The Reluctant Reformer (3 page)

She had also learned that he wrote the articles and dispatched them via Banks, his butler. Which was when Maggie'd had her brilliant idea: she would become G. W. Clark. She could do it—and she had for the last three months. She had gone to great lengths to continue her brother's column, going so far as to dress up as a young buck and travel to the seedier sections of London with Banks in tow to protect her—for all the good the elderly butler was.

All that was how she had ended up standing here on the ledge outside the third-floor window of Madame Dubarry's. The woman had apparently been a great friend of her brother's, at least according to his notes. Certainly Madame Dubarry had been privy to the fact that her brother was G. W. Clark, for when the column had started up again three weeks after his death, she had paid a visit to Maggie.

With a sense of adventure equal to Maggie's and her brother's, Madame Dubarry had arrived on the Wentworth doorstep dressed as a poor fruitseller. On being shown in to see Maggie, the madame had announced her true identity, revealed that Gerald had been G. W.
Clark, and complained that some “dastardly devil” had stolen his name. Maggie had been forced to confess herself the culprit. By the end of a pot of tea, she and Dubarry had struck up an unlikely friendship. They had been in cahoots ever since—although the woman had only recently given in to the interviews of her employees.

Amazing
, Maggie thought. For the first time, she considered that perhaps Agatha Dubarry had been right when she had suggested Maggie come dressed as a man to this night's activities. Maggie had shrugged away the suggestion, thinking that the madam's girls might be more forthcoming with information while talking to another of their gender. It had worked, too. She had been introduced as the sister of G. W. Clark, sent to interview them, and the girls had responded very easily. And no one had known her true identity, not until Agatha had slipped up in Maisey's room. Maggie found she wasn't too concerned about Maisey, though. She had no doubt that Madame Dubarry could keep the girl quiet. Her real problem would be if some member of the
ton
saw her; then she would be recognized and ruined for sure. There was no way Agatha Dubarry could keep all of London quiet.

Yes, now would indeed be a beneficial time to be disguised as a man. And, she thought as she glanced down nervously past her long skirts, such a disguise would also have made climbing about on ledges more seemly.

 

“Lord Ramsey, we'll have to sneak her down the back stairs and smuggle her through the kitchen.”

James nodded at Johnstone's suggestion. After he'd made a brief but thorough examination of the brothel,
it indeed seemed the best bet to get the girl out. “Go have my driver move the carriage to the alley,” he instructed, his eyes on the clock in the hall. “Hastings's time is up. I'll go see if he has left yet.”

Nodding, Johnstone hurried away toward the front door, and James started upstairs. He was at the top of the steps before he realized that the runner hadn't told him in which room Lady X was supposed to be. He was about to return downstairs to ask Madame Dubarry when he changed his mind. He would recognize Hastings. Everyone knew of Hastings, if not in person, then by reputation. He was second only to the crown in power. Whichever room Hastings exited, James would enter.

He had just come to that conclusion when the thud of a door made him turn back around on the landing. A glance up the hall showed Hastings strolling jauntily toward him, whistling under his breath as he straightened his cravat. James almost cursed aloud. He had been too slow; he couldn't be sure from which room the man had come. There were several possibilities.

He would try them all, he decided resolutely. Giving Hastings a curt nod, he moved purposely past him to set about his work.

 

The thud of a closing door tore Maggie from her thoughts, and she glanced through the window into the empty room to which she had inched. If her thoughts had distracted her so long that this room was now occupied, too, she thought she might very well throw up. She did not think she had the stamina or nerve to traverse the length of the ledge again. It was with some relief that she saw that the room appeared empty. Let
ting her breath out, she reached down, opened the window, and silently slipped inside.

