Maggie was stunned to see the Marquess in her cramped drawing room, but Mr. Davenport practically turned into a salt statue. He perched on the sofa with an ironclad rigidity that rendered its plush backrest a forgotten afterthought.
"Any difficulties with the recent shipment from Port Westhaven, Mr. Davenport?" The Marquess's inquiry was as smooth as polished silver, yet a hint of steel lurked beneath the surface.
The elder gentleman dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief, a gesture that seemed to absorb more than just perspiration. "No problems at all, Your Grace," he replied, his voice a touch too eager. "Everything arrived according to plan."
A flicker of doubt crossed the Marquess's face. "Then perhaps you can explain why my order hasn't reached me yet?" The question was laced with a subtle edge.
The merchant's composure faltered for a brief moment. "My apologies, Your Grace," he stammered, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. "It appears there may have been a slight oversight on my part. I shall attend to the matter personally and ensure your goods are delivered with the utmost haste!"
Thus when Maggie arrived at the drawing room, Mr. Davenport quickly excused himself.
"Excuse me, Lady Blanchard. I suddenly remember that I have a very, very urgent matter to attend to. I wish you a speedy recovery. May we see each other soon at the next event!"
Mr. Davenport was in such haste that he almost bumped against a wall on his way out.
Maggie could not help but stare at the escaping man's back in confusion.
"Is everything alright, Your Grace?" Maggie inquired, her brow furrowed with concern despite the mask of indifference the Marquess wore.
"No cause for alarm, Lady Blanchard," he replied with a curt dismissal. "Though, whispers did reach my ears of a recent illness you've been battling."
A touch of pink crept up Maggie's cheeks. "Ah, yes," she admitted, instinctively choosing the farthest seat from the Marquess. "A touch of a cold, I'm afraid. I wouldn't dream of exposing Your Grace, but... unfortunate circumstances have left me with no alternative company today."
"I see."
The Marquess possessed an unnerving way of holding one's gaze. His eyes, sharp and unrelenting, seemed to burrow deep into her skull, searching for secrets buried beneath the surface.
Only that Maggie did not have many secrets to harbor. The greatest secret she harbored was of her birth, and the Marquess knew all about it.
Instead of unearthing something new, his gaze gave rise to a prickling sensation that danced across her skin. She wanted to look away, but at the same time, she found herself inexplicably drawn to his depth.
"I would like to inform you that my father, the Lord Chancellor, has finally returned to his post. I have therefore handed over all pending cases, among which yours, to him for further investigation."
"Oh."
Maggie could not help but feel disappointed. She would not have made it this far without the Marquess's support.
"Thank you again for all your help until now, Your Grace," Maggie said. "I wish I could repay you right now, but..."
The Marquess smiled.
"No need to think about any repayment for now. I am sure that you will find a way in the future."
"Yes, definitely."
"Well then."
The Marquess rose to his feet.
"I shall not inconvenience you any further. Please take good care of your body."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
The Marquess left not long after. Maggie slumped against the open window. Ominous thunderheads loomed across the sky outside, blotting out the sun and casting an oppressive shadow over the city.
"My Lady, if you are feeling better today, do you care to check the correspondence?" Isla asked.
Unexpectedly, she had quite a stack of envelopes in her hand.
"Sure."
Maggie frowned. "Are those for me?"
"Yes, my Lady."
Maggie was relieved to find replies to her thank-you notes. Those who replied a little later also included wishes for swift recovery from her cold.
There were, unexpectedly, two invitations that she missed. One was a lunch gathering for new debutantes at a salon, and the other was a dinner party with the young ladies who graduated from Cavendish Academy this year.
And then there was a letter from a woman she did not know at all, a certain Lady Burton.
"Dear Lady Blanchard,
We met briefly by the river, but we did not have a chance to be acquainted to each other.
My name is Isabella Burton, I am the mother of William Burton, the little boy you saved from drowning.
With great effort, I finally found out your identity and address.
I cannot thank you enough for your heroic action. Thanks to you, my son is saved.
I have also heard that you fell sick from the incident, and I am deeply sorry to hear that.
I will be sending some medicine and supplies to your townhouse regularly.
If ever you need anything from me or the Burton family in general, please do not hesitate to contact us at this address.
Also, our family is going to host a ball in a week.
Enclosed is the invitation for the event. I would be honored if you can make it.
Yours sincerely,
Isabella Burton."
Isabella Burton?
Maggie sank back into the sofa and pondered.
Burton, Burton...
She could not help but furrow her brows.
No Burton ever graced the Huntington Hall's ground.
Her father also had never spoken of anyone surnamed Burton.
But then when she took a look at the invitation, she had to gasp from surprise.
Emblazoned on the fine paper was the crest of the Duke of Winchester.