The Reluctant Reformer (21 page)

“Thank you,” Maggie whispered on a yawn.

“You are very welcome, dear. Sleep well.”

Maggie didn't answer. She was already asleep.

 

It was an extremely rough night. Plagued by nightmares of being beaten and burned alive, Maggie struggled toward consciousness several times, only to relax as she dreamed she was held in strong, protective arms, and that James was murmuring comforting words to her.

A soft weeping drew her out of sleep the following morning. Opening her eyes slowly, she peered around the soothing green room she'd slept in until she spotted the source of the misery. Her maid Mary sat in a chair by the bedside. Obviously Lady Barlow's footman had brought her staff last night as promised, Maggie realized. But that didn't explain why the girl was sobbing.

Concern overtaking her, Maggie struggled to sit up, drawing the girl's attention. “Oh, m'lady, ye should rest,” Mary cried, leaping from her seat at once and trying to force her mistress back down.

“Nay, let me up. What is the matter? Was someone hurt? James? Lady Barlow? Banks?” She started to run
through the names of everyone on her staff, but Mary shook her head for each.

“Nay, m'lady. Everyone's fine. Except for you, o'course,” she added, biting her lip and turning away.

Frowning in confusion, Maggie tried to understand what had the girl crying, then nearly kicked herself when she realized it must surely be the town house itself. It had been home to all of Maggie's servants too, of course, and every last possession they had had been destroyed in the fire along with her own. In fact, she realized as she noticed. Mary wearing the same gown she'd donned for the fair yesterday, they had been left with only the clothes on their backs.

“Do not worry, Mary. There is no need to cry. I shall see that your clothes are replaced. In fact, you can all go today and purchase what you need. Just have everything put on my account.”

“Thank ye, m'lady, but that isn't why I was crying.”

“Then why
are
you crying?” she asked in exasperation.

The girl hesitated, her eyes returning reluctantly to Maggie's face. Then she cried mournfully, “Oh, m'lady, yer beautiful face!”

Fear touching her at the girl's horrified expression, Maggie struggled out of bed. Stumbling to the dressing table, she let a gasp slip from her lips as she saw herself. The entire right side of her face was a swollen mess of mottled red, black, and blue. If the left side of her face were not nearly untouched, she wasn't sure if she would have recognized herself. Her own eyes brimming with tears, she sank to sit on the dressing table chair.

She stared at herself for several minutes, her hands raising to touch her injured face, then Mary stepped up
behind her holding out a robe. “Lady Barlow sent this up for you to use.”

Maggie met the maid's reflected gaze in the mirror as she slipped the robe on. Her expression was pitying, her eyes full of sympathetic tears. The girl was about to burst into loud sobs again, Maggie realized and stiffened her spine.

“Well, that shall teach me to use my face for a club when next I fight off an attacker,” she said with determined cheer. All it managed to do was cause Mary to lift the skirt of her apron to cry into it. Heaving herself up from the bench, Maggie moved to her side. She patted the girl's shoulder soothingly. “Oh, Mary, do not cry. It will heal in time.”

For a moment, Maggie thought her words had worked. Mary paused and lifted wide eyes to her, but then she wailed, “Oh, m'lady, ye're so brave!” Then she set to sobbing even harder.

Maggie was still trying to soothe the girl a few moments later when the door opened and Joan and Nora entered carting a chest between them. Their sister's sobs brought them to an immediate halt, and they both stared with alarm.

“What's the matter with…” Nora paused midquestion as she spotted Maggie's face. Her eyes widened in horror, then, and she dropped her end of the chest with a thump. “Gor!”

“Blimey, he pummeled ye right ugly,” Joan said as she, too, caught sight of her mistress. Letting the other end of the chest drop to the floor as well, she followed her sister over to get a better look.

Maggie shifted with irritation. There was just some bruising and swelling. It wasn't as if she were perma
nently disfigured. They were all overreacting terribly, she thought impatiently.

A rustling made all four women glance around.

“Is there something wrong, Banks?” Maggie asked with concern when she spotted the old retainer dithering in the doorway.

“No, my lady. I just thought to have a word with you…If you have a moment?”

“Of course.” She glanced at the three maids who promptly started for the door. Maggie called out, “Collect the others together please, Mary. I should think the sooner you get the trip to the shops out of the way, the better.”

“Aye, m'lady,” the girl answered as she followed her sisters into the hall.

Banks waited until their voices had faded before crossing the room toward Maggie. “I wished…” He paused, wincing as he got near enough for his old eyes to focus on her brutalized face. Then, he drew himself up and said, “I wished to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Maggie asked with confusion. “Whatever could you have to apologize for?”

