The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(61)

Didn’t she?

She rubbed her bare arms for warmth. The torches lining the edge of the terrace were more for decoration than heat; still, she found herself drifting toward them. How long did Simon plan to stay in Paris? I want honesty from you, Maggie. The idea made her both want to laugh and cry. No one in their world wanted honesty—the ton was built upon appearances and deceit, for heaven’s sake.

Even if he did want the truth, she’d been playing as someone else for so long she couldn’t begin to remember her former self, the Maggie he’d charmed during her debut. That girl no longer existed. In order to survive, she’d become another person, one who was stronger and more confident. One who kept her own counsel. Simon knew of Lemarc and she’d denied Cranford’s accusations. What more did he want from her?

A boot scraped over stone and she froze. Was someone else here? Another sound grated, this time near the stairs to the gardens. She forced herself to relax. Most likely it was a pair of lovers now returning to the party. She turned her back to give them privacy.

“Lady Hawkins,” a strange, deep voice said seconds later. “How utterly delectable you look this evening.”

Her breath caught. That voice. It was distorted slightly, but a memory nagged at the back of her mind. Maggie spun to find a man in a heavy greatcoat wearing a Black Plague mask. The elongated beak protruded from the face, the dark, soulless eyes staring at her from across the short distance.

“Who are you?” she asked, ignoring the talons of discomfort sliding down her spine.

“You do not recognize me? I am crushed.”

Heart hammering, she focused her artist’s eye on the details. He was English, she could tell both from the accent and his clothing. Slightly shorter than Simon and in good physical condition. Well dressed. She hadn’t noticed this particular costume earlier, and she was fairly certain she would have remembered it. “I am afraid I do not. Will you reveal yourself?”

“In good time, my dear, all in good time. You are a hard lady to find alone.”

The idea that he’d been waiting to catch her alone did not bode well. Her location, so removed from the house and the protection of the crowd, now slapped of overconfidence and hubris on her part. Still, she would not cower. “If you mean to do me harm, sir, you shall have the devil of a fight on your hands.”

“Oh, I like a good fight, Lady Hawkins. Nothing gets a man’s blood pumping faster, believe me.”

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “What is your purpose here? To frighten me?”

“Are you frightened? And here I had thought nothing would scare the great Lemarc.”

All the air whooshed out of her lungs. How . . . ? Had Simon told someone? No, she knew he hadn’t; he wouldn’t want it known he’d been mocked so publicly by a woman. A man’s pride could only take so much. She forced down the panic and straightened. “You are wasting my time with your nonsense. Either reveal yourself and your purpose, or be gone.”

“And if your hands were not shaking, I might believe you.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “That is from cold. I do not fear cowards who hide behind masks and lurk about in the shadows.”

“Yes, you prefer men such as Winchester. The next great politician, they say. Could even rival Fox, perhaps.” The sneer in his voice was evident despite the grotesque mask.

“I’ve grown weary of this conversation. Excuse me.” She started for the door, more than eager to put an end to this bizarre exchange.

“I suppose with your reputation, you’ve likely heard it all by now. He will use you, you know.”

Maggie stopped, spun around. “What?” she asked before she thought better of it.

“Winchester. He won’t live up to his promises, whatever they are. The consummate liar, he’ll take what he wants and move on.”

“How do you—”

The terrace door opened and Simon appeared. His glance volleyed between Maggie and the man in the death mask, and then he strode forward. “Lady Hawkins, may I be of assistance?”

Before the sentence had finished, her mystery companion bowed with a flourish and hastened toward the house. Simon stepped aside to allow access to the terrace door and approached her. “Maggie,” he said, a deep crease between his brows. “Your lips are blue. Why are you out here? Who was that man?” He slid his hands up and down her arms, the motion nearly painful on her frozen skin.

She shook her head. “I do not know. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Wouldn’t tell you? That’s utter nonsense. Did you recognize him as one of your guests?”

“No.”

Simon stared at the door through which the man had disappeared, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Come inside and get warmed up. Then you must tell me what he said to put such an unhappy look on your face.”





Chapter Fifteen


Maggie accepted a healthy glass of brandy from Lucien. They had the library to themselves—after she encouraged an enthusiastic Hera and Dionysus to scale Mount Olympus elsewhere. “Thank you.” She lifted the brandy to her lips and took an unladylike swallow.

“What was Jean-Louis thinking, to keep you outside so long? Mon Dieu, but you are frozen.”

“Jean-Louis did not keep me outside. Truthfully, he insisted I come inside, but I wanted a moment to myself. There was another man. He came up from the gardens.”