The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(7)

“Pardon me, my lady,” Mrs. McGinnis said before hurrying over to assist the newcomers.

Maggie wandered to study a group of paintings on the near wall. She encouraged Mrs. McGinnis to stock all the au courant artists; after all, Lemarc alone could not sustain the shop. In addition to garnering sales, this practice offered Maggie a chance to measure up the competition. These were a series of new pretty Irish landscapes by Mulready. Quite nice, actually.

“Do you know who that is?” she heard one of the girls whisper behind her a few minutes later, the comment purposely loud enough to reach Maggie’s ears. Maggie stifled a sigh, kept her back turned.

“Shhh,” another girl said.

“No, who is it?” the third one asked.

Maggie resisted the urge to spin and hiss at them like a snake-headed Gorgon. While it would be supremely satisfying, Mrs. McGinnis wouldn’t appreciate Maggie scaring the customers, not to mention a thwarted sale would deprive the owner her livelihood. Maggie did stand her ground, however; under no circumstances would she give the girls the satisfaction of chasing her away. Let them say what they would. She’d heard it all anyway.

“. . . Irish harlot.”

A gasp. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I saw her at the Reynolds exhibit a few months ago. Mama wouldn’t even let me look at her.”

Lest you be turned to stone, Maggie thought.

“Wait, I have no idea who you’re talking about. Who is she?”

There was some murmuring and then, “I heard all about her from Lady Mary, who is friends with Lady Cranford.”

Amelia. Maggie should have known.

The girl continued in a quieter tone, so Maggie only caught pieces of the conversation. “. . . debut she . . . half the men of the ton. Lady Cranford caught her . . . her betrothed at the time . . . scandal . . . marry Lord Hawkins.”

Maggie could guess at what she’d missed, and she was surprised that the words still stung after all these years. The twisting of facts, the gross injustice of the lies spread about her. Only the last portion, about the scandal and her subsequent marriage to Charles, happened to be true. She swallowed the lump of resentment in her throat.

“And you’re certain that’s . . .”

Maggie could feel the weight of their stares on her back.

“Most definitely.”

“Mama told me not to wander off at parties or people might think I am like her.”

“No one would ever think that, silly. I vow, it’s in the blood. What else could one expect from a piece of filthy Irish—”

Maggie spun on her heel to face them. The girls shrank back, startled, and Maggie made certain to look each one in the eye. No one spoke, and unsurprisingly the girls did not hold her gaze. Each one turned to the counter, silent as a painting. At that precise moment, Mrs. McGinnis stepped out from the back room of the shop, a canvas in her hands. When she saw Maggie’s face, she raised an eyebrow.

Maggie shook her head but stepped up to the counter. “Mrs. McGinnis, thank you for your assistance today. I believe I shall return later when your shop isn’t quite so . . . overrun.”

Concern evident behind her spectacles, Mrs. McGinnis returned, “Very well, my lady. It has been my pleasure. I am always happy to help your ladyship.”

Chin high, Maggie swept out of the shop. The frigid air slapped her skin, though she hardly felt it with all the anger coursing through her veins. Not about to scurry away like vermin, she stepped over to examine the front window. Mrs. McGinnis was a genius with arranging paintings and engravings to best draw the customer’s eye. The woman hadn’t known much about art in Little Walsingham, but some people had a gift for discerning beauty. Mrs. McGinnis liked what she liked and, as it turned out, customers agreed.

She sighed. Really, it had been absurd to let those three vipers-in-training get under her skin. Provoking a reaction was precisely what the gossips wished for, and Maggie tried, in a perverse sort of revenge, to never give them the satisfaction. Today’s failure had likely been a result of Simon’s unexpected presence. She’d never thought to run into him here, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps at one of her gatherings or an exhibition—a place where she’d have a bit of warning, some time to prepare herself.

The Winejester cartoon caught her eye. Right in front, it held a place of prominence in the display. The image made Maggie smile, her first real smile of the day.

Perhaps it was time for another party.





Chapter Three


Simon rapped on the door of a large town house on Charles Street. “We might very well be turned away.”

The Duke of Colton snorted. “I’ve never been refused entrance at a dissolute party in my life.”

The revelry from inside reached the front steps, a steady hum of noise. In addition to the voices, notes from a string quartet played. Simon could only wonder what the neighbors thought.

“Your illustrious reputation notwithstanding,” the Duchess of Colton noted dryly, “we also received an invitation. So I would say there’s very little chance we’ll be refused.”

“An invite?” Simon glanced at her. “You never mentioned that.”

Julia shrugged. “We receive invitations to almost everything, Simon, no matter the event. As do you, I’m certain. Of course, I never had reason to attend one of Lady Hawkins’s parties before.”