The Harlot Countess (10 page)

Thoughts of offspring reminded him of this afternoon. Yes, he’d acted abominably. Should have withdrawn, spent himself anywhere but inside her. He never forgot with Adrianna or with any of his other lovers. His father’s mistress had borne the seventh earl two bastards, and Simon could still remember the day he’d learned of the existence of his half siblings. While it was not uncommon amongst the nobility, the revelation had confused and hurt him at the time, and Simon had vowed at nine he’d not sire any by-blows. And so far, to his knowledge, he hadn’t.

No question, then, he’d erred this afternoon. But hell . . . pulling out had been the last thing on his mind at that precise moment. The feel of Maggie clenched around him had been heaven. The pleasure had ripped through him, roared up from the depths of his soul to obliterate everything else.

Obviously Maggie hadn’t been similarly affected.

She had every right to be angry, of course. His actions had been thoughtless. No doubt her other lovers were far more considerate.

“You have the oddest expression on your face right now. What are you thinking?”

Simon glanced at his mother and shook his head. “Nothing of importance.”

“Some days I fear you’ve grown far too serious, Simon.” She sighed, and he refrained from comment, reaching out to steal another piece of plum cake instead. “Have you by any chance run into Lady Hawkins since she returned from that godforsaken little town Hawkins dragged her to?”

The cake turned to dust in his mouth. No chance his mother asked that particular question on a whim. Obviously word had gotten round about either his attendance at Maggie’s extravagant soirée or the dinner party at Colton’s.

He swallowed, forcing the lump of dry cake down his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

She sipped her tea, sharp blue eyes identical to his own watching him over the rim of her cup. “And?”

“And she seems well. Hawkins left her fairly well off, it seems, and she certainly loves to stir up attention for herself.”

“Hawkins did not leave her well off,” his mother said. “A very modest jointure, I heard. The estate got the rest.”

Interesting. He hadn’t paid attention to the gossip when Hawkins died, but the woman lived in debauchery and excess to rival a Bourbon king. How could she possibly afford it?

“Were you kind to her?” his mother asked, and Simon nearly laughed. If he’d been any kinder, the two of them would’ve melted in a puddle of lust. Without doubt, it had been the most satisfying and intense encounter he’d ever had with a woman.

He didn’t care for the way his mother was studying him. “Why on earth would I be unkind?”

The countess sighed. “Because people often are, especially in our circles. She did not have an easy time with her debut, and the marriage to Hawkins could not have been much better. And I know you favored her.”

Such a commonplace phrase for the profound depth of his former feelings for Maggie. He had followed the girl around like a beggar, desperate for any word or glance she might throw his way. Hell, he’d almost demanded Cranford’s seconds, ready to take a bullet to defend her honor.

Then Cranford had shown him proof, the letters from Maggie suggesting assignations. How much she looked forward to Cranford’s attentions. The truth had nearly crushed Simon. And there had been others, Cranford swore, other men to whom she’d given her favors. But Simon had been the fattest prize that Season, a prestigious title and more wealth than any other unattached man that year.

It had all been a game to her. A game to win the husband too besotted to know better.

And so he’d licked his wounds like any respectable twenty-three-year-old would: the day of her hasty wedding, Simon got stinking drunk in one of London’s most exclusive brothels. He’d stayed for three days, hiring enough women to keep him entertained round the clock. Madame Hartley, the owner of the establishment, joked as he left that he should have his cock bronzed in commemoration.

“Simon, are you paying attention?”

He glanced up. “Of course. We are speaking of Lady Hawkins. And I did not shun her, if that is what has you concerned.”

“Most of the older women have, I’m afraid. She’s not welcome everywhere, as I’m sure you well know, and her mother was a dear friend at one time.” She paused. “Perhaps I should have spoken up for the gel. Hard to imagine she’d truly taken to Cranford, not when she had
you
. Anyway, I’d like to have her for dinner. Would you come?”

It took him a second, but he managed, “If you wish. But she might not accept the invitation, Mother.” Not after today, anyway.

“Nonsense. Why would she refuse?”