Now that they were on solid ground, her legs were more than just a bit rubbery. Ordering them to stand firm, Maggie strode quickly across the room, pausing at the door to take a breath and listen for sounds in the hallway. When she heard only silence, she eased the door open. About to step out of the room, Maggie recalled the mask Maisey had given her—she had shoved it into her pocket in her rush to finish dressing and escape. It would be better to wear the thing. So thinking, she turned back into the room and started to lift the flimsy red silk mask to her face. Her eyes fell on a bed and a woman gaping at her from the shadows within. The two females gaped at each other briefly; then the sound of footsteps in the hall reminded Maggie that she had to get out of here. She quickly finished raising the mask to her face, tied the strings of it in place, then slipped from the room without a murmur of apology.

She had just finished pulling the door closed when a hand slid around her from behind, covering her mouth and smothering her startled cry. She was lifted bodily, bundled in her cape, and carted swiftly down the hall.

“Any problems, m'lord?”

The words came muffled through her cape to Maggie some few minutes after she found herself so abruptly abducted—minutes during which she had struggled uselessly against the iron arms of her assailant and attempted to scream through the wide, firm hand that covered the lower half of her face. Her struggles ended rather quickly, though. The hand covering her face was not just over her mouth, but also rested along the bottom of her nose, and though she didn't think it was her abductor's intention, she was very close to fainting from lack of oxygen. Her ears were ringing.

For a moment when she heard the voice, Maggie felt hope that the hand across her face would be released and she would again be able to suck into her deprived body some much-needed air. But rather than let go, the hand shifted, covering her more firmly as she was jostled
and dragged into what could only be the dark interior of a closed carriage. In the next moment, the clip-clop of horses' hooves on the cobbled London street, and a jolt as the conveyance started forward, told Maggie her guess was right.

Her ears ringing more loudly, she prayed that her suffocation would end before it was too late. The hand remained firmly in place. Glancing around wildly, Maggie realized that, rather than adjusting to the dimmer light, her sight seemed to be dimming further. She would not get air in time to prevent fainting; she could only hope that she would get it in time to stave off death. With that, she slipped into the dark, soft cushion of unconsciousness.

 

“She's gone limp,” Johnstone announced, squinting through the dim light at the woman James held across his lap. “I think she's faint—Damn, Lord Ramsey! You've got both her nose and mouth covered! She can't breathe!”

James removed his hand at once. Turning the woman's limp form slightly in his arms, he peered at her in dismay. The pallor of her skin was obvious even in the dim light, and he cursed as he tugged aside her heavy cape and lowered his head to listen to her heart. It was a great relief to him when he heard its slow, steady thud. Sitting up with a sigh, he peered down at the gown she wore as they rode under a streetlamp. The creation of sheer red material was not made to cover anything; her nipples showed right through it! The carriage moved past the light and its interior returned to darkness, leaving Ramsey's captive nothing but a pale bundle of shadows on his lap. He hurriedly tugged her
cape closed again and sank back on the seat.

“Is she all right?”

James frowned at the huskiness in the runner's voice. Suspecting the sight they had just beheld was the cause, and unaccountably annoyed at the fact, he was a bit snappish when he answered. “Yes. She's just fainted, and shall recover.”

“Good,” Johnstone answered.

They both fell silent as they rode beneath another streetlight. This time both men peered at their capture's face, taking in the delicate features visible below her mask. James stared at that pale visage, so innocent in repose, and he felt bewilderment overtake him.

He had seen Margaret from a distance several times during the months since his return from war, and each time he had been struck by the delicacy of her features, the refined air about her. Even having discovered her in Madame Dubarry's himself, masked and all, it was difficult to believe that the delicate creature he held was the notorious Lady X. The name had been bandied about his club for weeks, along with descriptions he could hardly forget. So lovely, what one could see of her. She had a figure more perfect than a doll's, lips made for the licentious joys of the bedroom, a body that didn't stop…. She was a tiger in bed, giving each patron his money's worth—and with seeming relish. It was said that Lady X, nobility or not, was no lady.

Clearing his throat, James forced the thoughts away and glanced at Johnstone. The man was staring at their captive from the opposite seat of the carriage. “Well, do not just sit there,” he said. “Find something for us to tie her up with.”

The Bow Street runner's eyebrows rose. “Do you really think that's necessary, m'lord?”

“I intend to take her to my country estate and keep her there until we find an alternate career for her. Do you think she will come willingly?”

