The Reluctant Reformer (18 page)

She frowned as she thought of the other man, then winced as her furrowing brow caused pain to shoot from the bruise on her forehead. She forced herself to let the skin there smooth out again so that she could think.

The pastor had been someone she'd wanted to avoid as much as Lord Ramsey since returning, but, as he was the head of her church and Sunday was creeping closer, she had decided that it would do little good to continue avoiding him. Yesterday she'd invited him to dinner.

As expected, he'd proposed.

She, of course, had refused. What else could she do after witnessing that little scenario with Maisey? Frances hadn't accepted her refusal as gracefully as she'd hoped, and had pressed his suit. She had remained apologetic, yet firm. He'd appeared confused as she explained she did not harbor “wifely feelings” for him; then he had become cold. He'd even, before he left, pointed out that she was well beyond the age of youth and beauty, and that she was not likely to get a better offer. He'd even said she would regret her decision.

She considered now just how far he would go to en
sure that she did regret it, then shook her head.
No
. Pastor Frances was not the sort to do her injury just because she refused to marry him. It would be silly and even egotistical to believe such might be the case. Still, she would be uncomfortable around the man until he found someone else to favor with his attentions. Which was terribly sad and unpleasant, but not deadly.

“No,” she said at last, then shook her head. “I know of no one who would wish to harm me.”

“The irate subject of one of your articles, perhaps?”

Maggie started shaking her head before he finished the question. “I thought of that, but no one knows who G. W. Clark is. Well, except you and your aunt, and Madame Dubarry.”

“What of the women you interviewed?”

“I wore a very heavy veil during the interviews.”

“What of the girl who gave you her mask?”

“Maisey?” Maggie opened her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and amusement. “No. Maisey saw my face briefly, but”—she shook her head—“she is not the sort to be rushing about shooting at me. Besides, why would she? I did not even mention her name in the article. I didn't mention any names at all.” She shook her head again. “No. There is no reason for anyone to wish me harm.” When he frowned at her words, she shrugged. “Mayhap it was a stray bullet, James. Or a random act. I really do not feel I am under any threat. It is more likely that someone was aiming at you and missed.”

“Me?” He looked insulted at the thought, and Maggie nearly laughed.
Good
. Now he knew what it felt like to be maligned.

“Well,” she said mockingly. “Of course you are right,
my lord. Why would anyone want you dead? After all, you are such a pleasant sort.”

The man started to be offended, then he noticed the twinkle in her eye and seemed to realize she was teasing. He relaxed with a wry smile. They were both still for a moment; then he pursed his lips in thought. “I might be more willing to accept that it was an accident or some such thing if it weren't for the accident today—and for the other the last time we met. Those make me worry that bullet was aimed at you.”

Maggie made a face. “On the other hand, one might consider the fact that all these things only ever occurred with you around….” She paused at his dismayed expression, then rolled her eyes. With a sigh she said what she should have said before. “I must apologize for not thanking you for that, James. You may very well have saved my life that day.”

He waved away her words, though he was obviously pleased by them. “The point is, if this were just a random shot, it would be one thing. But—”

“Oh, now you cannot truly imagine that wagon driver was deliberately attempting to run me down?” Maggie protested.

“Well, I had not considered the possibility at the time…but now that a similar-looking man pushed you out in front of another carriage, and someone is shooting at you—”

“We do not know it is the same man,” Maggie protested. “You said the driver of the wagon was dark. Did you see a scar?” When James hesitated, obviously reluctant to admit that he had not, she added, “Besides, it was one stray shot in the park. Why did they not fire again if they were truly trying to kill me? I leaped back
up and charged out of those bushes, making a perfect target of myself…yet a second shot never came.”

He conceded that fact with a nod as he got to his feet. “I can see that I am wasting my time trying to convince you that you are in danger. At least promise me that you will take care in future?”

“I promise,” she murmured, rising as well but feeling a trifle awkward. She wasn't sure where they stood anymore. Her animosity appeared to be gone, but where did that leave them? After what they'd done, what could they be? Friends? Acquaintances?

“I would also appreciate it if…I mean, now that we have reached something of a…Please stop refusing my aunt's invitations,” he blurted at last. “She quite likes you and is holding me wholly responsible for your snubs.”

