The Reluctant Reformer (16 page)

“Ahhh,” Lady Barlow mused. Then she asked curiously, “If he isn't found, or isn't interested, or is found to be dead, would you inherit?”

“I am not sure. The title has always gone to the next male.”

“Yes, but that is rather antiquated, my dear. After all, Elizabeth ruled the English throne for fifty years some two hundred years ago.”

“Aye, but she was an exception. She never married and so was able to keep her power. Had she married, most of the power would have gone to her husband.”

“It didn't go to Mary's Philip.”

“He was a foreigner. We could hardly have had a Spanish king of England,” Maggie pointed out. “Had she married a solid English cousin, things would have been different.”

“Well, perhaps,” Lord Ramsey's aunt conceded. “Men are so foolish with their laws.”

“Hmm. Terribly greedy about power, are they not? I often wonder what they fear will happen when we gain it.”

“That we should prove ourselves smarter than them, of course.”

Her eyes wide, Maggie swallowed a bubble of nervous laughter that Lady Barlow did not miss.

“You doubt me? It is true. God gifted men with greater physical strength, but balanced it out by granting us greater intelligence.” Spotting Maggie's doubtful expression, she asked, “Which creature would you say is physically stronger—the cat or the dog?”

“The dog. Well, most dogs.”

“Which is smarter?”

“The cat.”

“Just so.”

“Oh?” Maggie felt uncertain. “Are you saying that men are dogs and women are cats?”

“Basically, yes, dear. Men are big, dumb creatures who lope about with their tongues hanging out. Nothing more ambitious on their minds than sniffing any likely bitch's behind.”

Choking with scandalized amusement, Maggie covered her mouth. “And women?” she got out after a moment of struggling with her intense need to laugh.

“Well, I don't know about you, but I have encountered some pretty catty women in my time,” Lady Barlow confided.

They both burst out laughing. Their mutual amusement faded after a moment; then the two sank back in their respective seats with small sighs.

Maggie eyed the older woman with fascination for a moment, then asked, “Do you count your nephew as a stupid dog, too?”

Lady Barlow's mouth puckered sourly. “The man who thought you a prostitute?”

Maggie was silent for a moment, then, much to her own amazement, found herself defending him. “That was not entirely without good cause. I was rather dressed up as one, and in a brothel, when he met me.”

Lady Barlow made a face. “Oh, yes. No doubt he could be excused for it at first, but you were in his home for…How long was it? Two days?”

“Four days, actually, but only two with him in attendance.”

“Plenty long enough for him to have realized that there was something wrong with his assessment. Of course, he might have been investigating further from what I saw.”

“You saw?” Maggie echoed in a squeak of alarm.

The older lady smiled wryly. “I saw enough to know what was going on. Your hair was disheveled, your lips swollen, your eyes slightly glazed, and your gown off your shoulder…It was gaping open in front when Webster opened the door to the library to announce me! You recovered with commendable aplomb, though,” she added to ease Maggie's mortification. “But did you really think that I wouldn't notice that my nephew was skulking around under your skirts…Or that I might believe it was for some
good
purpose?”

“You knew that, too?” Maggie asked in horror. She had rather hoped the woman thought he'd been skulking under the desk, not her skirts.

“Your state of dishabille and horrified glance downward were rather telling, my dear. Then, of course, when he crawled under the desk, I could see his feet and ankles.” There was a brief pause, then the old woman finished, “I won't even mention that you left your fingerprints behind…quite literally.”

Maggie bit her lip and glanced down at her knotted hands. She glanced up again only when Lady Barlow reached over to pat those hands reassuringly. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. It is obvious to me
that, despite your adventurous career as G. W. Clark, you are quite naive when it comes to men. Your reactions have convinced me that you are still quite innocent. James, on the other hand, is anything but. He is quite experienced, and old enough to know better. Then again, he is a man, and men, like dogs, are easily distracted.”

“Distracted?” Maggie asked in confusion.

“Yes. They can be the best of guard dogs one moment; then a pussy goes streaking across the lawn and off they go—tongue hanging out, ears flopping, caught up in the chase.”

Maggie was silent for a moment as the image of Lord Ramsey rose in her mind. He was on his knees before her, his head burrowed between her legs. Then he lifted his head and smiled up at her, his features pointed and canine, his tongue lolling, his ears suddenly floppy dog ears.