“You. Your face.” The butler's expression was tragic. “Your beautiful town house. All your—”

“Banks,” Maggie interrupted gently, closing the last few feet between them to clasp his hands. “You have nothing for which to apologize. It is hardly your fault that someone broke in and—”

“But it is!” he protested. “I never should have left you alone. The only thing Master Gerald asked of me before he went bravely off to war was that I look after you, and—”

“You, too?” Maggie exclaimed, bringing confusion to
the butler's wizened face. “Good Lord, Gerald put everyone in charge of me. He must have thought me a complete ninny…or dicked in the nob.”

“My lady! Nay!” Banks cried. “Master Gerald did not think you crazy. He loved you and wished the best for you.” The man's shoulders slumped, then he forced them back up. “I failed him, and I failed you. But I vow to you here and now, I shall not fail either of you again. I shall look after you as I promised.”

“Banks,” she began, torn between affection and concern. “I do not—”

“Maggie?”

Margaret stiffened at that voice. Banks stood between her and the door, but she didn't need to see James to know it was him; she would recognize that voice anywhere. Her stillness ended when Banks started to turn to face the door. Recalling Mary, Joan, Nora, and even Banks's reaction to the sight of her face, she turned the opposite way, instinctively hiding her hideous bruises.

“Maggie?” She could hear the concern in his voice as Lord Ramsey drew nearer, and found herself glancing around in a panicky fashion, seeking an escape. Her earlier thoughts that it was “just bruising” and that it would “mend with time” flew out the window at the idea of him seeing her. But there was nowhere to hide, even were there time to do so. Trapped, she dropped her head, letting her hair drape down to obscure her face, and waited.

Banks excused himself, and Maggie heard the soft rustle of clothing as he left the room. The quiet click of the door being pulled closed told Maggie that she and James were alone. Then, he touched her shoulder, urging her to turn.

“Are you all right?” he asked when she kept her head bowed. “I know you had some nasty nightmares.”

Maggie glanced up, her eyes wide. “You know…You mean I wasn't dreaming?” she asked in surprise.

Confusion covered his handsome face. “About what?”

“I was having nightmares, but I also dreamed that you were holding me,” she admitted, before she could think better of it.

He smiled at her words. “Yes. For a little while. It seemed to soothe you.”

She gave a shy nod, then stiffened as she realized he could see her face. She whirled away, ducking her head again. “Was there something you wanted?” she asked.

He was silent for a moment, then his feet came into view as he moved around to stand in front of her. “There is no reason to hide,” he said quietly, forcing her face up with one finger.

“I look like a monster,” she complained, trying to turn her back to him again. “Just the sight of me had Mary in tears.”

“You do look pretty bad,” he agreed honestly. When she lifted her face to glare at him for such an unchivalrous comment, she found his eyes twinkling.

“It will heal, Maggie,” he assured her, then leaned forward to press a tender kiss to the corner of her lips.

Maggie inhaled, breathing in the scent of him as his lips brushed hers. The smell and taste of this man were familiar and exciting and took her right back to the their passionate moments in the library at Ramsey. It seemed like a century had passed since then, and Maggie couldn't hold back a moan of protest when he started to draw away. His mouth returned at once, and she
could feel his smile before his tongue slid out to lave her lips.

Maggie moved closer, her arms creeping around James's neck as his slid around her waist. He pressed her tight against him until there was no space between their bodies, then he drove his tongue into the moist depths of her mouth. Pleasure rippled through her, and Maggie groaned. All her aches and pains, all her worries and fears dropped away. She felt safe and warm. She felt as if she had come home. Then he eased their embrace so that his hands could slip between them. He undid her robe with one tug at the sash and eased it open, then paused.

“Oh, Maggie,” he breathed, and the regret in his voice made her peer down. She had been so horrified at the sight of her face, she had not even noticed her other bruises. Now she gazed at herself with amazement. There was one on the side of one breast, another on her ribs, and then a rather nasty one on her hip. There were more contusions on her legs, but Maggie was suddenly self-conscious standing there revealed and tried to draw her robe closed.

James caught her hands to stop her and bent to give her another kiss. It was unlike the ones they had shared in his library. Where those had been carnal, this one was sweet, slow and gentle; his lips and tongue were soothing her rather than invasive. The kiss stirred a lazy desire and sent a sluggish warmth flowing through her.

Maggie sighed into his mouth and relaxed in his embrace, then opened her eyes as his lips left hers. She watched his head duck, and caught her breath as he pressed a light kiss to the bruise on her injured breast—a feathery caress she barely felt as his hand closed over
the other. Biting her lip, she watched him palm then squeeze that breast before shifting his hand to a more supportive hold as his mouth closed over her nipple.

