“Yoo-hoo! Hello? Are you in some distress?”
Maggie scowled and pushed a bothersome branch away from her face as she listened to the man’s calls from her cramped hiding space. Wonderful! A knight errant thinking to aid a damsel in distress. If only I could be sure that was all he is, she thought with a sigh, then wrinkled her nose. An unpleasant smell was wafting up to her. She wondered briefly at its source, but was then distracted by the sound of snapping branches and the crunch of dead leaves as her “rescuer” moved nearer.
“Yoo-hoo! Can I be of some assistance?”
The racket the man was making as he pushed his way through the bushes drew alongside her, then continued past. Maggie sagged in relief and released the breath she had been holding. It was when she inhaled again that she recalled the odor she’d noticed earlier. It appeared to be growing stronger. Dear God, what is it? she wondered and raised a hand to wave the smell away. The stink increased tenfold, and it was then that she noticed the muck on her hand. She stared at it, slowly coming to a realization.
Horror rushing over her, she set her one hand back to hold her weight as she lifted the other. It, too, bore the stuff. Dear God, she had crawled right into, or through, a pile of animal droppings! Shudders rolled through her, and she suffered a sort of squirmy fit, her body twitching and jerking with disgust as she began frantically wiping first one hand, then the other, on the ground and surrounding branches and leaves in an effort to remove the squishy substance.
“Er . . . excuse me. Hello?” The words, spoken directly behind her, made Maggie pause and turn her head. She peered back through the foliage, only then realizing that the bush wasn’t wide enough to hide her. It ended at her hips. Her derriere—covered by the yellow gown she wore—was sticking out. No doubt it had been thrashing around like some ridiculously huge canary just now. Which must have been a sight for this man to come upon, Maggie thought wearily. This simply wasn’t her day.
“Are you in some distress?”
Maggie almost laughed at his tentative question. Reassuring herself that the reaction wasn’t one of hysteria but amusement, and that surely it was a good sign that her sense of humor was still intact, she answered politely. “Not at all, but thank you for asking.”
“I see. Might I ask what are you doing in there, then?”
This had to be the most humiliating conversation she’d ever had, Maggie decided as she wracked her brain for an explanation that would both satisfy as well as get rid of the man. It was becoming unbearable to have him talk to her behind like this, trapped in the bush as she was.
“Only you, Maggie!” Her brother’s amused voice echoed in her memory, and she silently cursed. She did not deliberately get herself into these messes. They just sort of . . . happened.
“I am bird-watching, and I fear your presence is scaring the birds away,” she blurted.
“Er . . . might you not have more success with your bird-watching by looking up?” he asked.
Maggie promptly wished she could kick herself. It was obvious she did not think well under pressure. “Yes, of course. And I was. However, I . . .” She searched her mind for an acceptable excuse for her position, and was quite pleased when she came up with: “Dropped something. My . . . er . . . a hairpin!” she announced with triumph. “Ah, there it is. Thank you. Everything is fine now. You may go.” She waited hopefully but was disappointed by the silence that followed. He wasn’t leaving.
“I should be happy to assist you back to your feet now that you have found your hairpin.”
Maggie sighed and considered her options. She didn’t think he believed a word she’d said, and he obviously wasn’t going to simply go away. Crawling backward out of the bush and facing the man was her only option. The very idea made her cringe, but taking a deep breath, she began to scramble out . . . only to stop as her hair caught on a branch.
“Is there something wrong?” came the man’s concerned voice when she paused and gave an exclamation of pain. “Are you caught?”
“Yes, I fear I am,” she answered, leaning on one hand and using the other to try to untangle herself.
“Perhaps I can help.” She heard the words, then felt him grasp her hips. Maggie barely managed a startled gasp before he seemed to realize the impropriety of such a choice, and clasped her by the ankles instead. Which was not a better option, in her opinion. Her feet were pulled out from beneath her as he attempted to drag her out of the bush. She screeched in pain as her hair pulled free of the branch—or perhaps was yanked out of her head, she wasn’t sure which. Then she was traveling backward, her skirt—apparently also caught on a branch—staying in place so that she came out of the foliage flat on her belly with her gown forming a sort of tent over her head.
