The Harlot Countess

Book 2: Wicked Deceptions

by Joanna Shupe

Genres: Regency Romance; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

FACT: Drawing under a male pseudonym, Maggie is known as Lemarc. Her (his!) favorite object of ridicule: Simon Barrett, Earl of Winchester. He's a rising star in Parliament-and a former confidant and love interest of Maggie's who believed a rumor that vexes her to this day.




FICTION: Maggie is the half-Irish Harlot who seduced her best friend's husband on the eve of their wedding. She is to be feared and loathed as she will lift her skirts for anything in breeches.




Still crushed by Simon's betrayal, Maggie has no intention of letting the ton crush her as well. In fact, Lemarc's cartoons have made Simon a laughingstock...but now it appears that Maggie may have been wrong about what happened years ago, and that Simon has been secretly yearning for her since . . . forever. Could it be that the heart is mightier than the pen and the sword after all?

Contains mature themes.

Release date: May 1, 2015

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Silence rippled throughout the ballroom the moment her slipper hit the top step.

Before Lady Margaret Neeley had a chance to comment on this odd reaction, her mother began tugging her down the stairs. Only then did the impending doom become apparent: the way each person avoided her gaze, the hushed tones sallied around the room, dancers paused mid-turn.

And she realized at once that they knew.

They knew.

Somehow, despite her best efforts, stories of what happened the night before had circulated through the streets of London this afternoon. On morning calls, rides in Hyde Park, and promenades down Rotten Row, the ton had spread the tale hither and yon.

With Maggie’s younger sister ill today, Mama hadn’t wanted to go on calls. Relieved, Maggie had spent the time drawing, grateful that they hadn’t received any callers. Now it was clear why.

She hadn’t done anything wrong, she wanted to shout. In fact, she had tried very hard during her debut to appear a proper English girl. With the black hair and fiery temper of her Irish father, it had been a constant battle. She neither looked nor acted like all the other girls, and the ton seemed to enjoy casting her in the role of outsider despite that she’d spent most of her life in London.

“Why has everyone gone quiet?” Mama hissed in her ear. “What have you done, Margaret?”

Of course Mama would pick up on the disquiet. Also unsurprising she would place the blame for the uneasiness squarely at Maggie’s feet. Even still, Maggie couldn’t answer. A lump had lodged in her throat and even breathing was a challenge.

Escape, her mind cried. Just run away and pretend this whole evening never happened. But she’d done nothing wrong. Surely someone would believe her. All she had to do was explain what had occurred in the Lockheed gardens.

Lifting her chin, she continued down toward the glittering candlelight. Stubbornness had forever been a defect in her character, so everyone said. Mama lamented that Maggie would argue long after the point had been made. So she would not turn tail and run, though her stomach had tied itself into knots. No, she would face them, if only to prove she could do it.

When they reached the bottom of the steps, the quiet was deafening. Their hosts did not bustle forth to greet them. Not one of her few friends rushed over to share gossip or compliment her dress. No young buck approached to request a spot on her dance card.

Instead, the crowd swelled backward as if an untamed beast had wandered inside and might run amok at any moment.

“Come,” her mother ordered, taking Maggie’s elbow. “Let us return home.”

“No,” Maggie whispered emphatically. What had happened was not her fault, and she would not allow anyone to bully her. Someone would believe—

A blur of blue silk sharpened into the flushed features of Lady Amelia. “I cannot believe you are so foolish as to show your face,” the girl hissed.

Maggie straightened her shoulders and focused on her friend. “Whatever you have heard—”

“He told me. Did you think he would not? My betrothed confided in me of your . . . your wickedness, Margaret. You tried to steal him from me, but you failed.”

The entire room was now avidly watching and listening to this conversation. Even the orchestra had quieted. “Amelia, why would I—”

“You were always jealous. I’ve had three offers this Season and you haven’t had a one. It comes as no surprise that you would try to steal Mr. Davenport for yourself.” As the heir to Viscount Cranford, Mr. Davenport was widely considered the most eligible man in London. He had proposed to Amelia more than a month ago and Maggie had been nothing but pleased for the other girl.

So Maggie ignored her mother’s gasp and kept her eyes trained on Amelia. “You are wrong.”

“Amelia.” Lady Rockland appeared and tugged on her daughter’s arm. “Come away this instant. You will ruin yourself by even speaking to that . . .” She did not finish, did not add the hateful word before spinning away in a flurry of obvious revulsion. Maggie could well imagine what Lady Rockland had been about to say, however.

Whore. Harlot. Strumpet.