“James,” she breathed as he drew the cinnamon-colored flesh into his mouth and suckled. He barely seemed to have started, when he stopped and moved down to brush his lips over the angry discoloration on her upper ribs. The caress began as light as a butterfly's wings but ended with an erotic lick of the underside of her breast. Then James sank to his knees and his mouth whispered over the angry wound on her hip.

Maggie sighed again, then gasped when he moved his lips to the inner curve of her other hip. Her stomach jumped at the action, and she gripped the top of his head, as her legs went suddenly weak. His mouth moved to her stomach and he pressed a kiss there, his tongue delving briefly into her belly-button. He started to move lower, but his hands shifted to the back of her hips, and Maggie couldn't keep from crying out in pain.

James's head lifted at once, then he moved her robe aside and shifted on his knees to peer at her injury there. It was nearly as bad as her face, and she saw his sympathetic wince, then he stood, drew her robe closed and took her into his arms.

Holding her tenderly he said, “I am sorry. I didn't mean to add to your pain.”

“You didn't. Well, I mean, I know you didn't,” Maggie sighed.

Drawing back, James smiled at her, then pressed a quick kiss to her uninjured cheek. “I should go. I am meeting an agent from your insurer at the town house. He wishes to assess the damage and make arrangements for repairs.”

Maggie opened her mouth to assure him that she could do that, then recalled her damaged face and changed her mind. She had almost forgotten how to accept aid since Gerald's death. This time she would take the offered help. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” James's smile widened, then he hugged her briefly and released her to cross the room. He paused when he came abreast of the chest Joan and Nora had carted in. “These are some of my sister's old gowns,” he explained. “She and Aunt Viv are both pack rats. Neither of them ever throw anything out. See if you can't find something decent in here to wear, then come below. You can tell me what you wish me to say to the insurer before I leave.”

Maggie nodded and watched him exit the room. Her body was still tingling. She also felt warm and…soothed. She had never felt like this before.

Maggie placed another stitch in the gown she was working on, then set it in her lap so that she could flex her hands and rub soothingly at her neck, which was beginning to crick. The last several days seemed made up of working endlessly at the task of altering James's sister's old gowns.

James and Lady Barlow had wanted to bring a dressmaker in to make new clothes for her—both of them offering to bear the expense of such an undertaking—but Maggie's pride would not allow her to accept such a generous gift. She was already terribly beholden to them, and she found it difficult to even accept these castoffs without some repayment. But neither Lady Barlow nor her nephew would hear of remuneration, so Maggie was forced to accept their generosity. She needed clothes, after all, and she was hoping that at
some point she would be able to find a way to repay them.

Though, she supposed, she should be thinking of James's sister. It was that girl's old clothes being given away so freely.

Sighing, she picked up her needle and the green gown she was working on and again returned to her efforts. The day after the fire, Lady Barlow had spent a good deal of time helping her pin and sew the gowns so that the bodices fit. Maggie had sent her servants out to purchase clothes to replace their own lost wardrobes, and had appreciated the older woman's assistance, in their absence, but once the maids had returned and been available to help her, Maggie had convinced the older woman to return to her usual daytime activity of calling on friends.

While her female servants had assisted Maggie in sewing upon returning from their shopping trip, her male servants had gone with James to inspect the damage to the house, to see what—if anything—was salvageable. They had returned with the comforting news that the fire brigade her insurance company ran had arrived in time to ensure that most of the fire damage had been confined to the kitchens and the room above. The rest of the house had merely suffered smoke damage. While most of its furnishings needed reupholstering, and the linens and clothing needed replacing, the house itself was sound and would be quite inhabitable in no time. The work was, thank heavens, covered by the insurance Gerald had always insisted she keep.

Unfortunately, while James almost convinced her with his reassuring smiles, Maggie's butler, Banks, was a lousy liar. She had seen right through the tale. The
way her butler had twisted his hat in his hands and avoided her gaze had made it clear that James was lying through his teeth. And the fact that, even several days later, the servants still returned each night to Lady Barlow's after spending the days helping to clear the town house seemed to confirm her fear.

At first it had just been the men leaving each morning to help out at the town house, but this morning Maggie had sent the women along, too, keeping only Mary back to help her with the last of her gowns. It had been cowardice that made her do so. With all of her maids sewing, they had been running through the gowns quite quickly, and Maggie had wanted to slow their progress. She was afraid that once she finished with all the alterations, Lady Barlow would insist on Maggie's accompanying her on social calls, and while Maggie's face was slowly returning to normal, it was still slightly swollen and an unattractive yellow. She was not vain by nature, but had no wish to be seen as she was.

