The Harlot Countess (25 page)

“God, yes. Come for me,” he told her, lifting his lids to watch her body shudder and convulse as she pulsed around him. The feeling so exquisite, everything inside him coiled and then broke open. The orgasm tore through him without warning, and he emptied himself inside her body. He threw back his head and let out a shout as it went on and on, endless waves of ecstasy he was helpless to fight as she clutched him close.

When they both regained themselves, he slid out of her. “I apologize,” he said, producing a scrap of linen from his pocket and holding it out to her. “I meant to withdraw—”

She accepted the cloth. “I know. We were both carried away, I fear.”

He fastened his trousers, relieved she was not cross with his carelessness. He must’ve successfully convinced her of his plans to marry her. Without doubt, any child of theirs would not be born a bastard. “We should leave for London tomorrow morning. I’ll secure us passage.”

Maggie sat up and righted her clothing. “I have much to do before returning. Perhaps it would be best if we did not distract one another this evening.”

He frowned, unhappy with the idea but unable to argue with the logic. “Fine. I’ll collect you in the morning.” Holding her hand, he helped her off the table. With hair askew and flushed skin, she looked like a woman who’d just been tumbled. His woman. He kissed her quickly. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Chapter Nineteen

 

“I came as soon as I could,” the Duke of Colton said as he strode into the drawing room.

Simon rose and went to the sideboard. “I am grateful, Colt. Sit down and I’ll pour you a brandy.” The London weather had turned frigid in these first few days of February. Though Simon had returned not even an hour ago, the wet cold had already seeped into his bones. He refilled his own glass, then splashed a healthy amount of brandy in a snifter for Colton.

As he sat, Mrs. Timmons knocked on the door. “My lords, Your Grace. I have a fresh pot of tea.” Simon waved her in and the housekeeper set the tray down. A maid followed behind with a tray of sweets. “Would you care for Sally to pour the tea?” Mrs. Timmons asked.

“No, I think we gents can manage. Thank you.”

The women both bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, closing the door.

“Why’d you say no? I like your maids.” Quint selected a piece of cake, popped it in his mouth. “They’re prettier than mine.”

“You’d get prettier servants if you acted more like a viscount instead of a demented Bedlamite,” Colton noted. “Now, Winchester, what’s the hurry? When did you return from Paris?”

“Nearly an hour ago. Before we get onto other problems, tell me. How goes the search for Cranford?”

Colton shook his head. “Still cannot find him, I’m afraid. Fitz and I have turned the city on its head in our search.”

“Damnation,” Simon said and slapped the armrest.

“My thoughts exactly,” Colton said. “We saw what he did to the girl at Hartley’s. Another girl was beaten, raped, and killed in St. Giles not long after. Man fit Cranford’s vague description and one of her friends noticed a signet ring.”

“Not to mention what he did to Maggie,” Simon added. “Where in Hades is he hiding?”

“Couldn’t say. But O’Shea’s men are keeping an eye out with the promise of a reward. He’ll turn up eventually.”

“Unless he’s boarded a steamer for America,” Quint finished, unhelpfully in Simon’s opinion.

“Even a visit to that godforsaken country will not stop me from exacting retribution,” Simon told them. “No matter where I must go, Cranford will pay for every second of suffering Maggie endured.”

“Provided she isn’t arrested for sedition first, I presume,” Quint said.

“Sedition?” Colton’s eyes widened. “What’s this?”

Simon caught Colton up on the developments, from Maggie as Lemarc to the blackmail letters received in Paris.

The duke slumped back. “Staggering. The whole business. So let me see if I understand. You court Lady Hawkins during her debut until the scandal breaks, upon which time Cranford shows you a bunch of letters from her professing her undying love for another man. So she marries Hawkins instead of you, and when Hawkins dies she returns to London as Lemarc, sets McGinnis up with a shop, and Winejester is born.”

Simon swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “Yes.”

“Deuced clever, that woman. You have to admire her.”

“Indeed,” Quint agreed. “She’s built a reputable name for herself. Lemarc is respected amongst artists. There was even talk of inviting him—er,
her
—to exhibit at Somerset House.”

“I don’t mean just the work,” Colton clarified. “Though it is impressive. I mean her plan to make Winchester suffer. Not all ladies would turn a former paramour into a popular caricature. Think she’d sell me one of the cartoons now?”