Maggie nearly grinned, but caught the expression back and instead solemnly nodded. “I liked her as well. I would be pleased to accept any future invitations.”

Sighing at Maggie's words, James exited the salon, aware that she was following as he moved to the front door. Opening it, he paused to glance back. “And do try to be careful. Make sure that the servants lock the doors at night, and take a carriage whenever possible.”

“Aye, my lord,” she murmured.

James frowned at her easy agreement, suspecting that it was given only to soothe him, but there was little he could do to make her listen without alienating her again. Nodding, he turned away and left the town house, his mind already working on ways for him to tend the matter as he pulled the door closed behind him.

He would hire Johnstone again to look out for her. The runner could also investigate whether the three in
cidents were linked attempts on Maggie's life or mere accidents. She wouldn't like it if she found out, but he
had
made a promise to her brother, to look after her. Which was the only interest he had in the girl, he told himself as he started toward the park. Margaret Wentworth was a respectable young woman, and what he'd done to—with—her was reprehensible. From now on he would treat her only with the respect that was her due.

He just had to push away his memories of her naked flesh, and the rest would be tea and crumpets.

Maggie cursed as her hair slid from where she had secured it atop her head and tumbled around her shoulders. Again. Heaving out her breath in irritation, she glared into the oval dressing table mirror she sat before.

“I should have asked Mary to fix my hair before she left,” she admitted to the room. There was no one around to comment, no one at all; the entire house was empty. Which meant there was also no one to help her with this task, either. Worse yet, she had no one to blame but herself, she admitted in aggravation, making a face at her reflection in the mirror.

One of the fairs had come today. It was a much smaller fete than St. Bartholomew's, which was held in August, but it was one of the first of the season, so had caused a great deal of excitement among her staff. Their excitement had infected Maggie, too, and in a moment
of largesse she had decided that every one of them should take the afternoon off.

At the time, she'd believed she wouldn't need them. As she was attending a ball this evening with James and his aunt, there was no need to make her meal, or clean up after her, and really there was little enough for the servants to do when she
was
around. With her plans to be out tonight, it had seemed silly to keep the servants in. She had convinced them all, against their somewhat meager protests, to take the afternoon off and enjoy the fair. Even Banks had gone, agreeing in his gruff old voice to Maggie's suggestion that an older, wiser influence might be for the best.

Of course, when she had given them all the day off, she had forgotten she would need assistance getting ready for the ball. Her maid Mary had brought it up and offered, with a pained smile, to stay behind and assist, but Maggie had not had the heart to keep her; it was hardly fair for everyone else to go while Mary alone had to stay behind and miss the fun. No, Maggie had refused to allow her to stay—despite her concerns about being able to do herself up properly.

It couldn't be that hard, surely? she'd thought. She could prepare herself. She was a perfectly intelligent young woman. She
had
managed to dress herself, though it hadn't been as easy as she'd expected, what with all the buttons in the back and such. Still, with some ingenuity and twisting and turning, she had mastered the situation.

Her hair was another matter entirely. Mary had always been swift and assured at the business, managing to perform miracles in moments with the unmanageable
tresses. They seemed determined to defy Maggie's attempts. She was not feeling terribly intelligent or clever at the moment. In fact, she was feeling rather panicky and incompetent. The hour was growing late. James and his aunt would arrive any moment.

She felt herself blush. James and his aunt. She had seen quite a bit of the pair since the day of her injury. Lady Barlow had invited her to tea several times in the week since, and Maggie had accepted each invitation. James had been in attendance for all of them. He had behaved beautifully during each visit, a perfect gentleman. Nor had he brought up any nonsense about someone trying to kill her again, thank goodness. In fact, he had not tried to kiss her or do anything untoward—not even looking as if he had wanted to.

Maggie found herself looking rather purse-lipped at that thought, and she forced the lines out of her face. Surely she wasn't disappointed that he hadn't kissed her or anything else, was she? He was treating her like the lady she was, and that was only appropriate.

She wasn't fooling herself. Now that her fury at him had been resolved, she found herself recalling those decadent moments in his office. She had even relived them in a dream or two since, awakening as shaken and aroused as when it first happened.