Besides, she had some thinking to do. If, as she suspected, her brother's house was more damaged than James was letting on, she doubted if the insurance she'd purchased would cover the repairs. Which had her fretting. She needed money. Desperately. In fact, she had the gloomy feeling that her financial position was more precarious than ever.

Maggie scowled and jabbed her needle into the cloth she held, knowing that she shouldn't be wasting her time sewing extra garments. She should be out researching another story for the
Daily Express
.

Fortunately, Hartwick had long ago assured her he would take as many stories as she could write. Up until now, she had only ever supplied one article every two
weeks; it wasn't so easy to keep coming up with fresh ideas, and biweekly articles had been enough to keep them afloat. Now she would have to squeeze out more. The only problem was, with her mind on all the many trials and tribulations in her life, she couldn't seem to think of anything good to write about.

Frowning, she considered the matter, thinking up and discarding one story line after another. One was too boring, another too similar to an article she'd already done. She was almost relieved when Meeks coughed at the doorway, drawing her attention from her rather hopeless thoughts.

“Yes?” she asked as the man came forward. He held a small silver tray in his hand, bearing a folded piece of paper.

“A letter for you, my lady.”

“For me?” Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she set her sewing aside and took the note. “Thank you.” Nodding, the man turned and wordlessly left the room.

Maggie opened the unsealed note and read the letter with growing surprise and relief. It was from Maisey, an answer to the letter she had sent more than a week back about their traded gowns and the possibility of calling it even. The subject had quite slipped her mind, what with everything that had happened since. The delay was clarified at the beginning of the letter; the girl explained that she had been away at a private house party during the whole of this last week.

Maggie grimaced slightly, knowing as she did the girl's occupation, then read on, relieved to find that the girl thought it more than fair that they call it quits on the gowns. She would keep the money Frances had of
fered to replace the ripped gown, and Maggie need not worry about replacing the red one.

It was one worry off her mind, but Maggie's relief knew no bounds when the young woman then mentioned that she had come across a certain club in which G. W. Clark might have some interest—a club in which it was said dastardly things took place. Maggie was to write back at once and let Maisey know if she was interested, then the girl could set up a time when it was convenient for Maggie to attend. The prostitute was even willing to go with her for a fee.

“Meeks,” Maggie called, refolding the letter.

The man must have been waiting outside the door, because he stepped back into the room at once, not looking the least ruffled or surprised.

“It says here that the boy who brought the note would wait for a reply. Is there a—”

“I sent him to the kitchens to wait,” Meeks answered calmly. Seeming to feel it necessary to explain, he added, “I could not leave the little urchin alone in the entry while I delivered the note; he might have pocketed something. And the neighbors would have complained had I left him on the stoop.”

Maggie bit back an amused smile. She didn't believe his claim for a minute. The man was as soft as a raw egg. No doubt he had ordered the cook to find food and water for the “urchin.” He had a kind heart.

“Yes, of course. I understand,” she murmured, setting her sewing aside so that she could get up. “Do you think it would be all right if I used some of Lady Barlow's paper and ink to write a response?”

“Of course, my lady. Lady Barlow has said that I am to get you anything you require. If you follow me, I will
show you to the library and supply you with all necessities for your correspondence.”

“Thank you.” Ignoring Mary's curious gaze, Maggie followed the man to the library, working out her answer in her head as she went. This was too perfect. She desperately needed a story, and Maisey, the dear girl, was giving her just that. It was the first stroke of good luck she'd had since that fateful night at Madame Dubarry's. Perhaps things were starting to look up.

 

James stepped down from his carriage and walked jauntily up to his aunt's house, a smile on his face. He had spent the day overseeing work on Maggie's town house and was pleased with how things were coming. The house had nearly been gutted before the fire brigade from the Union Assurance company—Maggie's insurance company—had arrived to put it out.

Of course, he hadn't told her that. The fuss she had raised over accepting a couple of cast-off gowns of his sister's, and her absolute refusal to allow him or his aunt to assist by purchasing her new gowns to replace the ones she had lost in the fire, had warned him she would be too proud to accept any help in repairing the town house. He had also realized, after a conversation with her insurer, that her coverage would not fund all of the necessary repairs, nor the replacement of her furnishings. So he had lied.

