Fanning the Flame (30 page)

He closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. "Will you help me with the boy?"

If only she could. In less than a week, there was every chance that she would be back in prison. Or worse. "I'll do anything I can to help."

She looked up at him, saw that his eyes were dark, and knew that he wanted to make love to her. As it was, they simply had too much to do.

"A note has arrived from Garth Dutton," Adam said. "He wants to see both of us in his office. That's what I was coming to tell you."

Though she had been expecting the summons, her knees felt shaky as she thought of the six days left until the trial. "I'll get my shawl."

Adam opened the study door and Jillian walked past him into the hall. Knowing Garth wanted to discuss the trial, she mentally girded herself for the meeting. As she climbed tie stairs to retrieve her wrap, she ignored the shudder that rippled down her spine.

A heavy layer of clouds rolled in to cover the stars. The air was damp and chilly, the ground slick with a layer of mist. Maggie drew the hood of her satin-lined cloak up over her head and followed her aunt, Lady Sophia Hawthorne, up the wide stone stairs leading into the Earl of Winston's town house.

Tonight they were attending the annual soiree given in honor of the earl and the countess' anniversary. With the endless toasts and toadying, it was usually a tedious affair that Maggie had earlier tried to escape. Her aunt, however, had been determined.

"Need I remind you," Aunt Sophie had said with a lift of her thin white eyebrows, "your second Season is well under way. It is beyond time you reined in that wild streak of yours and started thinking of marriage."

Sophie Hawthorne was a widow well past seventy and set in her ways, and she ruled her small corner of the world with an iron fist. That corner included Maggie Hawthorne. At least it had since she was fifteen, when Maggie's mother, the Countess of Blackwood, had suffered her terrible stroke.

"There's plenty of time for marriage, Aunt Sophie. And I told you—I refuse to marry a man I don't love."

"You will do as your brother and I tell you, young woman." Sitting in the sewing parlor of her Mayfair town house, her white hair drawn into a snug, no-nonsense coil at the nape of her neck, Sophie set her needlework down on the cream velvet sofa.

"Love,"
she sneered. "Balderdash—that's what it is. Marriages are made for any number of reasons and love is rarely among them."

Maggie made no reply, but for some strange reason Garth Dutton's face popped into her head. He would probably be working tonight, since Jillian's trial was so near. Maggie secretly wondered if perhaps that accounted for her lack of enthusiasm for tonight's affair.

Aunt Sophie sighed. "Well, for whatever reason, soon you will choose a husband or wind up on the shelf. And the only way to meet someone appropriate is to get out in Society. Therefore, you will take yourself upstairs right now and change into proper attire for Lord Winston's soiree."

Maggie grumbled, but did as she was told, choosing a high-waisted rose silk gown trimmed with bands of moss-green velvet accompanied by a matching velvet cloak. Winifred pinned her black hair up in curls, leaving wispy strands beside her cheeks, then tied a simple gold locket on a moss-green ribbon around her throat.

For all Aunt Sophie's idiosyncrasies, Maggie loved her dearly and usually tried to please her. She would not, however, under any circumstances, marry a man she didn't love.

Now, as Maggie followed her aunt through the crush of people making their way into the elegant drawing room of Lord Winston's town house, she thought of that vow and the monotonous evening ahead. The affair would undoubtedly be lengthy and dull, but as long as she was there, she might as well try to enjoy herself.

Noticing a friend, tall, statuesque Ariel Ross, the Countess of Greville, in conversation with two other women across the room, Maggie started in that direction. She had always liked the countess, who was only a year or two older than she.

"Lady Margaret!" Ariel motioned for her to join them. "It's wonderful to see you."

"I didn't realize you were back in London. I thought you and your husband remained at Greville Hall."

"Justin had some business in the city." She flashed the brightest smile Maggie had ever seen. "I have the most marvelous news—we're going to have a baby!"