Is that what she’d become in their eyes? It seemed incomprehensible, especially since Mr. Davenport had lied. Maggie had agreed to meet him to, as he’d said, discuss Amelia. Yet once on the edge of the gardens, it had become apparent the young man had something else in mind. He’d grabbed her, tried to pull her close and put his mouth on her. He’d ripped her dress. Maggie had struck back in the one place it counted on a man and he’d released her. When she’d hurried back to the house, the couple arriving on the terrace must have drawn their own conclusions about her dishabille.

Mr. Davenport had tricked her. Attacked her. Then he’d compounded the sin by lying about it to Amelia, one of the few girls Maggie had befriended. The need to make everyone understand tore at her insides. Did no one care for the truth?

As she swept the room with her gaze, the hatred staring back at her made it undeniably clear that the truth did not matter. The ton had passed judgment. She wanted to scream with the unfairness of it. Would no one come to her aid? Surely one of the other unmarried young girls or the man she thought—

More than a little desperately, she searched the room, this time for a tall, blond-haired man. He had been her safe harbor this Season, the one person who truly knew her, who would believe she’d never do anything so reckless. Likely he’d heard what happened by now. So why had Simon not stepped forward to defend her?

There, in the back of the ballroom. Her eyes locked with the brilliant blue gaze she knew so well, a gaze that had sparkled down at her for more nights than she could count. His eyes were not sparkling now, however; they were flat, completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. A flush slowly spread over his cheeks, almost as if he was . . . angry or perhaps embarrassed—which made no sense at all.

She clasped her gloved hands together tightly, silently imploring him to rescue her. Yet he made no move to come closer. Holding her gaze, he raised his champagne glass and drained it.

Hope bloomed when Simon shifted—only to be quashed when she realized what had happened. He’d presented her with his back.

Simon had turned away.

No one stirred. No one spoke. It seemed as if they were all waiting to see what she would do. Hysteria bubbled up in Maggie’s chest, a portentous weight crushing her lungs.

Dear God. What was to become of her?

A man’s past could easily be forgotten—unless it hung in a shop window on the busiest stretch of St. James, of course.

Simon Barrett, the eighth Earl of Winchester, stood frozen in the cold winter air, staring at yet another shining reminder of his illustrious, drunken youth. Despite the frigid temperature, an uncomfortable heat crawled up his neck. Hell, he hadn’t blushed since boyhood.

Still, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the drawing in the print shop window, a depiction of a man too soused to stand while a lady nearby was robbed of her jewels. There could be no doubt of the man’s identity. As if the tall frame, blond hair, and bright blue eyes weren’t enough, the artist had provided the character with a name: Lord Winejester.

Bloody hell.

“I’d almost forgotten that side of you, the rogue from our youth.”

Simon glanced at his good friend Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint. “Rather the artist’s point, I believe.”

Simon wondered again why this artist, Lemarc, had fixated on him. Was one of his opponents accountable for the cartoons? One did not rise to the upper ranks of Parliament without stepping on some toes.

“What number is this? I daresay it’s the fourth or fifth caricature of you in the last year. Lord Winejester is becoming quite popular. Mayhap you’ll get a commemorative spoon or plate, like Rowlandson’s Dr. Syntax,” Quint said, referring to the artist’s popular fictitious character.

“Oh, to dream,” Simon drawled.

Quint chuckled and nudged Simon’s shoulder. “Come now. You have laughed off the others. Why so grim now?”

Not entirely true. Simon may have laughed publicly, but privately these cartoons worried him. He’d worked too hard building his reputation to allow it to be tarnished. His influence and prestige amongst his peers would suffer if he continued to be portrayed as a buffoon. Mayhap it was time to suggest a certain artist apply his skills elsewhere.

And if said suggestion was perceived as a threat, well then, so be it.

“Shall we go inside?”

A bell tinkled over the door as Simon entered, Quint on his heels. A spacious room, the shop had rows of windows set high, right up to the ceiling, allowing light to bounce off every available surface, even on a gray winter day such as this. Framed art crowded the walls—landscapes, portraits, fashion plates, and life scenes in all different shapes and sizes—while racks of unframed canvases rested in the far corner. Simon strode to the long counter along the back wall, where an older woman stood patiently waiting. From behind small, rounded spectacles, her eyes widened and darted to the front window before settling back on his face. Well, at least I won’t need to introduce myself.

She dropped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lords.”

Simon removed his hat and placed it on the counter. “Good afternoon. I should like to speak with the owner.”

“I am Mrs. McGinnis, the owner. Would your lordship be interested in purchasing a print?”

