Excerpt of When We Touch by Shannon Drake

Chapter One

Maggie, Lady Graham, daughter of the late and renowned Baron Edward Graham, felt an odd foreboding as she approached the town house, seeing the carriage with the emblem of her crest emblazoned on the door. No hackney, the conveyance that had arrived at her doorstep. It meant that her uncle Angus had arrived, and since he seldom came without sending a note of his intentions to call, there was certainly a dire problem somewhere within the family.

She swore softly beneath her breath--something she quickly assured herself that no lady would do. And, yet, of course, that was her rifle, despite the fact that her late husband had been a commoner. As the daughter of a baron, she was entitled to be called "lady" until the day she died. Not that it mattered so terribly to her. But then, beyond a doubt, she was the black sheep of her family-- sooted and grimed, she was certain, in the eyes of her oh- so-social-conscious uncle, aunt, and cousins.

Angus, she thought, with a twinge of humor entering her tired mind, must surely regret his older brother's marriage—and the fact that, after several childless years, her mother had produced not just one child, but two, in the form of twins. In the great scheme of legal matters within Great Britain, her own birth mattered little. But seconds after her arrival, Justin had entered the world. And thus ended Angus's hope for her father's rifle. Actually, it was all quite amazing. Justin was hardly a boy any longer, and Angus still swaggered about as if he were head of the family.

"The ogre is here!" Mireau said softly from behind her.

"You mustn't refer to Angus as an ogre," she said, flashing a quick smile to her friend. Jacques Mireau had come into her life at a far happier time. Since then, he had decided that he must be her defender. Also, as he was an aspiring author, he needed patronage while he penned his golden tomes. Theirs was, therefore, quite a beneficial friendship, though she was certain there were others who saw far more into the relationship than what existed. She didn't particularly care. Illusions of grandeur were not a part of her existence. She felt blessed to have had a short piece of magic in her life that had taught her the beauty of what might be in truth, and the suffering to be found in the hypocrisy of so much that was done in the pursuit of a life that was customarily no more than image and mirage.

"You refer to him as an ogre," Mireau reminded her.

"Only when we're alone."

"We haven't yet walked in the house," he said. "And your footsteps are slowing, as if you are loathe to do so."

"I shall admit, to you and you alone, that Uncle Angus is not my favorite person."

Mireau's hands fell softly on her shoulders and his powder blue eyes widened, as if with dire dread and alarm. "We must face the firing squad quickly! The longer one lingers in the agony of doubt…the deadlier the pain!"

"What nonsense--facing a firing squad would make it all over, wouldn't it?" Maggie said, forcing a note of impatience. But at his teasing, she quickened her steps. Angus was there. Might as well find out why, and endure whatever lecture he now had to give.

At the top step, she suddenly swung on Mireau. "I can handle any ogre!" she assured him, drawing closed a small parasol as they entered the house.

Clayton was at the door, as if he had known of her arrival just outside. As if he had been waiting, and watched her pause. She inclined her head slightly at the skeletal old dear who doubled as their butler and her brother's valet, brows knitting into a frown.

"Lord Angus is here, Lady Maggie," he announced, though the announcement was surely not necessary. Still, quite correct.

She smiled. "Thank you, Clayton," she said, undoing the tiny little buttons at her wrists and removing her gloves as he took her cape from her shoulders. "Have you offered my dear uncle tea as yet?" She gave Clayton her gloves and the small reticule she had carried.

"My lady, we have just been waiting your arrival so that you might serve," Clayton told her.

She delicately arched a brow. Was she being tested on her ability to serve tea--at this late date?

"How delightful and courteous that Angus has waited," she said, certain that her uncle could clearly hear her every word. "We shall certainly hasten ourselves fight into the parlor, then."

Clayton blocked her path and whispered softly, "The family only!" A wiggle of his eyes back and forth informed her that she was to leave Mireau behind.

"I'll be in my attic garret, when you need me," Mireau said quickly.

"Coward," she said with a smile.

"Indeed. He might well be here to inform you that I must be out of the house."

"Rubbish. He hasn't the right."

"Lady Maggie, may I suggest that you not keep Lord Angus waiting?" Clayton prompted softly. He cleared his throat, taking a liberty. "Your brother has kept him sole company quite long enough, under the circumstances."

Maggie frowned again, nodded to Mireau, and approached the parlor. For once, she wished that she were better dressed. But she had spent the morning on charity work, a cause near and dear to her heart, so much more so because she had learned from Nathan of the poverty and squalor to be found just beyond the opulence of so much of London. She was very simply dressed in black linen from head to toe, her outfit devoid of lace or decoration of any kind. Dirt and grime were the only adornments on her skirt. She had two great passions in her life then---easing the lives of the ragged and starving orphans to be found in the East End, and unmasking the charlatans who claimed to be "mesmerists" and cheated rich and poor alike out of their livelihoods while promising to contact their deeply mourned departed.

"Uncle Angus!" she said, sweeping into the parlor. Even as she did so, her voice perfectly modulated, her every move that of the lady born and bred, she couldn't help but notice the genteel poverty of her own homestead. The divan was growing threadbare at the edges, as was the one-time exquisite Persian carpet on the hardwood floor.

"My dear." Angus had been sitting at one of the high- backed chairs around the divan. A stiff chair, and his posture was equally as stiff. He had known she had arrived, of course. He had waited for her arrival in the room to stand.

He came forward, tall and imposing, white-haired, muttonchopped sideburns, small mustache and goatee perfectly groomed. His waistcoat and jacket were elegantly tailored, and she could see the shimmer of his sterling watch bob. Angus cut quite a figure, she had to admit. And in looks, he reminded her of her father, though that dear man became more of a wisp of memory as the years since his death passed by.

He caught both of her hands, then kissed each of her cheeks, as if he had spent most of his time on the Continent. He had not.