Simon shrugged. “You know how temperamental some women can be. Well, I must go deal with Sir James before this gets any worse.” He stood and bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “I’ll send a note later after I meet with him.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Simon. And I shall let you know what Lady Hawkins says about dinner.”

Chapter Nine

Maggie hadn’t ever been inside a brothel before.

To be precise, she wasn’t truly
in
a brothel—or at least not any part where any of the guests could see her. She’d entered through a private door and had promptly been escorted to Madame Hartley’s small office, which, it turned out, had a convenient peephole into the main drawing room—a peephole Maggie immediately made use of.

The opulence surprised her. Granted, this brothel was a cut above the rest, catering to the elite and wealthy men of the
ton,
and the services, she guessed, were not cheap. This was no tug ’n’ tussle for a quid. No, the gentlemen clearly came and stayed, enjoying the women, gambling, and spirits in equal measure for a prolonged amount of time. That would be the only way Madame Hartley could afford the Hepplewhite chairs, the lush Aubusson rugs, the silk draperies. The portrait above the mantel looked to be an original Joshua Reynolds, for heaven’s sake.

There were Lemarcs here, too. A series of her erotic sketches hung in the bedchambers. Upon her return to London, Maggie had asked Mrs. McGinnis to gift the deliciously lascivious works to Madame Hartley in order to gain Lemarc a bit of notoriety. And it had worked; last Maggie inquired, Madame turned down offers to buy them almost monthly.

In the main drawing room, there were four men relaxing and talking, each with a drink in hand. Some had girls in their laps. It was fascinating, this civilized debauchery. Where were the naked dancing girls, like one saw in Paris? Of course, there could be all sorts of raucous behavior occurring on the second floor. Maggie cursed yet again the fact she’d been born a female. If she were a man, she could discover exactly what transpired in the private rooms.

You know what they’re doing up there
, her mind whispered.
The same thing you were doing yesterday afternoon.

“Here, let me see,” the Duchess of Colton said, pinching Maggie’s arm.

“Ow,” Maggie said and slid out of the way. Julia wasted no time in lining her eye up with the tiny hole.

“Look, it’s Lord Burke. And Sir Henry. And the one with the woman on his lap is Lord Andover. Oh, I can hardly believe it. It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Goodness, he’s reaching into her bodice!”

“Where?” Maggie gasped and elbowed Julia. “Hurry. Let me see.”

“Wait,” Julia said, laughing, as she relinquished the tiny window. “Oh, this is too much fun. We should come here more often.”

Back at the small hole, Maggie confirmed that Andover’s hand was indeed inside the girl’s bodice. The girl didn’t appear to mind; in fact, she slid the dress off her shoulder, allowing him better access. Andover wasted no time, pulling the plump mound out to bare it. He then began to fondle her, rolling and pinching the nipple, while he chatted with the other gents. The girl leaned against him, head thrown back on his shoulder, her lower lip pulled between her teeth like it was all she could do to keep from crying out. Maggie’s own nipples puckered inside her chemise and stays, her breasts swelling. Simon had done that very thing only a day before, and she remembered how extraordinary it felt.

The girl squirmed on Andover’s lap, grinding her backside into his groin, which got her a pinch hard enough to make her gasp. Her lids fluttered shut, chest rising and falling rapidly, as she clearly enjoyed the torment.

Unable to tear her gaze away, Maggie recalled the feeling of sitting on a man’s lap while her breasts were fondled and caressed. In her recollection, however, Lord Andover was not underneath her. No, this man was taller, leaner, with sand-colored hair and piercing blue eyes. An ache began in her core, an emptiness she’d never experienced before. It was as if her body knew what it was missing. Or rather,
whom
it was missing.

God help her.

In the drawing room, Lord Andover put two fingers up to the girl’s mouth. She opened greedily, taking the digits inside and sucking on them. Maggie watched, entranced, as the fingers reemerged, slick with saliva, and traveled to the girl’s breast once more to glide easily over the puckered, rosy tip. The girl must have moaned, or made some other sound, because Andover laughed and whispered something to her.

Madame Hartley appeared. She bent to say something in Andover’s ear. He nodded, assisted the girl off his lap, helped to right her dress, and escorted her toward the front stairs. It all happened very quickly. Maggie suffered a brief pang of disappointment before noticing that Madame was striding toward the office. The peephole cover had barely swung shut before Madame opened the door.

