The Reluctant Reformer (8 page)

“Agh!”

She watched in alarm as he began gagging violently and tore the kerchief away. His horrified gaze shot to her hands, then to her innocent expression, then back to her hands. “Your…you…eh…”

“Yes, my lord?” Maggie wasn't surprised when he sank helplessly back in his seat without comment. It simply wasn't polite to tell a lady that her hands were covered with animal excrement. Which was rather silly. If such rules were made to prevent embarrassment, they didn't at all work, Maggie thought; they simply made it so that people suffered their embarrassment in shared silence.

She peered at Lord Mullin's face. At first alarmed at the growing ruddiness of it, she quickly realized that he was turning red because he was holding his breath.

It is a terribly unpleasant stench, she thought and she promptly began to fan herself. “Is it growing warm in here?”

Lord Mullin was not slow-witted. Looking relieved, he sprang up on his seat and quickly set to work opening
the carriage window, inhaling deeply of the fresh air that swept in when he succeeded.

Not immune to the stench, Maggie slid along her seat to enjoy the fresh air as well, exchanging a wry look with her host as she did. She knew that was as close as they were going to come to acknowledging any difficulty.

They were both extremely relieved when the village came into sight. By that time the rain had stopped, and she and Lord Mullin were half-hanging out the window in companionable silence. The aroma now permeated the carriage, and seemed to grow stronger and more overpowering with each passing moment.

The situation had been beneficial in at least one respect, Maggie decided. Forced to hang out of the carriage to avoid the stink, with the wind slapping their faces, ready to snatch any words they might say, conversation between she and Lord Mullin had been impossible. She had been saved from the possibility of any awkward questions regarding her tramping about Lord Ramsey's woods.

Unfortunately, now that they were entering the village, they were forced to settle back into their seats.

“Gerald was a good man,” Mullin murmured into the silence as they faced each other across the carriage.

“Yes, he was,” Maggie agreed. A sadness settled over her. Gerald
had
been a good man. A good brother. A good friend. A good employer to his servants. Why did it always seem that the good were taken from the earth while the rotten sorts were left behind to trouble others? As she wondered that, she stiffened; her gaze had dropped to the bench seat she occupied. Her face flushed with guilt and embarrassment once again, for
she saw that Lord Mullin's carriage would not just need an airing. Some of the muck from her skirts had transferred to the seat.

Mullin cleared his throat, drawing Maggie's attention away from her crime. One look at the determined set of the man's shoulders hinted that he was going to ask one of those annoyingly uncomfortable questions like, “
What were you doing in the woods?
” that Maggie was not eager to answer. There was the risk that if Lord Mullin discovered she was escaping his friend, he might well take her back. Which would be most inconvenient.

She briefly considered lying herself silly, claiming that she had been traveling to Clarendon, the seat of the family's title, when her carriage broke down, but there were a couple problems with that lie. The first was that she had no idea where Ramsey manor lay in England, and whether it was in a position to be on her way to Clarendon. The second was that this Robert might insist on gathering her things from her imaginary carriage.

Maggie was saved from prevarication and the risk associated when Lord Mullin's carriage began to slow, distracting both occupants and delaying the man's interrogation. She and he nearly bumped heads trying to peer out the window at the same moment, exchanged a slight smile, then glanced out in turns to see that they had arrived in the village.

“We are here,” her host announced unnecessarily, then looked at her in question. “Where did you wish to go?”

“This will do,” Maggie announced abruptly. Unwilling to give him the opportunity to ask those questions she could see swimming in his eyes, she pushed the car
riage door open then rushed clumsily out.

“Oh, but I cannot just leave you here,” Mullin called to her, climbing down from the carriage as well. “Are you staying at Ramsey? Did you—”

“Thank you ever so much for bringing me here, my lord,” Maggie interrupted determinedly. “I appreciate your assistance. Have a good day.”