Maggie grinned. "Ariel, that's wonderful! I'm so happy for you."

"Justin has been walking on air. I've never seen him so happy." She turned to one of the women she had been talking to before Maggie's arrival. "Oh, dear, I've forgotten my manners. I was just so excited. I believe you know Anna Constantine, Marchioness of Landen."

Blond and beautiful, the Italian contessa had married the handsome marquess just last year.

"Si, si,
of course she knows me," Anna said before Maggie could answer. "She came to Landen Manor with that handsome brother of hers for the wedding."

"It's good to see you, Lady Landen." Maggie flashed a smile, having instantly fallen under Anna's spell, just like everyone else. The women chatted pleasantly for a while; then Maggie wandered away in search of other friends.

An attractive dark-haired man approached whom she didn't recognize at first. "Good evening, Lady Margaret. I don't know if you remember me. My name is Michael Aimes. We met at a ball last year, given by the Duke and Duchess of Rathmore."

"Actually, I do remember." Michael Aimes was the second son of the Marquess of Devlin. Michael, a lean, rather scholarly young man of perhaps five and twenty, was handsome in a bookish sort of way, and she remembered his rather nice smile.

"I was wondering . . . the woman, Miss Whitney, whom your brother has so bravely defended, is a friend of mine—or actually, her father was a friend. Dr. Whitney was a professor at the small college I attended. We shared a common interest in Egyptian antiquities."

"As does my brother, Adam."

"Yes, so I've heard. I've been concerned about Miss Whitney. I wondered if you might have some word as to how she fares."

How would anyone fare who faced imprisonment and possibly the gallows? "As you've probably read in the papers, her trial is set for next week. My brother hopes they will find the true culprit before then."

"I can't imagine Miss Whitney hurting anyone. I hope you will tell her I enquired after her well-being, and if there is anything I can do to help her, I hope she will let me know."

He handed Maggie a small, engraved white card bearing his address, which she stuffed into her reticule with a mental reminder to see that Jillian received it. Michael Aimes made a polite farewell, and Maggie wandered away. She saw a number of familiar faces, but each time she started toward them, they seemed to drift away.

Across the Oriental carpet, she spotted Madeleine Telford in conversation with a woman named Lavinia Dandridge, and Madeleine's cousin by marriage, Howard Telford, the new Earl of Fenwick. The instant the group saw her standing near a piecrust table, they pointedly turned and walked away.

Maggie frowned, an uneasy feeling building in the bottom of her stomach. She started toward Katherine Mayborne, a young woman her age she had known in finishing school, but Katherine also walked away. Forcing herself to move casually toward the big silver punch bowl, Maggie ladled herself a cup of champagne punch and took a fortifying drink. Behind her she heard the faint sound of voices. Her whole body stiffened at the whisper of her name.

"Just look at her standing there as bold as you please. I can't believe she has the gall to come out in polite society while that brother of hers harbors a murderer."

"Yes, and the creature is living right there in his house!"

"Everyone knows the sort that Whitney woman is. She was sharing old Fenwick's bed—now she is blatantly sleeping with Adam Hawthorne under his very roof!"

"At least her taste in men has improved," one of the women snickered.

"The whole family is incorrigible." It was the voice of the Viscountess Wimbly, a patroness of Almack's and a notorious gossip. "Remember Blackwood's cousin, Robert? If he hadn't sneaked off to the Colonies, they would have tossed him into debtor's prison."

Maggie turned away, her stomach rolling with nausea. Her hands were shaking and her face felt completely drained of blood. She set the punch cup down, turned on trembling legs, and walked straight into Garth Dutton's chest.

Maggie bit back a sob. God in heaven, of all the people she didn't want to witness such a moment.

"Garth," she choked out, the familiarity slipping over the lump in her throat before she could stop it. His jaw looked granite-hard and his usually bright green eyes were as flat and hard as sea-washed jade. He had heard every word, she knew, and she couldn't stop the tears that sprang into her eyes.