“Oh, dear!” Her feet were dropped and the man rushed to her side, pulling the material free for her as she struggled to get off her stomach. Dear God, it would be just her luck to have been dragged through the animal droppings! Maggie scrambled to her feet.
Once upright, she raised her hand, intending to push her now wild hair out of her face. The sight made her pause.
“Oh! You’ve mud on your hands.” Retrieving a handkerchief, her “rescuer” began to clean her fingers.
Maggie’s mouth opened, then closed. What could she say? It was too late to stop his ruining the bit of cloth, so she remained silent as he tidied her hands. Her gaze moved over him. She had only caught a glimpse of him earlier, so really wasn’t prepared for his attractiveness. Tall and lean with sandy-colored hair and a charming—if, at the moment, somewhat alarmed—smile. She would place him at the same age Gerald would have been were he still alive. Which was, perhaps, two or three years younger than the man who had kidnapped her.
“I fear that is the best I can do,” he announced apologetically, releasing her streaked hands and tucking the cloth back into his pocket. “Is there something wrong?”
Tearing her alarmed gaze from his pocket, she tried not to feel guilty about his waistcoat now needing cleaning. She was rather amazed that the man wasn’t aware of what he had just wiped off of her, but then she couldn’t smell it now so supposed he couldn’t either. Likely, she had scraped the worst off so that what remained merely looked like mud.
Realizing that he was awaiting an answer to his question, Maggie shook her head. A clump of snarled hair immediately dropped into her eyes and reminded her of her ruined state. Having little choice, she pushed the tangled mess back from her face, then straightened with all the dignity she could muster.
“Thank you,” she offered, then turned on her heel and pushed back through the bushes and out of the trees.
“Just a moment,” he called, hurrying after her as she started up the road.
Maggie had taken several steps in her chosen direction before she realized that she should have gone the other way. She was now heading in the same direction that the carriage was traveling. This man was likely too polite not to offer her a ride.
“Might I assist you to where you are going? I should not like to be unchivalrous,” he added as if he had somehow read her thoughts.
“I thank you for the offer, kind sir. However, that is not necessary.” Maggie didn’t slow her step, but she did roll her eyes. Why were people so predictable? He would have done her a great favor had he been a rude boor and simply returned to his carriage and his journey. It would have been an even greater favor had he not stopped at all, she thought, glancing down at her hands with disgust. She really needed to find some water to clean up. A glance down showed that she had truly crawled right through the muck. The knees of her skirt were brown.
Her mother—were she alive—would have been horrified. Maggie was horrified. Creeping about brothels, and crawling on her knees through the woods!
She sighed miserably as she considered how low she had allowed herself to fall. I used to be such a proper lady, doing and saying the proper things—she mourned, then admitted—well, not always. She hadn’t earned the refrain “Only you, Maggie!” by never setting a single step wrong. Still, she’d managed only mild mishaps in the past, and most of them due to clumsiness or inattention. Since Gerald’s death, she had taken risks she knew she shouldn’t have and—
“You wouldn’t be headed for the village, would you?”
“Yes,” Maggie answered distractedly, then clucked her tongue in irritation. She was sure she should have kept that to herself. She had no idea who this man was. He could be a bounder, or a—
“Then, I fear you are headed in the wrong direction.”
That made her pause. She turned to face him.
“It is back this way,” he continued, gesturing in the direction from which he had come.
Maggie peered up the lane, then sighed. She started in this new direction.
He fell into step beside her. “I should probably introduce myself. Lord Mullin, at your service.”
She stopped again and faced him sharply. “Robert?” His eyebrows raised at the familiar address and Maggie flushed. “I apologize for the familiarity, my lord, but Gerald usually referred to you as Robert in his letters.”
“Gerald?”
“My brother. Gerald Wentworth,” she explained with reluctance.
It was his turn to pause. “Maggie?” he finally gasped, then shook his head and corrected himself. “I mean Lady Margaret?” He grinned. “Gerald often spoke of you. He . . .” Lord Mullin paused and frowned up at the sky as it again began to rain. “Come.”