Turning on her heel, she then hurried off along the street, not caring at all where she was going as long as it was away from Lord Mullin and his questions. Fortunately, he did not pursue or try to stop her. Still, Maggie stepped into the first shop she came across. She had no idea where to rent a hack, and she would need directions.

 

“M'Lord?”

James glanced up from the ale he had been contemplating to find Crowch at his side, hat in hand. “Is it fixed?” he asked the driver mildly. They had hit a rock in the road, and it had cracked one of the carriage wheels. Fortunately, the accident had occurred just a mile short of the village, and the wheel had remained intact until they could reach a shop where it could be repaired. James had left the chore to Crowch and settled himself in the pub, somewhat exhausted by his travels between his country estate and London.

“Aye, m'lord.”

“Good. Get yourself a drink; then we'll be off again.” The fellow's weary smile of relief was enough to remind James that he was not the only one who had made this trip back and forth and back again. He felt a moment's guilt, which moved him to add, “I appreciate your efforts these last few days.”

The words sounded as stiff as James felt. They were an apology of sorts, couched in a compliment. He was not used to having to give apologies, but then he rarely worked his servants as hard as this. Crowch had been asked to drive through the night to take Lady Margaret to Ramsey, then, after less than an hour's rest at Ramsey castle, he'd had to turn around and drive James back to town for the meeting of the House of Lords. This morning, after the proceedings were finished, the man had been put upon for a return trip to the country. Last night's sleep was the only rest the man had had in two days. It was no wonder he was looking so weary. And the compliment was deserved, Crowch was a good man.

“We'll be staying in the country for a bit this time,” James called as the driver settled with relief at a table for servants in the corner.

Crowch said little, but looked much happier at the news. He accepted the ale a wench set before him and drank thirstily. James waited as he did, idly pondering the arrangements he'd made regarding a Lady Margaret.

Lady
. He grimaced slightly. Lady Margaret, Lady X—whichever she called herself, she wasn't deserving of the title. He could hardly believe she was the same woman that Gerald had prattled on about all those nights beside the fire. The Margaret Wentworth Gerald had described was brave, resourceful, smart, and beautiful. But above all, she was a lady. None of which seemed to match what James had learned about Lady X.

James had attended the meeting of the House of Lords that morning, but he had arrived back in London just before dinner last night. He had eaten, then found himself too wound up to sleep. Or perhaps he had been
at that state of being overtired where sleep became elusive. Whatever the case, he had gone to his club to relax and await his weariness overtaking him. While there, he had sought out more information regarding the infamous Lady X. He had learned much. The courtesan was always a subject of gossip at the club, but James had paid very little attention ere now. Last night he had listened to the tales of her expertise with combined fascination and horror.

Lady X had arrived in London not long after Gerald's death. At least that seemed to prove it was circumstance that had led Margaret to take up such a disreputable career, James told himself. And yet, he had not been prepared for the degree of skill she was purported to have. Oh, he had heard before that the woman enjoyed her work, but until last night he had thought such words were simply the smitten boasts of her customers. But if half of what her marks claimed was true, she didn't just enjoy her work; she reveled in it like a pig rolling in muck.

From all he had learned, James was left wondering what on earth he was to do with the wench. Aside from the obvious, that was. He toyed briefly with the idea of offering her a position as his mistress. After all, he was between women at the moment; she was attractive and experienced, and might enjoy a break from her present position. Perhaps she would prefer one lover. It would be much less demanding.

The scheme was the briefest of daydreams, however. James would have liked to be able to claim that it was his fond memory of Gerald, and the fact that this was hardly what his friend intended when he'd asked James—on his death bed—to look after his sister, that
turned him from the idea. But the truth was, it was his own responses to the woman that had quickly killed the fantasy. Just the thought of her had his body reacting like fire to an influx of oxygen. James was not used to, nor was he comfortable with, such passionate feelings in himself. He had always prided himself on his self-control and just thinking about Margaret shattered that. He did not know what it was about her. Perhaps it was the fact that she looked so sweetly innocent when he knew she was quite the opposite. Whatever the case, he had thought of little else but Maggie since taking her from Madame Dubarry's. And nothing he had heard during his visit to town had weakened his responses.

