Behind her, Simon Danvers stood rooted to the floorboards. "Good god! Lord Peter breathed, staring after Margaret's retreating figure. "Simon, old mate, I think she just killed you.
Simon didn't answer. He couldn't. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a heavy frantic rhythm he hadn't felt in years. The boredom that had coated his life like gray dust had vanished in the span of 60 seconds.
The humiliation burned his throat, but beneath the sting of it, something else was catching fire. He looked at the empty space where she had just stood. He remembered the flash of flint in her eyes, the ruthless precision of her French, the musical violence of her Italian. She wasn't a desperate country mouse.
She was a goddamn thunderstorm. Simon reached out and grabbed Lord Peter's shoulder, his grip tight enough to make his friend wince. Find out her direction. Simon said, his voice hoarse, stripped of all its former aristocratic drawl.
"Simon, you can't be serious. She hates you. She just verbally disemboweled you. "I don't care.
Simon stared at the doors at the far end of the ballroom, where the hem of an amber silk dress had just disappeared. "Find out where she lives, Peter. Now."
The morning sun did nothing to flatter the sitting room of Lady Agatha's rented townhouse on the very fringe of Mayfair. It exposed the water stains on the ceiling, illuminated the dust motes dancing over the threadbare rug, and highlighted the yellowing edges of the lace curtains. Margaret sat by the window. She was mending the hem of the amber silk dress.
The thread she used was slightly the wrong color, a shade too bright, but it hardly mattered. She would likely never wear the wretched thing again. Lady Agatha lay draped across the chaise longue, a damp rag pressed over her eyes. She had finally cornered a French-speaking acquaintance at the ball shortly after Margaret's dramatic exit.
The translation of Margaret's barrage had resulted in Lady Agatha consuming three glasses of medicinal brandy upon her return home. "Ruin," Lady Agatha moaned from beneath the rag. Her voice was a dry croak. Utter unmitigated ruin.
You insulted an earl, a man who owns half of Yorkshire. You called him a pig. "A pig in a golden crown," Margaret corrected without looking up from her needle. The distinction is important.
It implies wealth cannot buy breeding. I will be cast out of society. You were barely holding on to the edges of it, aunt. Lady Agatha pulled the rag off her face and glared at her niece.
You ungrateful wretch. I took you in. I paid your father's tailor. And this is how you repay me, by declaring war on the most powerful peer in London.
We will have to leave for the country today, before the gossip columns print the story. Margaret pushed the needle through the heavy silk. I doubt Lord Kelsall will go running to the papers to announce he was dressed down by a penniless spinster. Men like that bury their humiliations.
They do not advertise them. A sharp heavy knock at the front door rattled the window panes. Both women froze. Lady Agatha bolted upright, the damp rag falling to her lap.
At this hour, a caller was entirely improper. The knock came again. It was not the polite tentative tap of a neighbor. It was a demand.
They heard the shuffling footsteps of their sole overworked maid in the hallway. The front door groaned open. A low masculine voice murmured something indistinguishable. The maid squeaked.
Heavy boots stepped onto the hardwood floor of the corridor. They did not wait for an invitation. The parlor door swung open. Simon Danvers, the Earl of Kelsall, stood in the doorway.
He seemed to take up all the oxygen in the room. He wore a heavy charcoal riding coat that smelled of damp wool and horses. Raindrops clung to the brim of his hat, which he removed slowly, his dark eyes sweeping the pathetic cramped space. He took in the peeling wallpaper, the cold fireplace, and finally Margaret.
Lady Agatha gasped, clutching her throat as if she were having a heart spasm. Lord Kelsall. Margaret did not gasp. She did not stand.
She deliberately pulled the thread tight, tied a knot, and snapped the thread with her teeth. She set the amber dress aside and looked up at him. "You are intruding, my lord. Margaret said."
Her voice was entirely flat. Simon stepped into the room. He did not ask permission. He handed his dripping hat to the paralyzed maid hovering behind him and closed the parlor door in her face.
The latch clicked shut, sounding unnervingly loud. "Lady Agatha. Simon said, his tone brisk and businesslike. "You look unwell.
I suggest you return to your bedchamber. Miss Lindfield and I have a matter to discuss. Lady Agatha looked desperately from the Earl to her niece. Her social climbing instincts were warring viciously with her terror.
"My lord. "Whatever she said last night, I assure you, she is deeply unwell. A fever of the brain. "Leave us, Agatha."
Margaret interrupted. She didn't take her eyes off Simon. Lady Agatha didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled off the chaise, nearly tripping over her dressing gown, and practically fled the room, shutting the door behind her.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Simon walked further into the room. He seemed too large for it. He stopped by the cold hearth, resting one gloved hand on the cracked mantelpiece.
He looked at Margaret. She looked back. He had expected her to be terrified or smug or at the very least defensive. She was none of these things.
She sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, watching him with the wary, calculated gaze of a cornered cat. "You are a difficult woman to locate, Miss Lindfield. Simon said finally. "Perhaps that is by design.
Margaret replied. "Most people who live in relative squalor do not advertise their direction. Simon's jaw tightened. "I did.
I have come here to discuss your living arrangements. Then, why did you come to demand an apology to have me arrested for insulting a peer of the realm? Save your breath. I have no money to pay a fine, and I will not apologize.