Maggie's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door closing below, and she glanced abruptly toward the entrance to her room. Relief coursed through her. She hadn't expected the servants to return so early, but she was relieved that they had. Perhaps she could prevail upon Mary to help with her hair. She simply could not attend the Willans' ball with Lady Barlow and James if
she did not look her best. She wouldn't want to embarrass them. They were taking her as their guest, after all.

Mary can fix my hair in a trice
, Maggie thought with relief, standing and heading for the door.
If it is Mary
, she considered with a sudden frown. It could be that young Charlie had eaten too many sweets and one of his other sisters had returned with him. That would be all right, though; both Joan and Nora knew how to do hair, each of them had stepped in to take their older sisters place as lady's maid a time or two. They practiced on each other and were quite skilled.

Or, she considered as she stepped out into the hall, if it was old Banks, weary and returning early alone, she would even be willing to let him have a go. Which showed the degree of her panic and frustration, she thought with amusement as she reached the landing and peered down into the dark and silent foyer below. There was no sign of movement or activity that she could see, but the servants would most likely stick to the kitchens or their own rooms. They would probably assume she had already left.

In fact, she decided as she noted the fact that night was falling, leaving the house shrouded in gloom, it appeared late enough that she should have already left. Lady Barlow and James were late. Picking up a three-tiered candelabra from the table at the top of the stairs, she lifted her skirt slightly and headed down. One of her servants had returned early; she had only to find out which.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Maggie walked along the hall toward the kitchen, her concentration taken up with doing her best to prevent the candles she carried from going out and leaving her in the dark.
With her hand and arm out to shield their delicate flames, she opened the door to the kitchens by pushing against it with her hip. The action stirred a slight breeze that threatened to damp her candles, and, distracted by this concern, Maggie stepped into the kitchen before realizing that the room was in near darkness. Seeing that fact, she knew at once that no one had returned from the fair. Building a kitchen fire would have been the first act of any of her servants.

She stood, stymied for a moment by the realization, then stiffened. The hair at the nape of her neck was suddenly standing on end, prickles of electricity racing over her skin. Turning instinctively, she gaped in surprise as her candles illuminated a figure standing behind the door that had just swung shut.

Both of them froze for a moment as if posing for a portrait, the man blinking as his eyes strained to adjust to the candlelight splashing over him, and Maggie's breath catching in her throat as she absorbed the details of the intruder. He was tall and bulky, with wide shoulders and thick, strong arms. His hair was long and dark, his smile cruel, and a square and puckered scar deformed his cheek. She took all that in, then felt horror race along her nerves as he started forward.

Crying out, Maggie rushed backward, but she jarred her hip against the table Cook used to prepare food. Instinctively she swung the candelabra at her attacker. The makeshift mace made a satisfying impact as it struck her assailant's head, stopping him briefly and sending the candles flying. Two of them flickered out as they fell, but one managed to remain lit as it rolled across the floor. Still, the room descended into the gloom of dusk, and Maggie spun away, stumbling
through the near-darkness, knocking against unidentifiable objects as she sought escape.

She was in a panic at that point, her only thought to flee and get help. Maggie knew without a doubt that this man was the one who had nearly run her down with the wagon, and the one the hack driver had said had pushed her out before his carriage. There was no longer any possibility to deny that someone was after her. James's voice rang through her head, telling her not to go anywhere alone, to be sure that the servants always locked the doors.

Maggie cursed herself roundly for sending the servants off and leaving herself alone and vulnerable. She hadn't given a single thought to his warnings, so sure she was that no one could be out to harm her.
I am an idiot and deserve whatever I get
, she thought viciously as she slammed into a counter, her hands knocking several items to the ground. A hand caught the back of her gown briefly as she tried to straighten, then released its hold to grasp her neck. Fingers closed around her throat from behind, squeezing viciously and cutting off her air.

Maggie's first instinct was to score the hands at her throat with her nails. When it had no effect, except to have the man slam her into the counter, his body pressing along the back of her own, she gave that up. Eyes closed and gasping for air, she felt frantically around for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Stars were starting to explode behind her eyelids when her hand fell on something hard. Fighting off the unconsciousness threatening to overwhelm her, she closed her fingers desperately around the handle of the heavy item—a pan, she thought—and, using all the strength she could
muster, she swung it behind her, slamming it into her attacker.