The girl was positively infamous. Every man in London was lusting after her. The only halfway sensible thing she had done was to wear her mask and insist on anonymity. But the game could not have continued for much longer. Sooner or later the girl's identity would have been revealed. Margaret was just lucky that he had been the first to discover it.

James was congratulating himself on that fact when the front door opened. He froze at the sight of Lord Mullin entering the inn. He'd bumped into his friend after leaving Crowch to see to the carriage repairs, and they had shared a drink together before Robert had left to continue home. The man's return now was wholly unexpected. Robert's troubled expression as he approached the table was concerning, too.

“Robert,” James greeted his friend curiously. “To what do I owe your return?”

“You owe it to a certain lady of whose brother we are both acquainted,” the man answered roughly. He settled
on the bench next to James and said in a hiss, “What the bloody hell is going on?”

“What do you mean?” James asked warily, feeling himself tense. He had a bad feeling about this. “And which lady exactly?”

“Maggie.”

“Maggie?”

Mullin made a face at his confusion. “Gerald's sister. Lady Margaret Wentworth.”

James's eyes widened. “What of Gerald's sister?” he asked warily, already knowing he would not like the answer.

“What have you done to her?”

“Nothing. What would make you think I had
done
anything to her?” he asked, his mind beginning to work frantically. Had Robert stopped at Ramsey for some unknown reason on his way home? James hadn't considered that anyone might discover Margaret's presence in his home, or assume that…Good Lord, if she—

“Are you saying that she was at your estate without your knowledge?”

James winced. “You stopped at Ramsey?”

“Nay.”

James was confused. “Then what would make you think—”

“I ran across her on my way home. There was nowhere else from which she might have come except your estate—and not by the normal route.”

“What do you mean?” There was no mistaking the alarm he felt now.

“I mean, it was obvious she had left on foot and walked—or crawled, judging by the amount of…mud on her—through the woods to the road. So…Did you
take her as your mistress? Have you had a lover's spat and she is now trying to run away on foot to teach you a lesson?”

“Of course not!” The fact that James had actually, however briefly, considered the idea of taking her as his mistress made his denial even more heated than it normally would have been. He saw the expression his emphatic denial inspired in his friend, and he scowled.

“Trust me, she is as pure now as she was when I met her.”
Which isn't very pure at all
, he added to himself as he stood. “Come, Crowch,” he called. “We must go collect Lady Margaret ere she stumbles into trouble on the road.”

“I did not leave her there,” Robert snapped, obviously insulted that James might think he had.

“You didn't?” James paused in his flight to glance back.

“Nay. Of course not. A gentleman would hardly leave a lady in the path of ruffians and ne'er-do-wells, even should it mean ruining the seats of his newly purchased carriage to whisk her to safety.” The last was added on a somewhat pained note.

“I shall replace your seats,” James said impatiently. “Where did you leave the wench? Is she in your carriage?”

“Wench?” Mullin echoed in dismay.

James gritted his teeth. “Where
is
she?”

Lord Mullin scowled, then said reluctantly, “Last I saw, she was headed for the livery stables. I think she meant to rent a hack.” He paused. “Though she didn't appear to have a purse on her, so how she would pay for—”

James had heard enough. Turning on his heel, he burst out of the inn.

“Wait for me!” Lord Mullin cried, and James glanced back to see him nearly knock Crowch over in an effort to follow.

Shaking his head as he ran, James ordered, “Fetch the coach, Crowch, and meet us at the livery.”

 

“Ye can't rent a carriage if ye don't have any coin.”

“Yes, but you see, I do have coins—I mean funds,” Maggie assured the surly, needle-thin man with whom she had been arguing.