“I’ll allow that,” Simon returned, “when Julia permits me to inform you of how she spent her time in London all those years you were away.”

The duke’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “What do you mean by that? Spent her time, how?”

Simon didn’t answer, merely smirked. When it looked as if Colton might work himself into a righteous fury, Quint put a hand up. “Children,” he said, “I believe we should return to the issue at hand. I’ve been thinking on the blackmailer since Paris. From the sound of the letters, I think it safe to assume he’s someone close to you, Winchester.”

“Me? Why me?”

“He’s too smug. Rubbing your nose in it. This is personal for him. Or her. He’s laughing at you, trying to bleed money out of both of you. But he asked you for more money. Makes me think it’s someone out to hurt you, specifically, and hurting Lady Hawkins is a secondary motive.”

Simon let that sink in while he reached for a small cake. Who would hate him so much? A political opponent, possibly.

“Do you plan to turn the blackmailer over to the Crown?” Colton asked.

“It’s the only way. I won’t give them Maggie. Or Mrs. McGinnis.”

Quint reached for more tea. “I assume you’ll arrange to pay and then watch to see who comes to retrieve the money.”

“Yes, I daresay that is what Hollister will recommend,” Simon said, referring to the investigator. “Whatever the plan, it should happen quickly. Once word travels that Maggie and I have returned, I suspect the blackmailer will contact us.”

“I am surprised Lady Hawkins did not join us today, as this is a concern to her as well,” Colton noted.

Simon did not immediately reply, so Quint said, “She left him in Paris. Snuck out in the middle of the night.”

Colton chuckled. “Oh, extraordinary. I adore this woman. Verily, Winchester, you deserve everything she gives you.”

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:

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.”

“You cannot have me . . . arrested!” Sir James sputtered indignantly. “Think of the scandal. Your mother and sister. Why, it would—”

“Enough! I can do whatever I damn well please, James, including having you sent to the hulks, if I bloody well choose.”

He needed to speak with James alone. As much as he wished otherwise, this was family business and no one should overhear it. He turned to Hollister’s man. “Watch the entrance to the alley.” The man nodded, took a few steps toward the street, and turned his back.

Simon narrowed his eyes on James. “Give me one good reason not to strangle you here and now.”

James pushed away from the brick wall, straightened his clothing. “Sybil would never forgive you. And not even peers are able get away with murder.”

“They can if they’re smart about it. I daresay I’d be lauded as a hero in this case.” Simon crossed his arms to keep from throttling James. “I cannot believe you thought this scheme would work. I should just put a ball in your bloody duplicitous heart.”

“So do it!” the other man shot back, throwing up his hands. “I have nothing left to live for. We’re completely done for. You’ve taken all our money, and I’m forced to depend on the kindness of relatives like a . . . a damned spinster aunt. You—”

“So the answer is to blackmail me? Hell, James, what else could I do? You spend every farthing you get your hands on. You’re determined to drag my sister down with you, and I will not have it. You’ll not bankrupt the estate. Not as long as I am the head of the family.”

“As if we all need a reminder you are the mighty and powerful Earl of Winchester,” James sneered.

Simon’s jaw clenched tightly. Shouldn’t his brother-in-law be begging for forgiveness right now? He took a calming breath. “Who put you up to this? I know this was not your idea.”

“How do you know that? I am more clever than you give me credit for!”

“I give you precisely the credit you deserve, you notorious nincompoop. Now tell me who you have been working with.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

Simon stalked forward, wrapped a fist around James’s cravat, and shoved him against the rough brick. “Because if you do not, I will cut off your bollocks and feed them to the pigs. Start explaining, James.”

James pressed his lips together, spite glittering in his eyes.

“Fine,” Simon said, calmly. He released his hold—only to plow a fist in James’s belly. The man doubled over, wheezing. Simon straightened his cuffs and waited for him to recover.

“Piss. Off,” James rasped.

Simon wrapped his fingers around James’s throat, yanking the man upright and slamming him into the brick. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

James said nothing, his gaze openly hostile, so Simon leaned in to snarl, “I shall squeeze your throat until you tell me what I want to know. If you do not tell me, I’ll cut off your supply of air.”

“You would not dare,” James returned, though his gaze darted over Simon’s shoulder nervously, as if looking for assistance.