A grunt by her ear and the loosening of the man's fingers told Maggie that she had hit her mark. Coughing and sucking in air, she staggered blindly away, but managed only to take a very few steps before she was again grabbed. This time the man caught her by the shoulder. He whirled her around.

Maggie opened her eyes in time to see the room explode; a heavy object slammed into the side of her face. The world seemed to tip inside her head, and she knew she was falling. Something caught her temple as she fell—the corner of a table, perhaps? Maggie cried out at the sharp pain, but hardly felt the impact of the floor when she hit it.

Moaning at the agony in her head, she let it fall weakly to the side and found herself staring at the flames in the fireplace. At least, that was what she'd at first thought they were. Her eyes had started to close when some part of her brain told her she'd made a mistake. Forcing herself back to consciousness, she stared at the dancing flames, frowning when her attacker suddenly knelt before them. He picked something up, and Maggie frowned as she realized that the flames came from a candle. What she was looking at wasn't a fire in the fireplace at all. One of the candles from her candelabra, the only one that had stayed lit, had rolled up against a sack of grain that Cook had left out and set it ablaze. Her house was now on fire, she realized.

Her attacker moved around the table and out of sight.

Alarm bells started tolling inside her head, and Maggie summoned strength enough to respond to them. Gasping in pain, she struggled to her hands and knees,
swallowing the bile that rose in her throat as she did.

Getting to her feet seemed an insurmountable task, but she grabbed at the edge of the table beside her and managed to pull herself to her feet; her only clear thought was that she needed to find something with which to put out the fire.
Water
, she thought muzzily, leaning against the table. A sound drew her eyes to the opposite side of the room and her attacker. She frowned slightly, not sure at first what he was doing. He stood with his back to her, fiddling with something. Then light bloomed around him and he turned, a lit lamp in hand. The man seemed surprised to find her standing; then his mouth twisted and he hurled the lamp forward.

Crying out, Maggie threw herself to the side, tumbling to the floor as the lamp sailed past. She heard it smash against the wall, and a whooshing sound made her glance weakly over to see that oil had sprayed everywhere. The fire was quickly following.

The flames seemed alive, like fingers of some monster hungry to consume her. Her last thought before darkness claimed her was that she was going to die.

 

“We are late.”

Lady Barlow peered at her nephew through the growing gloom inside the carriage and bit her lip to keep from smiling. The man was quite put out. He had arrived at her town house a good hour ago, earlier than she'd expected, and she hadn't been ready. Neither was she ready by the appointed hour, and she had left James cooling his heels in her salon while her maid had fussed over her. By the time she had made her grand entrance into the salon, the man was seething.

Far from being impressed with all the work her maid had put into her appearance, James had turned from his pacing with relief, snatched his aunt's hand, and nearly dragged her out of the house without her cloak or gloves. She had rebuked him quite firmly for the unseemly behavior, taken her time donning the items, then walked out to the carriage at a dignified pace. The whole while he'd pranced about her, almost begging her to move quicker.

Vivian had nearly burst into laughter at his antics, but she hadn't thought he would appreciate her amusement. She'd managed to stifle it behind a stern expression.

The boy was terribly eager to collect little Lady Margaret, which Vivian saw as terribly encouraging. James hadn't shown the least bit of interest in any of the other available ladies of the ton in years. She had despaired of his ever settling down and presenting her with a little grandniece or grandnephew.

She sighed to herself at the thought.
Babies
. She did love babies. Unfortunately she had not been blessed with any of her own. It had been both a tragedy and a blessing when her dear sister had died at sea and left her young children in Vivian's care. As much as she had grieved the loss of her sibling and brother-in-law, she had taken James and his sister to her bosom with love and devotion, treating them as her own. Without those two to look after and chase, she felt sure she would have grown into a bitter old woman. Any babies either child produced would be a further blessing. And now Vivian was becoming rather hopeful that Lady Margaret might be the one to lure James to the altar and begin producing such added wonders.

Her gaze slid to her nephew, and she smiled a little
slyly at the normally calm and dignified man's fidgeting. Then, forcing her expression to a more serious mien, she murmured, “This shall be good for Margaret. Having the child at the opera with us should raise a lot of curiosity about her, and then the Willans always have a lot of eligible bachelors at their balls. Perhaps we can find her some suitable husband material.”