Madame Hartley’s eyes went directly to the cover, and her lips twitched as she curtsied. “I see Your Grace and your ladyship have been enjoying the rare performance in my drawing room.”

“It was Lady Hawkins’s idea,” Julia blurted, all wide-eyed innocence that not a soul in her right mind would believe.

Maggie choked out an embarrassed laugh. “I didn’t—I mean, we shouldn’t have . . .”

The owner waved a hand. “I can hardly blame your ladyship, but his lordship knows better. I do not run that sort of establishment. That sort of business belongs in the upper rooms.”

Maggie spent a moment admiring Madame Hartley’s expensive costume. Layers of lace adorned her midnight-blue silk dress, and the sapphires around her neck had to be worth a small fortune. Her lustrous hair styled and coiffed, one could almost imagine her on the way to a box at Drury Lane.

Madame glanced around the small room. “Did Pearl come as well?”

“She preferred to wait in the carriage,” Julia said. “She said you would understand.”

The abbess sighed. “Indeed, I do. While I treat my girls better than their own mothers, places such as these can be a harsh reminder of a life some would rather forget. And Pearl had it rougher than most. Which brings us to why I sent for her and, by extension, your ladyship.” She gestured at Maggie. “Pearl has told me of your ladyship’s work at some of the other establishments, the funds for physicians and medical procedures. Additional protection for the girls. I’ve never needed that here, as I’ve been able to more than adequately provide for and protect my girls. At least, I did before last evening.”

Maggie frowned, a terrible sense of foreboding settling in her chest. “Has something happened, then?”

Madame clasped her hands together and took a breath. “One of my girls was hurt quite brutally last evening. I’ve had the physician round today and not only was she ridden roughly, the bones in her face have been crushed. An arm broken. Bruises everywhere. It’s . . .” She swallowed. “It’s terrible.”

Julia gasped. “Who was it? Who did such a cowardly, terrible thing?”

The owner nodded. “I have a fairly good idea. I was away last evening, as I’d gone to help my sister give birth out in Hampstead. Otherwise, I would have prevented it. But Your Grace needn’t be concerned; I have men in my employ who deal with that sort of thing. He will get his due, no matter how long it takes. I am worried about
her.
”

“Of course,” Maggie said. “The poor dear. She must be in excruciating pain.”

“She is, my lady,” Madame confirmed. “We had to sedate her in order to treat her. Now that’s worn off and I’m afraid she’s . . . well, broken in more than just her body. I sent for Pearl in desperation, that she might know of some way to help the girl. Some place to send her in order to recuperate. I cannot see how staying here in the house is helping.”

Before Maggie could speak, Julia said, “I know of the perfect place to send her. Bring me some paper so that I may write a quick note. And send word to the mews that Pearl may go, won’t you?”

“Who are you writing to?” Maggie asked her.

“You shall see.”

 

 

After failing to track Sir James down the day before, Simon entered Brooks’s and immediately inquired after his sister’s husband.

The attendant confirmed that Sir James was enjoying an early dinner. So Simon parted with his things and came inside.

He nodded in greeting to a few acquaintances as he strode through the subscription room. The crowd here tended to run a bit younger and faster than that at White’s, since Brooks’s hazard table was the stuff of legend, yet Simon did not spend much time here. He preferred the food and political conversation at White’s.

Lamps dim in the dining room, it took a moment to find his brother-in-law. Soon, he spotted the round, balding blowhard near the back, surrounded by three young men. James appeared quite animated, gesturing wildly while the others laughed. Was James telling them about his London orange grove, which had been obliterated in its first frost? Or perhaps the bee colony destroyed by mice?

God save Simon from stupidity.

“My lord, would you care for a table?” a servant asked at his side.

Simon shook his head. “No, I shan’t be long.”

In seconds, he loomed over James’s table. James glanced up, his face registering surprise.

“Winchester,” he started. “Why don’t you—”

Simon shot a look at the three companions. “Leave.” The men gaped and so Simon barked, “
Now
.”

