often teased him that he appeared more poet than painter. They were close in age, Lucien a year older, but he’d been painting his entire life. Without doubt, he was the most talented, generous, and knowledgeable artist Maggie had ever met.

And right now he was staring at her, his handsome face pulled into a frown.

“Forgive me,” she offered, weakly. She lifted a delicate cup to her lips and sipped the warm, fragrant Parisian coffee.

“Maggie,” Lucien said gently. His brown eyes were compassionate but resolute. “No more, s’il vous plait. You have been here almost three weeks, and the moping . . . I cannot take it anymore. It is unlike you.”