“Dear God,” she said under her breath; blinking her eyes open to see Lady Barlow's amused expression.

“I can tell that you have noticed the resemblance. Never mind, my dear. He shall behave himself from now on. I shall see to it. After all, I too am grateful to your brother for saving my nephew's sorry hide, and I feel I owe it to him to look out for you.”

Maggie smiled a little uncertainly at those words. It seemed she suddenly had no end of people wanting to look out for her.

She wasn't at all sure that was a good thing.

 

“It would appear that your aunt decided not to stay after all,” Webster announced, his face expressionless. “She
had her trunks reloaded and left. Lady Margaret went with her.”

“Damn.” James plopped into his desk chair at his butler's announcement. He had set the servants to the task of finding Margaret as soon as he'd discovered her missing. He had not been as concerned with his aunt's whereabouts. Now he knew where they both were, and his heart sank. Either woman was trouble enough on her own; together, the Lord alone knew what they might get up to.

Wincing at the possibilities, he considered the matter briefly, then stood. “I am returning to the city, Webster. See to the arrangements,” he ordered.

After the man left to do as he was told, James turned to Johnstone. “You had best tell me everything you have learned about Lady Margaret. And about her writing as G. W. Clark.”

The day was gray and gloomy, the overcast skies threatening rain.
Suitable
, Maggie thought irritably. It matched her mood. She should have been rather pleased with herself. She had entrusted her article on the brothel to her butler, Banks. He had delivered it to the
Daily Express
the day after her return.

As usual, Mr. Hartwick had read the article at once so that any editorial comments or revision requests could be returned via Banks. Much to her pleasure, the butler arrived home with the news that Mr. Hartwick was well satisfied. No changes were necessary, and the article would be in the next installment of the
Express
. That did gladden Maggie; however, it was the only thing that was going right of late.

It had been four days since she had returned from her imprisonment at the Ramsey estate. Maggie had spent most of that time alternately doing her best to avoid
Pastor Frances and visiting every dress shop in London in search of a replacement for the sheer red nightie that Maisey had loaned her.

Much to her consternation, Maggie had thoughtlessly left the item behind when she had fled Ramsey. This was the second fruitless day she had spent trying to replace it: a terribly embarrassing effort. Snickers and wide-eyed looks of disbelief had been the general reactions as Maggie had tried to describe the frilly see-through outfit to various modistes. With each shop she chose, she became more disheartened—and less sure that she would ever be able to succeed in the quest.

The shop she had just left, however, was the worst. The proprietress had at first been indignant upon hearing the description of the article of clothing; then she had become angry and rude. She had finally interrupted Maggie's stammerings to announce that she didn't need her “sort” in her store. The woman had then shown her out. Which was enough for Maggie. She was finally willing to concede defeat.

Perhaps it was for the best, she decided as she headed home; the garment would likely cost more to replace than she had readily available at the moment. With luck, Maisey would agree to call things even. Maggie would not request a replacement of her gown—the one Pastor Frances had torn off of the young prostitute—and she hoped that Maisey would forgo requesting the return of hers. She suspected Maisey would agree readily enough. The girl could use the money Pastor Frances had given for replacing Maggie's garment to replace her own!

Unless she's already used it to buy me a new gown
.

The thought popped into her head from nowhere, and Maggie fretted over it. Maisey really was not asking
too much to wish her garment returned. Surely there were special shops for such items, ones of which she was unaware.

Perhaps there was an article for G. W. Clark there, she considered as she began to cross the street. But on second thought, while she herself found the subject interesting, her readers were likely looking for subjects of a racier nature.

With her thoughts distracted as they were, Maggie didn't see the carriage coming at her. It was a shout from somewhere off to her right, toward her town house, a warning, that made her glance around. She froze in horror upon seeing the vehicle bearing down on her. Maggie could practically feel the hot breath from the horses' noses and mouths before she was grabbed forcibly and pulled out of the way.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. Thank you. I—” Maggie released a gusty breath as she turned to her rescuer, then froze. It was none other than Lord Ramsey. Wonderful!