“Not today. I am more interested in information.” He gestured to the front window. “Can you tell me how I might find the artist Lemarc? I find his work . . . interesting.” Quint snickered, but Simon ignored him.

“I am afraid the artist wishes to remain anonymous, my lord.”

This unsurprising response didn’t deter him in the least. Over the past few weeks, he’d made some casual inquiries regarding the artist and learned Lemarc was a sobriquet. “What if I offer to pay you for the information? Say, ten pounds.”

Her lips twitched and he got the distinct impression Mrs. McGinnis held back a smile. “My lord, I’ve had an offer as high as fifty pounds.”

“What about one hundred pounds?”

“I must apologize, my lord, but my loyalties remain with the artist. It would not be proper for me to disregard his wishes.”

Inwardly, he cursed the woman’s stubbornness, though one had to admire her devotion to Lemarc. “I’d like to purchase his cartoon in the window, then.”

Mrs. McGinnis shook her head. “I must apologize again to your lordship. That particular drawing is not for sale.”

His jaw nearly dropped. “Not for sale? No matter the offer?”

“No matter what your lordship offers. The artist would prefer to keep the piece in his own private collection.”

Damnation. Simon drummed his fingers on the counter, his mind spinning. He couldn’t even buy the cartoons to get rid of them.

Quint leaned forward. “Are there any other Lemarc pieces for sale?”

“Why, yes, my lord,” the shopkeeper quickly answered. “I have a collection of bird paintings done in watercolors by that particular artist, if your lordships would be interested to see them.”

“He’ll buy all of them.” Quint pushed a thumb in Simon’s direction. “Whatever you have.”

“Birds?” Simon gave Quint a hard glare. “Birds, Quint?”

“Buy them, Winchester. Trust me.”

Simon turned back to the shopkeeper. “How many?”

“Almost twenty, my lord. They’re quite nice, all done within the last few years. Would your lordships care to see them?”

Quint answered, “No, that won’t be—”

Simon gripped his friend’s shoulder and began towing him toward the front door. “Excuse us a moment, won’t you, Mrs. McGinnis?”

“Of course. Take all the time your lordship requires. I’ll just be in the back.” She disappeared into the recesses of the shop, leaving the two men alone.

Simon frowned at Quint. “Why the deuce am I purchasing almost twenty bird paintings? I loathe birds.”

“Because some are regional, you oaf,” Quint whispered. “We might be able to find a common thread in the types of birds drawn and narrow down a county where Lemarc resides. At least that will give you a location in which to begin your search.”

Simon blinked. “Quint, that’s . . .”

“I know. Now buy the blasted pictures so we can get to the club. I’m starving.”

He’d momentarily forgotten Quint’s love of puzzles. “Fine. Consider this your project, then. Give me one of your cards.” Quint produced a card, and Simon called for Mrs. McGinnis. “I’ll take all the bird paintings,” he told the shopkeeper when she returned, withdrawing a card from his breast pocket. “Send the bill to me, but deliver the pictures to this address.” He handed over Quint’s card.

“With pleasure, my lord. Would your lordship care to have them framed?”

Might as well, he thought. He’d find somewhere to use them. Shooting practice, perhaps. “Indeed. I bow to your expertise, Mrs. McGinnis. Choose whatever frames you deem appropriate. How long before they’re ready?”

“I’ll get my boy on it straightaway. I should have them to your lordship day after tomorrow.”

At that moment the bell over the door clanged, and he turned to see a small figure burst into the shop. A lady, by the look of her fashionable bonnet and black pelisse. She seemed to freeze upon seeing them but then inclined her head. There was something oddly familiar—

“Lord Quint,” he heard her say.

Quint bowed. “Lady Hawkins. How nice to see you again.”

The room suddenly lost all its air. Or perhaps Simon’s lungs refused to cooperate because a burn had sparked in his chest, a pressing heat as if the ceiling had collapsed on him. God’s teeth, he hadn’t expected to see her here. To see her anywhere, really. Ten years. It had been ten years since they’d last faced one another. He’d heard all about her, of course. From all accounts, the woman thrived on spectacle and notoriety—which struck him as odd, considering he remembered her as thoughtful and, well, shy.

But he’d never really known her at all, had he? The scandal when she was still Lady Margaret, along with the behavior she’d exhibited since the end of her mourning period, had certainly proven that.

