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fisticuffs will break out?” While Becca’s protectiveness was an open source of amusement, it secretly warmed Maggie’s jaded heart.
    â€œJest if you must, but I won’t have them hurt you again. Now tell me what actually happened to upset you.”
    The disappointed set of Simon’s full lips when she’d uttered the word harlot filled her vision. Better to get it over with, as Becca would hear about it soon enough from her husband. “Winchester is here.”
    Becca’s mouth formed a perfectly round ring of dismay. “Good heavens. Why, after all this time, would he come tonight?”
    Maggie lifted her shoulder. “We ran into one another the other day at McGinnis’s shop.”
    â€œYou . . . you did?” Becca gasped. “And you did not tell me?”
    A sharp knock sounded before Tilda marched into the room. She tittered when she saw Maggie’s dress. “That’s what you get from swimming in the pool, my lady. Come with me.”
    Most ladies would never tolerate rebuke from a servant—but then Maggie was not most ladies. And Tilda definitely was not most servants. Once the wife of a butcher back in Little Walsingham, Tilda had run the shop with iron-fisted efficiency. Her husband had been a spendthrift drunkard, however, and Tilda had ended up with most of the work. The hours long and the job physically demanding, Tilda had been exhausted. So when her husband died, Maggie had asked the childless woman to come and work for her instead.
    She hadn’t regretted it. Tilda was a gift from heaven. She oversaw everything, leaving Maggie to do what she loved best: her art.
    Maggie followed Tilda into the dressing room, leaving the door ajar to continue her conversation with Becca. “It was hardly worth mentioning. We made polite chitchat for a few moments as he purchased some paintings.”
    â€œPurchased paintings! Which ones? Not one of—”
    â€œHe bought a handful of Lemarc’s nature paintings,” Maggie cut off her sister. Tilda likely knew of Maggie’s sobriquet, but one never knew who else could be listening. While Tilda could be trusted, many other staff members could not.
    The gown slid off her shoulders. “Here, step out,” Tilda ordered.
    The petticoat came next. Then Maggie drew her wet stockings off. “The only reason he attended this evening was because he wishes to speak with me and I refused to answer his notes.”
    Maggie heard Becca’s squeak of outrage from the next room. “And what does he wish to discuss after all this time? The gall of that man. I hope you told him to go to the devil!”
    Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. “In more polite terms, yes. That is very nearly what I told him.”
    â€œYou know I do not care for political matters, but Winchester has made quite a name for himself in Parliament. Not that I would ever lower myself to give him any notice—not after what he did to you. And everyone knows he has a mistress over on Curzon Street.”
    Maggie frowned. Of course he did. She purposely avoided any conversation where Winchester’s private life was discussed, but a mistress was de rigueur for male peers and politicos. Of course proper wives and ladies were supposed to sit home and drink tea . . . alone. And how, exactly, was that not a recipe for a woman to go stark-raving mad?
    The restrictions placed on women in Society were unfair and infuriating. Thank God for the outlet Lemarc afforded her to point out such injustices. It was the only reason for these fêtes: they were a means of gaining access to the ton . Most of her invitations had dried up ages ago. Not even marriage had made her respectable, forgiven for all of her supposed transgressions, so she used lavish events to bring the ton to her instead. After all, the two things Society adored were scandals and champagne; Maggie had already given them the first and kept supplying the second.