"It's all right, love," he said gently. "There isn't one among them with the sense God gave a goose." He wrapped her stiff fingers around his arm and tucked her against his side. "Just hang on. I'll get you out of here."

Maggie managed a jerky nod and began to move woodenly along in the wake he created. She didn't care where he took her. She had to get out of there before she started to cry—or worse, told those three old biddies exactly what she thought of them. Blinking back the moisture in her eyes, she kept her head high as he led her out of the drawing room and down the hall to the entry.

She thought of Aunt Sophie and wondered if her aunt was also receiving the cut-direct, but Sophie was older and tougher, more used to the capricious nature of the
ton
and nearly impervious to its cruelties.

Maggie felt every brutal word like a barb jabbed under her skin.

She clung to Garth's arm and didn't let go until they were outside the house and standing at the bottom of the front porch stairs.

"Stay right here," Garth commanded. "I'll get your wrap." He returned a few minutes later, draped the rose velvet cloak around her shoulders, and lifted the hood up over her head.

Maggie looked at Garth and her eyes started stinging again. "Thank you," she whispered, praying she wouldn't cry in front of him. "It isn't far back to the town house. Would you mind telling my aunt I wasn't feeling well and I walked back to the house?"

"I already told your aunt that you were leaving, and that I would see you safely home."

She shook her head, her throat still aching. "You can't possibly. There is already so much gossip—"

"I'll be back here before there is time for anymore tongues to start wagging." He took her arm again and, accepting defeat, she let him guide her down the brick path to the street.

They walked along the lane until they reached his carriage; then he helped her ascend the iron stairs. Settling back against the tufted red velvet seat, Maggie closed her eyes, wishing she could shut out the cruelties of the world with that same ease.

Instead of seating himself across from her, Garth sat down beside her, reached over, and gently took her hand. He cradled it between both of his, warming her icy fingers.

"The trial is just a few days away," he said gently. "The matter of the murder will come to an end, one way or another, and in time, all of the gossip will fade."

She nodded, but she knew it wasn't completely true. No matter what happened to Jillian, the Hawthorne name would always be slightly tainted. She refused to ask herself why it suddenly mattered so much.

"I asked your aunt if I might call on you tomorrow evening," Garth said, drawing her gaze back to his face.

"There is no need to concern yourself on my account. I'll be fine, I assure you."

"Well, I am concerned. But more than that, I would simply like to see you."

Her chest squeezed. She should refuse him. A match between them was impossible, as Garth must certainly know. She had no idea what his intentions might be, and yet, God in heaven, she wanted to see him. "What about the trial? Surely you're busy making preparations."

"I've been making preparations for weeks. Miss Whitney has been thoroughly schooled on what and what not to say, and I am as ready as I'm ever going to be. Which means I shall be free to call on you after supper tomorrow evening." His gaze slid down to her mouth and a hollow feeling crept into her stomach. "That is, if you would like for me to come."

Maggie stared into those green, green eyes and knew she was heading for disaster. "Yes," she said, her lips drawing into a wobbly smile that actually felt sincere. "I'd like that very much."

As the carriage rolled home, they talked about the upcoming trial, the work he had done with Jillian and Adam that day, and some of the progress Adam had made in trying to discover the villain. All too soon the coach reached her aunt's Mayfair town house and pulled to the side of the street.

She waited for Garth to open the door, but instead, he reached up and caught her chin. "Don't let them upset you. Those women thrive on scandal, but soon the trial will be over and the gossip forgotten." Then very gently, he bent his head and kissed her. It was a soft, brief kiss, nothing like the time before, and yet she felt an unexpected jolt of heat.

"Until tomorrow night," Garth said, his voice a little deeper than before.

She let him help her down from the carriage, her mind still clinging to the kiss they had shared. A few minutes later she was back inside the town house, upstairs in the safety of her bedchamber. Tomorrow night Garth would come to call.