Shock rendered him frozen, and the only thing he could do was stare. The years had certainly been kind to Lady Hawkins, if her appearance was any indication. Wisps of black hair fell out of her bonnet, her delicate features fairly glowing from the cold. She had creamy skin without a hint of imperfection, and green eyes that whispered of the Irish meadows of her ancestors. As he watched, her generous mouth twisted into a small smile. He remembered the simple beauty of that smile, the lengths he’d gone to in order to see it.

There had been a time he would have done anything to make her happy. Such a foolish, foolish boy he’d been. Anger simmered in his gut at her faithlessness—anger he forced away for its sheer ridiculousness. It had been a decade, after all.

“Lord Winchester, it has been a long time,” he heard her say, her tone cool and quiet.

He bowed stiffly. “Lady Hawkins. How wonderful to see you.” Even to his own ears, it sounded flat.

She didn’t respond and an awkward silence fell. Devil take it, but he had no idea of what to say to her. Both his feet and tongue felt rooted to the floor.

Finally, Quint asked, “Are you purchasing a print?”

She stepped toward the counter, the top of her head barely reaching Simon’s shoulder. “I did, last week. Now it’s been framed and I’ve come to collect it. You?”

“Winchester’s the one buying today,” Quint said.

Lady Hawkins turned, her questioning gaze colliding with his. Hard to miss the intelligence—at once both familiar and mysterious—lurking there. He cleared his throat. “I’m purchasing a collection of bird paintings.”

“Are you?”

“Indeed, my lady,” the shopkeeper confirmed. “All nineteen pictures by Lemarc. His lordship bought every one.”

“Ah. Have you discovered an interest in ornithology, sir?”

The sound of her voice, teasing him in that unique, husky way, prickled over his skin. He didn’t intend the visceral response but found himself helpless to stop it. She’d teased him quite often over the months they’d spent together. She’d made him laugh, more than he’d ever thought possible, and it had not gone unnoticed when it had stopped.

Had she made the late Lord Hawkins laugh? And what of the other men in her past?

“That means birds,” she said, drawing his attention back to the conversation. “I asked if you are interested in birds.”

“More like ladybirds,” Quint muttered, and Lady Hawkins chuckled.

“Yes, I’m aware what ornithology is,” Simon answered. “While I do not claim to be an expert on birds, I find myself suddenly fascinated by them. And you, madam?”

She turned away in order to stare at some bric-a-brac in the glass case. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t know a partridge from a nuthatch, I’m afraid.”

“Have you been to any of the other recent art exhibitions?” Quint asked her.

Other exhibitions? Simon wondered over that. Quint had definitely failed to mention bumping into Lady Hawkins. Odd, since Quint knew the history between her and Simon. Not that Simon cared, of course. He most definitely did not.

“I haven’t had the time,” she was saying. “Did you purchase that painting you were admiring at the Waterfield exhibit?”

“No. I had no interest in buying it,” Quint admitted. “I was trying to deduce how the artist achieved that particular shade of yellow. I’ve not seen one so bright before.”

“It’s produced from a metal called cadmium. I’d only read about the technique before that exhibit.”

“Extraordinary. They must use an acid solution. . . .” Mumbling under his breath, Quint pulled a small notebook and lead pencil from his pocket, then began making furious notes as he strode directly out the door.

“Nice to see some things never change,” Lady Hawkins said. “It appears Lord Quint still becomes utterly absorbed in whatever he’s doing.”

“I had no idea you and Quint were so friendly.”

She searched his face. “Yes, well. Not everyone turned their back on me, I suppose.”

Murmured under her breath, the comment struck Simon as odd. She had made her choices all those years ago, deciding on Davenport, who was now Lord Cranford. That it hadn’t worked out with Cranford had been unfortunate for her, assuredly; her reputation had suffered a heavy blow. But she must have known the potential consequences when she’d risked it all to dally with Cranford. So how was any of what had happened a surprise?

“Would your lordship care for a receipt?”

Startled, Simon turned to Mrs. McGinnis, whose presence he’d completely forgotten. The older woman waited patiently for his answer, but then Lady Hawkins shifted, unintentionally gaining his attention as she drifted off to investigate a painting on the far wall. He shouldn’t want to stay, should take this opportunity to put as much distance as possible between the two of them . . . but he couldn’t do it. He needed to trail after her, talk to her. To what end? he berated himself. To make polite chitchat? God, he was an imbecile. “Yes, I would,” he heard himself tell the shopkeeper.

Mrs. McGinnis hurried to the back of the store, and Simon strolled to Lady Hawkins’s side. “You seem to know a bit about art.”

“A bit. I’ve studied here and there over the last few years.” She shrugged and then gave him a bold appraisal, the pale green flicker raking him from head to toe. “You seem well. Not that I would have expected otherwise.”