Before she quite knew what was happening, he had taken her arm and hustled her to his carriage. Ignoring her protests, he ushered her inside, then went to have a word with his driver. Extremely self-conscious about her less-than-pristine state, Maggie folded the sides of her skirt over the front, tucking just a bit of each side panel between her knees to keep the cloth there. The action hid a good deal of her soiled skirt, but did little to hide the smell.
Groaning inwardly, she offered a nervous smile to Lord Mullin as he entered the carriage and pulled the door closed behind him. Settling on the opposite bench seat, he didn’t seem to notice the smell. He was busy grinning. “Gerald’s sister. I can hardly fathom it.”
Maggie offered him a pained smile. She wasn’t surprised he could “hardly fathom it.” She wasn’t exactly at her best. That thought decided her to make an effort to repair at least some of the damage, and she set to work trying to return some semblance of normalcy to her hair. Unfortunately, it appeared that her lie of having lost a hairpin had become a reality. Several of her hairpins had been lost during her sojourn into the bushes.
“Gerald, James, and I were in the same unit. Lord Ramsey,” he added after a moment. “He is my neighbor. In fact, those were his woods you were mucking about in.”
Maggie stilled under his speculative gaze. This man and Lord Ramsey were neighbors? He had been on his way home from the village when he’d come across her, and from his reaction, he had not yet conferred with her abductor . . . Which meant her host’s claims were likely true. Her kidnapper was indeed James Huttledon, Mullin’s neighbor, and the Lord Ramsey her brother had mentioned so frequently. Recalling her brother’s adulation of the man in his letters, she also supposed that Ramsey had been telling the truth regarding his reasons for kidnapping her. He probably had had the best of intentions.
Not that any of them mattered, Maggie decided grimly. She had escaped those good intentions and intended to stay escaped. Banks and the rest of her staff must be quite upset by now. She had to get home and let them know she was all right. Besides, there was surely nothing Lord Ramsey could do. She had been over and over her situation. Carrying on with her journalistic career was the only acceptable way to make the money she needed.
Of course, it didn’t bode well for her escape that she had ended in the carriage of a friend of the man who had kidnapped her. That was rather deucedly bad luck. She was just beginning to ponder what it could mean to her plans when Lord Mullin spoke again.
“What were you doing—”
“You said Gerald spoke of me?” Maggie interrupted to distract him. It worked.
“Spoke of you?” Robert chuckled. “Yes. He spoke of you often. He, James, and I were thick as thieves, and he used to read your letters aloud to us around the fire at night. In fact, between his talking about you and our sharing your letters, I feel as if I already know you. Gerald was very proud of you,” he added with a sad smile.
Maggie returned the expression. Her brother had always liked to talk. She had no doubt that he had regaled his friends with tales of their youth, and that he’d related them as vibrantly as he’d penned the articles for the Express. Gerald had always had a way with words. She hadn’t been at all surprised to learn of his secret occupation; it had suited him.
Her gaze returned to Lord Mullin, and she stiffened. There was a perplexed look on his face, and he was turning his head slowly, sniffing as if seeking the source of some smell.
She flushed with embarrassment.
“I apologize for taking you out of your way,” she said, hoping to divert him.
“Oh.” He turned a distracted smile her way and shook his head. “Not at all. I am glad to have met you. I always hoped to. In fact, I have kept an eye out at the balls and routs, hoping to come across you.”
“I haven’t been attending many balls of late,” Maggie said quietly.
“Ah, yes, of course. I should have realized.” Mullin pulled his sullied kerchief from his pocket and raised it toward his face.
“Oh—” Maggie began, but it was too late. She knew that it had probably been a pleasantly scented kerchief when he’d left home that day, and that he’d likely hoped to use it to filter the stink presently invading his carriage. Instead, he got a noseful of the very scent he was trying to escape.
“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 carriage 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 deathbed—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.
“Well, then, show me the coins and we’ll be off,” the stableman said with obvious amusement.
