The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(76)
His face softened. He rose up to kiss her quickly, one hand sliding up into her hair. “Whatever you want, darling. You may help me redraft another proposal. A different one this time.”
“You would allow me to help you?”
“Of course.” He slid a hand between her legs and began to tease and torment. She gasped at the rush of sensation, and he said, “I will always listen to you. Like right now, I want to listen to you say my name in that particular way where . . .” He twisted his fingers to hit the precise spot he wanted.
“Simon,” she sighed.
“Yes, just like that.”
A few afternoons later, Maggie and Lucien stood in her studio. Lucien had brought along some paintings to show her. A long, involved conversation regarding technique ensued.
“Lucien, these are stunning. Truly.” Maggie bent to inspect the detail a bit further. “The unusual angles and the movement you’ve captured here are breathtaking. The thin brushstrokes . . . it must have taken forever. I love it.”
“I doubt they will sell.”
“When have you ever cared about whether your work will sell or not?”
He shrugged, his overly long, brown hair brushing his shoulders. “I do not care for notoriety, as you do, but even I must admit money is helpful.”
“How positively enterprising of you,” she teased. “I must be rubbing off on you.”
“You have done very well, ma chère. I cannot be prouder of you.”
She threw her arms around him for a hug, something she happened to know he hated but tolerated from her. “That is the sweetest thing you have ever said to me,” she whispered into his cravat. “And I could never have done it without your help and guidance.”
He patted her back awkwardly and made a dismissive sound. “I did very little. The talent is all your own.”
Pulling back, she wiped at the moisture forming in her eyes. “Are you attempting to make me cry?”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Tilda appeared, a square, brown parcel in her hands. “My lady, a delivery boy just dropped this off for you.”
“Thank you, Tilda.” She accepted the parcel, felt the ridges with her fingers. A canvas. She carried it to a table and began unwrapping the paper.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“A painting.”
The heavy paper opened and Maggie withheld a seaside scene. One of hers, actually—but not quite hers. Yes, the scene was hers, but the shading was not the same. Also the strokes were from a fatter brush, and the hues were a bit darker. Close, but not an exact match of the landscape she’d once painted—though likely no one would know it but her. The work was that good. And there was her—Lemarc’s—signature at the bottom, which appeared almost correct even to her. Was this an attempt at duplicating a Lemarc? Who in the name of Hades had done this?
“It’s a copy of one of my paintings,” she told Lucien.
He peered down, studied it. “It is good. I think if I did not know you so well, I might believe it.”
“Why would someone bother copying me?” Turning her attention to the letter included within, she skimmed Mrs. McGinnis’s clear handwriting. The more she read, however, the more her discomfort grew. By the time she finished, her hands were shaking.
“Maggie, you are as white as flour. What did she say?”
Staring down at the painting, she willed air into her lungs. “I am being blackmailed.”
“Mon dieu!” Lucien ripped the paper from her hand and began reading for himself. No doubt he would be equally horrified by the contents of the letter.
Someone had uncovered her identity as Lemarc, hired a forger—a damn good one by the looks of it—and was now circulating drawings throughout London. But not ordinary drawings—no, these pieces were aimed directly at the Prince Regent and his father, King George III, who was rumored to be on his deathbed. Hateful drawings meant to incite controversy, such as the inference that Prinny would bankrupt England when his father died, or that he suffered from the same mental deficiencies as the king. The most damaging one, according to Mrs. McGinnis, showed the carnage of Peterloo from the year before—where soldiers had ruthlessly squashed a rebellion in Manchester, killing many protesters—and urged the middle class to take up the cause of political reform once more, to not let their countrymen die in vain.
Someone was attempting to get Lemarc arrested for sedition.
Agents from the Crown had already paid a visit to Mrs. McGinnis, asking for personal information about Lemarc. The shopkeeper hedged and told them she didn’t know Lemarc’s true identity, but a meeting might be arranged when the artist returned from the Continent. Even though that appeared to pacify the agents for the moment, Mrs. McGinnis was frightened—with good reason. If they discovered she had lied to protect Maggie, the shopkeeper could be implicated as well. The only way to stop it, according to the forger, was for Maggie to hand over two thousand pounds annually—an absolutely outrageous amount of money.
“Did you see the other letter? The one Madame McGinnis said is on the back of the painting?”
Lucien’s voice snapped Maggie back to reality. She’d forgotten about the other letter. Flipping the forged painting over, she saw a folded piece of paper with her name written on it. Her given name. Swallowing, she lifted it off the canvas, unfolded it, and spread it out on the table.