Forks clattered and napkins dropped as the young men flew out of their seats and disappeared. Simon sat in the chair closest to James. He leaned back and signaled the nearest servant. The man hurried over and Simon gestured to the table. “Have all this removed,” he said. “And bring me a bottle of claret.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now, see here, Winchester. I—”

“Do yourself a favor and cease speaking, James.”

When the table had been cleared and wine poured, Simon took a healthy swallow of claret. “I’d rather been hoping you had the sense to jump a merchant ship bound for India, James.”

James put up his hands and huffed a small laugh. “Look here, it isn’t as bad as all that. A small stretch of rough road. In fact, I have an idea—”

“No,” Simon snapped. “It is
precisely
that bad. Have you truly done it? Have you lost everything?”

Beads of sweat broke out on James’s prodigious brow as he leaned in. “I had a bit of bad timing on a few investments. It’s nothing I can’t recover from. I just need a bit of blunt to keep me afloat until I can get back on my feet.”

“Absolutely not. No more money, James.”

James’s face reddened. “And what of Sybil? You would see your sister out on the street?”

“No, my sister will always have a home. With my mother or even me. You, on the other hand, are more than welcome to sleep in the gutter, for all I care.” Something flashed in James’s eyes, but Simon continued. “Did she turn over the trust? Did you lose the money I set aside for her protection?”

“My wife and I don’t keep secrets, Winchester. She gave me that money without my even asking for it.”

“Any vowels?” Simon brushed a piece of lint off the white linen tablecloth.

“A few.”

Simon nodded. It was what he expected. He pinned James with a hard stare. “And the house?”

James swallowed, the muscles in his fleshy throat working. He dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

Bloody Christ.
Simon fought to remain seated, to rein in the outrage rolling through him. How could James be so damned irresponsible? At his mother’s behest, Simon had purchased the house as a wedding present for his sister, then foolishly handed over the deed to James. But how could he have known—how could any of them have known—the depth of James’s stupidity?

He took a deep breath and finished his wine. Poured another glass. Resisted the overwhelming urge to beat James to a sniveling, quivering pulp.

This was the last time. To bail James out, time and time again, did no good. The man had to learn, and perhaps having it all stripped away, forcing him to live on a stipend, would finally do the trick. There was no other way. Simon refused to give James carte blanche to the Winchester fortune for every wild, addlepated scheme in Britain.

“I won’t save the house,” he said at last. “I’ll cover the notes, but I won’t save the house. You’ll be given a small allowance to cover basic expenses and that’s all.”

“Sybil won’t stand for it.”

“She won’t have a choice. It’s that or the street.”

James smirked at him. “No, I don’t think so. You wouldn’t want to tarnish your shiny political career with a family scandal, now would you?”

Simon’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Are you
threatening
me?”

“Such an ugly word. I think it’s more about coming to an understanding that benefits us both. In fact, I could be useful. There are already rumors circulating about you and Lady Hawkins. I could be persuaded to deflect those rumors.”

The mention of Maggie’s name had Simon stiffening. James noticed and smiled. Cold resolve settled in Simon’s chest. He’d not risen to where he was without learning how to conceal his emotions, and he refused to let James be the one to crack the ice. He leaned back, bored. “From threats to bribery in one fell swoop. I am in awe, James. No, there will be no additional funds. I’ll have my man collect the notes on the morrow. You’d best run along and tell my sister to begin packing.” He flicked his hand, dismissing his brother-in-law.

James shot to his feet, threw his napkin on the table, and stomped out. Simon sipped claret and tried to calm himself. That hadn’t gone well. James would need to be dealt with. Perhaps once he settled the debts, he could—

“Winchester,” said a voice at his side. “Been some time since you’ve graced Brooks’s with your presence. How fortunate we are this evening.”

Simon lifted his head and found Lord Cranford sliding into a chair.
Oh, everlasting hell.
“Evening, Cranford.”

They’d kept a healthy distance over the last ten years. Simon hadn’t cared to dredge up memories of Maggie, and Cranford tended more toward vice than politics. If their paths crossed at an event or ball, a polite nod had sufficed. So why now? Cranford must have a purpose tonight, else he wouldn’t have stopped.