The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(90)

“I find that interesting. Are you acquainted with the artist, perhaps?”

This was the slippery spot. “In a roundabout way. We have a mutual acquaintance.”

Sidmouth stroked his chin. “Not the artist’s intent, you say. So what was his intent?”

“What does any artist want? To gain notoriety. To increase sales.”

“Are you prepared to tell me this artist’s name?”

“No. I’ve given my word to keep his confidence. But he has promised to stick to more appropriate subject matter in the future.”

Sidmouth did not care for that answer. His long face pulled into a frown and he stared out the window. After a fashion, he said, “I quite liked your father, Winchester. He was a good man. I know you’ve had the responsibility from a young age, and by all accounts you’ve done a fine job with it, but this situation creates a bit of a dilemma for me. I’ve made promises, you see, that I would bring down Lemarc. Make an example of him. Can’t very well do that if you won’t tell me who the blackguard is.” He pinned Simon with a hard stare. “Isn’t you, is it?”

“No, indeed.” He held the man’s gaze. “I am not Lemarc.”

“And there’s no chance you’ll turn him over, is there?”

“Absolutely none, I’m afraid.”

“Are you prepared for the repercussions of withholding that information from me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sidmouth sighed. “I had such high hopes for you, Winchester. Your family has done much for shaping the laws—”

A knock on the door interrupted them. The butler entered, offered Sidmouth a note on a salver. “My lord, this was just delivered. I am told it is urgent.”

“Excuse me, Winchester.” Sidmouth tore open the correspondence, his eyes rounding at the contents. He looked up at Simon. “Well, this conversation appears unnecessary. They’ve found Lemarc.”





Chapter Twenty-Two


The drawing room door burst open just as Maggie slid another canvas into a crate. She glanced up and watched as a windblown—but otherwise incredibly handsome—Earl of Winchester sailed into the room. Buff-colored breeches, tall boots, and a dark blue topcoat showed off his lean and powerful frame. Her heart stuttered then squeezed, her chest knotting with regret and grief.

Simon braced his booted feet and placed his hands on his hips. “I do not know whether to kiss you or take you over my knee, you foolish, foolish woman.”

She couldn’t stop herself from muttering, “Am I allowed to say which I’d prefer?”

He shook his head. “It is not amusing, Maggie. I nearly died of apoplexy when Sidmouth announced they’d found Lemarc. I swear, the news shaved ten years off my life.”

“I can certainly relate, considering how I felt when I learned you’d gone to speak on Lemarc’s behalf to the Crown. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking of saving your terrifically appealing backside, madam.”

“While throwing away your standing in Parliament? I could not allow you to do that. This way is preferable. Cranford loses and everyone else wins. Are you not always telling me how much you like to win?”

He did not answer, instead asking, “Tell me, how did you manage to turn Cranford into Lemarc?”

“I retrieved some of the Lemarc pieces from Mrs. McGinnis, which I took, along with various art supplies, to his residence. With his wife in the country and the servants dismissed, the place was a tomb. Julia and Lady Sophia helped me. Sophia’s lock-picking skills are impressive, in case you were wondering.”

Simon glanced heavenward. “I was not wondering, no. I vow, the three of you will be the death of me.”

He exhaled and crossed to where she stood. A large hand rose to gently cup her cheek, tenderness shining in the blue depths of his eyes. “You’ve given away Lemarc after you worked so hard to achieve success. Cranford will be lauded as one of the great artists of the day.”

“No.” She stepped back, putting distance between them. “He will be considered a radical. Likely all his work will be confiscated and burned, no matter the subject.”

“I cannot stand by and watch your work destroyed. How can you bear it?”

Because I love you more than I need to be Lemarc. She forced a shrug and continued to pack up her new canvases. “You can do nothing, Simon. Leave it be.”

When she did not respond, he seemed to finally take notice of his surroundings. “Are these new supplies to replace what you lost in the fire?”

Maggie nodded. She’d had Simon’s staff pick up a small number of things this afternoon while she was at Cranford’s town house, just enough to get her by until she settled somewhere.

Simon scratched his neck thoughtfully. “Then why are you packing it up, including the supplies and blank canvases?”

“I cannot stay here.” She had dreaded this part. Steeling herself, she faced him. “I am leaving London. It’s past time, I think.”

His jaw fell open. “Leaving? Are you . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He drew closer, his skin growing visibly paler as realization dawned. “Tell me you do not mean to leave me as well.”

Maggie cleared her throat in an attempt to ease the tightness there. “There will always be another Cranford, someone—”