“No, I suppose not,” the runner admitted with a grimace; then he asked, “What of her household?”

James's surprise showed in his voice as he asked, “What household?”

“Her servants. I realize she has no family left to be concerned about her disappearance, but her servants might raise a hue and cry when she doesn't return. What do you intend to do to prevent that?”

“Damn, I had not thought of it.”

They were both silent for a moment; then the runner suggested, “Ye could write a letter. Tell them that you have invited Lady Margaret to the country to rusticate for a couple days and that she has taken you up on it.”

“Do you think they would believe such tripe?” James asked dubiously.

“They are servants, m'lord. Servants don't question the word of the nobility—at least not out loud. Besides, you are a friend of the family. Well, at least you're a friend of her dead brother's. A letter should keep them quiet for a couple days at least, long enough for you to convince her to write something else to them, reassuring them she is fine.”

James considered his suggestion for a minute, then sighed and nodded. “It will have to do. I will write a letter once we get back to my town house, and you can deliver it. In the meantime, we still need to tie her up.” His gaze slid around the carriage, then to the runner
again. “Perhaps we could use your cravat. Do you think it is long enough?”

Johnstone glanced down with surprise. “I think so, but…Oh, what the hell,” he decided, setting to work on the garment, then he offered James a cheeky grin. “I'll just bill it to ye.”

 

Maggie was slow to awaken. When she did, it was to find herself bundled in a darkened corner, her cape wrapped tightly around her—so tightly she couldn't move, she realized with dismay.
No, wait
. It was not her cape that restricted her movements, but her hands
were
bound. Her feet appeared to be as well. What the devil was going on?

Blinking in an effort to adjust to the blackness, she peered around at her surroundings. While she saw nothing, she could deduce that she was still in the carriage—the rocking motion of the seat she sat on and the steady clip-clop of horses' hooves made that obvious. Oddly, though, the noise of hooves was the only sound she could hear. The normal hustle and bustle of London's streets was missing. And she could still see nothing.

Then the darkness enveloping her was broken, the hood of her cape was tugged aside, revealing to her why it had been so dark. Without the material covering her face, Maggie could see the gray light of predawn creeping through the window.

Her gaze slid around the carriage, taking in the dark outline of a man seated across from her. He was the only other occupant of the conveyance. It was hard to see his features in the dim interior of the coach, but she
could see his size, and that was enough to intimidate her.

“You are awake.”

She blinked in surprise. His diction was perfect, his speech cultured. This was no street ruffian, but a gentleman. She had been abducted by a gentleman?

Abducted?
Swallowing, she dropped her eyes to her lap to hide her confusion. She, Maggie Wentworth, had been abducted: dragged from Madame Dubarry's, suffocated to unconsciousness, and, apparently, carted off in a carriage. But why? For ransom? There was no money for which to ransom her, and even if there were, there certainly was no one from whom to demand it. Then, all at once, the answer seemed obvious. This was a mistake. She had been mistaken for someone else, one of Madame Dubarry's girls, of course. Perhaps even the famed prostitute Lady X, she realized with dismay. She still wore the red mask Maisey had given her.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured somewhat faintly, drawing her abductor's attention. Forcing a smile, though she wasn't at all sure that the man could see it, Maggie sat up as straight as she could. Attempting an air of confidence, she explained, “There has been a dreadful mistake.”

“What mistake would that be, Lady Wentworth?”

His address managed to knock some of the wind out of her sails, and Maggie couldn't hide her surprise. “You know my name?”

“Of course.”

Well, that blew her theory to kingdom come, Maggie realized with distress. Good Lord, he knew who she was. There was no mistake. She had been deliberately kidnapped. But why, for goodness' sake? Before she
could ask, her kidnapper, apparently noting her fear, tried to reassure her.

“There is no need to be alarmed, my lady. The secret of your exploits shall remain safe with me. I have no more desire to unmask you to the world than you yourself must have to be unmasked. In fact, if I have my way, there shall be no chance of anyone ever finding out the games you have been playing. But understand: your alter ego dies this night. You shall not be returning to your previous employ.”

