she said in the same firm tones she used when directing the servants at Beasley Park. “It’s a matter of some urgency.”
The butler’s face was devoid of expression. “Your name, Madam?”
She swallowed. “Mrs. Ives.”
It was Jane who had suggested that Maggie present herself as a married lady. “Servants are prone to gossip,” she’d said before Maggie departed Green Street. “It would be far better if St. Clare’s servants didn’t know you were Miss Honeywell. Indeed, it would be best if they didn’t know who you were at all.”
Bessie had heartily agreed, even going so far as to volunteer her own last name for Maggie’s use. It was a small deception and would surely harm no one, but Maggie was uncomfortable with it all the same.
“I will see if his lordship is at home.” The butler began to withdraw, moving as if to close the door.
Maggie delayed him a moment longer. “If he is at home, inform him, if you please, that my visit pertains to his dawn appointment.”
The butler betrayed no signs of knowledge about the duel, but Maggie suspected her own knowledge of it underlined to him the urgency of her visit. He disappeared into the house, and after a short time, during which Bessie grumbled incessantly about the rudeness of servants leaving young ladies to wait on the stoop with no care at all for whether they would develop an inflammation of the lungs, he reappeared and welcomed them inside.
The entry hall of the Earl of Allendale’s residence was far grander than that of Lord and Lady Trumble’s house in Green Street. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a sweeping staircase curved up to the floors above. The floor was tiled in marble, and the silk-papered walls were lined with statuary and artifacts.
Maggie pushed back the hood of her cloak and looked around, her eyes settling first on a sculpture of a horse and then on an eerily shaped bust that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be some sort of a death mask. A shiver ran down her spine.
“His lordship will see you in the library.” The butler guided them down the hall to a set of closed doors.
Maggie raised a self-conscious hand to her hair, smoothing any stray locks back into the simple chignon in which Bessie had arranged it before they left Green Street.
The butler opened the door for her, and Maggie preceded him into the library, Bessie not far behind her. The room was lit by only a few candles and the crackling fire in the hearth. Its dancing flames cast the bookshelves and furnishings in an ever-shifting pattern of shadows.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in front of the fire, his back to the room. Lord St. Clare, Maggie presumed.
“Mrs. Ives, your lordship,” the butler said.
“Thank you, Jessup.” St. Clare’s voice was a deep, rich baritone. “You may leave us.”
As the butler withdrew, St. Clare turned and approached his visitors. He was a big man, standing well over six feet, and had the sort of lean, well-muscled build that set off the current fashion for skintight pantaloons and close-fitting coats to magnificent effect. Unlike Fred, whose bulky frame had made him look oddly uncomfortable in his snug garments, the viscount seemed perfectly at ease, moving with a languorous, masculine grace that put Maggie in mind of a great, predatory cat.
A rake, Jane had said. A libertine. A vile seducer of women.
He emerged from the shadows to stand in front of her, promptly executing a slight bow. “Mrs. Ives. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Maggie stared up at him, her wide eyes meeting his stormy gray ones.
Her breath caught. “Oh,” she said weakly.
And then, she fainted.
Strong arms caught Maggie before she fell to the ground, effortlessly sweeping her up and carrying her to the leather library sofa. A pillow was arranged behind her head, and long masculine fingers untied the ribbons at the neck of her cloak, revealing the modest kerseymere gown she’d worn beneath it.
“Fair exhausted, she is,” Maggie heard Bessie saying as she slowly came around. “Only arrived in London this afternoon and refused to rest, no matter how much the master and Miss Trumble prevailed upon her.”
“She’s ill,” St. Clare said.
“A nip of brandy will set her to rights. If you could spare a glass, your lordship?”
Maggie felt St. Clare rise. She heard the clink of crystal as a decanter was unstopped and a glass was filled. Then, before she knew it, a powerful arm was sliding beneath her