Something in her tone had him frowning. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it has been a long time and you appear more . . . I don’t know, more earlish than I recollect.”

“Earlish?” Despite himself, he chuckled. “I am the earl, Lady Hawkins. I was also the earl back when—”

He couldn’t finish it, the words sticking in his throat. Had she known? Had she any notion of what he’d felt for her? Hell, there was a time when just a glimpse of the curve of her neck would give him fits.

He had dreamt of seducing her but intended to wait until they could be married. The more fool he, believing she felt the same.

“How is your mother? I have such fond memories of her,” Lady Hawkins asked.

Simon shifted on his feet, restlessness nearly overcoming him. He wanted both to bolt and never move in equal measure. “She is quite well, thank you. And yours?”

“Her health is rather poor, I regret to say. But we’re managing.”

“I’m sorry, Maggie.” The familiar name slipped out before he could take it back.

She swallowed, but her expression gave nothing away, her gaze still trained on the paintings. “No apologies necessary, Simon,” she said, returning the familiarity. “One thing I’ve learned about myself in all these years is that I’m very good at managing.”

“Yes, that’s what I hear.”

Her head swung to face him. “Do you?”

“You are all anyone talks about.”

Her brow lifted. “And here all I find is constant commentary on your feats in Parliament, Lord Winejester.”

His shoulders stiffened, an instinctual reaction to the character name. Of course she had seen the cartoon in the window. Resisting the urge to stalk to the front and rip it down, he gritted out, “I am afraid they exaggerate.”

“Yes, but that is what the ton does so well.”

He couldn’t very well argue with that.

“I thought you would have attended one of my parties by now,” she continued.

“I do not recall being invited,” he countered.

“Hmm. Is that what keeps you away? An invitation?”

She was laughing at him, he realized. Mocking him. But something else . . . Her rigid shoulders and the flat line of her mouth suggested anger. Simon turned that knowledge around in his mind and tried to make sense of it.

“Pardon me, but here is a receipt, my lord,” Mrs. McGinnis called from over by the counter.

Maggie moved to the other side of the store, dismissing him, and Simon had no choice but to retrieve the receipt from the shopkeeper. He tucked the small piece of paper in his pocket.

“Good afternoon, Lady Hawkins,” he said to Maggie’s back.

She didn’t turn, merely waved her hand. “And good afternoon to you, Lord Winchester.”

Once outside, he found Quint still scribbling away. While Simon waited for his friend, he couldn’t resist turning toward the shop, telling himself it was to study the embarrassing drawing once more . . . yet found his eyes drawn to Lady Hawkins instead.

“You saw her and did not tell me,” he mentioned as casually as possible.

Quint’s head snapped up. “I didn’t think you would care either way.”

“I don’t. I was merely surprised.”

“Indeed,” Quint drawled, then returned his attention to his notebook. “And people say I am a terrible liar.”

“May I stop smiling?” Maggie felt foolish, with a fake grin nearly sewn on as she stood at the counter.

“Not yet, my lady. The gentlemen are still in front of the window, looking at the shop.”

“Any suggestions? I feel like a half-wit standing here and gawking at you.”

“Why don’t you stroll about, and I’ll go in the back as if I’m retrieving your frame.” Mrs. McGinnis gave her an apologetic glance before escaping into the depths of the store. Taking the woman’s advice, Maggie strolled to the stack of prints resting against the wall and tried to calmly flip through them, though her heart raced faster than a sparrow’s wings. Simon had actually been here, staring at the cartoon. What had he experienced when he looked at it? Humiliation? Anger?

Satisfaction roared through her.

He didn’t know, of course. How could he possibly realize who was responsible for the caricatures of Lord Winejester? Only three people knew of her hidden talents: her sister, her mentor, Lucien, and Mrs. McGinnis. None would ever reveal her secret.

Heavens, when Simon had turned that intimate, boyish smile on her she’d felt the warmth all the way down to her toes. He must have every woman in London falling at his feet, just as she had done once.

Never again.

Yes, she’d been foolish enough to trust him. Love him, even. But she was no longer foolish or naïve. She was smarter now. Stronger. An entirely different person.

Worse than the flirting had been Simon’s effort to engage her in friendly conversation, as if he hadn’t a thing to apologize for. As if he hadn’t turned his back on her at the precise moment she’d needed him most.

Out of all that had happened since the scandal, Simon’s betrayal had hurt the most. Which was why she took such delight in his very public humiliation at her hand. She knew of his repu. . .