Maggie ground her teeth with a frustration she tried not to let show. She reiterated: “I do have funds. Just not on me. I can pay you once I am returned to my home. My town house. In London.” She added the last for good measure, hoping to impress the man, but knew at once that she’d had the opposite effect. His nose wrinkling with distaste, the man let his mean little eyes trail with disdain over her ragged and filthy form, then shook his head.
“Coin up front. ’At’s how I do business. No coin, no carriage.”
“But—”
“Margaret!”
That sharp call made Maggie turn in alarm to see whose voice it was. Her alarm did not lessen at the sight of Lord Ramsey striding forward, trailed by the younger Lord Mullin. James looked rather put out, she saw unhappily. As if she were the one who had done something wrong.
Silently cursing her luck, Maggie drew herself up and prepared to deal with this new problem. She had not walked, crawled, and fought through the rain and mud all day to be dragged back to Ramsey at its end. She would see herself to London or die trying. Well, perhaps not die, she allowed with a frown.
“Timmins!” Much to Maggie’s irritation, at James Hattledon’s brusque address, the stableman suddenly stood upright, a respectful expression covering his face that had been conspicuously absent throughout the duration of her conversation with him.
“M’lord.” Mr. Timmins nodded at Lord Ramsey.
“My apologies if Maggie was bothering you,” the nobleman said.
“Lady Margaret Wentworth,” Maggie snapped, very aware that by calling her Maggie he was insinuating a lower station than she deserved.
“Oh, is it that game today?” Ramsey asked patronizingly.
Maggie whirled on him with dismay. Catching the meaningful glances he was throwing at Timmins, she snapped her mouth closed and turned to Lord Mullin. “I am Lady Margaret Wentworth. Tell him,” she entreated, glaring.
When the younger noble hesitated, his gaze going to James, Maggie could have hit him. Any hesitation was enough to cast doubt, she was sure.
“I am,” she repeated furiously. Then she added, “And this man has kidnapped me and is holding me against my will at his estate.”
The move was risky. Her reputation would now be in ruins if this tale got out, but Maggie didn’t see much choice. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had any prospects to alienate. Frances had been the only man to show any interest in her since her brother’s death, and she wouldn’t marry him now if he were the last man on earth.
“Yes, and I have been ravishing you at every turn,” Lord Ramsey said good-humoredly.
Maggie gasped. “You have not! He hasn’t,” she added for Timmins’s and Mullin’s benefit.
“Well, not recently, but I am sorry that I have neglected you so, my dear. I did have business to attend in town. I promise I shall be more attentive now that I am back.”
Maggie was so confused by his words that it took a moment for her to realize that he had taken her arm and was leading her away from the livery. She recognized that fact at about the same moment she realized that his words would be construed as those of a man trying to soothe a neglected lover. She immediately tried to pull away from Lord Ramsey, but the arrival of his carriage right then aided him in preventing her escape; the way he bundled her up and thrust her inside could easily have been misconstrued as assistance rather than the brute force it was.
Unfortunately, while Mullin was close enough to tell the difference, his protest at such treatment was mild to say the least. Mentally Maggie named Robert a traitor as he murmured, “I say, Ramsey. Steady on. No need to manhandle her.”
James’s only response was to lunge up into the carriage behind Maggie and catch her as she tried to flee out the other door. He pulled her onto his lap, holding her firmly against his chest, trapping her arms with one of his own even as he covered her mouth with his hand when she opened it to scream. She was so busy struggling, she didn’t even notice when Lord Mullin climbed into the carriage and took the opposite bench to glare at James.
“You had best explain this, my friend. I cannot allow you to treat a lady thusly. Especially not Wentworth’s sister.”
“I shall explain as soon as we arrive at Ramsey and she is dealt with,” James snapped. He grunted as Maggie landed a healthy kick to his knee and bounced with restrained fury in his lap.
“For now, perhaps, you could just trust me?” he said in a hiss. Then his nose wrinkled and he glanced around with bewilderment. “What the Devil is that stench?”
Maggie paused in her struggles at the question and noted the way Lord Mullin’s gaze slid to her.
“Dear God!” Lord Ramsey gasped. Banging on the wall of the carriage, he bellowed, “Home, Crowch, and fast!”