The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(81)

A knock on the door offered Simon a blessed reprieve. “Enter,” he called. His butler appeared. “A Mr. Hollister to see you, my lord.”

“Excellent. Show him into the study, Stillman.” He stood. “Come along, both of you, and do try to be helpful.”




Four days later Mrs. McGinnis received succinct instructions:



Thursday, three o’clock in the afternoon, leave a book containing the bank drafts on the first stone bench along the footpath from Stanhope Gate to the Serpentine.





The location worked to their advantage. Hyde Park allowed for a multitude of hiding places from which they could keep vigil over the parcel. It seemed doubtful the blackmailer would retrieve it himself, as it was too great a risk, but someone would surely come to collect such a large sum of money. All they needed to do was wait and then follow.

Simon refused to allow Maggie’s involvement. She was kept abreast of the developments, of course, but Simon did not want her anywhere near the blackmailers. He could well imagine how angry this made her, especially when he had Hollister post a man to guard her house, but he couldn’t risk her name attached to this operation in any manner. She needed to be far, far removed.

He hadn’t seen her since Paris. He missed her. Terribly. Missed her stubbornness and her laugh. Her feisty temper and her wicked wit. And at night he ached for her soft, strong hands teasing him to madness. Nevertheless, he needed to stop this threat against her first. Once the forger and blackmailer were in the hands of the Crown, Simon could go to her and discuss their future, a future that very much included Maggie as the Countess of Winchester.

On the day of the delivery, Hollister stationed over twenty men in the park. Whoever came to collect the parcel would not get away, though that fact did little to lesson Simon’s anxiety. The person responsible for this scheme stood between Simon and everything he’d ever wanted, and his entire future hinged on removing that obstacle.

As they expected, not even a minute after Simon placed the book on the bench, a young boy came to collect it. Simon and the other men followed him closely, staying far enough behind as to not draw his attention. They ended at Jermyn Street, where the boy knocked on a door, handed over the parcel, and collected a few coins before sprinting off. The partition closed quickly, the entire transaction happening in the blink of an eye.

“That’s our man,” Hollister murmured to Simon. They were positioned across the street. “He took the parcel.”

“Let’s go in, then.” Simon eyed the door, then asked, “You have your lock-picking tools?”

“Indeed, I do. We’ll sneak in and catch your blackmailer unaware. I’ll put some men on the sides and back of the building in case he tries to run.”

Hollister picked the locks with the efficiency of a seasoned dubber, then turned the handle carefully to noiselessly open the door. He gestured for Simon to lead the way.

Pistol in hand, Simon crept up the stairs, Hollister directly behind. The treads squeaked and groaned under their weight and they had to go slowly. When Simon reached the top, he checked the latch and found it unlocked. He threw open the door and rushed in, the investigator on his heels.

The large apartment was devoid of furniture, save a table and a few chairs scattered here and there. He saw well-used art supplies—canvases, easels, frames, paint, and brushes—which explained the heavy smell of turpentine in the air. A small, unfamiliar man sat at a table, paper and pencils in front of him. Wide-eyed, he carefully raised his hands in surrender.

Movement in the back caught Simon’s eye. A head topped with thinning brown hair disappeared out the side window.

Simon rushed forward, determined to catch whoever was attempting an escape. Drawing nearer to the edge, he could see a rope attached to a hook in the sill. He leaned out the window in time to see a familiar face letting go of the rope and dropping into the alley below.

Sir James. His bloody brother-in-law. A furious growl rumbled in Simon’s throat. “Stop him!” Simon shouted to Hollister’s man at the entrance of the alley as Sir James ran toward the street.

The man raced into the alley, toward Sir James, and Simon spun away from the window and sprinted for the stairs. “Wait here,” he told Hollister, who stood with his pistol trained on the unknown man at the table.

Simon thumped down the steps and wrenched open the front door. Christ, now it all made sense. The money. The notes. That it had been a personal attack.

The damned idiot.

Once on the street, Simon found that Hollister’s man had Sir James pinned in the back of the alley. James struggled to escape the larger man’s grip, but Hollister’s man held fast, leaning his larger body into James’s girth to keep him still.

When James saw Simon approach, he stiffened. Fear flashed over his fleshy features before he thrust his chin up defiantly. “Here now, Winchester, what’s—”

“Do not say one word, you miserable excuse for a man.” Anger burned in Simon’s throat. He’d never wanted to punch anyone so desperately in all his life. James had been a pustule on Simon’s backside ever since the day he’d married Sybil. A blackmailer. Everlasting hell.

“Want me to send for the authorities, my lord?” Hollister’s man stepped aside and produced a pistol from his coat. He pointed the weapon at Sir James.

Simon scrubbed a hand across his jaw, hating the position he’d been put in. It would be so much easier to turn everything over to the Crown. “No. Not yet, at least.”