She hadn't seen James since fleeing Ramsey manor. She had received several letters from him since her arrival home; each had been sent back unopened. She wasn't ready to read what he had to say. She could have forgiven James the insult of his mistaking her for a prostitute, after all, the circumstances surrounding their first meeting
had
been unusual. However, that humiliation had been compounded by shame at what she had let him do to her, and mortification over his reaction to the idea of marrying her. On top of that, while Maggie had defended him to his aunt during the journey to London, that was before she'd had the opportunity to mull the matter over. It had occurred to her, once home, that
while Lord Ramsey had been spouting all those fine sentiments about finding her an alternate career, he hadn't passed up the opportunity to take advantage of the situation himself. She may have behaved shamefully, but he had behaved no better.

And
, why hadn't he realized his mistake in believing her to be Lady X once he'd spent some time with her? Lady Barlow seemed to think he should have, and now Maggie did, too. The worst part was, despite her anger with the man—despite the insult, the shame and humiliation—just thinking about him was enough to send her pulse racing. And she couldn't stop thinking about him. The things he had done to her had been like nothing she had ever experienced. Her body had tasted ecstasy, and wanted more…Maggie wanted a man who had insulted and humiliated her and who, she was sure, was only now attempting to apologize because it was the “proper” thing to do and he wished to please his aunt. Which simply engendered even more shame in her. At the moment, her overriding feeling for the man was a burning resentment.

Realizing that her mouth was hanging open, Maggie closed it with a snap. “Oh, it is
you
.” Turning on her heel, she rushed across the street, leaving Lord Ramsey staring after her. As she expected, it did not take long before he collected himself and hurried in pursuit.

“Maggie,” he began, grabbing at her.

“I did not give you leave for such familiarity, sir,” she snapped, tugging her arm loose and picking up her skirts so that she could hurry along without tripping.

“Very well, Lady Margaret, then.” He sounded a bit impatient—or was it shortness of breath as he chased after her? Not that Maggie cared much.

“I fear we have not been properly introduced, my lord, and ladies do not speak to
gentlemen
to whom they have not been introduced.”

 

James winced at the acidity of Margaret's tone as she said the word
gentlemen
, then realized that he'd paused and she was getting away. They had reached the town house she had inherited from her brother. Even now, she was pushing through the gate and starting up the short walk to the door. He rushed after her. “Very well, my lady. Please allow me to introduce myself and—”

He stopped abruptly as she sailed into her town house, slamming the door in his face with a resounding crash.

“Apologize,” he finished softly. Straightening his shoulders, he rapped determinedly on the door.

It wasn't answered promptly, so he rapped again, a bit harder, then forced a pleasant smile to his face. The door opened, and out peered an elderly gentleman—one with the arrogant look of inquiry that could only be mustered by a butler of many years' experience.

“Yes?”

“Lord Ramsey to see Lady Margaret Wentworth,” he announced calmly, producing his card.

The butler accepted the token but smiled blandly and murmured, “Lady Margaret is not in.” He started to close the door on Lord Ramsey then, but James stuck his foot in the door.

His smile slipping, James said, “You had best check again, my good man. I know she is home. I just followed her here.”

The butler's eyes narrowed superciliously, and he
shook his head. “Nevertheless, she is not
in
,” he insisted, glaring at James's offending foot.

James opened his mouth to force the issue, then decided against it. He removed his foot, allowing the door to again be closed in his face. Scowling, he turned away and was pleasantly surprised to find his carriage waiting on the street outside the Wentworth gate. He had been on his way to his club when he spotted Maggie. Ordering the driver to stop, he had leaped out to approach and had nearly reached her when he noticed the runaway carriage headed her way. It was just a matter of good fortune that he'd been there at the exact moment needed to pull her out of its path. Not that she was appreciative of his saving her from being run down. The woman had made it more than clear since returning to London that she wanted nothing to do with him. She had rejected a plethora of invitations from both him and his aunt, and not responded at all to his letters.

It was obvious that Lady Maggie Wentworth had no intention of allowing him to apologize. At least not in a forthright manner, he amended, walking to his carriage.

Once there, James commended his driver for having the sense to follow him without being so ordered; then he directed him to his aunt's. As they drove away, his gaze moved over the Wentworth town house.

If she would not agree to speak to him and allow him to make amends in a forthright way, that meant he would have to use trickery. To get a few words with the woman, he would have to be devious. Much to James's amazement, he was looking forward to the challenge.

 

Maggie paused impatiently on the corner to allow several hacks to pass, annoyed despite herself. The day was lovely. The sun was shining, flowers were blooming, and a gentle breeze was blowing away the generally unpleasant smells of London. All of which had combined to make her decide on walking to Lady Barlow's rather than waste the money on a hack. Fortunately, the older woman's home wasn't far from her own.