He knew without a doubt that Maggie wasn't completely fooled by his fabrications, but he was also quite sure that there was nothing she could do about them. He had brought in droves of workers and even her own people to ensure that the repairs and rebuilding were done quickly, and it was moving along nicely. Another
day or so and her staff would even be able to move back in. By the time Maggie got to see it, she wouldn't be able to tell how much damage there had been or how costly it had been to set right. He would lie about the money, and she would not be able to prove otherwise. He was quite satisfied with his handling of the matter.

Reaching the door, James rapped lightly with his cane, then whistled lightly as he waited for it to be opened, enjoying the anticipation building within him. He had visited Maggie and his aunt often since the fire, usually playing cards with both ladies, though on occasion he had played chess alone with Maggie in the library while his aunt entertained friends in the salon. The doors had been left open on these occasions, of course, as was proper and expected.

James enjoyed those visits best. Maggie relaxed more around him when his aunt wasn't present, her smiles and soft laughter enchanting.

Tonight his aunt was having a small gathering of friends. James had not planned to attend—he'd expected to be meeting with Johnstone for an update on Maggie's attacker—but he had received a letter from the runner just moments ago and learned the man was rushing out of town tracking a clue and would miss their meeting. James had promptly ordered his carriage and headed for his aunt's—for Maggie.

He had no doubt she would be easily culled from the herd of females and lured to the library. It had not escaped his notice that despite the fact that her bruises were nearly gone, she was still shy about displaying her face in public. He had every intention of taking advantage of that.

The door was opened by Meeks. The old man's eyes
widened in surprise upon seeing him. “My lord, I thought you had a meeting and were not to be present tonight.”

“My meeting was canceled,” James announced cheerfully. He stepped inside.

“Oh, I am glad you are here, my lord.”

“And I am glad to be here.” James handed over his hat and cane to the man, his gaze straying to the salon door. He could hear the muffled murmur of female voices coming through it. “Is Maggie in there with the rest of the women?”

“Nay, my lord,” Meeks answered grimly.

James paused on his way to the door to turn back questioningly. “Where is she then? Up in her room?”

“Nay, my lord. She is not here.”

“What?” He stared at the butler, uncomprehending. “What do you mean, she is not here? Where
is
she?”

The servant hesitated briefly; then his mouth firmed with unhappiness. “She received a letter today, my lord. From someone named Maisey.”

James's eyes widened in horror, and he snatched his hat and cane back. “Dear Lord, she has gone back to Dubarry's.”

“Nay,” Meeks said quickly, following him to the door. When James turned on him, the man seemed to struggle with his conscience, then admitted, “The letter was not sealed. A street urchin brought it. I dropped the note, it fell open, and I just happened to see—”

“You read it,” James snapped, unwilling to waste time on the man's excuses. “What did it say?”

Meeks colored slightly, but he straightened and said with dignity, “This Maisey person claimed to know of a club she thought G. W. Clark might be interested in. A men's club.”

“Which one?” James prompted.

“The letter did not say. It simply mentioned a club with dastardly goings-on and requested that her ladyship reply as to whether she was interested in the club and when might be a convenient time to investigate it.”

“And what was Maggie's answer?” James asked impatiently.

Meeks drew himself up indignantly. “I would not stoop to reading her ladyship's letters.”

James frowned. No, he would not expect the man to be so impertinent as to open a sealed letter as Maggie's response clearly would have been.

“But,” the butler went on. “A second missive to Lady Margaret also went unsealed. It simply said seven o'clock tonight, and an address. There was a mask with the letter.”

“A mask?” James asked suspiciously. What was Maggie up to? “What kind of mask?”

“It was quite distinctive. A teal-and-gold feathered affair.”

James digested that, then glanced up sharply. “Do you recall the address in the letter?”

“Of course.”

“Good man,” he said with relief.

 

Maggie leaned against the wall of the building, doing her best to look inconspicuous as she watched carriage after carriage stop and disgorge masked individuals and couples in front of the address across the street. The house looked completely normal, no different from any of the other town houses in this district, but if what Maisey hinted at was true, there was more going on than just a masked ball.

Shifting impatiently, she glanced nervously up the street, her eyes searching for any sign of Maisey. The problem was, Maggie wasn't sure for what she was supposed to be looking. Maisey was about Maggie's height, with dirty-blond hair, but if the girl came masked like the others, Maggie wasn't certain she would be able to spot her.

Worse, there was a good possibility that Maisey would not recognize her, either, despite the mask the other girl had sent to make the task easier. The young prostitute would be looking for that mask on a woman, and Maggie was not dressed as a female. She had decided at the last minute to go dress as a man, an idea that had come to her while she searched the attic for shoes to match the gown she'd intended to wear.