The Rogue Prince by Margo Maguire Page B

exhilarating. She understood that he’d made her no promises, beyond the hours of pleasure they would share. But she could not think past the moment when Thomas would send for her, resolving to enjoy their time together while keeping her heart protected. He would leave, after all.
    She curled up in a chair next to the fireplace and clutched her warm dressing gown around her. Noon, he’d said. But she had much to do before then.
    Sometime during the night, she’d come up with an idea that might be at least a partial solution to her and her children’s financial woes. They would always have Blackmore Manor, for the estate was entailed, and Zachary was Julian’s heir. But the property was next to worthless. Of course they received rents, but the past few harvests had been poor, barely enough to provide sustenance for the tenants. As a result, the income from the land wasn’t nearly enough to support all the staff that was required to maintain the manor house and grounds. Nor would it even begin to cover the repairs and improvements that were needed, much less provide a disposable income. Julian hadn’t put any money into the estate during their marriage, in spite of Maggie’s repeated requests. Now she knew that he’d sold his share of the paper mill and mortgaged the public house and all his unentailed property.
    He’d squandered the wealth he’d inherited with his gambling.
    She picked up the drawing she’d made the night before, when she couldn’t sleep. It was a caricature of Thomas at the Waverly ball. Shefford’s distasteful drooling after the prince’s wealth had inspired the drawing, but Maggie had left him out of the picture. Instead, she’d placed a number of overzealous, well-known ladies around him, standing with their reticules open and their tongues hanging from between their over-full lips.
    It was one of her better drawings, for she’d paid close attention to its composition and details. All that was needed was her signature, but Maggie could not own up to such a picture, not if it were made public. She finally signed it “Randolph Redbush.”
    She was very good at this type of drawing, much to her family’s disdain. It was not real art by any means, nor did it begin to compare with what Stella could do with a paintbrush. But Maggie’s drawings amused her children, and that’s all she’d ever cared about. But she’d seen drawings like this many times before, and knew they were very popular. They were often made into prints and displayed in shop windows, commanding exceptional prices. With such a picture and more like it, Maggie hoped she had a solution to her financial problems.
    Her family would, of course, be appalled that she would even consider trying to earn enough money to get herself out of debt. But she would do what she must, in spite of what they thought.
    Carefully placing the drawing into a leather portfolio, Maggie waited for Tessa, who soon came to help her bathe and dress. She breakfasted with her children, admonishing them to behave for Nurse Hawkins, then donned her pelisse and a bonnet that obscured her features.
    She told Nurse Hawkins she was going out for a while, then collected Tessa and slipped out of the house. They walked down to Bond Street where they caught a hackney cab and rode to the office of Mr. Edward Brown, editor of the London Gazette . He’d seen some of her drawings years ago, before her marriage, and had told her on the sly that he would be willing to pay her for such drawings.
    â€œI’ll only be a few minutes, Tessa,” she said. “I’ve a bit of business to do here, but I’d rather no one learned of it.”
    â€œOf course, my lady,” said the maid, and Maggie trusted her unreservedly. Tessa was infinitely more faithful and true than Julian had ever been.
    Even so, it would be impossible to take Tessa with her when Thomas came for her later. That was