She'd been invited to a ladies tea party by Lord Ramsey's aunt. Maggie had agreed to this invitation after politely making excuses to avoid the others for three reasons. First, James Huttledon might be many things, but he was not a lady; so she could be pretty sure he would not be in attendance. The second reason was quite simply that Maggie rather liked Lady Barlow. Ramsey's aunt was a charming woman, with a wonderful sense of humor, and Maggie had felt quite bad refusing her earlier invitations. The third reason Maggie was attending—despite the small risk of running into James before or after the tea—was Lord Barlow's library. James had first mentioned this colossal collection to her, but Aunt Viv—as the woman had insisted Maggie call her by the end of their journey together—had described it much more thoroughly when Maggie had shown an interest on the way back to London. The noblewoman was not as enamored of the written word as her husband had been, and still referred to it as “Lord Barlow's library,” but had still shown a good deal of pride in the collection. She had described it in vivid enough detail that Maggie had been dying to see it ever since. And in a very few moments, she was going to get that opportunity.

Squelching down the excitement the thought raised
in her, she glanced along the row of townhouses, idly noting the house numbers. It was then Maggie realized that she couldn't recall Lady Barlow's address. Fortunately, she had thought to bring the invitation along. Lifting her bag, she pulled the folded piece of paper out to check. She had just started to refold the invitation when she felt a hard knock in her back.

A choked cry of surprise slipping from her lips, she threw her hands out, trying to regain her balance or grab at something to steady herself—but there was nothing there. She glanced around wildly as she found herself crashing forward into the road. Maggie spotted the oncoming track at the same moment that her foot twisted beneath her.

She fell forward and to the side, her fingers clenching instinctively around the invitation to Lady Barlow's as she thrust out her hands in an effort to break her fall. Those efforts were too slow and her fall was too hard; her head slammed down, cracking smartly on the road. Pain exploded in her head, almost but not quite blinding her to the fact that she was about to be trampled to death. As she tried to roll clear, the last thing Maggie saw were the oncoming horses rearing and kicking. The last thing she heard was their panicked screeches. Then she slid into darkness.

 

The murmur of voices drew Maggie from unconsciousness. Unable to understand what was being said, but vaguely recognizing that she knew at least one of the speakers, Maggie moaned and slowly opened her eyes. She winced against the pain the light caused her. Everything was blurry at first, and she closed her eyes again instinctively in an effort to clear her vision.

“…She 'ad this 'ere invite clutched in her 'and, and I didn't know where else to take 'er. I figured leastwise you'd know 'er people and where she belonged.” Maggie didn't recognize the voice that was speaking.

“Yes, yes, you did the right thing,” another voice said. There was no mistaking it, and Maggie opened her eyes again slowly, confusion clouding her mind as hands gently brushed her hair from her brow and a dark face came into focus above her.

“James?” she murmured, positive she was dreaming. Or perhaps having a nightmare, she decided as she became aware of the vicious pounding in her head. She was forced to close her eyes again, for the bright daylight pouring into the room was unbearable.

“Yes. It's me. Are you all right? How is your head? You appear to have taken an awful knock.”

“I did?” She couldn't recall. Squinting up at the man, she noted the concern on his face with some surprise, then glanced around as another voice spoke up.

“Yep. Ye sure did, ma'am. Near to knocked yer good sense out all over the road.”

Maggie grunted and wearily closed her eyes. The speaker was not within her present field of vision, and she really didn't have the energy to sit up and search him out.

“Here you are, my lord.” Maggie started at this third voice, her gaze finding a new figure looming anxiously at Lord Ramsey's side. A servant, she saw, for he wore a butler's vestments.

“Thank you, Meeks.” She saw James take a cloth from the man, dip it in a small bowl, and wring it out. He turned toward Maggie. She instinctively closed her eyes as he reached to lay it gently on her forehead.

What had happened? Maggie wondered, her mind taken up with trying to understand her surroundings.
Near to knocked yer good sense all over the road
, the man had said. Reaching up worriedly, she attempted to feel her forehead, but her hand encountered only the cool, damp cloth, then was grasped in what she was sure was James's own large, warm hand. It pulled hers gently away. “Just rest for now.”