Maggie bit her lip, holding back any protest she might have wished to make about her lucrative career as G. W. Clark. There was no sense in annoying her captor until she knew his identity and just how much of a threat he was.

“Now,” the man went on gently, apparently pleased that she had made no argument. “You should rest. We shall be traveling for several more hours.” Having given that order, he raised a cane to rap on the ceiling of the coach, which drew to an immediate halt. With a nod in her direction, he disembarked from the carriage. Seconds after the door closed, the carriage rocked slightly, as if he were mounting it to sit beside its driver; then the coach jolted back into motion.

Once the conveyance had settled back into its previous monotonous rhythm, Maggie let out a small moan. She had been kidnapped by some madman who knew of her secret doings as G. W. Clark! Of course, there had always been the chance that someone might discover those pursuits, but she had never considered that up on discovering them, that someone might wish to kidnap her and force her to stop! Her real fear had been that they would reveal her and destroy her reputation.

She wearily leaned her head back against the cushioned seat. It seemed she had gotten into a true pickle this time. Not that such was strange for her; as a child her life had often seemed like one calamity after another. The fact had been something of a family joke. “Only you,” her family had said. “Only you, Maggie, could end up in such a fix. Only you, Maggie, could land yourself in such a mess.” And she had to agree. Just look at how she had ended up tucked into the armoire of a brothel. And how she'd been forced to climb out the window to escape an education she'd not been seeking. And now this kidnapping!

Maggie silently cursed herself for not allowing Banks to accompany her to Dubarry's. The butler often served as a bodyguard of sorts during her adventures, accompanying her and staying as near as he could without ruining her disguises. Old, thin, and fragile, the man wasn't really much of a deterrent to anyone wishing to do her serious harm, but his presence had always made her feel a little bit more secure—and she couldn't help now but wish he had been there tonight.

The butler had wished to accompany her, but Maggie had explained that, as she was simply going to interview women, she had no need of his protection. Madame Dubarry was a friend, she'd added, and thus Maggie would be perfectly safe. She found it ironic now that it had taken her some amount of persuasion before she had convinced him to stay behind.

“Idiot,” she chided herself under her breath. Despite the fact that Banks probably would have been left to wait in the kitchens, and therefore would have been helpless to prevent her kidnapping, at least there would have been someone to notice her disappearance. Maggie
wasn't at all certain that Madame Dubarry would think twice when she did not return. Men had already started arriving in search of evening entertainment when the brothel owner had hustled her up the back stairs to Maisey's room. The woman was likely now too busy tending to business to notice Maggie's absence. And who knew how long Banks would wait at the house before deciding to come in search of her?

Yes, she thought resignedly, she was in a fix all right. Now she just had to figure a way out of it. Getting untied would be a good start.

A new thought made her sit up abruptly.
Good Lord!
Her hands had been tied under the cape. Her captors would have had to open the cape to get to her hands. Which meant that they had seen the indecent scrap of red silk she was wearing! And what must they have thought of that? she wondered with dismay.

She peered around the dark interior of the carriage. Maybe they hadn't thought anything at all. Maybe it was dark enough here that they had not really seen what she was wearing. She had just started to nurture that hope when she realized that even if they had seen very little while binding her in the carriage, most likely they would get an eyeful when they arrived wherever they were going. With her luck, it would be bright as daylight when they decided to untie her, which would provide a lovely view of everything.

Damn Maisey
, she thought irritably. If the girl hadn't insisted on the switch…
And damn Frances, too, for good measure
, she added, feeling peevish.
Heck
, she decided while she was at it,
damn Gerald as well!

Groaning inwardly, Maggie let her head drop back again. This situation just got better and better. She re
ally had to escape. Giving up relaxing on the cushioned seat, she began to struggle with her bindings. They were extremely well tied and very tight. They resisted being undone no matter how she tried.

All Maggie managed to do with her struggles was to tire herself out and rub her wrists raw. She gave up long before the first creeping fingers of dawn spread across the sky.